Chapter Six #3
Bronwyn closed the door behind her. Sister Rebecca struck her as a bit formal, but she was civil enough, though with stiffer manners. She liked Sister Joan more, but the young woman seemed a touch wilder and more reckless.
After the evening meal, when the servants were cleaning up, washing pots, wiping down wooden trenchers, and serving platters, Bronwyn saw a few cooks talking together. One looked confused, another angry. A few darted little suspicious looks around.
Bronwyn wiped her hands on her apron and wandered over. “What’s wrong?”
One of the cooks, an older man with strong features, a sloping chin, and dark hair that fell into his eyes, said, “Come quick. There’s been a spot of bother out by the sheep’s herd.”
Bronwyn cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”
“Come.” The cook beckoned, and Bronwyn followed him out, with a few others. Once outside, she could hear Hugh’s bellowing voice from a fair distance away, and it soon quieted to angry mutters.
“Did something happen?” Bronwyn asked. She wondered, What’s wrong with the sheep herd?
The cook didn’t answer.
She took a path around the castle, to behind the stables, where a shepherd stood off to the side of a group of men. Bronwyn recognized the group as guards and cooks. She approached the shepherd first.
“Hullo,” Bronwyn said.
The shepherd, a young man with short-cropped, blond hair and tanned skin, nodded to her. He leaned on a shepherd’s crook and watched the herd mournfully.
Not very talkative, Bronwyn thought. She stepped around the group and shouldered her way in to see the mess. Hugh stood with a number of the cooks, guards, and men-at-arms.
She asked one of the cooks, “What happened?”
The cook pointed. Then she saw it. The carcass of a sheep, slaughtered. Blood was everywhere. But strangely enough, the head was missing. It was a bloody stump of gore, bone, and gristle. Bronwyn repressed a shudder and felt queasy. “Who would do such a thing?”
The cook cursed and shrugged.
She looked over and the shepherd, a towheaded young man perhaps a few years older than her, stood off to the side, leaning on his shepherd’s crook. His young face was drawn and unhappy, and he said not a word to anyone.
Bronwyn approached him. “Are you all right?”
His eyes flicked to her. He gave a slight shake of his head.
“Can you tell me what happened?” she asked.
“What does it matter? A sheep is dead.” He breathed in and out through his nose.
She swallowed and nodded. “Where were you when it happened?”
He glared at her. “Asleep. It’s not safe to sleep outdoors.
” His gaze flicked to the tall, stone walls.
“But now I’m not leaving. That’s the last time I sleep away from the sheep.
I knew when Spot started barking that something was wrong, but I didn’t pay attention.
And now one of them’s dead.” His shoulders slumped. “I should’ve listened to her.”
“Who?”
“The dog, Spot. She knew something was wrong.” He watched a small terrier circle around the sheep herd, barking.
“When was this?”
“Middle of the night. She just started barking and I took her outside so she could piss, and that’s when she ran off toward the herd and I found her. Like that.”
The ground was trampled over many times by sheep, the blood having stained their hooves and the bottom of their shaggy coats.
Bronwyn felt slightly disgusted, knowing that the dead animal’s fellow sheep had trampled on the scene.
But that was animals, she realized. She ignored the group of men standing around talking and walked around the scene, examining the ground.
The area was dirty, as one might expect, and the space was covered in bloody hoofprints and men’s footprints.
She peered at the ground when a male voice said, “What are you doing?”
She turned. It was Tristan.
“Looking for anything that might show who did this.”
He laughed. “You’re a strange one. You think you’re going to find anything like that in the mud?”
She shrugged and felt her face warm. She didn’t like being laughed at. “Maybe.”
“Good luck. The whole area is covered with blood and dirt. Next, you’ll be thinking one of the other sheep did it.” He grinned.
She bit her lip. “I’m not thinking that. But…”
“What?”
“Well… Whoever did it didn’t know what they were doing. It’s messy.” She peered at the neck of the butchered sheep. “Whoever did this didn’t use a cleaver, or one of the big blades we have in the kitchen.”
A few of the cooks were listening now. “How do you know that?” one asked.
Bronwyn stepped closer to the animal carcass and pointed at the bloody stump of the neck. “Look at it. I don’t know much about butchery, but that looks messy to me.”
One of the cooks stepped over and inspected it. “She’s right. Hugh, come take a look at this.”
The men gathered around and looked down at the carcass. “You’re right. Whoever did this isn’t one of us.”
Tristan said, “I’m playing the devil’s advocate here, but how do you know that? How many of you know how to butcher a sheep?”
The men looked at him as a group. Their expressions were unfriendly. One growled, “We know our craft, lad.”
Tristan backtracked. “I’m saying there’s a skill to it, right? Not just anyone could do that. So why couldn’t it be one of you?”
Bronwyn’s eyes widened a fraction. Tristan was digging himself into a hole here, metaphorically speaking.
Some of the cooks looked confused and one scratched his head, another his beard.
“So wait, are you calling us unskilled?” one cook said.
“Or do you think we could’ve done it?” another asked.
Tristan held up his hands. “Neither. I just mean—”
“Why don’t you go back to your business, lad, and leave this to us. Unless you have butchery skills we don’t know about?” Hugh asked.
Tristan turned pink. “No, I just was saying that—”
“We’ve heard enough of your talk. Clear off.” One cook jerked his thumb away.
Tristan stepped back. “All right, all right. I was just saying—”
“We know what you were saying,” Hugh said. “Go on, lad.”
“My name is Tristan Langforde. I’m the squire to Sir Miles Fitzwalter.”
“Aye and when we want Sir Miles’s opinion on a dead sheep, we’ll know just who to ask,” Hugh said, earning a few smiles from the cooks.
“Where is Sir Miles now?” Bronwyn asked.
“Here of course. He’s helping the empress. She needs all the help she can get.”
A few of the cooks exchanged looks at this. Bronwyn noted that Tristan seemed completely unaware.
“That’s the empress you’re talking about, son,” Hugh said.
“Yes, well. My master is an important man. I’m looking after his affairs whilst he’s busy sorting this siege.” Tristan puffed his chest up slightly.
“Then mind you go back to your own business,” Hugh said. “We’ll handle this.”
Tristan gave a loud sniff and walked away, swinging his arms with purpose. A few of the cooks snickered as he went, but Bronwyn was more interested in the scene.
Hugh approached her. “I’ve had about enough of him. What are you thinking, girl?”
Bronwyn tugged her blonde braid. “I think whoever did this doesn’t work in the kitchen.”
The men looked pleased to hear that. “Why is that?”
“Because the cuts around the neck are so messy. Butchery is a skill. Even in the dark, a man with butchery skills would fall into the practice he’d learned; he wouldn’t make a hash of it.
I think even if he were trying to make it look like someone else had done it, it would still show some of those skills here. ”
The cooks murmured their agreement and hauled the carcass away to the kitchen. The shepherd shooed his dog away, returning to the sheep. A few of the cooks gave Bronwyn approving looks and nods and one clapped her on the shoulder.
Bronwyn waited till they had left, then said to Hugh, “Let’s assume that it wasn’t one of the cooks who did it. This crime didn’t happen too long ago. Wouldn’t the culprit be covered in blood and smell?”
“Yes. They would,” Hugh said.
“So then we need to find the dirty clothes, and whoever smells strongly like, well… blood.”
“Ah, but that’s easily worked around. They could’ve chucked the head away and then taken a bath.”
“So let’s check and see who bathed in the last few hours. And see if there’s a trail. A blood trail, for when they carried the head away. It would have leaked.”
“Saints alive, Bronwyn. Your mind is enough to make a man ill,” Hugh said. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight after all this talk.”
“Sorry.” She gave him a small smile. “Do you see any trails of blood on the ground?”
“No.”
Together, they looked but saw nothing. “He must’ve hidden it well,” Hugh said.
“I can search the kitchen and look at the servants, but they’ll likely be innocent.
Unless someone’s trying to pull a nasty trick on us.
But we’re in the middle of a siege. This isn’t the time for pranks.
And this is a pretty gruesome one, if you ask me. ”
Bronwyn agreed and looked around at the cooks, the servants, but found nothing.
And the guards weren’t keeping track of who bathed, so as there were hundreds of people in the castle, it could have been anyone.
Feeling glum, Bronwyn went back to her chores.
The cooks and she spent the next few hours butchering the carcass, preserving what parts they could, and serving the rest for the nobles’ dinner.
Everything went to use, even the hooves, which were boiled down to make soup and a jelly.
But that night, she was settling into her pallet and pulling a blanket over her head, wondering how Theobold was doing over in Wolvesey Castle when a scream rent the air.
Her mind woke up. Had she really heard it? It was late at night. She could have dreamed it. But what if she hadn’t? She yawned beneath her warm blanket when a voice whispered, “Bronwyn.” A woman’s hand touched her arm.
Bronwyn’s eyes flew open.
“It’s me, Alice.”
“What is it?”
“There’s been some trouble in the empress’s chamber,” she whispered. “The guards are there. She needs you. Come on.” She shivered. “Lord, it’s cold down here. Why is there no fire?”
“We’re conserving wood.”
“Oh.” Lady Alice motioned for her to follow.
Bronwyn rose quickly and walked after Lady Alice through the dark corridors.
Small candles in tall iron candelabras lit the way, and their small flames wavered as they passed.
She drifted upstairs, past the sleeping forms of archers and men-at-arms, following Lady Alice up the circular staircase and down the corridors, to the empress’s chamber.
The guards at first glared at Bronwyn, then Lady Alice motioned them aside with a hand. “Move aside. Let us through.”
The guards parted ways and opened the door. Lady Alice led the way inside.
Bronwyn went inside. The empress stood there, huddled in a thick, fur-trimmed robe, holding her arms to her body.
Candles burned brightly and a small fire had burned out in a small hearth, largely down to its embers.
It gave off an inviting warm glow. But the warm feelings of the room disappeared as she laid eyes on the empress again.
Empress Maud’s face was pinched and pale, her eyes haunted. Lady Susanna and Agatha stood not far away, watching.
“Ah. Bronwyn, good, you’re here,” the empress said.
“What is it? I heard there was a commotion.” Tristan entered the room, followed by the guards. “What happened here?” His voice was hard.
“L-Look. There.” The empress pointed.
Bronwyn crossed the room to see. The bed looked harmless enough. But then, sitting on the bed beside the empress’s pillow, was the missing sheep’s head.
“Is that…?” she started.
“A sheep’s head. Looks like we found it.” Tristan picked it up and turned around, the head in his hands.
Lady Susanna fainted dead away.