Chapter Two #4
Bronwyn nodded and set the cup aside, pouring the wine instead into the goblet.
“W-What if it’s poisoned?” the empress asked. “Where is Agatha? My taster?”
“I do not know, empress,” Bronwyn said.
“You taste it, then.”
Bronwyn looked down at the goblet she held. She knew at once that the empress would not care to drink from a goblet that had touched her own lips, so she poured some of the wine into the original plain cup and tasted some. The rich, red wine made her blink. “It’s good.”
“Fine. You may leave,” Sir Miles said.
“No, wait. Stay a moment, Bronwyn,” the empress said.
Bronwyn waited.
“What do you see?” The empress gestured toward the bed.
The bed was very fine, decorated with lavish coverlets and furs. Except for an odd smell. It smelled like… feces. Urine.
She looked closer. The sheets and covers were smeared with both, as if someone had emptied a chamber pot over the empress’s bed.
Bronwyn tensed at the sight. “What happened?”
“What does it look like? Someone came in here and dumped that filth on my bed. I was at prayer in the chapel and wasn’t here at the time, thank goodness. But whoever did it left that mess for me to see.” Empress Maud shuddered.
“Who would have done this?” Bronwyn asked.
“Someone wishes to scare her. I think it is the same person as the one who has drawn all those nasty pictures, empress,” Sir Miles said. “There is a traitor in our midst.” He looked sourly at Bronwyn.
“It’s clear to me,” the empress began, “that there is a killer here. No doubt planted here by Stephen and his witch of a wife. I’m sure they hired some poor fool to do their bidding. But who? Who would dare?”
Silence was her only answer.
“Bronwyn,” the empress started, “you were good at finding out Sir Bors’s treachery, and Lady Morwenna’s… mistakes. Look into this for me. Tell no one. The only people who know about this are in this room. And the maid outside. Understand?”
Bronwyn met Sir Miles’s eyes, and the empress’s.
A part of her wanted to refuse. Her place was in the kitchens, baking bread.
Preparing meals, not hunting down foul tricksters at a royal court.
But… another part of her wanted to help.
It wasn’t right, this person, messing about with the empress.
And if she were being true to herself, she liked the thrill of the chase, asking questions and learning information, to solve a crime.
She’d been useful, more so than just by delivering a platter of bread and jug of wine, or making a nice meal.
She felt valued for her mind, and that filled her with pride and she dared think, ambition.
“Yes, Empress,” Bronwyn said. There, she’d said it. There was no turning back now.
“Good. I want this traitor found.”
Sir Miles escorted Bronwyn outside the room.
“Girl. Bronwyn. Whilst the servants clean away the mess, I will pen a message for Sir Robert of Gloucester, and I want you to take it to him. He’s at St. Swithun’s, on the northeast side of the city.
It is a church, built over the gate. He should be there. If not, he’ll be at the cathedral.”
Bronwyn blinked. “Why not send a page, or a pigeon?”
He cocked his head. “Because the empress trusts you, and I wish to test your mettle. What I have is of utmost importance and besides, servants go everywhere. No one will notice another one walking around.”
She swallowed. “Is it safe?” Then she realized, did she have a choice?
If she walked away now, she could kiss any hope of being useful, necessary, and important goodbye.
She would become and have proven herself to be exactly how she had described herself to Tristan earlier: a nobody.
But this was a chance. This might just be her chance, to prove her worth to people who made decisions.
She could make her mark on history; she could—
“It will be less safe the longer you dally. Now, will you take my message or not?” Sir Miles asked.
She nodded. “I will.”
“Good. Follow me.” He led the way down the corridor, to a smaller set of rooms. He entered and sat at a small writing desk, dipped his quill in an inkwell, and set to work, his goose-feather quill scratching on a bit of parchment.
He blew on the ink to dry it quickly and once satisfied, folded and sealed it.
He gave it to Bronwyn. “Deliver this by hand to Sir Robert, and him only. No one else. And you can’t read, can you? ”
She shook her head.
“Good.” He motioned for her to leave.
She dashed down to the kitchen and told Master Hugh where she was going. He frowned but waved a hand. “Be off with you, but come right back. The city’s not safe right now, day or night.”
Bronwyn left the castle and trudged down the grassy hill, the folded-up bit of parchment tucked away in her sleeve.
She walked through the city, losing her way several times.
The few people she passed were in a hurry and looked nervous.
Few were willing to stop and give directions, mostly just pointing.
Eventually, Bronwyn found St. Swithun’s church and was let in, once she said she had a message for Sir Robert of Gloucester.
The guards at the gate looked down their noses at her, when horns blazed, and the sound of hundreds of marching feet sounded in the distance. Bronwyn froze. “What’s happening?”
One guard said, “The fighting’s starting.
Go home.” The guards shuffled her aside as fighters hurried past. Bronwyn passed armed men, fighters, hurrying by in armor, swords and shields in their hands.
She did not see Robert anywhere, and everyone was too busy to ask.
Racing up and down corridors, Bronwyn finally went up to the turrets and parapets, where she found him.
Breathless, hot and sweaty from climbing stone stairwells, she spotted Sir Robert standing at the top of the walkways, a hand over his eyes.
“Sir Robert,” she said, approaching him.
He turned, surrounded by a handful of men, Theobold among them.
Her heart beat faster at the sight of Theobold in his element. He was dressed for fighting, his expression serious. His eyes widened at seeing her, but he made no comment.
Sir Robert’s bushy eyebrows furrowed. “You? What do you want?”
“Sir Miles asked me to deliver a message for you.” She plucked the folded-up bit of parchment from her sleeve and held it up.
Men stared at her, their unfriendly eyes raking her from head to toe. Bronwyn ignored them.
“Sir Miles sent you? Fine, give it here.” Sir Robert snatched it and read its contents, his frown growing at every written word.
He crumpled the paper and tossed it aside.
“I don’t have time to waste with Miles’s messages.
The empress will have to hold out where she is. You should return whilst you can.”
“I’ll see her out,” Theobold said.
“No, Theobold, I need you.” Sir Robert rattled off orders and sent Theobold on his way.
As Theobold passed her, he touched her hand and whispered, “Stay safe.”
Bronwyn tensed. The sound of men marching grew louder. From atop the parapet, she had an excellent view, and it made her breath catch.
It was her first time seeing an army up close.
Rows and columns of men marched in formation, up to the city gates, stretched as far as she could see.
Cavalry moved in formation. Men armed with spears, pikes, swords, and bows and arrows.
They were far too close. Hundreds upon hundreds of men stretched back as far as she could see.
And there, marching at the head of the column, sat aside a white horse, was Matilda, the Countess of Bourlogne.
Her long hair flowed over her shoulders like streamers, waving in the wind, and she wore a breastplate of armor over her dress.
Bronwyn blinked at the sight. Matilda was beautiful, but somehow even more so in her simplicity, for she rode alone at the head of a column of hundreds of men.
“My god, is that…?” a man said.
“It’s Matilda. Stephen’s wife,” Sir Robert said darkly. “She’s got balls, I’ll give her that.”
Bronwyn watched as the queen entered the city gates and approached.
Matilda, resplendent in a cloak, helmet, and sword, pulled her white horse up short and called out, demanding the release of her husband.
She entreated their surrender and her husband’s safe return.
Her beauty was unmistakable and her gaze fierce, even from far away.
She looked up at the parapets, where Sir Robert stood.
Her hair shone in the sun, and the rows of hundreds of fighters behind her stood solemnly, awaiting her command.
They stood in formation, ready to fight.
Sir Robert pulled up his belt and called out, “End this foolish tirade, woman. Your husband failed and now rots in a Bristol prison. Do not come crying to me because he was foolish enough to get caught.”
Matilda’s cheeks turned rosy. “Where is your mistress, Sir Robert? Or is she too afraid to show herself? I could well understand, considering the people’s reception of her in London.”
The men laughed at this behind her, all smiles. It was no great secret that the empress had fled London pursued by an angry mob.
They traded insults a while longer before Sir Robert motioned to the archers to be ready.
The archers along the parapet raised their bows, and the queen paused.
“I ask you one more time, Sir Robert. Tell your mistress to end her foolish crusade. Enough men have died. This country belongs to my husband, the true King of England.”
There was a roar and a cheer as the men behind her clapped and voiced their agreement. Matilda waited for this to quiet down and held a hand for silence.
Sir Robert bellowed, “Fine words for a woman. Shame your husband isn’t here to defend himself. But then, it’s hard to from prison, eh? Has he sent you to lead his army?” He jeered, and the men laughed with him.