Page 2 of Winter’s Poison (The Winter Murders #1)

B ronwyn balked in disbelief. The mushrooms. They’d been bad, after all. And after all the suspicion she’d raised. But she had bigger problems, as she eyed the unfriendly looks and weapons the guards carried. “Poison? You’re joking.”

“Bronwyn…” Papa started. To the guards, he said, “This must be some mistake. We are humble bakers, not killers.”

“Your rolls killed someone,” a guard said.

Bronwyn’s mouth dropped open and she tugged on her thick, blonde braid. “Somebody died?”

“Yes. You have to come with us,” one of the guards said, hefting a spear in his hands.

“Papa?” she asked.

“Let’s go with them,” he said.

Surrounded by stern-faced guards, they returned to the castle gates.

“You said it was poison,” Bronwyn said. “Was it mushrooms?”

The guards exchanged a look. “The king has questions for you.”

They marched Bronwyn and her father through the gate and into the courtyard, around the tradesmen’s entrance, where they bypassed the main building and left the cart outside. They escorted the father and daughter through the buildings past more guards and some very well-dressed people into an antechamber, where her father drew a quick breath.

“Papa?” she asked.

“Just hold your tongue and stay by me,” he said. “Nothing will happen to you. And pay attention to what they say. Don’t just stand there with your head in the clouds.”

They were penned in on all sides by armed guards. The men wore serious expressions and chainmail over their tunics and leggings and carried swords or spears at their sides. They spoke not a word.

Bronwyn swallowed and kept walking. She did not want to be at the end of those spears.

They were escorted into a chamber that gave the impression of grandeur. The room was richly decorated in wide tapestries that spanned twelve feet or more, proudly hanging on wooden walls with deep inset paneling. To her surprise, the room was largely empty, except for a handful of guards at the entrance, who announced them, a pair at their flank, and then a small number of people at the other end of the room.

It wasn’t her first time looking upon a king, but it was her first-ever royal audience, and at spearpoint. When he had returned to Lincoln with his forces, King Stephen had ridden through the streets and once he’d retaken the castle, he had paraded through and even waved at the crowds. Bronwyn had seen him and the queen from a distance, as the streets had been packed with people. This was her first time seeing them up close. Now standing just feet away from them, she felt special, just being in their presence. But now she felt terrified—and lightheaded, as if she might faint. Would he kill her over some mushrooms? She trembled and realized she was literally shaking in her shoes. She put a hand to her thigh to stop shaking and bit her lip to distract herself.

King Stephen was older than she’d imagined. He was middle-aged, somewhere between mid-forties and fifty years, and had sharply-cut blond hair that curled above his shoulders. He wore a richly woven tunic of red over dark leggings, tied by a golden belt that caught the candlelight, and a heavy golden chain around his shoulders that hung to his chest. His skin was tanned and his eyes were kind, but his expression was serious. He had a look about him that suggested in other circumstances, he might have been friendly, but not tonight. A big man with a small crown on his head, he filled out a wooden throne with a tired demeanor as he surveyed Bronwyn and her father.

Beside him sat his lady, whom she guessed to be Queen Matilda. She was a pretty woman in her mid-thirties, with her dark hair parted at the center and hanging in two long braids interwoven with ribbons, whilst the rest of her hair was covered by a veil and a small headdress. She wore a pink dress of fine material, golden necklaces about her neck, and a thin, golden belt that pinned back her small waist. Her expression too was soft and kind, but as her gaze flicked to Bronwyn, she could sense a strength in her dainty form, and a quiet fury if provoked.

Behind them stood two armed guards who watched, and a youngish man dressed in a monk’s habit and a tonsure, the telltale bald spot on his head. A wooden cross that had a piece of shined glass at its center that caught the light hung from his neck. Tall, thin, and lanky, he surveyed Bronwyn with suspicion, beside a heavyset man armed with a sword sheathed at his waist. There was no doubting these other people’s expressions. Standing before them was also Odo, the cook, who glared at her.

“So you are the bakers,” the queen’s light, polite voice said with a heavy French accent.

“Yes, Your Grace,” her father said. “I am Alan Blakenhale and this is my daughter, Bronwyn.”

She met their eyes, then glanced back down at the floor.

“Do you know who I am?” the man on the throne asked.

“You are King Stephen, and that is your lady wife, Queen Matilda.” Bronwyn eyed her delicate shoes.

“Yes,” the king said. “We are joined by the good Brother Bartholomew and the head of my guard, Sir Nicholas de Aldenham. I believe you already met Master Odo. Young lady, mind you tell us what happened tonight.”

Bronwyn relayed the story of how de Grecy had ordered the rolls and how she’d seen someone messing with them until the scream, then ending her tale by pointing out Godfrey had eaten a roll himself and dismissed her.

King Stephen said, “And Godfrey is now very ill. Brother Bartholomew examined him and says it appears the man was poisoned by deadly mushrooms, and it will be a miracle if the cook survives the night.”

Bronwyn breathed in noisily. So it was poison. Just as she’d feared.

King Stephen asked, “And you, Master Odo. Did you see Roger?”

“No, Your Grace. But he is in the kitchen sometimes and we know him well.”

The king raised an eyebrow. “But you didn’t see him. And apparently, he ran away, rather than stay in the kitchen. Why would he run?”

“I do not know, Your Grace.”

“You say he is a squire. Who is his master? Let us call them both here, at once.”

Sir Nicholas spoke up. Bronwyn recognized him as the senior man-at-arms who’d ordered the guards around earlier. “Your Grace, the boy’s master is Sir Bors.”

“Bring him here.”

In moments, a large man came in. He was a noble, that much was clear. He wore a knight’s tunic with bold colors over hose and sensible boots, and he stood tall with broad shoulders. His voice held a deep, bass timbre. “Where is the boy? Have you found him?”

Bronwyn imagined if he chose to raise his voice, it could clear forests. Birds would fly out from the trees and the very ground would tremble.

“No, we thought you would know,” King Stephen said. “It’s thought he was in the kitchen tonight. We have reason to think he was behind the mushrooms on the rolls, which we have now determined were poisoned. What was he doing there?”

Sir Bors’s eyes grew wide. “I do not know, Your Grace. The boy has been missing since this afternoon. He wasn’t around to serve me dinner and I thought you’d found him drunk or whoring somewhere. You don’t think he’s behind this?”

King Stephen steepled his hands.

“I don’t know where the boy is, but he wouldn’t poison anyone. Neither of us would. I wouldn’t. We’re both loyal, Your Grace.” Sir Bors tugged his tunic down from his throat.

“A poisoner would say that,” Brother Bartholomew pointed out.

Sir Bors shot the monk a dirty look. “And where were you when all this happened, eh? Off kissing the feet of some nobleman?” He looked at King Stephen and swallowed. “I swear I’m no traitor, Your Grace. Honest. And I don’t know where the boy is. But when he gets back, I’ll wallop him into next Sunday.”

“Please, Sir Bors.” The king raised a hand. “It appears that either young Roger has disappeared, the girl is making up tales, or someone else was in your kitchen, Master Odo.”

Bronwyn was about to defend herself but Sir Nicholas cut her off.

“Hush, girl. Do not speak until you are spoken to,” he admonished.

The queen sniffed with derision.

“This is nonsense,” Brother Bartholomew said, his upper lip curled back in a sneer. “The girl is clearly lying. She’s probably a traitor, paid to kill you, Your Grace. Perhaps you both. Or even the entire household.”

“And what reason would I have to do that? I don’t know any of you.” That earned Bronwyn some surprised looks. “Besides, we only made these rolls because de Grecy ordered them. Where is he? He can tell you the same thing.”

“De Grecy is dead. Your rolls killed him,” Brother Bartholomew said.

“What?” Bronwyn’s eyes widened. Her mouth hung open.

“He ate one of the mushroom rolls and became ill,” Sir Nicholas informed her.

Odo frowned and scratched his double chin. “I don’t understand it. I never saw anyone. This girl came in and started causing a fuss. Godfrey tried the mushrooms and said they were delicious—”

“You let the rolls come out of the kitchen, knowing they were tampered with?” Sir Nicholas asked.

“No, of course not,” Odo said. “But none of us saw anyone and we thought if anyone had messed about, it was just Roger, acting on orders from his lord to prepare his food.”

The king and Sir Nicholas exchanged glances.

“But we know those rolls were ordered by de Grecy, so why would Sir Bors have asked his squire to touch them?” Sir Nicholas asked.

Odo’s face turned red. “I don’t know. It was just a thought, as we’ve seen some squires like Roger in the kitchen before.”

“Then I was right. Whoever was wearing the green hood poisoned the rolls. Be it Roger, or someone else. I knew something was wrong about him.” Bronwyn looked at King Stephen and Queen Matilda. “I’m sorry, I should have tried harder to make sure the rolls weren’t taken out. I knew something was wrong and I did try to say—”

King Stephen held up a hand, his expression tired. “Enough. It is too late for apologies. A man is dead, and my head cook is sick. Guards, send out a search for Roger.”

Sir Nicholas said, “You Grace, I can speak for the boy. He would not have done anything to hurt his king and queen. He is a good and loyal servant to the Crown.”

Sir Bors gave a loud, “Aye!” but quieted at a stern look from the king.

King Stephen surveyed Sir Nicholas with a level gaze, then fixed his sight on the cook. “Master Odo. You understand the gravity of this situation we find ourselves in. You feed us, you prepare our food, and yet a man has died at my table. Your master is sick. If he lives, he will face punishment for this crime. But you, how can I trust anything you say, or safely eat the food you place before us? If you did not see anyone, then that is negligence, and if you did see someone but chose not to interfere, then that is an act against the Crown. Which is it? Are you a fool or a traitor?” King Stephen’s voice was so calm and measured, yet it held a hint of danger about it. He sounded so reasonable, he might have been asking for a cup of wine.

Odo shook. For such a large man as he was, his voice was barely audible. “I couldn’t say, Your Grace. But I am no traitor.”

The king’s expression darkened, and his gaze pinned Odo to the spot where he stood. “Leave us. Pray that Master Godfrey recovers.”

Odo bowed his head gravely. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Excuse me,” Bronwyn said. “But that’s not fair.” She bit her lip and thought furiously, He’s the head cook now—shouldn’t he be to blame for letting rolls out that were poisoned? She’d tried to stop them going out and no one would listen. And he’d admitted to not having a proper watch over the food that leaves the kitchen. But even to her ears, the protest sounded whiny.

The king glanced at her. His voice held a note of warning. “It is our decision.”

The king stroked his beard. “Now that leaves us with a problem. Thanks to this unfortunate incident, I am now down a man, and a cook.”

“I agree with Brother Bartholomew, Your Grace,” Sir Nicholas said, eyeing Bronwyn and her father. “She’s likely a spy or a trained killer, sent here to infiltrate the castle and cause trouble. They likely both are, Your Grace.”

“I am not a spy,” Bronwyn said.

“Prove it.” His right hand edged toward his sword.

She swallowed. “How can I? I—”

Bronwyn’s father put a hand on the back of her neck. It was a power move, and one meant to stopper her tongue. It worked.

He said, “Forgive us, Your Graces, but we are but simple bakers. The only thing Bronwyn is trained to do is bake pies. I should have checked the rolls before they went from the kitchen, and that is my fault. My daughter should not be blamed. If you wish to punish someone for this, punish me.”

“No,” Bronwyn said, her thick, blonde braid whipping around her shoulder and striking her chin. “No. You did nothing. This wasn’t our fault. Someone messed about with our rolls.”

Queen Matilda surveyed her thoughtfully, a dainty index finger tapping her lips. Her golden ring winked in the light. “My love, I wonder. Perhaps we might make use of them.”

“My lady?” King Stephen asked.

“As you say, my lord, you are down a knight in your court and a cook. We could punish this baker and his daughter—”

“The good lady speaks sense,” Sir Nicholas rumbled.

Queen Matilda frowned at the interruption. “But I think it would be better if we were to use them. I too, tasted one of the rolls, but mine had no mushrooms. I think the girl was clever to notice something amiss and meant to stop it but was overlooked. If the cooking staff did not see anything, that is inexcusable alone, but for her to notice a man interfering with the food to go to our table, and yet be ignored?” She shook her head. “We cannot dismiss these mistakes. Master Godfrey will account for this. One man has already died. Who’s to say what could have happened if we had not thrown the rolls away?”

The men nodded.

Queen Matilda said in a sweet, kind voice, “I did not fall ill, and I found the roll to be delicious. I should like more. I would not wish to ruin this good baker’s livelihood over such a matter, especially when he had no part in it. I would suggest we put the girl to work in our kitchens.”

“But…” Odo started.

“She is smart and has a good heart,” the queen said.

Bronwyn felt a wave of warmth come over her. A queen had just complimented her. Wait until she told her stepmother and Wyot.

Queen Matilda added, “She is honest, I think. I believe she meant no harm. Let us have her work in the kitchens for a time. We will need the help until we can find a new cook. Say until the feast of Purification of St. Mary? By then, I trust we will no longer need her services.”

“But what if she is the poisoner?” Sir Nicholas asked. “That would allow her to attempt to poison again.”

“Not under Master Odo’s watchful eye, I am sure.” Queen Matilda eyed Bronwyn.

“No, Your Grace, I mean, yes. I mean…” Odo stammered.

“She will work in your kitchens as Master Godfrey regains his strength. I trust you can step into his shoes in the meantime, Master Odo.”

Odo blinked and stood up taller. “Yes, Your Grace.”

The queen waved him away. He ducked his head lower and hurried as fast as his squat legs could carry him.

“You speak wisely, my dear. That is a good decision.” King Stephen looked at Bronwyn’s father. “You will agree to this?”

As if there were any question. “Yes, Your Grace.” Her father bowed his head, showing the beginning of a balding pate, but his hands were stiff against his tunic and leggings.

“Very good,” King Stephen said. “That is all.”

Bronwyn looked up at Queen Matilda, daring to meet her gaze.

“One more thing,” Queen Matilda said, giving them a level look. She clasped her hands, almost as if in prayer. “We cannot allow this crime to go unpunished. Until we determine who it was who interfered with the bread rolls and killed de Grecy, we must hold someone accountable.”

“Take the father,” King Stephen ordered.

“No,” Bronwyn breathed.

“Bronwyn,” her father said, grasping her hand.

“Take him away,” King Stephen said.

“Why?” Bronwyn said. “He’s done nothing wrong. Take me instead.”

“Don’t be daft, Bronwyn,” her father said.

“We are not in the habit of imprisoning young women. We will take your father,” Queen Matilda said.

Sir Nicholas addressed the king, “Your Grace, I respect your counsel. But what if she is the poisoner and tries to do it again?”

Queen Matilda frowned at him. “Then we will know it’s her, and they both will pay for their crimes against us.”

Seeing Bronwyn’s look of protest, King Stephen said, “We must act. Until we find Roger, we will hold the baker in our prison. We cannot overlook the chance that they were working together, with the rolls being the delivery method for their attempted murder plot. To do nothing would be a sign of weakness, and would invite others to play their hand. My hands are tied. Guards.”

Odo bowed low in apology.

Bronwyn hugged her father tightly as the guards tore them apart, their heavy gloved fingers digging into her arms and pulling her away. They gripped so hard, she knew she’d have bruises later but didn’t care.

Tears came to her eyes as her father was pinned by two guards, his hands pressed behind his back and tied together with a bit of rope. A spear was jabbed into his back, and he bit back a noise of pain.

“You don’t have to do that! He won’t run away,” Bronwyn said hotly.

One of the guards glared at her, but King Stephen bid them away with a hand.

Bronwyn watched, mute with anger as the guards marched her father away, her hands clenched into fists. She looked at the king and queen, her eyes wet and blazing. A tear rolled down her cheek, but she refused to acknowledge it.

King Stephen’s hand stiffened and curled over the armrests of his wooden throne, his eyes darting around the room. He looked to be seeing would-be killers in every corner. Meanwhile, Queen Matilda looked at her with interest. “Such spirit. Would that you were a man, I would make you a squire.”

Bronwyn met her gaze, no longer caring if she were to be dismissed or struck dead. Her father was gone. Her family’s livelihood was threatened, all in the space of an evening. What more could go wrong?

“I shall look forward to more of those rolls, girl,” Queen Matilda said.

King Stephen clapped and the guards led Bronwyn away.

Once she stood outside the castle walls and the gate, she wheeled the empty cart away without a word, relieved at the harsh, cold air that chilled her face. Not until she stood back in the shop did her fierce courage disappear.

“What’s taken you both so long? I expected you back ages ago,” her stepmother said as Bronwyn walked in the door. “Why the long face? Where’s your father gone?”

She began to cry. Her stepmother took Bronwyn in her arms, patting her back. “What’s happened? Where’s your father?”

Bronwyn told her the whole story.

Margaret collapsed in the nearest chair. “Alan’s gone?” It took her a moment. “What were you thinking?”

“I…”

“Are you out of your senses? Involving yourself in castle business? And now someone is dead.” She let out a sound of disgust and shook her head. “You’ve landed us in hot water now, Bronwyn. I’ve lost your father, and you are to work in the castle kitchens for the month.” She frowned.

“I’m so sorry, Mama. It’s all my fault.”

She crossed her arms beneath her chest. “This is madness. Poison? And now you’re to work in the castle?” She drummed her fingers on the worktable beside her. “I’ve got half a mind to speak to this Queen Matilda myself and make her see sense.”

“Don’t, Mama.” The last thing Bronwyn wanted was for her to march up the hill and curse at the guards and king and queen. They all might end up in the castle dungeons together.

“Those cooks should have recognized the mushrooms as poisonous at once. My parents taught me when I was a child how to tell the safe mushrooms from the poisonous ones.” Margaret’s expression was stern. “I know your father must have taught you about mushrooms before.”

Margaret clucked her tongue. “In any case, this isn’t your fault. Your father should never have taken on that last-minute request from that nobleman. Thank the lord he paid first. You should have dropped off the rolls at the kitchen and returned home with your father. Then, none of this mess would be our problem. But it is what it is.” She sniffed. “And those cooks shouldn’t have ignored you when you pointed out the mysterious man. We would never sell food that wasn’t prepared by us, and I don’t see why the castle’s cooks would let any food like that go out to the king and queen. And that queen, blaming your father for something that wasn’t his doing. It’s not right. Not right at all.” Margaret wiped away a tear. “Your father in prison. What are we going to do?”

She didn’t speak another word to Bronwyn that night.

The next day on her way to the castle, Bronwyn bumped into another apprentice baker, Alfred. They’d known each other since they’d been children, when he’d steal apples out of an orchard and share them with her, and she’d hidden the extras in her skirts.

He stood taller than Bronwyn and was older by two to three years. He had sandy hair that fell into his eyes and light-blue eyes. He’d changed from the scrawny boy who used to pull her braids. Now he was strong and his arms, used to long hours of baking, were muscular and filled out his sleeves. His mouth quirked in a smile when he saw her. “Bronwyn. Is it true? Your father tried to poison someone at the palace?”

“No.” Her mouth instantly pulled into a frown.

His smile grew wider. “So you’re not trying to kill the king and queen?”

“No.”

He jabbed her side with his elbow. “Don’t pretend like you didn’t want to. Half the city is happy they’re here, and the other half wish the French wench were in power. Your pa never liked politics, but that doesn’t matter a whit when you’re stuck in the middle of it. What happened?”

She told him the story and he whistled. “You’re deep in the muck now, eh?”

Bronwyn glared at him and started walking.

He put a hand on her arm, stopping her. “Hey, wait. Don’t go. I was only teasing. I know your family would never. And don’t worry. The time’ll pass soon. I sometimes deliver bread and rolls to the palace, so I’ll see you sometimes.”

She brightened. At least there would be one friendly face there. “I’m nervous,” she admitted.

“Why?”

“What if I don’t know how to bake anything and they hate me?”

He laughed. “A person used your rolls to poison someone and you’re worried about not baking well enough? Of course that’s what you’d think about.”

“I’d better go.” Bronwyn left him with a wave and went on to the palace, where a new pair of guards demanded to know her name and what she was doing there. Once in the kitchens, Odo gave her orders.

It was clear that everyone in the kitchens knew her father was in prison for allegedly conspiring with a poisoner. From the darting, little looks and suspicious glances she received, Bronwyn knew she was persona non grata, meaning that she had no friends, and no one really to talk to.

Godfrey, for all of his bravado in swallowing a bite of the mushroom loaf, had fallen ill and was at death’s door. One bite had been enough to knock a man of his stature off his feet. From the cooks prepping dough to the boys polishing cups, everyone treated her with suspicion. Some likely believed she was in cahoots with the alleged poisoner, and some wondered if she was trying to get the squire Roger in trouble. Either way, she was unpopular.

Her status became clear to her that morning, when she spotted a sauce bubbling over and went to take it off the heat and give it a stir. But as she reached for it, an older cook brushed her aside. “I’ll get that.”

“But I—” she started.

“It’s fine. I’ve got it.” His voice was pointed, sharp and unfriendly.

Bronwyn stood back as he attended to the sauce, feeling useless.

“But I can help. I was just trying to—”

“I said, I’ve got it . What are you going to do, accuse me of poisoning the sauce?” The cook’s dark eyes were hard. “You’ve made a lot of fuss. How do we know you’re not going to try and poison us all, eh?”

Her jaw dropped open. She wished she could think of a smart retort, but nothing came to mind. Her mind was blank. She stood by, her mouth fixed in a frown.

She soon realized that the people there either didn’t believe she wouldn’t try to poison them all or they didn’t think she knew her way around a kitchen and therefore, she couldn’t be trusted with any but the smallest of tasks.

For Bronwyn, that meant pot scrubbing. She’d never liked scrubbing pots or lugging buckets of water from the well but wasn’t one to complain. Not now.

When she got home that day, her stepmother’s initial kindness and patience had dried up. After a day of hard work, without her husband to lean on and share the load, Margaret was tired, sweaty and cross. Up before dawn and working past dusk, Margaret had dashed around trying to make breads and fulfill orders, as well as take payment and send Wyot out to deliver breads. In the next few days that passed, Bronwyn found her, more often than not, either dead on her feet and stumbling around or asleep in her chair at the dinner table, with a cold plate of pottage waiting for her for when Bronwyn returned home. Her father’s presence was sorely missed.

Bronwyn ran into Alfred again one morning and grumbled when he pinched her elbow instead of saying hello . She aimed a kick at him and he dodged, laughing.

“What?” she demanded.

“Stop with the scowling.”

“How can I when Papa is in prison? He could die. And Mama’s so tired, she’s barely awake long enough to talk to me.”

His expression softened. “I know. She’s trying to carry on the business herself, but it’s too much for any one person alone. And she’s worried about your pa.” He gave her a warm smile. “I was hoping I’d bump into you today. I wanted to tell you. I’ve talked about it with Master Johann and it’s fine for me to help out your family in the bakery while your pa’s in prison.”

Her sour expression disappeared. “You will? But how? You’re a journeyman elsewhere so…”

He shrugged. “Master Johann’s taken on another apprentice and that means too many of us working for him. He never was one to turn down money. Anyway, he’s got two apprentices and another about to be made journeyman. He doesn’t need me. I talked to him this morning and he can spare me.”

“Oh, Alfred, that would be wonderful. Thank you.” Bronwyn touched his arm.

He brightened. “No problem.”

That evening, she found her stepmother in good spirits, having accepted Alfred’s kind offer. “We’re saved, no thanks to you,” Margaret said with an even look and a yawn. “I always knew that boy was a good soul. Very Christian of him, to help out when we’re in need.”

Bronwyn said nothing. She didn’t want to rile her further.

Margaret glared at her. “Here you are living it up at the castle, and I’m so busy I don’t even have time to visit your father. Clean the bakery.” She handed Bronwyn a broom.

“I’ve been visiting him every day. I’m bringing him food.” It was true. The second day at the castle she’d started visiting him instead of attending church services. Her disappearance had so far gone unnoticed, she hoped.

“Well, it’s not very good, is it? He shouldn’t have to be relying on you for food at all, but then we’ve got you to thank, don’t we? If you had just delivered the rolls and returned home, rather than mixing with those castle folk, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Seeing Bronwyn’s look of protest, she said, “I know. It’s not your fault what happened. But it’s the devil’s own luck that you got mixed up in all this. Bronwyn Sibyl Blakenhale…” Margaret used her full name, a sure sign of her anger. “I’ve been working and baking non-stop, and poor Wyot has been working at all hours. There’s not enough of us to manage the shop and sell at the market, and…” Her chin gave a tremble. “It’s just hard without your father. He did so much. We need help, especially now with winter upon us. The business doesn’t stop just because your father is in prison.”

Bronwyn stood there mutely, broom in hand. She couldn’t rebut what Margaret had said.

“I just thank the Lord that young Alfred has come to help. He’s doing that out of the goodness of heart, and Christian charity, mark my words.” Margaret walked away, over to the stepladder, where she slowly climbed up to the upper floor, where the family slept. A day passed, then two. Bronwyn soon fell into a pattern: each morning, she would rise and take breakfast with Margaret and Wyot, then work in the castle kitchens, scrubbing, delivering platters of food or drink, washing, turning the spit, whatever was needed. She became no better than a dogsbody but didn’t care. After a midday meal, some of the people went to Mass, but she slipped away down to the castle dungeons, where she gave the guard a bit of bread or a coin and went to see her father.

He looked dirty and despondent. He was a sorry sight, but she made sure to keep him fed and tell him the news of her working in the kitchens and how Margaret and Wyot were doing. For an hour each day, instead of attending Mass, she would tell him stories and try to amuse him. He seemed to like her visits, but when the church bells rang she knew it was time to return.

Each day at the end, he asked if she’d learnt anything about the poisoner, but she had nothing to tell. She’d learnt nothing. She would occasionally ask in the kitchen about Roger, but as soon as she mentioned his name, the cooks’ eyes turned shifty and they refused to speak about it.

A feeling of dread came over her as she bid her father goodbye and clasped his hand through the iron bars of his cell. His hand was cold, and it chilled her. She had to do something.

On the third day, she was summoned. A page came to her, a boy of no older than eleven, and barely as high as her chest. He had short, blond hair cropped close to his head. “You are Miss Bronwyn?” he asked in a high-pitched voice.

“Yes,” she said, scrubbing the inside of a pot, her hands wet.

“My lady wants to see you.”

“If it’s about the bread, she can ask the cook. Odo is just there.” Bronwyn pointed.

“It’s you she wants.”

“What for?”

“She wants a white roll. With honey. She said you’d make it for her.”

Bronwyn tensed. “Your lady is…”

“The queen,” he said proudly. “You coming?”

She looked around the kitchen. “It’s going to take time.”

She didn’t tell him she’d never made a white roll before. She didn’t know how her father did it. She’d only watched him a few times, which wasn’t the same as doing it herself.

The boy disappeared and she asked Odo, “How do I make a white roll?”

“You don’t know this?”

“My father always did it.”

“Ask him. I’m not telling you our secrets.” The man turned his back on her.

Anger and indignation warred within her. She’d worked steadily in this man’s kitchen for the past week and no one had died. He wouldn’t even help her now?

She ran to the dungeons, her thin shoes slapping the stone and wooden floors, not stopping until she’d dashed past the guard, who looked half-asleep, and hurried to her father.

“Bronwyn, what’s wrong?” He stood at the front of the cell in an instant.

“Tell me how to make the white rolls. The queen wants them.”

He blinked at her. “Will none of the cooks do it?”

“She’s tasked me with it and they won’t help me. Please,” Bronwyn urged him.

His face set in a frown, he told her how, with strict instructions. Once he was confident she’d memorized those, he bid her run. It would take time to make and she’d wasted enough precious moments already.

Bronwyn returned to the kitchens, out of breath, and put aside the clean pot she’d been scrubbing.

“Oi, what are you doing?” one of the boys asked.

“Working. The queen wants a roll.”

“So what? Give her one of those.” He nodded to the growing pile over on one of the worktables.

“She wants a white roll with honey. A special one,” she said, clearing a bit of workspace and starting to sift white flour.

He crossed his arms. “Not like the one that killed that man…”

“Yes. But without poison.”

He stood in her way.

Bronwyn squared up to him, her blonde braid flashing angrily as a horse’s tail. “The queen has asked for it. Are you going to tell her you stopped me when I was following her orders?”

His expression faltered, and he stepped back, glowering. “It’s above your station.”

“You think I don’t know that?” She moved around him and set to work hastily, trying to remember her father’s instructions. “Either help me or move. Just think, if she doesn’t like it, she’ll blame me, anyway, and throw me in the dungeons. So either way, it’s no problem of yours.” She spoke through gritted teeth and began scattering flour on the worktable.

Bronwyn could feel him watching but didn’t care—she was just angry. Angrier than she’d been in a long time. It was as if rage had quietly burned inside her, hotter than any furnace, and the cook’s snide refusal to help her had simply struck the tinder and set it alight. She mixed the dough, sifted and mixed again, then prepared it just like her father had instructed, adding in honey to make it sweet.

Other cooks watched, but once they’d heard who it was for, they kept their distance.

As she was just making a small number, it took less time than she’d expected. She made four, just in case one was wrong, and prepared a plate for them. In the meantime, she tidied up her workspace, wiped the worktable clean, and returned to scrubbing pots, keeping an eye on her rolls.

It was just as well, for Odo appeared at her shoulder as she removed them from the oven with a wooden peel and dumped them on a serving plate. He took the least attractive one and helped himself, biting into the soft, hot roll, hefting it from burly hand to burly hand. “Ha!” he said.

“What?” Bronwyn set aside the peel and looked at him, hands on her hips.

“Not bad. Not as good as what we would make, but not terrible. They may go.” He waved his hand grandly.

The pageboy stood waiting. Bronwyn took the rolls and followed him up into the castle keep, through corridors, and into rooms, with more than one servant, courtier, and person watching and sniffing the air with interest as they walked past.

“Keep up and don’t stop to talk to anyone,” he said. “Otherwise, they’ll nick your rolls and she’ll get mad.”

Bronwyn followed him to a private apartment, decorated richly with tapestries and intricately carved wooden furniture. Queen Matilda sat reading and lowered her book. “Thank you.”

She watched as Bronwyn set the platter on a side table near her. The queen took up the roll, biting into it.

“Delicious. Thank you, Samuel. That will be all.” She put the roll aside as he left. “Now. You can be at no loss to understand why I called you here.”

Bronwyn shook her head.

“It might surprise you to know that I have since learnt a bit about you, Miss Blakenhale. No doubt you wish to prove your father’s innocence, yes?”

Bronwyn nodded.

“I thought as much. I have also heard that when the good Mistress de la Haye fainted, you went to her side and were loath to leave her. That you had the good sense to try to wake her with… Is it true you tried to waken her from a faint with a fish?”

Bronwyn blushed. “I’ve seen ladies faint before, my lady. I thought that if she were near something smelly, it would awaken her senses. I did ask for a spice or a fish, something strong-smelling. It did work.”

The queen smiled. “As I thought. You have a quick mind. I have been thinking over this, and I have made enquiries but have gotten nowhere. The boy in question is still nowhere to be found. So I have a little task for you. I understand that you tried to stop the rolls being sent out and were ignored. Perhaps we might make use of that. I want you to look into this matter and find out who the poisoner is. We do not know who poisoned those rolls, or if it was this missing squire the cooks speak of, but it is not enough that we have imprisoned your father for this. We need to find who did it and stop them before they try again. I have no doubt that whoever it was aimed to kill my husband or myself.”

Bronwyn breathed in. Would she be imprisoned too?

“It is why I wanted you to start work in the kitchens. You can keep an eye on what goes out, as no doubt Master Odo will, and meanwhile, you can start looking into this. I also wish for you to learn more about the dead man, de Grecy. You should know he joined our court only recently, having turned from that woman ’s camp. He was keen to show support for my husband, but I wonder why would someone use his rolls to attempt to kill us? They would know that if we survived, his life would be forfeit.” She looked at Bronwyn. “Find out. Next time I ask for a white roll from you, I want information with it.”

Bronwyn nodded.

“Go.”

Bronwyn found her way back to the kitchens, but not before being accosted by Sir Nicholas, who stood before her. “What are you doing out of the kitchens, young lady?” His breath stank like sour wine.

“I was delivering rolls to the queen,” Bronwyn said.

“Why you and not a page? Are you looking to get close to her?”

“No,” Bronwyn said hotly, realizing all too late that a mere slip of the tongue might land her in trouble. “The page led me to her, then she sent him away.”

His burly eyebrows knit into a frown. “It’s not wise to have a disobedient tongue in this place. Why were you really there?”

“She called for me.”

Servants scurried past like squirrels, but a few saw Sir Nicholas questioning her and whispered amongst themselves. At a glare from Sir Nicholas, they scattered, shooting little looks behind them as they left, no doubt memorizing what they had seen.

He looked down his nose at her. “Do you know what I do, girl?”

Aside from getting in her way, no. Bronwyn wanted to remind him of her name, but something also told her it might be wise to be forgettable. “No.”

“I am the head of Their Graces’ personal guard. That means I have a care for their personal safety. Why would the queen ask for you when she could have a page deliver rolls?”

She looked up at him. She didn’t know if he could be trusted.

“That is between me and her,” Bronwyn said.

This reply evidently annoyed him further. His cheeks turned pink and puffed up as he said, “May I remind you, I can make life difficult for you here. I have seen you visit the dungeons.”

She tensed.

“Your father. I could make sure the guards don’t allow you to see him.”

She frowned up at him. “What do you want?”

“Information. What is it the queen bid you? Why you?”

“She has a hold over me.” As you well know , she thought.

“Would that all girls were so devoted to their fathers. What did she ask you?”

Bronwyn gritted her teeth. “She bid me find out who the poisoner is. All I saw was he wore a green hood and had black hair.”

He snorted. “A young woman with no training, no knowledge of the outside world aside from her own kitchen. And tell me, Mistress Baker, will you take on this little quest?”

Her temper rose. “I have no choice. I have to. For my papa’s sake.”

“Yes, I suppose you do.” He stroked his bristly, dark beard. “Very well. I shall help you.”

She blinked. “You? But why? The queen said she made enquiries already.”

“Well, she was not thorough enough. She should have come to me first. There is no need for her to ask you. Especially since without me, your search will get nowhere. And this reflects upon both of us. That the queen asked you, a mere baker’s daughter, to find a poisoner is laughable.”

She met his frown head on—then realized he was jealous. And worried for his position. This poisoning had happened under his roof, his remit. He must have feared for his head.

She nodded. “I think she asked me to look into it because I’m a member of the kitchen staff, and so I might speak with people who would be intimidated by you.” She thought to herself, There, that was diplomatic.

He blew out his moustache and loomed over her. “I’m not intimidating.”

Her eyebrows rose, and she began to smile. After she’d fully grinned, they shared a laugh. “She has told me a bit about de Grecy, and said I should start there. But I don’t know anything about him. She’s given me till the feast of Purification of St. Mary and then if the poisoner isn’t found by then…”

“Then your father’s life will be forfeit,” he finished grimly.

She froze. “They would kill him? But he’s innocent. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Doesn’t matter. They need to show strength, not indecision. And punish the cooks for letting this happen right under their noses. If they were to let every man who only allegedly committed a crime go, the streets would be rife with criminals. That is why you need my help—so that he is proven innocent.”

Bronwyn’s shoulders slumped and she leaned against the wall, wary of the richly hanging tapestry that hung above. To be around such grandeur, and to feel her father’s life at stake, was horrible. She blinked back tears.

“Shake with me, girl, and we’ll call it a deal.” Sir Nicholas held out his hand. She clasped his arm, with him gripping her arm for longer than necessary.

“Looking for weapons?” she asked.

“Old habit. Can’t imagine a baker’s daughter would carry a knife, but you never know.” The left corner of his mouth almost crinkled into a smile.

Bronwyn returned to the kitchens. Odo berated her for taking her time, but she shrugged and returned to scrubbing pots as if she’d never left.

Her mind wandered as she thought madly about de Grecy. Who was he? Why had he defected from Empress Maud’s camp, and why had he thrown his lot in with King Stephen instead? Had he been a poisoner or a victim? Would he have knowingly plotted to have the rolls poisoned and meant to take a plain one for himself? And if de Grecy had just joined the court, why would he go to such lengths to kill the king and queen? Unless this had been a plot all along to worm his way into their good graces and be above suspicion.

If he was innocent, why would someone be willing to kill him in an attempt to get to the king and queen?

At the mid-afternoon meal with the cooks and pages, she gratefully sat at the end of a long, wooden table and joined in as they passed around trenchers of meat, bread, and pottage. She shared a hard, stale bread trencher with one of the potboys at the low end of the table, reserved for the lowest of the staff. The boy informed her his name was Abel, and together, they made short work of the bread and meat drippings on offer.

Bronwyn looked up to find some of the cooks eyeing her. Whilst there were some women amongst the servants, there weren’t too many girls in the kitchen, and she listened to the conversation.

“What do you make of this death? De Grecy?” one of the journeyman cooks asked Odo.

“Dunno.” The man glanced at Bronwyn and chewed his meat.

“He was a traitor, wasn’t it? He was one of Maud’s men,” the journeyman said.

“So what if he was? He’s dead now and that’s all that matters.” Odo set his drink down with enough force that it slopped over the sides of the cup. “Don’t see what business it is of yours to be digging this up.”

“I agree,” another cook said. “The man is dead. Let’s forget about it.”

“Isn’t it odd? The man comes here from Empress Maud’s court and then later he’s dead? Doesn’t that seem strange to you?” the young man asked.

“The only thing that seems strange is you asking so many questions. Now finish your food, unless you’re keen to get back to that lord of yours,” Odo said, shooting the youth a look.

The young man tucked into his food and Bronwyn got a closer look at him. It was Rupert, the squire of one of the knights in Stephen’s court. She’d been so busy eating that she’d been oblivious to the familiar voice, and to whom it belonged.

Conversation switched topics, and it wasn’t until she’d finished her meal and begun stacking the used trenchers that she sensed a presence at her side. The scent of horse, hay, and sweat hit her nose.

“Rupert,” Bronwyn said.

“Mistress,” he said, giving her a courtly bow. He grinned as if pleased with himself, and she looked away haughtily. She felt like a joke in front of the boys.

“Is she your lady?” one of the potboys asked.

Bronwyn cursed, flinging suds at the boy. He grinned and dashed away.

“What do you want?” she asked. It was rude, but she felt heat on her cheeks, and the boys’ grins and smirks only added to this. Not to mention Rupert’s own smile. He looked very satisfied with himself.

“To ask you some questions.” He leaned against the worktable and got his sleeves wet, then stood, brushing at his damp elbows. “Can I walk you home tonight?”

She shrugged, tossing her blonde braid over her shoulder. “I don’t need an escort.”

“For your protection. The streets aren’t safe at night, especially for a young woman.”

That riled her further. As if she needed his protection to walk down the road.

But she thought on the matter and knew that Margaret would have something to say about her walking alone with a young man. But maybe that would get them talking again. Since Bronwyn’s father had been imprisoned, Margaret had been exhausted on her feet when Bronwyn came home, and even with Alfred’s help, she was usually tired and not open to conversation.

Rupert waited a bit. “Mistress…”

She glanced at him, her clearly mind elsewhere. “All right.”

He grinned. “I’ll call for you at Compline, after the nobles have their dinner.”

“Don’t you have to attend your lord?” she asked.

“Once he’s had his meal, he’ll settle down for a game of chess or a night by the fire. I won’t be gone long.” He gave her a confident smile.

“You’re so sure of yourself,” Bronwyn said.

“’Course I am. There’s no reason not to be.”

She rolled her eyes, earning a laugh from him.

“Till tonight, then, my lady,” he said, giving her a courtly bow.

She turned her back on him and scrubbed the pot harder, sinking her hands into the water. His laughter echoed behind him as he left.

That afternoon, she wandered up to Odo as he was preparing cuts of meat for the main table, watching until he handed her a knife and said, “Chop those carrots.”

She began chopping, staying silent as he barked orders and gave instructions for the platters to be brought out, when he asked her, “What do you want?”

She waited until they were mostly alone to respond. “The night that de Grecy died, you said it was Muriel de la Haye, the chatelaine of the castle, who fainted.”

“So? What do you care about her for?” he asked.

“I just wondered what made her faint.”

He shrugged. “Women faint.”

“She said she saw someone.”

“Aye, but the old woman’s telling tales. She’s getting on in years, isn’t she? She and Robert de la Haye, it’s no surprise after what happened.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked up at her. “Well, she and Robert are chatelains of the castle. You could say it was through their ineptitude that the empress’s men were able to come in here and overwhelm the forces. Either that, or some people think they welcomed Maud’s men in. So either they’re traitors or inept. And now she’s saying she’s seeing things. It’s no wonder no one believes her.”

Bronwyn cocked her head.

“William de Roumare is in the dungeon with your pa, girl. Did you not know?”

She blinked. “She thought she saw him?”

“Aye. But everyone knows he’s locked up tight under lock and key, along with the rest of the knights King Stephen captured.” He looked around the kitchen. “Enough talk. I’ve got enough to worry about without you stirring up trouble. Keep your questions to yourself. Oi, you! Pay attention to that sauce!” he shouted at a cook who had let a sauce burn.

That evening at Compline, Bronwyn found herself tarrying and finding reasons to wait after her main duties were done.

“You waiting for that squire of yours? Rupert?” one of the cooks asked.

“No,” she said, her face warm.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“’Course she is. He’s always popular with the girls, that one,” another said.

“He is?” she asked.

The older cook looked at her confidently, mischief in his eyes. “Yeah, he usually flirts with all the girls, then he moves on. Admit it. You’re waiting for him.”

“I am not,” she said hotly.

“Then why are you still here?” he asked.

“No reason.” But almost an hour later, there was still no sign of Rupert. She had no other reason to stay, so she got her thin coat and cap and left, shrugging into it and tying the strings up tight to keep warm.

After working all day in the warm kitchen, the icy cold was waiting. She stepped out into the castle courtyard and shivered. Her breath blew white, steaming clouds into the cold night, and she could see it clearly against the bright light of the moon. She hurried by the guards, muttered a goodnight, crossed through the gate and out onto the main street, her shoes sliding against the dark uneven cobblestones.

She trudged down Steep Hill, watching her steps, when a hand slipped over her mouth and pulled her backward. She slipped and flew back, her hands splaying out, then fell to the ground, crashing into someone. She backed into the person, their knee jamming against her rear. She yelled in pain, and the man jerked her coat around, choking her.