The Briton (15 page)

“St. Nicholas is also the patron of sailors. As a boy, I dreamed of becoming an adventurer.”

“And so you have. Now you’re lord of a beautiful and valuable holding.”

“Indeed I am. I sent the gift because I wanted you to know I remembered you. And that I was coming—as I had promised.”

She looked down. “I thought you were in London.”

“I went…and returned with my army.”

“The victor,” she murmured.

“Tell me of your father, I beg you. And your lands—bequeathed to you upon your betrothal.”

“You intended to take
my
holding, too?” Bronwen shook her head. “My father is dead. Aeschby—my sister’s husband—has taken my lands. I must go to Rossall.”

A touch on Jacques’s arm drew his attention before he could reply. The red-haired man who had told his mistress the truth about Olaf’s death knelt at his feet.

“Sir Norman,” he said. “What is to be done with the body of Olaf Lothbrok? It is the Viking custom to carry a lord to the sea and set him aboard the
snekkar.
The ship must be set afire and sent into deep waters.”

“You have my permission to follow the tradition of Lothbrok’s people. See to it, good man.”

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The peasant nodded. “Madam, your nursemaid awaits you beside the broken gate. She has readied horses and sends me to say she wishes to depart before sunset.”

“Thank you, Wag,” Bronwen said. She turned to Jacques.

“May I have your permission to leave the castle, sir?”

“I had not thought to lose you so soon upon finding you again. Why not stay in the castle until I can organize a proper escort for your journey? I’ll ensure your safety and comfort.

You have my word of honor on it.”

At his offer of shelter, protection and ease, she seemed to shrink into herself. “My lord—”

“Jacques is my name.”

“Jacques, please forgive my attempt to…to harm you.”

“Harm me?” He couldn’t hold back a laugh. “You intended to lop off my head!”

She glanced away, but when she faced him again, a faint smile tickled her lips. “Indeed I did. One day I’ll take lessons in swordsmanship, so that the next time my aim will be more exact.”

“I’m an able swordsman. Stay here, and I’ll teach you.”

She sobered. “I hear your kindness, but please now, forgive me and let me go. I must do my father’s bidding.”

“Your father is dead.”

“But his dream is alive in me, sir. I must go.”

Jacques weighed his sword, studying the fine blade. He knew he could keep her if he chose. As conqueror, it was his prerogative. But the plea in her eyes was too much to bear, and if he forced her to stay, she would despise him all the more. He considered all options but knew he could take only one path. Drawing a dagger from its sheath on his belt, he held it out before her.

“Take this then,” he said. “My sword would hamper you,
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or I would gladly offer it. This blade was given to my father by Robert, Duke of Normandy. It served him on his crusade, and it has served me well to gain these lands for Henry Plantagenet. Now you have your own crusade.”

The woman’s hands trembled as he laid the dagger across her palms. It was a magnificent piece with a hilt of brilliant sapphires and a gleaming razor-edged blade. Though he had little else with which to remember his father, he was glad to give it to her.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, Jacques Le Brun, lord of Warbreck Castle.”

“May the dagger protect your life and bring us together again in better days.”

His heart thundered as she stepped away from him and hurried toward the gate. All his being cried out to prevent her leaving. He had thought of this woman, dreamed of her, even prayed for her in the months of separation.

As he and Henry Plantagenet had gathered a force of armed men in support of this cause, Jacques knew his loyalties were torn. Without doubt, he believed in Henry’s right to claim the throne of England. But with even greater assurance, he knew that the black-haired woman who had stood beside her father on a chilly winter night in Amounderness was meant to be his.

Darkness slipped like a thief across the sky to the sea as Bronwen and Enit made their way up the final steep hill to Rossall Hall. The journey had taken two full days—two days of traveling across hard sandy beaches under a burning summer sun, of waiting for tides to recede, of sleeping under the stars, until at last they saw the faint outlines of huts in the village. The timber keep, salt encrusted and
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weatherworn, stood over the village like an old shepherd guarding his flock. And there was the old gate through which the young girl had run many times to the sea.

Bronwen turned and looked over the water as the last rays of the sun spangled the waves and cast glorious golds and oranges into the deep sky.

“I look forward to seeing Gildan,” she said softly. “But it is hard to think of Rossall without my father.”

Enit nodded. “The greater pity lies in the fact that Aeschby now holds Edgard’s hall.”

Bronwen knew both women were reflecting on the terrible truth that in the turmoil of the Norman attack, neither had remembered the will box. The only proof of Edgard’s will was hidden beneath the floor at Warbreck.

“Your business now is Aeschby,” Enit said. “Leave your father’s memory buried for a while.”

Bronwen looked at the wise woman. It was true that she must try to concentrate on her struggle with Aeschby. But the memory of Jacques Le Brun drew her. How could she forget the muscle in his jaw tightening as he’d handed her his father’s precious dagger? The fine planes of his smooth skin had been lit by the sun. His raven curls had shone a blue-black.

She had openly attacked and then reviled him. In return, he had offered his protection, spoken words of affection and support, and then allowed her to leave. What interwoven threads of destiny had created such a man? Both warrior and peacemaker, he confused and beckoned her. While his sword dealt destruction, his eyes spoke gentility and tenderness.

He had given her the dagger with the hope that they might meet again. But now he was lord of a castle in need of repair and lands that still held enemies loyal to Olaf Lothbrok. She
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could not imagine he would have time to think of her. And she would not permit herself to dwell on him.

As she and Enit reached the gate, a guard stepped out of the darkness. “Who approaches the gate of Rossall Hall?”

Bronwen did not recognize the man, and she wondered what had become of her father’s gatekeeper. “I am Bronwen, widow of Olaf Lothbrok, daughter and heiress of Edgard the Briton,” she said. “Stand by that I may enter.”

The guard frowned. “Await Lord Aeschby’s bidding, madam.” He opened a door in the wall, went through it and left Bronwen standing outside.

“Aeschby has faithful forces here, child,” Enit said. “Much as I love this land, the offer of the Norman lord tempts me to turn back to Warbreck.”

“This is where I belong, Enit. We must stay.”

They had not waited long before the guard returned. “My lord sends this message. ‘I do not know you. Return to Warbreck from whence you came.’”

Bronwen stiffened at the rebuff. “Tell your lord that I have come a long journey and I will speak to him at once. Go and tell him now.”

The guard vanished again, and a renewed determination flooded her. She would have this place. She must wrest it from Aeschby whatever the cost.

“Lord Aeschby requests your presence in his hall.” The guard opened the door as he spoke. “Enter, madam. Your maid must wait.”

Bronwen opened her mouth to protest, but Enit touched her elbow. “I’ll stay with the horses, child. Come to me when it’s safe.”

“Guard, protect this woman with your life,” Bronwen told him. “She raised your master’s wife from the cradle.”

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At the look of alarm on the man’s face, Bronwen knew that fear would prevent him from harming Enit. She stepped into the courtyard, and the sight of the familiar old keep with its timber-and-wattle kitchen at one side, and its comfortable sagging benches by the door made her heart swell. Rossall was indeed her home.

Led by another guard, she crossed the yard and entered the hall. The aroma of a pig roasting over the fire filled the room. Tables had been erected around the dais, on which sat the fair-haired Aeschby. A look of disdain flared his nostrils and turned down the corners of his mouth as he rose to meet her.

Before he spoke, Bronwen took a moment to look at her sister. The sight stopped her in horror. Gildan’s skin was sickly pale. Her eyes, two sunken hollows, bore blackened bruises about them. The once-glorious golden hair now hung limp, unbraided and tangled. Her lips trembled, two thin white lines.

“Gildan?” Bronwen mouthed.

But Aeschby spoke up. “So you have come to my hall, Bronwen of Warbreck. I understand from my new advisor that you are now a widow.”

Bronwen focused on the slouching form behind Aeschby’s chair.
Haakon.

“Welcome home,” the Viking said with a laugh.

Eyes narrowing, she gripped the dagger beneath her black mantle. “I have come to speak with Aeschby.”

“Speak then,” the Briton lord commanded. “What can you say that would warrant my attention?”

“I have returned to take possession of Rossall Hall and the entirety of my father’s holdings—as he wished me to do upon his death. You know I speak the truth, Aeschby, for you were
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present at the winter feast when my father announced his will.

Your wife can affirm my words.”

Aeschby sneered. “Your sister is a pretty package with nothing inside. She cannot affirm anything.”

As he spoke, Bronwen ascertained two things at once. He had taken more drink than was prudent on this night. And Gildan was in agony.

“Your father,” Aeschby went on, “would never leave his holdings in the hands of a woman. Rossall belongs to me—

the Briton husband of his daughter. On hearing of Edgard’s death, I dutifully occupied his lands and united them with mine to form one great Briton holding.”

“Upon my honor, I vow that you heard my father’s will,”

she flung back at him. “Everyone heard it. Sister, you were there. What did Father say?”

Gildan sat silent, her face gone whiter than death.

Suddenly she bolted from her chair. “Bronwen, help me!” she wailed. “Don’t let him touch me again!”

Flinging herself at her sister, Gildan began sobbing. But Aeschby left the dais, shoved the two women apart and drew his sword. Grasping Gildan by the hair, he threw her to the stone floor. Then he pointed his blade at Bronwen.

“You will die, woman,” Aeschby snarled.

Clutching the slender dagger, Bronwen stepped back warily. She was outmatched, but she would have her say. “I am mistress of Rossall Hall. I shall—”

“No, Bronwen!” Gildan screamed. “He’ll kill you, I swear it. Run, sister! I beg you—run!”

Aeschby thrust his sword at Bronwen. His drunkenness threw off his aim and spared her, but she knew she must flee or die. As she ran through the door, she glanced back to see Haakon standing over Gildan, his foot resting on her neck.

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“Never return to Rossall!” Aeschby shouted behind her as Bronwen took the steps two at a time and dashed across the courtyard. “I’ll kill you the next time I lay eyes on you!”

As Bronwen darted through the gate, she heard Haakon’s raucous laughter ringing in her ears.

Once outside, Bronwen grabbed Enit’s hand and hurried her toward the protection of the forest. “Enit, we must leave at once,” she gasped as they stood in the darkness. “Aeschby means to take my life. And Gildan…Gildan is—”

“Speak, child.”

“Oh, Enit, she is very ill. Aeschby beats her! I saw him throw her down. I cannot leave her here, but how can I rescue her?”

Hidden in a thicket of trees above the village, Enit drew the younger woman into her embrace. “Whist, Bronwen,”

she whispered. “Let us go to the hut of Ogden, your father’s butler. His wife, Ebba, was my friend, and he’ll be loyal to your cause.”

“But my presence would endanger him, Enit.”

“Ogden will gladly give his life for you, child.”

“Very well,” she said. It was a great risk to turn back to the village. Yet, she could not leave Rossall without Gildan. Her sister had begged for help.

They made their way to the edge of the Wyre estuary.

While Bronwen tethered the horses, Enit knocked on the door of a small hut nearby.

“Great cockles, woman! What do you here?” Ebba flung open the door and hugged her friend. “And who’s this?

Bronwen, Edgard’s daughter! But you wed the old Viking.”

“My husband is killed and his land taken by Normans, Ebba. I’ve come to claim my rightful place at Rossall.”

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“Ach, you’ll not get a stone from Aeschby,” Ebba spat as she ushered the women inside and barred the door.

“Ogden!” Bronwen exclaimed at the sight of the butler’s familiar face. “How glad I am to see you.”

“Madam, welcome,” he greeted her with a bow. “Your father is greatly mourned in the village. Such a time we’ve had since that devil usurped Rossall.”

“Aeschby means to see me dead. You risk your life by hiding us here. Say the word and we’ll depart.”

“Never. You honor us with your presence. Please—sit you down.”

Still shaken from her narrow escape, Bronwen sank onto the rickety bench beside Enit. As Ebba handed out bowls of hot stew, Ogden spoke.

“Madam, the whole village opposes Aeschby. We would rise up against the man if only we had weapons.”

“Serfs rising against their lord?” Bronwen said in disbelief. The idea was unthinkable. “Something must be done, Ogden. Even if I’m unable to take back the land, I cannot abandon my sister.”

“Let my husband go to Gildan,” Ebba suggested.