The Briton Page 11

  At her words, the parchment-thin eyelids slid back, and Bronwen looked into his eyes. In that moment, her ears closed out the sounds of groaning men and the sight of armored knights around her. All she saw was the man she had tried so hard to please and had longed to understand.

  “Bronwen,” he murmured, his lips barely moving.

  Taking Olaf’s wrinkled hand in hers, she held it to her cheek. This was not the father of Haakon, the deceitful betrayer of Edgard the Briton or the overmatched warrior who lacked a strategy. He was her wedded husband. She remembered the night in her room when he had taken her in his arms and spoken words of admiration.

  “You…You have been good to me,” he rasped. He rested for a moment, and then he lifted his focus to her again. “Yet I betrayed you.”

  Bronwen shook her head. “It is all past now. I hold nothing against you.”

  “Then I go happy to Valhalla of the gods.”

  Bronwen bent and kissed her dying husband’s hand and rested her lips there as she tried to accept the dim certainty of her own fate.

  “What a hovel this is,” a loud voice called out behind her. “It can hardly be called a castle. Are we certain we want the place now that we have won it?”

  Laughter followed the remark as another voice spoke up. “I would call it the cesspool of England. We should return it to the barbarians.”

  As Bronwen listened to the cutting remarks and harsh amusement, a sudden rage coursed through her. These men cursed the land they had taken from her husband. Here he lay—dying from his wounds—and they mocked the holding he had given his life for. And she had taken pride in her work here. This hovel was the product of her own hand as well. Bronwen glanced to one side and she saw Olaf’s great sword lying bloodstained on the stone floor.

  She could not allow this sacrilege. Enit had said that battle was men’s work. Now none remained to defy their foes. But she remained, and she would take down one Norman to pay for Olaf’s life.

  Bronwen reached out, grasped the hilt of the old weapon with both hands and leaped to her feet. She lunged forward and whirled the sword in a wide arc.

  “Villains!” she shouted. “Death to you all!”

  Her first pass sent the knights around her stumbling backward. Behind them the enemy leader in his bloodied mail and gray helm approached. With all her strength, Bronwen swung the heavy sword at his neck.

  “Norman dog!” Bronwen shouted. “Pay for your crime!”

  As the weapon made its way toward the mark, the knight raised his own sword to block the blow. The ringing clash of weapons sent a shock down Bronwen’s arm. Olaf’s sword flew from her hand and clattered on the stone floor.

  Her fury unabated, she rushed at the Norman, hammering his ironclad chest with her fists. Ignoring the rain of blows, he grasped her arms in his gloved hands and pinned them to her side.

  “You are the hated one,” she spat in his own tongue. “Take Warbreck then. I shall stay no longer in your presence—heathen!”

  At her last word, the man released his grip. The knights surrounding them stared agape at the woman who dared curse their lord. The Norman warrior reached up and lifted his helm from his head.

  Bronwen’s heart stumbled as she fixed her gaze on the man’s face. His eyes were deep and gentle. His hair, darker than her own, curled long and loose about his neck. His skin was bronze.

  “Bronwen the Briton.” The man addressed her with a low bow. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Jacques Le Brun. I believe we have met before.”

  Chapter Seven

  “I express my regret at your husband’s passing,” Jacques said, facing the woman whose memory had refused to flee him in the months since their last meeting. “But you are mistaken in assuming my guilt. One of his own men was responsible for the death of Olaf Lothbrok.”

  “’Tis true, my lady,” a voice spoke up from behind the throng of knights. A red-haired peasant shoved through to the forefront. He stopped in front of Bronwen and fell to his knees. “This Norman speaks the truth about your husband’s death, madam. ’Twas not the Normans that did the old man in. ’Twas his son.”

  “Haakon?” The bright flush of color drained from her cheeks. “But—but where is he now?”

  “My men tell me he escaped into the forest,” Jacques told her. “Madam, I intended to capture your husband and transport him to London. I had no plan to kill him, though perhaps it would have come to that in the heat of battle.”

  Jacques studied Bronwen as she looked down at the still figure of her husband. Had she learned to love the man in the months following their wedding? It was hard to imagine the old man winning the heart of such a beauty. But the actions of Bronwen the Briton had never ceased to intrigue him.

  Aware of his men standing around him, Jacques addressed the woman. “Your attempt on my life was justified,” he said. “You defended yourself. But as to your accusations against me, I take exception.”

  In her dark eyes a flicker of smoldering anger lingered as she looked into his face. “What have I said that you did not deserve, sir? My husband is dead, my home is taken, and I am your captive.”

  “True on all counts,” he acknowledged. “But you labeled me a heathen, and I am not.”

  “No? I have heard otherwise. Defend yourself, then.”

  “With pleasure. My father is a Norman baron who journeyed with Robert, Duke of Normandy, on the First Crusade to the Holy Land in 1096. When Robert returned, my father elected to remain in the East to build a shipping enterprise in Antioch. He acquired land and became a wealthy merchant. There he met and married a Christian woman, by whom he had six children—of whom I am the second son. My mother’s lineage can be traced to the earliest followers of Jesus Christ, for the first church ever established was at Antioch.”

  “Your Christian heritage is one of bloodshed and tyranny. Your God demands carnage. In your blood mingles the impurities of many races.” She lifted her chin. “I am a Briton—pure and unpolluted. My gods are worshipped in the trees, stones and waterfalls of this holy land on which you dare to tread. Let us make no mistake, sir. You may have captured me, but you will never conquer my spirit.”

  “What of your heart?” Jacques asked. “Does it remain free? Or are you bound forever to the Norseman? I fear, madam, you have failed to discern that your own father was less interested in the purity of your children’s blood than in the preservation of his land.”

  Her dark eyes suddenly welled with tears. “My father is dead. My husband is dead. In what other way will you mock my pain, sir?”

  Feeling the rapier tip of the remark, Jacques turned to his men. “Bring in the wounded and see that the kitchens cease their boiling of oil and begin turning out food fit for hungry warriors. We must eat, rest and begin our true labor. We have much work to do here before we can call this a stronghold of Henry Plantagenet.”

  When he looked around again, Jacques saw that the woman had again fallen to her knees beside her husband. The Viking’s ragged breathing had ceased, and his body lay still. The mask of death had already transformed his face. As Bronwen passed a blood-caked hand over her eyes, Jacques could not prevent himself from going to her.

  “Madam,” he said in a low voice. “Are you well? You are bloodied, and your gown is torn. Did one of my men—”

  “No. I’m not injured.” Drawing her cloak about her, she stood. Her fire was gone now, and her lip trembled. “I have been tending the wounded.”

  “I see you wear my mantle. Perhaps then you do remember me?”

  At his words, a soft pink suffused her cheeks. “The mantle is…warm,” she said. “You told me you would ask for it when we met again. I had not thought it to be under these circumstances.”

  She reached to unclasp it, but he stepped forward and covered her hand with his. “Please. Keep the mantle. Did you receive my gift? A small chest containing—”

  “Three golden orbs.” Her eyes searched his face. “I did, but why? Why did you send them?”

  “I
had hoped you would see the crest on my mantle and know that my emblem is the three golden balls of St. Nicholas. He is my patron.”

  “But why?” Bronwen asked. “Why would you honor the patron saint of virgins?” Though the Britons were pagans, she had heard some of the saints’ tales, including Saint Nicholas.

  “St. Nicholas is also the patron of sailors. As a boy, I dreamed of becoming an adventurer.”

  “And so you have. Now you’re lord of a beautiful and valuable holding.”

  “Indeed I am. I sent the gift because I wanted you to know I remembered you. And that I was coming—as I had promised.”

  She looked down. “I thought you were in London.”

  “I went…and returned with my army.”

  “The victor,” she murmured.

  “Tell me of your father, I beg you. And your lands—bequeathed to you upon your betrothal.”

  “You intended to take my holding, too?” Bronwen shook her head. “My father is dead. Aeschby—my sister’s husband—has taken my lands. I must go to Rossall.”

  A touch on Jacques’s arm drew his attention before he could reply. The red-haired man who had told his mistress the truth about Olaf’s death knelt at his feet.

  “Sir Norman,” he said. “What is to be done with the body of Olaf Lothbrok? It is the Viking custom to carry a lord to the sea and set him aboard the snekkar. The ship must be set afire and sent into deep waters.”

  “You have my permission to follow the tradition of Lothbrok’s people. See to it, good man.”

  The peasant nodded. “Madam, your nursemaid awaits you beside the broken gate. She has readied horses and sends me to say she wishes to depart before sunset.”

  “Thank you, Wag,” Bronwen said. She turned to Jacques. “May I have your permission to leave the castle, sir?”

  “I had not thought to lose you so soon upon finding you again. Why not stay in the castle until I can organize a proper escort for your journey? I’ll ensure your safety and comfort. You have my word of honor on it.”

  At his offer of shelter, protection and ease, she seemed to shrink into herself. “My lord—”

  “Jacques is my name.”

  “Jacques, please forgive my attempt to…to harm you.”

  “Harm me?” He couldn’t hold back a laugh. “You intended to lop off my head!”

  She glanced away, but when she faced him again, a faint smile tickled her lips. “Indeed I did. One day I’ll take lessons in swordsmanship, so that the next time my aim will be more exact.”

  “I’m an able swordsman. Stay here, and I’ll teach you.”

  She sobered. “I hear your kindness, but please now, forgive me and let me go. I must do my father’s bidding.”

  “Your father is dead.”

  “But his dream is alive in me, sir. I must go.”

  Jacques weighed his sword, studying the fine blade. He knew he could keep her if he chose. As conqueror, it was his prerogative. But the plea in her eyes was too much to bear, and if he forced her to stay, she would despise him all the more. He considered all options but knew he could take only one path. Drawing a dagger from its sheath on his belt, he held it out before her.

  “Take this then,” he said. “My sword would hamper you, or I would gladly offer it. This blade was given to my father by Robert, Duke of Normandy. It served him on his crusade, and it has served me well to gain these lands for Henry Plantagenet. Now you have your own crusade.”

  The woman’s hands trembled as he laid the dagger across her palms. It was a magnificent piece with a hilt of brilliant sapphires and a gleaming razor-edged blade. Though he had little else with which to remember his father, he was glad to give it to her.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, Jacques Le Brun, lord of Warbreck Castle.”

  “May the dagger protect your life and bring us together again in better days.”

  His heart thundered as she stepped away from him and hurried toward the gate. All his being cried out to prevent her leaving. He had thought of this woman, dreamed of her, even prayed for her in the months of separation.

  As he and Henry Plantagenet had gathered a force of armed men in support of this cause, Jacques knew his loyalties were torn. Without doubt, he believed in Henry’s right to claim the throne of England. But with even greater assurance, he knew that the black-haired woman who had stood beside her father on a chilly winter night in Amounderness was meant to be his.

  Darkness slipped like a thief across the sky to the sea as Bronwen and Enit made their way up the final steep hill to Rossall Hall. The journey had taken two full days—two days of traveling across hard sandy beaches under a burning summer sun, of waiting for tides to recede, of sleeping under the stars, until at last they saw the faint outlines of huts in the village. The timber keep, salt encrusted and weatherworn, stood over the village like an old shepherd guarding his flock. And there was the old gate through which the young girl had run many times to the sea. Bronwen turned and looked over the water as the last rays of the sun spangled the waves and cast glorious golds and oranges into the deep sky.

  “I look forward to seeing Gildan,” she said softly. “But it is hard to think of Rossall without my father.”

  Enit nodded. “The greater pity lies in the fact that Aeschby now holds Edgard’s hall.”

  Bronwen knew both women were reflecting on the terrible truth that in the turmoil of the Norman attack, neither had remembered the will box. The only proof of Edgard’s will was hidden beneath the floor at Warbreck.

  “Your business now is Aeschby,” Enit said. “Leave your father’s memory buried for a while.”

  Bronwen looked at the wise woman. It was true that she must try to concentrate on her struggle with Aeschby. But the memory of Jacques Le Brun drew her. How could she forget the muscle in his jaw tightening as he’d handed her his father’s precious dagger? The fine planes of his smooth skin had been lit by the sun. His raven curls had shone a blue-black.

  She had openly attacked and then reviled him. In return, he had offered his protection, spoken words of affection and support, and then allowed her to leave. What interwoven threads of destiny had created such a man? Both warrior and peacemaker, he confused and beckoned her. While his sword dealt destruction, his eyes spoke gentility and tenderness.

  He had given her the dagger with the hope that they might meet again. But now he was lord of a castle in need of repair and lands that still held enemies loyal to Olaf Lothbrok. She could not imagine he would have time to think of her. And she would not permit herself to dwell on him.

  As she and Enit reached the gate, a guard stepped out of the darkness. “Who approaches the gate of Rossall Hall?”

  Bronwen did not recognize the man, and she wondered what had become of her father’s gatekeeper. “I am Bronwen, widow of Olaf Lothbrok, daughter and heiress of Edgard the Briton,” she said. “Stand by that I may enter.”

  The guard frowned. “Await Lord Aeschby’s bidding, madam.” He opened a door in the wall, went through it and left Bronwen standing outside.

  “Aeschby has faithful forces here, child,” Enit said. “Much as I love this land, the offer of the Norman lord tempts me to turn back to Warbreck.”

  “This is where I belong, Enit. We must stay.”

  They had not waited long before the guard returned. “My lord sends this message. ‘I do not know you. Return to Warbreck from whence you came.’”

  Bronwen stiffened at the rebuff. “Tell your lord that I have come a long journey and I will speak to him at once. Go and tell him now.”

  The guard vanished again, and a renewed determination flooded her. She would have this place. She must wrest it from Aeschby whatever the cost.

  “Lord Aeschby requests your presence in his hall.” The guard opened the door as he spoke. “Enter, madam. Your maid must wait.”

  Bronwen opened her mouth to protest, but Enit touched her elbow. “I’ll stay with the horses, child. Come to me when it’s safe.”

 
“Guard, protect this woman with your life,” Bronwen told him. “She raised your master’s wife from the cradle.”

  At the look of alarm on the man’s face, Bronwen knew that fear would prevent him from harming Enit. She stepped into the courtyard, and the sight of the familiar old keep with its timber-and-wattle kitchen at one side, and its comfortable sagging benches by the door made her heart swell. Rossall was indeed her home.

  Led by another guard, she crossed the yard and entered the hall. The aroma of a pig roasting over the fire filled the room. Tables had been erected around the dais, on which sat the fair-haired Aeschby. A look of disdain flared his nostrils and turned down the corners of his mouth as he rose to meet her.

  Before he spoke, Bronwen took a moment to look at her sister. The sight stopped her in horror. Gildan’s skin was sickly pale. Her eyes, two sunken hollows, bore blackened bruises about them. The once-glorious golden hair now hung limp, unbraided and tangled. Her lips trembled, two thin white lines.

  “Gildan?” Bronwen mouthed.

  But Aeschby spoke up. “So you have come to my hall, Bronwen of Warbreck. I understand from my new advisor that you are now a widow.”

  Bronwen focused on the slouching form behind Aeschby’s chair. Haakon.

  “Welcome home,” the Viking said with a laugh.

  Eyes narrowing, she gripped the dagger beneath her black mantle. “I have come to speak with Aeschby.”

  “Speak then,” the Briton lord commanded. “What can you say that would warrant my attention?”

  “I have returned to take possession of Rossall Hall and the entirety of my father’s holdings—as he wished me to do upon his death. You know I speak the truth, Aeschby, for you were present at the winter feast when my father announced his will. Your wife can affirm my words.”

  Aeschby sneered. “Your sister is a pretty package with nothing inside. She cannot affirm anything.”

  As he spoke, Bronwen ascertained two things at once. He had taken more drink than was prudent on this night. And Gildan was in agony.

  “Your father,” Aeschby went on, “would never leave his holdings in the hands of a woman. Rossall belongs to me—the Briton husband of his daughter. On hearing of Edgard’s death, I dutifully occupied his lands and united them with mine to form one great Briton holding.”