Page 4 of Winter’s Poison (The Winter Murders #1)

B ronwyn followed Sir Nicholas inside the room. There was a noise and a crash, as a woman’s voice cried, “Stay back!”

Bronwyn looked past Sir Nicholas’s bulk to see a young woman standing by the small hearth, a small scrap of paper at her feet. She wore a dirty, brown woolen peasant’s dress, her hair covered by a low-hanging kerchief. Yet she wore no apron and did not move with the subservience or meekness that Bronwyn would have expected in a fellow servant.

She held part of her kerchief over her face, as if she were hiding herself. But the small dagger she held out carried a warning. “Who are you? I demand to know.”

“Give us your name, girl,” Sir Nicholas ordered.

“You first.”

“Sir Nicholas, it’s just a girl. She’s not doing anything,” Bronwyn said, wanting to appear calm. She had experienced nervous customers before at the market, including those who were so poor, they needed to beg, or planned to steal. The trick was to remain clam. She held up a hand. “You can put the knife away. We won’t hurt you.”

The young woman snorted softly.

Bronwyn stepped toward her like she would approach a wild animal. The girl shoved past, knocking her hard to the floor, and flung her knife at Sir Nicholas.

The knife thwacked into the wood by his head with a jarring sound. He lunged for her but was too late—the young woman slipped past him and ran down the hall. Sir Nicholas tripped and fell, crashing into Bronwyn. He cursed and they helped each other up. He dashed out of the room. “Guards! Find that girl.”

Bronwyn heard a guard approach. “Sir Nicholas?” a man asked. “What girl?”

“The one who just ran out of here. The girl in the brown dress.”

The guard’s footsteps retreated down the corridor.

Sir Nicholas returned to the room. “Stupid girl! You shouldn’t have let her escape.”

“You scared her. If you hadn’t frightened her, we might have found out what she was doing here.”

“We know what she was doing. Stealing,” he said.

“Are you so sure?” Bronwyn walked over to the knife stuck in the wooden doorframe. The blade was slim and pretty, and it bore an ornate handle. She tugged it out of the wood. It fit well in her hand but was uncomfortable. She’d never held a knife like that before. It was different from the knives used in the bakery. This was light and measured. Perhaps it was meant for throwing.

“Let me see.” He took the knife from her. “A woman’s weapon. Fancy, too.”

“Did you recognize her?” Bronwyn asked. “I mean, I know she covered her face, but…”

“Would I have asked her name if I did? No, I’ve never seen her before. I don’t often see servants carrying weapons. You?”

“No,” Bronwyn replied. The girl had been dressed like a peasant, yet her air had been haughty for one caught nosing about someone else’s room. And her instant reaction had not been to show fear, but to throw a knife at them. “She must be a noblewoman.”

“What makes you say that? Did you see the state of her clothes?”

“Her boldness. She demanded to know your name. And she threw a knife at you rather than make excuses for her being here. She’s no servant and she didn’t smell.”

“You’re saying I do?”

Bronwyn raised an eyebrow. Surely, he knew he smelled. So much time outdoors had left him with a lingering scent of rust, iron, and dampness from sweaty clothes that needed washing. “Only that most of the servants smell like hay, or the kitchens, you know.” She looked around the room. “So de Grecy stayed here.”

“Yes. I wonder if she was his wench,” he said.

Bronwyn’s eyebrows knit together. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Her expression was angry. We’d interrupted her, in whatever she was looking for. If she was his… companion, then she might have been sad or tearful. Instead, she threw a knife at you. What sort of woman does that?”

“There’s a few I could name…” He turned pink.

“Sir Nicholas?”

“What?” He cleared his throat. “Look around. See if you can find out what she was looking for.”

Bronwyn took a quick glance of the room. It was small, not very grand. There was a small, raised pallet on the right side of the room, wood-paneled walls, a chamber pot beside the bed, and a small table and chair, along with a chest. She peered inside the chest but found nothing but guest linens. The room’s walls bore no decoration; it was decidedly spartan.

The bed bore a few clothes, a doublet, a spare shirt and trousers, and a set of hose. Nothing that couldn’t be stuffed into a small travel bag at a moment’s notice. She glanced over at the small hearth in the room and saw it had had a fire very recently, as the coals were still hot. She walked to the small pit.

“Leave it, girl. There’s a servant who will rake out the ashes. If you’re needing work, the kitchens will want you,” Sir Nicholas said.

“The girl was burning a fire here.”

“So? What of it? It is winter.”

“You said after de Grecy died, you had his room locked up. That was days ago. So who would have been in here? Look, there’s a bit of paper.” Bronwyn looked at the scrap of paper on the floor. It had escaped the flames but was so small, she could barely make out what it read. She handed it to him. “What does it say?”

He peered at it, blinked hard, and held it away from him and then close to his eyes. “I can almost make out a name, but… No. I cannot tell. It is too faded to see.” He put the scrap in his leather pouch that hung at his waist. “But this fire is too recent. Who would be burning parchment?”

Bronwyn shrugged. “Maybe the girl we found was looking for it.”

He crossed his arms over his round chest. “I do not like this, Bronwyn. This stinks of mischief.”

The bell for Mass rang, and she met his eyes. “I have to go.”

“Go on. Keep an eye out for any young woman bearing knives.”

Bronwyn went to the kitchens and snuck a bit of food out, hurrying to her father in the underground prison. He smiled at her and tucked into the food. “We are fed, but this is better.” He bit into a roll. “Did you make this?”

She shook her head.

“It’s good. Not bad. Better than what we’d see in town.”

Bronwyn told him about the girl they’d run into, and the scrap of paper in the hearth.

“No doubt the man had some questionable papers he didn’t want getting out. Servants will go through everything and know all their masters’ secrets,” he said thoughtfully.

“If only we could see de Grecy’s body, there might be some clue as to why someone would poison those rolls.”

“That would be easy enough.”

Bronwyn met her father’s gaze. “What do you mean?”

“We’re in the middle of winter. The ground will be too hard and cold to bury him. The man’s body is likely in a cold storage.”

“You think his personal things will be there with him?”

“Maybe. I don’t know anyone who would want to touch a dead body, but… you might find something.” His eyebrows rose and he blinked. Something like hope dashed across his face, then he schooled his features. “Bronwyn, I don’t want you looking at him. This is a bad enough business without you getting involved.”

“But, Papa, if I don’t, they’re going to blame you for this.”

“King Stephen is said to be a just king. I trust justice will find a way,” he said. “I shall pray.”

His stomach rumbled.

“And I shall bring you more bread,” she said.

Bronwyn was sent out to gather herbs and to see what she could forage for the castle kitchens for the next day. There were the grain stores, of course, and the larder so the castle’s inhabitants would not go hungry, but fresh food was favored over anything else. She didn’t mind, though, and relished the fresh air.

Bronwyn pulled on her sheepskin coat and retied the strings her assailant had sliced through so easily. It made for a looser fit, but it still fit. She trudged out with a basket and left through the castle courtyard, departing through one of the side gates. Once down the hill and out of the city proper, she walked through the woods and surrounding fields, whistling an off-key tune.

But as she dug and knelt by some fresh rosemary, just like before, a chill shivered down her back. Someone was watching. She took a small paring knife in hand as she bent over the bush, just subtly hearing the noise of steps crunching against the hard, frozen earth.

She hummed, then felt the air grow still and the birds quiet. She whirled around, paring knife in hand.

The girl in brown from de Grecy’s room froze and stepped back. “Ah!”

Bronwyn said, “You? What do you want?”

Her face not completely hidden by the kerchief, her expression grew haughty. “I want my knife back. But first, do you have it?”

“What?” Bronwyn cocked her head.

“The message, dimwit.”

Bronwyn looked at her in confusion.

She let out a noisy sigh. “Are you really this dumb?”

Bronwyn slipped the knife up her sleeve and put her hands on her hips.

“The message de Grecy had. Did you speak to him before he died?”

Bronwyn shook her head.

The young woman’s face screwed up in a frown. “Well, that’s done it. Now he’s dead and we’ll never know. I don’t suppose you know who his person was.”

“His ‘person’?”

“The turncoat. Who he was working with inside the castle. The little parchment I burned mentioned me but not the other person he was working with. Did he tell you?”

“No.” A shiver ran through her.

“What is it?”

“We’re not alone.”

The young woman fled, faster than Bronwyn would have expected. She wore a smart, grey cloak and held up the kerchief to cover her face as she ran, hurrying through the trees.

Bronwyn turned, looking for the shadowy figure she’d seen lurking nearby, watching. She slipped the paring knife out of her sleeve and held it ready. “Who’s there?”

Rupert stepped out of the trees. His face was a picture of disgust.

“Rupert,” Bronwyn said with relief. She slid the knife back up in her sleeve. “I thought you were someone else. I—”

He gripped her wrists painfully and pinned them behind her back, faster than she could blink. She gasped and he said in her face, “Mind telling me why you’re speaking with a spy from Empress Maud’s camp? Are you a traitor to the king?”