Chapter Two #2
With the empress and her retinue leading the way, their party entered through Winchester’s city gates and past homes, great buildings, churches, and even a nunnery to the royal castle.
Unlike other times when rulers would be lauded and praised, the people of Winchester stayed indoors and did not come out to welcome the empress and her forces.
They hid behind their wooden shutters and closed doors, and it wasn’t quiet, but there were no crowds of cheering people to welcome them.
Bronwyn wondered how the empress would react to this, then decided that all must be taken as it happened in war.
For that was what this was. She released a nervous exhale, not realizing she’d been holding her breath, as if expecting an attack at any moment.
Even as she breathed again, she still felt her shoulders raised, as if she expected arrows to fly or a fighter to call out to duck and hide.
She didn’t feel safe, even within the city walls.
An eerie silence hung in the air as Empress Maud’s retinue walked, their shoes and boots making a steady echoing yet monotonous, repetitive thud as they reached farther into the city.
Winchester was a grand city, Bronwyn could tell.
Its buildings were a mix of small and large but overall charming, and the dirt roads were wide.
Winchester itself was not so big, but she got the sense that without an invading army passing through, the streets would have been teeming with people.
They eventually climbed the hill and reached the gates of Winchester Castle and were welcomed by armed guards, who lowered the gates.
Bronwyn joined the other crowds of servants who followed in the empress’s wake, passing into a decent-sized castle courtyard.
Horses were seen to, groomsmen, stableboys, and men in livery, all of whom had a bustling, busy chaotic energy, but it was comforting in a way.
This was chaos she knew and recognized. When she reached the kitchen, she imagined she would relax further still.
Perhaps it’s part of being a city person, Bronwyn thought. Give her merchants and hot bread, a great big oven, and herbs, and she would be happy. No being out in the open, waiting for an attack.
Bronwyn was about to head down to the kitchens when she heard a lady call out, “Branwine? Bronwin Baker? Browinna?”
Most of the servants ignored her. But her name was not especially common, so she came forward and nodded. “Yes? I am Bronwyn. Bronwyn Blakenhale.”
“You are Bronwyn the baker?”
“I am.”
The older woman surveyed her from head to toe.
She herself looked about fifty, with an angular face and short, brown hair interwoven with silver, pinned back beneath a veil.
She wore a dress of grey wool that looked dirty from the journey, and her skin was tanned and weatherworn. Her eyes were sharp.
“I am Agatha Carre. You are the kitchen maid the empress has told me about.” Her lower lip jutted out, and her nose twitched, as if she smelled something obnoxious.
She eyed Bronwyn from head to toe, taking in her dull, purple woolen dress, the plain kerchief around her long, blonde hair, and the rough-spun apron at her waist, which draped down to the thin shoes she wore.
Bronwyn had been assessed by people of higher rank than Agatha before and was used to their looks and the intention behind them.
The look was no doubt meant to put her ill at ease, to make her feel less than.
But she refused to let them make her feel this way, so she raised her chin higher, meeting Agatha’s eyes. “Yes, Mistress Carre.”
The woman harrumphed. “Well, you have manners, at least. Fetch some food and wine for the empress.”
Bronwyn said, “I’ll send a page for it, mistress.”
Agatha’s gaze sharpened. “I told you to do it and do it you shall. Or you’ll feel the worse for it.” Her right hand clenched and Bronwyn got the impression the woman was not above slapping servants to get her way.
“Yes, mistress.” Bronwyn did not bow or curtsy and simply turned her back on her. There was a loud, indignant sniff at her back, but she did not care. The woman had airs, and Bronwyn had yet to see how she deserved them.
Bronwyn found her way to the castle kitchens, which were of a good size, and reported to the cooks in charge.
The head cook, Master Hugh Hoyle, a big, swarthy fellow with black hair and brawny arms as thick as hams, fixed her with a solid stare.
“You’ve just gotten here and you’re already giving me orders? No.”
“Master Hoyle, it was ordered. If the empress ordered it and doesn’t get what she wants…”
“Oh, yes, I know. And we can’t displease the empress, now, can we?
” he muttered as he wandered a few steps, then said, “All right.” He pointed to where the servants prepared fresh bread, the cooking spits, the worktables, and where she might find flour and grain.
“Some loaves have just baked, so take some of those and go see the brewer. Tell him Master Hoyle sent you and don’t go sampling the wine yourself, girl. Off with you.”
Bronwyn first ventured to the brewery, which was a few rooms away, belowground.
She did not mind wandering about the castle, for it was a new place to explore.
Her feet felt tired and sore, but it was all kind of exciting.
A new place, a new castle. She wondered how long they would be staying and followed her nose to the smell of fermenting beer and ale.
Bronwyn walked down, disliking the lonesome echo of her shoes hitting the stone steps.
The air was moist, the area dark but for a few torches.
She called out, “Hallo?” and stepped down into the brewery.
Squinting into the dark area, Bronwyn breathed in the strong scents of hops, barley, wheat, and beer.
The cavernous space was dimly lit and filled with hundreds of wooden casks.
The sound of scratching hit her ears. In the center of the space stood a tall, middle-aged man with a narrow face, working atop an overturned barrel, writing with a quill and ink on a roll of parchment. His eyes flicked to her. “You there. You lost?”
“No, I’ve got an errand.”
“And you are?”
“Bronwyn Blakenhale.”
“Well, Bronwyn Blakenhale. I’m Peter Fforde, the master brewer here. You said you had an errand?”
She nodded. Master Peter seemed like a kind enough fellow.
Upon closer inspection, she noticed he had thinning, short-brown hair, a rather pointed nose and angular chin, with red cheeks and with a few burst veins.
His dark eyes were merry as he pushed up the sleeves of his blue shirt and picked up a stray, wooden cup and filled it from the cask. “Taste this.”
Bronwyn backed away. “Why?”
“Tell me what you think. Go on. It won’t harm you.”
She took the cup and tasted the liquid. It had a funny odor that made her wrinkle her nose. “Um… It smells like wine. But it’s a little… sour?”
“Rancid. I knew it. If bottled too long, wine can turn to vinegar. Can’t serve that. But there will always be some who are ready to drink it. We’ll save it and give it to the servants for later. What was it you wanted?”
She returned the cup. “Just a bit of wine for the empress.”
“So she’s here. Brilliant. We’ll have someone to test the wine. And she’s French. I bet she’ll be a real expert on fine wine.” He rubbed his long hands together and crossed the room to fill a wine bottle from a cask, then corked it.
As he worked, she cast her eyes down at what he was writing. She couldn’t read or write, of course, but she could make out that he was drawing some funny pictures and doodles on what looked to be a ledger or list.
He approached, a wine bottle in hand. “This is better. Take this and let me know what she thinks. Don’t forget.”
“All right.” Bronwyn thanked him and returned to the kitchen, where she explained her errand, taking some fresh bread on a wooden trencher.
But once she exited the kitchen, Bronwyn realized she didn’t know where to go.
She stopped a servant. “Um… I have these for the empress. Do you know where she is?”
“I’ll take you,” Tristan said, from behind her. “This way.”
She followed him, trencher and bottle in hand, conscious he did not offer to help her carry anything.
This lack of concern was made especially clear as they walked up a circular staircase and she had to be careful not to drop anything.
She was shown the way by Tristan and delivered the tray of bread rolls and the bottle of wine, along with a small stack of cups tucked under her left arm.
The empress was absent, and the ladies-in-waiting largely ignored her, aside from Mistress Agatha, who clapped her hands. “Finally. It took you long enough.”
“I didn’t know you ordered food and drink,” Lady Alice said, looking up from her sewing.
“I was hungry and thought you all might want some.”
“I thought these were for the empress.”
Lady Alice glanced at the taster. “You told her these were for Empress Maud? You lied?”
“No, of course not. I mean, they are, in a way…”
The room had gotten quiet, then all the ladies started talking as Mistress Agatha grew red in the face.
Bronwyn quickly set up the cups, wine and bread, bowed and quit the room, where Tristan was waiting for her. “Who are you?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Are you someone’s daughter? A high-born niece? Some half-royal bastard twice removed?”
She blinked at him. “What makes you say that?” I’m nobody, she thought.
“The empress called for you by name. You’re trusted.
Otherwise, they wouldn’t have asked you about the messages the empress got.
And you’re a servant, but not just any ordinary servant.
Otherwise, they wouldn’t have asked you to spy on the others.
And the other squires couldn’t take their eyes off you earlier. Who are you?”