Page 30 of Chef’s Kiss (A Knights Through Time #20)
T he first sight of London hit Rachel like a slap from the Middle Ages itself—a sprawling, stinking, magnificent disaster that assaulted every sense she possessed and a few she hadn’t known existed.
“Sweet mother of pearl,” she breathed, pressing her sleeve to her nose as their small party crested the hill overlooking the Thames.
“It’s like someone took every period drama I’ve ever watched, stripped away all the romantic filters, and added the authentic smell of a thousand years’ worth of poor sanitation decisions. ”
The city spread before them like a fever dream painted in shades of brown and gray, church spires stabbing upward through a haze of smoke that spoke of countless hearth fires, workshops, and what she very much hoped were just overly enthusiastic bread ovens.
The Thames wound through it all like a muddy ribbon, crowded with boats and barges that somehow managed to navigate without the benefit of traffic laws or, apparently, any concern for basic collision avoidance.
“’Tis magnificent,” Isolde said with the satisfaction of someone returning to familiar territory. “’Tis home to fifty thousand souls, the greatest city in all Christendom.”
“Fifty thousand people,” Rachel repeated faintly, watching smoke curl up from what appeared to be several hundred different cooking fires. “All living in what basically amounts to a giant medieval apartment complex with no zoning laws, no building codes, and definitely no health inspectors.”
Tristan, who’d been unusually quiet during their two-day journey, finally spoke. “You find our greatest city... lacking?”
There was something carefully neutral in his voice that made Rachel look at him more closely.
He sat his horse with the easy grace of someone born to the saddle, but tension radiated from every line of his body.
The closer they’d gotten to Westminster, the more withdrawn he’d become, as if the weight of what awaited him was slowly crushing his spirit.
“Not lacking,” she said carefully. “Just... different from what I’m used to.
Where I come from, cities are...” She gestured helplessly, trying to figure out how to explain urban planning to people who thought a stone wall was advanced architecture.
“Cleaner. More organized. Less likely to spontaneously combust from all the open flames.”
“Tell us of your cities,” Isolde said with the focused attention of someone collecting useful intelligence. “These marvels of your distant land. How do they manage such... cleanliness... with so many souls dwelling together?”
The question caught her off guard. Over the past two months, she’d grown comfortable deflecting inquiries about her origins with vague references to distant places and foreign customs. But here, faced with medieval London in all its aromatic glory, the differences between her world and this felt impossible to ignore.
“Underground pipes,” she said finally. “For carrying away... waste. And bringing in clean water. Streets paved with stone, buildings made of materials that don’t burn easily. Lamps that light without flame.”
The silence that followed was broken only by the clip-clop of their horses’ hooves and the distant sounds of the city below—shouting merchants, barking dogs, the rumble of cart wheels over cobblestones.
“Lamps without flame,” Tristan repeated slowly. “What manner of sorcery powers such devices?”
“Not sorcery. Just... knowledge. Understanding of how things work.” She tried to think of a way to explain electricity that wouldn’t get her burned at the stake. “Lightning, but tamed. Captured and made to serve.”
Hugo, who’d been riding slightly behind them with the practiced wariness of someone expecting trouble, let out a low whistle. “Tamed lightning. Saints preserve us, no wonder you look at our poor efforts with such... what was the word... disappointment.”
“I don’t look at anything with disappointment,” Rachel protested, though she could hear the defensive note in her own voice. “I’m just... adjusting. To differences. It’s all very... atmospheric.”
“Atmospheric,” Isolde repeated with evident amusement. “A diplomatic way of saying ‘horrifying,’ I suspect.”
As they made their way through the crowded streets toward Westminster Palace, she tried not to gawk like the tourist she essentially was.
The sheer humanity of it all was overwhelming—merchants hawking their wares in voices that could cut through stone, children darting between the legs of horses with the fearless agility of young animals, women balancing impossible loads on their heads while navigating streets that seemed designed by someone who’d never heard of the concept of straight lines.
The smells were a constant assault—unwashed bodies and animal waste, yes, but also the rich scents of baking bread, roasting meat, herbs and spices from distant lands.
It was like walking through the world’s most authentic food festival, if food festivals included open sewers and the occasional dead rat.
“Tell us more of these tamed lightning lamps,” Tristan said, his voice carrying a note that might have been genuine curiosity or desperate distraction from his own nerves. “How does one capture such power?”
“Very carefully,” Rachel replied, trying to think of an explanation that wouldn’t sound completely insane.
“There are... scholars... in my land who understand the nature of lightning. They’ve learned to create it in small amounts, to store it in special containers, to make it flow through metal threads to light lamps and power. .. devices.”
“Devices for what purpose?”
“Everything. Cooking, cleaning, communication across vast distances. Transportation that moves without horses. Preservation of food without salt or smoke. The ability to keep food hot or cold without fire or ice.” She paused, realizing how fantastical it all sounded.
“It probably sounds like madness to you.”
“Nay,” Tristan said quietly. “It sounds like paradise. A world where knowledge conquers ignorance, where understanding triumphs over superstition. Where a man might be judged by his skills rather than the circumstances of his birth.”
The pain in his voice was so raw that Rachel felt her chest tighten with sympathy.
“It’s not paradise,” she said gently. “It’s just..
. different. We have our own problems, our own injustices.
Prejudice still exists, people are more divided than ever.
People betray those they should protect.
Honor still matters, even if we call it by different names. ”
Westminster Palace loomed ahead of them, its towers and walls speaking of power that had endured for centuries.
The very stones seemed to radiate authority, and Rachel felt a flutter of nervousness that had nothing to do with temporal displacement and everything to do with the realization that in a few hours, she’d be standing in the royal kitchens, helping to prepare a meal that would determine whether the man she was falling in love with lived or died.
“We should prepare ourselves,” Isolde announced as they approached the palace gates. “Remember, Rachel—you are a skilled cook from a distant land, nothing more. Your... unusual knowledge... must remain carefully concealed, lest it raise questions we cannot answer.”
“Understood,” she said, though her mouth had gone dry as parchment. “Distant land, skilled cook, definitely not from the future.”
The palace kitchens were like stepping into controlled chaos designed by someone with unlimited resources and a complete disregard for worker safety.
Massive hearths blazed along one wall, their fires tended by sweating servants who moved with the practiced efficiency of people who knew that royal displeasure could prove fatal.
The air was thick with smoke and steam, rich with the scents of roasting meat and exotic spices that spoke of wealth beyond imagination.
Rachel had cooked in professional kitchens before, had trained under chefs who demanded perfection and brooked no excuses.
But this was different—this was cooking as performance art, with an audience of nobles who held the power of life and death, and stakes that went far beyond restaurant reviews or professional reputation.
“Have the king’s preferences changed?” Tristan asked the head cook, a round man whose red face suggested either constant exposure to kitchen heat or a fondness for the wine intended for cooking.
“His Grace favors rich foods,” the man replied, wiping sweat from his brow with a cloth that had seen better decades. “Heavy sauces, well-spiced meats, sweet comfits to finish. He particularly enjoys novelty—dishes that surprise and delight.”
Rachel felt a spark of inspiration, the same electric thrill she’d felt when creating signature dishes in her own time. “What about fresh herbs as garnish? Something unexpected but not too foreign? A way to add color and brightness to rich dishes?”
The head cook looked skeptical, his weathered face scrunching with the expression of someone who’d seen too many kitchen innovations turn into disasters. “Herbs are for seasoning, not decoration.”
“Not in my... land,” Rachel said carefully, her mind racing with possibilities.
“We use fresh herbs to enhance both flavor and appearance. Sage leaves crisped in hot oil until they’re golden and delicate, parsley chopped fine and scattered over finished dishes like emeralds.
Rosemary sprigs that release their fragrance when warmed by hot food.
It adds a... lightness... to heavy foods, a brightness that pleases both eye and palate. ”
Tristan’s eyes sharpened with interest, and she saw something she hadn’t glimpsed since they’d left Greystone—hope. Real, genuine hope that they might actually succeed. “Show me.”