Page 28 of Chef’s Kiss (A Knights Through Time #20)
T he thunder of hoofbeats across the courtyard shattered the peaceful afternoon like a stone through glass, followed by the sharp commands of someone who was clearly accustomed to having the world rearrange itself according to her will.
Isolde was back.
Rachel looked up from the kitchen table where she’d been attempting, yet again, to master the art of medieval pastry—an endeavor that was going about as well as her first attempt at soufflé in culinary school, which was to say, catastrophically.
Through the narrow window, she caught sight of a small cavalcade approaching the gates.
Isolde rode at its head, dressed in emerald velvet that seemed to shimmer with its own inner light, her dark hair coiled beneath a proper headdress.
Even from this distance, Lady Isolde Beaumont radiated the kind of authority that made hardened knights check their posture and servants scurry to appear busy.
“Saints preserve us,” Marta muttered from her position by the hearth, where she’d been tending a pot of what might charitably be called stew. “Her ladyship returns, and is in fine spirits by the look of it.”
Rachel wiped the flour from her hands and tried not to think about how her apron was stained with enough kitchen disasters to scandalize a convent. “How can you tell she’s in fine spirits from here?”
“The way she sits her horse,” Marta replied with the confidence of someone who’d spent decades reading the moods of nobility from a safe distance. “Like a cat that’s found a particularly fat mouse and knows exactly how she means to play with it before the killing blow.”
The comparison made her shiver slightly, though whether from anticipation or dread, she couldn’t say.
In the two weeks since Isolde’s departure, she and Tristan had settled into something that felt dangerously like domestic bliss.
They spent mornings in the garden after he’d trained in the lists, afternoons cooking together, but only after her horse and knife lessons with Hugo, and evenings by the fire with Sir Whiskerbottom purring between them like a furry chaperone.
The cat left dead rodents in the chapel, the garrison, and, of course, all over the castle.
She’d almost let herself forget that they were living on borrowed time, that somewhere beyond Greystone’s crumbling walls, enemies were plotting and courts were scheming and the real world was waiting to intrude on their carefully constructed paradise.
Apparently, that intrusion had just arrived in silk and velvet.
By the time Rachel made her way to the great hall, Isolde had already taken command of the space with the thoroughness of a general claiming conquered territory.
She stood before the great hearth, still travel-dusty but magnificent in bearing.
Parchment rustled in her gloved hands as she examined what appeared to be official documents, their red wax seals catching the firelight like drops of blood.
Tristan paced before her like a caged wolf, his usual controlled demeanor cracked enough to reveal the desperate hope and terror warring beneath his careful mask.
Hugo lounged nearby with studied casualness, though Rachel noticed his hand resting on his sword hilt with the unconscious readiness of a man prepared for trouble.
“Sister,” Tristan said, his voice carefully neutral despite the tension radiating from every line of his body. “Your return is... earlier than expected.”
“By a day.” Isolde’s smile was sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous. “I did promise swift action, did I not? Though I confess, even I am surprised by how quickly certain... opportunities... presented themselves.”
She held up the parchment, and Rachel caught sight of the royal seal—the golden lions of England pressed into red wax that seemed to glow in the firelight. The very air in the hall seemed to thicken with possibility and dread.
“What news?” Tristan asked, though his voice had gone hoarse with something that might have been hope or fear or both.
“The best possible news,” his sister replied, her dark eyes dancing with satisfaction.
“It seems that certain parties at court have grown... curious... about your situation. Whispers have been circulating about the true nature of your exile, and questions have been raised about the evidence that condemned you.”
Rachel’s heart skipped several beats as she moved closer, drawn by the electric tension filling the hall.
The scent of Isolde’s perfume was almost overwhelming this close—expensive French roses layered with something that might have been sandalwood or myrrh, the kind of complex fragrance that spoke of wealth and secrets and the ability to bend the world to one’s will.
“What manner of questions?” Tristan’s voice was deadly quiet now, the tone of someone who’d learned not to hope too quickly or trust too easily.
“The right kind,” Isolde said, unfolding the parchment.
“It seems that Guy’s recent... indiscretions.
.. have not gone unnoticed by those who matter.
His sudden wealth, his convenient access to trade routes that were supposedly compromised by treasonous activities, his rather dramatic rise in the king’s favor. ..”
She paused, letting the implications hang in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre.
“People have begun to wonder if perhaps the wrong man was punished for crimes that benefited someone else entirely.”
Hugo straightened from his casual lean against the wall, his jovial expression replaced by something far more dangerous as he scratched his beard, thinking. “And what does the king think of such wonderings?”
“His Grace,” Isolde said with the precision of someone choosing her words very carefully, “has expressed... interest... in testing the truth of certain allegations. He has graciously agreed to allow my brother the opportunity to demonstrate his skills and loyalty in a more... public... venue.”
The parchment crackled as she held it up, and Rachel could see the elegant script that spelled out what looked like official royal correspondence. The weight of destiny seemed to press down on the hall like a physical force.
“What sort of demonstration?” Tristan asked, though something in his voice suggested he already knew the answer.
“A feast,” Isolde said simply, and the words fell into the silence like a stone into still water.
“You are commanded to appear at Westminster in a fortnight’s time, there to prepare a meal for His Grace and his court. Your skills will be judged, your loyalty tested, and your fate—all our fates—decided based on the results.”
The silence that followed was so complete that Rachel could hear her own heartbeat echoing in her ears. One fortnight. One meal. One chance to prove innocence or confirm guilt, to reclaim honor or face final disgrace.
“Merde,” Tristan breathed. “A royal feast. After all this time...”
“Your one opportunity for redemption,” Isolde confirmed, her voice taking on the businesslike tone of someone organizing a military campaign.
“Though I should warn you, brother dear, the stakes could not be higher. This is not merely about clearing your name—it is about survival. Success means restoration of your lands, your titles, your position at court. Full pardon, coffers replenished, debts forgiven, and your rightful place in the king’s favor restored. ”
She moved closer to him, her expression fierce with protective love. “More than that—it means my own restoration. My standing at court, my husband’s ventures, my very future—all depend upon your success. We rise together, brother, or we fall together.”
The blood drained from Rachel’s face as the true scope of what they were facing became clear. It wasn’t just Tristan’s life hanging in the balance—it was everything. His sister’s future, their family’s honor, their very survival in a world where royal displeasure could mean death or exile or worse.
“And failure?” Tristan asked, though his voice had gone hollow.
“Failure,” Isolde said with brutal honesty, “will confirm your guilt beyond question. Not exile this time—execution. Public execution, as befits a confirmed traitor. And I...” She straightened, her chin lifting with stubborn pride.
“I would be ruined utterly. Likely exiled to some godforsaken convent by Geoffrey, where I would spend the rest of my days atoning for my brother’s crimes. ”
The weight of responsibility seemed to crush down on Tristan’s shoulders like a physical force. Rachel watched him pale, watched his hands clench into fists, watched the careful control he’d maintained for months threaten to crack under the pressure.
“I’ll help,” she said, the words bursting out of her before she could think them through. “Whatever you need, however I can assist, I’m in.”
Every eye in the hall turned to her, and Rachel felt the weight of their collective attention like a physical force.
Isolde’s dark gaze was particularly intense, cataloguing every detail of her appearance and demeanor with the thoroughness of someone evaluating a potentially useful but unpredictable weapon.
“My dear,” Isolde said, her voice carrying the kind of gentle warning that usually preceded very ungentle consequences, “I fear you do not fully understand what you are offering. Westminster Palace is not Greystone Castle. The court is a place where words have multiple meanings, where smiles hide daggers, and where a single misstep can prove fatal to more than just your reputation.”
“I understand perfectly,” Rachel replied, though her mouth had gone dry as parchment.
“You’re talking about political intrigue, backstabbing, and the kind of social maneuvering that makes reality TV look like amateur hour.
I get it. But Tristan needs all the help he can get, and I’ve got skills that could prove useful. ”
“What manner of skills?” Isolde asked, her tone sharpening with interest.