4) Needle
The season progressed. Weeks later, in the warm dreamy haze of extreme cold, Bronwyn took shelter under a long hedge, pulling the cloak about a body that no longer bothered to shiver. The hedgerow shifted around her, blocking the cutting wind. She hoped vainly that she might create a nest of warmth for herself and the dog beneath the icy branches. She sensed that the bushes were sorry that they were only cold wood, and not warmer.
The city constables found her later, the puppy curled up beside her. In her sleepy haze she could scarcely bring herself to even open her eyes wide enough to break the ice on her lashes.
The younger of the two men, cold and tired, was of a mind to leave her there and not trouble with taking her to the gaol for vagrancy. After all, in the cold she'd be dead soon enough, and the dead didn't require as much upkeep as vagrants and gypsies.
The other man, thinking that she looked a bit like his oldest daughter, knelt at her side, stroking the dog's ears gently before shaking the young woman's shoulder.
"Girl, you need to move along," he said, though his eyes were gentle as she looked up at him. His partner grumbled a bit at the bother, turning to watch the snowy street.
Bronwyn nodded, stiffly crawling out from under the bush. The constable who'd spoken to her offered his hand to help her rise, and she gratefully took it. "Thank you, sir," she said, shaking the cloak to fall around her more warmly.
The constable saw the tangles in her black hair, and her dirty hands and bare feet in the snow, and the thin ribs of the dog who stretched his short legs and looked to the girl with utter devotion. Her hand was light and sure in his, her eyes smoky dark, and he was moved to pity by her poverty and her beauty and her frail stature. She saw him watching her, saw his thoughts in his eyes and withdrew the hand slowly, pulling her hood up over the secrets tangled in her hair.
"There's a charity house down the lane," he said.
She smiled stiffly and shook her head. "Others need that charity more than I," she said quietly. She set aside the thought of the clumsy groping hands in the stinking dark of the first charity house she'd gone to, and her stolen shoes, and cast even the slight temptation of thin hot soup away. She could not afford to lose what little remained in the pouch, no matter how generous the pouch was.
"Then come back to the guardhouse and at least warm yourself," he said, much to the disgust of his younger companion.
She looked down at her dog and saw his piteous shivering. Nodding, she allowed the constables to lead her to the guardhouse. The reluctant man complained the whole way about the interruption in their rounds, but she noticed that he slowed his pace to match hers, careful of her bare feet on the icy cobbles of the lane and then the streets that followed. Her advocate said little, deep in thought.
When they came to the guardhouse, the man who'd wakened her went up the stairs to make his report to the sergeant, leaving her with the gruff young man who would have walked past her in the snow. "Sit there," he pointed to a stool near the hot stove and pulled down a plain wooden bowl. He filled it with the thick hot stew simmering in the pot and gave it to her.
He watched her while he puttered around the boot room, moving the basket of darning a little further from the stove with a disgruntled look, muttering about endless holes. She blew gently at the steam before setting the bowl down on the floor beside her so the dog could eat its fill. When the pup was finished the guard picked up the bowl and filled it again.
"This time, you eat it," he ordered, but she saw the slow flicker of kindness in his eyes. He sat at the table, soon drowsing in the warmth of the stove.
She pulled the basket of darning closer and reached into the pouch, finding a needle and stout thread. Her hands stayed busy with the little rips and tears, needle flickering in the firelight.
After an hour or so the older constable returned. "Well, we can't keep you here, lass, but at least you're warm," there was regret in his voice.
"Thank you for your hospitality,” she said, stroking the sleek fur of the dog affectionately. She pulled the last stitch tight and broke off the thread. She had pricked her finger, and a spot of blood slipped into the plaited willow rim of the basket.. Rising gracefully, she pulled the cloak back on, and the dog was at her heels again.
The constables walked with her to the guardhouse gate, and the kind one gave her a bit of bread and cheese, wrapped in a rough towel. She started off into the snowy evening, feeling their eyes on her back as she made her way down the lane. The gruff young man grumbled again, clapped his older companion on the shoulder in farewell and came after her.
"Wait, girl. Look here. My cousin's the cook for the Lord Mayor, and I guess she might need some help, since she's broke her ankle. Her last kitchen girl just left to marry or take care of her ma or some such. It's not easy work, but you seem to be the helpful type. Even sleeping on the hearth's better than under a hedge."
A tickle of curiosity started in the back of her mind, and she felt the offer hang like fate before her. Smiling, she looked up at him, and he was suddenly absurdly glad that they'd not walked past her.
"I think I'd like that. To help your cousin while her ankle heals."
“I’ll walk you there, and you tell Marnie the cook that her cousin Dale sent you.”
5) Cinders
Bronwyn worked hard in the kitchens of the Lord Mayor through that winter. Marnie the cook was pleased with her skills and the hard work of her hands, and when the splints came off that dame's leg there was no discussion of sending Bronwyn on her way.
The Lord Mayor was a kind man, well suited to his office and well liked by the people of his city and his household. He accepted the addition to the kitchen staff without question, and often greeted Bronwyn by name.
Marnie realized quickly that Bronwyn had an aptitude for herbs and the garden, and gave her the task of gathering herbs and stems and seeds. She took Bronwyn aside for long afternoons and taught her the way of the distillery. The cook was astonished at the unusual potency and purity of the unguents and potions the young woman turned out.
Stolen novel; please report.
It followed suit that Bronwyn also learned the uses of the herbs and brews. When people from the town or servants from the castle came by for a posset or salve, or with an injury, Bronwyn was required to look on and learn that, too.
The Lord Mayor's wife and daughters returned from the south with the spring. The Lady came down to the kitchens on her first day back and spoke with the cook while watching Bronwyn critically. The young woman was efficiently peeling roots while keeping an eye on the spitted pig being turned by one of the house curs.
Bronwyn's puppy, now lanky and long with adolescence, emerged from the root cellar with a smallish rat and came to his mistress, wiggling with glee. She smiled at the dog and sent him outside with his prize.
"The rats used to be larger than that," she overheard the lady say, surprised.
"I reckon he's caught all the really big ones," the cook replied fondly.
"That's good to know then," the lady replied. There was no talk of whether to keep the new girl on or not, and her small wages were added to the household budget.
The Mayor's daughters were a handful, a spoiled lot accustomed to ordering servants around like serfs, generally indulged by their father and encouraged or ignored by their mother. They took special glee in ordering around and tormenting the new kitchen girl, and more than once she cried herself to sleep, curled on her mat near the fire.
She never let on about the cruelty, not to Marne the cook or Hilde the seamstress or even the young constable, Dale. He visited his cousin often, always lingering to speak a word or two to the quiet girl he'd brought to the house. Bronwyn began to look forward to his visits, but never quite sought him out.
When he was assigned to the palace guard, the visits abruptly stopped. She missed him, but never thought to visit him there. She had a task to do in the house of the Lord Mayor, and the sense of purpose grew into a compulsion that would not release her no matter how much the daughters made her life a misery.
Months and then a year and then more passed in the same fashion. The cook taught her about the running of a kitchen, and then a household, but Bronwyn's special knack still lie in the sunny garden. Eventually Marnie simply sent whatever injured goodman or abigail who came for healing to Bronwyn.
The palace servants became particularly fond of her, bringing their burns and bruises and scrapes to her specifically. The Lord Mayor’s daughters grew in stature if not in social grace, and finally news came to the city from the palace. The Queen had fallen ill and died of it quickly. The King, once again widdered, would hold a Royal Ball and then a lottery to decide who would become the next Queen.
"Why hold a ball and a lottery both?" the middle sister whined, throwing her bone handled brush across the room with a clatter. It narrowly missed Bronwyn as the kitchen girl ducked to avoid it.
"Stupid, he can't be expected to dance with every girl in the kingdom," the oldest snapped, critically examining her dancing shoes. "And he can't offend the houses who can't attend."
The youngest, perhaps the only one of them who was even remotely kind, dreamily sorted through her dresses before deciding which would be cut down to become her ball gown. She gave the deep burgundy satin to Bronwyn. "Put ribbons on it, too," she ordered, "and mind that you don't get soot on it. I wish to be the prettiest girl at the ball that night."
The dresses were picked apart and remade by Bronwyn and Hilde the seamstress. The seamstress finally wrapped the new dresses in fine cotton to be delivered back up the long flight of stairs to the bower.
Upon delivery of the dresses, the oldest threw a plate, the middle daughter shrieked her displeasure, and the youngest frowned down at the ribbons on the burgundy bodice of her new gown. There was never any rhyme or reason for their tantrums that Bronwyn could discern; she merely tried to glide through the mayhem unharmed.
Weeks of preparation came to an end with the grand ball itself. Bronwyn was chosen to attend the daughters that evening, and with her clever needle she made herself a suitably plain shift out of scraps from the girl's dresses. The bodice was a deep blue, and the skirt a burgundy and blue counterpane, with a black overdress to keep the chill from Bronwyn's thin shoulders.
The little dog whined but consented to stay with the cook with suspicious obedience. As Bronwyn stepped down from the footman's box on the back of the coach, she felt a cold nose against her bare calf and looked down just as a short brindle tail disappeared beneath the counterpane skirt. She said nothing. There was nothing to be done but hope that the dog stayed out of sight.
The servants of the guests were expected to take the cloaks and gloves of their charges and retire to a small sitting room set aside for them. Bronwyn was startled to see a familiar face at the door. The young guard, Dale, who was once a constable, winked at her merrily from his post at the door of the ballroom, handsome in his gray and black uniform. His was the only humor in that place, at least among the servants and guards.
The kitchen maids and abigails who brought trays to the servants of the gentry looked worn and haunted, and there was a certain grimness in the set of the servingmen's jaws. Bronwyn recognized several of them from their visits to the Mayor's kitchens for aid or healing, and they smiled tightly at her as they passed.
The evening was long, and ended with the lottery. The Mayor's Lady herded her charges out shortly afterwards, a look of calculated glee in her eye and a smug smile. The youngest daughter was the fairest lady at the ball, and had danced more than once with quite a few of the lords and councilmen.
Bronwyn learned later that evening, while helping the youngest girl undress, that the Mayor's family had been chosen to give an eligible daughter to the King to wed. A tight frozen ball lodged in Bronwyn’s chest.
Despite their pettiness and cruelty, fear for her young charge’s safety and the pull of fate like a great rope around Bronwyn’s body. It drew her to hug the girl impulsively, taking in some of the weight of fate from the Lord Mayor’s daughter.
The servants of the house whispered for weeks after about the tremendous fight between Mayor and Lady that night, and the night after, and a third night, when the lady slammed the door of her suite and locked it. The Lady refused to emerge for three more days.
At the end of the sixth day after the Grand Ball, Bronwyn was summoned to the Mayor's private office. He sat behind the enormous desk, writing a letter. He glanced up as she entered and gestured for her to sit while he finished.
She gingerly sat on the indicated chair, worried a bit about getting soot on the velvet. He sealed the letter with crimson wax and his signet ring before looking up at Bronwyn. His eyes were heavy with regret.
"Child, I'm very sorry, but I must do this. A daughter of this house must be presented to the King tomorrow to wed him. Do you understand that?"
Bronwyn nodded. "Yes my Lord Mayor," she replied calmly, the fate that hung over her tugged her forward in the chair.
"I cannot, in good conscience, deliver one of my own children to him. The rumors - " he stopped, looking down at the papers on his desk. "I have, therefore, adopted you as a daughter of this house. .I will present you to His Royal Majesty at midafternoon tomorrow." He pushed the letter towards her. "You will be well dowered, Bronwyn, and have not only the title of Queen but duchess as well, should you become widdered."
Bronwyn picked up the letter in both hands, looking at her fingers with their rough skin and frayed nails, not the hands of a lady at all. "Yes, My Lord Mayor," she replied, and suddenly smiled up at him.
His distress was painfully visible. "Please don't fret, Lord David, all is as it is fated to be," she said, greatly daring in her use of his given name. He looked startled, but then smiled warmly in return.
"You're a good girl, Bronwyn. Cook has asked to help you bathe and a dress has been prepared for you. You needn't wait on the sisters this evening, of course, and the guest room has been made ready. Tonight, at least, you will not sleep among the cinders on the hearth."