Chapter Eleven #2
She nodded and followed Master Christopher to where a pair of youths was scrubbing pots. She introduced herself and got stuck in.
Hours later a page entered the kitchen and approached the head cook. Christopher shot Bronwyn a dirty look and muttered something to the boy, who left. He called over to Bronwyn, “What’s this I hear about you making white rolls with honey?”
Bronwyn looked up. So the queen hadn’t forgotten. She wiped her hands on her apron and approached the head cook. “They’re something I used to make for the queen, back at Lincoln.”
“I don’t need your life story. Do you know how to make these rolls she’s talking about?”
“Yes.”
“Then do it. Be quick about it. I won’t have any timewasters in my kitchen.” Christopher said, eyeing her.
Bronwyn asked around to find the pantry and where the flour was kept and got to work.
It wasn’t very well stocked at all, and in truth, it was a mess.
Flour sat in bags, open and discarded. Flour was precious.
She peeked into a bag. Small weevils were there, making her wince and wrinkle her nose in disgust. She removed a small bag of the expensive white bread flour and carefully took just enough, tossing out any weevils she found.
Finding a small, clear workspace to use, she made twelve small white bread rolls with a bit of honey, which was just as well, for Christopher took one once they were finished.
“Not bad. Could be better,” he said, chewing.
“They’re passable. I’ll call for a page. ”
A page came and took the platter with the bread rolls.
“Bronwyn, go with him and see if the queen has any complaints. Wouldn’t surprise me if she did. But if I hear you’ve been flapping your lips and talking about me, it’ll be the worse for you.” Christopher pointed at her.
She swallowed and followed the page out of the kitchen.
What she had done to incur Christopher’s anger and dislike, she didn’t know.
But that was the thing about some castle kitchens; they were often full of prideful cooks, and she needed to get along with people to do well.
She wandered through the corridors and up a circular stairwell, glad to have the page lead the way.
The castle was organized in a similar formation to others she had worked at, but it was still a bit of a maze.
When the page finally paused in front of a door that was guarded by two armed men, Bronwyn stood up straight.
“We’re here to bring rolls to the queen,” the page squeaked. He couldn’t have been more than ten years old.
“Go in,” the left-hand guard said, opening the door.
Bronwyn went inside. Not so dissimilar to the empress’s bedchamber, this was a sort of sitting room, where the queen sat on a wooden chair with a low back, surrounded by a handful of women, including the two nuns, Alice, Mistress Agatha, and another she didn’t recognize.
Her eyes widened to see Lady Susanna there, looking well and unharmed.
The queen clapped her hands and beckoned her forward. “Ah. Mistress Baker. Ladies, have you met my good baker, Mistress Bronwyn Blakenhale?”
Bronwyn curtsied and rose slowly. Judging from the ladies’ watchful looks and amused smiles, her curtseying had improved over time, but not by much.
Her rustic peasant ways stood out, and Lady Alice’s hurtful words from before replayed in her mind.
She would never be like them, so why even try?
She hadn’t thought there was any harm in trying to better herself by learning French, but…
Bronwyn stood by, hands clasped behind her as the page offered the platter of sweet white bread rolls to the ladies present.
She looked on, half-expecting Mistress Agatha to intervene or at least comment on the need for her services, but aside from the woman looking slightly pink in the cheeks, Agatha said nothing.
Once each woman had taken one and the queen had taken a bite, the others nibbled politely at their rolls.
“Very good, Bronwyn, as usual. But that comes as no surprise.”
“I am glad they are to your liking, Your Grace.”
“And such a honeyed tongue. She always did have a way with words. But then I find most cooks do,” Lady Alice said, setting her bread roll aside.
Bronwyn blinked.
“And do you converse with many cooks, Lady Alice?” Agatha asked, licking her fingers of crumbs.
Lady Alice turned pink. “No, not so often. But I imagine you do, as part of your work. Aren’t you often in the kitchens, looking into the dishes to be served that day? I hear you’re especially fond of chicken.” Lady Alice’s words held a sharp retort.
Agatha froze, and her cheeks turned red. “I think we are all partial to that.”
“I agree,” the queen said, nibbling her roll.
She dismissed the page and said, “You may go, Bronwyn, but don’t go wandering around.
Stay in the kitchens unless I send for you.
We have just ended our siege, and the men will be wanting a good meal tonight to celebrate.
There is much to do.” She rose from her chair, as did her ladies-in-waiting.
“I must speak with my advisors. Do converse amongst yourselves.” She swept from the room.
Bronwyn stood aside, mid-curtsy, as the queen left. Once the door had closed, she rose and turned to go, when the ladies began talking.
“Well. Who are you again? Some baker she’s taken a fancy to?
” the unknown lady-in-waiting asked. She stood of an average height, with a narrow face and a veil camped tightly over her hair that matched her dark-blue dress.
She looked a trifle severe for Bronwyn’s liking, but that could also be down to the woman’s set jaw and angular features.
Bronwyn inclined her head. “Bronwyn Blakenhale. I’ll just be going.”
“Wait a moment.”
Bronwyn bit her lip. Every moment she was away from the kitchen was a moment longer in which Christopher had a chance to get annoyed at her for being absent.
“So you are all from the empress’s court.” The lady-in-waiting shuddered. “I know the queen did you all a kindness in bringing you up from the jail cells, but honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if one of you tried to murder me in my bed.”
Lady Alice sniffed. Agatha looked at the woman with thinly disguised distaste. “Lady Muriel, just because we were in the empress’s court, does not make us murderers.”
Bronwyn thought, But you are a liar and a thief, while Lady Susanna gave a little laugh. Her eyes were still red. Could it be from crying over Tristan? “Ha, that won’t happen. We’re just happy to be alive.”
“Was it really so terrible, being at siege in that castle?”
Lady Susanna nodded. “Someone was playing nasty tricks on the empress.”
“Lady Susanna,” Lady Alice said.
“Sorry.” Lady Susanna lowered her eyes.
Bronwyn quit the room. As she closed the door, she heard the lady-in-waiting say, “I don’t see what’s so special about her. She’s just a cook.”
“Yes, Lady Muriel, but she’s the queen’s little pet. The empress liked her too. Why, I don’t know,” Lady Alice said offhandedly. “She has an annoying habit of trying to ingratiate herself with her betters.”
The women laughed, and Bronwyn left, dragging her feet down the stone stairwells to the kitchens.
She should have been used to Lady Alice’s insults, but her so-called friend’s carefree dismissal of her sent a chill through her.
Bronwyn spent the next few hours cleaning and scrubbing pots and joined the other servants at their dinner.
Master Christopher ran a decent kitchen, but he had a manner that was naturally suspicious and made offhand remarks that bordered on insulting.
He often muttered under his breath when dealing with nobles, and in the days that passed, Bronwyn noticed that his mutters were not so quiet.
He disliked it when the nobles talked over him or ignored him, yet he was expected to fawn over them due to their elevated rank.
She could see how it might feel unjust, but that was simply the way of things.
She took it upon herself to bring food down to the prisoners.
The kitchen did send down food and drink each day, but usually one meal a day, and it was more often than not stale bread and a bit of ale left over from the previous day.
With hundreds of mouths to feed, the castle prisoners were often the last on the cooks’ minds.
But to Bronwyn’s surprise, she ran into the nuns in the jail.
The women were often speaking with the prisoners and praying with them.
Bronwyn supposed that was no harm done, and it was a kindness.
She took moments to speak with Theobold, but Sir Robert of Gloucester called him away more often than not.
He didn’t trust Bronwyn; that was clear.
Until one day, when Bronwyn brought a trencher of table scraps and bread down to the prison to feed the prisoners. The rank smell of old straw and urine in the air hit her nostrils, and she wrinkled her nose but said nothing as she brought the platters into the dark space.
The brewer accepted his food and said nothing. As Bronwyn deposited platters of food down beneath the bars of the cells, she spotted Sister Joan kneeling outside one of the cells.
“Hello, Sister,” she said.
“Good morrow, Bronwyn. I am here to pray with the prisoners so that they might find some comfort during their imprisonment.” Sister Joan looked at the cell facing them.
She rose and walked with Bronwyn back through the corridor.
“They do not have much hope these days. It comes as no surprise, but still. I do what I can.”
“That’s kind of you.”
“It is part of my calling. It is a good thing to do,” Sister Joan said. “But, Bronwyn, something is wrong. The men, they speak of ghosts. Of spirits, of shades. They see a man who walks these corridors. They say he was one of them, but now he is dead.”
“We’re all dead. We’re all dead men,” Peter shouted.
Bronwyn stiffened.