Page 12 of Winter’s Poison (The Winter Murders #1)

B ronwyn tensed in the saddle.

Rupert said in her ear, “They’re camped all the way out here for a reason. If they were loyal to Stephen, they would’ve come close and made themselves known. Come on.”

“But…”

“Quick, before we’re seen.” He nudged the horse, turned it around, and off they went, back toward the castle.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “There’s so many of them.”

“Yes. dozens. Scores, maybe. Maybe even hundreds.”

“You think so?” she asked.

“I don’t want to know. We need to hurry back.” He nudged the horse onward, faster.

They rode back quickly, taking the horse at a canter. Bronwyn clung to the stallion’s mane as they thundered through the muddy roads.

“Roger is dead,” she said.

“I heard. Found drowned in the water.”

“That’s right.”

He heard a note in her voice and asked, “You think it wasn’t an accident?”

“I don’t know.”

“I feel bad about it.”

“Don’t. Roger had no friends. All he was bothered about was becoming a knight. He had no time for anyone else unless it suited him in some way.”

She thought about what he said. “Then why do I feel so guilty?”

He shrugged behind her. “Maybe you didn’t kill him, but someone did. It’s natural. But you’re a woman. You shouldn’t have to be put in this position. The queen should never have asked you to get involved.”

She stiffened. “Maybe the queen thought I could find the killer.”

“Maybe she thought you were expendable. You and your papa.”

She turned her head to glare at him, then turned back, as she was too unsteady in the saddle. Her legs already felt sore and her muscles ached from riding. She’d never ridden a horse before.

“Maybe I am,” she snapped, “but that doesn’t mean I’ll fail. I will find out who did this. Who killed de Grecy, and Roger.”

“Then do it,” he said back. They rode in silence, then a minute later, he asked, “What will you do now?”

“A few people have told me that de Grecy wasn’t easily welcomed by the people here.”

Rupert said, “He was more disliked than the other men. The king likes people in his court to be at peace. De Grecy seemed almost like a bad apple in the midst of an orchard.”

“I wonder what he gave them to make the men trust him,” she said.

“That’s easy. He’d have given them information about the empress’s forces. Something real, something that they could check. Something that would prove he wasn’t lying.”

“Like giving them the identity of the spy in Stephen’s camp?”

“Or the date of when the empress’s forces would be here,” he told her. “We all know they’re coming, it’s just a question of when. And how many.”

They arrived back at the castle. Rupert said, “I have to go tell His Grace about the forces camped outside.”

She said, “Wait. Once you do, can you find me Sir Gabriel again? The man who spoke to me yesterday.”

“Why? Bored of me already?” he teased.

“No, it’s just, I want to talk to him.”

“Why?”

“I want to know who knew that de Grecy was buying rolls for the dinner. I feel like he’ll talk to me.”

“I’ll talk to you. Why him?”

“Why not? He’s a knight and he was there the night de Grecy died, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.” He nudged the horse into the castle courtyard and toward the stables. He pulled the horse to a stop, dismounted, and stood by the house, his face distant. “Does that mean you believe my lord and me to be innocent of all this?”

“Maybe.” She glanced at him from atop the horse, then slid off and almost fell over. Her legs and thighs ached all over. She groaned. “Everything aches.”

He smiled. “You’ll get used to it. Don’t forget I’m walking you home tonight.”

She watched him go and spotted a groom leading a horse out with closely cropped black mane. She paused. As the groom and horse approached, she said, “Why is its mane cut so close?”

The groom glanced at her and stopped. He put a hand on the horse’s back, stroking it gently. “Don’t rightly know. A few weeks past, we found him with his mane all chopped off. We don’t know who might’ve done it or why. One day he had a full head and tail of hair, the next, he didn’t. Suppose someone might’ve been wanting to stuff a chair or a pillow.”

“That seems odd, just taking the horse’s mane like that,” Bronwyn said.

“Aye, it does.”

An idea occurred to her. “What about a wig?”

“Eh?”

“A wig. Could the horsehair have been used to fashion a wig? For a man?”

“Suppose so.” He shrugged. “But why take the mane for that? It’s odd.”

She found her way back to the kitchens and worked solidly, hearing the news as the rumors of the empress’s men camped outside the city spread like wildfire. It was on everyone’s tongue. Odo took no chances and began barking orders at the cooking staff, from sauce-makers and spit-turners down to the meanest potboy and scullery maid. Everyone had a task to do, including her. With the others, she was preparing little parcels of food, to be taken and packed away at a moment’s notice. She realized Rupert had never sent Sir Gabriel her way but decided she was too busy to talk. Any hint of idle hands got a person a sharp retort from Odo. Night came. When she put on her coat and went outside, a familiar face was waiting by the main gate.

“Alfred? What are you doing here?”

He squared his shoulders. “I’m here to take you home. Margaret said you were hurt last night.”

“Bronwyn, there you are. Ready to go?” Rupert said behind her, but his easy smile fell at the sight of Alfred. “You’re here.”

Alfred frowned and turned to her. “You’re walking back with me, yeah?”

She looked from one boy to another. What a mess.

She said, “I… “I’m fine.” She saw the hope on Alfred’s face and didn’t want to hurt his feelings more than she already had. She’d let him down gently. “Neither of you have to. It’s fine.”

Both protested at this, speaking loudly at the same time. She winced.

Alfred got in Rupert’s face. “I have known Bronwyn since we were children. Her family trusts me with her safety. I’ve spoken with her mum and she expects me to walk with her.”

Bronwyn tensed. Margaret had spoken with Alfred? What about? Was that why he looked so hopeful and glad to see her?

Rupert’s chin rose. “I made a promise to look after her. She trusts me to see her back home.”

They glared at each other.

Bronwyn started walking. She hated that they were arguing, wasting time over a stupid matter like escorting her home, when she had more important things to do. She didn’t want to think of how her world might change if she needed an escort just to walk home.

In moments, both caught up to her. “What are you doing?” Rupert asked.

“Walking home. What does it look like?” she snapped.

“Why are you angry?” he asked.

“You have angered her. It’s your fault for butting in,” Alfred said.

“I’ll show you—” Rupert started.

She whirled and faced them both. “For God’s sake!” Her face was pale in the moonlight. “Stop this fighting. I can’t stand it. I will walk home. You can walk with me, or not. I don’t care.” She gritted her teeth. She wanted her independence. To be able to go wherever she liked, whenever she liked. To not be able to walk about in her own home city… It suddenly made her feel very small. She hated that feeling.

“But, Bronwyn, you were attacked. Your face…” Rupert started.

“I know what my face looks like.” Her right hand drifted to her cheeks.

“We would not want that to happen to you again,” Alfred said.

“Then walk with me. But if you can’t be civil toward each other, then hold your tongue. If I wanted to hear arguing, I’d go back to the kitchens.”

She could sense Rupert smirk. “As you wish, mistress.”

They walked, and amusement filled her. How ridiculous the situation was. A slight giggle left her throat, and she clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Bronwyn? What amuses you?” Rupert asked.

“It just struck me. You are both walking behind me like some sort of escorts, like I’m some kind of fine lady, when I’m nothing but a baker. Not even. A baker’s daughter.” She giggled again.

“Perhaps to us, you are more than that,” Rupert said.

She said nothing in return. They passed through the roads, staying close and in open spaces that were well-lit by the moon. It was not long before they approached the familiar street that her family’s bakery stood on.

She knocked on the door. Her stepmother opened it and she slipped inside, shutting the door in both the boys’ faces.

*

The next day, her face looked better, albeit still bruised and scratched, but the puffiness had mostly gone away. Bronwyn slipped into the grey, woolen dress Lady Alice had given her and went to her room.

She opened the door at her knock and said, “Well, you’re looking better. Today, I will spend time with the ladies and later play games with the men downstairs in the hall. Join me after luncheon and I will see what we can learn.”

Bronwyn nodded and spent the time in the kitchens helping to bake, when Sir Nicholas said behind her, “Girl.”

She turned from her baking, as she’d just been inspecting a bowl of dough that was proofing. “Sir Nicholas.”

“Come with me. There’s something you should see.”

She put a damp cloth over the bowl, wiped her hands on her apron, and followed him, out through the corridors and down a stone stairwell, but in a different direction from the dungeons, and apart from the cold pantry storage, where milk, butter, and cheese were kept.

“Where are we going?” she asked him. A lick of cold dread curled down her spine as the air turned cooler, damp, and less fresh. She suddenly felt very aware that their previous words had been in anger, and whilst they had made peace, she wondered if perhaps she’d been mistaken. Had he come to punish her in private, away from those who might help?

She touched the sloping, stone walls as she followed him into an underground chamber, lined with stone. The faint sound of dripping and cave stone nearby hit her ears, so quiet it was. There was no light at all except for the sputtering light from a torch Sir Nicholas held.

He led the way into a room and stood aside. “Come.”

She walked in and stopped. It was a sort of cold store, but worse. She shivered, for there on the storage shelves lay bodies. Three of them, each covered with a sheet. The sight was unmistakable. The large form would be Godfrey, the other de Grecy, and another was thinner, narrower. It could only be Roger.

“What are we doing here?” she asked, her voice quiet.

“I thought you might like to see them. See the corpses.”

“Why?”

“Because, baker’s daughter, sometimes a body holds signs, marks that tell us something of how they died.”

“What signs?”

“That is for us to see.” He stepped forward into the room and motioned her forward. He pulled a sheet off one of them. “Look at him.”

It was Roger. His body lay on a cold shelf, but he still dripped on the floor. She was glad it was winter, and yet understood why he’d been kept there. Despite being frozen beneath the ice in the river, he’d defrosted, and now was beginning to smell.

She sniffed in, involuntarily, and immediately wished she hadn’t. She held a hand up to her nose.

“You’ll get used to the smell,” Sir Nicholas said.

“I hope I don’t have to.”

“What do you see?” he asked.

“A body.”

“Look again. Closer. Tell me what you see.”

She peered at Roger.

“Anything odd.”

She gazed at his long body, his boots and dressed corpse that lay on the green cloak he liked so much, which now looked tattered and torn. Reeds, fish, or rocks had torn loose threads and now its fine material wouldn’t been seen as good enough for a kitchen rag.

He lay there, one hand dangling by his side, the other clasped to his chest. She did not want to look up at his face, but did so anyway. His skin was pale and waxy, and it had a wet look to it. His mouth was open and his eyes stared straight ahead. It was horrible.

“Cover him, please. I don’t want to see anymore,” Bronwyn said.

Sir Nicholas covered his face, then pulled the sheet down more, when she held up a hand. “Wait.”

“First you want me to cover him, then you don’t. Make up your mind, girl,” he said.

“What’s that in his hand?”

“Eh?”

She pointed. “He’s holding something.”

They both peered closely at Roger’s right hand, that at first appeared to be curled at his chest but instead was clutched around something.

“What is that?” she asked.

“Open his hand and see.”

She stared at him. “I’m not touching a dead body.”

He laughed, a thick, snorting sound that made her wonder if he had a cold. “You’ll have to do worse than that in this lifetime, girl. Just open his hand. He won’t bite.”

She glared at him. “Can’t you do it?”

“I’m holding the torch and the sheet.”

“You could put those down.”

“Aye, I could.” But the look on his face said he wasn’t going to.

Creeping sensations crawled down her shoulders and spine, as if mites or spiders were dancing down her skin. It made her shiver and want to shriek. Instead, she gave her head a little shake and reached for the item in Roger’s lifeless hand.

She gently touched his bare skin and yelped, snatching her hand back.

“What? What’s wrong?” Sir Nicholas asked.

She wiped her hand on her apron, rubbing it. “I touched his skin.”

Sir Nicholas exhaled a deep breath. “Is that all? Go on, girl.”

She wrapped her hands in her apron and, ignoring Sir Nicholas’s sound of disgust, lifted Roger’s fingers open. A noise escaped her throat as she touched his fingers, even with the apron’s cloth.

“There’s something there. He’s holding on to something.” She tugged, but the apron got in the way. She slipped her hands free and pried his fingers away, loosening them just enough to let whatever it was fall from his hand and onto the floor. It clattered with a thud . The object was small, but the quiet of the room and bare, stone walls made it sound huge.

She bent down and picked it up.

“What is it?” Sir Nicholas asked.

Bronwyn picked up the wooden object, noting the thin cord it was attached to. Roger must have pulled it from his attacker and tried to fight when he was pushed into the water, never fearing it would be his grave until it was too late.

“Bronwyn?” Sir Nicholas prompted. “You all right, girl?”

She held up the wooden cross, which bore a single shined piece of glass in its center. “I know who killed Roger, and I think de Grecy, too.”