Chapter One #2
Days later, Bishop Henry of Blois’s forces had attacked Winchester Castle.
The empress had been furious. She had sent messengers, scouts, ambassadors, and men, singly and in groups, to speak with Henry and convince him to stay with her.
But like so many others, the man was fickle.
Each messenger who’d returned bore the same message: No.
He’d changed his mind, his colors, his allegiance, and had gone back to Stephen’s side.
Now he had fled to Farnham, and word was that the queen was coming with mercenaries and an army over a thousand strong.
The empress had been furious. She had counted on his support, and this had been a failure in her eyes. She blamed everyone for everything. People had walked on their toes around her, figuratively. Bronwyn had heard that her rages had been legendary, and no crockery had been safe.
Bronwyn marched behind the large army, led by the empress’s half-brother, Sir Robert, the Earl of Gloucester, and master of Theobold.
The days were warm and with a large army to feed, Bronwyn and the other cooks made quick work of the provisions, preparing what they could in makeshift tents, largely open to the elements.
The empress and her close advisors were fed first, from the best birds, fish, and game caught that day.
The rest of the people simply had to wait.
Bronwyn was gutting a river fish when one of the scouts came in for a bite to eat. He stood by, watching her work, and stole a day-old roll for himself, biting into it. “Word’s come in.”
Some of the cooks looked up. Seeing he was the center of attention, the sweaty, pimply scout bit into his roll and chewed, letting more people stop and to pay attention.
He swallowed and said, “Don’t know if you’ve heard, but the rumors are true.
Matilda of Boulogne has raised an army for her husband and marched south.
She convinced that traitor, Henry of Blois, to switch sides and throw in his cap for Stephen once and for all. ”
Bronwyn looked at the other cooks’ expressions and tried to make sense of this.
Judging from their grim and sour looks, this was bad news.
Part of the empress’s claim to being a legitimate ruler came from having the bishop’s support, especially when it came to being crowned in London.
But considering how well that had turned out, perhaps this move of Henry’s was not so surprising after all.
He seemed like an opportunist, in that regard, Bronwyn thought.
“How does that affect us?” she asked.
The scout looked at her, his eyes flicking to her face and bosom, and ate more of his roll. “Henry moves to join Matilda’s camp, so their numbers will be greater. Our move may not be fast enough. We’ve seen their army on the move as well, to Winchester.”
“You’ve told the empress?” one cook asked.
“Aye. She knows. We leave at first light.” He nodded and left.
Bronwyn looked at the other cooks, her hands dripping with fish guts.
The smell of raw fish sailed to her nostrils, but she didn’t care.
What mattered was what was to become of them all.
They had been marching for weeks, ever since she and the others had fled to Oxford and regrouped with the empress’s forces, then begun a march to Winchester.
A messenger came through a few minutes later; the empress wanted a delivery of bread rolls. Bronwyn looked up. The page looked around the kitchen. “Is there a Mistress Bronwyn here?”
Bronwyn raised her hand, still covered with muck.
The page’s mouth twisted as he came over, and he sniffed. “The empress wants you to deliver some rolls to her. I can do it, but she wanted you to come in person. I don’t know why.”
Probably to make sure they aren’t poisoned, Bronwyn thought. She shrugged. “Don’t know. There’re some that we made an hour ago. I can bring those.”
She washed her hands in a bucket and dried them, then put a few of the fresh bread rolls on a wooden platter.
The page watched hungrily and licked his lips. She took an extra one and passed it to him. He nodded his thanks, and it disappeared in moments as he turned and led the way out of the kitchen.
Being on the road again, they had no building under which to take cover if attacked. They worked beneath tents, largely to prevent the food from getting rained on. Bronwyn was grateful for the fine summer weather, as it meant she could sleep beneath the stars at night and not get too cold.
She followed the page, and he led her through the makeshift camp to a series of tents.
She recognized the empress’s right away, for it was the largest and the grandest. Upon entering, she noted the empress sat at the head of a long table, and around her was Sir Robert, the Earl of Gloucester; Sir Miles Fitzwalter, her cousin and close confidant; and some other knights and squires, including Rupert and Theobold.
Her heart skipped a beat. Theobold was back.
The conversation stopped as a pair of guards let them enter the tent, and Bronwyn felt many pairs of eyes on her as she strode forward with the platter of bread rolls. The page said, “Your Grace, here are the rolls you asked for. From Mistress Bronwyn.”
“Yes, I can see that. Go on.” The empress waved a hand for him to depart.
The page bowed and left. Bronwyn curtsied and slowly raised her eyes to the empress.
Empress Maud stood tall, with her dark hair plaited in two long braids, with a headdress topped with a golden circlet.
She wore a form-fitting navy dress embroidered with shining thread, as well as a gold necklace and woven belt at her waist. The empress had the knowing eyes of a bird of prey and missed nothing.
Well into her forties, Empress Maud pursed her lips as she appraised Bronwyn.
A part of Bronwyn enjoyed the attention, especially as she was being watched, she was sure of it, by two young men whom she fancied. But there was also danger in that tent, and one wrong word could leave her without her head.
The empress held her gaze, her eyes steady. She did not speak and instead was quiet.
Bronwyn held her tongue. In another world, another life, she might have questioned this. But she was standing before an empress, and she knew well the danger that might befall her if she were to speak first.
“Good evening, Mistress Bronwyn,” said the empress. “How good to see you again. You have rolls for me?”
“Yes, Empress.”
“Good.” She motioned for her to approach, and Bronwyn began bringing them around the table, offering them to the empress first, then the men. She waited until everyone had taken one and paused for the empress to bite first.
Empress Maud nibbled at her roll, and the men partook, devouring their bread rolls within seconds. The empress ate hers and dusted crumbs off her hands.
Bronwyn bowed her head. “If that will be all, Your Grace…”
“No. That is not all. Mistress Blakenhale, what do you know of messages?” the empress asked.
“This is a bad idea, Empress,” Sir Robert said. “You should not involve her.”
Empress Maud held up a hand. “I will speak to whomever I please and involve whomever I wish. If you have no stomach for it, Robert, you may leave.”
Sir Robert stayed but held his tongue. His eyes were frosty as he surveyed Bronwyn.
“Your Grace?” she started.
“Do you know much of messages?” the empress asked.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Bronwyn said, holding the platter by her side.
“Can you read and write?”
Bronwyn felt a bit of shame come over her and lowered her eyes. She dearly wished to learn to read and write and make something more of herself. Perhaps a bit of reading might do that. But she didn’t know how, and she didn’t feel comfortable asking anyone who might show her. “No, Empress.”
The empress said, “I find this conversation tedious. Sir Miles, you tell the girl.” She drank out of a fine goblet.
Sir Miles, a tall, thin gentleman with a shock of short, dark hair and pale skin that had recently seen the sun and so bore a slightly pinkish tan, peered at Bronwyn with his brown eyes. “It has come to our attention that someone has been sending messages to Her Grace.”
“‘Messages’? You mean like what a scribe would write?” Bronwyn asked.
“This is a waste of time,” Sir Robert said.
“Hush, Sir Robert. Sir Miles, continue,” the empress said.
Sir Miles cleared his throat. “No, not those sorts of messages. Scribbles. Writs. Someone has been writing and leaving the empress little messages. Notes and sketches.”
“Oh.” So why did they wish to tell her? Bronwyn had already had to admit she couldn’t read or write.
“These messages are… Threatening. Rude. Callous. They make japes and threaten Her Grace’s life,” Sir Miles said.
Bronwyn’s eyebrows rose. She glanced at the empress, who looked at her steadily, toying with her wine. “And what is this to do with me, Sir Miles?”
His upper lip curled. “We wish for you to tell us if any of the servants have voiced… discontentment or anger towards the empress.”
“No, sir. Why would they?”
The empress smiled, but Sir Miles’s look suggested she was being naive.
He said, “Who knows? Any foul person will come up with reasons to hate a ruler. They might all be flights of fancy, but in any case, we wish you to keep your eyes and ears open. Let us know if anyone voices such thoughts. Do many of the kitchen servants read and write?”
Bronwyn shook her head. “Not that I know of. Maybe the head cook, perhaps. But I couldn’t say.”
“Well, in any case, you will let us know. We expect a fight when we reach Winchester, and it will be an opportune time for someone to attack Her Grace.”
Bronwyn glanced at Empress Maud.
“Someone here wants me dead,” the empress said. “Aside from my cousin and that witch wife of his. But someone in my court is sending me notes, and I want to know who. I want them found.”
“What if it’s just a jest, Your Grace?” Bronwyn asked.
Empress Maud’s mouth withered. “This is no jest. Show her the notes.”