Page 1 of Chef’s Kiss (A Knights Through Time #20)
The roasted swan gleamed like burnished gold beneath its reconstructed plumage, and Sir Tristan de Valois allowed himself a moment of satisfaction as the king’s taster took the ceremonial first bite.
Around him, the great hall hummed with the sounds of feast—silver on pewter, the rustle of silk and samite, the low murmur of nobles discussing the coming French campaign with barely contained excitement.
King Edward’s war preparations had filled the court with restless energy, and tonight’s feast was meant to bolster spirits before the spring muster.
“By the saints,” the king thundered, his voice carrying across the vaulted ceiling. “De Valois, you’ve outdone yourself. This sauce—what sorcery is this?”
Queen Elizabeth smiled from her place beside him, her pale beauty luminous in the candlelight. “Indeed, Sir Tristan. When we return victorious from France, you must prepare such a feast for our celebrations.”
Her voice carried that particular sweetness that made courtiers lean forward, hanging on every word. Beside her, Lady Jacquetta, her formidable mother, watched Tristan with eyes that seemed to see straight through to his soul.
“Such exotic spices,” Lady Jacquetta observed, her voice carrying a thoughtful note.
“One wonders where such... knowledge... is acquired.” Her gaze lingered on Tristan with an intensity that made several courtiers shift uncomfortably.
The whispers about the Woodville women’s supposed dabbling in witchcraft were never spoken aloud, but they hung in the air like incense—and Lady Jacquetta’s interest in anything unusual always sparked fresh rumors.
Tristan kept his expression neutral, though pride warmed his chest. “Persian saffron, my lady. Mixed with verjuice and ground almonds.” He didn’t mention the hours spent perfecting the balance, or how he’d traded his best dagger for that particular batch of spice from a Flemish merchant.
“Worth its weight in gold.” Edward tore another piece of meat with his fingers, the rings on his hands catching the light from a hundred candles.
The French would pay handsomely once Edward reclaimed his rightful territories across the Channel.
“Guy, you were right to insist your brother-in-arms handle tonight’s feast.”
Sir Guy de Montague raised his goblet from his place at Tristan’s right. His smile was warm as summer wine.
“Tristan has many hidden talents, Your Grace. Though I confess, I never expected a knight who could wield both sword and sauce ladle with equal skill. He’ll serve you well in France.”
The court laughed, that particular sound nobles made when they weren’t certain if mockery or praise was intended.
The queen’s silvery laugh rose above the rest, while her mother merely smiled that knowing smile that had unsettled courtiers for decades.
Tristan caught Guy’s eye, saw the glint of genuine friendship there.
“Speaking of service,” Lord Clarence interjected from further down the table, his voice cutting through the merriment like a blade through silk. George of Clarence had grown increasingly bold in his criticism of the king’s policies, his hunger for power barely concealed.
“There are disturbing rumors about the eastern trade routes. Letters intercepted. Coded messages about shipments that never reached the royal coffers—coffers that will be sorely needed for the French campaign.”
The hall quieted. Even the musicians seemed to play softer. Queen Elizabeth’s fingers tightened on her goblet, while Lady Jacquetta’s expression remained serenely unreadable—a skill that had kept the Woodvilles in power despite constant whispers of sorcery.
Tristan’s hand stilled on his wine cup. “My lord?”
“Oh, nothing to concern yourself with tonight.” Clarence’s smile was thin as parchment. “Though I wonder—a knight so skilled with exotic spices must have... connections. Associates in the trade, perhaps? Such relationships could prove... valuable... or dangerous, depending on one’s loyalties.”
“I purchase from the guild merchants, same as any?—”
“Of course.” Clarence waved a dismissive hand, but his eyes remained sharp as a falcon’s. “Forgive me. The wine has loosened my tongue. We must all be more cautious in these times of preparation.”
But the seed was planted. Tristan felt it in the shift of glances, the whispers that sparked like flint on steel. Beside him, Guy’s jaw had gone tight.
“Tristan,” Guy murmured, leaning close enough that he caught the scent of hippocras on his breath.
“After the feast. We need to speak. There’s something—” He glanced at Clarence, then away. “Meet me in the solar. Alone.”
The rest of the feast passed in a blur of courses Tristan had lovingly prepared but could no longer taste.
When the king finally rose, signaling the evening’s end with talk of early morning meetings about troop movements and supply lines, he made his way through the labyrinth of palace corridors to the small solar overlooking the Thames.
Guy was already there, standing before the window with his back turned. There on the table between them lay a leather satchel Tristan didn’t recognize.
“What troubles you, brother?” Tristan asked, though dread already coiled in his belly like a serpent.
Guy turned, and for a heartbeat, something flickered across his face—regret? Or was it satisfaction? The expression vanished before Tristan could name it.
“Open it.”
Inside the satchel were letters. Tristan’s seal—or what looked enough like it to fool anyone who didn’t examine too closely.
His hands grew cold as he read the damning words.
Promises to foreign merchants. Skimmed shipments.
Treasonous profits hidden from the crown at the very moment Edward needed every coin for his French venture.
“These aren’t—Guy, you know I would never?—”
“I know what I found hidden in your chambers.” Guy’s voice had gone flat as hammered steel. “What Lord Clarence asked me to investigate after certain... irregularities came to light. The king cannot afford traitors in his ranks, not when he’s about to cross the Channel.”
“You searched my chambers?” The betrayal cut deeper than any blade. “We’ve fought together for nine years. Saved each other’s lives a dozen times over.”
“Which is why this pains me.” Guy moved toward the door. “But my loyalty is to the crown first. Always. The king needs men he can trust absolutely—especially now.”
Guards flooded the room. Tristan’s sword was taken before he could draw it. As they bound his wrists, Guy finally met his eyes.
“The spice routes will be mine to oversee now,” he said quietly. “The king needs someone he can trust to ensure no profits are... misdirected... during his absence.”
Understanding crashed over Tristan like icy water. Every shared meal, every battle fought side by side, every moment of brotherhood—all of it a long game for control of the eastern trade routes that would prove so lucrative during the French campaign.
The trial was swift. The evidence, damning.
Tristan stood in the same great hall where hours before nobles had praised his cooking, now watching as King Edward’s face darkened with each presented letter.
Queen Elizabeth sat pale and silent beside her husband, while Lady Jacquetta watched the proceedings with the detached interest of someone who had seen too many rise and fall at court.
“Treason,” the king pronounced, and the word echoed off the vaulted ceiling like a death knell. Edward’s paranoia about the loyalty of his nobles had grown as the French campaign approached—he could not afford to have his supply lines compromised by treacherous knights. “The penalty is death.”
“Your Grace—” Tristan began, but Edward raised his hand.
“However.” The king’s eyes were cold as winter frost. “Your service at Tewkesbury and your father’s loyalty before his death.
These things still carry weight. You will not hang.
Instead, you’ll live with your shame. Greystone Castle—that crumbling ruin your family clings to—will be your prison.
You are stripped of land, title, and honor.
You will not join me in France. If you set foot in my court again, the executioner’s axe awaits. ”
Tristan kept his chin raised as they cut the badges from his surcoat, as they took his spurs, as they broke his sword across their knee. The sound of steel snapping rang through the hall like a funeral bell.
Guy watched from his place among the nobles, his face a mask of appropriate sorrow. Only Tristan saw the victory in his eyes.
They allowed him his horse and one saddlebag. As he rode through Westminster’s gates, rain began to fall—winter rain that felt like rocks hitting his face. Behind him, the palace blazed with torchlight and preparations for war. Ahead, there was only the long road to Greystone—and exile.
Around him, England buzzed with excitement for the coming French campaign, yet he would not be part of it. He thought he’d never again raise a ladle or wield a blade in honor.