The Briton (21 page)

His sisters gasped and fled down the stairs, Gildan trailing behind. “Are your son’s wounds grave?” Bronwen asked.

“Our nurse is a healer. Perhaps she can help.”

“Sit please.” Sir Gregory pointed to a pair of chairs and joined Bronwen near a window. “My son will live. His arm is slashed below the elbow, and he may never draw sword again—but that is well with me. He stands to inherit my trade, and I do not endorse these youthful adventures.”

He paused and assessed his guest. “Tell me of your situation, Lady Bronwen. I wish to be of service.”

“My sister’s plight is the greater, sir. She was married to the man who usurped my father’s lands after his death. Her husband was cruel and the church condemned their consanguineous relationship. If Gildan gains funds to press the issue in a church court, it will be permanently annulled. But her husband means to have his wife back—and to take my life.”

He scowled. “You? But you are a widow of no means.

What harm can you do him?”

“My father willed his lands to me, sir, and I intend to have them.”

Sir Gregory leaned back in his chair. “We have two issues before us, then. First, annulment. I do not favor the dissolu-tion of marriage, yet I know Henry Plantagenet’s own wife made use of it. My lady, I am a wealthy man, and in this city wealth means power. I can give your sister counsel, and I’ll use my connections with the church to make her lot easier.

Now what of you and this quest?”

Bronwen squared her shoulders. “I will not give it up. I seek a young man who came here to enter a monastery. He is good and just. He knows the customs of the north and has
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met my enemy. And…and he is a Christian. I find this religion to have more power than I supposed. I wish to find my friend, Martin, and ask his guidance.”

Sir Gregory smiled. “In two days’ time, I will make rounds of these holy institutions to deliver alms for the poor they support. You may go with me.”

Bronwen grasped the old man’s hands in her own. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “You are more than kind.”

As promised, two days later Bronwen set out with Sir Gregory in his carriage, surrounded by a train of mounted guards. In seeking Martin, she felt she had a chance at finding answers. Perhaps he would be able to advise her of a suitable nunnery where Gildan would be content—and safe from Aeschby. He might also have words of wisdom about her father’s will. Should she seek to follow it, as her heart led her—or should she abandon it, as her mind argued?

Invigorated by the throbbing, bustling life in the city, Bronwen stared from the carriage window at the fabled White Tower of London, built by William the Conqueror on a hill near the river. She saw the royal buildings where nobles and knights met with King Stephen and worked their plots against Matilda and her son Henry. On narrow streets, the carriage rolled beneath thatched and tiled roofs of leaning timber houses. Along the river, they passed stalls displaying oil, iron and clay pots from Spain; spices, glass vessels and silks from the Holy Land; and linens and cottons from Flanders.

Never had she seen so many different shops. Fly-coated sides of beef and tubs of fresh fish filled the butcheries, while strolling vendors hawked oysters and mussels. Along St.

Margaret’s Place in Bridge Street, she saw eels and Thames fish for sale. At the various almshouses, monasteries and
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churches, Sir Gregory descended from the carriage to donate his money. Each time, he returned to say that Martin was not there.

Passing Ledenhall, Bronwen saw swans, geese, pigeons, hens and ducks for sale, alive or already dressed. She observed cloth sellers, charcoal makers, barrel makers, barbers, furriers, shoemakers and glove makers. The sights and smells of the marketplace intrigued Bronwen, but she knew a growing disappointment with each stop.

As the sun began to set, Sir Gregory told her they would visit Charter House. The carriage left the streets of Old London through a gate in the ancient wall. Along the straighter roads of the new city, they rode between neat houses with tiny garden plots until at last they spotted a building enclosed by a high stone wall.

Sir Gregory pulled at a bell rope and a small window in the gate slid open. The monk inside spoke with him for a moment, then the window closed again. Certain of another disappointment, Bronwen was startled to hear the rusty iron gate creak open. In the soft orange glow of the setting sun stood a thin man whose head had been shaved but whose eyes she could not mistake.

“Sir Martin,” she cried, climbing down from the carriage and hurrying toward him. “Is it you?”

“It is I,” he said with a quiet smile.

“Do you remember me at all?” she asked.

“Of course. You are the dark woman of the north, wife to the Viking. How could I forget you? From that beach to the walls of this sanctuary, I heard of little else. Each time my master spoke to me in private, it was to consult about a lady whose eyes had captured him. You are Bronwen the Briton.”

At the memory of a time and place so far away, she
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clutched the iron bars of the gate. “I last saw Le Brun in Preston where he dueled against Aeschby and Haakon. Have you heard of him in recent weeks? How fares your master?”

“You will have to ask him yourself,” Martin said. “He is here—inside the antechamber. Come, the two of you must speak.”

Chapter Ten

Wordless with disbelief, Bronwen signaled to Sir Gregory, who called out that he would wait for her in the carriage.

Martin bade her enter and led her toward the door to a small chamber inside the monastery wall.

“I never expected to see you in London,” he said as they crossed the courtyard. “What has become of you since the night you defended me against Haakon’s wrath?”

As Bronwen related the events of the past months, the tears that had been threatening all day spilled from her eyes.

Laying a hand on his arm, she begged him to stop. The very idea of an encounter with Jacques Le Brun on this evening was more than she could bear.

“I have learned nothing in my life, Martin,” she confessed,

“except that my judgments are usually wrong. People I expect to trust deceive me. And those I disdain turn out to be kind and gentle. The world is filled with too many confusing ideas, too many religions, too much war. Oh, sir—”

“Martin, what is taking so long?” The deep voice could belong to only one man. “I am expected back before dark, and it is already…”

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His voice trailed off as his eyes focused on the woman at Martin’s side. “Bronwen the Briton.”

“As you see.”

A flood of relief washed through her at seeing Jacques alive and well. But she could not stay. She had come to seek counsel of Martin, and Jacques would only confuse and distract her. The monk was clearly unaware of the chaos in Bronwen’s heart as he ushered her into the chamber. A single lit candle sat on a rough shelf beside the door.

Jacques looked so like he had on the beach in Amounderness—yet his face registered as much surprise as hers. Her heart beating quickly, Bronwen turned to the fair monk.

“I must go,” she told Martin. “I came to ask your guidance, and I see you have a guest already.”

“One moment, madam.” Jacques placed a hand on Bronwen’s elbow to prevent her departure. “I have news of Rossall.”

“Rossall!” Bronwen’s breath caught. “Tell me.”

“Martin, will you leave us for a moment, please?”

“Let him stay,” Bronwen said. “What can you say that your friend should not hear?”

Jacques spoke firmly. “I would speak with you alone.”

Martin glanced from one to the other. “Madam, I shall greet the gentleman who brought you here—and I’ll rejoin you in a moment.”

With a nod, Martin shut the door. At once, Jacques took Bronwen’s hand. “Tell me you are well.”

“I am. My sister and our nurse stay at the home of a good family. They treat us well.”

“What has befallen you since that day in Preston? I confess I have feared for your life.”

“As I have feared for yours.” Bronwen knew she should draw her hand away, but the warmth of his fingers as they
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entwined hers left her weak. “Our journey to London was uneventful. The ship’s captain referred us to the home of his friend, and there we stay. Gildan will enter a nunnery, and I…

My plans are uncertain. What news of Rossall?”

“Aeschby remains there. You are safe for now. My spies tell me he plots to take Warbreck.”

“Warbreck? Surely he does not have the strength.”

“His closest adviser is the son of your late husband.”

“Haakon,” she said. “Of course he would press for an invasion of his father’s castle. Together they may be able to amass a sizable army.”

“Aeschby lusts for land. I believe I can avert their schemes and overpower them, but not from this distance.”

“Why did you come to London?”

“I have business here. Henry Plantagenet is newly arrived from a
chevauchée,
and he has called a meeting of his supporters. I must return to the north as soon as may be. But you?

Do you mean to stay here?”

She looked away. “Why do you suppose I sought out Martin? My gods played havoc with me in Amounderness, and yours gives me little guidance here.”

His hand touched her shoulder and stroked down the length of her arm. “Is your hatred for Normans and our Christian faith as strong as ever it was?” he asked.

“I am certain of nothing now.” She sensed him moving closer in the darkness. “Rossall is my home, and I shall always be a Briton. But…”

“Bronwen, permit me to meet you in another place than this. I must see you again.”

“How can I say yes?”

“How can you say no?” His arms slipped around her.

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“Please woman, do not keep me in this agony forever. I can conquer many things, but not this! It plagues me.”

“I cannot see you, sir. My sister—”

“Where do you stay?”

Martin opened the door again, and Jacques released Bronwen at once. She quickly stepped out into the night. “I shall come to consult with you another time, Martin,” she told the monk. “My carriage awaits.”

Martin pursed his lips as Jacques ducked to avoid the low doorway and joined him in the monastery courtyard. Awhirl with tears, joy, fear, so much emotion she could hardly hold it in, Bronwen started for the gate. But at the thought of turning her back on Jacques Le Brun once again, she halted.

“I stay at the home of Gregory, Lord Whittaker,” she said, meeting his dark eyes. “They are Normans and supporters of Henry Plantagenet. I am sure they would make you welcome.”

Before he could answer, she slipped through the gate and hurried to the carriage.

Bronwen and Sir Gregory were seated in the
solar
discussing the political atmosphere in England when the door burst open, and the chamber filled with giggles.

“Oh, Papa!” Linette sang out. “Poor Chacier is quite smitten with our dear Gildan. You must see the look in his eyes—as if he’s in a trance.”

Caresse chimed in. “You should hear his honeyed words, Papa. True love, true
amour,
true romance!”

Bronwen turned to her sister, who stood beaming beside her friends. Gildan’s cheeks had flushed a bright red, and her blue eyes twinkled. Trembling ever so slightly, she adjusted her jaunty hat and straightened her gloves.

“Now daughters, enough of that,” Sir Gregory scolded.

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“You are always imagining Chacier in love. Let him be. He is wounded, and cannot hope to parry your teasing.”

At their father’s reproach, the girls captured Gildan and hurried off again. Nearly a week had passed since Bronwen’s visit to the monastery, and she had seen nothing of Jacques Le Brun. Though her memory of his words of passion played constantly through her mind, she felt a sense of relief that he had not come to Lord Whittaker’s home. He must be taken with labors on behalf of Henry Plantagenet’s cause. And with Aeschby threatening Warbreck, Jacques would certainly be eager to depart London.

She was grateful to Sir Gregory for his wide-ranging knowledge, which she drank from him like cold water on a summer day. Though she still had no idea or plan as to how she might regain Rossall, she knew the information he gave her would be useful.

Even more, she had come to enjoy the Whittaker family.

They were a unit, interested in each others’ lives, asking questions, offering comments. How strange it was—and how pleasant—to live like this, Bronwen thought. There were no rows of onlooking guards at mealtimes. There were no roam-ing pigs or chickens underfoot. There were only good smells, delicious food and cordial conversation.

She and Gildan had settled easily into the comfortable life of the burgher’s home. Even Enit seemed relaxed. The Norman sisters took joy in adorning Gildan with their most colorful garments. And she, in turn, made frequent trips in their company to visit Chacier. The young man’s wounds were healing well, and Bronwen could see that he was smitten with Gildan. She hovered about his bed chittering and smoothing his blankets. Chacier’s eyes followed her everywhere and at each witty comment she made, he laughed.

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With the departure of his daughters, Sir Gregory chuckled.

“Amour,”
he said. “Such silliness.”

“Can you enlighten me on this subject, sir?” Bronwen asked. “In the north we do not know of
amour.
”

He smiled. “It is a French fashion that will surely pass as all this sort of nonsense does. I am told
amour
begins when a man sees a woman more beautiful than the sun and the moon together. It strikes his heart like a blow. If the object of his affection spurns him, he often grows ill unto death.”

“Indeed,” Bronwen remarked, thinking she had never heard a more ridiculous idea.

“The man truly in love sends his beloved all manner of gifts and trinkets to turn her eyes favorably upon him. At seeing her, he feels as if his heart has never beaten so fast. He nearly swoons for joy at her every smile.”