*
“My father askedforwhat?”
The question came from Corisande as she faced the servant her father had sent to the kitchens. The servant was the man who shadowed her father at The Keld, an older man with missing teeth and a round form, but humbly obedient.
“Drink, my lady,” the servant said. “He asked for the frost wine from Saxony.”
She frowned. “That is our most expensive wine,” she said. “It will also get a man drunk after only one cup. It is very strong.”
“He asked for it, my lady.
Corisande had come to the kitchens to make sure food was prepared for their visitors and she thought the servant’s request for the very sweet, very strong “frost” wine was a strange one. They didn’t have very much of it because it was expensive, and when there was a gathering, her father and brothers favored apple ale from York that had been brewed by the same family for two hundred years. They bought it by the wagon loads.
But her father wasn’t asking for the apple cider ale this time.
He was asking for the strong wine.
“Is someone ill and needs reviving?” she asked curiously. “That wine is so strong that I have given it to my father and my brothers when they do not feel well. It is medicinal.”
The servant shook his head, his jowls quivering. “No one is ill that I am aware of, my lady,” he said. “Although… although one of the men does not look very well.”
“The man sitting by the hearth?”
“Aye. Mayhap it is for him.”
That only made her more curious. Her father had specifically sent her away, telling her that the Scotsman didn’t need assistance, but perhaps that wasn’t the case. Her dedication to duty demanded she return to that room– and the ill visitor.
“I will bring it,” she said. “Go about your business.”
The servant obeyed. Corisande went to the vault beneath the kitchens where they stored things like meat and butter and anything that did well in cold storage, including the frost wine, which was made from frozen grapes and prized for its sweetness. She found three dusty earthenware bottles, sealed with wax, and brought them up to the kitchens.
Between her and the cook, they managed to dislodge the wax on all three bottles and pour the contents into two big pitchers. With the pitchers and cups on a tray, Corisande headed for her father’s solar once again, grimly determined to be of help. When she reached the chamber door, she didn’t bother to knock.
She walked right in.
The men in the room turned to her, surprised she had made a reappearance, but she ignored them. Anteaus, always the good brother, rushed to help her set the heavy tray upon the table that contained the things their father needed to manage the de Bourne empire. Vellum, quill, and maps were pushed away to make room. A cup with a little ale left at the bottom, old, spilled when Anteaus accidentally knocked it over in his haste.
He wiped it off with his hand.
“My thanks, Cori,” Alastor said, though he didn’t sound pleased. “You did not have to bring this yourself.
Corisande brushed off her hands after having wiped up the remnants of Anteaus’ spill. “I know,” she said, her focus drifting over to the man seated before the hearth. “But this wine is quite… strong. Mayhap our guest should be aware.”
Alastor suspected that she knew it was for the Scotsman. She was obvious about that, and he knew she only wanted to help aman that was clearly in distress, but her presence was starting to annoy him.
“Go, now,” he said. “You may leave us.”
Corisande ignored him. She poured a full measure of the wine into the cup and went to the man on the chair before her father could stop her.
“Here,” she said. “Drink this. It will make you feel better.”
Canmore eyed her, eyed the drink, and his thirst won out over his stubborn pride. Refusal had been written all over his face, but he wanted the drink. He needed it. He snatched it from her with quivering hands and downed nearly half the cup in two big swallows. Licking his lips, he eyed her again.
“There’s no poison in this, is there?” he asked suspiciously.
Corisande cocked an eyebrow. “’Tis a little late to be asking,” she said wryly. “But I will answer your question– of course there is no poison in it. That is a very fine wine from Saxony. It is quite strong, so be cautious.”
Canmore’s gaze lingered on her and took another gulp. “It is a woman’s drink.”
