The Briton (32 page)

Finally unwilling to allow Jacques to face Aeschby on Rossall land, Bronwen decided she must do all she could to defeat the man herself. To her surprise, she discovered that although her foe had taken the will box, his men had declined the improper task of searching a woman. Her kidnappers were Briton guards, and their tradition forbade such a thing.

Thus, beneath her green gown, she still had the jewel-encrusted dagger that Jacques had given her. Ogden had clearly mapped the wool storage room. And so she formulated a plan.

Once darkness crept over the room again that night, Bronwen knelt near the window and lifted up a prayer. The
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wool in the room had been shorn in the summer, but it had not yet been spun or woven. As she leaned into the soft cushion, it seemed to whisper words of hope. The familiar musky scent of the wool bags and the smell of dyes from the bolts of fabric along one wall comforted her. This was her home. If God willed, she would return it to her family.

Standing, she removed a length of rope from a hook on the wall and wrapped it around her waist. She guessed that Aeschby would be inside the chamber where she and Gildan had slept. She ran her hands along the storeroom wall until she found the stones Ogden had specified. Removing them soundlessly, she set them on the floor. With a deep breath, she crouched and slid through the opening.

It was almost too easy. She stood in the deep shadow near the wooden palisade and studied the roofline until she spotted a corner post standing above the others like a sentinel. She tied a loop in her rope, cast it over the post and pulled it tight.

Holding the rope in both her fists, she began to scale the wall.

It was not high, but the post’s rough bark tore at her knees, and the rope burned her hands. At last she reached the top.

She threw one arm around the post and pulled herself onto the roof.

After she caught her breath, she crawled to the smoke louvers above the fire. Peering down into the gloom, she could just make out the glowing coals beneath her. She slipped three long wooden slats out of their grooves and tied the rope around two others.

The eastern sky was lightening, and she knew she had to work quickly. Gripping the rope, she began lowering herself into the room. As she slid toward the floor, she saw that she was indeed entering her enemy’s room. In one corner sat the great old bed and on it lay the fair-haired Briton lord.

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As her feet touched down, Aeschby sat up in the bed.

Bronwen drew her dagger.

“Who’s there?” the man called into the darkness. “Guard!”

“You’ve barred them from your room,” she said.

“You!” Aeschby threw back the furs and scrambled from the bed.

At that moment, Bronwen saw that the end of the rope had touched the coals and ignited a scattering of dried rushes.

The flames curled upward as she leaped between Aeschby and his sword.

“Surrender to me,” she ordered. “Kneel and submit to the rightful mistress of this hall.”

Aeschby spat and lunged past her. Bronwen’s dagger made a quick stabbing thrust that caught him in the arm and sent a spurt of blood across his chest. With a cry of rage, he grabbed his sword and turned on her.

Light had grown stronger in the room now, and Bronwen knew it came from the flickering fire creeping slowly across the timber floor. “Surrender, Aeschby,” she shouted. “Admit defeat before we both go up in flames!”

“Never!” he cried.

He whirled about and lunged at Bronwen, but he was too far, and she parried the stroke with her dagger. Surprised, he paused, and this time she slipped the blade into his right side.

His nostrils flared and his face reddened with pain.

“I’ll kill you!” he shouted.

Drawing back his sword, he swung it with a stroke that could have hewn Bronwen in two. But she grabbed her black mantle, yanked it from her neck, and threw it over the weapon.

The blade clattered to the floor, buried in folds of woolen fabric.

With a roar of rage, Aeschby ran at Bronwen. She backed
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away, throwing chairs, stools, burning bedding—anything she could reach—in front of him. If he stumbled, she struck out at him with the dagger.

“Aeschby, you are defeated,” she said as she circled a chest of flaming clothing. “You know Rossall is mine. You cannot win.”

“You will die!” he panted, throwing himself at her again.

This time, he wrenched the knife from her hand and slashed at her. It caught her shoulder, and with a cry of pain, she dropped to the floor in search of the sword.

From outside, Aeschby’s men hammered on the door. A ringing of swords and clash of mail filtered through the exhaustion in Bronwen’s brain. Flames now began to consume the curtains, the bedding—even the shutters so that they hung as cinders in the dawn air. Her head throbbed and her lungs ached in the smoke-filled room. From somewhere deep inside her, she felt a prayer rise up to God, and she called on the Lord Jesus to protect her and thwart her enemy.

Aeschby stepped toward her just as Bronwen found Jacques’s mantle. Knowing Aeschby’s men would break through at any second, she kicked over a table. As he leaped across it, she drew the sword from the folds of fabric. Then she rolled onto her back with the sword’s hilt at her chest. The blade glittered as Aeschby fell onto it, his eyes wide with disbelief.

His knees buckled beneath him, and he sank slowly to the floor. A dull gray cast crossed his eyes and the dagger fell from his hand.

Shaking, Bronwen curled onto the mantle. Coughing, unable to breathe, she barely heard the crack of the door as it splintered. As the first of Aeschby’s men rushed toward her, Bronwen staggered to her feet.

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“Halt!” she shouted hoarsely. “I have slain your lord, and you now owe homage to me—Bronwen of Rossall.”

The men checked their steps and fell back bewildered at the scene before their eyes. For several seconds no one moved. The guards glanced at the shambles of the chamber.

Their confusion changed to shock at the sight of Aeschby lying in a bloody heap at Bronwen’s feet.

“Your lord is dead,” she told them. “I have avenged my father, and now I claim my heritage.”

The men stared at Bronwen from beneath their helms.

Then the mob began to part as a husky guard shoved his way to the front and fell to his knees before her.

“Malcolm!” Bronwen let out a breath of relief at the sight of her ally.

“I pledge my allegiance to the house of Edgard the Briton,”

he said. “And to Bronwen, mistress of Rossall Hall.”

The warrior rose. Drawing his sword, he came to stand beside Bronwen. Two more men stepped clear and knelt before her.

“Brian. Robin. Welcome,” she said.

Then three came. Then five. As she called their names, they stood and walked to her side.

“Enough!” shouted one of Aeschby’s men. “We owe no allegiance to this woman!”

“Slay me and you will have neither master nor mistress,”

Bronwen said. “The pretender lies dead at my feet. Surrender, and you’ll have safe passage back to your families.”

Before she finished speaking, the men began pushing through the staunch front line and coming forward to pay obeisance. Bronwen recognized many of them and called them by name. But several fell before her who had been Aeschby’s men, and she welcomed them as well.

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It seemed to Bronwen that these moments were in a dream.

The cloying smoke, the dead man at her feet, the bloody sword, the kneeling guards. She could hear only the pumping of her blood as it rushed in her ears. And now the last few of Aeschby’s men dropped their swords and came to acknowledge her dominion. The blood running from the wound on her shoulder dripped from her hand as she stretched it out to the kneeling men.

“Rise,” she said. “You will be treated fairly. You may remove the body of your lord.”

The fog before her thickened. She swallowed and licked her lips. The formless shapes of men moved before her eyes, and she blinked, trying to focus. Her head swam, and it seemed she heard shouts coming from the grounds as she took several swaying steps forward. And then the darkness swallowed her.

A warm, wet rag passed over Bronwen’s forehead. She felt a trickle of water run down into her hair and course onto the pillow. Yes, it was a pillow. And blankets covered her. But somehow stars shone overhead, and the moon gleamed a bright silver in the night.

The wet rag dabbed her forehead again and Bronwen tried to open her eyes.

“Where am I?” she said, her voice a croak.

“Quiet, Bronwen. You must rest now.” The deep voice could belong to none other than Jacques.

“You are safe!” she managed to say. “Thanks be to God.”

The face before her broke into a familiar smile as Jacques’s warm hands stroked her hair.

“And you’re at home, Bronwen. Here you lie beside the sea where first we met. I arrived with my men during your struggle with Aeschby. Could you not hear the battle below?”

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Bronwen lay back and closed her eyes. Pieces began to fall into place, and then she remembered Aeschby coming at her with his sword. She sat up and cried out, but Jacques folded her into his arms.

“Bronwen, the victory is secure,” he said as he cradled her against his chest. “Aeschby’s men have departed, driven away by a band of loyal knights.”

She turned her head and looked up again at the cascade of stars in the night sky. A thin trail of smoke floated across them like a veil.

“I lie on the beach,” she whispered. “Rossall is lost.

Burned—is it not?”

Jacques nodded as she blinked back tears. “Bronwen, why did you face Aeschby alone?” he asked. “He might have killed you. You had only to stay in the room where he held you prisoner, and I would have come.”

“Don’t speak of it now,” Bronwen whispered. “It all seems a dream to me.”

At her words he turned his head to the stars. Bronwen gazed at the familiar profile framed in dark curls.

“Jacques. Rossall is gone.” She spoke quietly yet firmly.

“Not just burned. Gone from my life. When I knew I would die for her, I saw she no longer mattered. Lands and castles are fleeting. They stand…or fall…and we pass on without them. It is the life we live that means something. The God we serve. The friends we cherish. The ones we love.”

“Bronwen—”

“Let me finish, Jacques. I must say it all. I give you Rossall holding—and Aeschby’s land with it, now that he lies dead. Take the lands for Henry and rule them well. I have no need of them.”

Jacques bent and kissed Bronwen lightly on the brow. “I have a message from Henry,” he said.

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“One day I shall read it myself. But for now, tell me what our future king has written.”

He took out the folded parchment and opened it.

“To Jacques Le Brun of Warbreck,” he read. “And to Bronwen of Rossall. From Henry Plantagenet, Duke of Normandy and heir apparent to the throne of England.

“On this twelfth day of January in the year of our Lord 1154, I do herein state my will as your master and guardian.

Jacques, you must win this woman’s loyalty to you and to my kingdom. Bronwen, you have captured this man’s heart, now take his hand in marriage. Bear sons and daughters that they may hold this land one day.”

Bronwen looked up. “January? But that was when he was at Warbreck.”

“The letter was in his room when he left.” Jacques paused.

Brushing a wisp of hair from her bandaged shoulder, he bent and kissed her forehead. “I believe Henry liked you very much, Bronwen. I think he was drawn to your spirit—and he wanted us together.”

“But why did you not tell me sooner?”

“He commanded me to win you, Bronwen. That became my quest. I wanted your love more than I wanted a marriage arranged by a king.”

Bronwen slipped her fingers into his hair and drew him to her lips. For a moment, she lost herself in him, wanting nothing more than to curl against his chest and feel his arms around her.

“One more piece of news,” he murmured, “and then you shall sleep again. Stephen is dead, and Henry is to be crowned.”

“When?” she gasped.

“Stephen died a few weeks ago. I received word yesterday.

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Henry is in Normandy and has been unable to cross the channel due to the winter seas. Knowing him, I imagine he’ll be too anxious to claim his throne—and he will brave the weather with Eleanor, despite the fact that she is again with child.”

Bronwen’s heart leaped. “Is Henry to be crowned in London?”

Jacques nodded. “Will you accompany me to the corona-tion, Bronwen? We shall see the king crowned and your sister wed. Will you be baptized so we can be married in church before we go? Will you go as Bronwen Le Brun of Warbreck and Rossall? Will you go as my wife?”

Bronwen looked up, her heart full. “We shall go together.”

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THE BRITON

Copyright © 2008 by Catherine Palmer All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the editorial office, Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, New York, NY 10279 U.S.A.

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