demanded of the knight. “Where is your lord?”
After a moment Martin de Gies allowed his shoulders to lower a degree.
“My seigneur is still in the city. He had to retrieve his daughter from the convent at St. Denis.”
Griffin tried not to flinch at that reminder of his fate.
“Take your lord a word from me.” He felt the charge of the air around him shift subtly as someone approached from behind and he prayed the eyes boring into his back did not belong to Bardot, Count of Verdun. “Tell him I will not expect to set eyes on him or his banner again”—his eyes dropped to de Gies’s tabard—“until the event to which we both are commanded by the king.”
He watched the knight’s eyes drift to whomever was coming up behind him and held his breath until Verdun’s vassal began to back away, turned with his comrades, and strode off in the direction of the city road.
A moment later Griffin nearly jumped out of his skin when Axel gave him a good-natured thump on the back.
“Ho, milord!”
“Where the hell have you been?” He wheeled, growling with relief that it was his own loyal knight.
Axel fell back a step and scanned the spice stall in confusion.
“I was just—where is the demoiselle?” He held up one of two meaty fists filled with bags and bundles. “She asked me to witness the weighing while she continued to—what’s happened, seigneur?” He followed Griffin’s stare to a glimpse of alarming red and white disappearing down the lane.
“Three of Verdun’s knights.” Griffin gestured toward that flash of dreaded colors. “I found your ‘demoiselle’ standing in the middle of a crowd making a spectacle of herself with one of them.” Laughing. And glowing with the reflected interest that only a pretty woman could inspire in men.
His hands curled into fists as the memory replayed itself. His stubborn cook … smiling … opening her mouth … He shook free of that vision.
“You were supposed to be overseeing her purchases and making certain that she bought spices and goods for cooking. What the devil were you doing playing servant and handmaiden?”
“Well, it seemed prudent to assist—”
“Pardon, milord.” The spice merchant had recovered from his fright at the confrontation and now approached Griffin.
“What?” Griffin barked at him.
“The tally, milord.” The merchant put forth his wax tablet for Griffin to see. “The lady—er—
demoiselle
had agreed to purchase a number of fine spices before she left.”
Griffin was taken aback. He’d just caught his cook in a flirtation with his sworn enemy’s henchmen and had damn near come to battle blows. Now it was all back to normal and hi-ho-milord-here-is-the-bill?
“And at very fine prices.” Axel added the weight of his own expectation to the harried merchant’s. “She managed to get cinnamon for a livre a pound.” He looked at the merchant, who realized that his entire sale hung in the balance, swallowed hard, and nodded. “Five whole pounds of cinnamon.” He quivered with anticipation. “We shall have buckets of cameline sauce, and spiced pears, and spiced wafers … and imagine the tasty cups of hypocras of an evening …”
“Eighteen livres, milord,” the merchant announced with a hint of timidity. With good reason.
It was a bloody fortune in spices! Griffin came within a hairsbreadth of telling the merchant where to stuff his short-weighted and overpriced luxuries. But then he looked between Axel and the ashen-faced merchant and heard the whispers beginning to waft through the onlookers and spreading through the nearby stalls. There he was, they said, the Beast of Grandaise. In the flesh.
The slightest misstep on his part would be witnessed and repeated and retold, and would reach the heart of Paris before another day was out. The king would doubtless hear of it—Verdun would see to that—and his credibility with the king would reach another new low.
So, he did what any right-thinking lord would do
After a moment Martin de Gies allowed his shoulders to lower a degree.
“My seigneur is still in the city. He had to retrieve his daughter from the convent at St. Denis.”
Griffin tried not to flinch at that reminder of his fate.
“Take your lord a word from me.” He felt the charge of the air around him shift subtly as someone approached from behind and he prayed the eyes boring into his back did not belong to Bardot, Count of Verdun. “Tell him I will not expect to set eyes on him or his banner again”—his eyes dropped to de Gies’s tabard—“until the event to which we both are commanded by the king.”
He watched the knight’s eyes drift to whomever was coming up behind him and held his breath until Verdun’s vassal began to back away, turned with his comrades, and strode off in the direction of the city road.
A moment later Griffin nearly jumped out of his skin when Axel gave him a good-natured thump on the back.
“Ho, milord!”
“Where the hell have you been?” He wheeled, growling with relief that it was his own loyal knight.
Axel fell back a step and scanned the spice stall in confusion.
“I was just—where is the demoiselle?” He held up one of two meaty fists filled with bags and bundles. “She asked me to witness the weighing while she continued to—what’s happened, seigneur?” He followed Griffin’s stare to a glimpse of alarming red and white disappearing down the lane.
“Three of Verdun’s knights.” Griffin gestured toward that flash of dreaded colors. “I found your ‘demoiselle’ standing in the middle of a crowd making a spectacle of herself with one of them.” Laughing. And glowing with the reflected interest that only a pretty woman could inspire in men.
His hands curled into fists as the memory replayed itself. His stubborn cook … smiling … opening her mouth … He shook free of that vision.
“You were supposed to be overseeing her purchases and making certain that she bought spices and goods for cooking. What the devil were you doing playing servant and handmaiden?”
“Well, it seemed prudent to assist—”
“Pardon, milord.” The spice merchant had recovered from his fright at the confrontation and now approached Griffin.
“What?” Griffin barked at him.
“The tally, milord.” The merchant put forth his wax tablet for Griffin to see. “The lady—er—
demoiselle
had agreed to purchase a number of fine spices before she left.”
Griffin was taken aback. He’d just caught his cook in a flirtation with his sworn enemy’s henchmen and had damn near come to battle blows. Now it was all back to normal and hi-ho-milord-here-is-the-bill?
“And at very fine prices.” Axel added the weight of his own expectation to the harried merchant’s. “She managed to get cinnamon for a livre a pound.” He looked at the merchant, who realized that his entire sale hung in the balance, swallowed hard, and nodded. “Five whole pounds of cinnamon.” He quivered with anticipation. “We shall have buckets of cameline sauce, and spiced pears, and spiced wafers … and imagine the tasty cups of hypocras of an evening …”
“Eighteen livres, milord,” the merchant announced with a hint of timidity. With good reason.
It was a bloody fortune in spices! Griffin came within a hairsbreadth of telling the merchant where to stuff his short-weighted and overpriced luxuries. But then he looked between Axel and the ashen-faced merchant and heard the whispers beginning to waft through the onlookers and spreading through the nearby stalls. There he was, they said, the Beast of Grandaise. In the flesh.
The slightest misstep on his part would be witnessed and repeated and retold, and would reach the heart of Paris before another day was out. The king would doubtless hear of it—Verdun would see to that—and his credibility with the king would reach another new low.
So, he did what any right-thinking lord would do
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