The Briton (4 page)

“Quite,” Bronwen replied.

“Good, then listen closely to what I tell you now.” Enit spoke in a low voice. “The Viking fears that a large storm is gathering and will hinder his sea passage, making his land vulnerable to attack during his absence. He insists that your marriage ceremony take place tomorrow.”

Bronwen was too stunned to reply. She had thought the wedding was weeks or even months away. Before she could question Enit further, Gildan pulled her down the stairs into the hall. It was crowded with men, some still sleeping and others conversing quietly. Servants carried about jugs of frumenty and chamomile tea. Bronwen accepted a bowl of the hot, spicy frumenty and took a spoonful. The milky concoc-tion laden with raisins warmed her stomach.

“Your appetite has returned, daughter,” Edgard said, coming up behind her. Despite the night’s revelries, her father looked hale and wore a broad grin. “I know the announcement of your betrothal was unexpected. Yet, I hope not too unpleasant. Lothbrok is a good man, and he will treat you fairly.”

“But, Father, must the wedding take place so soon? Surely it is not our custom nor the Vikings’ to have a wedding follow an engagement by two short days!”

Edgard frowned. “I worry more about the reaction to my will than I do about this hasty wedding to a Norseman.”

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Bronwen knew by his tone of voice that arguing was futile.

“I believe all will be well. Enit told me there was much excitement in the kitchen last night.”

Edgard nodded. “It is a novel idea, but I saw no better way to preserve our holdings. After lengthy negotiation, Lothbrok agreed. Come with me, daughter. I must show you something.”

Bronwen followed her father from the hall toward the chamber built below ground many generations before. As they made their way through the darkness, she heard him fumbling with his keys. At length, they reached the door that Bronwen knew led into the treasure room. Her father unlocked the door and beckoned her inside.

The chamber was filled with wooden chests, one stacked upon another, and all locked and sealed. Once, as a child, when she and Gildan had been exploring the keep and its grounds, they had come upon this room. Bronwen had to smile at the memories of her adventures with her reluctant sister. Scaling the timber palisade that surrounded the keep, getting lost in the forest, stumbling upon the entrance to a secret tunnel and following it from outside the walls to a trapdoor ending somewhere deep beneath the fortress—all were a part of the childhood she soon would leave behind forever.

“These treasures one day will be yours,” Edgard said, interrupting her thoughts. “Some will go to Gildan, of course. Gold coins and bars fill the chests. Several contain jewels. When I am gone, Bronwen, you must see that this room is well guarded.”

“Yes, Father,” Bronwen answered, conscious of the great responsibility he placed upon her.

“But this small chest contains the greatest treasure of all.”

Edgard lifted an ornate gold box to the torchlight. “It is my
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will—set down in writing. As you well know, in declaring that you will inherit my domain upon my death, I have broken a long Briton tradition. Some of our countrymen may see fit to overlook or disregard the pronouncement. But beyond providing us with a reliable ally in Lothbrok, this document does two important things.”

“What are they, Father?”

“It keeps these holdings in Briton hands. Though they be the hands of a woman, you are capable of managing them.

Of this I am confident. And this will encourages you to bear a son soon or to remarry quickly should Lothbrok die. Though the lands will be yours, you
must
remarry in order to provide a reliable caretaker.”

“Why Lothbrok?” Bronwen asked. “Aeschby is the stronger ally.”

“I had to give you to the weaker. If Gildan were to wed Olaf, nothing would prevent his changing loyalties upon an invasion. He could simply conquer Rossall for himself under the authority of King Stephen or Matilda. But with you as Olaf’s wife, Bronwen, he has hope of securing our lands through a child. The Viking will defend all lands destined for his future heirs.”

Bronwen knew her father spoke the truth. And like him, she felt confident that she was as well trained to oversee the land and serfs as a son would have been. Indeed, she had been left in charge several times when her father had gone away to battle or to meet with other lords. Yet the law of inheritance remained, and she accepted that it was right for a man to be the primary caretaker of an estate and all its assets.

“The will inside this box,” Edgard told her as he drew a golden key from his cloak and inserted it into the lock, “was inscribed by the same scholar who came from Preston to
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teach you and Gildan to speak the French tongue of Britain’s Norman invaders.”

When her father lifted the lid, Bronwen saw a folded parchment imprinted with her father’s seal. He touched it with his fingertips as he spoke. “Whether written in my native tongue or in French, I cannot read this document to know what was written. But my marshal assured me the scribe was an honest man. And he taught you well, did he not?”

Bronwen recalled the months the balding man had spent instructing her and Gildan in the cramped room behind the great hall. She had objected to having to learn Norman French. After all, why should they compromise themselves to speak that hated tongue?

“Times are changing, daughter,” Edgard spoke up. “You do not know half of what happens now in England. There is much turmoil, and our dream of reuniting this island under Briton rule grows ever more dim. Though I send out my spies and discuss such matters with other Briton landholders, even I am unaware of many things. But this I know—the written oath will prove more convincing than the spoken.”

“Can this be possible, Father?” Bronwen asked. “Among the Britons, a man’s word must be true. The history of our people is known only through the stories and ballads of the scops and bards. Few Britons can read and write more than their names. Indeed, I believe Gildan and I may be the only speakers of Norman French in all Amounderness.”

“This is a new world, daughter,” Edgard said in a low voice. “And not a good one. Promise me you will guard this box, Bronwen. Keep the key always about your neck.
Never
take it off!”

“Of course, and may the gods protect it.” She took the golden key and slipped it onto the chain about her neck. By
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the urgency of her father’s speech, she understood that his strange deed was important. More than once he had consulted with those deep forest-dwellers who could foresee the future, and his plans had served their family.

“Father, I thank you for leaving me your lands. Though I cannot desire a union with the Viking Lothbrok, I understand its purpose. I shall obey you, as I always have. My desire is to bear a son soon, that you may know our Briton line continues.”

Edgard smiled. “Your obedience pleases me, Bronwen.

When you depart Rossall, carry this box with you unob-served. No one must suspect its contents. Come let us return now to the hall, for we must prepare to see you wed.”

As they climbed the stairs and approached the great hall again, Bronwen spotted a young man with flaming red hair.

He sat with his back against the wall, a desolate expression on his face. Concerned as always for her people, she tucked the golden will box under her cloak, left her father’s side and went to him.

“You are troubled,” she declared.

“Seasick,” he corrected her, speaking their tongue in the crude fashion of Briton peasants. “All night. I never felt worse in me life. I’m the serf of them brutish Vikings, you see. Now morning comes, and I’m hungry as a wolf. Poor Wag, I says to meself, sick and hungry. But all the food is gone—not even a trencher to be had.”

“I shall see you are given something to eat, Wag,” she told him. “But first—tell me something of your lord. He is to be my husband.”

The peasant scrambled to his feet and made an awkward bow. “Be you the bride then? The daughter of Edgard?”

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She smiled. “Indeed I am.”

“Much obliged for your kindness, my lady. The Viking is a good master, though his men can be cruel at times. I fear you will see little of your new husband, for he follows the ways of his forefathers and is often gone to sea in his horrid, creaky boat.”

This came as glad news on a day of unhappy and confusing surprises. Bronwen thought of questioning Wag further, but she decided against it.

“Go into the kitchen and tell cook that the lord’s black-haired daughter promised you a large bowl of frumenty, with plenty of raisins.”

“Thank you, ma’am. And best wishes in your marriage.”

In her bedchamber, Bronwen found Gildan in a flurry of excitement. The younger woman had learned that her wedding, too, would take place the next day—a decision Aeschby had made on learning of the Viking’s plans.

Bronwen pursed her lips as her sister thrust three tunics into her arms and bade her decide which was the loveliest.

“I adore the red,” Gildan said with a pout, “but silly old Enit keeps saying, ‘Married in red, you’ll wish yourself dead.’

And I do so admire this green woolen, but ‘Married in green, ashamed to be seen!’ I am attached to the red, but Enit says blue is good luck. ‘Married in blue, love ever true.’”

“Does she now? Then blue it must be.”

“But this is such a dull, common tunic!”

Gildan appeared so distressed that Bronwen had to suppress a chuckle. “Come, sister. You must have the golden ribbon that was brought to me from the last fair at Preston.

We shall stitch it down the front of this blue woolen, and you can trim the sleeves with that ermine skin you have had for years.”

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“Oh, Bronwen, you are so clever!” Gildan embraced her sister. “Indeed, it will be the loveliest gown Aeschby has ever seen. Is my lord not a handsome man? And powerful! And rich! The gods have smiled on me indeed.”

Realizing she must begin to think of her own nuptials, Bronwen went to the chest where she kept her most elegant tunics. But as she lifted the lid, the mantle given her the night before by the stranger slid onto the floor. Hastily, lest anyone notice, she swept it up. As she began folding it into the chest again, her attention fell on the garment’s lining. It was a peacock-blue silk, startling in its contrast to the plain black wool of the outer fabric. Even more stunning was the insignia embroidered upon the lining near the hood. A crest had been worked in pure gold threads, and centered within the crest were three golden balls.

The elegance of the fabric and the nobility of the crest gave evidence of a wealthy owner of some influence and power.

Jacques Le Brun.
Who could he be, and why did the mere thought of the man stir her blood?

Bronwen pressed the mantle deeply into the corner of the chest and took out several tunics. “What do you think of these, Gildan?” she asked, forcing a light tone to her voice.

“Which do you like best?”

Gildan took the garments and fluttered about the room, busy with her plans. But Bronwen’s thoughts had left the warm, smoky chamber to center upon a dark traveler with raven curls and a kiss that could not be forgotten.

As the day passed, it was decided that Enit would go to live with Bronwen at the holding of the Viking—Warbreck Castle. Gildan protested, but she was silenced with Enit’s stubborn insistence that this was how it must be. She could
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not be divided in half, could she? By custom, the older girl should retain her. Pleased at the knowledge that her faithful companion would share the future with her, Bronwen tried to shake the sense of impending doom that hung over her.

During the day, Bronwen worked to fit and embroider the wedding gowns. In the hall below, Edgard’s men stacked the girls’ dowry chests along with heavy trunks of their clothing and personal belongings. But Bronwen slid the small gold box containing Edgard’s will into the chatelaine purse she would hook to a chain that hung at her waist.

Toward evening, the hall filled once again with the sounds and smells of a feast. Rather than joining yet another meal with her future husband, Bronwen bade Enit walk with her in silence along the shore as the sun sank below the horizon.

Looking up at Rossall Hall, Bronwen pondered her past and the years to come. She must accept the inevitable. At Warbreck Castle, there would be no pleasure in the nearness of the sea, no joy in the comforts of a familiar hall, no satisfaction in the embrace of a husband.

Surely for Gildan, marriage might someday become a source of joy in the arms of one who cared for her. But for Bronwen, only the heavy belly and grizzled face of an old man awaited. As she imagined her wedding night, Bronwen again reflected on the traveler who had held her. Though she tried to contain her emotion, she sniffled, and tears began to roll down her cheeks.

“Fare you well, Bronwen?” the old woman asked.

“Dearest Enit,” she burst out. “I cannot bear this fate! Why do the gods punish me? What ill have I done?”

She threw herself on the old woman’s shoulder and began to sob. But instead of the expected tender caress, Bronwen felt her head jerked back in the tight grip of the nurse’s gnarled hands.

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“Bronwen, hold your tongue!” Enit snapped. “Be strong.

Look!”

Bronwen followed the pointed direction of the long, crooked finger, and she saw the fearsome profile of her future husband’s Viking ship. It was a longship bedecked for war—

a Viking
snekkar—
and it floated unmoving, like a serpent awaiting its prey.

“Enit, we must hurry home.” Bronwen spoke against her nursemaid’s ear. She must not be met on the beach by Olaf Lothbrok’s men. They would question her and perhaps accuse her of trying to escape. Now she had no choice but to return to her chamber and make final preparations for her wedding.