The Briton

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As Bronwen fought the frustration and vulnerability that shackled her, Le Brun reached out and covered her hands with his own. Warm and strong, his fingers stroked her wrists, and his thumbs pressed against her palms. Startled, she shrank back, but he held her firmly.

“Have you been so sheltered that you tremble at a man’s touch?” he asked. “I mean you no harm, my lady. We speak from our hearts. Though we differ, the honesty in our words is good. Forgive me if I’ve dismayed you.”

“You do dismay me, sir. And more than that.”

Bronwen drew her hands from his and attempted to tame her hair into some semblance of order. But again, Jacques caught them.

“Leave your hair,” he said, drawing her hands to his chest. “It’s beautiful blowing in the wind as it does now.”

At his words, Bronwen felt the blood rush to her face, and she turned her focus to the ground. She had been told she was plain, especially compared with Gildan, the golden one. Often while standing beside her sister, Bronwen pictured herself—a thin, angular, olive-skinned creature. No one, not even Enit, had ever called her beautiful.

Jacques reached out and lifted her chin. “So shy? A moment ago, you would have run me through had you carried a sword. My lady, you are indeed most lovely and desirable. You may recall I held you in my arms on such a night. And I kissed your lips.”

His fingers trailed from her chin, down the side of her neck to a wisp of hair that snaked between the folds of the mantle. Bronwen shivered as he traced its course to the soft skin of her throat.

Her thoughts reeled as he wove his fingers through her hair. Craving again the kiss of this man, she struggled for air. This must not be. She belonged to another man. A husband who had never spoken her name.

“How I am drawn to you, Bronwen the Briton.” Jacques’s breath was ragged on Bronwen’s cheek. “Though we have met only twice, you beckon me as no woman ever has.”

She lifted her eyes to his shadowed face. “Sir, you are wrong to hold me in this manner.”

“If I sin, then you sin, too—for I feel your desire as strongly as I do my own.”

“No,” Bronwen whispered. “I am another man’s wife. I know nothing of such wickedness.”

“All are sinners,” he said. “Even you, my lovely Bronwen. But your words return me to my senses. You are wed. I cannot ignore a vow made before God.”

“Indeed, I must return to the hut.”

“Stay with me a little longer—on the beach, where we can be alone.”

“I dare not.” Bronwen backed away from him. “It is unseemly. And you…you are a Norman. My enemy.”

“I am not your enemy. My blood is that of a man, and yours is that of a woman. On this night, we are neither Norman nor Briton.”

“Blood can never lie,” she said. “I go.”

Turning from him, she pulled the mantle tightly about her. The sand felt cold beneath her feet as she started toward the hut. Dizzy with emotion, she brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. How could she have allowed this to happen? And how would she bear his memory now?

“My dearest lady.” Jacques’s long stride brought him to her side. “What troubles you?”

“You trouble me!” Bronwen cried out. “You know I am a married woman. You know I am a Briton, and you a Norman. Yet your words belie those facts. What is it you want of me, sir?”

Jacques fell silent for a moment. Bronwen sensed his presence beside her as they walked, but she could not bring herself to look at him. “Your question is well asked,” he said at last. “I don’t know what I want of you.”

She halted. “Then why do you pursue me? Why do you behave as a knave?”

“I am not a knave. I am a knight. And I cannot say why my training in chivalry has deserted me. I know only that I have never met a woman like you—a woman of such fire, such wit, such dark beauty. When I saw you in the great hall at Rossall, I felt my heart drawn to you. Yet I sat in silence as your father betrothed you to the Viking. You obey him in every way, do you not?”

“Of course,” Bronwen said. “He is my father.”

“But when we met later on the beach, and when I took you in my arms—though it was wrong to have done so by my code of knightly honor—”

“Indeed it was. It was wrong.”

“But I am more than a knight. More than a Norman. I am a man. And since that night, my thoughts have been consumed by you. Can you deny what passed between us then—and now?”

Bronwen looked away. “I must deny it. There was nothing between us, and there is nothing now. You say you are a man—more than a knight and a Norman. Are you a Christian, too, Jacques? Do you follow any guide that holds power over your passion? I do. More than woman, I am a Briton and a wife. We have met, as you predicted, but we shall not meet again. So when you chance to think on me again, know this—I am a Briton above all else.”

“And a stubborn one.”

“If you had taken a vow that pledges you to the future awaiting me, you would understand that stubbornness must be your fortress.”

“Don’t let it blind you to the stirrings of your heart, Bronwen.”

“What place can the heart have in the life of a lord’s wife, sir? As a knight, you should know that my work is to tend to my husband’s castle and his holdings. I must bear him sons to succeed him—and daughters to wed the sons of his allies.”

“Such cold determination to duty.” He ran his fingertips down her arm. “But this is not the way of noblewomen in France, my lady. In France—”

“In France? My lord, look about you. This is hardly France. We stand on the shore of Amounderness—the most rugged and desolate land in England. Here we fight to survive. We have no time for Norman luxuries of the heart.”

“I disagree. It is in the cruelest of lands that one needs the warmest solace.”

Bronwen clutched his mantle about her shoulders. “It matters not to me what you think, Jacques the Norman. Go on about your French ways, then. Go back to Normandy where you belong, and leave us in peace. Our lives are difficult enough without your interference.”

As she stepped past the man, he caught her shoulder and swung her around. “I shall not forget you, Bronwen. When we meet again, I believe our lives will be changed.”

“You speak with certainty,” she said. “I am certain only that I go to my husband’s castle. Tell your Henry Plantagenet we shall never give over to him.”

With that, she turned away and hurried down the beach to the hut. The tall knight was left standing in the starlight and looking far out to sea.

The remainder of the night passed slowly for Bronwen. Her breast was filled with a tumult of new emotions, and her mind whirled with thoughts. In a moment of time, her life had changed inexorably. Though she knew almost nothing of the man with whom she had argued so fiercely, and who had kissed her so passionately, she sensed that he had thrown open a door before her. And she knew she had stepped through it. For the rest of her life, this Jacques Le Brun would live within her.

She had never felt so fully alive as when she was with him. Never had she known a man to hold a woman in high esteem. He had encouraged her to speak her opinion. He had freely praised her. Certainly Bronwen knew men desired women. But to speak of their beauty? To openly express feelings of admiration? Never.

Britons married by arrangement, often never having seen their spouse before the ceremony. The pair contemplated contentment with children and a sense of partnership in the venture of life. As for desire—women never felt such strong emotion for their husbands. And men were far too involved with daily business to show tenderness toward their wives.

Confused and restless, Bronwen knew only that her loyalty must remain with her father. Though she ached for the touch of this Jacques Le Brun, it could not be. She must face forward and carry on.

The sun had not yet risen when Enit began to stir. The old woman yawned and stretched, scratching her grizzled head. In a moment, she nudged Bronwen.

“I’m awake,” Bronwen said softly. She had watched the door all night, but Jacques had not returned to the hut.

“Girl, you look as though you have not slept at all,” Enit clucked as she surveyed her charge with dismay.

“I daresay she has not,” Haakon remarked gruffly, stepping out of the hut.

Bronwen started at his words, fearful that he knew she had been out in the night with Le Brun. If he did, he must suspect all manner of evil about her, and he might use his knowledge to disgrace her. But as she considered this, Bronwen realized that Haakon’s word would be weighed against hers. She held a powerful position as his father’s wife, and she would not let him forget it.

Martin was bent over the fire, his blond hair tousled from sleep. He was stirring a mixture of oats and honey he had taken from his bag. Enit began combing and plaiting her charge’s dark braids as the other men went about strapping on their swords and traveling gear. Bronwen was fastening Le Brun’s mantle at her throat when the door fell open and the man himself strode into the hut.

“The day is clear and the sea has calmed,” he announced. “Haakon, your father’s ship has not returned. You should journey to the Warbreck Wash by foot. He will have weighed anchor there, knowing you would meet in time.”

The Viking’s eyes narrowed as he studied Jacques. “What do you know of the ways of Olaf Lothbrok? You are a Norman dog.”

“Even a dog has the sense to take shelter from a storm.”

“And who are you, good sir?” Enit asked Jacques. “You are a stranger to us. Do you journey to London with these men?”

“I am Jacques Le Brun, their leader. We take our brother Martin to a monastery in London. I must see he is well settled.”

Enit smiled. “Well now, I suppose you do have a godly brow, Martin. Listen sir—beware of those other Christian men. Not all are as pure as you might wish. As we say in Amounderness, ‘He who is near the church is often far from God.’”

“I shall be as wary as a fox,” Martin assured her. With a grin, he went about collecting the empty mugs. Jacques had gone back outside, and Bronwen could hear the men saddling their horses. She felt for the key around her neck and the will box inside the chatelaine purse that hung at her waist. Again reminding herself of her duty to her father and countrymen, she determined that she must not look at Jacques again. Even a meeting of their eyes might weaken her resolve, she realized as she helped Enit into her cloak and mantle.

As the sun peeked over the distant mountains behind them, the company stepped out of the hut. Bronwen breathed deeply of the clean sea air. Though tired, she longed to be on her way from this place.

“Thank you for your generosity,” Enit was saying to Martin as she readied her bag for the journey.

“You are most welcome. And you, Haakon, may we part as friends? I wish no enmity between us.”

Bronwen turned in time to see the Viking walk away from the proffered hand. “I feel no enmity for you, Norman,” Haakon spoke over his shoulder. “I desire no friendship either. Come, women. The sun rises.”

Bronwen set out after the Viking, but she stopped when a familiar deep voice spoke her name.

“Bronwen the Briton,” Jacques said from his horse. “I wish you well in your new life. Please tell your lord I look forward to our meeting.”

Bronwen turned to him, her heart thundering again. “Sir, my husband will welcome neither you nor your lord Henry Plantagenet, I assure you. Nevertheless, I wish you safety and godspeed.”

At this she turned away and rejoined her companions, never looking back.

Chapter Four

The sun was fully risen when Bronwen’s party arrived at the mouth of the Warbreck Wash, a swampland where the Warbreck River met the sea. Jacques had been wrong. The Viking snekkar was not moored there. Despite exhaustion and hunger, Bronwen’s spirits lifted. She was grateful for the reprieve, even though she knew that unless the gods had altered her fate, Olaf Lothbrok would soon return. In his absence she could take time to accustom herself to her new role in life.

At the river’s edge stood a small village, busy with the day’s activities. Men readied boats for fishing, while half-naked children poked into the sand with sticks and looked for cockles. Haakon shouted at them in his Norse tongue, and three of the youngsters scurried toward the nearby buildings.

Bronwen was appalled by the filthy condition of this seaside village—far worse than those of Rossall’s holding. Enit muttered her disgust as they lifted their skirts over the wet places in the streets. When they came to the river—afloat with rotted vegetables and rags—two men waited with a small fishing boat. Once they were settled, the men set to with their oars.

The gentle rocking of the boat as it pulled upstream against the sluggish current lulled Bronwen’s body and soothed her troubled mind. Before long she fell asleep on Enit’s shoulder and stirred only when the boat bumped against a wooden pier at their journey’s end.

Rubbing her eyes, she looked up into a sky filled with towering gray clouds. Outlined against them stood the imposing battlements of Warbreck Castle. The dizzying height of the keep that rose behind the stone wall took her breath away.

“Look, child!” Enit cried out. “Rooms built one on top of another.

“Imagine that.” Bronwen’s private chambers at Rossall had been on a higher level than that of the hall, but certainly not on top of it. She had never thought such a thing possible.

“Welcome, Haakon, son of Olaf Lothbrok.” A mail-clad guard saluted as the party approached the keep. When he spoke, Bronwen realized that Viking warriors must have inter-married with their conquered Briton populace some generations ago. Though their tongue was different from her own in many ways, she understood it well enough.

“Where is my lord?” the guard asked. “And the snekkar?”

Haakon related the details of the storm and its consequences. “And this,” he said, pointing a thumb at Bronwen, “is the bride.”

To her satisfaction, the guard knelt before her. She bade him rise and lead her to the keep.

“Such a great number of men,” Enit said under her breath as they passed through the wall’s gate into the courtyard. “Look at ’em standing at post and walking about the perimeters of the wall. They’re everywhere.”

“This holding is far more heavily guarded than Rossall,” Bronwen returned in a low voice. “I fear we are surrounded.”

Ahead of them, Haakon pushed open the heavy oaken door of the great hall and led them inside. Though a large log blazed in the center of the room, its high stone walls were cold and desolate.

“They have a dais,” Bronwen whispered to Enit.

“But no musicians’ gallery above it. Perhaps these barbarians don’t even have music.”

Bronwen elbowed her nurse to silence as Haakon pointed out the servitors gathered before her. “These are your personal attendants,” he said. “Most speak some form of your vulgar tongue.”

Bronwen pasted on a smile as she studied the motley group, though she wondered dismally if they would be as difficult as Haakon. A small woman with flaming red hair and ruddy skin beckoned, leading Bronwen out of the hall and up a steep flight of stone stairs. Enit puffed along behind, muttering good riddance to Haakon, boats and stormy seas.

At the top of the stairs a guardroom was filled with spears, swords, bows and arrows. In its center, coals from the night’s fire glowed, while a heap of blankets and furs indicated that this was also a sleeping room.

“So many weapons, Enit,” Bronwen murmured as they picked their way across the room.

To her surprise, the red-haired woman responded. “Your husband’s lands are hard pressed by Normans to the south and by Scotsmen to the northeast. He often travels to aid his neighboring allies and strengthen his borders.”

The women crossed the guardroom to a door on the far wall. It opened into a small chamber with a sagging wooden bed in one corner and a narrow slit for a window. Thick layers of rotting rushes on the floor sent up a dank musty odor. “Your chamber, my lady.”

Bronwen turned to Enit, who stood aghast. “This?” Enit muttered. “This room is fit only for pigs.”

“Enough,” Bronwen snapped. “Our trunks are aboard the snekkar, and I need a clean, dry tunic. See what you can find.” She turned to the other woman. “I must have a fire, and send at once for the rush strewers. I’ll not sleep this night in such an odor.”

“We have no fresh rushes, madam. It is our custom to gather them once before winter, and not again until spring.”

Bronwen shook her head in disbelief. “Upon the morrow I insist that fresh rushes be gathered and set to dry.”

The servitor nodded and followed Enit from the room. Alone in the foul chamber, Bronwen stepped to the bed and ran her hand over the pile of furs. These at least were clean. The narrow arrow-loop window allowed only a slit of light, and she peered out it into the gathering gloom. A village lay far below, and in the distance the wide expanse of woodland was broken now and again by a glint of setting sun reflected on the river.

Was Jacques Le Brun traveling those woods even now? Bronwen at last permitted herself to reflect on the man who had held her twice in the darkness. Did he truly travel toward London and a house for holy men? Or did he journey to meet his lord, Henry Plantagenet?

What were those Normans scheming for Amounderness? Haakon had referred to Jacques as a dog, and Bronwen’s father insisted the French conquerors were the scourge of England. If Normans were so vile, why did Jacques speak to her with such kindness? Why was his touch so gentle? And how would she ever forget that man?

“You are too much like your mother, child,” Enit said to Bronwen as they ate together the following day. “She was dismayed at the state of Rossall when she first arrived with your father. But soon she put it right and let everyone know she was mistress. You’ll do the same.”

Heavyhearted over Jacques’s departure and uncertain what had become of Olaf’s ship, Bronwen had spent the morning surveying her new home. The kitchen was well stocked. Dried herbs and onions hung in bundles from the beams; strips of salted fish lay in baskets, and a freshly dressed boar roasted over the fire. But when Bronwen had run her fingers through a bag of dried beans, tiny black bugs had scurried across her hand.