The great hall of Westminster Palace was a sight to behold—soaring ceilings that seemed to stretch toward heaven itself, tapestries that depicted the glorious history of English kings, and enough wealth on display to fund several small kingdoms. Hundreds of beeswax candles cast dancing light over silk and velvet, turning the assembled nobility into a living gallery of medieval splendor.
The scent of luxury was overwhelming—expensive perfumes and rare spices, beeswax and exotic woods, the rich aromas of the feast being laid out on tables that groaned under the weight of their bounty. This wasn’t just dinner; it was a display of power, wealth, and the divine right of kings made manifest in gold plate and cloth-of-gold hangings.
King Edward sat at the high table in robes that caught the light like captured sunshine, his presence commanding even in repose. At thirty-three, he was still a formidable figure—tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of casual authority that came from being born to rule the greatest kingdom in Christendom. Beside him, Queen Elizabeth was resplendent in midnight blue silk that set off her pale beauty, her growing belly gracefully concealed beneath rich fabric that spoke of royal pregnancy and the promise of future heirs.
But it was the woman seated to the queen’s left who made Rachel’s blood run cold. Lady Jacquetta Rivers, the queen’s mother, watched the proceedings with eyes that seemed to catalog every detail, every face, every gesture with the intensity of someone who’d spent decades navigating the treacherous waters of court politics. At fifty, she remained striking—silver-haired and sharp-featured, with the kind of presence that made even hardened courtiers think twice before crossing her.
There were whispers about the Woodville women—whispers of witchcraft, of unnatural knowledge, of powers that went beyond what Christian souls should possess. Looking at Jacquetta now, Rachel could believe every rumor. Those calculating eyes were currently fixed on her with an interest that felt distinctly witchy. For a moment, curiosity overrode her fear, and Rachel wanted to go to her, ask her if she knew how Rachel could get back to her own time. But the moment passed as Tristan shifted from foot to foot.
Around the royal table, the flower of English nobility arranged themselves in silk and velvet—earls and barons, bishops and court officials, their conversations a low murmur that spoke of politics and intrigue and the careful dance of courtly favor. This was the heart of English power, the inner circle of those who shaped the destiny of kingdoms, and she was witnessing it right in front of her eyes.
Somewhere among them sat Guy de Montague, his handsome face arranged in an expression of attentive courtesy that fooled everyone except those who knew to look for the predator beneath the polish.
She stood with Tristan in the shadows near the kitchen entrance, watching as their carefully prepared dishes were arranged before the royal table. Her herbs looked beautiful in the candlelight against the rich browns and golds of the venison and sauce.
“The queen looks well,” Tristan observed quietly, though his voice carried a note of nervousness that had nothing to do with Elizabeth’s health and everything to do with the magnitude of what they’d undertaken.
“She’s watching us,” Rachel whispered, unable to shake the feeling that Lady Jacquetta was seeing far more than a foreign cook and a disgraced knight. “The queen’s mother. She’s been staring since we entered the hall.”
“Jacquetta sees much that others miss,” Tristan replied grimly. “If anyone at court might recognize... someone unusual... it would be her.”
The royal taster—a nervous-looking man whose job Rachel definitely did not envy—began his careful examination of each dish. His face was professionally neutral as he sampled the herb-crusted venison, the delicate sauce that had taken hours to perfect, and the sweet comfits that gleamed like edible jewels. But she noticed the way his eyebrows rose slightly at the first taste of her herb innovation, the small nod of approval as the flavors registered.
Rachel held her breath as he completed his examination, waiting for any sign of distress or suspicion. But he simply nodded and stepped back, apparently finding nothing amiss with their creation.
“Look,” Tristan breathed, his voice tight with something that might have been wonder or terror. “They serve our creation to the king himself.”
King Edward lifted a portion of the herb-crusted venison to his lips, and her heart stopped beating entirely as she watched him chew thoughtfully. His expression remained neutral—the practiced mask of a monarch who’d learned never to reveal his true opinions in public—but she thought she caught a flicker of surprise in his dark eyes.
A small smile played at the corners of his mouth as he swallowed, and he immediately gestured for more. The servant attending him hurried to comply, and within moments, the dish was being distributed to the other nobles at the high table.
Queen Elizabeth accepted a delicate portion, her serene expression unchanged as she tasted the innovation. But Rachel caught the slight widening of her eyes, the almost imperceptible nod of approval that spoke volumes about royal favor.
Lady Jacquetta took a larger serving, her sharp eyes never leaving Rachel’s face as she lifted the food to her mouth. When she tasted it, her expression didn’t change—but something shifted in her gaze, a recognition that went beyond simple appreciation for culinary skill.
“We did it,” Rachel whispered, hardly daring to believe it. The dishes were being distributed throughout the hall, conversations resuming as nobles sampled their work. The sounds of appreciation began to filter through the formal atmosphere—murmurs of surprise and delight as the unexpected herb garnishes transformed familiar flavors into something magical.
“They love it,” she continued, watching faces light up with pleasure as they tasted the crispy sage, the bright parsley, the aromatic rosemary. “Look at their faces—they’re actually enjoying?—"
The scream cut through the revelry like a blade through silk.
A young lord at one of the lower tables—Sir Edmund de Clare, Rachel thought she heard someone call him—suddenly clutched his throat, his face contorting with agony. His wine cup clattered to the floor as he collapsed sideways, his body convulsing in ways that spoke of poison and imminent death.
The metallic scent of vomit mixed with expensive perfumes as his stomach rejected the food violently, bile splattering across silk doublets and velvet gowns. His eyes rolled back in his head, showing nothing but white, while foam flecked with blood bubbled from his lips.
Then another scream. And another.
Within moments, half a dozen nobles at the lower tables were writhing in their chairs, their bodies rejecting the feast with violent spasms that spoke of deadly toxicity. Lady Margaret de Vere, who’d been laughing at some courtly jest just moments before, suddenly doubled over and vomited blood onto her plate. Sir Richard de Beaumont fell backward from his bench, his limbs twitching uncontrollably as whatever poison coursed through his system, attacking his nervous system.
But not everyone. Not the royal table, where King Edward had risen to his feet with thunderous fury, Queen Elizabeth had gone pale as winter frost while pressing protective hands to her pregnant belly, and Lady Jacquetta was staring at the chaos with the cold calculation of someone rapidly reassessing the political landscape.
The hall erupted into pandemonium as servants rushed forward, ladies shrieked and fled, and the metallic stench of sickness mingled with the rich aromas of food that had somehow become deadly. The very air seemed to vibrate with terror and confusion as nobles who’d been enjoying a royal feast moments before found themselves witnessing mass poisoning.
“Poison!” someone shouted over the screams. “The food is poisoned!”
The blood drained from her face as she watched the scene unfold with the slow-motion horror of a nightmare coming to life. This wasn’t possible. They’d been so careful, had prepared everything themselves, had watched the tasting...
“The herbs,” Tristan said, his voice gone flat and terrible. “Saints preserve us, it was the herbs.”
