Page 37

B ronwyn stared and almost dropped the trencher of food she held, so she gripped the sides hard, feeling the stale bread trencher almost crack beneath the pressure of her fingers. She lessened her grip. “‘Escaped’?”

“Aye. Go away if you know what’s good for you.”

Bronwyn and the other servants turned to go.

They began to make their way up the stairs and back into the corridors when there came an order to deliver the food to the rest of the prisoners.

Bronwyn and a handful of servants went to the kitchen and returned with trenchers of food and cups of stale beer.

She faced a cell full of knights, who ate hurriedly, the smell of the smoky, roasted meat and potage a brief respite from the smell of unwashed male body, urine, and feces that hung in the air.

The straw on the floor did nothing and was damp and wet beneath her shoes, and more than one mouse and rat scurried by, darting and squeaking around her ankles.

Bronwyn had never been scared of rodents, but this many around made her feel nervous.

She waited for the men to finish eating and drinking, took the empty bread trenchers and stood back as the guards marched a man in chains through the corridor, the chains clinking and ringing, echoing through the space.

Bronwyn and the other servants kept quiet as the men marched King Stephen into the walkway, and one held an open door.

Stephen walked through, his locks hanging limply by his face.

His beard was long and scraggly, the smell of him made Bronwyn wrinkle her nose, and he walked as if with a great weight upon his shoulders.

He looked up briefly, seeing the servants there, eyeing hungrily the sight of the empty trenchers and jugs, and walked into the cell.

The guard slammed the iron door shut and locked it tightly. “Serves you right for trying to escape. No one escapes.”

“I did. For a time,” Stephen said.

The guard spat on the straw that rustled and squeaked beneath his feet. “No one escapes for long. We could smell you a mile away.”

“That is not my fault. It seems my cousin’s hospitality does not extend to allowing her prisoners to bathe.”

The guard smirked. “Least now you stink like the ruffian you are. Never seen a king smell like horse dung before.”

Stephen was silent.

The guard grinned and left. Bronwyn waited for him to pass, then took one of the remaining trenchers that still had food on it and told one of the servants, “Go. I’ll catch up.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, leaving with the rest of the servants.

Bronwyn went to the king’s cell and tapped lightly on the iron bars. She held out the trencher and waited. Peering into the darkness, she knew there were men on the other side of the bars and yet no one came near.

Finally, a few footfalls approached. A man stood before her. Tall, stocky. He smelled.

“You witnessed my humiliation just now. Yet you would feed me?”

She looked up into where she thought his eyes must be.

What to say to a king? Especially this one, who a month ago had imprisoned her father for a crime he had not committed and would have hanged him?

She owed him no loyalty, that was sure. So why was she standing there, holding out the trencher so he might eat?

“You have to eat, Your Grace,” a male voice said from within the cell.

“I was not addressing you, Baldwin. I have not forgotten your treachery,” King Stephen said.

Bronwyn wondered at this. How had Stephen found out about the plot?

A heavy sigh. “Your Grace, it was the only thing I could do, to save your life. I would sooner serve a live king than a dead one.” Sir Baldwin of Clare, Rupert’s master, said.

Bronwyn said, “It’s Shrove Tuesday. We’re getting rid of all the meat, anyway. It’s not poisoned, I promise.” She froze. Would he even remember that she was the baker involved in a plot to poison some bread rolls from months ago? Would he accuse her of being behind it all?

There was a pause, then a thin hand reached out and took some of the bread and meat. He chewed and swallowed, as if trying to savor the bites, but was so hungry, he could not help himself, and he ate quickly. He groaned, rubbing his stomach. “Thank you.”

Bronwyn nodded. “I am sorry.” He did not seem to remember her, after all.

He looked at her, and she left, trying to ignore the moving rushes beneath her feet, and the squeaks and flurry of tiny mice and rats that scurried around.

The next day, Bronwyn awoke to screams. She shot up, conscious of the still-sleeping forms of the women servants near her.

They slept on straw pallets on the floor and blankets.

It wasn’t quite a bed like Lady Alice’s, but it was a thousand times better than sleeping outdoors with only a fire, a thin dress, and the bodies of those around her to keep warm.

There came another cry. Bronwyn threw off her thin blanket. “Did you hear that?”

Most of the servants were now awake, aside from those who could sleep like the dead.

“Eh, it’s probably a lord getting his leg over,” one man said. “Get on with your chores. We’ve got enough work to do without disturbing a lord and his lady.”

Bronwyn shot him a dark look and ran out of the room.

She spared a thought for the fact that the strings of her woolen, brown dress around her bodice hung loose, as was her blonde hair, and that in her hurry, she hadn’t put on shoes. But those things didn’t matter now. She ran toward the sound of the screams.

The sound came again, closer this time.

She ran in the direction and hurried up the stairs.

The cries took her to the ramparts of the castle, where the air was decidedly cold, windy, and chilly.

She shielded her eyes against the rising sun and was surprised at the loud cawing of crows, birds, and flies that buzzed near the edge of the walls.

She saw nothing. No one was there. Was it all a trick? A spirit?

“Help! Somebody help me!” a woman cried.

Bronwyn dashed to the edge of the ramparts, where two thick ropes were tied around narrow pillars. Hanging on to one of them for dear life clung a familiar face.

“Lady Morwenna?” Bronwyn said.

“Oh, thank God. Help me, please.” She turned a tearstained face upward. The fear in her eyes was real. “Please, help me. I don’t want to die.”

“Oh, my Lord.” Bronwyn bent down and, leaning awkwardly between the parapet pillar stones, she reached for her.

Lady Morwenna gritted her teeth and grasped her hand. The woman’s hands were soft, smooth, and sweaty.

The women worked together, with her tugging and Lady Morwenna climbing until she got a handhold on the stone, her cheeks pink with exertion, her eyes wild.

Bronwyn helped pull her over. Together, they collapsed on the stones, breathing hard.

“What happened?” Bronwyn asked, once she’d caught her breath.

“I… came out for a breath of fresh air. I like to take the air here sometimes. It’s refreshing.” Lady Morwenna’s voice was tight.

Bronwyn looked at her. “And you just happened to trip over the side?”

“No, I…”

“Are you all right?”

The woman turned around. Lady Morwenna’s face was tear-stricken.

“What really happened?” Bronwyn asked.

“I… L-Look.” Lady Morwenna pointed.

Curious, Bronwyn gripped the stone and planted her feet solidly so she wouldn’t slip. She leaned over just enough to see.

There around two of the stones hung ropes. At the end of the ropes hung the lifeless bodies of two guards.

Her right hand darted to her mouth. These were likely the guards from the previous night who had helped Stephen escape. Christopher Stockly and Adam Granger, she supposed.

Bronwyn leaned away, took two deep breaths, feeling lightheaded, and was sick. As she heaved her guts out onto the stones and breathed in gasps of fresh morning air, she noticed something.

The scent of roses hung in the air.

Bronwyn sank to the stone floor of the ramparts, breathing hard.

She could still taste the vestiges of bile on her tongue, and spat, wiping her mouth clean.

She felt the solid, cold weight of the stone against her back and was glad of it.

That and the blustery wind plastering her hair around her face made her feel awake, even if her legs felt wobbly.

She closed her eyes and took deep breaths.

“Do you wear a rosewater perfume, Lady Morwenna?” she asked.

“Uh, no. No, I don’t,” Lady Morwenna said, sounding farther away.

“Bronwyn. Are you all right?” a familiar voice asked, and a shadow fell over her face.

Bronwyn opened her eyes. “Rupert. What are you doing here?”

“I heard the screams. What happened? You’re pale.”

She motioned with a shaking hand. “The ropes… Don’t look. There are bodies.”

Rupert ignored her and leaned over the parapet. He cursed. “Good God. Who did this?”

“I don’t know.”

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Those are guards. They…”

Bronwyn pulled him away, a safe distance from Lady Morwenna, whose eyes widened while a slow smile grew on her face as she watched them.

“I think it’s the men Stephen bribed to let him out,” Bronwyn said.

“How do you know about that?” he asked.

“Lady Alice told me.”

“Me too. I told Sir Baldwin about the conspiracy to kill the king once he was free. He told me who the bribed guards were and I relayed it to de Gernon and—”

“Sir Ranulf de Gernon? Why him?”

“I’m serving him now, as well as Sir Baldwin,” Rupert said.

“I heard that from Lady Alice. Why?” She frowned.

“I have my reasons. Anyway, he told the empress of the plot.”

Bronwyn’s shoulders slumped. “I told her too. She said she already knew.”

“Via Sir Ranulf, yes. Thank goodness Sir Baldwin told me which guards were at fault. Now the king is safe.”

She looked at him. “But he wasn’t in danger.”

His eyes squeezed shut. “What do you mean?”

“There was no plot to kill him on the road. That was fabricated by Lady Alice. She—”

“Bronwyn, you’re not making sense. Of course there was a plot. Lady Alice said—”

“She lied to you, Rupert.”

“She wouldn’t do that.” He shuffled backward.