Page 35 of Chef’s Kiss (A Knights Through Time #20)
But it was the figure in emerald velvet who made Rachel’s throat tighten with unexpected emotion.
Isolde stood beside the horses like a pillar of controlled fury, her dark eyes blazing with an intensity that could have melted stone.
Even in the gray morning light, she radiated authority and barely leashed violence that made several passing servants give her a wide berth.
Her expensive French perfume—roses and something darker, more mysterious—reached Rachel even across the courtyard, a reminder of wealth and influence that felt like another world compared to their current circumstances.
“Sister,” Tristan said quietly, his voice hoarse from hours of recrimination and fear.
“Brother.” Her tone was clipped, professional, but she caught the tremor beneath the control—the slight tightening around her eyes that spoke of someone fighting their own battles. “I bring word from Geoffrey.”
The way she said her husband’s name could have curdled fresh milk.
“He insists we depart court immediately,” she continued with bitter precision. “Distance ourselves from this... unfortunate association... until the scandal passes and memories fade.”
The emphasis on ‘unfortunate association’ made it clear what Isolde thought of her husband’s political calculations and suggested several colorful curses regarding his probable parentage.
“Of course he does,” Tristan replied with weary acceptance that spoke of long familiarity with disappointment. “Cannot have the Beaumont name tainted by connection to accused poisoners and foreign witches.”
“Geoffrey is a worm,” Isolde said flatly, shocking Rachel with her bluntness in such a public setting. “But he is a well-connected worm whose cowardice serves our purposes. While he cowers in his manor like a rabbit hiding from hawks, I shall work my network of informants.”
She moved closer, lowering her voice to barely above a whisper, though her words carried the force of solemn vows. “This is far from over. Mark my words.”
Rachel felt a flicker of something that might have been hope, quickly suppressed by the memory of writhing nobles and Tristan’s accusations. “Lady Isolde, I?—”
“The pattern of the poisoning was too convenient,” Isolde interrupted, her sharp gaze cataloging every detail of the courtyard.
“Too precise. Only certain nobles affected, whilst others remained untouched. The royal table completely spared. This speaks to planning, not accident or random witchcraft.”
“Planning that I enabled,” Tristan said bitterly, his jaw clenching with self-recrimination. “Had I not allowed her innovations?—”
“Had you not been betrayed by someone who knew exactly which herbs would be switched and where they would be placed,” Isolde cut him off sharply, her voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to winning arguments through sheer force of intelligence.
“This was orchestrated, brother. Carefully planned and flawlessly executed by someone with intimate knowledge of court protocol and kitchen operations.”
Her gaze shifted to Rachel, and something complicated flickered in those dark eyes—not quite forgiveness, but not condemnation either. More like professional assessment of a tool that had proven unexpectedly useful despite catastrophic side effects.
“You,” she said quietly, studying Rachel’s face with the intensity of someone reading a particularly complex manuscript.
“I misjudged the danger. At court, I thought your... unusual knowledge... might prove advantageous in ways our enemies couldn’t anticipate. I did not foresee it would make you such a perfect target for this manner of frame.”
“Frame?” Rachel’s voice came out smaller than she’d intended, hope and disbelief warring in her chest.
“The foreign witch with impossible knowledge, introducing deadly innovations to innocent feasts?” Isolde’s smile was sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous. “You might as well have painted targets on both your backs and provided the arrows. ’Twas almost artistic in its thoroughness.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Hugo shifted restlessly beside the horses, his hand never straying far from his sword hilt. The morning air carried the scent of approaching rain, promising more storms ahead.
“We should ride,” he said gruffly, his voice roughened by emotion he was trying to keep buried. “The queen’s mercy has limits, and London has long ears. Too long for comfort.”
Isolde nodded, then surprised Rachel by stepping forward and grasping her hands briefly. The touch was warm, solid, real in a way that made her chest ache with the unexpected kindness of human contact after hours of cold stone and colder accusations.
“I know what it is to be blamed for things beyond your control,” she said quietly, her voice pitched for her ears alone. “To have your very nature used as a weapon against those you care for. To watch helplessly as circumstances conspire to destroy what little happiness you’ve managed to build.”
The raw honesty in her words nearly undid her completely. “I ruined everything,” she whispered, the admission scraping her throat like broken glass. “It makes sense Guy would poison those who are close to uncovering the truth about what he’s done. I should have realized the danger.”
“You revealed the enemy’s hand,” Isolde corrected firmly, her grip tightening with surprising strength. “Now we know how far Guy will go, what methods he employs, how thoroughly he’s planned his campaign. That knowledge has value, even if the cost was dear.”
She stepped back, resuming her regal composure like armor being donned for battle. “I will send word when I can—through channels Geoffrey knows naught of. Until then, keep each other alive. That is the best revenge against those who would see you destroyed.”
“And if we cannot clear our names?” Tristan asked quietly, though his voice carried the weight of someone who’d already accepted defeat.
“Then you’ll live as exiles rather than die as martyrs,” Isolde replied with pragmatic brutality. “But I have faith in justice, brother. Truth has a way of surfacing, no matter how deeply it’s buried.”
With that, she turned and swept away, emerald velvet bright against the gray stones of Westminster like a banner of defiance.
Rachel watched her go with the hollow feeling of losing an ally she’d barely had time to appreciate, someone who might have become the sister she’d never had if circumstances had been different.
“Come,” Hugo said gruffly, his massive hands gentle as he helped her mount her palfrey.
The horse shifted beneath her, sensing her distress, and she had to grip the reins tightly to keep from sliding off like a sack of grain.
“The road waits for no one, least of all exiles with prices on their heads.”
As they rode through Westminster’s gates—past guards who watched them with expressions ranging from suspicion to pity—she tried not to look back at the towers where her brief taste of belonging had crumbled into ash.
The morning air carried scents of horse and leather, mixed with smoke from breakfast fires and the promise of a very long journey to destinations unknown.
Beside her, Tristan rode in silence, his face carved from winter frost and bitter acceptance.
The elegant court clothes that had made him look like nobility now hung on him like borrowed dignity, marking him as something diminished.
The distance between them felt vast as an ocean, filled with accusations that couldn’t be taken back and trust that had shattered like poorly tempered glass.
“Where do we go?” she asked finally, when the walls of London had dwindled to a smudge on the horizon behind them.
“Home,” Hugo replied when Tristan remained silent, his voice carrying a gentleness that hadn’t been there since the disaster. “Back to Greystone, where we can lick our wounds and plan our next move.”
“Home.” She repeated numbly. The word felt strange on her tongue—when had she started thinking of that crumbling castle as home? “Right. Back to our lovely accommodations with the questionable plumbing and the rooster who thinks dawn happens at midnight.”
“Your tongue remains sharp,” Tristan observed, the first words he’d spoken since leaving the palace. “Even in defeat.”
“Sarcasm is my coping mechanism,” she replied, trying to inject some lightness into the oppressive weight of their circumstances. “It’s either make jokes or have a complete breakdown, and I’m saving the breakdown for when we’re safely behind Greystone’s walls.”
Something that might have been the ghost of a smile flickered across his features before being quickly suppressed. “At least there we need not fear Guy’s immediate reach. The castle may be crumbling, but ’tis still defensible.”
Thunder rumbled overhead, promising more storms ahead. The taste of failure lingered bitter on her tongue as London’s walls disappeared completely behind them, but the familiar Yorkshire hills beckoned in the distance—not salvation, perhaps, but sanctuary.
But beneath the fear and disappointment, something else stirred—a stubborn spark of determination that refused to be extinguished. She’d ruined everything, yes. But Greystone still stood, Sir Whiskerbottom still needed feeding, and she was still breathing, still capable of fighting back.
Even if she had no idea how.