Chapter One #3
Sir Miles pulled a scrap of parchment from a pouch at his waist. The trusted advisor being so tall and thin, his belt was cinched tightly around his hips, with no weapon to speak of.
Bronwyn thought it odd, as most of the fighters and men at camp were armed.
But an idle thought struck her: maybe he didn’t need a sword to fight his battles, but words instead.
He laid the scrap on the table. Bronwyn peered at it. The note, hardly more than a few finger-spans wide, bore a crude sketch of a woman wearing a crown lying on the ground, with blood beneath her. It sent a chill through Bronwyn’s veins.
She leaned back. “That’s horrible.”
“It’s not the only one. We received this and more, once our forces aligned with Sir Robert’s,” Sir Miles said.
“Are you insinuating that one of my men had the gall to do this?” Sir Robert asked.
“Only that it is a strange coincidence. Tristan, bring forth the others.”
A young man stepped out of the shadows of the tent. Bronwyn jumped. She hadn’t even noticed he was there.
He stood tall and thin, with broad shoulders and light-blond hair, cropped short.
He was young, in his twenties, perhaps, with a slight, blond mustache and fuzz at his chin.
His mouth quivered with a sneer. Then he ignored her and opened the pouch at his waist, removing more scraps of parchment.
He laid them on the table before them all.
Each bore either a crude drawing or worse, words she could not read.
“What do they say?” Bronwyn asked.
“Threats. They threaten the empress’s life,” Tristan said, his voice low. A baritone. He looked at Sir Miles. “Master, why am I showing these to a servant? Who is she?”
Bronwyn bristled, her mouth hanging open. So rude.
“She is useful to me and has a sharper mind than most girls her age. She is not so silly as some of the ladies I know,” the empress said. “And do not question your master, boy.”
Tristan bowed his head.
Bronwyn tried not to smile. A compliment from the empress was a good day, indeed. She turned to the empress. “What would you have me do, Empress?”
The empress’s smile was like a cat luxuriating before stretching its way over. “The last note I found was beneath my trencher of food at dinner, but the pages knew nothing about it. And I found another beneath my cup at the midday meal. It is odd.”
“Even your taster didn’t see anything,” Sir Miles said.
“Your Grace has a taster?” Bronwyn asked. She’d heard about tasters before and thought, If only King Stephen and the queen had employed one, then the person might have judged for themselves the mushrooms were poisoned and my father might never have landed in prison for a crime he didn’t commit.
“Ever since there have been attacks on my life, I take no chances. I have hired a taster to try my food first,” Empress Maud told her.
Bronwyn’s eyebrows rose higher, then she nodded. Life at court was not easy.
“You will no doubt soon meet my taster, Mistress Agatha Carre,” Empress Maud said. “She will make herself known to you. Make sure she tries everything that is to be served to me at mealtimes. I want nothing to go untested. I take no chances.”
And yet, the empress had just eaten bread in front of her, with no taster present, after demanding she bring it to her herself. Perhaps it was a test, to see if she had poisoned the rolls, or as a part of her dared hope, the empress actually trusted her?
Bronwyn nodded. “I understand, Your Grace.”
“Good. Now go. If you see anyone acting suspiciously or slandering my good name, I want them reported immediately. You may tell the squires; they will let me know. Off with you.” The empress made a shooing motion with her hand.
Bronwyn curtsied and left, holding the empty, wooden platter by her side. As she exited the tent, she heard Sir Robert mutter, “I still don’t understand what you see in that girl.”
“She reminds me of me at her age,” the empress replied. “She’s young but hungry. I can tell.”
“We’re on the road. Everyone is hungry, Empress.”
“That is not what I mean, Sir Robert. She is smart. I could make something of her someday, if she lives that long.”
Bronwyn walked on, wanting to get away. Part of her wanted to dally and try to hear more, especially as they were talking about her, but there were two guards in front of the tent, and besides, she felt a chill run through her.
It was now July, but she gave a slight shiver.
These knights and rulers talked so commonly about people’s lives, as if they were disposable.
Perhaps they were. Maybe she was too. And yet, a part of her felt…
something akin to pride. The empress trusted her.
She had complimented her mind, which was rare.
Bronwyn straightened her shoulders and felt a smile come over her face.
Perhaps the empress’s camp was an all right place to be, for now.
She returned to the cooking tents. She’d felt Rupert’s and Theobold’s eyes on her whilst with the empress but had dared not address either. She had not even wanted to look at them. She hadn’t known what she’d say. They were like the sun and the moon, and she found herself caring for both.
Back at the cooking tents, Bronwyn was arms deep in gutting fish, when a familiar, low voice said behind her. “Hullo, Mistress Baker.”
She turned her head, a warm blush coming over her cheeks. It was Theobold. She couldn’t help but grin as she held out a fish head, its spine still attached. “Hullo, Theobold. Fish?”
His handsome face twisted and he turned his head at the smell. “No, thanks. I came to see you.”
She looked at him. He didn’t seem to mind that her hands were covered in foul-smelling fish guts. For some reason, that made her smile more.
“I just got back. Can we talk? Somewhere that doesn’t smell like fish?” he asked, eyeing her hands.
“Sure.” She waved against the buzzing flies, then washed her hands again, stepping aside for another servant to take over, and dried her hands with an apron before leaving the tent.
The warm July air circulated around them, and she breathed in, happy to be away from the fish for a time.
Theobold walked beside her. “How many of those fish do you have to clean?”
“As many as were caught today. What we don’t cook, we’ll preserve and take with us. Why?”
“No reason. Will you really do as the empress asks and report on the other servants?” he asked.
She glanced away for a moment. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “It wouldn’t feel right. But then again, it is the empress, and a royal order. I feel like I’m bound to obey.”
Theobold nodded unhappily.
“How was your errand?” she asked. He’d been gone for well over a month, on a mission for the empress.
But there was more to it than that, for he’d gone chasing after a lady-in-waiting, Lady Morwenna, who, as his cousin, was closely linked to him and his family, but who had betrayed the empress.
He’d gone searching for her and now was back.
His face clouded. “I can’t say much.”
“Did you find Lady Morwenna?” Much as Bronwyn disliked the former lady-in-waiting, she disliked more seeing Theobold unhappy.
“I did. She has returned to her family. In disgrace, as you might imagine. I—” He paused.
She got the sense he wanted to say more but could not. People walked around them; there was no privacy to be had. There never was at a camp.
Theobold took her hand and squeezed it. “Bronwyn, I want you to promise me something. That no matter what happens the next few days, you’ll look after yourself.”
She cocked her head. “What do you mean? What’s happening in the next few days?”
“You know we move to Winchester, but our scouts anticipate there will be fighting with Bishop Henry of Blois’s men and Matilda’s.” He paused. “Empress Maud may not show it, but she’s afraid.”
Bronwyn tensed. As the squire to the empress’s right-hand man, Sir Robert of Gloucester, he wouldn’t be saying this lightly. She asked quietly, “Theobold? What is happening?”
He rubbed the side of his face. “The empress has tasked us all with finding out who is behind the notes, but with a battle coming, I wanted you to be on your guard. Just take care, Bronwyn.” He touched his arm, where tied to it, was her kerchief, her favor, that he’d asked for and that she’d willingly given, before he went riding off on his last errand.
“This kept me safe.” He raised her hand to his lips and then walked away.
She watched him go. A part of her wanted to ask him to wait, to tell her more. But he was already off, a tall, armed figure that soon disappeared into the camp full of people.
The next morning, dawn’s early light hit Bronwyn in the face, a white hue amongst the black trees.
She was wrapped in a cloak and lay on the ground with other women servants; they banded together for protection.
Some people did have romantic liaisons while at camp, but Bronwyn was not interested in that.
She’d heard stories of young women sharing a man’s bed, only for him to be killed or never return, and for her to be with child.
She did not want to be one of them and so kept to herself.
What few smiles she did get from men, she kept a polite distance from them, preferring to be seen as a servant and not a camp wench to be bedded and discarded.
She rose early, went into the woods to relieve herself, and wiped her hands on the grass, still wet with the morning dew.
She wore a long, purple dress with laces across her bosom.
She made sure these were tied tightly and with her thin cloak around her shoulders, went to the makeshift tent used for cooking and began to help.
The orders came from on high; only the fighters were to be fed first. It was a matter of priority; the men were on the march and needed their bellies full for the fighting ahead. The rest of the servants and non-combatants would follow once it was safe.
Bronwyn worked and did not see Rupert, Theobold, or anyone else she recognized leave, but she knew the knights would take their squires with them. No man worth his salt would want to miss a battle. Especially when they fought for “the Lady of the English,” as Empress Maud called herself.
The empress may have missed being crowned queen at Westminster last month, but she had still received confirmation from Henry of Blois that the church would support her claim to the crown. That was of course, before he’d changed sides.
Bronwyn was washing purple carrots and chopping them up fine for potage, when the sound came.
The noise of men, calling, roaring, fighting.
The clash and ting of swords and weapons, the strike of blades and shields, the whir of arrows, and the rush and roaring sound of the fight reached their ears.
It sent birds flying out of the trees in sudden masses of wings and cries, as the morning’s blue sky shone down on what would otherwise be a fine summer day.
Bronwyn tensed and peeked out of the tent but saw nothing out of the ordinary, aside from fewer men present.
She rubbed her hands down her skirts and wished for a blade.
Would she need a weapon to protect herself?
She looked around. There were butchering knives and sticks. Not quite what she’d want in a fight.
Another cook, an older one, came up to stand beside her as they looked out the tent flaps. “The fighting isn’t here. It’s not far off. We’ll need to feed those we can and pack up quickly.”
Once the people were fed, Bronwyn hurried to pack up. A scout came riding into the camp, the horse’s hooves loud and thundering against the earth and grass. “Henry of Blois has besieged Winchester Castle.”
Bronwyn exchanged worried looks with the other cooks. She felt stuck, as if she’d stepped in wet mud and it threatened to pull off her shoes. What did it mean? What were they supposed to do?
Her heart thudding in her chest, she brought the scout a drink. He accepted it and drank thirstily, as she asked, “What happens now? Where is the fighting? Who’s winning?”
The scout, a slim young man in his twenties, glanced at her. “The fighting is happening at Winchester Castle. It’s by the southwest corner of the city walls. Bishop Henry’s put up a good fight, but Sir Robert of Gloucester will overpower his forces for sure.” He returned the cup and rode off.
There was a cheer, and within the hour, another scout rode in and told the servants, “He’s done it. Sir Robert of Gloucester has defeated Bishop Henry and won for the empress.”
A cheer went up amongst the servants’ ranks, and people clapped and whistled.
Bronwyn let out a sigh of relief. They were all right.
She hadn’t realized until that moment just how much her personal safety and fate depended on the forces of Empress Maud.
She relied on the men to win battles, or else she might have to run for her life and hide.
Soldiers might take political prisoners, but cooks?
Unlikely. A quick death might be a mercy.
The scout rode on to the empress’s tent. Bronwyn’s feet took her to follow him, and she wove and dodged around people and more tents. She walked around the back of the tent, where no one was, and listened closely.
The scout said loudly, “Your Grace, Bishop Henry of Blois is on the run. He’s fled, and his men are holed up in Wolvesey Castle, at the southeast corner of the city walls.”
Empress Maud said, “Excellent. Go and return to Sir Robert and tell him we will join him presently.”
The scout left. Sir Miles said, “What is your will, Empress?”
“We leave as soon as possible and siege Wolvesey Castle. While they are fighting, we will take up residence at Winchester Castle. I will leave Sir Robert to decide the details of the battle.”
Sir Miles said, “At once, Your Grace.”
Bronwyn turned to go when a hand gripped her arm and spun her around. “What are you doing here? Snooping?”
It was Tristan, Sir Miles’s sneering, self-confident squire.