Chapter Twelve
Bronwyn wiped her nose on her sleeve. She wasn’t sure just what to do.
It wasn’t fair for her to blame Theobold for what had been his master’s order, but he was convenient, he was there and easy for her to point fingers at.
But he’d made her uncomfortable. He’d asked questions that demanded she take a look at herself and ask where her loyalties lay.
But she didn’t know. It had originally been King Stephen and Queen Matilda, who had, less than a year ago, blamed her and her father for poisoning people in their court.
They’d imprisoned her father for weeks as she’d worked to find the real culprit.
But the danger of his impending death had loomed over her thoughts, and it had been by lucky circumstance that the Battle of Lincoln had happened, allowing them to escape.
She shouldn’t have been angry for that; she should have been grateful.
So why was a part of her glad to see the queen again?
She stirred the broth. It was hot enough to serve, so she looked around for a page and gave him a bowl and cup of wine to take to Sir Robert, with instructions to return to the kitchen and bring some food back for the others.
The patients in the infirmary and the jail got decent food, but she was not of a mind to serve them herself.
Meanwhile, Master Christopher had the cooks working well into the evening, finally sitting down to eat a small dinner once the meal had been served already to the fine folks and guests at court.
That evening, she shared a stale bread trencher with a pot boy, taking a space on the bench beside him, noting Christopher’s nasty smile.
If there was a sort of pecking order to the seating arrangements at the table, it was always the same pattern, she noticed.
And just as easy to see who was close to him and who was in disfavor.
For instance, he always sat at the head of the table, with two of his close mates on either side of him.
Beside them were other senior cooks, who specialized in things like roasting meat and poaching fish, and then there were cooks and kitchenhands who were less skilled, who could be trusted to bake breads and pastries, or pluck birds, but more complicated cooking was left to the others.
Below them sat the pot boys and scullery maids, who scrubbed, cleaned, wiped, and scraped the wooden butcher’s blocks clean for use.
With them sat herself, as a guest of dishonor, or a new person to the kitchen, whose status was as yet undetermined.
It also meant that whatever meats and bread made their way down the table, she usually got the last choice, which wasn’t a lot. But she knew better to complain.
“How fare the prisoners, Bronwyn?” Christopher asked from the head of the table. “I expected to hear you scream. There are rats down there.”
Bronwyn looked up and sipped her cup of ale. She was relieved he didn’t know she had already spent time behind bars herself. That would surely give him one more thing to complain about.
“Well enough, Master Christopher. They’re alive.” She went back to her food. She didn’t need to see his face. He liked being called by his title, as the head cook. He made sure everyone used his title. Status was important, especially in a kitchen, she found.
She sat back and let the pot boy sharing her trencher break off part of it to scoop up some of the hot, steaming potage. He was aged about ten and looked hungry, so she let him help himself.
“They don’t matter. They’re only prisoners. They only get fed once a day. God’s luck be with them,” one of the male cooks said. “Hope they all rot in the cells. They’re the scum of the earth.”
“There’s one important one,” Bronwyn said. “Sir Robert of Gloucester. He took sick and had to be moved to the infirmary.”
Heads turned. Bronwyn blinked. She hadn’t meant to become the center of attention.
“Sir Robert?” one cook repeated.
“The military commander and half-brother of Maud?” another said.
Bronwyn swallowed a mouthful of potage and gave a swift nod. “Y-Yes. He was captured in the battle and was in jail when he got sick and had to be taken to the infirmary.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that earlier?” Master Christopher asked.
“I was making the broth, and you were busy.”
He snapped, “That’s no excuse. Political prisoners need to be on special diets and kept alive, for Their Graces’ pleasure. If they die under our care, it’s our heads. Stupid girl, can’t you see that?”
“I’m not stupid.” Her jaw set.
“Could’ve fooled me.” Christopher snorted and knocked back some of his wine, dropping down his chin.
Bronwyn gritted her teeth. She had a very uncharitable thought about him but wisely kept it to herself. Instead, she took a bread roll and bit down on it savagely, tearing into the soft, risen roll.
Christopher laughed. “At least you know better than to argue with me. Most women talk too much for my liking. Eh, David?” He nudged one of the men at his side with his elbow. The man, a lean, dark-haired fellow with acne, grinned and nodded, drinking more.
Christopher smirked and said, “I’ll be looking after Sir Robert from now on. Trust you to be trying to hog all the high-ranking prisoners to yourself. I’m not surprised at all, considering where you came from.”
“What does that mean?” Bronwyn asked, her voice passing easily down the table. She looked up and saw that the other cooks were watching but not engaging. This was spoiling to be a fight, and she’d walked right into it. Blast, she thought. Like a dove into a trap.
“Well, you did come from that woman’s court, didn’t you? Bet you know a bit of French and have certain opinions about yourself. Bet you think you’re better than us, eh?”
“No.”
“I don’t believe you. You come here and then start looking after those prisoners, almost secretive-like, not saying a word to anyone when you should be up here cleaning with the maids.
And instead, what do we find? That you’ve come across a plum prisoner like Sir Robert and weren’t going to say anything. ”
Christopher rose from his seat and stalked around the table. He stood behind her and said, “Bet you were gonna try to make it out to the queen like you’re special, weren’t you?”
Bronwyn’s hand took a life of its own and curled around the handle of the pottery jug of wine on the table. She squeezed it tight.
All eyes were on her and Christopher as he whispered in her ear, “Bet you tried to give yourself to him and he wouldn’t have you, eh? Am I right? You dirty, little—”
She rose and swung the jug at him. It connected with his head, and cracked, spilling wine. He crashed back to the floor. There was an uproar as the cooks shot up from the bench and all began arguing and shouting.
Bronwyn tossed aside the now broken handle, stepped over the bench and said, “I would never. You have insulted me, and you’re nothing but a pig. I hope you rot.”
Christopher lay on the ground and spat blood. He got up from the floor, a dark look glittering in his eye. “Take her, boys.”
Bronwyn’s arms were gripped by two of the elder cooks, who squeezed her arms with their thick fingers, tough and firm from cooking. She could smell their breath, soured with cheap wine.
Christopher leaned forward. “You know what we do to stupid little cooks like you?”
Bronwyn glared at him, tensing.
He raised a hand to strike when a voice demanded, “What is going on here?”
Rupert stood there, alongside two pages and another squire. Bronwyn felt hope rise in her chest.
Christopher lowered his hand. “She’s mouthing off and hit me with a jug of wine. Can’t allow that in my kitchen.”
Rupert came forward and casually rested a hand on the pommel of the short sword at his belt. “Looks to me like you were about to hit her. A girl.”
“She’s more than that,” one cook said.
Christopher nodded. “Thinks she’s a French hussy, trying to throw herself at the prisoners.”
Rupert laughed. “Her? You’re joking.”
The color drained from Bronwyn’s face. She felt the cooks’ stares, judging her. She looked at Rupert, who ignored her. She’d thought he’d been coming here to rescue her from being hit, and now… Humiliation and hurt wormed into her heart, like a maggot inside a dead cow’s hoof.
“She’s no hussy. But if you go hitting her, the queen will find out and want to know why you’ve been beating one of her favorite servants,” Rupert told the cooks coldly. “Let her go.”
Christopher’s cooks released her arms. Her pinched arm muscles fell painfully by her sides, but she restrained herself from rubbing them. Her face felt warm.
“What do you want?” Christopher asked. “And who are you?” His small, beadlike eyes danced around, eyeing Rupert and his company of men.
“I’m squire to Sir Baldwin of Clare. The people are finished at dinner and wanted to know why there were no cooks or servants around to bring the empty platters away.
They sent me to see what was causing the delay.
” He cocked his head ever so slightly, his blond hair shining golden in the flickering torchlight.
Christopher sniffed. “Just having some dinner.”
“And drink, from the looks of it,” the other squire said.
Christopher glared at him. “We’re not finished here.”
“I think you need to understand something, mate.” Rupert motioned for Christopher to join him.
Bronwyn watched as Christopher, still dripping with the red wine, walked away with Rupert. He stood off a little ways as they chatted in private, and then Rupert and the others quit the room. Rupert spared a passing glance at her before he left but said nothing.
I’ll need to fight this battle alone, she realized. This wasn’t his domain, and his status as a squire would only go so far with these servants. She swallowed and smoothed down her apron, when one of the cooks said, “Girl. Bronwyn. Clean this up. You wasted good wine.”
“He shouldn’t have been about to hit me.”
“He insulted you; he didn’t touch you. Besides, you’re lucky that’s all he was doing,” the cook snapped.