Page 3 of Winter’s Poison (The Winter Murders #1)

B ronwyn coughed and scrabbled, scraping her hands on the slick and dirty cobblestones as the person let out a foul expletive and tugged harder at her sheepskin coat, pulling her by the neck. “Do you want to die tonight?” A low voice growled in her ear. Steel flashed in the moonlight and she tensed. The scent of sour wine, meat, and refuse hit her nose. The tip of a small blade pricked her side.

“Asking questions, Miss Baker? Maybe you need a lesson in manners. Keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you.”

She squeaked, which made the person laugh. She froze completely, the wetness from the cobblestones soaking the bottom of her dress. Her hands felt numb and pain shot through them where she’d fallen to the ground. The man jerked her around to face him, but he was bathed in darkness, and she couldn’t see his face.

“L-Let me go,” Bronwyn said shakily.

The man laughed, spraying her face with spittle. He sliced the strings of her coat. The coat flew open and she emitted a meep , like a terrified mouse. He laughed again and she swallowed, her face dripping with his spit.

A male voice said, “Oi, back off.”

Bronwyn’s eyes widened as the man stiffened and lowered his blade.

“Take your hands off her,” the voice said.

The man shoved her away.

“One move and I’ll skewer you like a fish,” the new voice said. It sounded familiar.

Bronwyn scrabbled backward, scraping her hands further. Rocks and pebbles cut into her skin, but she didn’t care, she wanted to put as much space between her and these men as possible.

She got to her feet.

“Are you all right?” her rescuer asked. It was hard to see in the darkness.

“Yes.”

“Get out of here.”

She ran.

A light rain started to fall, misting against her face. She slid down the hill, skidding on the stones. Once at the bottom of the hill, she slipped and fell on her hands and knees, the damp biting into her dress. She got up, warm tears streaming down her face, when the echo of hurried footsteps hit her ears and a hand touched her back.

She shrieked and whirled around, when a voice said, “Halt! Mistress Baker, stop. It’s me.”

She stopped and stared. “Rupert?”

“It’s me.” He came toward her. “Are you all right?”

She stepped back, her shoes almost slipping again. “Stay back.”

“It’s me.” He held his hands up in the darkness. “I’m the one who scared off that man. Trust me. I know better than to attack a kitchen maid.”

He stepped closer.

“Stop there,” she said, “Don’t move.”

He stopped. She walked toward him, leaned in close, and sniffed. He smelled like horses and hay, but nothing like the sour wine and body odor of which her attacker had stunk.

“You’re smelling me?” he asked.

“I had to be sure.” Her shoulders slumped and she gave a little laugh that sounded almost hysterical. All the emotion rushed out of her. “Where were you? That man…”

Rupert took off his coat and put it around her shoulders, pulling it tight. He looked her in the eyes. “It’s all right. You’re safe now. You are unhurt?”

She let out a shaky breath. “I think so.”

Together, they walked, and he touched her elbow, helping her navigate the slippery stones. Misting rain came down, wetting their faces. “I was detained by my lord, who wanted me to lay out his clothes and deliver a message to a lady.”

She could hear the regret in his voice.

“By the time I got to the kitchens, you had gone, but the boys said I’d just missed you, so I ran after. Then I saw the man attack you and you fall. From there, it was easy to put my blade against the back of his neck.”

She stiffened. “You were prepared to kill him?”

He murmured into her ear, “I wasn’t joking when I said the streets weren’t safe.”

“But were you going to kill him?”

“He could have hurt you. I’m just grateful I found you and scared him off. What did he want?”

Could she trust him? “He…” She hesitated.

“Come off it, I know you’re looking into the poisoning. The pageboy who had you deliver the rolls to the queen is also a page to some of the ladies in court, and they pay him to tell them everything. He was listening outside the door when the queen spoke to you.”

Her eyes widened. “So then he heard.”

“Almost the entire court knows. One of the maids was gossiping about it and told her lord, and now it’s what everyone is talking about—the queen ordering a kitchen maid to solve a murder. It’s ridiculous.”

“Why is that? I’m smart.” She rounded on him.

“It’s not that. It’s that you’re a nobody, when everyone knows it should be Sir Nicholas who would investigate this sort of thing. You’re the daughter of a baker. There’s no sensible reason why you should be solving crimes instead of baking cakes and rolls.”

She kicked at a pebble, then her shoe almost slid out from under her. He grabbed her arm, steadying her. “Try to stay upright, at least until I see you home.” He laughed.

She yanked her arm free.

“Why are you angry?”

“No reason.”

“Tell me,” he said. “You’re annoyed you slipped, or that I helped you up? I was only teasing.”

“I’m angry I have poor shoes.”

“I’d be more bothered that you don’t have a sense of balance.” He held up a hand in defense. “All right, all right. I’ll stop teasing.”

Bronwyn mentally cursed her thin shoes. They were damp and her feet felt numb. She wouldn’t have been surprised if icicles had formed on her toes. They walked until they came across her family’s shop, the rain making the smell of bread and pastry dissipate in the night air.

It was then she caught a familiar face. “Bronwyn!”

“So that’s your name. Pretty,” he said.

“It’s like a boy’s name.”

“I like it.”

“I hate it.”

“It’s much prettier than Gertrude, or Griselda.”

She made a noise of frustration and stopped as a familiar face approached. “Alfred?”

“There you are. I was looking for you. We waited for you at dinner and when you didn’t come home… your ma is worried. Where have you been? I told her I would find you.” He stopped and glanced at Rupert as if seeing him for the first time. “Who is this?”

“Rupert Bothwell. Squire to Sir Baldwin of Clare,” Rupert said.

Alfred’s eyes traveled up the sight of him and was unimpressed. He ignored him and said, “Bronwyn, let’s get you home. Your mother and Wyot are worried sick.”

“You know this man, Bronwyn?” Rupert asked.

She nodded. “This is Alfred Dale, a journeyman. He’s helping out at the bakery whilst my papa is…”

She didn’t want to say it aloud. Almost as if speaking the truth in the night air would somehow make magic happen, and none of it good.

She shrugged out of Rupert’s coat and handed it back to him. “Thanks. I’m all right.”

He surveyed her. “Are you sure?”

“She’ll be fine. I’ve got her. Thanks, mate.” Alfred put an arm around her shoulders and steered her away from Rupert, in the direction of home.

She glanced back and saw Rupert watching. For some reason, that sight warmed her soul, but she quickly shivered in the cold night.

Alfred asked, “Who was that?”

“He’s a squire at court. He was going to walk me back, but we missed each other and…” She paused. “A man attacked me on the road.”

“What?” Alfred whirled her around to face him. “What happened?”

“He heard I was looking into the murder from the poisoning and wanted to give me a warning. Rupert surprised him and scared him off before he could do anything.” She shivered.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded. “I ran and he caught up with me and then you found us.”

“I’m glad I did. Your ma was getting worried. Come on.” He led the way down the street. “Wait a minute. You said you were looking into the murder? Like a man-at-arms or something?”

“Yes.”

Alfred guffawed, his laughter ringing out in the air. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in ages. How do you expect to find a murderer?”

“Well, I don’t know. But Queen Matilda asked me to, so I’m going to,” she said, her temper rising.

“Wait, she asked you to? Why? Doesn’t she have a man for that?”

“Yes, he’s looking into it too.”

“Then why does she need you? What can you do? You’re just a baker’s daughter.”

Her temper rose more. “I don’t know. She ordered me and I said yes . I was afraid I’d lose my head. Pa is in prison and now I’m working in the kitchens and have to report to the queen. If you think this is funny, then go ahead and laugh, but I don’t think it’s funny at all.” She glared at him and stomped away, her shoes sloshing into the wet muck that covered the road.

“Bronwyn, wait.” He caught up to her easily, him and his long legs. “I didn’t mean to laugh. You must admit, it is funny. But… it’s almost like she set you up to fail.”

She looked at him. “She’s given me till the feast of Purification of St. Mary. That’s only a few weeks away. Then if I haven’t found who did it… Papa will die. Do you think….”

“She’s played her cards well, I’ll give her that. Just think. She arrests your father, puts him in the dungeon, then tasks you and her man-at-arms to find out whoever tried to kill her and her husband.” Alfred’s face turned grim. “Then when you fail, because who wouldn’t in your shoes, she kills your pa and sees justice done in the eyes of the people, or at least until they find the real killer.”

“And if the poisoner strikes again—”

“Then she’ll either be dead, a widow, which she might prefer, or she’ll find someone else to blame.” He gritted his teeth. He didn’t think it was so funny anymore. “And now someone has attacked you in the street. Someone’s been spreading the word that you’re on the hunt. These noble ladies, they always fill their heads with gossip, don’t they? Let’s get you home. I don’t like this.” He steered her home and didn’t stop until they knocked and the door to the bakery flew open, revealing her stepmother and Wyot.

“Bronwyn, where have you been?” Margaret pulled her inside and shut the door behind Alfred. “Thank goodness Alfred found you. What were you doing out so late? I expected you an hour ago at least.” She stared, looking her up and down. “What on Earth happened? You’re filthy.”

Alfred opened his mouth when Bronwyn stepped on his foot. “It started to rain as I was going down Steep Hill and I slipped and fell.”

Margaret gave her a suspicious look. “Your dress is soaked through and what happened to your coat? Your hands…” She took them and turned them over, revealing the scratches and dirt. “That’s it. You need a bath, immediately. Wyot, fetch some water. You can use the old water leftover.”

Bronwyn snorted softly. Margaret cared for her, but not so much as to order their apprentice to fetch fresh water. She’d be washing in water leftover from the workday, with the remnants of dough floating in it.

“With soap,” Margaret said.

Bronwyn groaned. Weeks ago, her stepmother had purchased soap at the market, a block of soap made from ashes and tallow. It smelled, but she’d stuck leaves and flowers in it to smell nicer and was sure of its curative properties.

Once Margaret had bidden Alfred goodnight and ordered Wyot to prepare a bath, Bronwyn stripped, sat in the wooden washtub, and scrubbed her face, hair and skin with the smelly soap. The water wasn’t the cleanest, but she felt relieved to scrub the rain off her face and the sweat of the day from her skin.

After her bath, she found Margaret waiting for her. “Bronwyn, what happened to you tonight? Why were you home so late? I had to send Alfred to look for you.”

“I got held up.”

Margaret inspected Bronwyn’s hands. They were indeed scraped and the flesh was tender. “That’s it. I’m wrapping these up.”

Bronwyn sat by in a fresh dress as Margaret dried and braided her hair and wrapped it in a kerchief. Together, they sat on a bench as Margaret wrapped Bronwyn’s hands in stiff rags and tied the ends.

“It was raining and I slipped and fell,” Bronwyn reiterated.

“That Steep Hill is dangerous, especially at night. You’re lucky Alfred went to look for you. He was afraid something had happened. He’s very thoughtful, that boy.”

Bronwyn shrugged. “I’m fine. A friend was walking me home, anyway.” But the memory of the man who had accosted her, his stinking breath and blade that glinted in the moonlight, sent a shiver down her spine.

She’d frozen like a rabbit, and she felt ashamed. She should have acted. She should have shouted for help, shoved him back, or fought him. Anything but just sit there on the slippery stones like a statue.

“Nonsense, you’re lucky you didn’t catch a chill. Go to bed and we’ll talk in the morning.”

As Bronwyn climbed down the stairs to her pallet and snuggled beneath the coverlet, she was soon sleepy. “I’ll bake him a roll tomorrow at the castle to say thank you.”

“That’s a nice idea. I’m sure Alfred would appreciate that.”

The next day, Bronwyn took some of the extra flour—the grain deemed too ill to be used to make bread and rolls for the nobles—and made two rolls. One she filled with rosemary, the other she dusted with flour, a simple roll. In both, she cut three slices across the top for effect. Once they were done, she waved over the nearest page and bid him take the rosemary one to Rupert.

He looked at it hungrily.

“Take it to him and say thank you. If he doesn’t get it, I’ll know.”

He grumbled. “Who from?”

“He’ll know who. Go on.” She shooed him away and he scattered.

That afternoon, Bronwyn was sent off into the nearby woods to collect herbs. Her basket soon full of rosemary and sage, she pulled her coat around her and looked around. The sun was out, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching.

She turned. “Who’s there?”

A bird sang and trilled nearby, but of another person, there was no sign. She walked back, her basket full, but it was hard, considering the ground was wet and in some places brittle and cracked from the winter.

Her thoughts railed at her, again and again, as she spotted lone mushrooms in the wood. What if she was thinking about this all wrong? What if the king and queen hadn’t been the intended targets of the poisoning, but de Grecy had been? If so, who would have wanted to kill de Grecy and why? What had he done? Had he ordered the rolls as a gift and been the victim of an unfortunate accident, or had he just wanted some with his own dinner? And who would have had knowledge of mushrooms enough to be able to tell which ones were safe versus poisonous? But considering that whoever had messed with the mushrooms had now disappeared, it was clear that this was no accident.

She thought back to the day they had met, however briefly. De Grecy had placed an order for fifteen of the sweet white rolls with honey, a favorite amongst the nobility. To her, that meant he’d meant to share them with others, for it was too much for one person. And then he’d want a servant to bring them out.

She stopped. He was a knight. Of course he’d have his own squire to look after his needs. Could de Grecy’s own squire have been the one who’d poisoned him? No, that didn’t make sense. Even if the squire had intended him harm, he’d easily have been identified by the cooks and questioned, and when the man had died, the squire would have been punished. She needed to speak with his squire, whoever he was. She hurried back to the castle and unloaded the basket of herbs in the kitchen. After the midday meal, she spent an hour or so scrubbing pots, and then asked one of the potboys, “Who was de Grecy’s squire, do you know?”

The boy she addressed looked about ten. He shrugged and went back to scrubbing. He looked pale and downcast.

“Oi, what’s wrong?” she asked.

He sniffed. “Godfrey’s dead. He died last night. It was the rolls that killed him, they say.”

“Oh.”

The boy shrugged and scratched at a flea on his leg. “He’s probably lucky. The king would have killed him, anyway, so maybe it’s for the best.” He left her, still scratching.

That explained why there was a subdued air in the kitchen that day. People went about their chores, and Odo kept a watchful eye on everything, but it wasn’t the same. Godfrey’s presence was missed.

Bronwyn wiped her hands and walked out of the kitchen, down the corridor to the garderobe, where she might find the privy. She waited, for this one only held space for one, thank goodness, and once it was her turn, she held her nose as she entered the narrow room. She used hay and moss scattered on one side to wipe herself clean and walked out, wiping her hands on her work skirt as she left, when she bumped into a page.

“Oi, watch where you’re going,” he said.

“Sorry. Um, do you know where I could find de Grecy’s page, or squire?”

The boy stopped. “What do you want with him?”

“I want to talk to him.”

“You can’t,” he said simply.

“Why not?”

“He didn’t have one.” The boy went inside the privy and closed the door.

She took a step after him and stopped. No one would appreciate her waiting for them, so she called, “Why didn’t he have a squire or page of his own?”

“Dunno. Not all knights do. Why all the questions?”

“I want to know.”

“Are you sweet on him?” the boy called from the privy.

She cursed at him.

Chuckles came from the queue behind her. She turned and saw several cooks and servants waiting their turns for the privy. She called one last time, “But—”

“I don’t know nothing. Can I have a wee now?”

More laughter. Bronwyn rearranged her dress, straightened her headwrap, a kerchief that kept her blonde hair out of her face and coiled atop her head, and left in search of Sir Nicholas. She walked down the corridor and through the courtyard, to the castle green.

It was a grand sight. Part of the castle sat on a hill, a “motte” they called it, and from there, it served as a lookout for invaders who might attack.

On the castle green, the air was filled with the loud grunts and thwacks of squires training with wooden swords and spears, whilst knights pounded across the muddy ground with their horses, training with lances or spears. Some knights fought with wooden swords as well, whilst others stood by talking, gambling, or practicing their archery skills. Friendly chatter and banter sounded amidst the noise of arrows hitting their marks, followed by applause and laughter. Squires and pages ran to and fro, bringing drinks and food.

She loitered by the entrance to the courtyard and watched the men train and compete until a man came up to her. “What are you doing out of the kitchens?” Sir Nicholas looked down his nose at her.

“I was looking for you.”

His bushy, black eyebrows knit into a frown. “Well, you’ve found me. Now, what is it?”

“Did you know that de Grecy didn’t have a squire or a page?”

“That’s not important. Many knights don’t. Not all can afford to keep one.”

“Then who would have served him the poisoned rolls?”

“Any of the pages. They set the platters on the table for the guests to eat from. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a war going on. We need to learn more about who would want to kill the king and queen, not who served a wayward knight.”

She blushed at his implication, then paused. “What do you mean, ‘wayward’?”

He glanced around. “The night de Grecy died, he had made a big fuss about ordering white rolls for the king and queen. A token of his fondness for Their Graces.”

Bronwyn cocked her head. “That afternoon, he came to our stall and ordered the rolls. It was an expensive order. Like I told the king and queen, that night, I spied a man in a green hood adding the mushrooms, but the cooks didn’t see anyone and assumed it must have been the squire Roger.”

“And then it was too late. Did you get a good look at the man?”

“No. He wore leggings and a green hooded tunic over his head. I couldn’t see his face.” She hesitated. “Do you think Muriel de la Haye was right, and that she saw William de Roumare walking the halls?”

Sir Nicholas shook his head. “The men went down to inspect the dungeons and found him there. The woman was mistaken.”

He turned, clearly ready to leave, when Bronwyn said, “What about de Grecy’s room? His belongings?”

“What about them?”

“Have you looked into them?”

“His things? No. Once the man died, I ordered his room locked.” He spoke with the confidence of a man used to being obeyed.

She raised an eyebrow. “Can you let me in there?”

“Into his room so you can rifle through his clothing? What and look for something you can steal?”

Bronwyn’s temper rose. “No, so I might find some reason as to why he died.”

“The mushrooms, girl. It’s obvious.”

“That was how he died, not why. I bet there’s something in his things that would tell us. Let me in?”

“So you can cause trouble?”

“You can watch me. If I don’t make any headway in this search, my papa’s life is over. Please.”

He gave her a hard stare. “You promise you won’t steal anything? You’ll just look?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t like members of the court knowing about your task.”

She shrugged. “Apparently, a page overheard Her Grace and the rumors spread from there.”

He gave her a grim nod. “Very well.” He led her up the circular, stone staircase and through a series of corridors, past pages, servants, maids and more than one lord and lady. No one dared question him about his business, and he had a ready glare for anyone who looked his way for a second too long.

He led her away from the main rooms, the bedrooms, and farther from the main activity of the castle center. Wherever de Grecy’s rooms were, he’d been far from the main reach of his fellow knights and nobles. Bronwyn wondered, Was this a slight or a sign of distrust?

Sir Nicholas stood by the door to a room and held his arm out first before she could enter. “How did you know the mushrooms were poison?”

“I didn’t know for sure. I just thought it was odd for a man to be adding them to my father’s rolls at the last minute, when that’s not what de Grecy ordered. Odo thought so too,” she said. “My parents taught me about mushrooms before, but I can’t always remember which are safe to eat. I know people have gotten sick from them so when I saw the man adding them, I didn’t trust it.”

“But you’re a maid. You’ve worked in the bakery all your life. Surely, you would know the difference between mushrooms which are safe and which are not. Don’t all cooks know these things?”

She shook her head. “I haven’t finished my learning yet. That’s something a journeyman would know.”

“Then you’ve got a lot to learn,” he said sourly. He pushed open the wooden door, his burly, black eyebrows furrowing as it slid open easily. He walked inside and gave a start. “Who are you?”