The Briton (6 page)

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on Martin’s latest faux pas. The woman again captured him—

her dark beauty smiting him with misty memories of days he could hardly recall and fancies he had rarely permitted himself to imagine.

She was beautiful—truly, the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld. Long black braids reached down past her shoulders, and her brown eyes danced in the flames. Yet, despite the woman’s loveliness, Jacques knew from their prior encounter that she had a sharp tongue and strong opinions.

“I am Bronwen, daughter of Edgard the Briton,” she stated in her own language. “This is my nurse, Enit. We hail from Rossall Hall.”

“Not Warbreck?” Martin registered confusion. “But Rossall is a fine keep, too, I understand. We have just roasted a small deer, and here on the fire, you see I am baking bread and warming drink. I hope you’ll join us for dinner. You must be hungry after such a journey.”

“I confess I am half-starved,” Bronwen acknowledged.

“I’m sure we all would enjoy a hot meal.”

After speaking, she glanced directly at Jacques, who had kept to his station in the corner of the room. Clearly, she had noted his presence. But had she recognized him? From beneath his hood, he stared at her. What was it about the woman that drew him so? And why had he been so foolish, so recklessly impulsive, as to kiss her that night on the beach?

Even now he could hardly countenance what he had done—

yet the memory of that moment haunted him like nothing else.

The men cordially welcomed their guests and resumed their muted conversations. As expected, none drew attention to their master’s presence in the room. Jacques had trained them well. Bronwen the Briton, however, peered at him now
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and again—often enough that he began to suspect she had recognized him.

In the warmth of the fire, she and her nurse spread their skirts to dry. Their once ashen faces began to regain color, and they smiled as they whispered to each other—their good spirits obviously restored. As the maiden unbraided her wet hair, her nurse produced an ivory comb and set to work on the tangled knots in her charge’s black tresses.

Martin began to slice the meat as the company watched in anticipation. Earlier, he had wrapped a few wild turnips and onions in wet leaves and placed them among the coals. The scent of roasted deer, steamed vegetables and baking bread began to fill the hut, and Jacques acknowledged his own hunger. He did not wish to reveal himself to the women, yet how could he resist the opportunity to fill his belly after his long journey?

“I’m sure I shall never be completely warm again,” the nurse said with a small laugh. “Such waves and wind! It’s cold enough to starve an otter to death in wintertime, as they say.”

“That it is,” Martin concurred. “I don’t envy your master on the high seas in the midst of it. Here now, Enit, put this dry blanket about you. I’ll have some hot drink for you in a moment.”

Jacques shook his head in bemusement at this act of kindness toward a servant. That Martin had chosen such a deferential path in life perplexed him still. The tall man placed a thick blanket around Enit’s shoulders, and Bronwen accepted a cup of the steaming brew that bubbled in a pot on the coals.

When Martin announced that the meal was ready, he called those in the room to rise. Jacques remained in the shadows, yet he stood as Martin lifted his hands and began to pray.

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“Bless us, oh God. Bless these gifts which we receive from Your bosom, and make us truly thankful. In the name of our Savior we pray. Amen.”

As Bronwen seated herself again, she addressed Martin.

“Good sir, may I ask which god you serve? Or do you make prayers to all of them?”

Martin smiled at her as he began to pass around slices of the dripping meat. “I am a follower of the one true God. I serve His only Son, my Lord Jesus Christ.”

“Christ?” she said. “Then you are a Christian?”

“Indeed I am. This party travels to London, that I may join believers in obedience to His Spirit through service to Jesus.

Those who live at the monastery make it our mission to preach the good news of the Kingdom of God.”

“Strange words,” Bronwen said. “I have heard tales of Christians. Is it true you worship only this one God and give no homage to the spirits of the trees and mountains?”

Martin smiled. “God fashioned the earth and all that dwells upon it. We choose to worship the Creator rather than His creation.”

“But surely your God has a dwelling place?”

“He abides in the heart of every true believer.”

“Only in the heart of man? Why should this Spirit not also wish to inhabit the rest of His creation? Surely man is not solely blessed with the presence of the gods.”

As the two spoke, one of Jacques’s men rose and carried a slab of venison to him. Without pausing in the conversation, Bronwen turned and peered into the corner where he sat.

She was opening her mouth to speak when Martin handed her a bowl filled with chunks of meat and steaming vegetables. He gave her a brief nod and then turned to Enit with another bowl.

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“Putting the feast on the board is the best invitation,” the older woman cackled.

Bronwen smiled at her nurse before returning to Martin.

“The venison is tender and succulent, while the turnips and onions melted away like butter. I daresay I have never tasted such a fine meal or been so warm. Again, sir, we thank you for sharing your dinner with us.”

“I am honored to be of service, my lady,” Martin replied.

Haakon, the Norseman who had been consuming his portion in silence, tossed an onion over his shoulder before speaking up. “Tell me, holy man, where did you slay this deer?”

Martin and the others stopped their eating to eye the Viking. Jacques stiffened. Setting his meal aside, he again touched his knife. Clearly Martin’s generosity meant nothing.

Haakon wanted to know if the deer had been poached from his father’s land.

“Where Christopher bought his coat, as they say, sir,”

Martin answered.

Haakon glowered at him. “I asked you a question, man. I expect an answer.”

“We got the deer where ’twas to be had.”

The burly Viking stood and pointed a thick forefinger at Martin. “You play games with me, do you? That deer belonged to the lands of Olaf Lothbrok, and you—”

“And you have kindly fed his wife and her attendant,”

Bronwen cut in. “We appreciate your generosity, Martin. Do we not, Haakon? You, too, have filled your belly. Would you now turn against your provider?”

Wife?
Jacques could hardly believe he had heard aright. Was it possible she had wed the old man already? Teeth clenched, he drew his knife from its scabbard and rose on one knee.

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Haakon was glaring at Bronwen, as she stood to address him across the fire. “I am your mistress now, and I command you to apologize to this gentleman.”

“I obey no command given by a woman,” Haakon snarled.

“I protect my father and his possessions, and I comply only with his requests.”

The woman lifted her chin. “I am the chattel of Olaf Lothbrok—not only his possession but his chosen wife. Obey me now, as you will in the future. I insist upon it.”

Jacques understood the deep significance of this confrontation. Though the custom of both Briton and Viking gave authority to men, Bronwen had chosen to assert her own station as Haakon’s superior. She must not relent. Failing to defend her claim would put her forever under the man’s domination and control.

“Apologize, Haakon,” she repeated. “I command you.”

The Viking started to speak, but he held his tongue as he glared at Bronwen. She maintained her cold, steady gaze.

Finally, he turned to Martin and muttered, “As this woman commands, I apologize for questioning you about the animal.”

Martin nodded. “No offense taken.”

Bronwen did not acknowledge Haakon’s obedience.

Instead, she bent down to help the old nursemaid to her feet.

As the young woman gathered their now-dried woolen cloaks, she cast a glance at Jacques, who still crouched in deep shadow. Though he fully expected her to confront him with as much fervor as she had the Viking, she took Enit by the elbow, stepped to another corner of the small room and began arranging a sleeping pallet.

Jacques sheathed his knife again and picked up his dinner.

In time, his men finished their meal and began to settle around
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the room. He was glad they had found this shelter near the beach, for all were weary from the day’s journey. Jacques watched as Haakon took a place near the door and cast a final hostile glance at Bronwen. She turned her back on him and lay down beside her nurse, who soon was snoring softly.

Exhausted, Jacques leaned his head against the wall. He was tired, but he would not sleep. Though silence had fallen over the gathering, he knew that darkness often brought misdeed.

Unable to sleep, Bronwen considered the fate of the ship that had brought her to this place. Vikings were legendary seamen and rarely lost a vessel. She had no doubt that Lothbrok would return for his wife and son—perhaps even by morning. Was he as brash and spiteful as his son? The thought sent a curl of dread through her stomach.

As the icy rainfall quieted from a roar to a gentle patter, Bronwen turned her thoughts to Martin and his kindness toward her and Enit. What was the nature of this God he served, and what powers could He offer to faithful worship-pers? Did Martin tremble at the power of his God, or was this God the cause of his smiles and humility?

Recalling the festivals, rituals and sacrifices of her people, Bronwen considered the questions that filled her mind. As the hours passed, she came to realize that she didn’t know enough to pass judgment. It was a mystery—but one she wished to explore.

And the man in the corner? Could he truly be Jacques Le Brun? She had studied him in the firelight, but she couldn’t be certain. It seemed impossible that they should meet again so soon. And if he recognized her, why not identify himself?

No, it could not be the man. Yet as dearly as she wished to wash away her memories of Le Brun, she was powerless.

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Late in the night, the rain ceased, leaving only the soft sound of waves breaking on the beach. Unable to rest her mind or even stretch her legs in the cramped, smoky hut, Bronwen decided to walk down to the sea. Perhaps she would see the Viking
snekkar
in time to steel herself for another meeting with her new husband. Rising, she slipped the mantle over her shoulders. The man in the corner dozed with his head against the wall. And Haakon, lying next to the hut’s door, was snoring as she edged past him and stepped out into the night.

The dense bank of clouds had rolled back, leaving a cover of newly washed stars. Bronwen dug her bare toes into the wet sand and shook out her long hair as she wandered toward the water’s edge. Some years ago, her father had employed a tutor, a man who once had been steward to a Norman family in the town of Preston. He had taught Bronwen and Gildan to speak French, to learn how their enemy viewed the world, and to understand some sense of the characteristics of the Christian God.

Much of what the tutor had told the girls was either laugh-able or revolting, but his explanation of the natural world fascinated Bronwen. On this night, she could see that nature was in balance again. Earth, fire, water, air—the four elements making up everything on the earth—must always remain in harmony, the tutor had said. When one asserted itself, the others brought it back into order.

So it was with kings, lords and serfs. It would take a mighty king indeed to subdue all of England and bring it under control. Bronwen had heard that Matilda had such a man in mind—her son Henry Plantagenet—to rule England if she prevailed against King Stephen in their civil war. But Henry was a Norman to the core, and Bronwen doubted he had any interest in the island to the north of his French homeland. She
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didn’t care what the Normans did anyway. As long as they kept their distance from Amounderness and Rossall Hall.

As she strolled, Bronwen came upon a log washed up by the storm. But as she sat, her eye caught a movement down the beach near the hut. If she had wakened Haakon as she’d left the hut, he could have revenge in mind. Heart pounding, she slipped behind the log, hoping its shadow would conceal her.

As she watched the figure draw nearer, Bronwen saw it was Haakon. She closed her eyes and prayed to the gods—even to Martin’s one God—that she might be spared. How foolish she had been to leave the hut unarmed. Yet, even if she had a weapon, she could never hope to physically overcome a strong, well-trained warrior. Would the man be so foolish as to harm his father’s wife? Of course. He could kill her and slip back into the hut. All would believe him innocent.

She heard the Viking’s footsteps crunching the sand near the log, and then he stopped. “So, Bronwen the Briton, we meet again in the dark of night. Is it your habit to wander beaches alone and without protection?”

With a gasp, she sat up. “Le Brun? But I thought you were…someone else.”

“Your Viking protector? But you have no fear of that man, do you? At dinner you were quite impressive.”

“And you—crouching in the corner like a mouse? Do you fear him?”

“I fear only God.”

“So, you follow your friend to London to pay homage to this God so favored by Normans. Or are you still spying out Amounderness?”

The man chuckled but made no answer. “You must call me Jacques. We know each other too well for formalities. And I
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see you have put my mantle to good use. I’m glad of that. Now perhaps you’ll tell me why you attempt to hide when the stars illuminate everything on this beach.”