Bronwyn Blakenhale’s world is about to turn upside down. A young baker who wants a bit of independence from her simple life in twelfth-century Lincoln, she gets involved in courtly politics when an expensive order for bread rolls leaves one man dead at the king’s table, and all fingers point at her and her father.
With her father imprisoned for a crime he did not commit, Bronwyn is tasked by the queen to find out who poisoned the rolls and likely meant to kill the royal family. But with her father surrounded by men loyal to the opposing empress, spies afoot in the castle, and a poisoner on the loose, Bronwyn’s time is short. Now, if only she didn’t have young men like the squire Rupert to distract her.
Rupert Bothwell, the squire of a knight, has a friendly smile for everyone, including a beautiful lady at court who admires him, but he insists on walking Bronwyn home at night. Is he just being chivalrous or is there something more? But Bronwyn has more to deal with, as a childhood friend steps in to help her family’s bakery and makes it clear he doesn’t want her friendship, but her heart.
From feuding factions and turncoat knights at court to castle prisons and an invading army on the horizon, Bronwyn must find the killer and prove her father’s innocence—or lose all that she holds dear. In a world dominated by intrigue and murder, Bronwyn might just surprise everyone and prove that she is no ordinary baker.
Chapter 1
In the year of our Lord, eleven hundred and forty-one, the first month, in Lincoln. Anno
Domini Rex Stephani.
On a cold January morning in the city of Lincoln, Bronwyn Blakenhale wiped her brow,
feeling beads of sweat dot her skin. She’d been up for hours already, kneading and preparing dough in the large, wooden trough and worktables in her family’s workshop. The air smelled of yeast and dough, and loaves sat proofing on the workspace—small loaves and big ones, covered with damp cloths as they sat in the warm room.
“Bronwyn!” her stepmother, Margaret, called. “Bronwyn Blakenhale, you come inside
this instant. And tell your father to come right now. Where’s he gone?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice bordered on mocking and she rolled her eyes. She didn’t care.
Her father was gone, but he would be back. Nothing ever changed in their city.
Her stepmother, a shrill-voiced, middle-aged woman with a head full of wispy, brown
hair with a few strands of grey, nudged her aside and took over, raking coals and adding more firewood to the mix, stoking the black coals so that the big oven grew hotter. “Find him, would you? We need to make sure these loaves are weighted properly. Don’t want to get fined again.”
She was right. Baking was a serious business, and if their loaves didn’t meet the exact
weight required by law, they could be fined or worse, her papa could be imprisoned or forced to wear a faulty loaf around his neck and be marched through the streets. It would be a more serious punishment for such a crime, but not unheard of. She’d seen it once before and had never forgotten the sight.
It had happened to a neighbor of theirs, Thomas Nell, who’d added iron rods to his loaf to
give it the proper weight, but when he’d been found out, the city’s watch had had him up on a charge and ordered a public punishment. No one had bought his loaves in the days since, and he’d had to start all over again elsewhere, out of town. Her papa had been fined once, and sincethen, they hadn’t dared get the measurements wrong again.
Now that dawn had come, the workday properly began. Bronwyn wore a stiff, woolen
housedress and apron, her dirty-blonde hair tied back in a kerchief. It was hot, tiring, and sweaty work, baking, but she loved it. It was her one relief from the world outside.
She did like the stark, black spidery limbs of the trees in the wood that gleamed against
the white, winter skies as she would gather herbs and mushrooms, and she liked the contrast of the wildness of the forest outside to the city of Lincoln, full of buildings, tall and thin, squat and fat, leaning and ever-growing, towering over each other, and above them all, atop Steep Hill, Lincoln Castle.
But recently, the city stood in an uneasy peace, stuck between two masters. The
townspeople of Lincoln found themselves in the midst of an ongoing war between King Stephen and Empress Maud, who battled for the English crown. Bronwyn had never thought the war would come her way, but shortly before Christmas, Ranulf de Gernon, the Earl of Chester, and his half-brother, William de Roumare, had taken Lincoln and the castle in a daring trick.
The rumor went that the wives of de Gernon and de Roumare had paid a friendly visit to
the wife of the chatelain of the castle. When their husbands had come to collect them, dressed in ordinary clothes and unarmed, only escorted by three knights for protection, the men had attacked and with a small force overwhelmed the few men inside, claiming the castle and the city. The battle had changed Bronwyn’s life overnight.
***
The townspeople of Lincoln had sent word to King Stephen in London that two of his
men had holed up in the castle and were mistreating people. In January, the king had reclaimed the fair city with his knights and mighty siege engines, great towers of war. Bronwyn had not seen them but heard them outside the walls.
Word was that de Gernon had escaped, but no one knew to where. They said it was a matter of time before his master, Robert of Gloucester, and perhaps even the lady herself, Empress Maud, come to claim the city in her name. Since then, people looked over their shoulders and kept strangers at arms’ length. Fights had broken out in the taverns over which side was right, and whilst Stephen had taken residence in the castle and kept the peace by way of armed guards, it was an uneasy peace at best.
Bronwyn had never felt unsafe walking outside before, but now… Armed men boldly
walked the streets like never before, and rumors of war weren’t just muttered in passing—they hung on the tip of every tongue.
Bronwyn brushed dough off her dress and headed out of the workroom, away from the
delicious smells of beer, yeast, dough, and fermentation, and hurried outside, her eyes drinking in the darkness before dawn. It wouldn’t be long now. In winter, their working hours were short and the nights were long; in summer, it was the opposite. Her papa came walking through the street, along with Wyot, their ten-year-old oafish apprentice.
Their arms were full of firewood, but Bronwyn knew they’d go through it within hours.
Her father brushed some of his dirty-blond hair from his eyes and greeted her with a smile. He liked having a young person to show around the bakery and he hefted an axe over his shoulder as he carried a bundle of wood in his other hand. “So you’re up.”
“I’ve been up for ages,” she said.
“So you are. Helping your ma?”
“She’s looking for you. She wants to get the weights right.”
He nodded and led the way inside. The air was cold with a morning chill, and dawn’s
early light began to shine over the buildings. She joined them back inside the bakery, shutting the wooden door closed behind her.
Father and Wyot laid down their bundles as Papa hung up his axe and greeted her
stepmother with a kiss. Margaret Blakenhale giggled and batted his hands away, then put her hands on her hips. “Can you measure out the loaves? I can never trust they’re right.”
He tied a work apron around his waist, wiped his hands, and set to feeling the small,
round loaves of dough that were proofing beneath the damp cloths. He held them up by hand, measuring each. “This one is too light. Add more flour.”
Margaret did what he’d instructed, adding a dusting more flour to the wet loaf. “And
now?”
“Better.” He went through all the loaves, big and small, on the tables. “The rest are
good.”
“Will you make oatcakes today, Master Alan?” Wyot asked. A cheerful boy, he often
stuffed his mouth with any burnt or poorly baked goods that weren’t good enough to sell, and despite being thin, he was already outgrowing his clothes. In no time at all, they knew he’d be as tall as a beanpole.
Bronwyn and her father grinned. They all knew Wyot’s love of oatcakes made with
honey. “Maybe, boy. If there’s honey to be had.”
He surveyed the loaves, examining those made with a mixture of peas and beans. He
supervised as Margaret and Bronwyn cut pretty designs into the dough and began adding them to the oven with the peel—the long, wooden, flat board at the end of a pole—and shoveling them onto the hard, stone shelf for baking.
Once they had several loaves in, they sat back and watched, turning them when
necessary. Bronwyn’s father gave each roll a final measure on the scales, satisfied they met the required weight for sale, and as the first shaft of daylight lit up the outside, they threw open the shop doors.
Wyot and Bronwyn began loading the shop’s wooden cart with rolls, round loaves that
smelled heavenly. Once the cart was fairly stacked and covered, they began to wheel the cart out.
Bronwyn and her father walked into the city proper, whilst Wyot stayed back and helped
Margaret with the cleaning and baking. It being Saturday, they walked toward the city center toward the weekly farmers’ market, where hundreds of people from nearby would come to purchase wares and food. They could buy from the shop directly, but there was always more to be had on market days.
Bronwyn stood by as Papa purchased a stall in the market center and together they began
unloading the breads, placing them for sale on the stall with the cart behind them. The first batch sold quickly, and it was a flurry of activity as they sold half loaves, cheap loaves made of grain husks, others made of peas and barley, and even some oat ones made with a drop of honey.
An inspector came by and weighed one of the loaves. Bronwyn held her breath as he held
up and set it on his scales. He tapped the loaf and broke off a tiny piece to eat, eventually
chewing and nodding his assent. She let out a breath as he packed up his scale and walked away.
Her father watched him go. “We need some sort of regulation.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“We need a group. A body to govern us and our craft. I’m all for a fair price, but I don’t
like these stories I hear about bakers messing about with their loaves. It makes it harder for the rest of us who do an honest day’s work.”
“You’ll get fair pay now that King Stephen is here,” a stranger said, drawing Bronwyn’s
and her father’s attention. “There’ll be fair work and pay for all honest craftsmen. More so than if that French wench were inside the walls.”
He stood tall and heavyset, with a trimmed, black beard and tanned face. He was dressed
in plain clothes, but something about him gave away a military bearing, a readiness to arms, and a skillful hand at weaponry. His voice held a note of testing, comment, and curiosity.
Her father bowed his head. “Interest you in a loaf of bread, sir?”
“Yes.” The man took a loaf, tore off a hunk, and popped it in his mouth. “This is good,
but I need better. Where’s your white bread?”
“I’ve only made brown bread this morning but can bake you the white. How many loaves
do you need? One?”
“Ten,” the man said. “No, better make it more. Fifteen ought to do. I’ll need them
tonight.”
Her father blinked. “Tonight?”
“Unless you are unable to do this? I can go elsewhere.”
An expensive order like that would set them up nicely. Bronwyn raised an eyebrow at her
father. She knew the right answer. “Yes, sir. We can do that. Where should I deliver them?”
“To Danesgate, by the castle. Tell the guards that Hugh de Grecy sent you.”
“Very good, sir.” Her father paused. “I will need payment before I begin, to purchase the
flour.”
The man pulled out a thick, heavy purse and began counting out silver. Soon a small pile
sat on the table. “Will this do?”
“Yes, thank you.” Her father returned one of the silver coins to him. “This much is fine.”
Sir de Grecy’s mouth quirked in a half smile as he took back the extra silver coin. “An
honest baker. That’s new. What’s your name?”
“Alan Blakenhale.” Her father gave a small bow.
“This your daughter?” He nodded at Bronwyn.
“Yes.” Her father rested his hands on her shoulders. “She’s a dab hand in the kitchen.”
The man glanced at her with dark eyes. “Deliver these to the kitchens by sunset and
there’ll be more orders where that came from.” He walked off, whistling.
Her father let out a breath. “Well, what do you make of that, Bronwyn? Serving bread at
the castle, eh? Margaret will be impressed.”
“D’you think so, Papa?”
“I do.” He paused. “I was going to go to Mass, but there’s too much to be done. I’ll have
to buy the flour and then make the rolls in time for tonight. You mind the stall for a bit, all right? I’ll be back soon.”
She asked, “Papa, what did he mean by ‘the French wench’? Is he talking about…?”
Papa’s face clouded and he drew close. “Mind you don’t go repeating what you’ve heard,
Bronwyn. You know whom he means. The Countess of Anjou, the woman who calls herself ‘Empress Maud.’”
He was right, she realized. She’d heard mention of her before in hushed tones, and more
recently, she’d been spoken of as a nuisance, an interloper, French.
***
Since King Stephen had taken control of the castle, they had seen more armored men,
more soldiers, and the streets had been busier, but she had noticed little beyond the comings and goings of people buying breads, and the daily happenings of the bakery. Her family’s lives felt small by comparison, but she idly wondered if it would stay that way.
What she wanted more than anything was to travel, to see another part of England, even
France, Wales, or Scotland or Ireland. To see what life was like beyond her fair city. People spoke differently, they dressed differently. She wished to see the world. She loved her father’s bakery and the life she had in Lincoln, but something about the soldiers and men walking the streets hinted at something in the air; something was brewing, but she knew not what. She wasn’t sure she wanted to find out, but all the same, she desired a change.
She watched the stall and sold more bread. A man tried to haggle and gave her a toothy,
leering grin, refusing to pay the full amount, even though the loaf was only a few pennies.
She did her best impression of her stepmother and put her hands on her hips, glaring at him, when a deep voice said, “Is this man bothering you?”
She turned toward the voice. A pair of sharp, grey eyes met hers. She breathed in; the
man’s gaze was so intense, she imagined this was what looking into the eyes of a lion felt like, except so much more. He was young, perhaps not too much older than she, with tanned skin and shoulder-length, blond hair that shone gold in the sun. His smile was friendly, and she found herself unconsciously touching her hair, when she put her hand down, annoyed at herself. She had no time for men, not when there was an obnoxious customer to deal with.
She turned to the man who’d tried to cheat her. “No, he’s going to pay what is owed. Aren’t you?”
The older man leered some more and took the bread in his dirty hands. “What if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll call the watch,” Bronwyn said.
The man guffawed. “You think they’ll listen to you?”
In seconds, the young man had the older man’s arm twisted behind his back and a short
blade pricking his neck. The man dropped the loaf with a cry of pain. The lionlike young man growled, “Pay the baker.”
Her heart beat in her throat. Would he really hurt, possibly kill, a man over an affront? To
a woman he’d never met before?
The older man stiffened, spat, and with his free arm, reached for a small bag that hung at
his waist and tossed a coin on the ground. He jerked from the lad and slunk away, picking up the now-dirty bread. He gave her a glowering stare as if to say, This isn’t over.
She blinked as the young man sheathed his blade and picked up the coin the customer had
thrown on the ground. He handed it to her as she thanked him.
“It’s all right. Always happy to help a lady in need.” He smiled again. “Although I’ve yet
to meet such a pretty baker. Who are you?”
“She’s my daughter,” Bronwyn’s father said, coming to her side. “And who might you be?”
The man stood to attention, his back straight, his chin up. “Rupert Bothwell, at your
service. Squire to Sir Baldwin of Clare.” He winked at her.
She ignored him. “He was helping me with a rude man, Papa.”
“I saw. Thank you. We shouldn’t keep you from your master,” her father said.
The lad nodded and bid them both a bow before winking at her again. He left, his golden
hair shining in the sun.
Her papa looked at her thoughtfully.
“What is it, Papa?”
“You turned eighteen last June. If you were a son, I’d have you apprenticed and at a
journeyman’s level by now. You know almost enough about baking to almost run your own shop, I daresay. Your mama will want us to think about marriage for you at some point soon.
You could run a bakery near us.”
Getting married to a man in Lincoln and never stepping outside the city seemed like a
waste, and the last thing Bronwyn would want to do. Besides, the only other bakers in town
either had sons she didn’t like or daughters. “I don’t think it’s the right time, Papa.”
“What makes you say that?”
She nodded at a pair of armed soldiers walking past.
He hefted a bag of precious white flour over his shoulder. “You about sold out?”
“Almost. We’ll need to bring more rolls for the afternoon.”
“Right. Let’s go.” They trundled the cart back to the bakery inside the city, where her
stepmother and Wyot were doing a brisk trade. Papa eagerly shared the good news about the
order and began preparing loaves. Once they were proofing, he took Wyot with him back to the market, with a serious look at Bronwyn before parting.
Bronwyn and her stepmother worked all afternoon, baking and selling to whoever entered
the shop. By nightfall, they were glad to have sold the lot of what they’d baked, and they just had time to attend Mass in the evening when Papa and Wyot came back, the cart full of bags of flour for the next day.
Papa checked on the fine, white rolls and once they were ready, covered them with a
cloth and brought her with him, walking up the steep hill to the castle. They were both out of breath by the time they’d reached the top—the road Steep Hill had earned its name for a reason.
Her father was so tired, he had to rest. Just inside the castle gate, he gasped, his white breath puffing white clouds in the evening air. “You go on ahead, Bronwyn. I’ll just rest a minute. Deliver the rolls to the kitchen and come back. I’ll be here waiting for you.”
At the gate, a pair of guards questioned her, but when she revealed the breads and gave
the name of de Grecy, they parted and let her through. She swallowed and walked inside,
wheeling the small cart with the lovely, white loaves through a very large courtyard lit with
torches. Men in armor strolled by and directed her to the pathways and corridors to the kitchens.
Once she’d reached them, she stepped into chaos.
Cooks, pages, and potboys ran about, plating dishes and turning spits, others stirring
soup, bubbling broth, and pottage in various cauldrons. Servants arranged food and took dishes, returning others, all amidst the noise of clattering plates and utensils scraping against trenchers.
One middle-aged cook looked at her. “What do you want? You lost?”
“No, I have an order of white bread for Master de Grecy.”
The burly man’s eyebrows knit together. He crossed a pair of thick arms over his round
stomach.
“He ordered them and paid,” Bronwyn explained. “For tonight, he said. He’ll be cross if
he doesn’t get them.”
The man whistled and called over a fellow cook, a tall, stocky man whose apron was
stained and whose sleeves were pushed back over burly arms. “Who’s this?”
“I’m Bronwyn. My father is Alan Blakenhale. We run a bakery in town.”
The man nodded. “You help him?”
“Yes.”
“You help make these?”
“No. Not for something this nice. They were ordered by Hugh de Grecy. Is he here?”
The men laughed. “You won’t find him here. He’s at the table.”
“Should I go to him?”
“No. Not unless you want a hiding. Give ’em here, we’ll see to it,” the stocky man said,
pulling the cart toward him. He whipped off the cloth and surveyed the round buns. “Manchets?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m no ‘sir.’ But these are good. No sand added?” He picked up one and felt it.
“No,” Bronwyn said.
“De Grecy will be pleased. He’s been talking about it to the good brother, those knight
friends of his, and anyone who will listen. A little gift for the king.”
She gulped. “King Stephen?”
“Is there any other?” the stocky man said with a shake of his head, rolling up his sleeves.
“Mind yourself, girl. Help us unload these and then be off with you.”
She helped the men unload the loaves and glanced around the kitchen. The stocky fellow
said, “You look skinny. You can stay for a bite to eat if you want. There’re scraps to be had from the head table, and the meat drippings.”
If the kitchen were not already noisy, he would have heard her stomach growl.
He laughed. Apparently, he had heard it. “I’m Godfrey. This is Odo. Take a seat and
we’ll save you a plate.”
She sat but realized her father was waiting. She got to her feet. “Thank you, but I can’t. I
have to go. My papa is waiting on me outside.”
“Off you go, then. Farewell, girl.” Godfrey waved.
She turned to leave when she spied a servant leaning over the loaves. He was slim and
moved quickly, but his manner disturbed her. A dark-green hood was pulled low over his face. He bent over the rolls, his arms moving as he did something, but she couldn’t tell what. An uneasy feeling grew in her gut as she spied him hovering over the white loaves.
“What’s he doing?” she asked.
The man in question glanced back, revealing a scruff of black hair. He tugged the green
hood more over his face and sprinkled more of something atop the loaves.
“What’d you say? Speak up,” Odo said, evidently distracted. He crossed his arms over
his chest, frowning at two boys flicking soapy water at each other. “Oi, quit playing around!”
“That man. I think he’s messing about with our rolls.” She pointed, but no one paid any
attention to her. And she spoke too quietly, she realized. Amidst the hustle and bustle of the kitchen, louder voices than hers were filling the space.
“Oi!” She darted over and grabbed his arm, but he shoved her back. She crashed against a
potboy and they landed on the floor.
“Watch it,” the boy complained. Her dress and hands now dirty, she helped the boy up,
but the man had disappeared.
“That man. Did you see him? Where did he go?” she asked.
The boy shook his head and shot her a wary glance.
“What man? I didn’t see anyone.” Odo strode over to her. “You should go. We’ve got
enough to do without you tripping over everyone.”
“But that man—” she started, cut off by a scream.
A woman’s shriek stopped everything. It was followed by a loud thump, like something
heavy hitting the floor. All voices inside the kitchen quieted. The only sounds were the bubbling pots of sauces and soups, and the sizzling roasting meat on the spit as it turned. Bronwyn ran out into the castle corridor to see. There, a woman of middle age had crumpled to the floor.
Bronwyn went to her side. The woman wore a dress of fine-spun wool and a necklace
that dangled at her throat. Her skin was pale and her eyes were closed, her mouth hung open.
“What happened?” a guard asked.
“I don’t know. I heard a scream and found her. I think she’s fainted.”
Bronwyn gently shook her, but the woman didn’t awaken. Tension seized Bronwyn’s
chest, and she gently peered down to the woman’s body, leaning close.
“What are you doing?” the guard asked.
“Checking to see if she’s breathing. Can you fetch someone?”
By this time, a few cooks and more guards had entered the corridor. “What’s going on
here?” one asked.
“This lady fainted.”
“Fetch a physician. Where’s Brother Bartholomew?”
A guard was dispatched to find him, and Bronwyn stayed there, trying to wake the
woman, when she was conscious of a few boys standing close, watching. She turned to one.
“You.”
Five pairs of eyes glanced at her.
“Go bring me a spice. Or a bit of fish. Something smelly.”
A boy in the group of about twelve years old, asked, “Cooked or not cooked?”
“It doesn’t matter, as long as it stinks. Bring it here.”
The boy left, and Bronwyn held the woman’s hand. She didn’t know who she was or why
she’d fainted, but she didn’t want to leave her side. Perhaps she felt as alone as Bronwyn did.
Odo came out of the kitchens. “What’s happening here? Why are you all standing around
like a bunch of sticks? If it’s more work you need…”
“A lady’s fainted. She might be dead,” a boy said.
Odo’s eyebrows rose, and he saw Bronwyn. “What are you doing?”
“Waiting for help. I can’t wake her.”
He pushed forward and shook the unconscious woman, then slapped her cheeks.
“Oi, stop that!” Bronwyn said. “You’ll hurt her.”
“She might already be dead. Did you see what happened?” Odo asked.
“No. I was in the kitchen when I heard her scream.”
“Come on, girl, there’s nothing for you here. Go home to your father. Where’s Brother
Bartholomew?”
“Someone’s gone to get him,” one of the boys said.
“All right, then, leave the good lady be. All of you, back to work.”
“But—” Bronwyn paused. “I don’t want to leave her.”
“You’re not her maidservant. There are guards enough to look after her.” Muttering, Odo
added, “Not that they did any good.”
A boy came bustling up, holding a very stinky dead fish in his hands. “Will this do?”
“What foolishness is this? The lady needs a physician, not a fish. What are you thinking?
Do you have wool for brains?” Odo turned on the boy, whose face grew pink.
“I asked him for it,” Bronwyn said, motioning the boy forward. She took the fish and
held it beneath the woman’s nose.
In seconds, the woman’s eyes fluttered, and she opened her eyes. “What? What? What
happened? Where am I?” Then a moment later, she cried, “I saw him! I saw him with my own eyes. William de Roumare, here. He was walking the halls.”
There were a few exchanged looks and smirks as people digested this. The woman’s face
turned pink and then red as she looked down. “None of you believe me. But it’s true. I saw him!”
A heavyset middle-aged man entered the group. He had a head full of brown, greying
hair; a round, surly expression; and an impressive mustache. He wore a knee-length tunic belted at the waist, over hose and shoes. But the small blade hanging at his belt marked him as a warrior, and one not to be trifled with.
“What’s this? Mistress de la Haye, are you all right?”
“Sir Nicholas, I saw him,” said the lady. “William de Roumare. He was here, walking
clear as day. I recognized his black hair, dark as night.”
Sir Nicholas turned to the other guards, who looked to him, awaiting instruction. “Send a
man to the dungeons and check that de Roumare is there.”
Bronwyn held the fish away as people surrounded the woman and helped her sit up.
Seeing as maids and guards were present, Bronwyn rose and stepped back. As she followed Odo back to the kitchen, she asked, “What do you mean, the guards didn’t do any good, Master Odo?”
“That woman who fainted, she’s the chatelaine of the castle, Mistress de la Haye.” He
added in a hushed voice, “It was she and her husband, the castellan who let de Roumare and de Gernon inside the castle when it all went to hell. Now she’s seeing things. Probably just wants attention.”
Bronwyn went to check on the rolls that the green-cloaked man had been messing with.
The rolls now bore little bits of crumbled-up mushroom on them, some pieces so tiny, there was no chance of brushing them all off. She frowned.
“What are you still doing here, girl?” Godfrey looked over her shoulder at the rolls.
“They look good. You can eat one if you want. They’ll never know.”
She shook her head.
“Well, never mind. We’ll serve these now.”
“I don’t think you should,” she told him. “Did you see the man in the green hood?”
Godfrey gave her a look. “No. There are a lot of men who wear green hoods. What of it?”
“The girl thinks she saw someone,” Odo said. “Could be trouble.”
Godfrey glanced at him, then Bronwyn. “I didn’t see anyone. I say serve them.”
Odo ran a hand through his thinning hair. “You know we can’t take any chances.
Remember last time, when we added a spice to the potatoes and it made the masters cough? They fretted it was poison and we had to deal with their tasters for a fortnight.”
“We made the rolls plain. We didn’t add anything,” Bronwyn said. “You shouldn’t serve
them.”
Odo and Godfrey’s expressions hardened.
Odo said, “Girl, you don’t make the decisions here.” To Godfrey, he said, “She has a
point, though. If the man didn’t order any mushroom topping, we should brush it all off. He could raise a fuss, or accuse us of mistakes.”
“Good idea,” Bronwyn said, then she faltered at their dark looks.
Godfrey said, “And just what are we supposed to think? You bring in rolls and then you
say you didn’t add the mushrooms on top. How do we know this isn’t a trick?”
“It’s not. Why else would I bring rolls to the castle?” Bronwyn asked.
“Hoping to see the king and queen for yourself, maybe,” Godfrey said, his eyes
narrowing.
“I didn’t. De Grecy ordered them.”
Odo said, “You don’t have a say in this kitchen. You delivered your rolls, now go. I’ll
handle this.”
Godfrey put his hands on his hips, frowning at them both. “I make the decisions in this
kitchen. If I say the rolls are fine, they’re fine. I’ll even try one and prove it.”
Bronwyn swallowed. “But that man messed with them. De Grecy ordered these rolls
plain. If he’d wanted a topping, he would’ve said so.”
“D’you really think a man like de Grecy would know about toppings?” Godfrey said. “Or
know what he wants? These knights are all the same. They eat, they fight, they sleep around, they die. That’s it. And we only deal with safe mushrooms here. Trust me, de Grecy won’t care about a bit of mushroom. He might even like it.”
“I don’t care. Those are my family’s rolls we made. Let me take the mushroom toppings
off. They should go to de Grecy like he asked.” She looked up at Godfrey, taking in his annoyed expression, wishing she were taller.
“What’s the problem here?” a familiar voice asked.
Bronwyn whirled around. The golden-haired youth from the market stood there, Rupert
the squire. He looked surprised to see her.
“Someone was messing with the rolls I brought in,” she said.
“Who?” Rupert asked.
“I don’t know. A servant. Someone with black hair in a dark-green hood. I didn’t see
their face.”
“Man or woman?” he asked.
“Man.”
Godfrey cut in. “But Odo and I didn’t see nobody, and now you’re causing a fuss. You
think anyone can just walk in here without my approval? Think again. I think you’re making it all up. First Mistress de la Haye’s seeing things and now you.”
“But I wasn’t the only one who saw him. The other cooks did too.” She looked around,
but people either weren’t paying attention or too busy with their own tasks.
“Master Godfrey, I believe her,” Rupert said. “If she says she saw someone messing
about with the food, I’d take her word.”
Bronwyn looked at him, her lips pursed in displeasure. She didn’t need nor want him to
speak for her.
“Oh? And just what other cooks saw him?” Godfrey retorted.
“Well…” She looked around but didn’t recognize the boy she fell over.
“Did any of you lot see a man in a green hood in here, touching the food?” Godfrey
called out.
People stopped and looked over. A few shook their heads. Others looked at her blankly.
“See? No one saw this mysterious man but you. Now clear off,” Godfrey said to her. To
Odo, he said, “I’ve heard enough about these blasted rolls. Let’s bring them in already before they grow stale.” He turned to Rupert, his voice hard. “You know as well as I do, Rupert, that we don’t want to keep de Grecy waiting.”
“But someone’s put some kind of mushroom on them. He didn’t order that,” Bronwyn
said, her voice growing heated.
Rupert came to her side. “Hey, there. You say you saw someone in a green hood. I know
a squire who got one recently.” He turned to Godfrey. “Doesn’t Roger come here to taste the food before his master?” He added as an aside to Bronwyn, “His master, Sir Bors, once got sick from eating bad fish. Since then, Roger often tastes his food before it comes out of the kitchen. But Sir Bors doesn’t want to seem fearful in front of the other knights, so Roger comes here in secret. It might’ve been him you saw.”
“But that doesn’t make sense. Why would he add mushrooms to food not his?”
Rupert shrugged. “His master might’ve asked for them. He might be taking them
specially for his health and not want anyone to know. Or… he might want to play a trick on de Grecy. They are not friends. De Grecy is not popular at court.”
“But how would they even know the rolls are for de Grecy?”
Rupert smiled. “These knights often posture and try to one-up each other. If de Grecy
ordered expensive rolls for dinner, he’d make sure the other knights knew about it.”
“But De Grecy ordered those rolls plain. And the person ran off. If it was this Roger like
you say, why wouldn’t he have stayed?”
“You think it was someone suspicious?”
“Maybe,” Bronwyn said.
“This girl is seeing suspects everywhere,” Odo said. “If she did see someone, and I doubt
it, it was likely Roger, on an errand for his master. There’s nothing to worry about. Let her go home already so I can get these loaves upstairs. We can’t keep them waiting.”
“But we don’t know what kind of mushrooms were sprinkled on there. At least let me
take it off,” she said.
“We’ll sort this,” Godfrey said. “Now be off with you.”
Bronwyn watched unhappily as the men placed the rolls on a serving platter to be taken
into the front room.
“Wait!” she said, gripping a worktable. “What if the mushrooms are poison?”
That stopped all sound into silence. Everyone froze, from the potboy scrubbing pots to
the men turning meat on the spit. Even the cooks stopped what they were doing, sauce dripping off of their spoons.
“What are you talking about?” Godfrey asked. “You think Roger would try to poison his
master?”
“I don’t know this Roger,” Bronwyn said. “But if it was him, why would he run away?
What was he hiding? Would you let a stranger change your dish? Your sauce?”
“Of course not. But that’s different,” the cook said.
“How?”
“Well….”
“It seems to me the girl has a point,” Rupert said. “We all know they’d be turning the spit
for weeks if anyone so much as dared alter your cooking, Master Godfrey.”
“That’s right. But that’s due to me, as the head cook. There’s a way and proper order of
things. Obviously, if Roger did put mushrooms on the rolls, he had good reason to. He should have come to me first, but I trust the lad. He’s honest. Not so suspicious of others.” He looked at Bronwyn with meaning.
She stood up to him. “And I’m telling you, de Grecy ordered those rolls plain. What if he
doesn’t like them and blames me and my father for adding mushrooms when he didn’t want it?”
“Then that’s on you for making shoddy rolls,” Godfrey growled.
Bronwyn glared at him, hands on her hips.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Godfrey tore a hunk off one of the mushroom rolls and stuffed it
into his mouth, chewing furiously. He smiled, swallowed, and helped himself to a cup of wine. “Mmm. The mushrooms taste delicious. See? It’s safe. You’re worrying about nothing. It’s a nice topping. Take the rolls in.”
Bronwyn tensed and her shoulders slumped. She felt helpless as a servant carried the rolls
out of the kitchen. “But…”
“Go home, girl. And next time, send your father in. You don’t belong here. A kitchen’s
for working, not silly girls with poison in their heads. Next, you’ll be thinking someone’s trying to murder us all,” Godfrey joked.
She picked her way out of the kitchen, stepping around serving boys and cooks, then
dodging servants and scullery hands. Her stomach growled at the luxurious smells of fresh bread and beef dripping, but she kept walking, slipping into the shadows at the earliest opportunity until she reached the outside.
“Hey, wait.” A hand touched her shoulder.
“What?”
Rupert stood before her. “Don’t worry. Godfrey is a bear, but he’s not that bad. And he’s
a good cook. He’s just busy and you caught him at a bad time. Don’t let him get to you. And he’s right about Roger. He’s often in here, but he is trustworthy.”
She shrugged and kept walking. “He doesn’t want me in his kitchen.”
“Don’t take that to heart. He throws one of the cooks out every day, sometimes every
week. But he’d be nothing without all of us, and he knows it.” The torch played shadows on his face, showing a friendly smile.
“Thanks for standing up for me back there.”
“It’s the least I could do for a pretty girl. I never did get your name,” he said, keeping
pace with her as they walked out into the castle courtyard and past the guards, through the gate, and back out onto the street.
“Do you say that to all the girls?” she asked.
“Only the pretty ones. Especially those who cause trouble in the kitchens.” He grinned.
“What’s your name? Are you hiding it? Is it a bad name?”
“No.” Bronwyn frowned. She hated her name. It sounded like a boy’s name to her. Why
she couldn’t have an elegant or pretty name, like Rowena, or Agnes, she didn’t know.
“Then why not tell me? Otherwise, I’ll have to guess, or give you a new one. Aethelreda… or Marion, maybe.”
Bronwyn rolled her eyes. “Keep guessing. Don’t you have a knight to get back to?”
“I do, but I wanted to see you safely out first. Want me to walk you home?” Rupert
asked.
“No, my father’s just waiting for me.” Bronwyn raised an arm in greeting at the welcome
sight of her papa, who waved back.
All of a sudden, there was a commotion, and a pair of guards raced away. “What’s going
on?” Bronwyn asked.
“I don’t know. You’d better go. G’night.” Rupert hurried back toward the gate.
Her father clapped a hand on her shoulder. “There you are. I was beginning to worry. All
is well inside there?”
“I think so.” She told him the situation about the mushrooms.
He frowned, his expression lit up by the moonlight. “That’s very odd. And you didn’t see
who did this?”
“No. I thought it suspicious, but the head cook, Godfrey, he tasted one of the rolls and
said it was fine. They all think that it was likely a squire named Roger who did it, but they
declare he’s trustworthy, so there’s nothing to worry about.” She pursed her lips. “I don’t like that someone sprinkled mushrooms on it and then ran away.”
“Agreed. But it’s done now and we were paid, so if they get indigestion, that’s on them.
Let’s go back. Margaret will have pottage waiting for us.” He rubbed his hands together.
Her stomach rumbling at the thought of a steaming plate of peas, cabbage, turnips, and
carrots in a hearty stew, Bronwyn rolled the cart faster when a voice cried, “After them!”
“Don’t let them escape!”
She turned to look and saw guards coming straight at them.
“Papa….” she started.
“What is it?” he asked, turning to see.
In another moment, they were surrounded by armed guards. Her father stopped the cart
and clasped her to his side.
One guard demanded, “Are you the baker? Who delivered the rolls to the king’s table?”
“I delivered them to the kitchens. Why?” Bronwyn asked.
“What’s this all about?” her father asked.
“Come with us,” one guard said.
“What for?”
“On order of the king.”
Bronwyn’s eyes grew wide. “What?”
“The king has ordered you to an audience with him. Right now.”
“But why?”
“He wishes to know why you attempted to poison him.”
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