The Con­queror

Deleted Scene

Excerpt — Copy­righted

Hello read­ers of Eliza’s won­der­ful blog, His­tory Undressed!

Firstly, I must say that all those won­der­ful recipes are Eliza’s work.  I can’t, unfor­tu­nately, claim any credit, although she gra­ciously tried share it.

Hope­fully you will find this deleted scene from my upcoming

release,THE CONQUEROR, just as interesting,

if not quite as tasty.

This is from the 2nd half of the book.

The hero­ine is in the kitchen gar­dens with Cook, plan­ning meals for an upcom­ing frenzy of cel­e­bra­tions, when the cas­tle will be filed with nobles and knights, their ladies and retinues.

I cut this rather rough-draft scene for sev­eral rea­sons. What do you think they are?

The usual.

Too much space.  Too lit­tle drama.

See what you think.

♥

Gywn was down in the gar­den with Cook in the bright sun­set­ting world, plan­ning meals.  At least a hun­dred nobles were about to descend on the cas­tle, start­ing tomor­row. The great­est would be lodged in the cas­tle and its walls, but most of their ret­inues and lesser folk would be in tents on the val­ley floor, or in the village.

From the cor­ner of her eye, Gwyn saw a rider come through the gates.  She turned back to the gar­dens, her brow was fur­rowed as she looked over the humped rows of fresh herbs.

“Milady, ye’re right that we keep it sim­ple tomor­row eve,” Cook said, one eye screwed up as they sur­veyed the rows.  “Just a fru­menty for the soup course.”

Gwyn nod­ded, but her atten­tion was slowly being divided by the aware­ness some­one had been allowed to ride in after the gates were closed for the evening.  It wasn’t unheard of, of course.  Just uncom­mon, that some­one would be let in.  That they’d be out rid­ing so late in a war-torn land to begin with.

“Yes,” she said vaguely, turn­ing back.  “Fru­menty.  William just brought in five sacks of new almonds.”

“That’ll do.  With the boiled wheat and veni­son from today’s hunt, it’ll fill their bel­lies after a day’s ridin’.”

“Then rab­bit.  With basil,” Gwyn said, kneel­ing beside the fur­rowed row of dirt. Her fin­gers brushed the furry leaf.   “And mint, I think.”

Cook’s belly rum­bled. “Inside a pasty crust.  ‘Twill be just fine.  Have you got word yet about–”

The sounds of shouts came from some­where in the outer bai­ley.  Some­one ask­ing where the count­ess was.  Cook looked over.  “Some­one call­ing for ye, milady?’

“No,” Gwyn said in a loud voice.  “Please, go on.”

“I was just to ask about the eggs.  Have we deliv­er­ies coming?”

“Thrice weekly,” Gwyn replied rather too quickly.  The sound of boots drew nearer.  “Four hun­dred per deliv­ery, to begin tomor­row, when the nobles begin arriving.”

“And I know just what to do with ‘em,” Cook said, obvi­ously immune to Gwyn’s anx­i­ety.  “We need more colour than ever before.  This is yer wed­ding, milady, and it ought to be a bright, joy­ous thing.”

Yes, it ought to, Gwyn thought.  She lis­tened absently as Cook described var­i­ous con­coc­tions, more or less colour­ful, depend­ing on they might be low on at the moment: mint (green), saf­fron (yel­low), or the plants that cre­ated ‘dragon’s blood’ (red).

“But I’ll have ye know, milady,” Cook gruffed, as the boots drew up behind Gwyn, “I’m rather vio­lently opposed to using the best of any­thing, a’fore your bless’d nup­tials.  For truly, milady, that’s the only thing that matters.”

Oh, if only that were so.

“Lady Guin­e­vere?” said a low male voice.

Gwyn’s heart tum­bled into a deep and cold well.  She looked up.

“I have some­thing for you.”