"What on earth is Lady Vivian doing in the chicken yard?" asked Sir Peter, as he entered the knights' barracks.

"She's trying to catch a chicken!" replied one of the squires crowded around the windows. "She's been at it for half an hour!" The young men were doubling over with laughter.

"I can't believe it," Sir Peter said. "Is she unwell?"

"She seemed well enough today," young Michael said, "I heard her shouting at her maid, as she usually does, this morning while I lit the fires in the keep. But maid Bridget says Lady Vivian went to the kitchen and asked Cook to teach her to make roasted chicken, and Cook said she must learn to catch a chicken if ever she was to learn to cook one, and the Lady has been chasing chickens ever since."

Sir Peter shook his head in bewilderment. "I can scarcely believe my eyes." The chicken yard was the last place on earth he would expect to find the imperious Lady Vivian.

"Ever since she got back from Camelot, they say she's been off her head," young Jonathan laughed. "Maid Isabel says she spends more time sitting at her window sighing and weeping than ever she did before, but nobody minds because she forgets to find fault with all the servants, and complains far less about their work. And you know how Lady Vivian complains!"

Sir Peter had indeed heard Lady Vivian complain. He had received more than one tongue lashing from her, as had all of the youngest knights in her father's service. Anyone unlucky enough to be assigned to escort her on an outing or even to be seated near her at court could expect nothing less than an earful of insults. Lady Vivian was by far the haughtiest, naughtiest, loveliest young lady Sir Peter had ever encountered.

James, the youngest of the squires, stopped laughing long enough to add, "They say she fell in love while she was away, and that her beau has a fondness for chicken." His statement was met with even more guffaws of laughter.

"Gentlemen," said Sir Peter to the lads, "Let us be respectful to the lady. Are you without work this morning? I'm certain we can find use for you in the forge if your chores are too light." The boys grumbled and moved toward the door. "And men," he cautioned, "unless you have business with Cook, I'll expect you to stay out of the kitchen."

After the boys had departed, Sir Peter strode quietly into the chicken yard. Lady Vivian, her golden hair shining in the sunlight, turned and regarded him with a glance of obvious distain. He found himself again baffled by the dichotomy of her perfectly adorable pert nose, which seemed perpetually wrinkled in an expression of utter peevishness.

"Might I be of use to you, Lady Vivian?" he asked politely.

"That depends," she said tartly. "What do you consider useful?" Sir Peter did not answer. Instead, he deftly scooped up the nearest hen and held it aloft by its' feet. "How did you do that?" she asked with grudging fascination. "You must show me how you did that."

"Yes, milady," he said. He set the chicken back on the grass and quickly scooped up another by its' feet. "When you take them by the feet, they struggle less while you hold them, and they can't so easily peck at you."

"Ah, that's how to do it," she said. She hesitated a moment, then reached out, snatched a red hen, and let out a little squeal of surprise. "I've done it!" she said, laughing and shuddering at the same time. "Now open the gate for me, Sir…"

"Sir Peter, milady."

"…Sir Peter. Cook says I must bring the chicken back alive. Apparently, I must learn to kill it a particular way, so the meat will be at it's best." She squealed again as the bird flapped its' wings.

"Yes, milady." He opened the gate with a smile that she did not notice, and allowed her to pass through, shutting it behind her.