The Briton Page 20

  On the evening of their third day, Jacques realized they must make do in open air as best they could. Needing to feed an entire contingent of hungry men, he decided to lead a large hunting party into the forest in search of deer and small game. He left four guards to protect Bronwen and her nurse, who were spreading their blankets on the cart to wait for his return.

  The hunt took him to the top of the nearest hill, where he spotted a fine buck standing alone in a clearing. With one arrow, he took the deer through the heart. Several of his men joined him in dressing the meat, for they did not wish to leave the offal near their camp.

  Tired but satisfied, Jacques was returning to his horse when a shout rang out from the vale below.

  “Lord have mercy on us! Help! Help!”

  He instantly recognized the voice of Enit, the nursemaid. Turning his steed, Jacques saw a band of shapes ride out of the trees and surround the cart.

  “Where is she?” a man shouted over Enit’s screams. “Get her!”

  In an instant they swarmed the two women. As Jacques called out to his men, he saw the glint of steel and heard the sound of clashing weapons below. Thundering down the hill on his horse, he caught sight of Bronwen standing on the cart and fighting with the dagger he had given her.

  A familiar figure stood out among the rest. Aeschby. His golden hair whipped about in the chilling wind, and his mantle gleamed a blood-red. Jacques realized the man had not yet reached Bronwen, and he was shouting to Haakon, who was still on horseback.

  “’Tis a black witch!” someone screamed in agony. “The woman has sliced my arm nearly in twain!”

  As Jacques’s steed finally broke out of the forest, he saw Bronwen slashing and stabbing at the men who reached for her. His own guards did battle with others, sword against sword, ax, mace and knife. Drawing his own blade, Jacques began to cut his way toward Bronwen. But before he reached her, Haakon leaped from his horse and threw the woman from the cart into the wet snow.

  “I have her!” the Viking yelled. “Aeschby! I have the wench!”

  Gritting his teeth, Jacques hacked an enemy’s ax handle in two as he made for the woman. Wielding her dagger, Bronwen fought Haakon until he slammed her face with the back of his mail-clad hand.

  Now Jacques was at her side, but Haakon bellowed in rage and clubbed her again. As her eyes rolled back in her head, Jacques’s sword found its mark.

  With great effort, Bronwen summoned a breath. She lay cheek down in the snow, her arms twisted and her body pressed by a great weight. All she could see was the silver moon hanging just above a rim of black trees. Except for the stamping of horses’ hooves and the hiss of swords sheathed, the air was silent.

  “Here’s one,” she heard a voice say.

  “Dead?” another voice asked. “Bring him along then. We’ve got four here.”

  Bronwen heard the crunch of boots on the snow beside her head, but she could not lift her face to look. She sensed a figure kneeling at her side.

  “Dear God, help me now, I beg You,” a man said under his breath.

  The weight lifted from her chest, and a blanket slipped beneath her frozen cheek. A sword that had been thrust into the ground beside her was drawn away. Gentle hands turned her, but a sharp pain knifed into her ribs and she cried out.

  “She lives,” the man breathed. “Thanks be to God!”

  Bronwen blinked through the milky clouds across her eyes and tried to focus on the face before her. Two dark eyes, black hair curling down chiseled cheekbones, a noble nose above a pair of familiar lips.

  “Jacques,” she murmured.

  “My dearest lady.” The Norman lifted her in his arms and wrapped the black mantle close about her shivering body. She could feel the tension in his arms as he carried her to the cart and placed her into a cocoon of blankets.

  “I was almost too late,” he muttered as he smoothed her hair.

  “Enit,” Bronwen croaked. “Where is she?”

  “Your nurse lies beside you. I fear she has taken a grave blow to the head.”

  With a cry of dismay, Bronwen struggled to sit up. “You must let me help her. Fetch the healing bag.”

  “Rest, Bronwen, I beg you,” Jacques said as he found the pouch. “You’re injured yourself. Tell me what to do.”

  She reached for the old woman and found Enit’s hand. Holding it, she spoke to the Norman. “Build a fire and heat water for washing.”

  He shouted at his men to set about it at once. Indeed they must have built a fire already, Bronwen realized, for soon a bowl of steaming water sat on the cart floor.

  “Lift her head and bathe the wound,” she told Jacques. “There will be much blood.”

  “Yes, and her breath is shallow.”

  Bronwen nodded. “God has sent His gift of darkness so she feels no pain. Now find the container of comfrey-root poultice in the bag.”

  “Smell this. Is it the one?”

  Bronwen sniffed the jar he held beneath her nose. She shook her head. He tried two more. The third was comfrey root. “Smooth it across her head, directly on the wound. Now bind it tightly so the bleeding will cease.”

  Looking up in the moonlight, she could see the man’s furrowed brow as he worked on Enit. His mail glimmered a silver-white. A small muscle flickered in his jaw, and the grim line of his mouth turned to a frown at each corner.

  When the binding was done, he turned his attention to Bronwen. “Your face is bruised and torn,” he said, stroking his fingers down her cheek. “Aeschby did this—and Haakon, his henchman.”

  Bronwen lifted a hand to her swollen cheekbone and felt the tender skin around her eye. “Aeschby intended to kill me. Haakon did his best.”

  “Aeschby fled, Haakon is dead and you live.”

  “How could they have found me?”

  “Aeschby has spies,” he reminded her. “And after all, there are few roads between London and Amounderness. It wouldn’t have been difficult for him to guess your path.” He bent and kissed her forehead. “Where do you have pain?”

  “My side,” she said. “My ribs are broken.”

  Biting back an oath, he pulled Bronwen’s blankets aside, tore the mantle clasp from her neck and spread the cloak apart. He probed gently, but Bronwen winced in pain as his fingers brushed the fractured bones.

  “This injury I have had myself,” he growled.

  Tearing a strip from the hem of a thin blanket, he lifted her and wrapped the cloth tightly about her ribs. Chill wind whipped across the vale as he worked to secure the ends of the bandage. With her chest bound, Bronwen knew instant relief, and she relaxed in his arms.

  “Are you better?” he asked softly.

  “Well enough,” she murmured. Drowsy in the warmth of his chest against her cheek and his arms about her, Bronwen closed her eyes again.

  The next days Bronwen spent in the jolting cart, tending to Enit and trying to rest her own aching body. The days grew a little warmer and no snow fell, so the road turned to mud and slush.

  As she watched the bone-thin tree branches lacing across the blue sky, Bronwen wondered if Aeschby now believed her dead. He had seen Haakon throw her from the cart and would think she could never survive such an attack. Perhaps he felt himself secure in Rossall—secure enough to lay plans against Warbreck. This was all to her advantage, she realized. During the long journey, she had at last formulated three possible means of regaining her father’s holding.

  The guard she had met near the river pledged an oath of service should she need it. With effort, she might assemble a small force of armed men still loyal to Edgard the Briton. The old butler knew secret ways to enter the hall, and he would help Bronwen and her allies slip inside and take Aeschby by surprise.

  If that failed, she would have no choice but to enter Rossall in disguise and face Aeschby one-on-one. Untrained in weaponry, she feared she must surely be vanquished—even slain. Yet if she lived, she could resort to her final option. She would show her father’s will to Henry Plantagenet and beg him
to honor it. Vowing to support his cause, she would plead for an army to conquer Aeschby.

  If it came to this, Rossall would then become a part of the Norman fold, and her father’s dream would be dashed forever. Yet, some hope remained, for the holding would remain in Briton hands. Perhaps she might make a marriage to one of her countrymen and bear him a Briton son—and through that child a flicker of the dream would live on.

  Nights arrived quickly in the winter forest. When the party stopped, Bronwen would clamber down from the cart and join the men by the fire in their evening meal. Enit barely stirred, and Bronwen worried that she would starve. Little nourishment had slipped between those torn lips in the days since the attack. Bronwen and Jacques spent no time alone together in the camp. He made a point to ask after her well-being every evening, but they had no other exchange. She slept beside Enit in the cart.

  During the day, Jacques continued to ride ahead, so far ahead that Bronwen rarely caught sight of his broad back and the black waves of his hair. She understood his haste, for his men often spoke of their eagerness to meet Henry Plantagenet.

  One night while seated beside the fire, Bronwen heard a soft moan coming from the cart. She hurried to Enit’s side and saw the papery eyelids slide open.

  “Oh, Enit, you wake!” Bronwen said softly. “No, don’t turn your head—you’ve had a terrible blow.”

  The old woman’s thin lips opened. “Where am I?”

  “We travel to Rossall. Aeschby and his men attacked, but we were saved. Come now, can you sip a bit of broth?”

  Jacques appeared at her side. “Enit wakes at last.”

  “Esyllt,” the old woman rasped.

  Bronwen turned to her nurse. “What did you say?”

  “Esyllt, your hair needs a combing, child.”

  “But I am Bronwen. Esyllt was my mother.”

  The blue eyes wandered across Bronwen’s face for a moment. “Esyllt, your hair is a mess. Come, bring the ivory comb and let me plait it up for you.”

  Her eyes filling with tears, Bronwen tucked the blanket beneath Enit’s chin. As she wiped her cheek, she felt the Norman’s hand touch her back.

  “Look, she sleeps again,” he said. “Her sense must surely return soon. All is not lost. She is alive.”

  Bronwen drew a deep breath. “Yes, she is alive. And I have more reason than ever to regain Rossall. I must take Enit home.”

  The Norman stood still for a moment, then turned and strode away toward the fire.

  Winter had set in for good when Jacques announced that at last they were drawing near Amounderness. The following evening the party would prepare to ride for Warbreck.

  In the passing days, Enit had grown haler. She ate of the pigeon, hare and quail Jacques’s men roasted each night. By day, she sat up in the cart and looked about. Sometimes she knew Bronwen and remembered their stay in London. She recalled that Gildan had gone to France and that she and Bronwen were returning home. Other times she thought Bronwen was Esyllt on her way to wed Edgard.

  Feeling sad and lonely one night, Bronwen covered her slumbering nursemaid with blankets and climbed out of the cart. She needed time to think, to be alone. Four guards stood on alert, but Jacques and his men slept by the fire.

  Walking along the edge of the track, Bronwen gazed at the mighty trees swaying overhead. She lifted her widow’s skirts and stepped onto a thick carpet of musky-smelling fallen leaves on the forest floor. A full moon lightened the night, and she could see the bare branches and thorny brakes that crossed her path. Cold, fresh air filled her lungs as the sound of limbs clicked in the breeze.

  Bronwen threw back the hood of her mantle and tilted her face to the sky. Dear God, it is good to be alive, she lifted up in prayer. Please aid me. Teach me what I need to know. Make me Your servant and— At the sound of footsteps behind her, Bronwen reached for her dagger.

  “You wander unguarded, Bronwen,” came a deep voice.

  A sigh of relief escaped her lips. “You frightened me. I’m not alone. Your men can see me well enough.”

  “Yet you must be careful.” Jacques pulled back his own hood. Bronwen gazed at the angle of his jaw and the curl of his raven hair. His tunic was a royal-blue, embroidered with a fine silver border. It fell from a straight neckline across his wide chest to the thick leather belt at his waist. From there it hung to his knees. His leggings and boots were a deep black.

  Jacques was at least a head taller than her father had been, Bronwen realized. He was even taller and more broad-shouldered than Aeschby, whom she and Gildan had once thought magnificent. Jacques’s legs, powerful and long, had hardened with the riding and training that were part of his daily life. His large hands were taut and lean as he hooked his thumbs on his belt.

  “You look upon me as though you’ve never seen me before.” The quiet voice interrupted Bronwen’s musings.

  “Forgive me,” she stammered. “I didn’t realize I was staring.”

  The Norman smiled. “Our meetings often have taken place in dim light, and we battle far more than we speak in peace. At Warbreck, we’ll have time to know one another better. There will be walks in the orchard and evenings of quiet talk beside the fire. I’m eager for you to meet Plantagenet. He’ll take great delight in your intellect.”

  Bronwen listened to his words, her heart in her throat. “Sir, you must know I intend to be about my business of regaining Rossall. I’ll not stay at Warbreck more than a day or two.”

  Her purpose would be to find and secure the small box containing her father’s written will. But of course she must say nothing of that to Jacques.

  “You speak always of regaining your father’s land,” the Norman said in a tone of frustration. “Bronwen, are you so blind that you do not see what is already yours for the taking? Why will you not see me?”

  With one arm, he captured her at the waist. “I offer you my home, my protection. I trail you here and there, trying my best to keep you safe from yourself and your enemies. Yet you treat me like a stranger. You behave as if you’ve never seen me—as if I don’t even exist.”

  Bronwen looked up into the flashing eyes. “But, sir—”

  “I do exist. I’m here, Bronwen. Look at me. Feel my arms about you. Hear the words I speak. I am a man, Bronwen.”

  He bent his head and covered her mouth with a kiss that swept the air from her lungs. She could do nothing to resist, and why should she? Each day, she had followed him with her eyes, her focus riveted to his broad back and her eyes drawn to every gust of breeze that lifted the hair from his forehead. Each night, she had watched him settle near the fire and ached to be lying beside him. Every word he spoke to her and each time their eyes met became treasures that she stored like precious jewels in her mind. Resting near Enit at night, she took them out and examined them, recalling each precious word, savoring every glance.

  He turned her into the shadows of the forest, and she slid her arms about him. “Oh, Jacques,” she said drinking in the scent of his neck and the brush of his hair against her cheek. “You make me weak when I should be strong. I cannot let you do this.”

  “Hold you in my arms? Kiss your lips when I know they long for mine? Bring you a life you cannot have known?”

  “You know precious little of my past life. Why must you torment me? Can you not leave me in peace?”

  Without replying, he turned his back on her and stared at the moon. His jet hair fell in waves on his shoulders.

  “Jacques Le Brun,” Bronwen said. The Norman glanced back at her, his eyes a fierce black. “You and I are different. You have education, lands, wealth. You are a Norman—a conqueror. I am a Briton. I have nothing but a dream. And every time we come together in this way, I fear the loss of that dream.”

  She hugged herself, fighting for words that might make him understand. “When we first met, I knew nothing of you—yet you kissed me then and spoke words of such affection that when we parted I was able to think of little else. What is it you want of me? Why do you pursue me? You
must know our differences are too great.”

  “That is it, then,” he said. “You reject me because you cannot bear the differences between us—my mixed blood, my uncertain pedigree must never be mingled with your purity. Why not say it outright? You would never deign to think of me as husband.”

  “Husband?” she breathed.

  “That night at Rossall when I first saw your dark hair, your skin—so like my own—I thought you would not care about my lineage. But I was mistaken.” He paused a moment. “Have no fear, madam. I’ll not come to you again in hopes of tenderness and a meeting of the soul.”

  With that, the man turned from her and strode back to the fire. For some minutes Bronwen could do nothing but stand rooted to the ground, her body stiff with shock. What had he said? What had he meant?

  Husband!

  But how? She had no father to arrange a marriage. She had no dowry, no land or gold to offer. How could he see them as a match?

  Bronwen shook her head in confusion. His kisses were so passionate, so filled with desire. Was that what he had meant—that he wanted her as a husband craves his wife, but without the bond of matrimony? Did he think she might join him in a dalliance of amour?

  A lonely widow. In need of aid and protection. She would be perfect for such an arrangement.

  Torment raging through her, Bronwen lifted her head and returned to her prayers.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As the sun lit the tops of the golden trees, the party rounded the final bend in the road. Bronwen gasped at the sight that met her eyes. Warbreck Castle was a full level higher than it had been when she’d lived there. A third story rose above the first two, and at the corner facing the river an even taller tower loomed against the purple sky. Along the parapet surrounding the stronghold, newly built notched battlements allowed the knights to shoot arrows through slotted windows. Around the tower’s top a machicolation extended out from the expanse of wall to protect the men who dropped missiles or hot oil through it.