Suzanne Robinson (14 page)

POTTAGE WITH WHOLE HERBS

I
f you will make pottage of the best and daintiest kind, you shall take mutton, veal or kid, and having broke the bones, but not cut the flesh in pieces, and washed it, put it into a pot with fair water; after it is ready to boil, and is thoroughly scummed, you shall put in a good handful or two of small oatmeal, and then take whole lettuce, of the best and most inward leaves, whole spinach, whole endive, whole succory, and whole leaves of cauliflower, or the inward parts of white cabbage, with two or three sliced onions; and put all into the pot and boil them well together till the meat be enough, and the herbs so soft as may be, and stir them oft well together; and then season it with salt and as much verjuice as will only turn the taste of the pottage; and so serve them up, covering the meat with the whole herbs, and adorning the dish with sippets.

Pen left the kitchen building in a hurry, wiping her hands on her apron, and heard the ringing crash of swords. Her steps faltered. She turned toward the sound, which issued from the outer bailey. For over a week Tristan had exercised and fenced in the unused practice yard, and she’d grown accustomed to the sound. She hadn’t grown accustomed to what the sight of him sweating in a thin shirt would do to her.

For most of the last nine days she’d walked about in a blithe muddle. She’d fallen in love with Tristan, and the reward felt as wondrous as a storm in sunlight. At the same time, she felt as if she had been wandering, purposeless and without stability, only to suddenly acquire deep, anchoring roots. A part of her, the uncertain, fearful part, quieted, as if to say “We’re home.” And all the while, she reveled in the discovery of Tristan’s physical love.

Which was why she couldn’t defy her urge to wander over to the inner gate and peer past it at Tristan as he plied his sword. He stood in the middle of the yard, shirt plastered to his body with sweat, and lunged at Dibbler, who parried clumsily with a sword held in both hands. Tristan danced around his opponent, delivering quick jabs and slices as he circled. Poor Dibbler, in spite of the padding and armor he wore, jumped and yelped at
each light touch of the blade. This past week had been a nightmare for Dibbler.

Pen didn’t hear Dibbler’s complaints, for she was too busy consuming the sight of Tristan’s glistening skin. He’d removed the wet shirt and was fending off a new attack by Dibbler. He turned his back to her, revealing that long valley in the middle formed by ridges of muscle over his ribs. She smiled as she remembered the two indentations on either side of his hips just above his buttocks.

Just then, he thrust at Dibbler. One leg stepped out and bent, taking most of his weight, while his sword arm swept forward. In the sunlight, with sweat highlighting it, the arm appeared wrapped in long, thick cords of muscle from shoulder to wrist. She marveled at the strength of those arms, for he could be sitting down and lift her in the air with them. And yet never once during their lovemaking had that power frightened her. His touch was as gentle as his voice.

Pen watched Tristan avoid a swipe from Dibbler’s wobbling blade, darting aside and coming under the man’s guard. He wielded the sword easily, in the manner of a man who had had the years of practice it took to be able to lift it with no effort and ply it as if it were as light as a riding whip. He must have had that training, the training of a gentleman. Of course, she’d known he wasn’t a common man the moment she saw him.

Dibbler squawked and fell on his ass, drawing her attention away from Tristan. She giggled when Dibbler began struggling with the great helm he’d donned to protect his face. Then she noticed a thin man in a robe that resembled that of a Franciscan friar striding across the outer bailey toward her. Father Humphrey!

Pen turned and scurried back past storage sheds, haystacks, and the kitchen, up the outer stair and into the keep. In the hall she sought refuge by the central fireplace, where she skipped back and forth in front of the flames in agitation. Father Humphrey served the island’s inhabitants both at Much Cutwell and Highcliffe. He’d been at Much Cutwell attending to several marriages, two births, and a deathbed.

Father Humphrey was an enthusiastic shepherd to his flock. Pen suspected he secretly longed for the holiness of sainthood, and that his ambitions caused him to ferret out and study with fervid intensity any sin no matter how unworthy of the name it was. When he’d discovered a particularly succulent transgression, his walk acquired a spring to it, and he marched about like a lord mayor on coronation day.

The hall doors banged, and Father Humphrey bobbed into the room. His eyes harbored an almost pleased gleam. Everything about him was brown—his hair, his eyes, his skin, and his robe. He threw back his cloak and stuffed his arms in the sleeves of his robe as he greeted her, but the bones of his elbows still showed through the cloth. With barely a nod, he launched into his attack.

“Mistress Fairfax, for shame!”

“Wherefore?”

Humphrey shook a finger at her. He looked so much like an indignant donkey in need of a meal that Pen covered her mouth to hide a smile.

“You have sunk into the pit of carnal sin.”

Pen blushed, but felt her chest burn with irritation. She knew she had sinned, but she intended to remedy the transgression as soon as Tristan remembered his
name. It wasn’t her fault that the wooing had to take place back to front. And she’d prayed for forgiveness each night. After all, she knew now that God had sent Tristan to her, so he couldn’t have meant her not to accept him.

“There must be a marriage,” Humphrey said as he caressed the cross that hung about his neck. He raised his gaze to the ceiling and lifted one hand. “ ‘And if a man entice a maid that is not betrothed, and lie with her, he shall surely endow her to be his wife.’ ”

They both jumped when another voice barked at them.

“What is this prattle of marriage?”

Tristan strode toward them. He’d thrown a cloak over his bare shoulders and was wiping his face with his wet shirt. He joined them, and from the moment he appeared, Pen almost forgot the priest. Standing next to Humphrey, who was all bone and sanctity, Tristan’s bare flesh and hard breathing called to mind the raw sensuality of the pagan. Pen saw Humphrey scuttle away from this man who dominated him merely by his height.

Humphrey wet his lips and met Tristan’s scowl. “If a man entices a maid and lies with her—”

“Jesu!”

Tristan’s bellow made Humphrey gasp and start. Tristan stalked toward him, and Pen caught his arm in an effort to dissuade him.

“Who is this sanctimonious churl of a priest?”

“Now, Tristan,” Pen said as she succeeded in halting his advance on Humphrey.

“This is Father Humphrey, and he’s only concerned for me.”

He glanced down at her, and immediately all anger faded from his expression. She nearly shivered at the
crackling tinder in his gaze. When she grinned at him, he sighed and kissed her hand.

“You’re fortunate,” he said to Humphrey. “My lady distracts all ill temper. As for the other, I’m sure you’ve heard that I have no memory. How can we say vows until I know who I am?”

“Oh, oh, I hadn’t thought of that.” Humphrey sidled nearer and appeared to think over this dilemma. “I shall have to study the scriptures. What a perplexity.”

Pen felt a joyous bubble of laughter growing inside her, for until then, Tristan hadn’t made himself clear regarding their remaining together.

A din in the bailey interrupted Humphrey’s babbling. Dibbler rushed in with Sniggs at his heels.

“Mistress! Sir Ponder and his men are without. He’s come to make peace as he said he would in his messages.”

“Saints, not now.”

Tristan squeezed her hand. “Why not? You can’t continue to make war on the man forever, Gratiana.”

“But you don’t know how delightful it is to see him befooled.” She bit her lip and examined the toes of her slippers as he stared at her.

“By the rood, you enjoy all these skirmishes and pig wars.”

She smiled at him. “The winters are long here, and after the meat-salting is done and the threshing and grinding are finished … And Ponder is such a gumboil, and he festers so when annoyed. He provides hours of merriment on long winter evenings.”

“I begin to think you provoke him apurpose. No, don’t answer. Jesu, allow him in so that I may meet this fool who hasn’t enough sense to know how you play him.”

She nodded, and he turned to Dibbler.

“Cutwell may enter, but allow him only one companion and no men-at-arms. Conduct him here.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Humphrey bristled at this address. “My lord? But you said you have no name.”

“He doesn’t,” Pen replied. “But Dibbler says Tristan is a lord because of his manner and the clothing in which we found him. So Dibbler has called him ‘my lord’ from the first, and everyone followed Dibbler’s example.”

“Dibbler has a high opinion of his reasoning skills,” Tristan said.

They turned to the double doors of the hall as they swung open and a party of men entered. Dibbler led the way while Sniggs, Erbut, Turnip, and several farm lads flanked two strangers. Tristan was standing close to her, and she felt him tense. Glancing up at him, she saw that he was gazing not at Sir Ponder Cutwell, but at his companion. The stranger’s coloring was as dark as Tristan’s, but his chin was more rounded, his eyes less black and more brown. However, his movements had that same easy quickness, that freedom of motion that comes with constant physical activity. His hair was as black as Tristan’s, but he wore an air of entitlement she’d seldom encountered in her own guest.

Sir Ponder navigated toward her slowly, his progress made unwieldy by the thick fur trim at the hem of his gown and the full-length coat of tarnished silver damask that kept getting tangled between his legs. Pen eyed his side locks, which he’d grown long, pomaded, and combed over his bare dome in an ill-advised attempt to disguise his baldness.

“At last, Mistress Fairfax, at last we may end this foolish hurly-burly. God be with you.”

Ponder bent over her hand. Pen tried not to grimace as he touched parchment-dry lips to the back of her hand. She refused to give him the kiss of greeting, even if she had to listen to a scolding from Father Humphrey. Instead, she murmured a welcome and looked inquiringly at the stranger.

Ponder gave his companion an apprehensive glance. “Er, Lord Morgan St. John, may I present Mistress Penelope Fairfax.”

She curtsied to St. John’s bow, but when they rose, she found him gazing not at her, but at Tristan. Ponder was also studying him. She looked at him as well, but he appeared to be waiting patiently for his own introduction and gazed back at Ponder and St. John without so much as an eye twitch of disturbance. St. John seemed to be waiting for something too. He glanced over Tristan’s entire figure, noting the sword, the bare chest, the arms held loosely at his sides. At last he broke the silence.

“My name amazes you not?”

Pen felt a growing irritation, for this man hadn’t spoken to her at all. An imp of mischievousness caused her to interrupt.

“Fie, my lord, how could so commonplace a name as Morgan cause agitation to one blessed with a beautiful one like Tristan? If it please you, your name seems a quite serviceable one. Not one to be ashamed of at all.”

St. John gave her a glance that told her he was speculating on just how mad she might be. Then he’d forgotten her again and was staring rudely at Tristan.

“Now,” she continued, “if your name had been Dogdyke or Poxy John or Weasel, then we would indeed have been amazed.”

That made him look at her again. She smiled a treacle-sweet smile at him.

“My lord, may I present my guest, Tristan, who has been cast upon our shores in a storm and has lost his memory.”

St. John moved closer as he nodded to Tristan. Pen felt rather than saw Tristan’s tautness of mood. He inclined his head, no more, at this man who seemed to think himself the superior of all the company. When St. John came nearer, his hand began to rub the silver embossing on the sheath of his sword.

“What a tragedy,” St. John said.