Chapter Twelve #2
“What do you mean?”
The cook glanced at her, his eyes flinty.
“Let’s just say that you don’t want to get on the wrong side of Christopher.
But you ’ave, and that’s your own fault.
Tread lightly, girl. If he wants you out of his kitchen, he’ll make it happen.
Either this day or the next, you’ll be emptying chamber pots rather than baking bread if you’re not careful. ”
Bronwyn nodded and went to fetch a dishcloth. She returned a moment later and began to sop up the mess of red wine on the floor.
No one helped her. The other cooks simply resumed their places at the long table and continued eating their dinner, with a handful having gotten up to help the pages clear away the remaining trenchers from the main hall.
She was picking up pottery shards when a pair of wine-stained shoes appeared in her line of sight. Christopher stepped on a shard near her hand and said, “Seems you’re the queen’s little favorite, eh, Bronwyn? Lucky you. Don’t know what you’ve done to earn her favor. It’s not like you deserve it.”
Bronwyn paused. A part of her suspected he was relishing this moment, seeing her on her knees, cleaning at his feet like some sort of base scullery maid. Which she supposed she was.
“That squire told me that she likes you,” he continued. “Trusts you. And if anything were to happen to you, it would be my head. Can’t let anything happen to her precious favorite, can we?”
Silence reigned. He stepped over to the table and there was a clink of some pottery, as he said, “But you are messy, girl. So dirty. Whoops.”
Then she felt it. A soft pat of something sludgy and liquid hit her hair, sliding down her blonde braid and dribbling on her back and shoulders. She looked up to see his smiling face, which grinned at her with yellow and black teeth.
She raised a hand, touched the substance, and looked at her palm. Gravy. He’d taken one of the small gravy jugs and dumped it on her head.
“You really ought to clean that up,” he said. “You’re such a mess. Don’t know how anyone could like someone so dirty.”
“You never know, Master Christopher. Might improve her looks,” one cook said, one of the bullies he’d befriended.
“Aye, you’re right, David. At least she’ll smell better.” To Bronwyn, he said loudly, “Clear that mess up, and don’t come back till you’re clean again. I won’t have any foul-smelling cooks in my kitchen.”
With that, one of the cooks let out a loud fart, and Christopher laughed raucously. “Except you, Thom. You’re all right.” He laughed and walked away.
Bronwyn set her shoulders and made no complaint as she wiped the gravy from her hair and face as best she could and finished cleaning the shards from the floor.
She felt the cooks’ eyes on her and stood, walking away.
Her cheeks burned with shame. Their words about her looks and her smell didn’t overly bother her, but Rupert’s laughter and comment about her being a hussy disturbed her.
Why had he insinuated she was… undesirable? Was she?
The shards disposed of, she’d gone immediately to where there were large, wooden tubs and filled one with water.
It wasn’t warm or particularly nice, but at least it would clean the mess off of her.
And to think, she’d never liked bathing much before.
Now she positively craved it. By the time her bath was ready, the sludge had partially dried and gotten thick and stiffened in her hair.
It was a mess. She’d have to clean her clothes as well, and she only had one other dress to wear.
Christopher’s words rankled at Bronwyn as she sat in one of the wooden bathing tubs, holding her knees to her chest. The water wasn’t completely cold, but it wasn’t warm, and after the day she’d had, she was relieved at having a moment to herself.
She slapped the water, sending miniature waves to slop against the sides of the tub.
Christopher’s jeering burned in her mind.
His suggestion that she was a hussy, and maybe even had tried to throw herself at Sir Robert, was cruel, not to mention laughable.
She took herself seriously. And she believed in the church’s teachings, even if she did not attend services as often as she should.
But what truly hurt was Rupert’s laugh at the very thought of it.
She furiously cupped water and poured it over her hair, trying to free some of the cracked and dried gravy from it.
Was she truly so unattractive? For that was how she’d understood the meaning behind Rupert’s laugh, and whilst it had put the men off from treating her like a wanton woman, not to be seen as desirable at all somehow hurt more.
To think that Rupert wouldn’t see her as pretty made her eyes well up with tears.
Bronwyn reached for the small bit of white soap that sat on a dish nearby. It was made of ash, quicklime, animal fat, and other materials, and it smelled. But it also had a bit of soapwort in it that made bubbles, and she used it to wash herself thoroughly.
To be accused of being dirty bothered her.
One couldn’t be dirty and work in a bakery or kitchen.
It would only end in disaster, she thought grimly as she submerged herself in the water and shut her eyes, briefly shutting out the world.
She didn’t like the world she lived in and felt like there was no one she could trust.
She sat up, pushing wet hair out of her face, and wiped her eyes.
She felt mad, furious, even, and slapped the water with her fist, sending it slopping over the sides of the wooden tub.
She didn’t think she was ugly, but then she’d rarely been complimented about her appearance, either, aside from by her father on feast days or holidays, or her stepmother, Margaret, who’d always told her to wash her face.
When men had leered at her, she had always dismissed them as being lecherous old men to avoid.
She’d never thought younger men might not find her attractive.
She refused to believe that she was so unattractive as to be laughable to the men, and she rose from the tub, dripping.
Bits of dirt, dried flour, and gravy had come off and were floating in the water, which she’d have to empty.
But it was worth it, as the task gave her something to do whilst her mind wandered.
She wrung out her wet, blonde hair. The waves were a little matted and stuck together, and she tried her best to comb them with her fingers, but it was no use.
Instead, she plaited them as best she could, knotting the ends.
She looked at her messy, purple work dress that lay in a sad bundle outside the tub.
She’d need to launder it, but the water she’d bathed in now was dirty.
She wondered if the laundresses in the castle would allow her to use their tubs.
It was time to try out her new-yet-old red dress.
On a whim a few weeks back, Lady Alice had gifted her with a stained, torn, old red dress of hers that she had deemed beyond repair.
In her spare time, Bronwyn had taken to mending it and had now cleaned and altered it to fit her.
Thankfully, she and Lady Alice were of a similar height, so it did not drag at her feet or hang above her ankles.
She put on the red dress and decided it was fine, then retied her apron.
Once mostly dry, she dumped out the dirty water from the tub and set aside the remaining soap.
Then, taking the stained, purple dress in her hands, she went to find the laundry.
The laundress present told her she could wash her dress herself and pointed her in the direction of a spare tub that brimmed with soap, suds, and clothes that were soaked.
As no one was attending it, Bronwyn took a wooden pole and stirred the mix, thinking it was not unlike stirring soup, and once satisfied her dress was clean, she hung it up to dry.
A quiet but busy hour passed as she hung up sheets and other items of clothing as a way to return the favor, for letting her use the tubs and water, and was told she was welcome back anytime.
Bronwyn raised an eyebrow at this. Then looked and saw that the laundress and her helpers worked solidly, steadily, their hands rough and cracked from constant washing, but it was a friendly, chattering group that reminded her of a flock of geese.
Still, they seemed nice enough, and she thanked them and went on her way.
She had no real space of her own, or any possessions aside from the clothes she wore, so she tucked the purple dress away in a corner, away from sight, and took a path that would lead to the kitchen.
Then she stopped. That evening, Christopher had made it clear he didn’t like her, so why should she rush back to work with him? Perhaps she didn’t need to.
She turned around and instead went in search of Rupert but realized she had no idea where he spent his time.
She peeked in the dining room, but he wasn’t there.
She spotted one of the servants who had been with him when he’d intervened in the kitchen and asked where he might be.
The servant shrugged and said, “Think he was heading toward the stables.”
She headed that way, twisting the end of her long braid around her fingers.
She didn’t know what to say. All she knew was she wanted to thank him for stopping Christopher from hitting her, but she was angry too.
She wanted to face him, eye to eye, and demand to know if he thought she was that ugly.
As a young woman of nineteen years, she wanted to know.
The stables were well-lit, the regular smells of horse, dung, and straw hitting her nose. But as she walked on, she could hear some odd noises. She walked farther, closer to the sound, and stopped short. One of the stalls was open. She went toward it and froze.
Rupert was there, pinning a young woman up against the wall of the stall, his hands in her jet-black hair, kissing her neck. She murmured.