The Briton (31 page)

“Then you must learn to read and write.”

“How? I have no school, no house of learning like Becket’s.”

“I’ll teach you,” Jacques said. “It should be simple enough.

Return to Warbreck with me and study in my library.”

Bronwen could barely breathe at the thought. To be able to read! To examine her father’s will with her own eyes. To study the Holy Scriptures at her leisure. To write letters to Gildan. How wonderful!

But what of Rossall?

“Tempt me no more,” she cried, standing. “I must return to Enit. On this night, my faithful army gathers to set the final plans for an attack on Aeschby. How can I think of abandon-ing them in order to study books at Warbreck? It is impossible.”

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“Woman, your quest is impossible.”

Bronwen looked at Jacques as he stood beside the pool.

His massive frame stood highlighted in the morning sun. A very giant of a man he was, a man of bold desires, bold words, bold actions. She longed for him with all her being—and yet she knew that if she listened to her heart, she would never be able to leave him.

He stepped to her and caught her about the waist. “Do not go to Aeschby. If I lose you from my life, Bronwen, it has no meaning. I long for you now as I have since our first kiss. Hear reason, I beg you. Hear
me.
”

“But your words are torment.”

“Oh, Bronwen, my lady,” he said. “Then know my touch.”

Drawing her close, he brushed her lips lightly with his own. Then, as though the contact had merely teased a flame, he kissed her again. This time his mouth burned like the coals of an all-consuming fire.

Bronwen’s senses reeled as he pulled her nearer still.

Closing her eyes, she reveled in the scent of his skin and the rough plane of his cheek against her downy skin.

“Allow me to love you,” he whispered. “And love me in return.”

“Love?” she asked. “You speak of
amour—
a passing French fancy. Is that what you want of me?”

“True love is more than that, Bronwen. I saw it in my parents as they looked into each other’s eyes. I know it in the church when I bow humbly before my God. It fills my chest when I gaze at Warbreck and hear the laughter in the market.

Love is affection, humility, pride, passion, the sacrifice of oneself for another. Surely you know that.”

She reflected on his words. “I love Enit,” she told him. “I love my sister.”

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“And your husband? You were married once. Was there no feeling between you and Olaf Lothbrok?”

Bronwen bit her lip and looked away. How could she tell him that no man had ever touched her? Though a widow, she had not known her husband’s arms or the blessing of the marriage bed. Dare she tell him of her utter betrayal at Olaf’s hands?

“What are your eyes telling me, Bronwen?” he asked.

“Please. Speak what is in your heart.”

Shivering, she backed away from him. “I was married,” she began brokenly. “I was married to the Viking.”

“What did he do to you? Did he harm you?”

“No, no. Indeed, he did not lay a finger upon me.”

At her words, his face registered confusion. “But then you are untouched?”

“I am a maiden,” she said. “Olaf stayed away from me all the months of our marriage, for he had vowed not to get me with child. He wanted Rossall for Haakon, you see.”

“Haakon?”

“Haakon knew of his father’s treachery against me. Why do you suppose he joined Aeschby after Olaf’s death? Haakon would have killed his ally and taken Rossall as soon as opportunity presented itself. Warbreck would be next.”

The clearing fell silent.

At last Jacques faced her. “Your husband wronged you.”

“He did, indeed. It was my right and my duty to bear a child. Now you understand my surprise to learn of your patron. Though we knew little of Jesus when I was a child, we had heard of Christmas and also the tale of St. Nicholas.

He placed golden balls in the stockings of three virgins—

allowing them to prevent their greedy father from wedding them to rich but cruel husbands. I had always thought well of St. Nicholas for his protection of maidens. After I met you
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and saw your crest, I began to wonder if some holy force had led a dreaming young adventurer and a timid maid toward one another until they met on the seashore one winter night.”

“Bronwen, it is God Himself who brought us together.

You must believe that.” Roughly drawing her to him, he crushed her against his chest. “I cannot bear this existence any longer. Every time we meet I grow to love you more. For months, I’ve lived in agony, longing for you without hope.

Tell me you love me as I love you. Speak the words now.”

“I do love you,” she whispered without hesitation.

“Thanks be to God!” he ground out. Sealing her lips with a searing kiss, he wove his fingers through her hair.

“Bronwen, what do you want of me? I will give you a home, lands, whatever you desire. I’ll protect you and care for you always.”

Laying her head against his chest, Bronwen reveled in the warmth of his embrace. It was true. She knew it beyond doubt. She loved this man—this Norman—as fully as it was possible to love. He was more than her ally, more than her friend, more than her conqueror. Indeed their hearts were wedded more closely than she knew two hearts could be.

Every sense awakened, she felt the imprint of the man’s hand on her back. She could feel each separate finger, the thumb, the burning palm. Unable to stop the sudden rush of tears to her eyes, she met his kiss again. Oh, to have found such a love—and now to give him up for a quest that would end her life!

“Why do you weep?” he asked as he brushed the tears from her cheeks. “It’s this land, isn’t it? Rossall beckons you. Your blood demands it and your heart cries out for it.”

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “Jacques, you are my great passion, my new desire, my dream and my love. But Rossall
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calls to me from a time older than memory, and I cannot deny her. I am torn in twain.”

“No,” he said, silencing her with another kiss. “Say no more. You tell me you love me—do you trust me? If so, let me join in your quest. I’ll ride for Warbreck this night. Within the week, I’ll return with my men. Then we shall mount an assault on Aeschby. When Rossall is taken, it will be yours again. Yours alone.”

Silenced by his offer, she lifted his hand and held it against her damp cheek. Such love…such sacrifice…such beauty.

“I trust you,” she whispered. “I shall trust you always.”

He groaned as he drew her close once again. Then he set her aside and without a word, he leaped the brook and vanished into the forest.

As she walked resolutely toward the village that night, Bronwen willed her thoughts away from the man whose soul had fused with hers. Now she must speak to the loyal men gathered at the butchery. They would rejoice in the news that Warbreck intended to come to their aid. What a day of celebration Rossall would know when Aeschby was defeated and Edgard’s will was done.

She gazed up at the fingernail moon as it climbed across the sky and reached its zenith. Stars winked down on her, but she knew it would be a dark night. Indeed, the sky was a deep black when Bronwen at last caught sight of the familiar rise on the horizon. The timber palisade stood as it always had, guarding the ancient keep of her father and his fathers before him.

A lump formed in Bronwen’s throat as she slipped into the village and down a rutted lane. Nearing the butchery, she saw lights and knew the men were gathering. Ogden, Malcolm and the others would welcome her. Using a lump of charcoal,
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they had mapped out the palisade and the keep on a plank of wood. Malcolm and the other guards had marked weak areas where the wall might be breached. The butler had told of a tunnel, a secret door and several hiding places throughout the hall.

With so few men, Bronwen had cherished little hope that their scheme to enter the keep and vanquish Aeschby would succeed. But with Jacques’s armed knights to lead the way, they could hardly fail.

Happier than she had been since she’d left Rossall so long ago, Bronwen stepped to the door of the butchery. As she reached to knock, a hand clamped across her mouth. Someone threw a hood over her head. Her feet were swept out from under her and tied together with a rough rope. Her hands were bound behind her back. Before she realized what was occurring, she had been thrown into the back of a cart that began rolling up the hill toward Rossall Hall.

Chapter Fifteen

“I am Bronwen—rightful mistress of Rossall. Sheath your sword, sir.”

She faced Aeschby, who was drawing his weapon from its scabbard. He sneered at her. “You are Bronwen, mistress of
nothing.
I have you now, and here you’ll stay. You thought you could plot against me. Bah! Your schemes are at an end. By morning those traitors will be strung up from the gates.”

“No!” she cried. “Leave them be. This was my doing. The men were only following my instruction, for I have always planned to take Rossall from you. The moment I heard you had stolen it from me, I began to contrive a means of wresting it away. I’ve been to London and spoken with men of law and wisdom. Indeed, Henry Plantagenet, England’s future king, has advised me.”

“I know everything you mean to say before you speak the words, wench.” Aeschby strode across the floor of the wool storage room where he had imprisoned Bronwen.

Though the door had been barred, she was free of the ropes that had bound her.

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“Henry is now your guardian,” Aeschby spat. “He plans to send troops against me when he gains the throne. My spies told me this weeks ago. What would Edgard say to his dear daughter? You betrayed him, Bronwen. You gave your life to one Norman and your heart to another.”

“The world has changed, Aeschby. Norman authority in England is absolute. My obedience to Henry guarantees that Rossall will stay in Briton hands. You have no hope against him.”

“No?” Aeschby said. “On what do you place such confidence?” He held up the small gold box she had worn at her waist. “I have your father’s will. Why don’t you remind me what it says, Bronwen, while I part your haughty head from your shoulders.”

She gasped and stood back as he leveled his sword at her heart. “Aeschby! Let us speak like the civilized Britons we are. What need is there to battle like animals? We are kinsmen, after all.”

“We are no longer kinsmen. You took your sister to London and had our marriage annulled in a church court. You plan to see her wedded again…this time to a Norman.”

“Chacier is good to her. I saw what you had done to Gildan.

You would have killed her.”

“She was worthless. A spoiled child.”

“Then you are better off without her. And set me free, as well. You foiled my scheme. I can harm you no more.”

“Not until your dear Henry takes the throne. But see? Here is the end of that alliance, too.”

He opened the box, took out Edgard’s will and cast it into the fire. The dry parchment burst into flame and crumbled into ashes.

“No,” Bronwen cried. “You heard my father’s words. You
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know what he wanted for this land. Why have you destroyed all that was left of him, Aeschby? He was your friend and supporter.”

“Edgard held land that I coveted. And why should I not have Rossall?” Aeschby began to stalk Bronwen around the storeroom. “Can you not see that this keep is mine and you will never possess it? How can a woman hold lands? It is impossible, and your father was a fool. I have despised you from the moment you stole my wife away. And I will kill you for that deed if for no other!”

Bronwen swallowed and lifted her chin. “You wanted Gildan only to give you children that you might pretend your claim was valid. You never cared for my sister.”

“I care for nothing but my own gain. I have my father’s land, and now I have Rossall. In time, I shall have Warbreck, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Norman dog will come to your rescue. Have no fear on that account. My spies tell me of your union. Once Le Brun learns I hold you, he’ll march here with his men to save you.

But you see, Bronwen, I’ve been scheming, too. I plan to lure the Norman to Rossall with you as my bait. I could never wrest Warbreck from him if I had to storm it myself. But from this keep, I can wage war against him until his men are all dead. Warbreck was held by a Viking, and it fell easily. But I am a Briton, and I will never give over my land. I’ll kill your knight and make Warbreck mine.”

“You make me rue my Briton blood, Aeschby,” she flung out. “You disgrace our tribe and shame us all.”

“And see how much I care?” He spat at her feet, sheathed his sword and strode from the room. The door swung shut behind him, and the guards dropped the bar across it.

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* * *

Bronwen told herself that Aeschby’s words were nothing but empty threats. But as the night passed and the morning light dawned, she could no longer deny the truth. Rossall Hall had never been taken. From its construction to this day, the keep had stood as a beacon of safety and protection. The moment an enemy threatened, peasants flooded through the gates of the palisade. It was made of wood that had all but turned to stone in the passage of years.

Again and again, rivals had tried to take the hall by warfare, by siege or by subterfuge. Nothing had succeeded. No one could recall when it had been built, but all knew it had never left the hands of Bronwen’s family until the moment of Edgard’s death.

Remembering the catapult and the rolling tower, Bronwen tried to comfort herself in the belief that Jacques could outwit Aeschby and maneuver him into surrender. But in the end, her confidence failed. If the Norman had ridden straight for Warbreck after leaving her, he might return to Rossall in less than a week—especially if he learned she had been captured.