Chapter Sixteen #2
“If you think it would help. But I want to know, where did this poison come from, if not from the kitchen?” the queen asked.
“I will find out.”
“See that you do,” Queen Matilda said. “Sir William, have the prisoners brought to the throne room tonight, after dinner. And for God’s sake, keep them alive.”
Bronwyn returned to the cells. The surly guard said, “What do you want?”
“I want to see the nun’s cell. I want to see the bread that poisoned her.”
“Why? It’s from the kitchen. Shouldn’t you be looking there?”
“I will.”
The guard looked down his nose at her. “You know, not everyone likes young maids who stick their noses in other people’s business.”
Bronwyn gritted her teeth. And not everyone likes guards who are useless at their jobs, she thought.
But something in his scowl and stance made her think he was aiming for a fight, and he outweighed her by at least fifty pounds, if not more.
She smirked. In good time, this man would be fired from his post by Sir William and if there was any justice in the world, he’d be shoveling horse manure in the stables.
He squared up to her. His smile was nasty. “I’ll give you something to smile about.”
“Mate, if you touch her, you’ll have the queen to answer to. She’s the queen’s favorite,” Theobold drawled from his cell. He sounded bored.
The guard glanced over. “Her? She’s just a kitchen maid.”
“She’s more than that,” Theobold said. “The queen likes her. She’s like a little pet, or a loyal dog. If she comes back sporting a black eye or can’t walk, the queen will want to know whom to blame. You really want to take that chance?”
The guard glared down at Bronwyn again. “You’re the queen’s dog, eh? What a little pup you are.”
Bronwyn’s face felt hot. She met the guard’s eyes, refusing to back down.
The other guard sighed and said, “I’ll take her.”
He led her down the cells. The guard nodded to Theobold and escorted Bronwyn to the nun’s cell. It was empty. He unlocked it and opened the door. “You shouldn’t provoke him.”
“I didn’t.” I held my tongue, she thought. She bent down to the floor and reached for the mysterious bread roll.
“Wait a minute,” the guard said.
“What?”
“If that’s what killed her, maybe you shouldn’t touch it. Look at what it did to the mice.” He nodded toward the two dead mice lying by the bread.
Bronwyn took her apron and carefully picked up the bread roll. “You’re right. It looks sticky, like it’s covered in something.”
The roll was small. She held it in her apron, taking care not to touch it.
“Here,” Theobold said, nudging up the bread roll in his cell with his boot. “You can have mine too.”
Bronwyn picked it up and walked back to the jail entrance. At the entrance to the jail, she turned to the helpful guard. “Thank you.” She met the surly guard’s glare but said nothing and walked up the circular stone steps, carefully holding the bread rolls in her apron.
She first went to the infirmary, where she was met by John. “How is Sister Joan? Did she survive her night in the cells?” John asked, a smile on his face. He saw Bronwyn’s dour expression and his smile fell. “What’s happened?”
“She’s dead. Someone brought them poisoned bread rolls. Apparently, they were a gift from his mistress, and Sister Joan ate one. She’s dead,” she repeated. Her voice sounded cold to her, but she blinked and looked down at her toes. She swallowed the lump in her throat. She’d liked the young nun.
John crossed himself. “I’m sorry.”
She nodded. “I have some of the bread. We know they’re poisoned because mice and rats ate them, and they died too.” She held out her apron.
He looked down at the rolls. “They look sticky. Could they be coated in something?”
“That’s what we wondered. Do you think they’re safe to touch?”
“I don’t know. Put them here.” John led her to a small worktable and frowned. He put on a pair of gloves and picked up one of the dirty rolls, sniffing. “I know this smell.”
The older physician came over. “What’s this? What are you doing?”
John relayed what had befallen Sister Joan.
Master Reynolds crossed himself. “That poor woman.”
The men surveyed the bread rolls. “This is monkshood. What’s it doing on the bread?”
“That’s what I’m wondering,” Master Reynolds said.
John cleared his throat. “It that doesn’t surprise me. A few days ago, I found our medicine box open, with the lock on the ground. Someone had broken into it.”
Bronwyn’s eyebrows rose.
John nodded. “A vial of monkhood was missing. Small amounts of it rubbed on the skin is useful for helping with ailments like sore muscles and the gout, but you wouldn’t want to eat it. It is highly poisonous. It’s why we keep it locked up.”
Master Reynolds frowned. “You should have reported this to me immediately.” He examined the storage cupboard. “Care to explain, John?”
“It was the night of the so-called attack on Sir Robert, when the nun was going on about a ghost. In the chaos of it all, I found it open and bottles on the ground. I think whoever broke in just grabbed a medicine at random and hoped it would be lethal. I cleaned up the mess.”
Bronwyn wondered: Did he clean up his own mess? What if he had delivered the bread? And if he was local, he would be able to know of anywhere else to go to buy bread.
Father Reynolds’s bushy, grey eyebrows furrowed. “We’ll have to tell the queen. This is very bad. Very bad, indeed.”
“May I leave these with you?” Bronwyn asked.
“Yes.”
“How is Sir Robert?”
“You may speak with him yourself.”
Bronwyn looked over. Sir Robert was lying there, resting. He looked asleep, so Bronwyn didn’t disturb him. She instead went to the kitchens, where Master Christopher was in an uproar.
The other cooks quieted as he paced and railed about the kitchen, throwing his arms in the air. He turned and laid eyes on her. “You.”
He crossed the kitchen in a few strides and stood in her face. “What on earth did you do? I was woken up this morning by guards, who demanded to know why I’d let a man come in here and poison my bread, as if I’d invited the man in.”
Before Bronwyn could take a breath, he continued.
“They are blaming me for this. Some woman dies and somehow, it’s all my fault.
I tell you, I won’t stand for it. Not in my kitchen.
I don’t stand for baseless accusations when it’s not me, it’s you.
This is all because of you. Nothing like this ever happened until you came here. ”
“That’s not my fault. Sister Joan—”
“Oh, so it was a nun, was it? Well, that’s no great loss. One less woman to get on her knees and pray for her soul instead of working for a living like the rest of us. I tell you…”
He went on, growing red in the face. Bronwyn began to get bored. She knew that he was having a proper rant and just wanted to yell at someone, with her being his favorite target. But she needed to figure out this mystery.
“Is she going to blame me? Oh, God, I’m going to be hanged like a criminal. I might be beheaded at dawn. I might—”
Bronwyn sighed. “You’ll want to post a guard at the entrances to make sure no one comes in who shouldn’t.”
“Yes, I know that. Of course we’re doing that. It’s obvious. Thom…” He shot a look at one of the cooks, who nodded.
“Sorry, I need to speak with Sister Rebecca. She should know.”
“But—”
“Sorry.” Bronwyn left.
His muttered curse grated on her ears, but she didn’t care.
Bronwyn might have ruined her chances of ever working in the kitchen again, but something compelled her to move on.
She’d work in the kitchens if she could, and it gave her joy, but she wanted to figure this out.
It was like a puzzle that niggled at her mind.
Like strands of pastry that needed to be woven and plaited together.
She found Sister Rebecca outside in the courtyard, pacing. Bronwyn approached her as the clouds clustered above and rain began to lightly fall. “Sister?”
Sister Rebecca turned. “Oh, Bronwyn.” Tears coursed down her cheeks. “You’ve heard. Sister Joan—” She clasped Bronwyn in a tight hug.
“I’m so sorry,” Bronwyn said. Her shoulder was getting damp from the nun’s tears, but she didn’t mind. “It’s my fault. I should’ve tried harder to convince them to let her go. If only she hadn’t… If only I had—”
“I don’t want to hear it.” The older nun released her and looked her in the eyes. “It’s not your fault she died. You didn’t kill her. It was that horrible person, that ghost she was talking about.”
“I know. Whoever it was—”
“It was a real person. Not a ghost. She was terrified of it. But you know what she was more afraid of?”
“What?”
“That the person might try to kill Sir Robert again. She knew when she found him that first time that he’d been up to no good, even though no one believed her.
” Seeing Bronwyn’s face, she said, “You’re not alone—I didn’t believe her, either.
No one did. But she was adamant that someone was trying to kill him.
She didn’t want to leave his side after that. ”
“But why? Why would someone want to kill Sir Robert?”
Sister Rebecca shot Bronwyn a look. “We would all be prisoners were it not for the grace and kindness of the queen. Sir Robert is the right hand of the empress, the queen’s rival.
Anyone would want to kill him and try to ingratiate themselves and get closer to the queen. I should think that’s obvious.”
“And now someone killed Sister Joan.”
“That’s no accident. I heard she died from some poisoned bread. Did anyone else get the bread?” Sister Rebecca asked.
“Theobold, a squire. And Peter, the brewer who was captured with us. No one else.”
“Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”
“Yes.” Bronwyn looked at her. “Only certain people got the poisoned bread. The other prisoners didn’t.”
“To me, that suggests whoever did it wasn’t just trying to kill Sister Joan, but also anyone associated with the empress. That nasty brewer man was despicable, but he is allied to the queen. And the squire…” She tapped her chin thoughtfully.