Page 64 of Thus with a Kiss I Die
These men with their fights and their megrims and their inventions and their deep, dark mysteries were turning me into a silly creature—and I didn’t like it.
CHAPTER33
While Cal slept, I kept his shoulder packed in ice to make him comfortable, and simultaneously considered whether to smother him with a pillow. Unfortunately, that would create more problems than it solved.
See? I still contained a small ration of sense.
Instead I contented myself with the occasional belligerent glare. Since he didn’t know it, he couldn’t be offended—or worse, amused.
Yet also, I knew that tonight he would put himself at the front of his men in this battle for Verona’s soul and safety, and the disciples of Baal had proved to be worthy opponents, inflicting pain and injury despite their pious protestations.
I paced back and forth between my two patients. I feared for them both; Nonna Ursula in the moment, Cal in tonight’s mêlée, and in sooth, my hostility was nothing more than a mask and a distraction from worry. As twilight drew nigh and Cal began to stir, knowing he would need sustenance for the long night ahead, I sent to the kitchen and . . .
In my own defense, it had been many long hours of work and worry,andI was growing hungry myself,andwhen I’m hungry, I find myself giving into an impatience some might describe as outright temper.Andwhen I tasted the palace cook’s piss-pot soup, for I have no better way to describe it, and realized this was the offering he would place before the men who had rushed into battle to preserve the cook’s worthless hide—the time had come. Indeed, the time was long past.
I instructed Tommaso to stand watch over my patients, and rode the storm of rage through the corridors, past a wide-eyed Princess Isabella, past the men sleeping sprawled in the atrium, and I started up the stairs toward the kitchen.
A hand on my shoulder jerked me to a stop.
Who dared interrupt my righteous intention?
Marcellus, of course. He spoke as if he had the right to demand, “Where are you going?”
“ ‘My lady,’ ” I said.
“What?” Startled. He was startled at my rebuke.
“ ‘Where are you going,my lady?’ ”
Marcellus had a strong, agile body built by years of fighting, a handsome enough face, if a little glare-y toward me, and an attitude of superiority that needed a good slap-down. Our eyes clashed in enmity; then he made a courtly bow. “Where are you going,my lady?”
“ ‘If I could be so presumptuous to ask,’ ” I suggested, but I didn’t have time to teach him more manners. “I’m going to deal with the palace cook and the palace kitchens, and you’re exactly the man I need with me. Come on.” I swung around hard enough to whack his legs with my skirts and returned to my stair climb. I didn’t have to listen for Marcellus; I knew he wouldn’t let me go alone. Indeed, I depended on it.
As in all elegant homes in Verona, the kitchens were on the top floor, to keep the heat and odors out of the living quarters, and to contain the possibility of fire. Better a cooking fire start from the top than the bottom.
In a normal home, I would have expected words of warning to fly ahead of me via the other servants. But the palace staff had to eat the same wretched food served by the same wretched cook, as had been presented to me, and so I found the kitchen as it was, awash with filth, smelling of rotting produce and offal, and littered with lolling cook’s assistants. The cook himself engaged in negotiating with the innkeeper over the cost of two immense baskets of palace meats, vegetables, fruits, breads, and cheese.
A single scrawny scullery maid labored to clean the long wooden table with sand, and when she looked up and saw us, her eyes widened and she backed into the corner.
I recognized her, the girl from the great walk who hid behind the curtains. I indicated her to Marcellus. “She can stay.”
Marcellus said, “Yes, my lady,” then fixed his gaze on the cook and flexed his fists.
The innkeeper dropped the goods and bolted.
As he passed, Marcellus grabbed him by the throat and picked him up. While the man choked and turned purple, Marcellus stared into his face. “I know you. You’re Rollo from the Village Inn. When the prince is done with you, you’ll wish you’d joined the flagellants.” He released him. Rollo fell to the floor, crawled to the top of the stairs, then bounded to his feet and took them three at a time.
The cook, a man as large, disgusting, and smelly as his kitchen, started toward me, his large hands raised as if to slap me against the wall. I didn’t move, not because I’m foolish, but because I honestly couldn’t believe he’d be unbalanced enough to think he could hit a noblewoman, much less the podestà’s intended. I wouldn’t allow him to later boast he’d made me flinch.
But as he came closer, I believe my eyes widened in alarm, for Marcellus stood immobile and the cook smiled a nasty smile. Just as I feared my faith in the cook’s good sense and Marcellus’s loyalty was misplaced, the cook lunged and swung—and Marcellus’s swift fist met Cook’s face in a teeth-shattering blow.
I ducked, and glad I was, for blood flew like wild strawberries mashed by an overenthusiastic chef. The collective gasp sucked all the air from the room, and I stepped aside to avoid the stampede of former cook’s assistants, many of whom wore a marked resemblance to him.
Ah, nepotism. A marvelous tradition by which entire families can be unemployed all at the same time.
The cook staggered backward, hand over his nose, eyes bulging at Marcellus. “You hate her!”
Marcellus grabbed him by the greasy apron and brought him face-to-face. “She is my podestà’s, and therefore mine to protect.”
