Chapter Two #3
She hoped her warm cheeks didn’t betray her.
She didn’t want to blush and reveal to him that she cared.
Rupert and Theobold had been watching her?
If only that were true. She wished, nay hoped, that their curiosity meant something more.
That she meant something more to them than just a young woman worth some idle curiosity.
She looked up into Tristan’s eyes. They were blue and wary, unfriendly.
He wore a short sword and scabbard at his waist, with a coin pouch, and rested his hands easily, one on the wall barring her exit.
He didn’t look apprehensive at all about disturbing her; in fact, he seemed completely relaxed about it all.
Attractive as he was, Bronwyn didn’t know him, and that meant she couldn’t trust him. “I’m nobody. Nobody important, anyway. And no one’s bastard niece, twice removed. Just a servant. I work in the kitchens. I come from Lincoln and—”
“Enough. You’re no one, I understand. I don’t need your life story.” Tristan turned on his heels and left her standing there.
Rude, Bronwyn thought. But perhaps that was the world as Tristan had come to know it. People served a purpose, and if they weren’t someone important, they were useless and beneath his notice. Maybe he was the bastard.
Bronwyn returned to the kitchen and joined the staff in preparing geese and ducks for the nobles’ dinner.
She didn’t serve at the high table but listened eagerly as the pages returned with empty platters and trenchers to the kitchen and regaled them with news.
One page, a scrawny youth of about age ten, said, “Sir Robert is leaving.”
Master Hugh stopped. “What do you mean?”
The page said, “I heard them talking. He’s planning to take his men to Wolvesey Castle in the city and defend there, and the empress and her men will stay here. They’re planning to fight,” he squeaked.
Bronwyn breathed in and out through her nose. If the rumors were true, then Henry of Blois truly had turned his back on the empress and was allying with Stephen’s wife, Matilda, or as the empress called her, “the Witch of Boulogne.”
Master Hugh made space for the pages at the table, where they ate a quick dinner.
As everyone tucked in, he rubbed the back of his neck and waited.
Once Hugh had everyone’s attention, he said, “Right. I don’t know the empress’s plans for the castle and what we know now might not be true tomorrow.
But there are a lot of new faces here, and I know that we might not all agree on politics.
Don’t matter if you like the new empress or not. It concerns all of us, so listen up.”
Bronwyn tensed, then realized he was right.
The empress had taken over Winchester Castle, but just a day earlier, the castle and its servants had been under the rule of Henry of Blois.
Now that the bishop had thrown his lot in with Stephen, what did that mean for the remaining servants?
Where did their loyalties lie? Bronwyn swallowed.
How much could she say about her own situation?
And she had an ever-plaguing thought: to which ruler was she loyal?
She didn’t entirely know. She would never forgive the king for imprisoning her father when he’d been innocent; the time in prison had not been good for his health or mind, not to mention his spirit.
But the queen had been kind to her, and the empress was complimentary, even if she was demanding most of the time.
Mostly, Bronwyn felt tired of being pulled into one scheme after another.
Not for the first time, she wished she could go home.
But she had no home, not any longer. Since the battle of Lincoln, she didn’t even know if her family members were still alive.
Theobold had been kind enough to take her back to visit their old bakery a few months back, but it had been empty, except for squatters. So now she stayed with the empress’s camp. At least here, she felt safe enough, and she had work and food. Here at least, she felt useful.
Master Hugh continued. “But this is the situation we’re in, so let’s make the best of it. Work together and survive the day. Everyone who’s not had a bite to eat yet already, eat. Then it’s clean up and off to bed, you sorry lot.”
Bronwyn finished a hot meal of potage on a stale bread trencher she shared with another cook and cleared away dishes, washing and stacking bowls and trenchers and wiping down tables.
She worked until there wasn’t much left to do, and even the pot washers and spit turners had gone to bed.
A voice at her side said, “Oi. New girl.”
Bronwyn looked. A kitchen maid stood there. She stood small, thin, with wispy, blonde hair. “I’m Mary. Do you know where you’re sleeping tonight?”
“No.” Bronwyn hadn’t thought much about it and wiped sweat off her brow. No matter the season, the kitchen was hot.
“Right. There’re a few spaces left on the floor of the great hall, or there’s space in the loft, the towers, or the cellar. What do you fancy?”
“Where do the women sleep?”
“Anywhere.”
“Show me the cellar?” Bronwyn asked. “It’ll be cool in there.”
“Sure. Come on, you can sleep by me.”
Bronwyn nodded and followed Mary through the series of corridors and back stairs and down floors. Mary wasn’t much of a talker, and Bronwyn quickly lost her way. “Where are we?”
“This way. Not much farther.”
To Bronwyn’s surprise, they weren’t in the brewery, but a small, chilled dairy slightly below ground.
The air changed and was slightly cooler, and she loved it.
After walking in the hot sun and then working for hours, it was as though her body started to relax, and her legs and thigh muscles ached.
Her feet began to drag and soon tiredness came over her.
Mary whispered to her for quiet and motioned for Bronwyn to follow.
Down in the dairy, it was cool and dark, and Mary carried a candle with her, its small flame flickering, casting shadows on the still-lying forms of servants already sleeping like the dead.
But then when there was such work to be done, it was no great surprise that the people slept heavily.
Mary showed her a spot next to a wall and gave her a spare blanket.
Almost as soon as she’d laid her head on the ground, Bronwyn fell asleep.
The next day, Bronwyn woke before dawn. As she stretched, tiptoed out of the cellar’s darkness so as not to wake the other servants, found the privy and went to the kitchen to start on cooking for the day, she peeked outside one of the castle windows.
Birds chattered and tittered amongst themselves overhead, huddling on trees and parapets adorning the castle walls.
The air was deliciously cool and even though the city was full of houses and buildings, the sky had a pink, hazy hue, which soon became interspersed with swatches of golden clouds.
When the sun appeared, it was an aggressive, angry ball of orange and red, blinding anyone who dared look.
Bronwyn quickly looked away and went in search of some food.
Once she had eaten a bit of bread, she started preparations for baking.
Sometimes days were chaotic, but some things stayed the same, and the demand for bread was constant.
She started to prep the dough and roll it out, finding the work relaxing.
With her blonde hair tied back in a plain kerchief and the apron at her waist, she whistled a little tune, however off-key.
The brewer she’d met the previous day, Peter Fforde, had entered the kitchen in search of food. He had a bottle of wine to taste and was just about to pour a cup when a maid came down, looking shaken. Bronwyn turned to her. “You all right?”
The maid shook her head.
“What’s wrong?”
“The empress. She… She’s had a fright,” the maid uttered.
Bronwyn and Peter looked at each other. “Give me the bottle,” Bronwyn said.
Peter thrust it at her. She took it and the cup and bid the maid to lead her to the empress.
The maid, evidently relieved at having something to do, started to get a hold of her wits and led the way, through corridors and up circular, stone stairwells, to a high series of rooms. They heard shouting and cursing, and armed men tromped through the corridor.
Bronwyn followed the maid to a closed door, which was barred by two guards. The guards held pikes in front of them. “Clear off,” one said.
“I’ve got wine for the empress,” Bronwyn explained.
One of the guards raised an eyebrow. “Doubt she’ll be wanting wine at this hour.”
“Who knows, Alfred, she might do,” the other said.
“Who’s there? What’s all that racket?” a female voice called out from within.
“That’s it.” The second guard opened the door. “A maid for you, Your Grace.”
“Send her in,” a voice called.
The guards stood aside. The maid was going no further, so Bronwyn lifted her head high and strode in.
The empress had taken residence of a large, grand bedroom, Bronwyn realized.
A solar, as it was known, where the master of the castle slept.
It looked very fine and held tables, chairs, traveling chests, a raised bed with fine furs, and beside it, stood a very frustrated-looking empress, whose light-brown hair was long and disheveled, her expression pinched, and her lips pursed in displeasure as she clutched her robe about her.
Beside her stood the lean form of Sir Miles, who looked none too happy at the interruption.
“What do you want?” Sir Miles asked.
“I heard…” Bronwyn started. “A maid said the empress might like some wine.”
The empress’s hard gaze flickered at Bronwyn. “Yes, I would. Pour me some.”
Bronwyn stepped forward, the cup and bottle in hand, keenly aware of eyes on her. Her nose wrinkled at an odd, pungent smell in the room. She opened the bottle when Sir Miles said, “Stop. Don’t pour it in that. That sort of cup is for servants. Pour it in this.” He pointed to a metal goblet.