Chapter Three #2
“Who else could have? No one would think to, and the servants are always clean and take care when bringing out the food. Besides, when Lady Susanna stood and raised a cry, Agatha was the only one who smiled, as if she’d won an argument. She didn’t notice, but I saw.”
“Did she say anything?” Bronwyn asked.
“Only a remark that her maid will have her work cut out for her. She said Lady Susanna should be more careful. But Agatha spoke with such a snide smile, I knew she was behind it. Lady Susanna looked as if she were about to cry and left.”
Bronwyn nodded. That confirmed what she already suspected—that the empress’s taster was not very nice at all. “Did Lady Susanna figure out she did it?”
“No. But she was upset. She didn’t like looking like a fool, and she liked her dress. It took her maid ages to get the grease stains out.”
“Have you told anyone else about Agatha?”
“No, just you. I thought with all these strange occurrences happening, you would want to know.”
“Why not tell the empress?” Bronwyn asked.
“And be asked to prove something I cannot? Don’t be daft. You know as well as I do that the empress is growing more frightened every day. The last thing she needs is to suspect those closest to her.”
“But what if they’re the problem?”
Lady Alice shook her head. “Bah, now you’re jumping to wild fanciful ideas.
You’d have us all suspect each other soon.
Agatha is vengeful and a snoop, but that’s it.
Lord, I can already see your mind jumping to conclusions.
I simply wonder if she is behind the empress’s accidents, that’s all.
Knowing your mind, you probably already wonder if she’s a killer.
Lord, Bronwyn. With you, it’s always murder on your mind.
No wonder people keep dying around you.”
“Oi, that’s not true.” Bronwyn’s mouth pulled into a half-frown.
“Isn’t it?” Lady Alice tossed her hair behind her shoulder and walked off.
Bronwyn returned to her work. But as she toiled with the other servants amongst the rows of finely tilled cared-for plants, pulling up weeds and wiping the sweat from her brow, her thoughts drifted to Rupert and Theobold.
A part of her cared for them both, deeply, with a passion that surprised her.
She hadn’t expected to care for these two young men so much.
They were so different, and she’d only known them both a short time.
Was it love, or a misplaced affection for friends?
She wasn’t sure. She smiled at the brewer, Peter, who stood across the field, walking away, having finished a conversation with another servant.
She raised a hand in greeting, but he walked past her, his face as dark as a storm cloud.
That evening, Bronwyn decided to pay a visit and brought a spare roll she’d made that day.
It was one of the mistakes, meaning one that the head cook, Hugh, had deemed too rough and not good enough to serve to the aristocrats and empress’s men at the high tables.
She pocketed the roll, a simple, round bread roll dusted with too much flour, and walked down to the castle brewery, relishing the heady scent of hops, barley, oats, and alcohol.
She enjoyed the rich smells and found Peter working busily as in the cavernous underground space, he surveyed wide vats of liquid that gave off an unpleasant smell. She pinched her nose and wrinkled her eyes as she waved.
“Hello there, Bronwyn.” He put aside the quill, ink, and parchment he was working with.
“What are you working on?” she asked.
“A bit of tallying figures.” He moved the parchment aside, but not before she saw a humorous doodle on the outside of his tallying list.
“Sorry to disturb you. I brought you this.” She gave him the roll.
He took the roll with black ink-stained fingers and ate it in about two seconds. “Delicious, although not as good as your other ones.” He wiped the crumbs from his shirt and looked out over the vat.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Malting.” He grinned. “I’m brewing grain. We steep this in water, and when it’s warm enough, this will sprout. When that happens, it releases noxious vapors in the air and the malting mix of grain will change into a sort of sugar within the grain.”
Bronwyn scratched her head. “Is it safe?”
“You wouldn’t want to drink it yet or eat it. But once the process is finished, it can be a light or dark beer, depending on whether I roast the grain.” He raised a bushy black eyebrow. “What can I do for you? I presume you didn’t come all this way to learn about brewing.”
“No reason. I saw you earlier in the castle gardens and waved, but you didn’t see me and looked angry. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
His expression softened. “I’m fine. Just a difference of opinion.”
“Oh?”
He cocked his head. “None of your business, girl. Or shall I start calling you ‘Bronwyn the Busybody’?”
She smiled thinly. “Just asking.” She turned to go.
“Wait a minute. Stay.” He breathed in and said, “I don’t know how much you know about what goes on here, since you’re new and all. But… Not everyone is happy here. There were some who agreed with Henry of Blois’s decision to leave the empress, and who would have gone with him.”
“Who?”
He tapped his nose. “Like I’m going to start wagging my tongue like a common fishwife. No, girl. Just be wary of who you talk to. Not everyone believes in the empress’s claim to the crown, and they won’t like a young woman going around asking questions.”
“Do you believe in her claim?” she asked.
“Of course. I always have. I’m the empress’s man, through and through.” He smiled, showing too many yellow teeth.
Bronwyn nodded and left, feeling Peter’s eyes on her back, like an itch between her shoulder blades. She’d gone to check on him and left feeling rather wary. Perhaps he wasn’t as honest as he seemed, or maybe she had just offended him slightly. Either way, she felt uneasy as she left the brewery.
That evening after dinner, Bronwyn was walking through the castle corridors, away from the kitchen, when she heard a voice call out, “Mistress Bronwyn?”
She turned. At the top of a stairwell stood Lady Susanna. Her face was pale.
Bronwyn stared at her. The last time she’d seen the lady-in-waiting, she had been acting suspiciously ahead of the empress’s attempted coronation last June.
Seeing her in the flesh now, Bronwyn wanted to turn and run.
Anything to stay far away from this troublesome young woman. Instead, she asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Come. Please,” Lady Susanna beckoned. Still plump, with dark-auburn hair and rosy cheeks, with freckles, the young woman looked as pretty and innocent as ever, but Bronwyn knew better.
Bronwyn followed her up the winding stone staircase and up into the hallway that led to the ladies’ rooms, including that of the empress. Lady Susanna swallowed. “Um… How good are you at cleaning up messes?”
“Good enough, why?”
“Good. In here.” Lady Susanna led the way down to the empress’s bedroom and motioned for the guards to move aside. “It’s me, let us in. She needs to clean the mess.”
“What mess?”
“In here.” Lady Susanna motioned for Bronwyn to follow her in, where there, on the empress’s fine four-poster bed, was a mess.
One of her pillows had been sliced and torn to pieces, and feathers had littered the bed like snow, covering the fine coverlets and the floor.
A stark, angry-looking knife with a wicked blade pinned the pillowcase to the bed, a warning.
Lady Susanna babbled, “The empress bid me fetch her a shawl from her room, and when I came in, I saw some of the tapestries move, as if a spirit were walking around. I nearly fainted when I saw the mess. Do you think it was a spirit sent by God to warn her?”
Bronwyn walked over to the bed, surveying the mess, picked up the knife, and hefted the handle.
The knife had some weight to it. This was no slim, delicate knife, like what a person would use for eating, or that a more discerning woman might use for defense.
From its wickedly curved blade and the slight discoloration on it, it was evident it had been used before.
This was a killing weapon, pure and simple.
Even to Bronwyn’s unpracticed eye, she knew this weapon was made for murderous intent.
The fact it was found plunged into the empress’s pillow sent a chill through her.
She pinned the blade’s handle to her side and picked up the ruined pillowcase, her fingers going through one of the cuts.
“No, Lady Susanna. Somehow, I doubt spirits carry knives.”