The Briton (10 page)

She had hoped, even prayed, that she might meet with Jacques Le Brun again. But he had not come, and she could identify no reason to tie him to the orbs.

Was the chest itself intended as a message? A gift? Again Bronwen searched the box for a crest, an identifying color, a sign. She could decipher nothing.

Lest her husband begin to search for her again, she dropped the three spheres back into their downy bed, shut the chest and slid the hasp. As she placed it under her arm, her black wool mantle fell over it. And in the corner of the cloak, she caught a glimpse of an embroidered crest on the peacock-blue lining. The crest bore upon it three gold balls.

Chapter Five

“Your husband requests your presence at his table this night,” Enit said on entering Bronwen’s bedchamber. “You must ready yourself and go down to him.”

Bronwen sat in silence on the clothing chest where she had hidden the box with its secret golden message. Humiliated and in pain, she could think of nothing but Jacques Le Brun.

Perhaps he awaited her outside the castle wall. Or maybe he had sent the gift as a way for her to buy her freedom. With the gold, she could purchase passage on a ship to London.

Maybe she could find him and his retinue at Martin’s monastery. But it was all impossible. All nonsense. She could never escape her fate here, and she could not even be certain the Norman had sent the gift. Even worse—Le Brun was her enemy. A Norman dog. A conqueror of her homeland.

No, she must be faithful to her father, her forebears and their land. She had no choice but to obey her husband…her master. But now that he had shown his domination of her, must he display her disgrace before the entire household?

Bronwen closed her eyes and tried to block out the
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memory of Olaf’s face, flushed with fury and indignation.

How she dreaded and feared him. How he disgusted her. Yet she knew that any further defiance of the man was useless.

“I shall go,” she declared, rising from her place on the old trunk. “Find something clean for me to wear, Enit. Anything will do. Quickly now.”

Bronwen smoothed her hair with an ivory comb. Enit helped her into a yellow tunic and laced the tight sleeves of the undergown. Bronwen draped her veil while her nursemaid settled the golden circlet in place.

“Give me the black mantle I wore today, Enit,” Bronwen ordered.

“But it’s covered in dust and caked with dry mud. You cannot go before your husband and his men wearing this!”

“It warms me.” Bronwen took the mantle and shook it out.

She drew it over her shoulders, felt for the key at her neck and the purse that contained her father’s will box. Then she lifted her chin to fasten the mantle’s clasp.

“Where did you get the cloak, Bronwen? You wear it always—yet we did not stitch it, nor did I see it in the items purchased for you at last summer’s fair in Preston. Who gave it to you?”

Bronwen turned away. “It was a wedding gift, and I do not mean to part with it.”

As she dipped a rushlight into the fire and saw it catch, Bronwen took a deep breath. She did not know how she would face her husband again, but she was determined to do all in her power to quell his wrath.

Leaving Enit, she went down to the hall and was pleased to find that fewer men attended this night’s meal. Yet as before, the general mumble ceased when she entered, and once again every eye fell upon her as she stepped to the dais.

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Olaf stood by while Bronwen seated herself beside him.

Haakon sat at her other elbow.

Servitors carried out the trenchers—a meal of roast suckling pig, breads and cheeses, and finally baked lamprey eel with herbed beets. Bronwen managed to eat, but she said nothing to the men on either side of her. They, in turn, were focused on their dinner, feeding themselves with much lip smacking and belching. They threw bones and other leavings over their shoulders to the floor, where the dogs that roamed the castle snarled and fought over them.

“So you went on a journey today,” Haakon spoke up as the final course was carried away. “And what did you find?”

“The mossy bank of the Warbreck River,” Bronwen replied. “That is all.”

“Nothing more? Not even a tall, black-hooded knight, perhaps? A Norman on his way to London?” At that, the man rolled back his lips and let out a hearty guffaw.

“Keep quiet, son,” Olaf growled. “You know not when to shut your mouth.”

Haakon continued to snicker as Bronwen rose from the table. She knew that all color had drained from her face.

Trembling, she bowed before Olaf. “My meal is complete. If you will excuse me, husband, I bid you good evening.”

Olaf started to say something, then he gruffly acknowledged her departure. Bronwen stepped down and hurried from the hall to the stair. Mortified, she entered her chamber to discover that her nurse had already gone for the night. As she undressed and slipped into her bed gown, her mind spun.

Olaf’s anger was more than justified, she realized. Not only had she left his protection without permission, but Haakon had whispered evils against her into his father’s ear.

She drew back the furs and crept into bed. What would Olaf
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do to her this night? Would he seek vengeance? Would he treat their first union with total disregard for her, or might he even torture her? She had heard tales of such atrocities against disobedient wives, and she and Gildan had clutched hands at night in the fear of such violence ever happening to either of them.

Closing her eyes, Bronwen prayed to gods the druids had taught her to honor and worship in her youth. Then she offered petitions to her husband’s Norse gods. Perhaps they would intervene on her behalf. She was beginning a desperate prayer to the last deity she could recall—the Christian God of Martin and Le Brun—when the door to her room fell open.

Peering over the edge of a blanket of brown bear pelts, she saw Olaf Lothbrok step into the room. He kicked the door shut behind him and approached. Quaking, Bronwen could do nothing but silently utter the name of Jacques Le Brun’s one God. Oh, dear Jesus…Jesus…Jesus…

“You boldly leave my castle without protection,” Olaf addressed her, standing wide-legged and planting his fists at his hips. “Your behavior flouts my authority. And today my son tells me you have been a false wife. Like a harlot, you shame-lessly slept with another man on the night of our wedding. A Norman and a stranger. Yet now, I find you shivering in your bed—a mouse worthy of nothing but a snap of the neck.”

Bronwen tried to reply but words would not come. She gripped the fur, her fingers tight and her body quivering. Olaf took another step toward her, and she shut her eyes, waiting for it to begin.

“Well?” he barked. “What have you to say for yourself, wife?”

“Me?” Her eyes flew open. “You wish me to speak?”

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The Viking stood outlined against the fire. “Defend yourself, if you can.”

Confusion and incredulity filling her, Bronwen gazed at him. “But…but what do you mean, sir?”

“Are you dim-witted as well as disloyal? Surely you know that when a person is charged with an offense, we consider him innocent until his peers decide his fate. It is our custom to allow a person to testify on his own behalf. So speak for yourself if you have any justification for your deeds.”

Bronwen had never heard of such a thing as this. A Briton lord always decided guilt or innocence based on hearsay or tests of honor. But Olaf Lothbrok—full of ire and thrice as strong as she—was permitting her to testify to her own blame-lessness.

With this unexpected hope, she summoned courage. “I went to your bedside this morning,” she said. “You were sleeping. I woke you, but you sent me away. I felt certain you did not require my presence.”

Olaf’s brow furrowed. “You did come to me. I recall it now.

But surely I gave you no permission to leave this stronghold, to wander the woods without a guard.”

“No, sir. You did not. But I beg you to understand that at Rossall, it was my custom to walk the countryside alone in order to clear my thoughts. I never meant to alarm you, my lord, yet I confess, I did leave this castle. Of that I am guilty.

My intent was innocent, however, and such a thing will never happen again.”

“Continue,” he said. “Explain this tale of Haakon’s. He swore to me that he witnessed your misdeed with his own eyes. I cannot imagine you untarnished in the event.”

Bronwen swallowed. “When you put your son, my nursemaid and me ashore on the night of the storm, we discovered
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a hut on the beach. It was already occupied by a band of wanderers. They shared a deer they had killed, for they saw we were hungry. Haakon ate his fill—and then accused the men of poaching the deer from your lands.”

“Ate first and then laid blame?” Olaf fingered his beard.

“Haakon would do such a thing, I fear. He is…young. Brash.

Continue, wife.”

“I predicted conflict, my lord. The strangers outnumbered us, and they were well armed. We were but two women and your son. Sir, the men had been respectful to us. More than polite, they were welcoming. As your wife, I chose to repri-mand Haakon. After much dispute with me, he apologized.

Now I believe he takes his revenge by spreading evil rumors to disgrace me in your eyes.”

“Then you deny that you were on the beach with a Norman? A member of the wandering band you had found in the hut?”

“I do not deny it, my lord,” Bronwen said, meeting her husband’s blue eyes. “I could not sleep for I wondered how you fared in the storm, and I was dismayed over Haakon’s behavior. Just as I foolishly did today, that night I left the hut to walk alone and put my thoughts in order.”

“Again this
walking
nonsense?” Olaf said, shaking his head. “Perhaps it is a Briton custom. No Viking wife would be so unwise. And the Norman? Surely he was not putting his thoughts in order, too.”

“He came to warn me of the danger in my action.” She hung her head, realizing how rash she had been on both occasions. “We spoke, it is true. Nothing untoward passed between us. I thanked him for his caution and returned to the hut, where I slept the rest of the night at my nursemaid’s side.

I am innocent of disloyalty to you, my husband. Indeed, I am
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yet a maiden and as chaste as the day of my birth. You will discover the truth this night when you test my purity yourself.”

Without response, Olaf squatted by the fire and held his hands over it. He fell silent, and Bronwen knew he must be weighing her words against those of his son. More time passed than she imagined possible in such a situation. The man appeared to be hovering on the verge of his decision, testing it, forming a verdict. Some inner struggle ate at him as he rubbed his forehead and drew his fingers through his beard. At last, he stood.

“I accept your word as truth, wife,” he said, meeting her eyes. “You speak well and honestly.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Bronwen replied. Relief flooded through her. “I await you humbly now.”

His lips tightened as he studied her. “Tomorrow I return to Warbreck Wash where my men and I will repair the
snekkar.
From thence, I survey my borders. While I was at your father’s holding, word came to Warbreck that an army of Scots has attacked my neighbor to the east. My spies report that his hall is under siege. The lord requests my aid, and he is my ally. At dawn, I leave with my men.”

At the news of Scottish aggression, Bronwen’s ire rose.

Pushing back the furs, she left the bed and joined her husband at the fire. “Those coarse and hostile Scots believe this is their land now,” she said. “If I could have that Norman king in my power for one moment, husband, I would send him to London’s white tower and order his head lopped off. With his foolish treaty he has lost the best part of his kingdom to our northern enemy.”

“You know of the land grant King Stephen gave to Henry of Scotland?” Olaf asked.

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“The grant that includes both Rossall and Warbreck? My father told me about it, of course. It’s an intolerable situation.”

Rolling a few strands of his beard between thumb and forefinger, Olaf gave a low chuckle. “You astonish me, wife.

A woman innocent of personal danger, yet well informed of politics? This is a wonder.”

“I am to hold Rossall one day, sir, and I am prepared for the task.” She turned to him, aware that seeing her in the bed gown must surely encourage her husband to set aside his consternation about his bride, his son and his lands. If she were to win an alliance with the man, she must ensure that their union this night was pleasurable to him.

She touched his arm. “Your hurry to aid a neighbor betrays the seriousness of these Scottish raids. While you’re away, I shall see to the keep, my lord. You’ll find it secure on your return.”

Nostrils flaring and breath labored, Olaf jerked his arm from her touch and stepped away. “I must sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

Bronwen indicated the bed. “Very well, husband. Come now and take your satisfaction.”

“Another night,” he said and turned from her.

Before she could speak again, he was gone. The sound of the door closing behind him echoed through the stone chamber. Breathless, Bronwen stared at the blank wall. Then she looked at the fire. And last, she gazed down at her bare feet on the icy floor.

“May the gods go with you, my husband,” she murmured.

The following morning Enit could hardly wait to tell Bronwen of the excitement among the servitors. Even the guards seemed happier this day, for Olaf had gone to his wife’s chamber at last.

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“La, my good girl!” Enit clucked. “Everyone will be looking for signs of a child now! You must be certain to tell me if you start to feel ill. I’m sure it won’t take long for the old man to do his work in you. Your mother was bearing you only two months after she married Edgard.”