Читать книгу: «The Briton»

Catherine Palmer
The Briton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Mary Edstrom Robitschek, my dear friend,

encourager and prayer warrior. Thank you for

loving and supporting me all the way back to

Rosslyn Academy in Kenya, and for helping me

survive seventh grade math.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Acknowledgments

My great thanks to four special people.

To my agent, Karen Solem, for representing me

with such love and care. To my editor, Joan Golan,

for believing in The Briton twenty-three years after

I wrote it. To Mary Robitschek, for transcribing all

694 pages of the manuscript from hard copy to disk.

To Tim Palmer, for seeing the potential in the

first book I ever wrote and for reading and

editing its 694 pages more times than either of us

likes to remember. May God bless you all.

Chapter One

December 1152

Amounderness in northeast England

Like some relic of a half-forgotten age, the Viking longboat sliced through the icy waters of the natural harbor. Its once brightly painted bow was scarcely visible through a thick coating of barnacles and algae. The sails hung limp and tattered.

A soft dipping of oars drifted through the mist toward an ancient walled keep, where a thin shaft of light from an open window glimmered on the water. An anchor suddenly splashed into the water, shattering the light.

The dark-haired young woman at the window of the keep watched as a small boat, heavily laden with armed men, left the longboat and made its way to shore. A burly old Viking lord stepped from the boat and waded to the beach. Then, with a shout that echoed into the marrow of the woman’s bones, he called his men to follow him across the hard sand toward the stronghold.

“The barbarian has come,” the woman whispered as she barred the wooden shutter.

She turned to find her younger sister looking at her with a petulant expression. “Do leave off peering into the night, Bronwen. I want no gloomy tidings on the eve of our winter feast. Just look how Enit has arranged my tunic. Please come and drape it properly.”

A chill ran through Bronwen as she hurried from the window across the rush-covered wooden floor toward her sister, who stood by a fire built on a stone hearth in the center of the room. The warm flicker of the flames served only to intensify Bronwen’s discontent. And the smoke, drifting upward to the vents in the roof, filled her nostrils with an acrid tang.

How could her father invite the Viking to their feast? To her, the barbarian stood for everything evil that her people, the Briton tribe, had worked so hard and so long to defeat. Vikings! Raiders of villages, ravishers of women, pillagers of the countryside. Why would her father, with the Viking threat all but over, extend the arm of friendship to this barbarian now? Bronwen shook her head in dismay.

But she was forced to smile as she caught sight of Gildan fussing over the folds of her tunic with the nursemaid.

“Sister, you look lovely just as you are,” Bronwen admonished. “Let me help you with your gown, and then I shall plait your hair. Most of the guests have arrived, and Father will be growing impatient.”

“Yes, only to have us make an appearance and then send us back up to our rooms again so the entertainments may begin.” Gildan pouted as her sister arranged a golden gown over her tunic. “I do think this waist is too long, Enit. And just look how pointed the sleeves are!”

The old nurse clucked at her charges. “You two sisters are even fussier than your mother, may she rest in peace. But you do look pretty. As they say, ‘Fine feathers make fine birds.’”

Taking an ivory comb, Bronwen divided and began to weave Gildan’s hair into two long golden braids. Her sister was entirely lovely, Bronwen realized. Though she had been a sickly child most of her life, tonight Gildan’s pale skin glowed rosily and her blue eyes shone. She would make some man a lovely bride to carry on the great line of Edgard the Briton, their ancestor.

At the thought of marriage, Bronwen gazed into the fire. As her fingers continued nimbly in the familiar braiding pattern, Bronwen imagined she could see in the coals a dark shape. A man’s black eyes flickered, and in the wraithlike fire his raven hair floated above his temples. Bronwen sensed a strength in his determined jaw, a gentleness in the curve of his lips and a high intelligence in the smooth planes of his forehead.

Sighing, she turned away from the vision she had conjured more than once in the flames. Her father would never link her with such a man. She must wed the one he selected, and his choices were few indeed. He must betroth her to one of the remaining Briton landholders in the area, for her veins coursed with blood of the most ancient tribe still dwelling on the great island of Britain.

“Bronwen, just look at what you’ve done!” Gildan’s voice broke into her sister’s reverie. “You have wrapped this ribbon backward. Do stop your daydreaming and help me with my mantle.”

Bronwen gathered the soft woolen cloak and laid it over her sister’s shoulders. She placed her own mantle on the heavy green gown she wore and arranged her thick black braids over its folds. Kneeling on a pillow, she waited patiently as Enit veiled Gildan and set a circlet of gold on the younger woman’s head.

“Bronwen, you do look fine,” Enit remarked as she arranged Bronwen’s veil. “Let me rub a bit of fat into those dry fingers. You’ve worked far too hard on this feast. You must learn to let things go a bit, child. And do stop worrying over your father’s choice of guests. Edgard is a wise man.”

The young woman looked up into Enit’s bright eyes. The old nurse had cared for her since Gildan’s birth had resulted in their mother’s death. Enit’s skin hung in thin folds beneath her chin, and tiny lines ran randomly across her face. But when she grinned, as she did now, showing her three good front teeth, each line fell into its accustomed place with ease.

“That’s better.” Enit chuckled as Bronwen’s expression softened. “Now hurry down to the great hall, you two imps, before your father sends up the guard. And, Gildan, remember, ‘Silence is golden.’”

“Oh, Enit! Come Bronwen, you carry the rush light, and I shall carry your mantle down the stair.”

“Enjoy the feast!” Enit called after them.

Bronwen shook her head in contradiction of the nurse’s words. With barbarians in the keep and little to anticipate in the coming year, she felt the evening’s feast must be far less than enjoyable. But at last she lifted her head, slipped her arm around her sister and set a smile upon her lips.

As Bronwen followed Gildan down the stone stairs, she breathed deeply the fresh scent of newly laid rushes on the floor. She had worked hard to prepare for the feast, just as she labored at every endeavor. Since her mother’s death, she had been mistress of the hall. She had, on occasion, even managed the entire holding while her father was away at battle.

Standing in the light of the entrance to the great hall, the sisters surveyed the merry scene before them. Guests, all of whom were men, stood around the room discussing the latest news from the south. Bronwen recognized most of them. Some were her father’s close friends, and others came only because they were loyal to the Briton cause. Few of the men held much land, and many served Norman conquerors.

“Look, Bronwen. Those swinish Vikings are already inside the hall. How vulgar their tongue sounds!” Gildan crossed her arms in contempt.

Bronwen spotted the Viking party in one corner, where they had gathered to tell bawdy stories and laugh raucously. She identified the leader standing in their midst. A heavy old man he was, probably boasting of his battle prowess. He owned Warbreck Castle and its surrounding lands—a holding that adjoined her father’s. Thanks be to the gods, he had never threatened Rossall nor made any attempt to seize it. Indeed, he had allied himself with Edgard against the Norman invaders. But a Viking in their halls? A Norse barbarian? She sighed in frustration.

“Look!” Gildan broke in on Bronwen’s thoughts. “The minstrels are beginning to play. It’s time we made our appearance. I wonder if Aeschby will have come.”

“Of course he will. Father has invited all our neighbors.”

“How lovely the hall appears tonight!” Gildan said as they made their way toward the dais. Sounds of music—lutes, harps, dulcimers and pipes—drifted down from the gallery at the far end of the hall. Beneath it stood a high table draped in white linen and a green overcloth. Metal tankards and goblets were scattered across its surface and down the two long side tables next to the walls.

Cupbearers bustled from one man to another offering drinks. Servitors removed platters, pitchers and spoons from the cupboard and laid them on the tables.

As the sisters made their way through the crowded hall, Gildan admired aloud the sheaves of wheat decorating the tables, and the green ivy, holly and mistletoe hanging from the torches. “Father is looking well tonight,” she whispered. “Is that Aeschby he stands with? What a fine red tunic he wears.”

Bronwen spotted the tall blond man across the room. He stood well above their father in height. Because of the tract of land he held across the Wyre River to the east, and because of his Briton bloodline, Aeschby often had been mentioned as a possible husband for Bronwen, even though they were cousins.

But Bronwen had never cared for Aeschby. The times they had met as children, he had played cruel tricks on her and Gildan. And once he had dropped a kitten to its death from the battlements just to see if it could land on its feet.

“Indeed, Aeschby appears in good spirits tonight,” Bronwen had to acknowledge. “But look, the piper has seen us, and now the feasting begins.”

As she spoke, trumpets sounded and each man moved to his appointed place, according to his rank. The sisters stepped onto the dais and waited beside their father’s chair. Bronwen looked fondly at the heavy, aged man as he lumbered to his place. His long white mustaches hung far down into his beard. And though the top of his head was bald, thick locks of snowy hair fell to his shoulders. He had always been a proud man, Edgard the Briton, and he stood tall before his guests.

“Welcome, welcome one and all. The house of Edgard enjoins all friends of the great Briton kingdom of this isle to share in our winter feast.”

He lifted his golden cup high over his head, and a mighty cheer rose from the crowd.

“Now let us eat in fellowship. And when my daughters are gone to bed, we shall enjoy an even greater merriment!” At that all the men burst into laughter. Bronwen glanced over to see Gildan blushing. “But before they are gone, Edgard the Briton will make an announcement of great import to all gathered here. And now, let the feasting begin!”

Bronwen sank into her chair. An announcement of great import? What could her father mean? Perhaps he had some news of the civil war between the Norman king, Stephen, and his cousin, the Empress Matilda, both of whom claimed the throne of England. Yet Bronwen felt quite certain the news was something closer to herself. She knew it must be the announcement of her betrothal in marriage, for her father had been hinting of an arrangement for many months now.

But to whom? Edgard had called Bronwen to his side upon her last birthday. She remembered thinking how old and withered he looked. Though his body was still strong, he had put on much weight, and he often complained of aches in his joints. Bronwen recalled how he had placed his arm around her shoulders, a sign of affection he had not displayed since she was a child. “Bronwen, you have eighteen years, now.” His voice had been filled with emotion. “You are well into womanhood. For too long I have depended on you for the management of my household. You remind me so of your mother when she arrived from Wales to become my wife.”

Her father had stopped speaking for a moment and gazed at his thick fingers, entwined in his sash. Though the marriage had been arranged by their fathers, Bronwen knew he had truly cared for her mother.

“Now it is time that you had a husband. Though we are dwindled in number, there are some men remaining who sympathize with our cause. Bronwen, I want you to know I have been negotiating for your marriage, that you may prepare yourself for what lies ahead.”

Was this to be the night she learned of his plan? Bronwen looked at her father. He was talking with Gildan and admiring her long golden braids and the bright ribbons binding them. Yes, Bronwen was certain her father meant to announce her marriage betrothal.

How paltry all her dreams seemed in the harsh light of this reality. She felt foolish at the memory of the man she had so often imagined in the fire. Indeed, she had to smile at the childish imagination that had led her to believe she someday might wed such a one.

As the servitors poured into the hall bearing food and drink, a commotion near the door drew Bronwen’s attention. A small band of strangers dressed in heavy woolen mantles had entered the great hall. At their head stood a tall figure whose hood concealed his features from the curious crowd.

“Edgard the Briton,” the man spoke through the fold of cloth as he approached the dais. “We weary travelers request your kindness upon us this night. We ask to sup with you before we resume our journey.”

Edgard studied the visitors before replying. “This is our winter feast. Who are you, and whom do you serve?”

“We are merely wanderers, sir.”

“Sup with us, then, and be welcome. But take heed…we are men of strength and power. We tolerate no deceit.”

The robed man bowed slightly in acknowledgment and led his companions to a table among the guards lowest in rank. Bronwen watched as he began his meal without removing his hood.

“Father, why do you speak of deceit?” she asked. “And why will this stranger not reveal himself to us?”

Edgard looked grim. “There have been rumors for many months now that the Empress Matilda’s son, Henry Plantagenet, is spying out our land. He hopes to make it his own one day. Of course, King Stephen will never allow it as long as he lives. Though we have not chosen sides in this war between Stephen and Matilda, I do not like the idea of spies on our land.”

“And you think this man could be a spy? Is that the announcement of which you spoke, Father?”

Edgard squeezed his daughter’s hand and shook his head. “Bronwen, leave these matters to men. Look now! Aeschby has risen to pay homage to me. Let us hear him and dismiss this weighty talk.”

Edgard took his knife to a hunk of spicy meat as Aeschby strode to the dais. Gildan, obviously enjoying herself, picked up a tart. She was unconcerned by her father’s announcement, Bronwen realized. Probably, Gildan assumed it was purely political in nature.

Bronwen cut a sliver of omelet, but its strong onion smell displeased her. She stared down from the dais at Aeschby in his bright red tunic. Was he the one chosen for her? She had a sizable dowry—all her father’s land, upon his death, would go to Bronwen’s husband, according to Briton custom. And this acreage, together with Aeschby’s, would reunite the old lands and make a fine large holding.

He was looking now at the dais, his white teeth gleaming in a proud smile. Bronwen had heard that Aeschby was a cruel and harsh master to his serfs, and he had been known to fly into rages.

But at this moment, he appeared serene as he gazed—not at Bronwen—but at her sister. Gildan had blossomed into womanhood, and she was beautiful. Though the younger woman had no land dowry, Bronwen was certain her father would provide much gold to the man she would wed.

Gildan hardly needed gold to draw the attention of a man. Aeschby could not keep his eyes from her. And Bronwen noticed Gildan glancing at him from time to time with a coy smile upon her lips.

Perhaps there was some true affection between the two. Bronwen dreaded the thought of marriage to a man who desired her sister.

Aeschby now signaled one of his retainers. The man carried a black box from his position at a table below the salt container. Together they stepped up to the dais, and Aeschby lifted the box from the hands of his kneeling servant.

“Take this heirloom, my lord,” he addressed Edgard, “as a sign of my loyalty to you, and of my fealty to our Briton cause.”

A loud cheer rose from the crowd as Aeschby lifted a golden neck-ring from the box and held it high over his head. It was a truly magnificent work, hand-wrought many generations ago for some unknown king.

Edgard received the ring and thanked Aeschby. “This young lord shows himself to be a treasure-giver worthy of his noble heritage,” he said. “I accept this ring as a father accepts a gift from his son.”

At that, another roar went up, drowning the sound of the minstrels as they announced the second course of the feast. Bronwen was impressed with the gift her father had been given, but she was startled to hear him address Aeschby as “son.” Perhaps there was truth in her speculation that their betrothal would be announced that evening.

The next courses came and went, but to Bronwen the meal seemed a blur. According to her plan, mince pies, dilled veal balls, baked lamprey eels, swan-neck pudding, giblet custard pie, currant tart and elderberry funnel cake marched out of the kitchen one after the other. Men rose and gave one another treasures, as at all feasts, and speeches of thanks and boasting followed. Bronwen sampled little of the foods set before her, but her father and Gildan ate with relish.

“Father, Bronwen has been deep in thought all evening,” Gildan said over the din. “Perhaps we should have a song to waken her.” Gildan looked at her sister with teasing eyes.

Edgard laughed. “Always the pensive one, Bronwen. Indeed, it is time for the boar’s head now!” He called the musicians. “Let us sing to the boar’s head on this night of feasting.”

As the marshal entered the hall bearing a large platter, all the company stood and began to sing. Bronwen noticed that the tall stranger had risen, but a hood still covered his features.

“The boar’s head in hand bear I,” the feasters sang. “Bedecked with bays and rosemary, and I pray you my masters, be merry!”

As the song ended, the marshal knelt before Edgard and offered the platter to him. “And now may the gods bless all noble sons of Britain,” Edgard said. “May the coming year bring prosperity to one and all.”

The carver sliced the meat, and the servers passed it from one guest to another. As feasters cut into the delicacy, Bronwen tried to believe this was to be a happy evening after all. There was no need to dwell on gloomy things. Even if she were to marry Aeschby, she could return often to her beloved home to visit Gildan and her father. These were her people, the Briton men, and she must—indeed she wished to—carry on their lineage.

Then a movement caught her eye, and she turned to see the old Viking leader rise from his seat. “I salute you noble Edgard the Briton, ring-giver and sword-wielder,” he said in a strong voice.

Bronwen noted that the other men quieted as the barbarian spoke, some glancing darkly at the Viking. It was clear to her that this man was resented at the feast, though Edgard appeared pleased with the salutation. It was strange to hear her father addressed as ring-giver, for he had awarded few treasures in recent years. No battles had been won or glories deserved.

“A feasting so fine as this,” the man continued, “we Vikings have never before seen. We commend the food-provider and the hall-adorner for this pleasure.”

Bronwen wanted to laugh at the odd way his Norse tongue spoke their language. It was an outrage against decency to have him here. Yet the barbarian was making some effort to be civilized. She scrutinized the heavy brown woolen tunic he wore, so out of place in the brightly decorated hall. As he lumbered forward, Bronwen wondered what his gift would be. The barbarian was an old man, nearly the age of her father. Though his hair and beard were still the color of saffron, his face was crisscrossed with lines and his walk was pained.

“I, Olaf Lothbrok,” he intoned, “who have done many brave deeds, who have crossed the salt sea and borne hardship on the waves, I, who have wrestled with the whale-fishes and battled mighty monsters, I come gladly into the hall of the strong and generous Edgard. Before this one filled with manly courage, this battle-brave ring-giver and treasure-lord, I present this cross.”

Bronwen gasped. The cross he now held before her father was a work of immeasurable value. Almost as long as his arm from elbow to hand, the piece was wrought in fine gold and set with rubies and sapphires. It was obviously a relic stolen from some Norman church the barbarian or his father had raided. Though Bronwen knew little about this religion that had been brought to Britain by wanderers known as Christians, she believed all sacred objects should be respected. How could such a gift—a plundered holy symbol—be accepted? Yet here was her father now, holding the cross and admiring its workmanship.

“Olaf Lothbrok,” Edgard addressed the man, “this generous gift I receive from the hand of a neighbor and friend. Though our people were once at war, now—in these difficult times—we are allies.”

A murmur arose from the men, and Bronwen noticed the hooded stranger at the far end of the room speaking with great animation to his companions. She was appalled. It was bad enough to invite the Viking to the feast—a move Bronwen had protested vehemently—but for Edgard the Briton to claim him as a friend and ally? Surely her father had lost his wits. Bronwen turned to Gildan and saw her staring open-mouthed at the Viking as he returned to his table.

It was too much! Bronwen wanted to bolt from the room, escape the house and run down to the beach, where she could sit alone and ponder what her father’s actions could mean. The Britons had tried to keep themselves a pure race, never to be allied with such a people as this old Viking and his Norse companions. Blood pounding through her head, Bronwen forced a deep breath as she watched her father step back onto the dais and lay the cross on the table.

“Fellow Britons,” her father said loudly, “at the start of the feast, I spoke to you of a great announcement. As you know, I am possessed of two fine treasures. Stand, Bronwen! Stand, Gildan!”

Bronwen rose shakily to her feet, and the men began to cheer. Gildan had turned pale and appeared also to be short of breath.

“Though I have no sons to continue the line of my forefathers, I have two daughters, both now of marriageable age. They are fine women, and through long negotiations, I have found worthy husbands for both.”

So it was to be Gildan, too, Bronwen realized. Poor Gildan. For so long she had dreamed of a husband, and now that her betrothal was to be announced, she stood ashen and shivering. Bronwen longed to go and take her sister’s hand as she had done when they were children.

“My elder daughter, Bronwen,” Edgard continued, “the child who seems almost the spirit of her mother, so nearly do they look alike—I now betroth to Olaf Lothbrok.”

At the name, Bronwen gasped aloud, incredulous at her father’s words. Gildan cried out, and all the company of men began to murmur at once.

“Silence please,” Edgard spoke up. “Allow me to continue. My daughter Gildan I betroth to Aeschby Godwinson. Gildan brings to her marriage one fourth of all my gold and treasure, and upon my death I will her to receive one fourth more.”

Half! At this news, the men cheered wildly. Bronwen saw that bright spots of pink had flowed back into Gildan’s cheeks, and her sister was smiling again. Aeschby moved to the dais and stood proudly beside his betrothed.

Edgard spoke above the roar. “Bronwen brings to her marriage one half of all my gold and treasure.” He stretched out his hands, motioning for silence. “Now you must listen carefully, Britons. Hear my will to my daughter Bronwen upon my death.”

The men in the room fell silent, and even the servitors stopped to listen. Bronwen knotted her fingers together as her father continued to speak.

“When I die, Bronwen will receive all my lands and this Rossall Hall into her own hands. They will not pass under the governance of her husband, Olaf Lothbrok, as is the Briton custom. I shall not permit my possessions to slip from the hands of my tribe. If my daughter Bronwen gives birth to a son by this Viking, then the inheritance will fall to the son upon his coming of age. If she has a daughter or no child, at her death these lands will pass to Aeschby and his lineage through my daughter Gildan.”

Edgard stopped speaking for a moment and looked long at his stunned guests. Then he began to recite the many brave deeds of his forefathers, those beloved tales Bronwen knew so well. As the Briton talked, Olaf Lothbrok moved from his bench and came to stand beside her. Bronwen drew back from the touch of his woolen tunic as it grazed her hand. She could not bear to look at this man or meet the hard gaze of the silent Briton company.

Instead, she found herself staring down at her own slippers, intricately crafted of gold threads and purple embroidery. Edgard had brought them for her from the market fair in Preston, and she had saved them for this special feast. Her eyes wandered to the large leather boots of the Viking. They were caked with mud and sand, and small bits of seaweed clung to their thick crossed bindings.

Could she ever learn to care for the man who wore those boots? Would she one day look forward to the heavy sound of their entrance into her chamber? Would there be a time when her eyes grew accustomed to their presence beside her own thin slippers at the foot of their marriage bed?

Bronwen shook her head, then shuddered as she felt the barbarian’s huge hand close around her own. Why had her father done this? She could make no sense of his plans. At last she lifted her chin as the Viking beside her raised their hands high above their heads.

“And so the continuation of the great line of Briton nobles is assured,” her father was saying. “I have accomplished this by the favorable marriages of my two daughters to these worthy men.”

For a moment, the room was silent. Slowly one or two guests began to applaud, then several others pounded their mugs upon the tables. At last the entire company broke into a thunderous roar of cheering and shouting.

Bronwen looked up in time to see the group of travelers rise and move toward the door. Their tall leader bowed toward the dais, then stepped out of the great hall. Bronwen gave their departure little thought, for the eyes of the Briton guests burned into her. She dared not look into any man’s face, for she knew she would find it filled with questioning, doubt and pity.

As Edgard finished speaking, he turned to Bronwen and wrapped his arms around her, though she knew no warmth from the embrace. Then he grasped Olaf Lothbrok by the shoulders and congratulated him heartily. Finally he turned to embrace Gildan and Aeschby, and Bronwen knew she was at last free to go.

Without another look around the hall she had worked so hard to prepare, she pulled her hand from the grip of the Viking and stepped down from the dais. As she hurried toward the door, she felt a hand catch hold of her skirt.

“Welcome to the family, Briton,” one of Olaf’s men said in a mocking voice. “We look forward to the presence of a woman at our hall.”

Bronwen grasped her tunic and yanked it from the Viking’s thick fingers. As she stepped away from the table, she heard the drunken laughter of the barbarians behind her.

Running down the stone steps toward the heavy oak door that led outside from the keep, Bronwen gathered her mantle about her. She ordered the doorman to open the door, and he did so reluctantly, pressing her to carry a torch. But Bronwen pushed past him and fled into the darkness.

Dashing down the steep, pebbled hill toward the beach, she felt the frozen ground give way to sand. She threw off her veil and circlet and kicked away her shoes and mantle. The sand was cold on her feet as she raced alongside the pounding surf, and hot tears of anger and shame welled up and streamed down her cheeks. Unable to think beyond her humiliation, Bronwen ran—her long braids streaming behind her, falling loose, drifting like a tattered black flag.

Blinded with weeping, she did not see the dark form that sprang up in her path. Iron arms circled her, and a heavy cloak threatened suffocation.

“Release me!” she cried. “Guard! Guard, help me.”

“Hush, my lady.” A deep voice emanated from the darkness. The man spoke her tongue, though his accent was neither Norman French nor any other that she recognized. “I mean you no harm. What demon drives you to run through the night without fear for your safety?”

“Set me free at once! I demand it!”

“I shall hold you until you calm yourself. We had heard there were witches in Amounderness, but I had not thought to meet one this night.”

Still bound by the man’s arms, Bronwen drew back and peered up at the hooded figure. “You! You and your band of wastrels spied on our feast. Unhand me, or I shall call the guard upon you.”