Page 14 of Winter’s Poison (The Winter Murders #1)

B ronwyn was led at spearpoint through the corridors. Word spread of the girl baker being imprisoned and so servants and nobles stopped what they were doing in order to see.

She kept her gaze straight ahead as she was marched through and down the spiral staircase, to the cells. She met the surprised expressions of the guards to whom she’d slipped coins to for weeks, all of whom now shot her glances of suspicion and distrust as she was led at spearpoint past them.

She was let inside the same cell as her father, who hugged her, then looked on in dismay as the cell door was locked behind her. “Bronwyn, what are you doing here?”

“Papa.” He felt so cold, and thin. His beard was long and scraggly with grey hair. He’d grown a mustache and he desperately needed a haircut, not to mention a bath. His small cell had rushes on the floor, a mouse here and there, and the smell of urine in the air. The space itself was filthy, but they were together again.

She hugged him tightly. “I’m glad to see you again.”

“And I, you. But what are you doing here? Why did they let you in? Am I to be freed?” he asked.

“No. Father, I’m…” She told him everything.

When she’d finished, he said, “Oh, Bronwyn…” He sat down on a small pallet he’d made in the corner. “My girl, what have you done? You’ve doomed us both.”

“No. I haven’t, I swear. Someone will come.” She looked at the door to the cell. “Someone will.”

They didn’t have to wait long. The guards came through with a pitcher of wine for them to drink from to slake their thirst and some stale bread for them to share. A gift from Lady Alice, they said.

Bronwyn said she was full from luncheon and gave her half to Papa. He at first made a token protest but seemed so hungry that in the next five minutes, it was gone.

An hour later, a familiar face appeared. “Bronwyn?”

Bronwyn met him at the bars, holding the metal with her hands. It was cold, but her heart gave a treacherous flutter. “Rupert.”

He looked at her, taking in her appearance and cell. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m fine. What’s happening upstairs?”

Rupert looked away. “Brother Bartholomew has the king convinced you were behind it all. Sir Nicholas and Lady Alice are pleading your case. I could only get away for a few moments. We’re trying to get you freed.”

“What about my papa?” she asked.

Rupert glanced behind her and spoke quietly. “Bronwyn, we’re doing all we can to save your life. If we were to create a distraction, would you go?”

She swallowed and looked back at her father. To run would be to court death. They could never return home. They would be hunted like outlaws.

She shook her head. “We’d need time. And I’m not leaving my papa.”

Rupert nodded and covered her hand on the bars with his. He started. “You’re cold.”

She shrugged. “It’s a bit chilly down here.” She tried not to shiver.

“Come on. You’ve had enough time. Get out of here, lad,” one of the guards called, marching over.

Rupert patted her hand. “I’ll be back. We’ll get you both out of here, I promise. Don’t lose hope.”

The guard clapped a hand on his shoulder and jerked him away.

“I mean it, Bronwyn. Don’t lose hope!” Rupert called as the guard marched him away by spearpoint.

Once Rupert had left, Bronwyn sat by her father and they chatted, sitting beside each other as they shared a blanket for warmth. Bronwyn felt her father was desperately tired, and so cold. In such conditions, a chill had seeped into his bones and she could feel him trembling beside her.

The night wore on and a coldness emanated from the dank, stone walls. It seeped from the very bones and bedrock of the castle, reaching for their warm skin like ghostly tendrils. To say they were cold was not enough. They froze, huddled together for warmth, and Bronwyn came to know what it felt like to have ice in her veins.

She did not know how much time had passed, but when she looked up, another familiar face stood there at the bars, watching.

“Alfred?” she asked. “What are you doing here?”

“I paid the guards to let me in.” He held a candle and beckoned her forward.

Her father called, “Alfred, son, how did you get into the castle?”

“Never mind that. Bronwyn, I’ve come to take you home,” he said.

Hope rose in her. “Home? But how? Did King Stephen pardon me?”

“No. Nothing like that. When the king pronounced sentence on you, a sir, some knight or whatever, Nick?”

“Sir Nicholas?” she said.

“Yeah, him. He and that squire, they came to your family’s shop, spouting some nonsense about you being imprisoned and sentenced to death.”

Bronwyn shushed him. She hadn’t told her father. She didn’t want him to know.

Alfred raised an eyebrow at her and said, “Well, your mama had a fit. Wyot was in tears. They sent me here to plead your case.”

“And?” Her father had joined them now. “Good to see you, Alfred. I hear you’ve been helping out at the shop.” He extended a hand through the bars.

Alfred shook her father’s hand. “Master Blakenhale.” His eyes widened to see her father’s appearance now. Alfred said, “We’ve scraped together some money to pay a ransom toward you.”

“But we’re not being held for ransom,” Bronwyn said. “If that were the case, we’d have paid to get my papa out before now.”

Alfred shot her a look. “Your mama and I, we pleaded to the king. She begged the man.”

Bronwyn stared. Her mother had come and begged the king for their release. She felt like a child. “Go on. Where is she? Is she here?”

“No, she went back home. She said we needed you back to help at the shop, or else the family wouldn’t survive. She offered to make a gift of money, all we have saved, and to work in the kitchens herself if it meant you could come home.”

“What did the king say?” Bronwyn’s father asked.

“He thought on it, and hearing the counsel of Sir Nicholas and that squire,” Alfred said with a frown, “he agreed to let you go.”

“He did?” Bronwyn’s eyebrows rose.

“Yeah, he did.”

“Then get the keys and let’s go. Call the guards. Guards!” Her father called.

“Master Blakenhale…” Alfred hung his head. “They’re not coming.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked up, meeting Bronwyn’s eyes. “The king only agreed to let one of you go.”

She gasped. Disappointment was sketched across her father’s face. “Papa, you go.”

“No, you. You go on, child. Go.” He nudged her toward the bars.

“Stop, the decision is made,” Alfred said. “He’s allowed Bronwyn to be released.”

To live, he meant , she thought. “Why? Papa has been here longer, too long. Take him.”

“No, Bronwyn, the king has decided,” her father said, but there was a note of doubt in his voice she could not ignore.

“Why?” she asked Alfred. “Why me and not Papa?”

Alfred let out a breath, and the candle almost went out. “Here, hold this.” He handed it to her father, who took it eagerly, letting the candle warm his bony hands.

“Because…” Alfred started.

“What?” Bronwyn asked, her voice hard. She’d never forgive herself if she went free whilst her father stayed in the cell to rot.

“I told the king we were affianced,” Alfred said.

“What?”

“Engaged,” Alfred said warmly. “That if he let you go, I’d keep you out of trouble and you’d spend your days far from the castle and never come back. You’d work in the bakery with me, as my wife.”

Bronwyn’s jaw dropped open. “Your wife.”

“Yes.” Seeing her face, he said, “I know you’re surprised, but, Bronwyn, it’s the only way. It was the only way they’d let you go. It’s your life we’re talking about here. Your mother, Wyot—they need you. I need you.” He reached for her hand through the bars and gave it a squeeze. “Jesus, Mary, you’re cold,” he cursed softly.

“Alfred, I—”

“Say yes . Say yes , and this nightmare will all be over. We’ll go home and I’ll move into the bakery and we’ll all live there together.”

Bronwyn stared at him, her eyes wide. She swallowed. “I’m too young.”

He laughed. “You’re eighteen. You’re past the age of consent, and I know you’re a woman. I was there when you first started your monthly courses and you thought you were dying. Remember? I know you.”

She shook her head.

“Come off it, Bronwyn. You can leave here, free. You wouldn’t have to worry about murders, or deaths, or brothers poisoning knights or whatever. You could live at home, with me. The queen should never have trusted you with a task like that, anyway. She’d have known you would fail.”

“I didn’t,” Bronwyn said.

“Huh?”

“I didn’t fail. I figured out who killed de Grecy. They just didn’t believe me.”

“Well, that doesn’t matter. More fools them for not believing you. Anyway. You won’t have to worry about any of that anymore. Not once we’re married. And you’re a fine baker, Bronwyn. As my wife, you’ll be able to bake whatever you want.”

It was true. She could see them now, living together as a large family, baking and making money. Staying and baking in Lincoln the rest of their lives. Feeding the people, high and low. She’d have children and Margaret and she would be bouncing babes in their arms as Alfred and Papa… No, wait. Papa wouldn’t be there. Alfred would take his place as man of the household. Was that what he’d wanted all along?

And what about Rupert? Where would he be in all this? If she was married to Alfred, he wouldn’t come and tease her or chat to her anymore—Alfred would make sure of that. She’d miss him. Bronwyn blinked. She liked Rupert. She liked his smile. The way his eyes crinkled when he laughed and joked with her. How he’d escort her everywhere, as if she were a grand lady, and help her out at a moment’s notice. She didn’t want to leave this world without seeing him one last time. Rupert and her father meant so much to her. But only one of them would hang in the morning.

“What about my father?” she asked.

Alfred turned his head, eyes flicking to her father, who clasped the candle like it was a holy relic. “What about him?”

“What happens to him if we marry?”

“Well, he stays in here.”

“He’ll die tomorrow.”

“Yes. But that’s not my fault. I was able to make a deal for your freedom, and I did. You should say thanks. You should be thanking me,” Alfred pointed out, running a hand through his hair.

She almost laughed. Instead, she looked him in the eyes. She didn’t want a life of safety, if it meant being with a man who stole kisses rather than asked for them. Who forced affection on her when she did not want it. And who overlooked the love she had for her father, when it mattered most to her, more than her own life, at that moment. Alfred offered her a life, but what was a life without true love?

“Alfred, do you love me?”

He blinked. “Of course I do.” He said it so quick, in the same tone of voice he might place an order of cod from the fishmonger.

“Do you?” she asked.

“Yes, I do. I have, ever since we were kids. Now come on, Bronwyn. What do you say?”

That was his attempt at a betrothal. Why did she feel so uninspired? There must have been many girls who would have jumped at the chance to be with Alfred. What a shame, she reflected, that she was not one of them.

She slowly withdrew her hand. “I’m not leaving my father.”

Alfred’s face crumpled in hurt, then anger. “You’re being stupid.”

“I don’t care.”

“Bronwyn, no. Don’t be foolish,” her father said, touching her shoulder.

“I mean it, Papa. I won’t leave you.”

“You really are dumb,” Alfred spat. “Here I come all the way here to the stinking dungeons to rescue you, and you want to stay here. You’re nuts. Why won’t you come?”

“I told you, I won’t leave without my papa,” she said.

He paused. “I promise I’ll be kind to you. Is a life with me really so bad?”

She looked at him. Really looked at him. Alfred, the tall, sometimes giant-like, blond, broad-shouldered man built like an ox who could carry heavy loaves of bread and move a heavy cart with ease. Alfred, whom she’d known like a friend, practically an older brother, for years. Who had always teased and elbowed her with a joke, until he’d recently taken issue with her looking into de Grecy’s death and had kissed her without asking. Who now was asking for her heart. And was willing to give her a life in return.

It might have been tempting, once upon a time. It wasn’t now. She cared for Rupert. Fancied Rupert. If there was ever a man she wanted to consider having a future with, it would have been him. Not Alfred, who stood there looking at her, waiting.

She didn’t love him, and it felt wrong to say yes to a man asking for so much.

“No, it wouldn’t be. But I don’t love you,” she said.

“Bronwyn,” her father chastised.

Alfred’s smile disappeared. He looked at the earthen floor. “You could learn to love me.”

She shook her head. “No.”

He looked up, his expression a sneer. “So you’d rather stay here and die in the cells or tomorrow on the gallows than have a lifetime of happiness and safety with me. I knew some girls were foolish, but you really are the limit. You know what? Fine. Have it your way. Stay here and rot. I don’t care. I’ll take back the ransom and sod the both of you.”

“Bronwyn, don’t do this,” her father said, “Take his offer. Say yes .”

“No,” she snapped. “I’m not leaving you.”

“You’re not leaving me—you’re leaving to keep on living. Obstinate child, won’t you go?”

She shook her head again. “Mama would never forgive me.” And I would never forgive myself , she thought.

“It doesn’t matter.” Her father gripped her hand. It felt warmer now that he’d been holding the candle. “I don’t want you to die. Go with Alfred. Please. I give you my blessing. Go.”

“Papa,” Bronwyn said, giving his hand a squeeze. “No. There’s still a way out of this.”

“How? Alfred has bought you a another chance at life. Do not turn it away.” He looked at her, his eyes dark and hollow. “Please, Bronwyn. It is the only way. I would rather see you alive and wedded than dead for a principle. Please, girl. Use your head.”

She looked back at the man who could be her husband and savior. And possibly jailor. “Goodbye, Alfred.”

He spat on the floor. “Goodbye, Bronwyn. I hope you realize you’re making a big mistake.”

“That is between me and God.”

He snorted. “I would have treated you well, you know.” He blinked hard and sniffed. “Last chance.”

She dropped her father’s free hand and looked at Alfred. His every word and arrogant expectation, his anger and dismissal of her feelings, made her close off her heart to him all the more with each passing moment. She did not want him and never would. She refused to commit them both to a life without love. That would be a torment.

“Alfred? Look after my mama and Wyot, would you?” she asked.

“Stupid girl,” he muttered as he walked off, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hall.

The dungeon was quiet, but for the muted mutterings and chatter of the knights within. She heard the restless moving and shifting of the men trapped in the cells and felt a tension there. It didn’t matter to her if they’d heard their exchange or not. But she did not want to be near when the next day came. If her suspicions were right, then Empress Maud’s company would be upon the city within hours.

Papa refused to talk to her, only muttering how she’d lost track of her senses. He sat, holding the candle Alfred had left them and its small, sputtering warmth, until it burnt down and blew out, leaving a wispy trail of smoke in the air. Darkness filled the cell, but for the dim, sputtering torches sparsely hung outside on the walls.

Some hours later, her father slept, when a figure came and stood before their cell. “Girl.”

She rose and went to the bars, then stopped. “Brother Bartholomew. What do you want?”

He carried a candle that played shadows on his face, revealing a nasty smile.

“Come to gloat?”

His smile widened. “You are exactly where you belong.”

Her hands clenched into fists. “Is that why you’ve come? To point fingers and laugh at me?”

He laughed. “I don’t need to. You dug your own grave, girl. You and that wagging tongue of yours. If only you’d kept quiet, we might have come to an agreement. But now it’s too late. You and your father will die.”

She glared at him. “You convinced the king.”

“Of course. The king is too much of a trusting fool to believe the word of a mere girl, and besides, I have given him counsel. His forces have frightened the good Lady Maud and she is hiding elsewhere. She is weak. Why else would her knights switch allegiances to his court?” He smiled. “He trusts me. Much more than that Sir Nicholas fellow.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing—yet. But I’ve got plans for him.” His eyes glittered with excitement.

She banged her fists against the bars, smarting her skin and earning a call from the guards, “Quiet down there!”

Seeing her expression, he said, “Face it, girl. You are alone. You have no friends, only enemies. And now you will rot in that cell with your father. Although not for very long. If you do not freeze tonight, on the morrow you will face the noose.”

“You’re still going through with the rebellion.”

“We’ve had this planned for weeks. If it weren’t for de Grecy, it might’ve happened sooner. But either way, tonight is the last night Stephen will rule in this castle. This will soon be Maud’s and you’d better pray to God that you do not live to see her.”

“Why is that?” she asked.

“Because, of the many enemies you have managed to incur in your pathetically short life, I am the nicer of the two of us. Pray that you never meet her.”

She lunged for him, straining against the bars. He fell back on the floor, the candle falling away. The monk cursed and picked it up before it could catch on any of the dirt or rushes on the floor. He cleared his throat. “Yes, well. Goodbye.”

With his nose in the air, he left, carrying the light with him. They were left in the darkness, with naught but the sputtering torch on the side wall. The air instantly felt colder.

Bronwyn heard her father’s racking coughs as he trembled beneath the thin blanket. She wrapped her arms around him and they slept until morning. When they woke, their breaths formed white plumes of vapor in the chilly morning air.

It was a fine day to die.