“You searched my chambers?” The betrayal cut deeper than any blade. “We’ve fought together for nine years. Saved each other’s lives a dozen times over.”
“Which is why this pains me.” Guy moved toward the door. “But my loyalty is to the crown first. Always. The king needs men he can trust absolutely—especially now.”
Guards flooded the room. Tristan’s sword was taken before he could draw it. As they bound his wrists, Guy finally met his eyes.
“The spice routes will be mine to oversee now,” he said quietly. “The king needs someone he can trust to ensure no profits are... misdirected... during his absence.”
Understanding crashed over Tristan like icy water. Every shared meal, every battle fought side by side, every moment of brotherhood—all of it a long game for control of the eastern trade routes that would prove so lucrative during the French campaign.
The trial was swift. The evidence, damning. Tristan stood in the same great hall where hours before nobles had praised his cooking, now watching as King Edward’s face darkened with each presented letter. Queen Elizabeth sat pale and silent beside her husband, while Lady Jacquetta watched the proceedings with the detached interest of someone who had seen too many rise and fall at court.
“Treason,” the king pronounced, and the word echoed off the vaulted ceiling like a death knell. Edward’s paranoia about the loyalty of his nobles had grown as the French campaign approached—he could not afford to have his supply lines compromised by treacherous knights. “The penalty is death.”
“Your Grace—” Tristan began, but Edward raised his hand.
“However.” The king’s eyes were cold as winter frost. “Your service at Tewkesbury and your father’s loyalty before his death. These things still carry weight. You will not hang. Instead, you’ll live with your shame. Greystone Castle—that crumbling ruin your family clings to—will be your prison. You are stripped of land, title, and honor. You will not join me in France. If you set foot in my court again, the executioner’s axe awaits.”
Tristan kept his chin raised as they cut the badges from his surcoat, as they took his spurs, as they broke his sword across their knee. The sound of steel snapping rang through the hall like a funeral bell.
Guy watched from his place among the nobles, his face a mask of appropriate sorrow. Only Tristan saw the victory in his eyes.
They allowed him his horse and one saddlebag. As he rode through Westminster’s gates, rain began to fall—winter rain that felt like rocks hitting his face. Behind him, the palace blazed with torchlight and preparations for war. Ahead, there was only the long road to Greystone—and exile.
Around him, England buzzed with excitement for the coming French campaign, yet he would not be part of it. He thought he’d never again raise a ladle or wield a blade in honor.
CHAPTER 2
Kansas—Present Day
Summer
The UPS driverlooked deeply concerned about Rachel Carter’s level of excitement over an ordinary package.
“It’s a book,” she explained, practically vibrating as she signed for the battered cardboard box. “A really old book. Like, medieval old. From eBay.”
“Uh-huh.” He backed away slowly, the way people did when she got going about fermentation processes or the proper way to temper chocolate. “Have a nice day, ma’am.”
Rachel barely heard him, already tearing into the packaging with the dedication of someone who’d spent two weeks in a bidding war with someone calledYeOldeBookWyrm. Inside, wrapped in what looked like old newspaper from the 1970s, was her prize:A Treatise on the Mystical Art of Cookery.
The leather binding felt ancient under her fingers, soft as butter left too long on the counter. The pages released a smell that made her think of her grandmother’s attic and church incense and something else—something that whispered of age and secrets and possibly some health code violations.
“Oh, you beautiful, questionable life choice,” she murmured, running her fingers over the elaborate script on the cover. Three hundred dollars. She’d spent three hundred dollars on this. Her blog followers onBites & Brutalityhad better appreciate Medieval Monday.
Ten hours later,Rachel stood in front of the living room window of her apartment, watching Brad’s Prius disappear into the Mulvane night with zero regret and moderate relief.
“I just think you’re not taking life seriously,” he’d said over overpriced tapas that would have been embarrassing even if they hadn’t been in Wichita. “A food blog isn’t a real career, Rachel. This is Kansas, not New York.”
Right. Because being a pharmaceutical sales rep was so much more noble. At least she didn’t have to pretend tiny portions of mediocre chorizo were “transcendent” to make a sale.
She kicked off her heels, the uncomfortable ones she’d worn because they made her legs look great, and fat lot of good that had done, and padded to her kitchen. The medieval cookbook sat on the counter where she’d left it, practically glowing with possibility. Or maybe that was the St. Germain talking. She’d started drinking the moment she got home, mixing it with Martini & Rossi Asti Spumante because if she was going to be single forever, she might as well have good cocktails.
“Screw it,” she announced to her empty apartment. “Let’s cook something weird.”
She cranked up her speakers, Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar On Me” filling the space with appropriate cooking energy. Given that it was eleven o’clock on a Friday night, her neighbors would hate her, but her neighbors also thought her “ethnic” spice usage was too adventurous, so their opinions were automatically invalid.
The cookbook fell open to a recipe that looked marginally less likely to kill someone than the others. “Sawse for a Capon,” read the heading in elaborate script. The margins were covered in notes, some in Latin, some in what might have been Middle English, and one that just appeared to be a drawing of a very upset chicken.
Rachel set up her phone to record, taking another sip of her cocktail. The bubbles made everything feel slightly softer around the edges, like looking at the world through Instagram’s best filter.
