Page 31 of Chef’s Kiss (A Knights Through Time #20)

What followed was like a carefully orchestrated dance between old knowledge and new inspiration.

The kitchen came alive around them as they worked, servants scurrying to fetch ingredients while the great hearths blazed with purposeful fire.

Rachel found herself falling into a rhythm she’d thought lost forever—the controlled chaos of professional cooking, where every movement had purpose and timing was everything.

Tristan worked with the skill of someone who’d trained in royal kitchens, his hands sure and confident as he crafted sauces that would have made professional chefs weep with envy.

She watched him dice shallots with surgical precision, deglaze pans with wine that cost more than most people earned in a year, layer flavors with the instinctive understanding of someone who truly understood his craft.

And for the first time since the disaster at Westminster had been set in motion, she felt useful. More than useful—essential.

“The sage,” she directed, selecting leaves with the care of someone choosing gemstones. “They need to be perfect—no blemishes, no yellow edges. When we fry them, they’ll become dark green and crispy.”

She demonstrated the technique on a small test batch, dropping the sage leaves into hot oil and watching them transform from soft green to crispy perfection. The kitchen filled with the herb’s warm, earthy scent, and even the skeptical head cook leaned closer to inhale the fragrance.

“’Tis beautiful,” Tristan said quietly, watching her work with an expression that made her heart skip beats. “Like capturing summer itself and laying it upon the dish.”

Together, they created something magnificent.

Roasted venison glazed with honey and wine, the meat so tender it fell apart at the touch of a knife.

A subtle sauce enriched with exotic spices that spoke of distant lands and careful trade—cinnamon from Ceylon, black pepper from the Indies, saffron worth more than gold.

Sweet comfits that gleamed like jewels in the firelight, their surfaces perfected to mirror brightness.

And over it all, Rachel’s innovation of fresh herbs crisped to perfection, their bright green providing vivid contrast to the rich browns and golds of the other dishes.

Sage leaves, parsley scattered like emerald dust, tiny sprigs of rosemary that released their fragrance at the first touch of warmth.

“’Tis magnificent,” Tristan said, stepping back to survey their creation. The doubt that had haunted his eyes for days was gone, replaced by something that looked dangerously like pride. “If this does not prove my skill and loyalty, then nothing shall.”

Rachel felt a warm glow of accomplishment and affection as she watched him survey their work.

They’d done this together, combined their knowledge and skills to create something truly special.

The herbs were her contribution, but the foundation was his—years of training and natural talent coming together in dishes that would have graced any restaurant in her own time.

“It’s perfect,” she said, and meant it. Whatever happened next, they’d given their best effort.

But as the servants began transferring their carefully prepared dishes to serving platters, she caught a glimpse of movement at the kitchen’s edge—a flash of golden hair and expensive cloth that made her blood turn cold.

Guy de Montague stood near the entrance to the larder, his handsome face arranged in an expression of polite interest as he observed the final preparations.

He shouldn’t be here—nobles didn’t concern themselves with kitchen work, and the staff treated his presence with the nervous deference reserved for unexpected visits from dangerous predators.

“What is he doing here?” she whispered to Tristan, who’d gone rigid at the sight of their enemy.

“I know not,” he replied grimly, his voice barely audible over the kitchen’s bustle. “But naught good shall come of it.”

Rachel watched Guy move through the kitchen with the casual confidence of someone who belonged everywhere and questioned nothing.

He paused near the herb station where she’d prepared her garnishes, his pale eyes cataloging every detail with the thoroughness of someone memorizing intelligence for later use.

“The foreign innovation,” he said to the head cook, his voice carrying just enough volume to be overheard. “How fascinating. In my travels, I’ve seen similar herbs used for... various purposes. Some beneficial, others... less so.”

The head cook looked nervous, uncertain how to respond to nobility expressing interest in kitchen matters. “His lordship has concerns?”

“Merely curious,” Guy replied smoothly, his fingers brushing against the bunches of fresh herbs with the casual interest of someone examining harmless greenery.

“Such innovation speaks to... educated... knowledge of botanical properties. One hopes all precautions have been taken to ensure... appropriateness.”

Rachel felt ice water flood her veins as she realized what he was doing. Not questioning the herbs directly—that would draw too much attention. Instead, he was planting seeds of doubt, making the kitchen staff wonder if they should be concerned about foreign influences and unusual innovations.

“Tristan,” she started to say, but the final preparations were already underway. Their carefully crafted dishes were being arranged on serving platters, garnished with her herb innovations, and carried toward the great hall where the king waited.

“’Tis too late to change aught now,” Tristan said quietly, though his knuckles had gone white where he gripped the edge of the preparation table. “We must trust in our work and hope that honor shall prove stronger than treachery.”

The great hall of Westminster Palace was a sight to behold—soaring ceilings that seemed to stretch toward heaven itself, tapestries that depicted the glorious history of English kings, and enough wealth on display to fund several small kingdoms. Hundreds of beeswax candles cast dancing light over silk and velvet, turning the assembled nobility into a living gallery of medieval splendor.

The scent of luxury was overwhelming—expensive perfumes and rare spices, beeswax and exotic woods, the rich aromas of the feast being laid out on tables that groaned under the weight of their bounty.

This wasn’t just dinner; it was a display of power, wealth, and the divine right of kings made manifest in gold plate and cloth-of-gold hangings.

King Edward sat at the high table in robes that caught the light like captured sunshine, his presence commanding even in repose.

At thirty-three, he was still a formidable figure—tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of casual authority that came from being born to rule the greatest kingdom in Christendom.

Beside him, Queen Elizabeth was resplendent in midnight blue silk that set off her pale beauty, her growing belly gracefully concealed beneath rich fabric that spoke of royal pregnancy and the promise of future heirs.

But it was the woman seated to the queen’s left who made Rachel’s blood run cold.

Lady Jacquetta Rivers, the queen’s mother, watched the proceedings with eyes that seemed to catalog every detail, every face, every gesture with the intensity of someone who’d spent decades navigating the treacherous waters of court politics.

At fifty, she remained striking—silver-haired and sharp-featured, with the kind of presence that made even hardened courtiers think twice before crossing her.

There were whispers about the Woodville women—whispers of witchcraft, of unnatural knowledge, of powers that went beyond what Christian souls should possess.

Looking at Jacquetta now, Rachel could believe every rumor.

Those calculating eyes were currently fixed on her with an interest that felt distinctly witchy.

For a moment, curiosity overrode her fear, and Rachel wanted to go to her, ask her if she knew how Rachel could get back to her own time.

But the moment passed as Tristan shifted from foot to foot.

Around the royal table, the flower of English nobility arranged themselves in silk and velvet—earls and barons, bishops and court officials, their conversations a low murmur that spoke of politics and intrigue and the careful dance of courtly favor.

This was the heart of English power, the inner circle of those who shaped the destiny of kingdoms, and she was witnessing it right in front of her eyes.

Somewhere among them sat Guy de Montague, his handsome face arranged in an expression of attentive courtesy that fooled everyone except those who knew to look for the predator beneath the polish.

She stood with Tristan in the shadows near the kitchen entrance, watching as their carefully prepared dishes were arranged before the royal table. Her herbs looked beautiful in the candlelight against the rich browns and golds of the venison and sauce.

“The queen looks well,” Tristan observed quietly, though his voice carried a note of nervousness that had nothing to do with Elizabeth’s health and everything to do with the magnitude of what they’d undertaken.

“She’s watching us,” Rachel whispered, unable to shake the feeling that Lady Jacquetta was seeing far more than a foreign cook and a disgraced knight. “The queen’s mother. She’s been staring since we entered the hall.”

“Jacquetta sees much that others miss,” Tristan replied grimly. “If anyone at court might recognize... someone unusual... it would be her.”