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B ronwyn worked in the cooking tents on the grounds. It was good, hard work that demanded attention but also let her mind wander and therefore think. But that didn’t last.

“Who are you? I don’t know you.” A tall, middle-aged, skinny woman with a mean glint in her eyes looked Bronwyn up and down. Her voice was cutting and brooked no argument but had a snide tone. “I’m the head cook here. You one of them people fleeing from the fight?”

“Yes. My name is Bronwyn.”

“I don’t care about your life story, only what you’re doing here.

” The woman had an abrasive manner, and no sense of personal space, or boundaries.

She stood less than a foot away and looked down her nose at Bronwyn and her work.

“What makes you think you can cook in my tents? You’re barely a slip of a girl. ”

“I’m eighteen. And… I’ve cooked for the queen and the empress before. They like my bread rolls.”

The woman’s nose twitched, and her smile didn’t meet her eyes. “Did you now? Isn’t that a feat. Hear that, everyone? We here got ourselves a proper cook. ’Parently, the queen and the empress like her bread rolls.”

A few of the other cooks looked over, a few smiled.

Bronwyn’s face grew hot. “I only meant—”

“Listen here, Bronwyn.” The woman took her by the arm and pulled her away from the worktable.

“I’m the head cook here. You do what I say, when I say it and you don’t give me any problems, understand?

I don’t care if you’ve worked for the bloody Queen of Sheba.

This is my kitchen, and we don’t have anyone here who isn’t gonna pull their weight. Understand?”

Bronwyn nodded.

“If I find you’re making trouble or you ignore my orders, you’re out.”

“But—”

“No but s. Now get back to work. I’ll be watching you.”

Bronwyn bit the inside of her cheek to keep from speaking out and marched back to the worktable, where she’d been washing dirt from carrots. She felt the woman’s eyes on her as she worked.

Silence reigned in the cooking tents as the cooks worked steadily, barely speaking.

The woman huffed and walked on. Five minutes later, one of the other cooks, a thin woman in her twenties, joined Bronwyn at the worktable.

She took some of the pile of clean carrots and began to chop them. “These’ll make a nice stew.”

“Mm-hmm.” Bronwyn murmured.

“That there’s Mary Anglesey. She’s head cook back at Gloucester Castle. She’s been with the empress for years. She’s good, but she’s got a mean way about her. Stick to your work and do what she says, you’ll be fine.”

Bronwyn glanced at the woman.

“And don’t go on any more about cooking for kings and queens. We all have. Anyone who puts on airs like that or tries to make themselves seem better than anyone else, well… They won’t last long here. Not in Mary’s kitchen, anyway.”

Bronwyn kept her eyes down, washing. The purple carrots were very clean. “I didn’t know.”

“Now you do. Where are you from, anyway? You’re not from Gloucester.”

“Lincoln.”

They worked together quietly. Bronwyn learned that Mary Anglesey, who ruled the cooking tents with a mean twist of her mouth and eyes that danced where there was trouble, was a dab hand in the kitchen and could make all sorts of good dinners that pleased the high-born people at camp.

That first impression however, had ruined things.

Mary did not care for Bronwyn, which made life difficult.

But Bronwyn found that if she focused on her work, she could ignore the idle chatter and gossip that prevailed amongst the kitchen staff.

At the present moment, the crown sat hidden in her apron, safely tucked away in the nook of a tree.

With any luck, it would stay hidden. She whispered a quick prayer for luck and got to work, as they were short-staffed, as usual.

She scrubbed pots, baked bread, wiped down hard trenchers and platters for serving, and once she got a spare moment, she was enlisted amongst the pages and serving boys and girls to bring platters and trenchers out to people.

That afternoon, Bronwyn cut herself gutting a fish, the small blade slicing into her palm.

She cursed and the cooks sent her to find the nearest surgeon.

They had bandaged her wound with a rag, but it was filthy and the cut hurt.

She joined a small queue of people wanting to see the healer, an older person with a younger male assistant.

When it was her turn, the older healer, a short man well past middle-age with a balding pate and gentle hands, carefully unwrapped the bandage and tsked . “A nasty cut. Edmund, take care of this.”

He left her and moved on to the next person. Bronwyn was approached by a young man. He had clear, blue eyes and a deft touch. The young healer cleaned her hand thoroughly, hardly speaking. In minutes, he’d wrapped her hand in a fresh clean bandage and tied it tightly. “You are a cook?”

“I help in the cooking tents. And I bake sometimes.”

“No more gutting fish until this is healed. Come back in three days’ time. If it hurts more or smells, see me sooner. Do you understand?” He met her eyes then, his voice dispassionate. He almost sounded bored.

“Yes, thank you.” She looked at him. He was young. Older than her—in his twenties, perhaps. He had a light mop of sandy-blond hair that flopped, a thin face, and a spot on his chin. He was tall, thin, and lanky.

“Was there anything else?” he asked.

“Um. Why is this…?” She looked around. There were stores and small jars and pots laid out, but it was as if a wind or mighty force had swept an arm out and knocked most things to the ground.

“Someone broke into the stores,” the healer said. “We didn’t bring much—just enough to help with any wounds, aches, or pains—but people will take anything they can.”

“When did this happen?”

“The other night, during the battle.”

“Was anything taken?” Bronwyn asked.

“You ask a lot of questions,” the young healer said, looking at her sharply.

“I was just wondering.”

“Well, a few things might’ve been, but that’s no business of yours. That’s for the empress’s ears alone. Now if there’s nothing else…” His gaze wandered to the next patient.

She rose, thanked him, and left. His dismissal of her was clear.

As the afternoon sun lowered on the horizon and the blue sky was starting to fade to a subtle blue-grey hue, Bronwyn finished serving queues of people and scraped a bit of potage onto a small stale bread trencher, eating it with a hunk of day-old crusty bread.

Her hair was still tied back with a strong kerchief, and her apron was dusted with flour and food stains, but it was her first chance in hours to sit, and so sit she would.

She took a spot at an empty cooking fire and perched on the edge of a log.

People milled about in camp, always talking, walking, some in laughter, some in good spirits, some low.

The Battle of Lincoln stayed in their minds, if not their hearts, and for some, they had lost their homes and family members.

Bronwyn ate, her gaze fixed at a spot in the distance, when a familiar voice asked behind her, “Is this seat taken?”

She looked and almost dropped her trencher. “Uh, no.”

Rupert sat down on the log beside her, with a trencher of his own. He gave her a pleasant smile, drinking from a small wineskin. He asked in a low voice, “Is it true that the empress’s crown was stolen?”

Bronwyn froze. Bits of potage dripped from the small bit of hard bread she held in her right hand. She blinked. “Where did you hear that?”

“The other night, after the battle. The next day, the king was summoned for a private interrogation by the empress, and then after him, my lord, and one or two other knights loyal to His Grace.”

Bronwyn’s eyebrows rose. “Oh?”

Rupert nodded. “Aye. The men were all talking about it. Seems like someone tried to steal the crown during the battle.”

“Did they succeed?”

“That’s what I want to know. Have you heard anything?”

She swallowed and ate more. “I would’ve thought the battle was an attempt to free the king from his guards.”

“I thought so too, but no. He and his men were left unharmed. The guards weren’t troubled at all. It’s strange, is it not?”

Bronwyn nodded. “I…”

“What I cannot think is why anyone would want to start a fight just for fighting’s sake. Unless they had another plan in mind. The empress wasn’t attacked; the king was left alone. So why would men attack the camp if not for one of those purposes?” He scratched his chin.

“Do you know who attacked the camp?”

“Marauders. Mercenaries. Men paid to. It was only a small band of fighters, but it was enough to scare people and create chaos in the camp. People died when they didn’t have to.” He drank more from his wineskin and set down his empty bread trencher.

“Rupert,” she began.

“Yes?”

She swallowed and gripped her trencher, balancing it on her knees. “There’s something you should know.”

He looked at her.

“It was stolen. The crown. You were right. It has gone missing.”

“What?” His eyes widened. “When? How?”

“The night of the battle. It was stolen. But there’s a problem because it—”

“There you two are. My, my, what a sweet picture you both make, sat together. Like a pair of lovebirds, I dare say. I wonder what Lady Alice will think.” Lady Morwenna stood behind them, a wide smile on her face.

Bronwyn set her trencher down on the ground. “Lady Morwenna…”

“Do not address me unless I talk to you first, girl,” the woman snapped. “I am your better and you will remember it.”

Rupert stood.

Lady Morwenna fixed him with a smile. “Hello there. You must be the knight I’ve heard so much about. Rupert of Bothwell?”

“That is my name, but I am no knight. And you have insulted my friend.”

Lady Morwenna smirked. “You’re friends with a servant? Curious taste in friends, Rupert.”

Rupert’s blank expression disappeared and his jaw began to set. He picked up Bronwyn’s empty trencher and his own. “I’ll be going. Bronwyn.” He nodded to her and left, walking past Lady Morwenna, who sniffed loudly.