Page 6 of Winter’s Poison (The Winter Murders #1)

T he next day when Bronwyn stepped outside her family’s shop it was busier than usual, and noisier for Lincoln’s streets. She’d wondered if it was a parade of sorts, or some knights riding into town, but this was different. The mood was more melancholy. Dozens of people, soiled, unwashed and dirty, trudged past. Old men, too old to fight, women and children. Many looked tired and hungry, as if they’d spent hours on the run. A few eyed her family’s bakery, their noses lifting at the smell of freshly baked bread in the air. Bronwyn quickly shut the door closed behind her. As dawn’s early light edged up through the black trees and buildings of the city of Lincoln, showing great bars of orange and dark blue sky, Bronwyn wondered what had happened. She did not know these people.

Once at the castle kitchens, she hung up her coat and stamped her feet to rid herself of the slush and dirt that had clung to her boots as she’d walked up Steep Hill. The cooks, pages, servants, and potboys were in an uproar. People hurried about their chores, faces downturned, and more than one man looked harried and nervous, their eyes darting around as if seeing enemies around every corner.

“What’s going on?” she asked the nearest cook, a youth in his teens.

“Didn’t you hear?” he said. “There was an attack last night.”

Her stomach sank. So those had been the people outside her family’s shop. “No. Where? Here?”

He shook his head. “Outside the castle. I’m surprised you didn’t hear of it.”

“Was it Maud?” Bronwyn asked.

He nodded. “Who else would it have been?”

She went about her chores. Odo had her join the other bakers and make bread, as well as rolls with diced-up meat in them. Her favorite was making sweet treats with pastry—she loved rubbing the butter into the dough to make a mouthwatering pastry that would later be filled with something scrumptious.

But outside the kitchen, the corridor was full of people. Men, mostly. Knights and lords barked orders and shouted as servants dashed to and fro. Bronwyn went to one of the men who stood by the entrance and asked, “What is happening?”

“People are coming in from the attack. The French wench’s army is getting closer and testing her strength. But when she can’t get past our own fighters, she takes it out on the villagers living outside the city. These are people whose homes she destroyed.” They stood back as men, women and some children walked by, while soldiers hastily erected tents and set up shelter in the castle courtyard. It was nowhere to put those who had come seeking shelter, but it was better than the bare outdoors.

“What do you need from us?” Bronwyn asked.

“You speak for the kitchen, do you?” he asked with a smile.

“No, she does not.” Odo came up behind them. “Get back to work, Bronwyn.”

She ducked her head meekly and returned, hearing the men chuckle behind her. Red-faced, Bronwyn did her best to ignore them and began making rolls, filling pies, turning the roast spit and serving up pottage for luncheon, and then passing through trenchers of extra for the people huddling outside in the tents. They were cold and hungry and had lost everything. Her heart went out to them.

She thought little that morning, dwelling on her own luck, in that her family was warm, safe, to a point, and had a roof over their heads. They had not been touched by war, not yet. She felt lucky and gave a private prayer to the Lord for thanks.

As the bell tolled for Mass, Bronwyn joined the others and slipped out early, taking a few rolls to visit her father.

He accepted them and ate hungrily, stuffing one in his trousers for later. He looked thin, cold, and wistful. His facial hair had grown and he no longer had a light beard that her mama had once declared was velvety soft and barely there. This now appeared bristly, unkempt, and long. He needed a shave, but of course, prisoners weren’t allowed weapons.

Bronwyn told him of the attack, and how the castle was now feeding more than the regular inhabitants. As they clasped hands goodbye he said, “It will get worse before it gets better, I fear.”

She went back to the kitchens, when a request came from the queen for four white rolls with honey. Bronwyn set to making them and when they were done was met by the page, who escorted her up to the queen.

But when he knocked and opened the door, she stepped inside. Bronwyn’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. She lost her grasp on the plate and almost dropped the rolls, saving them just in time.

“Good heavens, girl, whatever is the matter with you?” the queen asked.

“Forgive me, my lady,” Bronwyn said, still staring. “I slipped on my skirts.”

“Well, never mind. You see, Alice, this is the girl I was talking about. You must try the white rolls with honey.”

Bronwyn bowed her head and glanced at the newcomer, Alice, who was the reason she’d almost dropped the rolls. For there, sat next to the queen, was none other than the girl she’d found in de Grecy’s bed chamber, the girl from Maud’s court. Did she warn the queen that she had a spy from a rival court sat beside her?

Bronwyn began, “Your Grace, I must tell you, I know—”

“Oh, it’s you.” Alice set down her drink, rose to her feet, and cut her off, crossing the small space to her. “So you are the baker I’ve heard so much about. What a pleasure to meet you. But you were about to say something. You recognize me, perhaps? I do have that sort of face, I’ve been told.” Her dark eyes narrowed, a warning to Bronwyn not to try her luck.

Alice shot her a little triumphant smile. From her even gaze and wide grin, Bronwyn knew that whatever story she wished to tell, Alice would spin one far greater and more trustworthy than hers.

Alice’s eyes widened a fraction and were replaced with a knowing smile. Her dark gaze took on a wicked air, and she smiled prettily at Bronwyn, as if meeting her for the first time. No longer dressed in a dirty, brown woolen peasant dress with a kerchief to hide her hair and shield her face, she now wore a deep-blue dress and displayed her fine, silken-black hair. Alice shone in the warm candlelight like a fashionable crow or raven, so sleek were her tresses. Her skin was white and fair, and she looked a little tired. She said, “What a delight. I never thought I would try a white roll again in my life.”

“Oh, hush, it’s not that bad,” Queen Matilda said, motioning Bronwyn forward.

Bronwyn brought the plate and held it out as the ladies both took a sweet roll. Queen Matilda bit into it and smiled. “Delicious. Such a clever young cook.”

“When she’s not tripping over her own skirts,” Alice simpered.

Bronwyn’s cheeks turned pink as she set the plate on a side table beside the queen. She looked from Alice to the queen.

“Will that be all, milady?” Bronwyn asked.

“Yes, yes. Go on.” She bid her away with a wave.

Bronwyn curtseyed awkwardly, earning a snort from Alice. Blushing harder, the young baker kept her gaze to the floor and walked out, followed by the page.

As he closed the door, Bronwyn overheard Alice giggle. “Wherever did you find that girl? She’s practically straight off the farm. Did you see her curtsey? It’s no wonder she tripped. She moves like a bird.”

Bronwyn walked away, followed by the page, who kept pace beside her. “Don’t worry about them. That new girl doesn’t have a nice word to say about anyone.”

“Who is she?” she asked.

“Lady Alice Duncombe. She’s a refugee who came to us after the attack.”

“I didn’t think the queen took refugees into her private chambers.”

The boy shrugged. “She does if they’re noble, like Alice.”

“She’s a noblewoman?”

He nodded. “When Queen Matilda heard a girl from a noble family had come seeking shelter and wished to pay her respects, she agreed to meet the girl straightaway. Took her in and said she can join her retinue.”

The girl worked fast. “Amazing,” Bronwyn said. “The queen is very generous.”

“Aye.” The boy gave her a funny look, then paused. “Bronwyn…”

“What?” She glanced at him.

He fidgeted, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I… know you’re investigating the death of de Grecy.”

“Let me guess. You want to help me too.”

“What? No. I… No.” He fidgeted more.

“Then what?” she asked.

“Um…”

She gave him a hard glance. She’d just been made fun of by Alice to the queen, almost tripped on her face and dropped the rolls, and was no closer to solving the crime to save her father. She had little time for this.

“What if I knew something, about what happened that night? The night de Grecy died,” he said.

“Tell me. What do you know?”

He tugged at his shirt collar and loosened one of the tied strings. The page scratched the right side of his head and said, “I know who killed him. De Grecy, I mean.”

“Who?” she asked, practically jumping.

“It was Roger. He’s the only one of us with a green cloak like that. And he was showing it off to everyone, acting like he was so brave. But it was stolen. He was mad because his master gave it to him and then he had to ride out and he didn’t get to take it. He was that mad. That was before the rolls were poisoned. But… I thought you should know.” He stopped, seeing someone behind her.

“Wait, you said he was riding out? Where did he go? When was this?”

He bowed. “I have to go. Bye.” He turned and left, as fast as his feet could carry him.

She turned and met Sir Bors. The way he carried himself, he practically filled the corridor, and he looked down on her with a slight interest in his eyes. “What is a kitchen maid doing wasting time with a page?” he boomed.

“He was escorting me back to the kitchens,” Bronwyn said.

“You’re that maid, aren’t you? The one with her nose in de Grecy’s business,” the man asked, towering over her.

Bronwyn said nothing. The man could overpower her in an instant, and she hated that fact. He was built like a solid wall. Nothing could get past him.

“You should know that I had nothing to do with that business. I love His Grace,” he said, his voice slightly slurred. He’d been drinking.

She raised her chin. “I have to get back.” She turned, but he grabbed her. His entire hand encircled her upper arm like an iron glove.

“Don’t turn your back on me, girl. You should respect your betters. D’you know who I am?” he boomed.

She glared, her temper rising. “Let go of me.”

“I am Sir Bors. Don’t you forget it.”

Odo stood in the entrance to the kitchen. “Sir Bors, mind you don’t pull my kitchen maid’s arm off, I need her to bake rolls for His Grace. If you please?” His bulk filled the doorway of the kitchen, and he raised an expectant eyebrow.

Sir Bors shoved her away, and she stumbled at the force of it, tripping.

Odo frowned and said, “Back to work, girl.”

She stood, smoothed down her skirts, and walked past Bors, who shot her a nasty smile and said, “Don’t get in my way again, baker. I don’t like women who nose around in people’s business. Makes them smell worse than a whore after Easter.”

Bronwyn tried not to shiver and held her held high as she slipped back into the kitchens. Odo soon followed and stood by as she woodenly went to the spit and began turning.

“You all right, Bronwyn?” he asked.

She nodded.

“That’s Sir Bors, but I expect you knew that. Could hear the man across the kitchens. Built like an ox, that one.”

The ghost of a smile drifted across her face. She tried to ignore the fact that his words had sent a shiver down her spine and made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

“You should stay away from him. He’s trouble.”

She cocked her head at him.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Just keep your distance from him. He’s not one to be around. Cut from a coarser cloth, isn’t he?” He scratched his chest idly. “Stay down in the kitchen the rest of today. If the queen wants more rolls, the page can bring them. Give ’em something to do, anyway.”

She kept turning the spit, and Odo kept an eye on her, not letting her go anywhere outside the kitchens. Odo spent time teaching her and the other cooks how best to preserve pork, and the best way to season fish in a way that the king liked.

She slipped out to use the privy and once she’d finished, wandered to where she’d seen Brother Bartholomew socializing, waiting until she’d caught his eye.

He excused himself and wandered over.

“Well? Have you found out anything?” she asked.

“Oh, yes. So many things,” he said with a knowing smile. He fingered the wooden cross that hung from his neck, the shined piece of glass at its center catching the light.

“Are you going to tell me?” Bronwyn asked.

“Is this man bothering you?” a knight asked.

“Sir Gilbert.” The monk swept a stiff bow. “I must be off. I have places to be.” Brother Bartholomew left in a huff, but shot a look over his shoulder as he left.

The knight stood in a loose, belted tunic and trousers but held himself with an air of being ready to fight at a moment’s notice. He carried himself with strength, and his eyes surveyed the room, seeming to miss no detail, however small. But as he turned his gaze to Bronwyn, his blue eyes crinkled as he smiled.

The knight smirked as Brother Bartholomew left, then turned to Bronwyn. “What is a servant girl doing out of the kitchens?”

“How did you know I work there?” she asked.

“I’ve not seen you around here before, and I never forget a pretty face. Also, your apron is covered with flour. It’s not hard to surmise.” He smiled. “What’s your name?”

“Bronwyn Blakenhale.”

His eyes lit up in recognition. “You’re that girl, aren’t you? The one asking questions about de Grecy.”

She returned his smile with one of her own. He was so friendly, it was hard not to want to repay his kindness.

“I am Sir Gilbert. One of the king’s men.” He gave a small bow.

She curtsied and rose. He was one of the men Brother Bartholomew had warned her about, so she took in the sight of him. Tall, blond hair, cropped short with a trimmed, straw-blond mustache and beard. He wore a thick, padded jerkin over a long, belted tunic and trousers, and a sheathed blade hung at his side. He moved like a man who knew his business, and that business was war.

“Well met, Bronwyn. Tell me, what is it you’re doing out of the kitchens? Did you mean to ask the monk for information? He’s made no secret of the fact he’s investigating this death of de Grecy.”

She shrugged. “He offered to help. I thought men might talk more easily to him than me.”

“You would be right. And yet, you choose your comrades poorly. He is no better than a fool,” Sir Gilbert said.

“Why do you say that?”

“He is never there when you need him, and always around when you don’t. He reminds me of a weasel. I was there that night when de Grecy died. What is it you wish to know? Ask me.”

She peered up at him. “Do you think someone wanted the king dead? Or de Grecy?”

He threw his head back and laughed uproariously, slapping his knee. People glanced over, causing her to blush. Sir Gilbert grinned and laughed again, motioning for a servant to bring a cup of wine.

He accepted a cup and drank, wiping his blond beard with his sleeve. “You make me laugh, Mistress Blakenhale. I haven’t heard anything so funny in days. De Grecy is one thing, but I, want the king dead? No. He has saved my life in battle too many times, and I his. We look out for each other. But that does not mean that there are others who would overlook their love for their king.”

“Like who? And why?”

He snorted softly. “I would not give away the names of innocent men.” He paused. “But if you do find reason to suspect someone, ask me and I will tell you what I know. I will not lie to you.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I am a man of God. I believe lying to be sinful.” He offered her a fraction of a bow and stood back as the doors to the dining hall opened. In walked Queen Matilda, followed by a series of ladies.

“Who are those women with the queen?” Bronwyn asked.

“Her ladies,” he said. “The important ones are the Countess of Chester; the constable’s wife; and the Countess of Cambridge, the wife of William de Roumare. That girl with the raven hair, I do not know. She is new, like you.”

Bronwyn watched as the ladies filed into the room, chatting quietly amongst themselves. Queen Matilda looked very well as she became the center of attention, nodding to some nobles and giving a polite smile to others. Her manner was soft and demure as she navigated the room in a dark-blue dress, trimmed with a gold-tooled belt, and a circlet around her hair. She had her hair pinned back in a loose, thick braid, but even without the golden circlet, Bronwyn surmised that it would be clear to any who did not already know this was a queen, that this was no ordinary woman.

“Never an unkind word for anyone, our queen,” Sir Gilbert said. “Even those whom she could have imprisoned, she keeps them by her side. Too kind if you ask me, but then women are soft-hearted creatures.”

“What do you mean, those she could have imprisoned?” she asked. “You mean that because their husbands are in prison, they should be as well? And so it is through the queen’s mercy that she keeps them at her side?”

He glanced at her with a nod of approval. “You are new. And clever. Well done. There’s more to it than just that, however, so I’ll tell you. But only so that you do not go spreading rumors like some girls do.” He added, much louder, “All right, girl, you’ve seen the queen. Now it’s back to the kitchens with you.” He made to take her arm and she let him steer her away, under the watchful eyes of the ladies present, including Lady Alice, who eyed her keenly.

Once out in the corridors, he released Bronwyn’s arm and said quietly, “This castle was under the protection of King Stephen, when before Christmas, the constable and his wife entertained the Countess of Chester and her friend, the wife of the Earl of Chester’s half-brother, William de Roumare.”

She nodded for him to continue. “I’ve heard about this. So those are the wives in question.”

“Exactly. When the earl and his half-brother came to collect their wives, they came unarmed and peaceful, then once they were behind the castle gates, they took over the castle.”

“I know this story. The citizens of Lincoln wrote to the king asking for his help and he came,” she said.

“He did. Reclaimed the castle around Christmas time. But what you may not know is that of the men who fought against his forces—those who did not escape, swear allegiance, or die— a handful were imprisoned in the jail cells below. Seventeen, to be exact, the Earl of Chester’s half-brother, William de Roumare, among them.”

Bronwyn breathed in. To hear it spoken of so lightly almost gave her a shock. Mentally, she knew they were down there, but it still sent a shiver down her spine. Those men were with her father. Traitors to the Crown, men allied with the empress.

“Aye,” Sir Gilbert said. “We know that the Earl of Chester escaped and has likely gone to beg the imposter queen for help. This latest attack on the townspeople is a bad move. And that’s just outside the castle walls. To keep the men imprisoned below from rebelling or causing trouble, the queen has kept their wives here, under her protection. And armed guard. She calls them her guests.”

“So they are prisoners too, the wives,” she said.

“A very easy sort of prison. They can walk around and talk and eat with the other nobles. But it is not without some measure of shame for what their husbands did. And some of these women were present at table when de Grecy died. So if you are looking for culprits, or someone who might have questionable allegiance to the king and queen, you might look toward them.”

That meant the pool of suspects had just grown. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“I told you, Mistress Blakenhale, I would not lie to you. Not like some here. And besides, if we do have a poisoner here at court, they must be found. You should have seen them all the day after he died. Everyone was too fearful to eat a bite but not wanting to seem too afraid. If it weren’t for the king taking the first bite, I think we’d all still be starving out of fear.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure. I do hope you’ll catch the man.” He offered her a slight bow, and she curtsied, or tried to. He smirked and said, “If you want to stay at court, you’ll want to work on that.”