Chapter Nine
Gelis stood in the middle of Castle Dare’s great kitchens, her hands fisted at her hips, unwilling to believe that her plan would shatter on the will of one stiff-necked, nae-saying ox of a man who called himself Dare’s master cook.
To her way of looking at it — at the moment, anyway — he appeared as unbending as the thick stone columns supporting the kitchens’
high-vaulted ceiling.
He certainly seemed to have his mind set on vexing her.
With one notable exception, rarely had she seen a man so utterly unmoved by her best dimpled smile and kindest morning greetings.
Nor did he seem overly appreciative of her rose attar perfume. Not that the delicate scent was noticeable against the stronger
kitchen smells of roasting meat, simmering stews, and onions.
So many onions!
The great pile of them made her eyes burn, and she stepped farther away from the table where two young boys busied themselves
chopping the odoriferous bulbs.
Unfortunately, the sharp bite of onion air wasn’t so easily avoided.
Not if she wished to enlist the cook’s aid.
Doing so required suffering the kitchens, pungent as the great groin-vaulted area was.
She bit her lip and tried not to breathe too deeply. She also stifled the urge to tap her foot.
Showing annoyance would get her nowhere.
So she eyed the cook carefully, focusing all her thoughts on winning his favor.
Affectionately dubbed Hugh MacHugh, or so she’d heard, the double name reflected his extraordinary size.
And he was incredibly large.
Ranging head and shoulders above most men and making up nearly as much in breadth and girth, his great bulk dwarfed even the
vastness of the huge, arched roasting hearth looming behind him.
Gelis kept her chin lifted all the same.
Hugh MacHugh would have a chink somewhere.
Most men did.
And those who didn’t weren’t worth the bother.
So she narrowed her eyes and kept her perusal appraising.
There had to be something that would get her past his head-shakings and lock-jawed denials.
Not nearly as old as she would have expected, Hugh MacHugh appeared genial enough otherwise.
Clear blue eyes, twinkling and bright, watched her from beneath a high forehead, smooth if a bit wary. Autumn-bronze hair
graced his brow, if the carefully combed strands were a bit wispy. And he sported round apple-red cheeks and a curling copper
beard, obviously his pride.
He was pulling on that beard now.
Yanking on the glossy rose-red curls as he wagged his head, tsk-tsking her every request.
“Nae, it canna be done, my lady.” He folded massive, well-muscled arms across his chest. “In all my days, I have ne’er gone
against Lord Raven’s wishes.”
He looked at her, his red-bearded chin outthrust.
Gelis took a step closer to him. The reek of onions and simmering beef pottage swirled around her, as did the pungent smell
of fresh fish packed in barrels of seaweed and brine.
“But you have the goods here,” she wheedled, lifting a hand to count the delicacies on her fingers. “They’ve not yet been
returned to the larder.”
Hugh MacHugh grunted.
His arms remained firmly crossed.
“See you for yourself ” — Gelis pointed to the heavy oaken worktable forming the centerpiece of the kitchens — “is that not
the selfsame joint of roasted mutton, platters of which were sent to my room yestere’en?”
A crimp appeared in the cook’s fine, high brow.
“The scent still lingered in the air.” Gelis twitched her nose, demonstrably. “ ’Twas the same roasted mutton I can smell
now.”
She flicked a glance at the savory evidence. “Ah-h-h, yes,” she observed, letting her nose quiver again. “I am quite sure
of it. The seasonings, see you . . .”
The crimp in the cook’s brow became a crease.
Gelis waved a hand, silencing him when he opened his mouth to protest.
“And there, on the trestle table by the far wall” — she whirled in that direction — “are those not the spiced salmon pasties
prepared to tempt the Raven’s palate?”
Hugh MacHugh’s tight-drawn lips said that they were.
“Or there . . .” She trailed off, thrusting out an arm to indicate a bowl of jellied eggs and a linen-draped platter that
she suspected held Hugh’s own prized honey cakes, the tasty delicacies dusted with ginger.
She lifted a brow. “Are those not leftover goods? Victuals now destined for the castle dogs?”
The cook shuffled his feet, unable to meet her eye.
Sensing victory, she went to the table and lifted the edge of one of the cloth-draped bowls.
“ Ah-h-h . . .” She nodded thoughtfully. “More than enough for your lord’s hounds and any empty-bellied beggars who might
come calling at the postern gates!”
To her surprise — or not — Hugh MacHugh began to flush.
He looked down, nudging a surprisingly small foot against a crack in the kitchen’s stone-flagged floor.
“I, too, would have relished such a feast.” Gelis pressed her luck. “I know you ken I was robbed of such enjoyment — as was
your lord.”
The cook’s head snapped up, his pink-tinged flush turning scarlet.
“I told you, my lady—”
“The Raven’s wishes, I know.” Gelis picked up a stew ladle, pretending to examine it. “Tell me,” she ventured, setting the
thing back down, “has he expressly forbidden me to explore my new home?”
“With surety, nae.” Hugh pulled a length of cloth from beneath his belt and dabbed at his glistening brow. “He only ordered
that you are not to leave the keep unescorted.”
“And I shall not.” Gelis pounced. “A score of your lord’s best guardsmen shall accompany me,” she improvised, wondering if
she’d dare ride out alone at all after making such a false claim.
“ ’Tis true,” a feminine voice spoke from the door to the wine cellar.
Anice.
She stepped into the kitchens, a clutch of willow bands in her work-roughened hands, her large-eyed gaze on the cook.
“The Raven’s men await her now — this moment,” she said, and Gelis hoped only she heard the tremor in the girl’s lie. “They’re
gathered outside the gatehouse.”
Hugh scratched his ear, clearly undecided.
In the corner, Hector pushed up off the stool where he’d been sorting peas. Quiet until now, he came forward, his chest puffed
and his new sgian dubh peeking up from the top of his left boot.
He paused beside a pile of empty wicker baskets and coiled ropes. “I heard the Raven say so myself,” he declared, not batting
an eye. “The lady may go where she pleases.”
“Ha.” Hugh MacHugh wasn’t fooled.
Indeed, he was a great towering pillar of suspicion.
But something in his aspect altered.
A trace of indecision — or softening — as his gaze flitted between Anice and the lad.
Most especially when he looked at the girl.
Striding over to her, he snatched the willow bands and tossed them into a corner.
“I dinna believe a word either of you are blethering,” he said, somehow not quite managing to sound very fierce.
“And I told you to leave be with the wine barrels. One of the lads could have repaired the hoops.” He grabbed her hands, turning
them palm upward. “ ’Tis no’ work for a lass.”
Anice flushed.
Gelis almost laughed.
So that was the way the cat jumped!
Proving it, the scowling-faced giant dragged Anice across the room, stopping in front of a long wooden rack on the wall. Hung
with every manner of cook pots, long-handled ladles, and scummers, it also held an assortment of mortars, and pestles, trivets
and measuring weights, and a few round earthen jars.
“Here!” He snatched one of the jars and, removing its rag stopper, thrust in his fingers to withdraw a smelly, greasy-looking
unguent.
This he smeared onto Anice’s palms before taking her elbow and guiding her to a little three-legged stool next to the pile
of ropes and wicker baskets.
“Stay there until your hands absorb the selfheal cream.” He straightened, wiping his own hands on the cloth tucked beneath
his belt. “You can use the time to remember that I have a nose for smelling lies. That’s aimed at you, too, laddie,” he added,
flashing a glance at Hector. “I’ll no’ have the like in my kitchens. No’ for any reason.”
That last, Gelis was sure, was meant for her.
Feeling duly chastised, she cleared her throat.
“You mustn’t blame them. They but meant to champion me. They’ll both know I’d hoped my surprise would help me gain the Raven’s favor.” She lifted her chin. “I do not yet have it, you see.”
She spoke plain, giving Hugh MacHugh the honesty he’d demanded.
Unable to let her only friends here — save Valdar and Buckie — take the brunt of his burst of temper.
However unfierce it truly was.
Already, some of the agitation had left his face. In its place, his earlier look of indecision returned, making him appear
almost boyish, save for his full red-gold beard.
Pulling on that beard again, he eyed her. “So you desire the Raven’s favor, eh? Now you’ve given me something to chew on,
my lady.”
The words spoken, he began pacing, stroking his beard all the while.
Silent, he strode to and fro between the stinky little onion table, his larger oaken worktable, and the great double-arched roasting hearth.
“I’ll do your bidding, lady.” He paused at last, drawing up beside Anice and dropping a hand onto her shoulder. “In great
part because I ken Anice would ne’er have told such a whopping falsehood unless she truly believed you have the heart to ride
out —”
“Och, she does!” Anice bobbed her head. “You should have seen her when we entered the bedchamber and —”
“Be that as it may, she will ride out under full escort — as she said.” Hugh MacHugh was adamant.
“But . . .” Gelis hedged, ashamed to admit her deceit. “There isn’t an escort waiting for me. Not yet anyway. I’d meant to
gather one . . .”
That was true enough.
Though she’d feared they’d say her nae.
The cook looked at her, his blue eyes sharp. “They shall accompany you, never fear.”
Gelis smoothed her hands on her skirts. “They might not be pleased —”
“Leave it to me.” He smiled then and patted his considerable girth. “I’m no man o’ letters with a silvered tongue. Nor a great