“Three pence for those roots is indeed steep,” Tristan continued diplomatically. “Perhaps two pence would be more... charitable in spirit?”
The vendor looked between Rachel and Tristan, then at her withered produce, then at the crowd of potential customers who were all watching to see how she handled this particular theological crisis.
“Two pence,” she agreed reluctantly. “But the foreign lady must promise to speak no more... unusual words over them.”
“I promise,” Rachel said quickly, digging into her small purse for the coins Tristan had given her that still felt like play money to her modern sensibilities. “No unusual words. No demons. No blowing of minds. Just perfectly normal vegetable purchasing with entirely mundane intentions.”
As she handed over the money and received her bundle of questionable roots, Rachel noticed that Tristan’s jaw was clenched with what she was beginning to recognize as suppressed laughter.
“Are you okay?” she whispered as they moved away from the vegetable stall toward what appeared to be a cheese merchant who hopefully had less complex theological opinions about commerce.
“Perfectly normal vegetable purchasing,” he murmured, his voice thick with barely contained amusement. “With entirely mundane intentions.”
“Shut up,” Rachel muttered, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. “I was trying to de-escalate the situation.”
“By promising not to blow anyone’s mind?”
“By promising not to accidentally cause any more religious hysteria with my poor grasp of medieval slang,” she corrected, shooting him a sideways look. “Though I notice you found the whole thing pretty entertaining.”
“I found it... educational,” he said diplomatically, though she caught the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I had no idea that purchasing roots could be so... explosive.”
“Very funny,” she said, but some of her tension eased at his gentle teasing. “What happened with Sir Edmund? Did you avoid whatever confrontation you were worried about?”
Tristan’s expression darkened slightly. “He departed shortly after I made my presence known. No doubt carrying word back to Guy about your... distinctive marketplace behavior.”
“Great,” Rachel sighed. “So now your enemies know I exist and that I have a talent for accidentally causing religious panic. That’s definitely going to help with our whole ‘lay low and investigate quietly’ plan.”
“Perhaps that would be wise for future excursions,” Tristan agreed, guiding her toward the cheese stall with a hand on her elbow that sent sparks racing up her arm despite her lingering embarrassment.
“Though I confess, watching you face down Father Clement was... illuminating.”
“Illuminating how?”
Instead of answering, he nodded toward the cheese merchant, a surprisingly cheerful-looking man whose stall smelled like heaven compared to the rest of the market. “Shall we see if you can purchase dairy products without causing a religious crisis?”
“Challenge accepted,” Rachel said, straightening her shoulders. “How hard could it be?”
Behind them, she could hear Father Clement still muttering about foreign influences and unbalanced humors, while Mistress Caldwell’s dry voice added commentary about choleric temperaments and the dangers of excessive conversation with strangers. Someone was probably still looking for evidence of demonic vegetable transactions, but Rachel found she didn’t particularly care.
For the first time since arriving in this impossible century, she felt like she wasn’t facing it entirely alone. Even if her companion was currently struggling not to laugh at her complete inability to buy vegetables without causing theological panic.
It was a start.
CHAPTER 13
Rachel wasn’t sure what she’d expected when Hugo thundered across the courtyard that morning, red beard wild, announcing his intention to make her “useful in ways beyond aught the kitchen might require.”
She certainly had not expected to find herself standing in the castle’s training yard, staring at what appeared to be a small mountain disguised as a horse.
“That,” she said, pointing at the beast in question, “is not a horse. That’s a four-legged death machine with anger management issues and a serious attitude problem.”
The destrier—because of course Hugo had selected the largest, most intimidating horse in the entire stable—stood seventeen hands of pure muscle and barely contained violence. Its coat was black as midnight, its eyes held the cold intelligence of something that had probably trampled entire armies, and when it looked at her, she was fairly certain she could see her own demise reflected in those dark depths.
“This is Goliath,” Hugo said with the quiet pride of someone introducing a beloved nephew. Despite his massive frame and collection of battle scars, his voice carried an unexpected gentleness when speaking of the horse. “Finest warhorse in three counties. Strong as an ox, swift as the wind, and gentle as a lamb once you earn his respect.”
“Gentle as a lamb,” Rachel repeated faintly, watching Goliath paw the ground with hooves the size of dinner plates. “Right. And I suppose earning his respect involves some sort of ritualistic combat where only one of us survives?”
Hugo’s laughter boomed across the lists. “Nay, mistress. Goliath and I have an understanding, don’t we, lad?” He reached up to stroke the massive neck with hands that were surprisingly gentle despite their scars. “He was Tristan’s mount in France, ere everything went to hell. Saved my life at Tewkesbury when I was too drunk on glory to watch my back.”
