Page 7 of Winter’s Poison (The Winter Murders #1)

B ronwyn returned to the kitchens and wondered as she prepared dough for baking, What if I’m going about this the wrong way? What if I should not be solely asking the men, but also speaking with the women? If some of these women were essentially prisoners, then they must have something to hide , she thought. Did some of the women know what was going to happen when the Earl of Chester and his half-brother took the castle, or were they innocent?

She pondered this as she pounded the dough, slapping it on the hard, wooden worktable, until a boy whistled, making her turn at the sound. There stood a well-dressed, middle-aged woman at the kitchen entrance, looking around.

“What’s she doing here?” she asked.

“It’s Mistress de la Haye.” A boy glanced at her.

“So where is Master Odo?”

“He’s out supervising the hunters. They’re saying the men brought down a stag, pheasants, and ducks.”

“So who is in charge whilst he’s gone?”

The boy shrugged. “Dunno. He’ll be back soon, anyway.”

At that moment, Bronwyn felt a kinship to the chatelaine. Seeing as the boys were happy to stare, even though no one spoke to her, Mistress de la Haye looked around as if she wished to speak, then began to turn away.

Bronwyn set down her dough, brushed her hands on her simple cloth apron, and came up to her. “Milady?”

Mistress de la Haye turned back. She wore a long dress of grey wool, cut to her figure. Her silver-brown hair was braided too like Queen Matilda’s, and she wore a plain strand necklace around her neck. She stood short, with a petite, round figure, and looked up at Bronwyn with wary, grey eyes. She must have been fifty or older.

“Did you want something?” Bronwyn asked.

“A roll. I am hungry.” Mistress de la Haye paused. “A few of the ladies wanted something to nibble on, but there were no servants about, so they sent me.” She colored with embarrassment and looked down at the floor.

“It is no trouble, my lady. I’ll get some rolls for you and the others.”

Bronwyn took a fresh loaf from the baking racks and cut it into slices with a knife, spreading churned butter on each one. She brought the plate to Mistress de la Haye and as the lady reached for it, Bronwyn shook her head. “It is beneath you to serve. I’ll bring it.”

Her eyes widened, her smile bittersweet. “Thank you. This way.” She turned and led Bronwyn out of the kitchens. As they walked, she said quietly, “They wish to humiliate me, by treating me like a servant. My husband is castellan of this castle.” She brushed away a tear. “I’m sorry, I…”

Bronwyn had no handkerchief to offer. “I’m sorry.”

The woman wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

“Are you feeling well?”

“Well enough. Why?” Mistress de la Haye peered at Bronwyn. “You. You were there, when I fainted. You had a fish?”

Bronwyn smiled and nodded. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

The chatelaine wiped her eyes. “I’ve been such a fool. I had no idea.”

“What do you mean?”

She looked away, patting her side braid. “I… do not have many lady friends. Passing acquaintances, and when my husband was made castellan of the castle, it was a great rise in status for us both. I was touched when the wives of de Gernon and de Roumare came for a visit. I stupidly thought they came in the interest of friendship.” Her hands trembled and she smoothed down her grey skirts.

“Instead, they waited for their husbands to come, and then stood by as the men stormed the castle. They killed servants, people we had known and trusted. Good people. They beat my husband and threatened to kill me if we did not comply with their wishes. Those… women stood back and watched from safety as the men took the castle.” She snorted bitterly. “I am a fool.”

“You are not,” Bronwyn said, keeping pace with her. “I think you are… kind-hearted.”

“And look where it got me.”

“You are alive. Is your husband…?” Bronwyn asked.

“He is alive, but shaken by the turn of events. He is happy to be back under King Stephen’s protection—we both are. But we came under suspicion when they reclaimed the castle. It was thought we had welcomed de Gernon and de Roumare with open arms, when all I did was welcome them in for food and drink. I was so stupid.” She shook her head.

“You are not,” Bronwyn repeated. “You were taken in. Do you think the ladies knew what their husbands were up to when they came to see you?”

“How could they not? I mean, a man tells his wife most things, or a wife can overhear things. But… I don’t know. All I know is since the king and queen returned, Queen Matilda is keeping all us ladies close, but at arm’s length. She does not know who to trust, and so she quietly watches us all but asks none for counsel.” She looked at Bronwyn. “I’m sorry. I do not mean to speak out of turn. It’s just… I have no one to talk to but my husband, and even he is loath to speak at all. He fears the walls have ears, or eyes, or something.”

Bronwyn smiled at her, and the chatelaine’s eyes watered at the sight. “And then I saw him. I saw him, the night that foul knight died. But no one believed me. But I have proof.” Her chin trembled and she dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. She plucked a long strand of black ribbon from her sleeve and wound it around her fingers again and again, then unwound it. She seemed unaware of the nervous habit.

“What is that?” Bronwyn asked.

“My proof. You recall the night that de Roumare surprised me. I knew it was him, even though no one believed me. I tried to grab hold of him, but my hand only came back with this. I have his hair, you see. This is it.” She handed it to Bronwyn.

“How odd.” Bronwyn looked at the hair. It was long and silky. “It’s almost like horsehair.”

“I suppose.” She took the hair back and wound it around her fingers again.

“We could tell the king and queen, or Sir Nicholas. With this, they would listen to you.”

Mistress de la Haye shook her head. “No one trusts us anymore. Not after we lost the castle and Their Graces had to come and take it back. They wouldn’t believe me.”

“Are you all right?” Bronwyn asked.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine. This is going to sound silly, but you are the first person to say a nice word to me that wasn’t false, or rude. You speak honestly, plainly. I haven’t had anyone say anything kind to me in a while.” She gave Bronwyn a watery smile.

It pained her to see it. Being the wife of the castellan of the castle of such a grand size, it must have been a lot of responsibility. To have no one in whom to confide or with whom to chat on top of that sounded like a miserable, lonely existence. Bronwyn felt so bad for her.

“That’s very kind. I thought I knew everyone who worked here, but I suppose not. Especially not now when we’re accepting all these people into the castle and courtyard. What is your name?”

“Bronwyn Blakenhale. My father is a baker in town. He—”

A voice called out for her, and Mistress de la Haye looked harried. “I’d better go. Well met, Bronwyn Blakenhale. Perhaps we might speak again soon.” She took the plate of bread.

“I’d like that. Mistress.” Bronwyn curtsied, and the lady cracked a strained smile.

“I’ll teach you how to curtsey too.”

Bronwyn gritted her teeth slightly and harrumphed and stomped all the way back to the kitchens. What exactly was wrong with her curtsey?

She grumbled as she entered the doorway to the kitchen, when a voice whispered from the corridor. “Baker. Girl.”

Bronwyn looked toward the source of the sound.

Lady Alice stepped from the shadows. “Hello again. What have you learnt?”

Bronwyn promptly crossed her arms over her chest. “What do you want?”

“You need to have a civil tongue when you talk to me,” Lady Alice said with a frown. “I have the queen’s ear. It would be a pity for you to lose the queen’s trust over something so small as a bit of rudeness. You would be wise to befriend me, baker’s daughter.”

“What for? From what I can see, you are suspect. What were you doing poking about in de Grecy’s room? I could tell the queen you’re the woman everyone was looking for earlier.”

Her eyes narrowed and Bronwyn was reminded of a raven, as the dim light shone on Lady Alice’s jet-black hair, picking up highlights that looked like silk. “I could make life difficult for you. Tell me what you know.”

“You first.” Bronwyn put her hands on her hips.

They stared at each other, both refusing to back down.

“Do you know who I am?” Lady Alice asked.

A snot-nosed uppity aristocrat , Bronwyn thought, who probably paid someone less fortunate to wipe her own arse .

“I am Lady Alice Duncombe. My father owns one of the largest estates in Somerset,” she said. “Do you even know where that is?”

Bronwyn’s cheeks burned. She didn’t. “You’re a long way from home, my lady.”

With a light smile, Alice nodded, no doubt pleased at being called “my lady.” “So I am. I was supposed to hear from de Grecy, but when he didn’t make our meeting, we thought it best I come, so here I am.”

“What were you supposed to speak with him about?”

“Why, the plan for a reb—” She paused. “You don’t know. But I thought that you—” She clapped a hand to her mouth. “I’m wrong. Never mind.”

She turned to go when Bronwyn caught her sleeve. Lady Alice whipped around, her mouth twisted. “Don’t say a word of this to anyone, you hear? I will make life hard for you if you do. Do you understand me?”

“Wait, my lady. You thought I knew de Grecy?”

“Well, yes. When your family made those rolls for such a sum, apparently, he seemed far too pleased with himself, as if he’d made a new connection of his own. Although why he would consider a family of bakers worth associating with, I don’t know. And then when I heard you were looking into his death, I thought it was a great joke. All of us did. I thought it simply a blind, to lure people away from the fact that you were working with him. And then when you covered for me in his room and didn’t report me to the queen when you had the chance, well…”

“I felt bad for you when we found you in de Grecy’s room,” Bronwyn said.

“What?”

“I thought Sir Nicholas had scared you and so didn’t want you to feel frightened. I didn’t think you’d throw a knife at him.”

She sulked. “It served him right.”

“Bronwyn!” Odo called. “Where is that blasted girl?”

“I’d better go.”

“Do not speak of this to anyone.” Alice turned on her heel and left.

Bronwyn spent the early evening scrubbing the inside of pots as two of the potboys had gotten into the ale the night before and spent the whole day sick with sore heads. Odo had little sympathy for them and bade them to scrub pots and turn the spit until they fell over from fatigue, or puked their guts out, whichever came first.

The boys were the butt of many jokes and laughs, until one after another ran to the privy. Bronwyn gave them cups of ale to soothe their stomachs and went about her chores. As she stirred a pot of soup, adding in diced carrots and parsnips, she pondered what she knew. She wanted to talk it over with someone, but whom could she trust? She wasn’t sure.

Bronwyn stirred and thought. When Sir Nicholas and she had entered de Grecy’s room, the room had been disturbed, and they’d found Lady Alice inside, searching for something. When they’d met in the woods later, Alice had thought Bronwyn had somehow been connected to de Grecy and wondered if she’d been involved with him.

Bronwyn knew this much: de Grecy had not been honest. Her father and she had willingly taken an order for sweet rolls from a dishonest man. That did not matter so much, for she suspected many customers were liars on occasion, but they’d never had one use their rolls for murder before. And who was the green-hooded man who’d poisoned their rolls? The page had mentioned the cloak belonged to Roger the squire.

She turned to one of the potboys. “Do you know Roger? I heard he was given a green hood, but that it was stolen. Do you know anything about that?”

“No. I didn’t take it.”

“That night the man died. There was a man in a green hood who was messing about with the rolls. I bet it was whoever stole Roger’s cloak. Did you see him?”

The boy shrugged. “Dunno.”

One of the older boys looked at her with interest. “A lot of the squires come in here. Their masters send them to eat a midday meal sometimes, or when they want something and the pages have forgotten.” He looked at her. “I know why you’re asking about this, but Roger didn’t do it. Like you say, someone stole his cloak. I saw the man push you, but I didn’t see who he was. I didn’t recognize him. But I don’t think he was a servant here, or one of the squires.”

“Why is that?” she asked.

The young cook scratched his head. “When he pushed you, the man moved fast, like he was running out of time. We don’t go pushing each other ’round ’ere and definitely not women. He’s not one of us.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Why didn’t you say anything when we were looking for anyone who’d seen him?”

The youth shrugged. “Don’t see how it would help now. For all we know, it might’ve been your pa who’s done it. We all know each other, but you’re new here. We don’t know where your loyalties lie.”

She gave a noise of exasperation and tugged on her blonde braid. “Why don’t you care about this? Of course it’s not my father who’s done it.”

“They caught him, didn’t they? Besides, do you have any idea how much work we’ve got on now that Godfrey is dead? Master Odo’s finding his feet, and I’ve got five ducks to pluck, butcher, and roast before the next meal.” He walked away, back to his a worktable, where five dead ducks awaited him.

She frowned and was no closer. She felt thwarted. As much as she disliked the youth for suspecting her father, she appreciated him talking to her. Many of the cooks were still tightlipped when she came near. But what now? She had seen proof of the hair, but Mistress de la Haye didn’t think she would be believed. Still, this was evidence that a man had been there. Unless of course, Mistress de la Haye had fabricated what she’d seen, but Bronwyn didn’t believe that. The woman seemed too unhappy at her situation to want to gain attention by adding false stories. She needed to tell someone.

Master Odo called Bronwyn over to join the cooks for a bite to eat. She would normally have gone home, but this might offer a chance to get to know them better. Besides, her stomach growled loudly. She joined the others for a bite at the long tables and absently picked at her pottage, stirring the chunks of peas mixed with other vegetables in a dull slop. Her stepmother’s was better, but she spooned it into her mouth all the same.

A familiar face sat across from her. “Cat got your tongue, Lady Bronwyn?”

She narrowed her eyes at Rupert’s teasing tone. “I am no lady.”

“Saw you talking with them earlier. What do you want with Mistress de la Haye? And who was that dark-haired one you were chatting to in the corridor? She’s a pretty one.”

Her lips pursed. Perhaps the rumors were true, and he did only get taken by a pretty face one day, only to be distracted by another the following day.

“Her hair reminds me of a crow,” Bronwyn said sourly. Was he being deliberately obtuse? Did he really not recognize Lady Alice from her flight in the woods?

“Never seen a crow so pretty as that,” he said with a smile.

She ignored him and stirred her pottage.

The boys chatted, largely ignoring her. As Odo led the discussion at the head of the table, Rupert eyed her with curiosity. “Something on your mind, Bronwyn?”

She shrugged.

Once the meal had finished, Rupert took her wooden trencher away. She’d given most of the pottage to the potboy with whom she’d shared the trencher, anyway, so she was still a bit peckish. “Something is going on. I can tell. What troubles you?”

“Were you there the night de Grecy died? In the dining hall?”

He nodded. “Saw the whole thing. Why?”

“Can you tell me what happened?” she asked.

“Sure.” He leaned his elbows on the worktable and watched the others work. “I was serving my lord at the time and all the lords and ladies were there. I served my lord food and stood by when de Grecy pounded the table and said he’d arranged for a surprise for Their Graces, a gift of soft, white rolls sweetened with honey.

“He arranged for them to be brought in, and took the first roll from the platter and stuffed the whole thing into his mouth. It was a sort of slight to the king, since they should have taken the first bite. The queen was nibbling hers and the king seemed disinterested in the rolls altogether. I think the queen only took one to be kind. But it all happened so fast. De Grecy took sick and began to cough and tremble. He clutched at his throat and then fell to the floor.

“Everyone stopped what they were doing and stood back, but when he coughed and collapsed, then all was still. I saw it all. Then the knight next to him looked at him and declared him dead, and that was it. Everyone dropped the rolls and threw them into the fire. Someone called for the kitchen hands, and the bakers, and the king demanded to know where the rolls had come from. They called for the physician to examine the queen, in case she felt ill, but she declared she was fine. Guards went to the kitchen and brought back Godfrey and Odo, but Godfrey was ill by that point and puking his guts out, until he fell unconscious. Odo said a baker’s girl made them. The king and queen left, and my lord bid me attend him. The rest you know.”

She nodded. “Yes. They said that the man wearing the green hood could have been Roger the squire, but I’ve heard that his hood was stolen. Did Roger have any enemies?”

He shrugged. “He wasn’t popular, but I don’t know if anyone would frame him for murder. Besides, men have their own clothes. No one is starving here. But when we serve at table we don’t see what the others are wearing. I don’t remember any green hood and don’t know who it might have been. Sometimes our lords present us with gifts for good service, or for when they are at tournament.”

At least now she knew his version of the events, and she noted it did not contradict what she’d heard from Brother Bartholomew or Sir Gilbert’s accounts of the night. “Who were the other pages and squires serving that night?”

He stood up and scratched his chin. A golden fuzz was beginning to grow there. “There’s Geoffrey, Matthew, Alan, John, and me. It was a small table that night. Most of the other fighting men ate in the main dining hall. What do you want to know the pages for?”

“Was anyone not there that night?”

He rolled his eyes at her questions. “You’re so obvious. Why do you think it was a page who did it?”

“’Cause the knights are all big men, and this man was tall and slim. He was more likely a page, a squire, or a servant. And he wore a green hood. But now I’m not so sure anymore.”

Rupert pondered this. “That’s a fair point. A knight wouldn’t have bothered to come into the kitchens. A lot of these fighting men just want their food and ale and women. Beyond that…” He shrugged. “And you probably heard already, Roger was in a foul mood earlier about his stolen cloak. Sir Bors had gifted him with a new green jerkin and hood, and he was going to show it to us, but someone had stolen it. He was raging mad and said if he caught whoever took it, he was going to thump him so hard, he’d want to jump in the lake. Then he disappeared. But that was the afternoon before de Grecy died.”

“Then he couldn’t have done it. If he was camped away from the city, there’s no way he would have heard about de Grecy’s order of the rolls, or get back in time to mess about with them.” Her shoulders slumped.

They shared a smile.

“Don’t worry. You’ll find out who did this. Most people would have given up by now, even if they had been tasked by the queen. My master always says to use your mind in situations like this.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “What about Sir Baldwin? I heard he was acting strangely the night de Grecy died. Someone mentioned he seemed very calm when it happened.”

Rupert raised an eyebrow at her. “Yes, he was. But that’s just his way. Some people think he’s slow to act, but they’re wrong. He just takes his time to think things through. I like him. He’s honest, and when he makes a decision, he stands by it.”

“So the night de Grecy died…” she started.

“He took a roll, all right, but when the chaos started I think he spat out his mouthful and looked at it. Probably wanted to see how or why it was poisoned. Then when the king ordered everyone to throw their rolls away, he did. If you think he had something to do with this, you’re wrong. I looked after him all evening. There’s no way he could or would have gone into the kitchen without me knowing.”

She nodded. “I believe you.” And she really did. It wasn’t just his kind eyes or the earnest look on his face. For the brief time she’d known Rupert, he hadn’t lied to her. She trusted him. If he said his master was innocent, she believed his word.

An hour later, Bronwyn bumped into Sir Nicholas on her way back from the privy and told him what she’d learnt. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “So that means a tall servant likely stole young Roger’s new jerkin and hood, and whoever we see wearing it is likely the killer.”

“But would a page have wanted to kill de Grecy? Why would a servant want to kill a knight?”

He looked at her evenly. “Not all masters are kind. Some rule with gifts, others with beatings. A few earn respect, but most pages lead a life of servitude and their families are happy to pay for the privilege.”

“Why?”

“A lord will look after them. Provide them with food, lodgings, clothing, a healer when they are sick, and wine and ale in times of celebration. It can be a good life.”

“Is that how you started? As a page?”

“At first, then a squire, before I became a knight. You will see the world, but it is not for everyone.” His eyes took on a serious note, and he looked over Bronwyn’s shoulder. “Brother Bartholomew.”

“Sir Nicholas,” a reedy voice said behind Bronwyn. “I would have a word with your baker.”

She turned. Facing her stood Brother Bartholomew, whose light-blue eyes were unfriendly. “Walk with me, Bronwyn Blakenhale.”

Sir Nicholas crossed his arms over his chest, eyeing the monk. “Remember what I told you, Bronwyn.” He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Be on your guard. He may be a man of God, but he is not kind.”

Her eyes widened and she gave a slight nod.

Bronwyn and the monk walked. “Brother,” she began.

“What are you doing out of the kitchens?” he asked.

“I was coming back from the privy.”

“I see. And do you always speak first with your betters? I do not doubt that Sir Nicholas was on an errand when you likely accosted him.”

“I did not—” She stopped. Had she?

He smirked.

“I apologize if I have given offense.”

“It is not me you should apologize to, but God. And have you learnt anything about the poisoner?”

She shook her head, her eyes on the ground as she gripped the right side of her skirt, crumpling the dull, grey wool cloth.

“I thought as much. You are a Christian, are you not?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Then if you have so much free time, I bid you go to church. I had thought that perhaps you might have taken my advice and looked into this matter to prove your father’s innocence, but I can see that was too hard a task for you.”

“But I am. I’m doing it,” she said, “And how am I to learn anything when I’m baking? Won’t God understand if I miss church?”

His eyes blazed in fury. “Do not take the Lord’s name in vain, girl. As I suspected, you have found nothing. No, the best thing you can do now is pray to God for forgiveness and maybe he will have mercy on you and your father.”

“Mercy?” Her spirits lifted, but they were dashed at his cruel smile.

“Yes. Pray that once he is found guilty, your father’s death may be painful but swift. That is the best outcome you could hope for.”

She glared at him, furious. Her face grew red.

She stopped, exhaled, and smoothed down her skirts. When she looked back up, Brother Bartholomew was smirking again, his dull-blond hair around his tonsure looking greasy in the light.

“Mind you keep a civil tongue, girl. It wouldn’t do for you to be tossed into jail alongside your father.” His smile was cold. “But then it wouldn’t surprise me. You seem to have a knack for putting people’s backs up.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you think the entire court hasn’t noticed your little errand for the queen? Nosing around and accosting lords and ladies, demanding to know if one of them poisoned your precious rolls? It’s a running joke amongst the court.” He shook his head and tsked . “And whilst you’re running around in circles, you’re no closer to finding out who did it.”

“That’s not true. I’m talking to people and learning more about what happened that night.”

“Like what?”

She decided to speak a falsehood, and if the Lord God struck her down for lying to a monk, then so be it. “Like the fact that it was probably Roger, Sir Bors’s squire, who messed with my father’s rolls. He hasn’t yet been found. He’d been bragging about a green cloak he received as a gift. The man who messed with the rolls was wearing one.”

He pursed his lips. “That’s your great evidence? Do you have any idea how many men wear green cloaks around the castle? It is common. Your memory must be as shoddy as your investigative skills, for did we not address that very matter at your audience with the king, when your father was imprisoned? If you had any sense in that head of yours, you wouldn’t be asking who did it, but why . Who would want to harm de Grecy, or the king and queen?”

She scratched her head. “Do you know who?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t be talking to you, now would I? But if I were to consider it, a few names come to mind,” he said. “Have you not looked into the men who were there that evening at table with the king? His trusted knights.” He spoke almost mockingly.

“A little. But surely if de Grecy was new to court, the men would accept him,” she said. “They would want all the able-bodied men who could fight.”

“Now you’re starting to think properly. De Grecy wouldn’t have just come with nothing.”

“You think he would have brought something to smooth his entry into the court.”

Brother Bartholomew tapped his nose.

“What could it be? Money? Information?” she asked.

“I don’t know. But once you find that out, you’ll be a step closer to finding out who wanted to kill him.” He blinked as if realizing who he was talking to and snapped, “Go to church. I shall pray for your soul.”

At this point, she was glad somebody would.