Chapter Thirteen
Bronwyn rose. She followed Sister Joan quickly through the halls, their skirts whispering as they moved lightly, quickly, sliding through the shadows, their shoes hardly making a sound. It was the early hours of the morning, she guessed.
“What happened?” Bronwyn whispered.
The young nun stopped, her veil almost ghostly around her pale face. “I could not sleep. I walked the halls and decided to ask the physician monk if he might prepare me a sleeping draft. But when I came in, I couldn’t see him. It was quiet but for the sounds of men sleeping. And then I saw it.”
“Saw what?”
“A hooded figure, standing over where Sir Robert sleeps. I entered the infirmary fully and I said, ‘Brother?’ but it wasn’t the monk, or his assistant.
This man, he acted very strange, and he threw a candle at me, and I ducked, and he ran past. Thank goodness the candle went out; otherwise, I might’ve lit on fire. ”
“That is a relief. You’re all right?”
“Yes. But I wanted you to come see. I called after him and the monks came; they woke up, but they just accused me of causing trouble. So I ran to get you.”
Bronwyn scratched her head and followed Sister Joan to the infirmary. Torches flickered, playing dark shadows against their faces.
“What makes you think it was a ghost?”
“Because I recognized him, and he is not alive.”
“Who?”
“The squire who died, Tristan.”
Bronwyn’s blood ran cold. “What?”
They hurried to the infirmary. Sir Robert still lay unconscious, and from her place at the door, it looked as though he hadn’t been disturbed. Torches burned in their small sconces on the walls, casting a flickering warm light, whilst the air droned with the gentle sound of men’s snores.
They were greeted by the senior physician and his young-looking assistant, Stephen. The men approached and the older physician whispered, “What are you doing here?”
Sister Joan said, “I saw a ghost. I brought her here.”
The older physician’s face clouded. “There is no such thing as ghosts.”
Sister Joan pursed her lips in a frown. “I know what I saw.”
“Which was?”
“A man. A dark shade, hovering over Sir Robert as he slept. I couldn’t see past his hood. I thought it was you, but when I spoke, he looked up and ran past me. And he…” She shivered. “It’s not right. I know what I saw.”
“What were you doing here so late at night? You should be in bed, asleep.”
The nun’s frown disappeared. “I couldn’t sleep. So I thought I would check on Sir Robert and the other sick here, perhaps pray by their sides.”
The monk looked at her. “Very kind, but you shouldn’t be wandering around the castle at night. It’s not safe.”
“Did he speak to you?”
“No. He ran and shoved me as he escaped.” She bit her lip. “Are you going to go look for him?”
“No. I have no time for ghosts. How do you know he wasn’t just a visitor?”
“At this hour? Besides, I recognized him. I know his face,” Sister Joan said.
“But it’s dark in here. How did you see him?” the older physician asked.
“From the candlelight. And when he pushed me. I saw his face. Then I went and got Bronwyn.”
“Why her? Why not one of the guards?”
“I didn’t think the guards would believe me. Just like you.” Sister Joan looked down at her feet.
“We’ve been through trouble together before,” Bronwyn added. “If she says she saw something, I believe her.”
Sister Joan shot her a small smile.
“I just don’t believe you,” the monk physician said. “I didn’t see anything. Did you, John?”
“No, Brother Reynolds. But I confess, we were both asleep. Anyone could have come in.”
Sister Joan glared at him.
“Peace, Sister. I believe you saw something. But it could not have been a ghost. They do not exist.”
“Then how do you account for the Holy Spirit?” she asked.
“I… That is the Holy Trinity you speak of, and you are not to question me or my faith. Go about your duties.”
Sister Joan muttered darkly, “I know what I saw.”
“I’m awake now,” the monk said. “I will stay with the patients. John, relieve me in a few hours.”
“Yes, Brother.”
Bronwyn moved past them.
“What are you doing?” the monk asked.
“I want to see if the man disturbed Sir Robert at all.”
“He didn’t. The man sleeps soundly,” Brother Reynolds said. “You should leave.”
“I will. In just a moment.” Bronwyn went to Sir Robert’s bedside. She looked but did not see anything out of the ordinary. Whoever had been by his side earlier hadn’t done anything. The monk was right; the man was sleeping.
But then she saw it.
Sir Robert’s shirt was pulled open, and his blanket lay pulled down to his waist. But strangely, she leaned in and sniffed. There was a scent of something familiar. “He has an odd smell.”
“His wound smelled when he first came here,” John said. “It’s likely that which you smell.”
“No, this is different.” She pointed at his shirt. “Look, there’s something there.”
John approached. “That’s strange. It looks like a bit of straw or wheat.” He picked it up. “I don’t know what that is. Do you?”
“No, but I have an idea. Smell it.”
He sniffed it. “I know this smell. It smells like…”
“Ale? Beer?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Whoever was here had a few drinks first?” John suggested.
Bronwyn took the bit of straw. “Mind if I take this?”
“No.” John pulled the thin blanket back up over Sir Robert. “But it does suggest that someone was here. We’ve not given him anything to drink, and he’s had no visitors. No one has attended him but myself and Brother Reynolds, and the nuns who pray.”
“That means that someone was here. Sister Joan wasn’t lying.”
“I never thought she was. I only doubt she saw a ghost.”
“I don’t think ghosts shed wheat, or whatever this is,” Bronwyn said.
They looked at each other. “Whoever it was here, they were real.”
Bronwyn went back to the main hall with Sister Joan and tried to get an hour’s sleep.
But it was too short, and her mind kept spinning and she held the bit of straw in her hands.
She got up with the earliest of the servants and as the nun slept made her way down to the cells.
The guards recognized her by now, and if they were surprised by her early-morning visit, they asked no questions about it.
She went to face the brewer’s cell, but it was dark and musty, and the straw moved around her feet. Mice, rats, vermin. She called to the brewer, but he did not answer.
“You won’t get anything out of him. He hasn’t talked for a day. He keeps ranting about ghosts and spirits. He’s gone mad,” Theobold said from his cell.
She ignored him. She was still angry with him.
Instead, she peered at the brewer’s cell, which smelled like a privy.
She spoke his name again and said, “We came across this bit of straw up by Sir Robert in the sick room, and I wonder if you might tell me what it is. It is not straw; it is something else. And it smells like a brewery. Could you tell me what it is?”
“How did you come across it?” Theobold asked.
“Just as I said,” she said over her shoulder.
To the brewer’s dark cell, she added, “Sister Joan found a man standing over him a few hours ago and startled him. She thinks it was a ghost, but we found this.” Bronwyn held out the bit of straw.
“This proves it wasn’t a ghost. A spirit wouldn’t drop things. ”
“I don’t care about spirits. Was he hurt?”
Bronwyn stiffened. Of course, Theobold would only be interested in the welfare of his lord. That was where his true loyalty lay. She had been mistaken in thinking she placed higher in his regard. She turned her head. “What do you care about, Theobold?”
She walked to his cell. “What is it you care about most? Is it our Lord God? Your master? Yourself? What is it?”
“All of those things and more.” He faced her, and she could smell his sour breath, his unwashed body. He needed a bath.
Theobold met her eyes. “What is it you want me to say, Bronwyn? That I love you? I don’t. I hardly know you. You’re just some woman I took a fancy to.”
His words bit at her like frostbite against her fingers. She took a step back. Dark hollows sat beneath his eyes, a sure sign that the lack of sunlight and exercise as well as the dark, damp conditions were taking a toll.
There was a low chuckle from one of the cells. Bronwyn glanced over and turned back.
“I care about my lord because I must. That is my duty. I can’t afford to waste time on girls when we are at war.” He gave her a searching look. “Especially ones who aren’t fixed in their mind as to which side they fight for.”
Bronwyn turned her head. “I don’t know why I keep coming here.”
“Because you are lost.”
She raised her eyes to look at him. It felt like a slap in the face.
She would prove it to him. She wasn’t lost. She would solve this mystery, once and for all.
She would prove that she had worth. She was more than a spare set of hands to clean pots or bake bread rolls when the queen wanted them.
She would solve this on her own. She had to. She had nothing else.
Bronwyn turned away, walking toward the brewer’s cell and repeating herself softly. “We found this by the side of Sir Robert. I thought you might recognize it.” She held it out through the iron bars.
No sound greeted her but silence. She stood there, feeling like a fool. She waited one minute, two. She turned around when—
Two cold, bony, ink-stained and dirty hands grabbed her, whisking the bit of straw out of her fingers.
She turned back and stiffened, but the hands refused to let go.
“Let her go,” Theobold growled.
Bronwyn stared into the brewer’s thin face. It was gaunt; he hadn’t been eating. Peter’s eyes were like black pinpricks against shadow. His breath was rank as he sniffed. “It’s hops; what we would use to make beer.” He rubbed it between his fingers and sniffed it again.
Her heart went out to him, a little. “Why did you scribble those nasty little notes against the empress?”
Black pinprick irises darted up to meet hers. His voice was dull. “Just having a little fun.” He ran a hand through his oily, greasy hair.
“Then why? Why do it?”