Page 22 of Chef’s Kiss (A Knights Through Time #20)
“Commerce is from the Almighty!” Father Clement added helpfully. “She claims dominion over God’s own designs!”
Rachel’s eye twitched, a sure sign that her patience was approaching critical failure levels.
Around her, the crowd continued to mutter and point and generally behave like extras in a particularly low-budget horror movie, while the root vegetable vendor clutched her questionable produce to her chest like they were precious gems from some lord’s treasure coffers.
“You know what?” She said, her voice taking on the dangerous quiet that had once made a particularly arrogant restaurant manager actually apologize for serving her reheated fish.
“Keep your overpriced, sad excuse for roots. I’ll grow my own.
With modern agricultural techniques that would blow your medieval minds, if you had any minds to blow. ”
The gasp that went up from the crowd was audible from three villages over.
“She threatens to blow our minds!” Father Clement’s voice cracked with horror. “With techniques unknown to Christian lands! She would scatter our very thoughts to the wind like chaff!”
“Modern!” Mistress Caldwell stepped forward, her pale eyes glittering with something that looked suspiciously like scientific curiosity. “She claims knowledge of times yet to come. Mark how her humors burn with future sight, inflamed beyond all natural balance.”
“I don’t have future sight,” Rachel said desperately, looking around for some kind of support and finding only hostile faces and religious panic. “I’m just really, really bad at fitting in!”
The crowd was pressing closer now, their muttering growing louder and more agitated. She could smell unwashed wool and fear-sweat, could taste the metallic tang of her own panic as she realized that this had gone way beyond cultural misunderstanding into actual danger territory.
That’s when she heard it—the sound of heavy footsteps moving through the crowd with purposeful authority, followed by a voice that cut through the hysteria like a blade through silk.
“What passes here?”
The crowd parted like the Red Sea as Tristan appeared, his imposing height and breadth making everyone else look suddenly smaller.
But this wasn’t the companion who’d been teasing her about vegetable purchasing—this was Lord Greystone in full medieval authority mode, his expression carved from winter frost and his voice carrying the kind of power that made people remember exactly who owned the land they stood on.
“My lord,” Father Clement stammered, clearly caught off guard by Tristan’s sudden appearance and commanding presence. “The foreign woman... she speaks in tongues unknown to Christian lands. Threatens our very minds with her unholy knowledge.”
Tristan’s icy gaze swept over the crowd before settling on Rachel with an intensity that made her pulse quicken despite the circumstances.
For a moment, something flickered in his expression—concern, perhaps, or barely suppressed amusement—before his face returned to its mask of aristocratic authority.
“The lady speaks strangely because she is from... very far away,” he said, his voice carrying the kind of calm authority that made people listen whether they wanted to or not. “Her customs are different. Her words sound unfamiliar. But she means no harm to any here.”
“She mocks our prices!” the vegetable vendor protested, though she sounded less certain now that Tristan was involved. “She speaks of demon mills and... and blowing things!”
“She speaks of fairness,” Tristan replied calmly, though Rachel caught the slight tightening around his eyes that suggested he was struggling not to laugh. “Of reasonable commerce. Surely there’s no sin in seeking value for one’s coin?”
The crowd murmured uncertainly, clearly torn between their fear of foreign sorcery and their respect for the lord of Greystone Castle, disgraced or not.
“Three pence for those roots is indeed steep,” Tristan continued diplomatically. “Perhaps two pence would be more... charitable in spirit?”
The vendor looked between Rachel and Tristan, then at her withered produce, then at the crowd of potential customers who were all watching to see how she handled this particular theological crisis.
“Two pence,” she agreed reluctantly. “But the foreign lady must promise to speak no more... unusual words over them.”
“I promise,” Rachel said quickly, digging into her small purse for the coins Tristan had given her that still felt like play money to her modern sensibilities. “No unusual words. No demons. No blowing of minds. Just perfectly normal vegetable purchasing with entirely mundane intentions.”
As she handed over the money and received her bundle of questionable roots, Rachel noticed that Tristan’s jaw was clenched with what she was beginning to recognize as suppressed laughter.
“Are you okay?” she whispered as they moved away from the vegetable stall toward what appeared to be a cheese merchant who hopefully had less complex theological opinions about commerce.
“Perfectly normal vegetable purchasing,” he murmured, his voice thick with barely contained amusement. “With entirely mundane intentions.”
“Shut up,” Rachel muttered, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. “I was trying to de-escalate the situation.”
“By promising not to blow anyone’s mind?”
“By promising not to accidentally cause any more religious hysteria with my poor grasp of medieval slang,” she corrected, shooting him a sideways look. “Though I notice you found the whole thing pretty entertaining.”
“I found it... educational,” he said diplomatically, though she caught the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I had no idea that purchasing roots could be so... explosive.”
“Very funny,” she said, but some of her tension eased at his gentle teasing. “What happened with Sir Edmund? Did you avoid whatever confrontation you were worried about?”
Tristan’s expression darkened slightly. “He departed shortly after I made my presence known. No doubt carrying word back to Guy about your... distinctive marketplace behavior.”
“Great,” Rachel sighed. “So now your enemies know I exist and that I have a talent for accidentally causing religious panic. That’s definitely going to help with our whole ‘lay low and investigate quietly’ plan.”
“Perhaps that would be wise for future excursions,” Tristan agreed, guiding her toward the cheese stall with a hand on her elbow that sent sparks racing up her arm despite her lingering embarrassment.
“Though I confess, watching you face down Father Clement was... illuminating.”
“Illuminating how?”
Instead of answering, he nodded toward the cheese merchant, a surprisingly cheerful-looking man whose stall smelled like heaven compared to the rest of the market. “Shall we see if you can purchase dairy products without causing a religious crisis?”
“Challenge accepted,” Rachel said, straightening her shoulders. “How hard could it be?”
Behind them, she could hear Father Clement still muttering about foreign influences and unbalanced humors, while Mistress Caldwell’s dry voice added commentary about choleric temperaments and the dangers of excessive conversation with strangers.
Someone was probably still looking for evidence of demonic vegetable transactions, but Rachel found she didn’t particularly care.
For the first time since arriving in this impossible century, she felt like she wasn’t facing it entirely alone. Even if her companion was currently struggling not to laugh at her complete inability to buy vegetables without causing theological panic.
It was a start.