BETTE, THE DUKE'S COOK, had risen early that morning. She had hurried down to the kitchen and by dawn busied herself with her usual task of preparing the morning meal.

She stirred the porridge until it was the perfect consistency. She took down a jar of cinnamon, a sweet new spice brought back from the East, and sprinkled it onto the simmering grain. She fried cured pork over the flame, and it gave off a delicious, fatty smell. She dressed the porridge with currants.

The two guards who stood watch outside the pantry, she knew, were about to end their overnight shift. Pierre and Imo, lazy slobs. This wasn't exactly crack duty, guarding the royal kitchen when an army threatened at the gates.

Bette knew they would be dead tired, ready for a snooze, and that their bellies would be aching for something to eat. The early-morning cooking smells would lure them like a whore's scent.

As the sun broke through the early mist, Bette tied up two burlap sacks filled with last night's mess. Then she poked her head out of the kitchen.

What are you making? Smells like Heaven, Pierre, the plumper of the guards, said.

Whatever it is, the duke seems to prize it. Bette winked. And there's some extra this morning, if I can get a chore done for me.

Show us, cooky, Pierre said.