Page 34 of Wolf's Keep

Opening her eyes, she gave Anne a tremulous smile. “I’m fine thanks, Anne. I thought I would give you a hand this afternoon. I’ve seen enough of the keep today.”

At Anne’s welcoming smile, Erin relaxed, letting the kitchen envelop her in its warmth. An enormous pot hung over a large cooking fire and the smells of baking bread hung in the air. Anne, motherly, at home here amongst the shelves of large pots, pans, ladles, platters and drying herbs, stood at a large workbench. With her food splattered apron on and dustings of flour on her hands, she kneaded a ball of dough.

“Mmm-hmm.” Anne looked her up and down. “If you say so. I could always use an extra pair of hands and it is nice to have company.”

Erin moved to the bench and dropped the headscarf on it, catching Anne’s sharp gaze as she did so.

“Gaharet says I don’t have to wear this here.” She didn’t want the old cook to think she flouted social norms. That she was a woman of loose morals inviting the approaches of men.

“Does he, now? Very well,” she said, her response loaded with all sorts of meaning that Erin didn’t care to pursue.

“We’re making bread?” She donned an apron and stepped up to the bench to knead a ball of dough Anne placed in front of her.

“There is bread to be made every day, love. It is always best fresh.”

Placing her hands on the dough, she mimicked Anne’s practiced kneading.

“You said you’ve worked here since Gaharet was a baby. You must’ve seen a lot in all those years.”

“Oh love, I have worked here since I was a young girl, well before Gaharet was born.”

“Wow. That’s a long time. You’d probably know more about Gaharet than anyone else.”

“The stories I could tell you about Gaharet and his brother D’Artagnon.” She chuckled. “They could get themselves into all manner of strife as young lads.”

“He told me they used to steal food and salt the boiled fruit.”

“That and much more. There was this one time Jacques, Gaharet’s father, had organized delivery of a very particular, very expensive barrel of wine. You see, we were to have visitors that week from Bretaigne and the visiting vicomte had developed a taste for this wine grown only in one region. Jacques had purchased a barrel and stored it beneath the keep.”

Anne paused and handed her another ball of dough, taking the kneaded one and placing it in a bowl covered with a cloth for it to rise. Erin went back to kneading.

“Gaharet would have been…oh…a decade and six years or so, and D’Artagnon was two years younger. This time they included Gaharet’s friend, Ulrik, in their little scheme. They were inseparable, those three and trouble followed wherever they went.”

Erin grinned. She could imagine where the story was going. Teenage boys, a barrel of wine…

“Jacques, of course, was well aware of his boy’s propensity for getting into trouble, so he had ordered two barrels. One of the expensive wine and one of the cheapest, nastiest, local gut rot wine he could find. The boys’ plan was to buy their own barrel of cheap wine and swap it for Jacques’ barrel.”

“Let me guess. Jacques put the barrel of cheap wine out and hid the good stuff.”

Anne nodded, chuckling as she continued to knead her dough. “You should have seen how sick those boys were. So convinced they were drinking something special, none of them wanted to admit to the others it tasted awful. They drank so much of that damn wine they didn’t get out of bed for days. I have never seen those boys look so sick, turning away food, heads over buckets for hours. D’Artagnon swore off drinking wine altogether, and Gaharet could not bear the smell of it for nearly a month.”

Erin laughed. It sounded like the hangover from hell. “And the visiting vicomte?”

“He got to enjoy his wine, as Jacques planned. I think the boys left the barrels of wine alone after that for a good number of years. They learned their lesson that day—to never underestimate their father. Oh, those were happier times, so carefree, full of fun and laughter.”

Anne swapped out Erin’s dough again. “How many more of these are there to do?”

“Only another two.”

Erin massaged her hands and cracked her knuckles. “Oh good. My hands are getting sore. So, things changed after Gaharet’s mother died?”

Anne’s eyebrows shot up. “He talked to you about his parents?”

Erin nodded. “A little. He told me the story behind the wall hanging in the hall.”

“He has not spoken of them in years. Not to anyone.” She regarded Erin, a knowing glint in her eyes.

Erin dropped her gaze to her ball of dough. Did it make her feel better that he, too, had opened up about something he normally wouldn’t? Yeah, it did. Just a bit.

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