Chapter Fifteen #2
Opening the entry door, he stepped into the warm, fragrant cottage.
A fat black cat lounged on one of the chairs in front of the hearth while still another cat, this one black and white, was grooming itself on the warm stones.
Ophelia had found the strays last month and brought them home, and now Creston not only slept with his wife, but with two cats, one of whom liked to lie on his head.
But he wouldn’t deny his wife her pets, as she seemed very fond of them, and they of her, and as he headed into the eating area of the cottage, he saw Ophelia bent over the hearth, stirring something in an iron pot that was hanging over the flames.
“Lady de Royans,” he greeted Ophelia as he came up behind her. “I’ve missed you today.”
By the time Ophelia stood up, he had wrapped his arms around her torso and was hugging her tightly. She smiled, leaning back against him, craving his warmth.
“I just saw you at the nooning hour,” she said, her arms over his as he held her. “But that seems like so long ago, doesn’t it?”
He kissed her on the side of the head. “It seems like forever,” he said, releasing her. “Something smells good. What are you preparing?”
Ophelia was quite proud of the mystery dish bubbling in the pot. “Pork and beans in a stew,” she said. “The cook told me how to make it. It does smell good, does it not?”
He nodded, even though it wasn’t exactly true. It smelled burned. “Verily,” he said. “But before we eat, let me wash my hands and change my tunic. It seems to have blood on it.”
Ophelia put her hands on his tunic, seeing the stains around his waistline. “What happened?” she asked.
Creston watched her inspect the stains. He wasn’t exactly sure he should tell her all of it because his training consisted these days of torture endurance, and it was every bit as horrific as it sounded.
Not one recruit looked forward to this segment of training because it often involved things like beatings and ripping hair out by the root, or battered testicles or torn toenails.
Painful, terrible things that stopped short of permanently damaging a man.
The point was to make the recruit resistant to such things, because it was a mental game far more than a physical one.
It was also exhausting for Creston, who taught it in conjunction with Ming Tang, whose training module involved mind over matter and relaxation, among other things.
However, when it came to Creston’s class, Ming Tang also spoke of a torture method called Ling Chi, or death by a thousand cuts.
It was an ancient torture method that was exactly like it sounded.
Creston had never used it on a recruit, but long ago, he had used it on an enemy of John’s.
It had been called something else, but the result was the same.
The king’s enemy had slowly bled to death, his crime being protesting the fact that John had bedded his wife.
Those were the days Creston didn’t particularly like to think about.
He focused on today, on the lovely woman in his kitchen, a woman that had him walking on air every moment of every day.
He was as happy as he’d never been in his life, smitten by the glorious creature he had married.
He went to change his tunic and wash his hands, and she followed him with a pitcher of water.
There was a basin in their bedchamber, and she poured the water for him while he washed his hands and face.
The bloodied tunic went into a pile of clothing to be washed, like aprons and hose, and while he dried his hands and face, Ophelia pulled a fresh tunic out of a trunk and gave it to him.
Together, they went down to supper.
Creston discovered everything about the meal she’d prepared in short order.
The bread was good because she’d brought it over from Blackchurch’s kitchens, and there was plenty of butter to go with it.
The pork and bean stew, however, was a thick pottage with too much salt and rosemary in it.
The Blackchurch cook had told her to season it with herbs, so she’d cut too much fresh rosemary from a bush to the rear of the cottage and put all of it in the stew.
He was eating rosemary stew and it was a taste he absolutely detested, but he ate two bowls because she had tried so hard.
As she was spooning out a third bowl for him, the rear door swung open and Cruz entered.
“I smell food,” he said, coming to the table and sitting down. “What is for sup, Lady de Royans?”
Ophelia grinned. She and Cruz had developed a lovely relationship over the past three months, and she genuinely liked him.
He thought she was sweet and delightful, like the sister he’d never had, so entering their home unannounced was something he did on a regular basis, just like he always had when Creston lived here alone, and Ophelia didn’t mind in the least. She was thrilled to be cooking for two men, so she produced another bowl of the rosemary stew and put it in front of Cruz, who dug into it with gusto.
Soon, they were all sitting at the table, eating the stew, and Cruz kept up a running conversation about the module that he and Creston were preparing to teach together, which involved politics, diplomacy, and dirty coercion tactics.
Ophelia listened to the men talk, eating very little of the stew but eating a good deal of the bread.
As the men continued to talk, she got up, went to the table that contained the implements and ingredients she used for supper and scraped the remainder of her stew into an old bucket.
She tossed in the inedible parts of the carrots she’d put in the stew, the tops and some dirty pieces that weren’t for cooking.
Lifting the bucket, she went outside to dump it.
Once she was gone, Creston put his hand over Cruz’s as the man lifted a spoonful of the stew to his mouth.
“Stop,” he hissed. “You do not have to eat this simply to please me.”
Cruz looked at him in surprise. “Why not?”
Creston made sure Ophelia wasn’t coming back in through the door before answering. “Because it is vile,” he whispered. “I have to eat it, but you do not.”
Cruz fought off a grin and put the stuff into his mouth, chewing. “Cres, don’t you know by now that food made with love is the best food in the world?” he said. “No matter what it tastes like, love makes it delicious.”
Creston thought on that, smiling reluctantly. “God bless the woman, she is trying so hard,” he murmured. “I do not want to upset her, so I just eat it. But there have been times when it has been most difficult.”
Cruz grinned, patting him on the shoulder. “You are a good man,” he said. “God will reward you for being so kind to her.”
“If I keep eating this slop, I’ll meet him sooner than I’d hoped.”
Cruz burst into soft laughter as Ophelia came back through the door with the empty bucket.
She put it on the table and busied herself with other things as Cruz and Creston finished off what was in their bowls.
Ophelia looked over and, seeing that they were finished, went to collect the dirty dishes so she could wash them.
Cruz handed his over, but when Creston did, he happened to look up and see her face.
There were tears in her eyes.
“Sweetheart, what is amiss?” he asked gently, grasping her wrist to keep her from walking away from the table. “Why are you upset?”
Ophelia burst into tears. “Because this is awful,” she said, holding up the empty, dirty bowl. “It is awful and you eat it anyway. Worse still, you feed it to your friends.”
She gestured at Cruz. Terrified that she had heard him criticize her food, Creston put his arms around her, trying to comfort her.
“It is not awful,” he assured her. “I eat it because you are working very hard at trying to make a home for us. I eat it because I am grateful. It does not matter what it tastes like because I can only taste the love.”
He thought that was rather clever of him, given his conversation with Cruz, but Ophelia’s tears didn’t stop. If anything, they grew worse.
“I want so much to make a meal that you will enjoy, but I cannot seem to,” she said, wiping at her nose. “I am so sorry. I will not put you through this torture any longer. I will simply bring you what Blackchurch’s cook prepares.”
Creston pulled her down onto his lap as she wiped her face. “My sweet lass,” he murmured, kissing the side of her head. “You can cook for me every night for the rest of my life and I will be a very happy man. Please do not give up. You’ve only just started.”
“Do you think any cook is good when they first start?” Cruz said, feeling sorry for the woman who was trying so hard.
“Of course they’re not. It takes time. My abuela used to make sweet cheese fritters, but do you think they were always delicious?
Of course not. She had to practice until she became very adept at it. You must not give up.”
Ophelia was looking over her shoulder at him as Creston held her on his lap, his cheek against her back as he looked at Cruz also. Ophelia couldn’t see the faint smile on Creston’s lips as he silently thanked Cruz for encouraging her. All she could see was Cruz’s earnest expression.
“What is an abuela?” she asked.
“Grandmother,” Cruz said. “The woman had thirteen children, my father being her eldest son and seventh child. The point is that no one is perfect at first. But we must practice to become skilled, so you must not be discouraged.”
The tears had faded and Ophelia wiped the last of the moisture from her face. “I suppose,” she said. “I know the food I’ve made isn’t very good, but Creston never complains. I thought it was because he surely must like it, but tonight’s stew was terrible. I put too much rosemary in it.”
“Then you will not do it the next time,” Cruz said. “Because you have learned that rosemary is a very strong flavor.”
She nodded in agreement. “It is,” she said. “But I like it in soap.”