Page 11 of Winter’s Poison (The Winter Murders #1)

B ronwyn and the page were soon joined by Sir Nicholas and a handful of armed guards and men at arms. Bronwyn put an arm around the boy as he wiped away tears.

Sir Nicholas demanded, “How did you find this, boy?”

The boy sniffed and shivered. “Today. I went out to fetch water for the kitchen and I saw him. He’s dead.”

Bronwyn held him close. “Sir Nicholas, can he go back to the castle?”

“Yes, yes, go on. Bronwyn, stay a minute.” Sir Nicholas’s expression was grim.

She let go of the boy. “What’s your name?”

“Cuthbert. People call me ‘Bert,’” the boy said. He stood short in brown, woolen tunic and leggings, his light hair cut close to his head. But his face was a shade too pale and he wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Am I in trouble?” he asked, his eyes wide.

“No. Go on now.”

He ran, and she faced Sir Nicholas. He stared down at the floating corpse, stuck in the ice, and instructed the men to start hacking at the ice. He motioned her to join him a few feet away from the men and said gruffly, “Well, this is a sorry mess. What do you make of it?”

Bronwyn scratched her head. “I saw his face. That’s Roger.”

Sir Nicholas froze. “No. It can’t be.”

“It is. We met once. He was unpleasant.” Her mouth twisted at the memory, recalling his quick smirk and sneering face. “He’s Sir Bors’s squire.”

“Yes, I know. And here is Roger, in his cloak. But I thought it common knowledge that the boy’s cloak had been stolen and he was looking for the thief.” He scratched his head. “Why would he be dead? Could it have been an accident?”

“I’d like to think so, but…” She shook her head. “It’s too odd. He looked surprised and scared.”

“That’s hard to tell from the ice,” Sir Nicholas pointed out.

“Still. When we met I… accused him of messing with the rolls and killing de Grecy,” she said.

“You what?” His voice rose.

She winced. “I know I was wrong. But he came in wearing the same green cloak as the man who I saw messing with the rolls that night.”

“How can you be sure? Green cloaks are not uncommon.”

“His was. I haven’t seen any since then, not until he turned up. He came and when I said he must’ve done it, he got angry and said no , his cloak had been a gift from his lord and was stolen, he hadn’t seen it until he returned from his mission.”

“What mission?” Sir Nicholas asked.

“He said he was looking to recruit more men to fight for King Stephen. He was a bit secretive about it. But when he returned Roger found the cloak in his room, so he wore it again.”

Sir Nicholas’s eyebrows furrowed in thought. “So he came back wearing the same cloak as the killer, you accused him of the crime, and now he’s dead. Have I missed anything?”

Bronwyn bit her lip and shook her head. “That reminds me. When I met Lady de la Haye later, she had a piece of hair that I thought was a ribbon. But it was black hair.”

He let out a breath. “What of it? She is odd.”

“She said she collected it when de Roumare scared her that night, and it was his hair. She said it was proof it was him. So you see, she did see someone that night. Whoever he was.”

“And why didn’t she come tell me herself or why didn’t you , for that matter?” His eyebrows met into a scowl.

“She was afraid of not being believed by anyone.”

“This is serious, girl. The queen should never have trusted you with a task like this. You’re accusing people right and left and look what happened. A boy is dead, thanks to you.”

“This isn’t my fault. I didn’t kill him,” she said.

“You might as well have. Whoever did steal the cloak that night may have wanted to pin the crime on poor Roger and what happens? You accuse the boy when he returns, and now the lad’s dead. Maybe the killer thought Roger would go looking for him, sticking his nose into people’s business, just like you have.”

“What? The only reason I’m here at all is because of my father—”

“Yes, a man who’s certainly not starving down in the cells. He looks remarkably well-fed compared to the knights down there. If you ask me, that’s where you belong, not him.”

She glared at Sir Nicholas. Knight or not, he’d crossed a line. “What did you just say?”

“You heard me, girl. This all stinks of a plot, and you’re at the heart of it. Maybe that was your plan all along, to deflect attention from yourself by trying to solve a murder. How do I know you didn’t plan all this from the start and your poor father is paying the price for your treachery? Maybe you should be the one in the cells.” He sneered. “You’re hiding something from me, I can tell. What is it? Did you switch sides and now serve the French wench? Did she promise you your papa’s freedom?”

Her cheeks felt hot. She felt her hands curl into fists. “My father is innocent. He didn’t kill anyone, and neither did I.”

“And yet Roger is dead. You seem fairly calm to see a young man dead who you were just accusing of murder a short while ago. Why is that?” He glared at her and blinked hard. “I find it hard to believe anything you say. How do I know you didn’t just find out for yourself who killed de Grecy and now Roger, and that you’ve made a deal with the empress’s spy for your father’s release?”

She stepped toward him, her voice rising. “I didn’t. You want to blame me, fine. Go ahead. I’m sorry Roger is dead. I’m sorry I accused him of murder. I made a mistake. You want to put me in the cells, go ahead.” She turned away.

“Bronwyn, don’t you turn your back on me.”

She stomped away.

“Girl, you come back here,” Sir Nicholas called, but she didn’t care. She left him to the sound of the guards chopping up the ice with their axes in the bleak, afternoon sun.

Bronwyn wiped hot tears from her eyes. Since when did she suddenly become guilty of murder? Sir Nicholas blamed her for Roger’s death, but his anger seemed irrational almost, like he was lashing out at her for no reason. But she hadn’t killed him. He hadn’t even had black hair. So who was the man who’d worn Roger’s stolen cloak?

As she trudged through the slushy roads back up the hill, she mentally eliminated the kitchen staff from suspicion; they had all been there for ages cooking or cleaning and whilst many of them gossiped and openly debated who could have done such a vile deed, none of them seemed to have any idea as to who could have done it. That left Roger to have talked about it with the other squires, or his lord. He would have wanted to clear up any suspicions around his disappearance. And what was this secret mission he’d been sent on, that he had alluded to earlier? Who had he told, and who might’ve been listening?

When she returned, Alice was sat in the dining hall with the other nobles, nibbling on a bit of meat. She caught Bronwyn’s eye and turned in her seat. “Well? Is everything all right?”

“A squire died.” Feeling others’ eyes and ears on them, she added, “Drowned.”

“Oh, how terrible,” Alice said, touching her collarbone.

Bronwyn stood by and remained silent as the men and ladies chatted amongst themselves. The mention of death cast a somber tone over the meal.

“It’s a waste of good help,” Sir Bors said, drinking his cup and spilling wine down his front.

Sir Nicholas entered the room, scanning the crowd. He strode over to Sir Bors, and whispered something in his ear. Sir Bors started, setting his cup aside. He quickly followed Sir Nicholas from the room.

Brother Bartholomew rose from his seat. “I shall give the boy last rites.”

King Stephen nodded his assent. Queen Matilda glanced at Bronwyn, a slim eyebrow raised.

Bronwyn ducked her head and stayed quiet, grateful for the idle chatter of the nobles, interspersed with having to refill Alice’s cup of wine or take her plate away. After a time, Alice waved her away and bid Bronwyn come to her the next morning.

As Bronwyn walked home that evening, the day’s stresses weighed upon her and gave a half-hearted wave goodnight to the guards, feeling low. Weariness and sadness dogged her every step. It felt like for each positive moment she’d had, a young man calling her pretty, being raised above her station, there had been a time of darkness to counteract it. Seeing Roger trapped dead beneath the ice, Sir Nicholas berating her in front of the men. Was it really her fault he was dead?

She walked slowly through the castle gates and approached the top of Steep Hill, when she heard the sound of footsteps behind her. She kept on, ignoring them, when something hard struck the back of her head.

Bronwyn crashed to the ground. Snow, slush, ice, and dirt hit her face and neck, seeping through her coat. A swift kick to her side made her cry out, when a male voice hissed in her ear, “Quit nosing around de Grecy’s death, or you’ll be next.”

The footfalls retreated, and she breathed and coughed, spitting out snow and dirt. She slowly got up and brushed herself off, looking around. She was alone. She walked down the slushy, dirty hill, grasping at the walls of buildings and looking over her shoulder as she went. Bronwyn slipped and slid a few times, shivering with cold but hurried as fast as she dared. Her hot breath streamed from her mouth against the chilly air. Her side ached painfully and eventually, she reached her home, knocking on the door.

Margaret opened the door and bid her come in. “You’re later than I thought you’d be. What took you so long?”

Bronwyn shut the door behind her and latched it closed, leaning against it hard. It offered little protection from the outside, but it was something. She gingerly pulled off her coat, shedding bits of dirt and dropping slush on the floor that melted instantly.

“Why, you’re filthy,” Margaret said. “Bronwyn Sibyl Blakenhale, what happened to you?”

Bronwyn looked up at her and began to cry.

Margaret took her in her arms.

Bronwyn reflected that Margaret had never been very affectionate toward her, but in that moment, she didn’t care and crumpled at her stepmother’s touch.

Margaret rubbed her arms and listened as Bronwyn relayed what had happened. She was too tired to lie any longer. She was tired of keeping secrets. She was an adult who did not want to be coddled, so Margaret probably wouldn’t like it, either. Bronwyn had to stop hiding the truth.

“Someone attacked you? Who?” Margaret asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I cannot believe this. Well, that’s that. That is the last day you’re working at the castle.”

“But, Mama, I can’t disobey a royal order. That’s a death sentence. And I’m a serving girl now. I’m serving Lady Alice. And we’re closer to finding out who killed de Grecy and proving Papa innocent. I have to go.”

Margaret grumbled, “Well, I don’t like it. Your father is imprisoned and now you’re attacked in the night. Where was Alfred? Why haven’t I seen him walk you home after the other night we had him over for dinner? Why isn’t he with you?”

Bronwyn shrugged. “Mama, I don’t fancy Alfred. Not like that. He’s more like an older brother to me.”

Margaret stared at her. “You rejected him? Did he make you an offer of marriage?”

“No. But he told me how he felt. I just don’t feel the same way about him.”

Margaret frowned. “So that’s why he’s been in a foul mood.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Well. It’s not for me to say, I suppose. But I think you should think long and hard about it before you make a decision like that. He’s a good man, and he’d look after you. He’d look after all of us.”

Bronwyn looked at the floor.

Margaret took her chin in her hands, tilting it this way and that. “You need to bathe, again. You’re filthy.” She turned Bronwyn around and gasped. “You’re bleeding.”

Bronwyn touched the back of her head and felt matted, sticky blood on her fingers. “Oh.”

“Oh, nothing. That’s it. You’re getting in the tub, right now. This is dangerous, Bronwyn. Must you go back?”

“I have to, Mama. For Papa.”

Margaret and Wyot pulled up the wooden tub and filled it with the leftover water and a few herbs so it looked reminiscent of the French bath in herbs that Odo and the senior cooks would poach fish cutlets in. They pulled it near the ovens to get warm, and Mama sent Wyot to bed as Bronwyn stripped and sat in the tub, feeling the water and herbs against her bare skin.

There was no privacy to be had, ever, and their home was no exception. Margaret sat nearby, mending a shirt for her to take to her father the following morning. “Alfred came by earlier, looking for you.”

Bronwyn leaned back and gently washed her long hair, feeling the water sting against her scalp and the bloody wound. It hurt.

“You should rethink Alfred’s offer. He could protect you. Especially if—” She paused, her voice tight.

Bronwyn sat up and looked at her as her stepmother held up father’s shirt by the dim candlelight.

Margaret let out a noisy breath and said in a shaky voice, “I think you need to have a think about what will happen when your father dies.”

“He’s not going to—”

“I mean it. The queen was foolish to send a girl to do a man’s job, finding a killer. It’s laughable, and only cruel as it extends your father’s life for a few weeks whilst you’re doomed to fail. If she were here, I’d give that queen a piece of my mind.”

Bronwyn rested her hands over the side of the tub. “You realize you could never say that in front of other people, right? Some people could think it’s treason. I’m going to solve this, Mama. I promise.”

“Are you sure? You already have one boy sniffing around you. Who is this other lad Alfred told me about? Some ugly squire? Rufus?”

“Rupert.” Bronwyn smiled. “And he’s not ugly. He… likes another girl, anyway, so it doesn’t matter.”

“Well, never mind. But all this attention is just going to get worse, mark my words. And with you serving the lady, you’re going to be noticed by other men. A young, pretty girl like you is bound to catch someone’s eye.” She added firmly, “No. I need you married off, and soon.”

“No, Mama. Not yet. That won’t solve anything.”

“It would keep you safe.”

“It won’t help Papa,” Bronwyn said with finality. “Until this is done, I don’t want to hear any more about Alfred, men, or marriage.”

Margaret shot her an even look but held her tongue.

*

The next day, Bronwyn dressed and hurried to the castle, finding her way to Alice’s room. After a quick knock, she walked in and stoked up the fire in the room.

Alice yawned, stretching in her fine blankets. She eyed Bronwyn and sat up, then stared. “Oh, my God. You look terrible.”

“Thanks.” Bronwyn looked away, slightly hurt.

“What happened to you?”

“Someone attacked me in the road last night.”

Alice stood, wrapped a robe around herself, and examined her face. “You can’t serve me at table like that. You’ve got cuts on your face.”

Bronwyn frowned. “What would you have me—”

She tsked . “Go back down to the kitchens for today. I’ll make do with someone else. I can’t have people thinking I beat you.”

Bronwyn raised an eyebrow.

“The mark of a good master or mistress is how well their servants are treated. If they look poor, sick, and beaten, it is a sign their master is bad. I can’t very well let you go walking around like that.” She frowned. “Are you… all right?”

Bronwyn gave her a small smile and nodded. “I’ll be in the kitchens if you need me.”

Alice waved her away and she left, entering the kitchen as if she’d never left. She quickly tied her hair up and put on an apron, joining the potboys in cleaning dirty pots. She busied herself, and after some time, Odo came up to her.

“So, she couldn’t keep you away from us, eh? You’re a baker’s girl, through and through.” He grinned and saw her face. “What happened? Did she do that to you?”

“No. I… had an accident walking home last night. I slipped and fell on my face.”

He came close and said quietly, “You’d tell me if she hit you?”

Bronwyn glanced at him. He’d been distrustful since the start, but since then he seemed to have softened toward her. Now it was almost like he was looking out for her, like she was one of his own. A funny feeling warmed her inside.

“I would. But she didn’t. It was an accident, truly.”

He grunted. “Don’t be clumsy here, girl. Can’t have you spilling sauces or tripping on things. Get back to work. We’ve got the feast to prepare for. In less than a week, it’s the feast of the Purification of St. Mary.”

Bronwyn tensed. In all her walking about and focusing on the murder and boys, she’d lost track of time. That was the day Her Grace had given as a time by which to find de Grecy’s killer. She needed to solve this crime before it was too late, and her papa hung from a scaffold.

She scrubbed and cooked, stripped the feathery carcasses of capons, descaled fish, and prepared pottage for the cooks’ luncheon.

She was just sitting down to eat when Sir Nicholas came by the kitchen. He motioned to her, and she rose, going to him. She cast a longing look at the stale bread trencher she’d left behind, knowing it would be wiped clean by the scullery boy she was supposed to be sharing with.

Her stomach grumbled as she approached Sir Nicholas, who stood in the entrance. “Sir.”

“Bronwyn.”

Neither said anything.

He looked down at her with a glare, his bushy, dark eyebrows pointing at her in accusation. “I’ve been asking around about Roger’s death. It seems the lad came back and after he met you in the kitchen he left, and no one heard from him again.” He looked down. “Seems he wasn’t popular in the castle. I’ve not heard a single nice word about him.”

She was about to demand to know why Sir Nicholas was so fixated on him and had ripped into her yesterday, when an idea occurred to her. “You knew him.”

Sir Nicholas glanced away. “Yes. He was my nephew. I knew him since he was a child.”

They were related. No wonder he’d gotten so mad. She shifted her weight from foot to foot. “I’m sorry about what I said. I shouldn’t have accused him like that.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.” His voice was hard.

Their eyes met, and his angry expression wavered. He cracked his knuckles. “I… shouldn’t have yelled at you. Women don’t like to be yelled at.”

She looked up at him. “No, we don’t. And speaking for my sex, we also don’t like to be accused of spying.”

He met her eyes. “I had no evidence of that, anyway. It’s clear that whoever did this is still at large.” He let out a noisy breath. “Now I have to arrange the boy’s funeral.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, then paused. “What about de Grecy? Did he have a funeral?”

“No, not yet. The ground is too frozen to bury anyone, so we put him in cold storage. He and Roger will lie there until the spring, then we’ll bury them. We’ll have the funerals then.” He grunted and left.

She stayed in the kitchen most of the day, dipping out during the noon Mass to bring bread to her father. But as she passed the cells, William de Roumare called to her. “Girl.”

She stopped.

“Come here.”

She took a step forward, then paused.

“I want to talk to you.” He limped forward, his limbs stiff with cold and lack of exercise. He was not unattractive, but time in the cells had not done him any favors. He had wavy, black hair and a coarse beard that needed a trim. His eyes were dark and calculating, fierce with intelligence.

She stepped closer and met his gaze. She felt rooted to the spot by him. “What is it?”

He beckoned her up to the cell bars. “You deliver messages. Don’t you?”

“I, no, I…” She had done, but he was trouble. He had taken the castle once and was in jail for it. What did he want with her?

“Tell the good brother we will be ready. By the time my lady’s Welshmen are at Danesgate, we will be ready.”

“For what?”

“Don’t play dumb. You know what,” he said. “I’m not going to spell it out for you. Just tell him.” The man ran a hand through his scruffy, black hair and sat back on a seat in his cell. “Do it.”

Bronwyn nodded and brushed away strands of thread that had drifted from the cell bars to her dress, then stopped. This was everything. Could it be that the holy brother was not as innocent as he seemed? Whom should she tell? But she needed proof. She wanted to turn around and accuse de Roumare and Brother Bartholomew directly but couldn’t. She needed to think.

She walked on to her father and gave him the bread she’d taken from the kitchen, off cuts that the cooks deemed too poor to give to the aristocrats, and smuggled it out.

He took them hungrily and ate, noticing her face.

“What happened?” he asked.

She told him.

“You must stop this, Bronwyn. You have to. There’s no sense in keeping on like this. Stop your hunt. You’ve riled someone up now and it’s got to stop. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“I already did.”

“You know what I mean.”

She nodded. “I have to go.” She had to do something about the monk working with de Roumare. Her mind spinning, she ran up the spiral staircase and ran into Muriel, the chatelaine of the castle. “Hello, Mistress de la Haye.”

“Hello, Mistress Baker. Have you seen Brother Bartholomew? He wasn’t at Mass today.”

“No, I haven’t.” Bronwyn’s shoulders slumped. Where could he be?

“Strange. He’s usually there. I wanted to speak with him. I thought he might be giving prayers to the prisoners, but perhaps not.”

“Could he be in the privy?” Bronwyn asked.

A smile crossed her face. “Men often are. He did rather eat his fill last night. It wouldn’t surprise me.”

She left, and Bronwyn returned to the kitchen when she pulled on her coat, taking a basket in her hand. She’d visit the monk under the guise of gathering herbs.

“Where are you going?” Odo asked. “I need you here.”

“I need to get some fresh herbs. I’ll be back.”

“Well, hurry along. Don’t tarry,” he said.

She hurried, darting around people, almost running when she smacked into Rupert, practically hitting him with her straw basket. “Oh, where are you off to in such a hurry?” he asked. “Bronwyn? Are you all right? What happened to your face?”

“I got hurt on the way home last night. Someone hit me in the back of the head and I fell on my face.”

Rupert’s frowned. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m fine.”

“I should’ve walked you home. You’re not walking home alone again. It’s not safe.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You say that, but we both know that’s not the case. You’ve stirred up trouble, Bronwyn. Someone wants you to quit digging into this matter with de Grecy. Will you quit?”

“No. I can’t.”

“I didn’t think so.” He let out a small sigh.

“Do you have a horse?” she asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“Can I borrow it?”

“What for?” he asked.

“I need it. I need to see something. Can you take me to Danesgate?” If she couldn’t find the monk at the castle, she’d need a different plan.

“You’re serious,” he said.

“Yes. Please.”

“All right, I’ll take you. Come on.” He led the way to the stables and had a groomsman saddle his horse, a tall, brown stallion with a black mane that flicked his tail.

“Shh.” Rupert fed the creature a carrot. He took him out of the stables and with a hand on his bridle, said, “Well?”

“I, uh… don’t know how to ride.”

He rolled his eyes. “And you were going to take one yourself. You wouldn’t get as far as the stable door. I can’t believe you. What is this about, Bronwyn?”

“I need to go. Help me up, please.” She set down the basket and placed it against the side of the building.

He put two hands down and as she put her foot in them, he boosted her up and climbed onto the saddle, clutching the horse’s mane in her hands. Rupert handed it up and mounted behind her. He smelled of horse, stale ale and hay.

They rode, a light canter out of the castle gates, out toward Danesgate, and down the road toward Motherby Hill. They rode down and out of the city, going until Rupert asked, “Any specific place near Danesgate?”

“No, just head in that direction. I have a funny feeling.”

He nudged the stallion with his heels and kept going, down roads and atop hills, until they were out of the city, when he stopped short.

“What?”

“Look there.” He pointed.

She looked. It was still miles away, but in the trees and forests, they could see an encampment. Tents, and rows of men, fighters, warriors, more than she could count.

“Who are they?” she asked.

“Trouble.”