The Lily and the Lion by Catherine A. Wilson, Catherine T Wilson

and our Dauphin has agreed to discuss peace. The sun shines upon the devastation but it is a pale moon to that which I have brought upon myself. I shall explain.
    With many frightened inhabitants fleeing, the owners of this inn found themselves in demand beyond their front gate, Marguerite for her midwifery talents and Philippe for his ability to restore order to the warehouses. Though I would never have admitted it to our courier, I am not entirely out of my depth in a kitchen, for as a young girl I would help at Larressingle, and so I offered my services. Monsieur de Bellegarde need not open his purse on my account.
    Guillaume set me the task of cutting loaves but a loud disturbance broke out in the street, attracting our attention as it spilled into the inner courtyard, erupting like a stirred anthill.
    â€˜Oh, by all the saints in heaven,’ muttered Guillaume, crossing himself hurriedly. ‘Does it never just rain? Odette! We have more guests.’ She followed him in a wild flap of skirts and he yelled over his shoulder for me to watch the pot hanging on the cradle.
    I peered out at the soldiers leaping from the backs of their horses. With a sigh I returned to my task and thus engaged did not see the man enter. I was alerted to his presence only when two hands encircled my waist and slid upwards. Enraged by the audacity of this bourgeois I swung around sharply, my resentment finding retribution in a hearty slap to his face. I am afraid that I knocked him off balance, sending his stylish liripipe hat hurtling to the floor. His eyes blazed as his palm flew to his face, whilst I stood shrieking like a fishwife.
    â€˜How dare you, Monsieur! Do you think me a common kitchen maid for you to fondle so?’ Quite forgetting my borrowed garb, I brandished the bread knife like a sword. My handiwork was displayed prominently upon his cheek, the red blotch spreading to humiliate the tiny, jagged scar upon his other. Dressed in a black tunic and padded chausses with a dusty riding mantle flung carelessly over one shoulder, he had a rugged appearance that marked his unquestionable virility, and though not old he had seen more summers than I.
    â€˜Wench! Do you not know who I am?’ His Parisian French was flawless and delivered in a cutting tone that did not endorse my assumption of his status.
    I threw back my shoulders. ‘Monsieur, I neither know nor care. How dare you treat me in such presumptuous fashion!’
    An amused smile played around his mouth as he observed my invidious, warlike stance and primitive weapon, until at last he burst into raucous laughter, his knuckles settling upon his hips. ‘You look like a feisty cockerel ready to take on an intruder to his hen house.’ He dipped into a mocking bow, draping his cloak regally across his chest. ‘A thousand pardons for ruffling your feathers, little bird. If you are not, as I supposed, the kitchen maid, mayhap you should inform me to whom I owe an apology.’ Standing a good head taller than I, he appeared to be the one crowing.
    It was time to wipe the insolent grin from his face and I stuck my chin out haughtily. ‘You, Monsieur, are addressing Mademoiselle Cécile d’Armagnac, daughter of Comte Jean d’Armagnac, and you may yet pay dearly for your unacquainted dandling and brazenness!’
    His eyes fastened intently upon my heated face and with a good deal of satisfaction I watched the supercilious smile dwindle. His brows knitted fiercely.
    â€˜Armagnac?’ His breath whistled between his teeth. ‘Oui, there are not many unfamiliar with the great Gascons from the south. As you say, Mademoiselle, I am in need of redemption but kindly spare a thought for my predicament.’ Stepping forward, he removed the offending instrument and, turning over my hands, ran his thumbs pointedly over my smooth palms. ‘How is it that so fair a maid under such a notable banner occupies her time dressed as one in service?