Chapter Nine #2
She took cover by dashing inside the entrance of the parapet, but so did five archers, and she was quickly stuck to the side as they crushed together against the wall. She fled, darting across the stone parapets as fast she could, and down the spiral stairs.
Time seemed to pass slowly as she ran. She was swift and ran quickly, darting around men and fighters, moving as fast as she dared, stumbling and losing her footing along the way. She heard, rather than saw, commanders’ calls for the men to push forward.
The guards warned her away. “You shouldn’t be here, girl. It’s not safe. The archers are busy,” one said.
“Are there any ladies up here? Any ladies-in-waiting?” Bronwyn coughed.
“No. No women. They’re all gone to the kitchen to hide.”
Of course. Agatha might have gone to gather food in the kitchen, or she might have left with the empress, especially if she’d been in the same room as her.
Bronwyn dashed down the stone steps to the kitchen, where the servants had mostly fled, others hiding, and things were in disarray.
Hugh saw her. “What are you doing here? Don’t you know we’re under attack? You should run and hide.”
“I’m looking for Lady Alice, or Agatha, the empress’s taster. Have you seen them?”
“No, I just got here. Roused from my sleep by someone saying the city was on fire. I’ve no time for this. Go hide, if you value your skin,” he told her. “By the grace of God, we might meet again.” He clapped her on the shoulder and ran.
Bronwyn looked around the kitchen. No sign of the women. She went to the pantry, where Agatha stood with Lady Alice, filling a small saddlebag with bread.
“I thought I might find you here. Come, we have to go,” Bronwyn said.
“I know. That’s why I’m preparing. Take a bag,” Agatha ordered.
Bronwyn shook her head. “There’s no more time. We have to leave.”
“I’m not going till I know I have enough food to survive.”
Bronwyn looked to her friend. “Lady Alice, we have to go. We need to leave—now.”
Lady Alice nodded. “Mistress Agatha, we must depart. You have enough.”
“I’m not going to share. This food is mine,” Agatha said, hefting the bag to her side.
Bronwyn shook her head in disgust. But as much as she disliked the taster, the woman had a point. She took a spare burlap sack from nearby and popped in a loaf of bread, handing it to Lady Alice. “What you’re taking should be for all of us.”
The taster scoffed and kept filling an already full bag. “I don’t take orders from kitchen maids.”
Bronwyn huffed. “I’m leaving. Lady Alice?”
“Let us go, Mistress Agatha.”
“Fine.” Agatha’s expression was mutinous, but she stopped filling the bag.
Bronwyn turned and led the way down to the brewery.
Where once her steps would have echoed on the steps down to the brewery, now they were drowned out by the noise of men and women running.
The sounds of men and horses outside grew louder, and on their way, Bronwyn couldn’t help but peek out of one of the narrow window slits cut into the stone walls.
The hundreds of fighters were closer. Trumpets blared as the marching sounded. It was so loud, so monotonous, so quick.
Lady Alice pushed her aside. “Oh, my God. They’re here. Matilda’s men are here.” Her hand drifted to her throat. “They’re breaking down the doors.”
Fear wormed into Bronwyn’s chest. A chill ran through her as if she’d been doused in cold water.
Men-at-arms and guards ran past. One said, “Help us if you can. They’re attacking the doors.”
Bronwyn moved to join them when Lady Alice grabbed her arm. “What do you think you’re doing? You can’t help them. We have to escape.”
“But—”
“Let her go. If she wants to die, let her,” Agatha said.
Bronwyn shook her head. “Let’s go.”
The women moved toward the brewery. Together, they ran down the steps, where other servants had taken shelter and were hiding.
Bronwyn picked up the sword on the floor. Luckily, it lay in the same place where she’d dropped it. She and the others joined the group in the back of the brewery. They clustered around a back corner. Sister Joan and Sister Rebecca beckoned them over. “Ready?” Sister Joan asked.
“Where is Lady Susanna?” Bronwyn asked.
“Where are you going?” Peter Fforde’s voice rang out.
Bronwyn froze. She locked eyes with Sister Joan and motioned for her to go.
“Stop right there,” the brewer said.
Bronwyn slowly turned, sword at the ready. It was heavy and weighty in her palms. The pommel’s rough leather binding rubbed irritably against her hands.
Peter sneered. “You look like you can barely hold up that thing.” He stood, backed by two armed guards.
His eyebrows knit together, his mouth turned downwards.
The brewer stroked his beard with ink-tipped fingers and pointed a drooping feather quill at her.
“Planning to escape, eh? You’re not going anywhere. ”
Bronwyn glared at him. “There was a traitor in the empress’s court. I knew it was you.”
He flashed her a cold, cruel smile.
“The scribbles. The rude sketches. You were behind it.”
“Of course. Who else had the ability? Most of the people here can’t read or write.” He snorted.
She shifted her weight and gripped the pommel of the sword at her side.
The men caught her movement. “Don’t even try to escape. I know about the nuns’ little secret entrance. Who do you think kept it open all this time?” The brewer winked at Sister Joan, whose mouth dropped open.
“You knew?” she asked.
“Of course. I knew the night you broke in.”
“He was the one who threatened me. It’s all his fault. He made me do terrible things,” Agatha said, gripping her stuffed bag tightly. “The notes, the sheep’s head—he made me put them in the empress’s chamber where she’d find them. It was all his doing.”
“W-What are you going to do with us?” Sister Joan squeaked.
“That depends.” The brewer’s smile showed far too many jagged teeth.
One of the guards behind him said, “Master Fforde, these women aren’t dangerous.”
“Yes, they are. Look, she’s got a sword. And that other one with the black hair, she’s a lady-in-waiting to the empress.” The brewer pointed at Bronwyn and Lady Alice in succession.
“I am too,” Agatha said.
“All right. Put down your weapons. You’re coming with us,” the guard said.
Sister Rebecca chose that moment to launch a spare bottle of alcohol at the guard with a mighty throw. It hit him in the face and he went down in a shatter of glass and liquid. He groaned.
“Run, girls,” she urged.
The women hurried after Sister Joan toward the hidden exit as Bronwyn stood by.
“Go, Bronwyn. Go,” Sister Rebecca said.
Bronwyn shook her head. As much as she wanted to flee, she wanted to make sure the others got out safely first. She aimed the sword at the brewer, who stiffened.
“You wouldn’t dare,” he said. “You’re just a woman. You don’t know how to use that thing.”
Bronwyn’s mouth curved in a half-smile. It was true, she didn’t. But he didn’t know that. And it shamed her to admit that she had killed before, by accident, when she’d been fighting for her life back at the battle of Lincoln, and when she had saved the empress from a sneak attack.
The other guard aimed a spear at them. “Don’t move a muscle. You lot are coming with us.”
“Make us.” Sister Rebecca launched another bottle and the men ducked as it crashed to the floor behind them.
“Stop that!” Peter said. “You’re wasting valuable wine.”
“Let us go, or I’ll do more than that,” Sister Rebecca said. She eyed the nearest torch. “I’ll set the whole place alight. Just see if I don’t.”
Peter’s eyes widened. “You’d try to kill us all? But you’re a nun.”
Bronwyn was shocked too. “Go, Sister.”
Sister Rebecca glared at the men and swiftly moved behind one of the rows of casks and bottles. “Come, Bronwyn. We must hurry.”
Bronwyn turned to follow when a bottle struck her arm, sending her crashing to the floor.
She dropped the sword as a shock rang up her right arm.
It was sure to leave a bruise. The bottle began to roll away as she snatched at it, missed, and tried to picked up the sword instead when a boot stepped on her hand.
She bit back a cry and looked up. The brewer shot her a nasty smile as they surrounded her, one of the guards holding a spear aimed at her throat.
“Stop causing trouble, girl. You’re coming with us,” a guard said. He spared her a glance as his fellow guard began to stand, brushing glass off of him. He shot Bronwyn a dirty look.
“But the others—” Peter began.
“Leave it. We’ve got more men stationed outside waiting.” He nudged Peter aside and pulled Bronwyn up, gripping her hurt arm painfully.
Bronwyn winced as she was hauled to her feet. The brewer slapped her in the face, hard enough to her turn her head. It stung. She licked her lips with her tongue and tasted blood. Bronwyn glared at Peter.
He raised his hand again when one of the guards pulled him back. “Stop. Have some respect. We don’t go hitting unarmed women.”
“But she—”
“We don’t. She’s unarmed.” The guard glared at him.
Peter muttered under his breath, but he backed off and stood aside.
Bronwyn met the eyes of the guard but said nothing. She had no wish to cause more trouble.
“Find the nun,” the guard holding her arm said to his fellow. “I’ll watch her.” He stood back, spear in hand, and watched Bronwyn closely.
She stood, stiff as a poker. He was in his mid-twenties, with short hair cropped close to his head, and a light-blue, clear-eyed gaze. His expression was solemn. She wanted to thank him for pulling away Peter, who had proven to be no gentleman at all, but did not speak.
The guard looked at the brewer. “Where would the others have gone?”
Peter said, “Five rows back, there’s a false partition in the wall, behind some stone that can easily be moved aside. It’s large enough for a person to fit through.”
“Go with him. Show him where.” The guard’s face was unfriendly.
“But I—” Peter stopped short and walked away quickly, muttering.