Page 9 of Winter’s Poison (The Winter Murders #1)

T hat evening, Rupert escorted Bronwyn home, their shoes slipping and sliding on the wet cobblestones as they trudged through the gate and down the hill. It was slippery, muddy, wet going, and he held her arm more than once to steady her. Bronwyn told herself that was all he was doing, simply being friendly. Rupert was good like that.

“You’re quiet. That’s not like you,” he said.

“Maybe I’ve got a lot on my mind. You know you asked me about the raven-haired woman I was talking to before. Her name is Lady Alice Duncombe and she…” She gave a tiny sigh. “She would like to meet you.

He grinned. “And why is that?”

Bronwyn raised an eyebrow. He was enjoying this, she could tell.

“Rupert?”

“So what does she like about me? I didn’t think a lady would notice a squire. Maybe it’s my dashing good looks or rapier-sharp wit.”

Bronwyn rolled her eyes. “More like someone she can order around,” she muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She swallowed.

“Lady Alice likes your smile.”

“What?”

She glanced at him. He seemed utterly confused. His eyes were wide, and if he smiled any wider, it’d split his face. He was enjoying too much her having to tell him this. “She likes your smile, all right? The way you look. She thinks you’re… handsome.” Bronwyn looked away, grateful for the dark evening sky. She blushed even to say the words. “I’m only telling what you already know, I’m sure. You both like each other, so you can talk to her. You’ll find a way.”

He laughed. “I suppose I’ll have to meet her, then.”

Bronwyn gave a little chuckle, then felt sad. Was he won over so easily by the prospect of a pretty face?

But that night, Bronwyn opened the door to find Margaret setting down a table of dinner for their family and… Alfred.

“Mama?” she asked.

“Come in, come in, Bronwyn. Don’t let in the cold.” Margaret tsked and came toward her, closing the door in Rupert’s face. She brushed down Bronwyn’s coat. “Fix your hair and wipe your face. Alfred’s stayed for dinner.”

“Why?” Bronwyn whispered.

“Why not? He’s worked here helping out for days now, no thanks to you. Now wash up and join us. The pottage is getting cold.”

Bronwyn ignored Alfred’s gaze, hung up her coat, and washed her hands, drying them on a spare cloth. She joined the others at the table, sitting on the left hand of Margaret, across from Alfred. Wyot sat across from her.

“Well, this is a very merry party,” Margaret said, pouring a bit of wine into their cups. She spooned hot pottage into the dry bread trenchers and encouraged them to eat up. As Bronwyn spooned the pottage into her mouth, Margaret asked, “How was your work at Master Dale’s bakery, Alfred? Before you came here?”

“All right, I guess,” Alfred said. “He doesn’t need me so much anymore, and honestly, I was getting tired of him. He’s old and often forgets things. To be fair, I’m looking for a new place. I’m thinking of setting up my own shop in town.”

“Oh?” Margaret said.

“But of course, I’d need someone to help me run it.” His gaze drifted to Bronwyn. “I’ll be looking to marry soon. A wife who knows baking would suit me down to the ground.” He coughed.

Bronwyn would have said all the curse words she knew if she didn’t think her mother would cast her in a nunnery. Maybe that would have been preferable, considering the circumstances.

Bronwyn shot to her feet. “Mama, I just realized. I have to go back to the castle.”

“What? Why? At this hour?” she said.

“Let me go with you,” Alfred said, rising. “You shouldn’t be going out alone.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I was so busy today I didn’t bring Papa some bread, and they’re barely feeding them in the jail,” Bronwyn lied. “He’ll be hungry.”

Margaret’s expression softened. “All right. Go. But I cannot believe you would forget about him. Take him some bread.” She hurriedly wrapped a small loaf of bread in a cloth and handed it over. “Are you sure you can’t stay?”

“He looked hungry last time I saw him. I think he’s worried about his safety,” Bronwyn said.

“And no wonder, considering. Go, go. Alfred, would you go with her?”

“Sure.” He’d eaten fast, and he scraped the last of his pottage from the bread trencher and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He looked at Bronwyn with bright-blue eyes. “I’ll just get my coat.”

Once they had coats on and were outside in the cold night air, Bronwyn started a quick walk toward the castle.

“Bronwyn, wait.” Alfred touched her arm. “Hold up. There’s no hurry.”

“There’s every hurry. He’s hungry and he’ll be waiting on me,” she lied.

“Wait.” His grip tightened and she stopped.

“What?”

“I want to talk to you,” he said.

“About what?” She pulled her arm free and kept walking. “Talk to me while we walk.”

She mentally cursed his long legs as he easily kept pace with her.

He said, “I wanted to talk to you about us.”

She swallowed. Of all the things on her mind, she did not want to talk about this. “There’s nothing to say. We’re friends.”

“We could be more than that. I’ve known you since you were a child.”

“I think of you like a brother.” She could practically see him wince.

“I’m not,” he said flatly.

She glanced at him and kept walking.

“Honestly, Bronwyn, will you stop and look at me.” He grabbed her arm and spun her around to face him. “I’m not your brother.” He took her chin in his hands and kissed her.

His kiss was light, but pressured. She felt the intensity of it, the push and pull of his want. He wanted her. He desired her.

But she didn’t feel the same way.

His bristly beard and mustache needed a trim and it tickled her face, almost making her laugh. She stepped back. “I’m sorry, Alfred. I just don’t feel that way about you.” She looked down at the ground. It had been a sloppy kiss, and it took all her willpower not to wipe her mouth dry.

“Is there someone else?” he asked. “That boy who was walking you home?”

“No. He’s just a friend.”

The moon lit up the angry planes and shadows on his face. He retorted, “We’re all just friends to you, is that it? Well, one of these days, Bronwyn, I’m going to be a head baker and successful and you’re going to wish you’d kissed me back. You’ll be begging for my kisses then.”

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

He turned to go. “Find your own way to the castle. See if I care. Your pa’s a traitor, anyhow.”

She glared at him. “My pa is no traitor.”

“Then why is that word is flying around town that whilst he’s cooling his heels in the castle dungeon, he’s part of a plot to take over when the king isn’t looking?”

“Who said that?” Bronwyn asked.

“It’s common knowledge.”

“Where’d you hear it?”

“Nowhere. Everywhere. It’s just what I heard.” He rubbed the side of his face, his big hand rubbing his bristly, blond beard.

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” she said.

“Anyone can tell when something’s not right. But maybe you need a man to tell you these things. You’re not a journeyman baker like I am.” Alfred puffed up with pride.

Bronwyn rolled her eyes and began to walk. “Goodnight, Alfred.”

He shouted something, but she didn’t stay to hear it. Instead, she wiped her mouth thoroughly and hurried away, disappearing into the night. She was met by the guards and let in through the gates, and she slipped the dungeon guards a coin to let her pass.

Her father was surprised to see her. “What are you doing here? It’s late. Did something happen?”

“Alfred happened. Mama invited him to stay for dinner and I didn’t like what they were saying.”

“What do you mean?”

She gave her father the bread from Margaret. “Mama is being not very subtle about marriage, and how she thinks I’d be a good wife to Alfred.”

“She’s got a good eye for these things and we’ve known Alfred for years. You probably would be good for him.”

“What if that’s not what I want?”

He looked at her fondly.

They shared a moment of silence, then she asked, “How are you?”

“Cold.” He shivered and shrugged his blanket around himself tighter, but the cell was cold and damp. He coughed, a wet, hacking noise. He’d caught a chill.

“Oh, Papa.” Her shoulders slumped, and some of the tension she’d felt loosened.

“Two visits in one day? I feel honored,” he said, coughing.

“I have to get you out of here.”

“Never you mind,” he said. “I just want you and your mama safe. And Wyot, too. Don’t worry about me.”

“Papa?”

“You should leave the city. Don’t come back to the castle,” he said. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe. You should go.”

“Why?” She came closer to the cell’s bars. “Have you heard something?”

“It’s certain now—there’s to be a rebellion. Once Lady Hawise came to talk with her husband, the men were talking about it after. When the time is right, they plan to break out and take over the castle.” He swallowed and coughed again.

“Did they say when?” she asked.

“Soon. They mentioned a day, but I didn’t hear when. A feast day, I think. But it might have been a martyr’s day too. Go home. Tell your mama I love her. Take care of Wyot. And don’t think too harshly of Alfred. You might need someone to look after you.”

His words sent a chill through her. They clasped hands, and his was cold.

She left the jail and slipped back up the spiral stone stairs into the main body of the castle, when she ran into a heavyset man. “Ooh!” she said, stepping back.

It was Sir Clarke, one of the king’s knights she’d been warned about. What was he doing here? He looked surprised to see her.

“Watch where you’re going, girl. Oh, you’re a servant. What are you doing down in the jail at this hour?” the man asked, his gaze hardening.

“I… was delivering bread.”

“Did Brother Bartholomew send you?”

“I—”

“Never mind. Tell de Roumare he’s not coming tonight.”

Bronwyn’s eyebrows rose. The monk’s kindness to the prisoners made her feel guilty about speaking back to him. She hung her head.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I missed prayer.”

The man’s face grew firm. “I’m sure he’ll forgive you. Tell de Roumare what I said.” He cast a snide look at the jail entrance, turned, and left.

Bronwyn paused. If she didn’t relay the message, she might get in trouble. If she did pass on the message, she could be committing treason. But would she be? All she’d be doing was telling a man in jail that a monk wasn’t coming to give him nightly prayers. Was that a crime?

Lady Alice came down the stairs. “I thought I saw you. What are you doing down here with Sir Clarke? It’s late.”

“I was giving bread to my father when a knight asked me to deliver a message.”

“Sir Clarke. What message did he give you?” Lady Alice asked.

“To tell de Roumare that the brother isn’t coming to give nightly prayers.”

She scoffed. “Ha. Not a very exciting message, is it?”

“I guess not.”

“Well, I am in want of amusement. I shall go with you.”

Bronwyn swallowed. Who was she to tell a lady no ? She led the way down the steps.

Lady Alice lifted her head and held her nose. “What a smell.”

She was right. After a pretty smile from Lady Alice, the guards let them through. But there was no denying the smell of rancid straw, chamber pots, and a rat or two scurrying past. Lady Alice gritted her teeth. “On second thought, I don’t find this very amusing, after all.”

Bronwyn nodded and went up to the guards. “Which one is de Roumare’s cell?”

“Why do you want to know that?” The man looked at her with his eyes narrowed, then observed Alice’s rich clothes, fair skin, and jet-black hair, casting her an admiring glance.

“Brother Bartholomew isn’t coming to give prayers tonight. I was asked to tell him.”

“First cell on your left.” He pointed.

Even with the glaring torches hung on the walls outside the cells, it was dark and damp. But as Lady Alice and Bronwyn stood before the cell, she could feel a man’s eyes on her. Calculating, discerning.

“What do you want?” the man asked, his voice low and rich in the darkness.

Lady Alice stepped forward, her nose in the air. “We are here to relay a message. The monk isn’t coming. You’ll have to say your prayers alone tonight and wait till tomorrow for his company.”

The man laughed.

Alice stepped back and snorted, raising her chin and speaking loftily. “If that is your attitude toward prayer, I despair of you, for you’re in desperate need of the good brother’s influence, clearly.”

The man laughed and coughed. “Yes, good lady. I’ll be sure to say my prayers. Did the brother send you?”

Alice turned to Bronwyn. “No, Sir Clarke did.”

The man rose, a solid figure outlined in black against the bright moonlight. He grunted and moved with the ease of a man quick to action, but not without aches and pains. He limped.

“Did he give no other message, girl?”

“No, none.”

“Begone. I’ll be sure to say my prayers.” He snorted and sat back down.

A rat scurried by their feet, and Alice shrieked. “What was that?”

“A rat, I think,” Bronwyn said.

“That’s it. I’ve had enough. We are leaving.” Without another word, she took Bronwyn’s hand and pulled her away, back toward the entrance with the guards. She did not say a word until they were out of the jail and back up the stone spiral staircase. “I will walk you to the gate.”

As they approached the castle entrance, Lady Alice shuddered. “What a miserable place.”

“Yes, it is.”

“What were you really doing down there?” she asked.

“Visiting my father,” Bronwyn said.

“He—oh. I remember.” She looked away. “I don’t think that man really cared about his prayers. It’s odd, don’t you think?”

“I agree.” She paused. “But that was William de Roumare.”

“So?”

“You’re supposed to know these things, right?”

“What do you mean?” Lady Alice put her hands on her hips. “I am no mind reader. You’ll have to tell me what you’re thinking.”

“You’re from Maud’s camp. Surely, you would know William de Roumare’s role in all this? Like why he’s in the dungeon?”

“No. Why would I?” She blushed and looked away. “I was only given the task recently. But I am no killer and cannot bear the sight of blood, so I wouldn’t harm a hair on your queen’s head. Not by my own hand, anyway.”

“You did throw a dagger at Sir Nicholas almost as soon as you met him,” Bronwyn pointed out.

Alice tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I knew I wouldn’t hit him. I needed a distraction. In any case, this was to be a chance to prove my loyalty to the cause. I don’t know who the other players are, only that I must find de Grecy, or barring that, the one he was working with and report back.”

Bronwyn cocked her head. What she knew could help Lady Alice, but would it help her father?

“Do you know something?” Lady Alice asked.

“You said if I introduced you to the boy you fancy, you’d try to help my father.”

“Yes.”

“The boy’s name is Rupert Bothwell. He’s squire to Sir Baldwin of Clare.” Bronwyn paused. “I told him about you. I think he’d be happy to meet you.”

“He will?” A smile took over her face and she grew excited. “I mean, of course he will.”

“I’ll introduce you both soon. But… I need to unmask de Grecy’s killer and give him up to the queen.”

“Not my queen,” Alice said.

Bronwyn pointed out, “That’s the only way my father will go free.”

“Well, I need to find whom de Grecy was working with,” she said.

They looked at each other. “Shall we work together?” Alice said.

Bronwyn nodded. “I need to learn which of the knights present at the table could have poisoned the rolls and tried to kill the king and queen, and de Grecy.”

“I can speak to them,” Lady Alice said, “If you’ll help me find out who he was working with.”

“What have you learnt so far?” Bronwyn asked.

“Well, his room was empty, and he apparently had no page or squire to speak of. I found no traces of the man he was.”

Bronwyn scratched her head. “What will you do when you find out who he was working with?”

“Return to my camp. If there’s trouble afoot, they need to know. No doubt whomever de Grecy was working with has already sent word of his death. They may send reinforcements.”

“Do you really care so much for the empress?” Bronwyn asked.

Alice raised an eyebrow and looked around to see if they could be overheard. She leaned in close and whispered in the night wind, “It’s not her, it’s what she represents. Empress Maud is not a woman without fault, assuredly, but she is hard because she has to be. She is ruthless, she is cunning, and she must be, in order to secure her crown. I would do the same thing.” She lifted her head. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“Why not? When a man runs a market stall and hopes to sell the most, or beat his fellows, is that not the same thing?”

“In a way. But this is different. I speak of crowns—you speak of market stalls.”

“We both can help each other,” Bronwyn said.

“Yes. In this case, beggars cannot be choosers.” Lady Alice’s eyes were downcast.

“Or in this case, bakers.” Bronwyn extended her arm.

Lady Alice grasped it and turned away. “Who are the knights you seek?”

“Gilbert, Bors, Clarke, Grossetete, and Gabriel. I need to know who could have reason to want de Grecy dead. I have spoken to Sir Gilbert and Sir Bors, but I’m not convinced either of them had anything to do with his death.”

“I’ll see what I can find out. Fare thee well.”

Bronwyn shuffled home through the darkness, gritting her teeth against the chill wind.