The Briton (30 page)

“I suppose fish will do for your final meal on this earth, then,” Enit said. “I’ll save some of this batch for your pocket.

When Aeschby imprisons you tonight, at least you’ll have a bite to eat before his sword severs your head from your neck.”

“Enit, please!” Bronwen laughed. “You are too dire.”

The winter chill seeped through the wattle-and-daub hut, and the women huddled together as they ate. Though their lives had sunk to a point lower than Bronwen could ever have imagined, at least she could take joy in knowing that Enit was well again. Or nearly so. Now and then, the old woman confused people’s names or told a tale in the wrong order. She
256

The Briton

forgot the words to songs and sometimes left an ingredient out of a loaf of bread. But all in all, she had healed from the head injury she’d suffered during Aeschby’s attack, and Bronwen thanked God daily.

“I must go to the stream,” she told the old woman. They had eaten a little of the fish and shared an apple. Now water must be drawn for drinking and pot scrubbing. “I’ll see to our nets, too. Perhaps we’ve captured a nice fat trout. Do not go outside until my return.”

Enit had begun singing and paid little heed as Bronwen left the hut. Setting out through the woods with the water pail, she tried to squelch her discomfort about the events to come. Not only did she feel almost certain of failure, but she had no confidence that God approved of her plot. Had He not ordained peasants to live beneath lords? Edgard had told his daughter that the common people must never be allowed to revolt.
Do
the stones rise up against the grass?
he had asked.
Does the
fly attack the hawk?

At a Christian church in London, Bronwen had heard the tale of God’s creation of the heavens and the earth. When the angel Lucifer had defied God, he had been cast into eternal darkness. No, she should not urge the peasants to attack their lord. Yet, if she sat by and did nothing, what would become of the keep, the land, the people? How would her father advise her if he knew what Aeschby had done to Gildan and to Rossall?

Kneeling on the stream’s bank, Bronwen dipped her pail into the water. Enit was right to worry. It was safe enough here in the forest, but Bronwen had no doubt that with each passing day her chances of exposure grew. She kept Jacques’s dagger at her side at all times, and when she walked alone, she searched the trees and listened for rustling in the brush.

Catherine Palmer

257

As she bent over the brook to lift out the water, that very sound caught her ears. At once, she let go of the pail and reached for her knife. As she turned, Jacques Le Brun stepped out onto the sand.

“You frightened me!” she exclaimed.

“And you’ve lost your bucket.” He sprinted downstream, grabbed the pail and carried it back to her filled with water.

“There,” he said, setting it beside her. “My misdeed is corrected.”

At the sight of the man, garbed in mail and carrying his sword and bright blue shield, Bronwen made an awkward effort to tidy her hair. How she must look to him—as a peasant in the humblest garb with charcoal-smudged cheeks and not even a braid or a ribbon. She smoothed down her skirt, the same green gown she had worn when she’d left him. Its hem had been peppered with holes by embers popping from the fire, and her sleeves had been tattered by brambles.

“Truly, you should not be here, sir,” she told him. “You endanger us both. I insist that you leave at once.”

“As I recall, you made yourself welcome in my private chambers without permission or regard as to my wishes.”

Bronwen lowered her eyes. He was right, of course. She had hidden in his guards’ sleeping quarters and listened to a conversation not meant for her ears.

“How did you find me?” she asked. “I am well hid.”

“Madam, you might as well be standing on a London street corner. My spies brought news of your whereabouts
and
your plot against Aeschby. Frankly, I am surprised to see you in one piece.”

Mortified, Bronwen cast a worried glance about her. If Jacques knew all this, Aeschby must be aware, too. “Why have you come, then?” she asked. “Surely you were followed.”

258

The Briton

“It’s possible, but I think not. I came away without a guard.

I have brought you a letter.” He stepped toward her. “It’s from your sister.”

“A letter from Gildan? But how did you get it? When did it arrive? Is she all right?”

Jacques held out the document. “A messenger brought it this morning. I suppose she sent it to me on the assumption that you were living safely at Warbreck, as you should be.

What the letter says, I do not know. It is sealed.”

“Then open it, I beg you! Please, read it to me.”

Jacques broke the seal. “To Bronwen, Edgard’s Daughter of Rossall Hall, Widow of Olaf Lothbrok of Warbreck,” he read.

“From Gildan, Ward of Firmin of Troyes, France. Beloved sister, I pray all is well. The annulment of my marriage to Aeschby has been completed in good order. Chacier and I plan to wed in May soon after I return from France. We shall dwell near his family.

Even now, Chacier takes control over much of his father’s trade, so our lives will be filled with ease and contentment. My greatest desire now, dear Bronwen, is that you might attend my wedding.

I long for the comfort of your presence. I miss you sorely, my dearest Bronwen. Come quickly!”

“They will wed in May,” Bronwen said, her thoughts filled with images of her beautiful sister. “Thank God.”

“I would ask if you intend to go to her in London, but I know the answer. Gildan is destined to hear sad news of her sister’s demise before her wedding day.”

“You and Enit are harbingers of doom.” Bronwen picked up the pail. “I am not as confident of my death as you.”

She started for the hovel, but Jacques bent and took the water from her hand. “Walk with me,” he said. “On our last encounter, you asked to speak to me. I refused to hear you.

Let me atone for my ill behavior.”

Catherine Palmer

259

Unwilling to deny herself this moment with him, she nodded. He set the pail on the sand again, took her hand and settled it over his arm. As they walked along the bank, he spoke. “Our dispute has continued far too long, Bronwen. We have misunderstood one another and judged unfairly. I should like to begin our acquaintance anew.”

“Begin again?” she asked. “But you have just predicted my end.”

“I fear it greatly. Will you not give up this quest? Go to your sister. Assume your rightful role in society. Please tell me this is not our final meeting. Our lives are woven together, Bronwen. Surely you see that.”

“I have never understood how or why God allowed us to meet. Are we enemies? Your kisses belie that.” She decided to speak her heart. “Sir, I have believed you wanted to make me your paramour…that I should become your lover. Perhaps I am sunk so low now that I seem to have no other choice, but I cannot do that.”

“Is that what you think of me? Upon my honor, I mean no such thing. I am a Christian and a gentleman. My faith in the person and the teachings of Jesus Christ utterly prohibits such behavior. Bronwen, I am neither your foe nor your conqueror. Your blood makes you a noblewoman, and I would never treat you otherwise.”

Bronwen gazed down at the ferns by the path. “How can you think of me as a noblewoman? Look at me. I live no better than a peasant—and worse than most. I have no land, no home, no father, nothing to make me noble.”

“One only has to look at you to see your intelligence, strength and character. Henry sensed your nobility at once.

Indeed, your heritage is far above my own.”

“That subject is what I wished to discuss with you at
260

The Briton

Warbreck,” she said. “Jacques, you misunderstood my words on the road. I care nothing about your heritage. It matters not to me that your blood is mixed. Indeed, your mother’s church at Antioch is more purely rooted and uncorrupted than mine can ever be. If God reigns above lords—and He does—then your blood is nobler than that of any Norman.”

“If my lineage doesn’t matter, why do you continue to despise me for being Norman?”

“Normans took England from us. You yourself took—”

“I took the lands of a Viking, Bronwen. See the truth—

England was no Briton stronghold when we came here. It was a mixture of weak tribal kingdoms held by Vikings, Saxons and a few Britons. Normans have united this country. We’ve built roads, cities, markets, castles. Please, open your eyes and use your keen wit, my lady. For once, admit what you know in your heart is right. You loved your father—but he was
wrong.
”

Bronwen paused on the riverbank and covered her eyes with her hands. She could not accept that. She had struggled and fought and lived her very life in order to fulfill her father’s dream.

But Jacques was right…and she had known it all along.

“Please don’t look so downcast,” he said gently. “I only want to make you see me as I am. I’m not your enemy. I have no desire to take what is yours—to rob you of anything. Like Henry, I’m honored to know a woman of your noble Briton blood.Your race is no less glorious than his simply because he’s your conqueror.

Can we not forget our differences and speak as man to woman?”

They had reached a place where the water bubbled down into a small pool. Bronwen walked to its edge and drew her mantle close about her shoulders. “Your words are true,” she told him.

“I’m glad to have the confusion and anger between us erased.”

Catherine Palmer

261

He lifted her hand to his lips. As he kissed her fingertips, his eyes met hers and held them.

“Bronwen, I have thought of you day and night since you left Warbreck,” he whispered, tilting her chin with a finger.

The Norman’s dark eyes gazed into her own until she could see nothing but him. How she had longed for his touch and how lonely she had been since their parting. She looked now at his hair, and her hands ached to touch the locks that curled about his neck. His lips—how close they were. She could almost taste his kiss.

In the space of a breath, she might forget her purpose in these woods. She might cast aside her father’s dream and place her heart in this man’s hands. Trembling, she stepped away from him.

“I cannot stay here any longer,” she told him. “No matter your heritage or mine, Aeschby is a cruel overlord who has taken the soul of my people and crushed it. I cannot stand by and watch our land wither and our spirits turn to dust. If you love Henry as you say…if you care at all about Warbreck…

you must understand this.”

“It is Henry who makes us one, Bronwen. You are his ward, and therefore I stand ready to assist in your attempt to regain your inheritance. Our future king has declared that the land will belong to no one but you. Will you reject my aid?”

Bronwen shook her head. “I’m trying to trust what you say, Jacques. It is difficult. All my life, I was taught to see you as the enemy. Aeschby is Briton and Henry is Norman. Is it right for me to unite with my foe to defeat my kinsman?”

“Henry’s will is to end the enmity between us. He wishes Briton and Norman to form an alliance, a camaraderie, even a friendship.”

“Friendship,” she murmured. “Enit always told Gildan and
262

The Briton

me, ‘Be slow to fall into friendship—but when thou art in, continue firm and constant.’”

Jacques chuckled. “That is an old saying indeed. It was first uttered by Socrates, a Greek philosopher. I studied his teachings in Antioch.”

Bronwen noticed a large flat stone beside the pool and took a place on it. Jacques sat beside her. “You have had much education. My father brought a tutor to teach us French, but Gildan and I know little else. We cannot read or write. We knew nothing but Amounderness until we traveled to London.” She gave a low laugh. “We had never even seen a town until we went to Preston.”

“Antioch is hardly larger than that,” he told her. “But we did have schools. My father insisted that my elder brother and I attend. We studied law, science and literature. At fifteen, I left my homeland and went to France for further studies and training as a knight. There I met Geoffrey Plantagenet and his son, Henry.”

“You are fast friends.”

“We have much in common—a love of learning, hawking, playing at chess. He is far more ambitious than I, and he has the funds to support his campaigns.”

Bronwen considered his words, musing on the differences in their upbringing. “If you have such a great love of learning, why did you not become a churchman like Thomas à Becket?

Since you never planned to marry, why become a knight and seek to own land? You cannot pass it on to your heirs.”

Jacques shook his head in amusement as he stretched his long legs out before him. “Did nothing escape you in your hiding place behind my curtain? What other secrets did I bare? Here are your answers then—I did not become a churchman because I am a man of action. I could never fit into the world of the church as my friend Martin has.”

Catherine Palmer

263

“Then what was the purpose of your education? Surely a knight doesn’t need knowledge of literature and science.”

“Be he king, baron or knight, every man must learn about the world as he is able.”

“And what of every woman? Should I not have learning, too?”

“You have natural wit. Education would sharpen it further, and could only be good. But you were trained to accept your father’s beliefs without question—and that’s a grave error.

The wise question everything.”

“Even the existence of God? That is heresy, is it not? No one can prove He is real, Jacques.”

“How shall I know Him if I don’t seek Him? The one who asks questions of God and studies diligently to learn the answers must, in the end, have a far greater and deeper understanding of Him than the one who accepts Him blindly. I seek to know God—and my belief in Him grows deeper.”

Bronwen sighed. “But what is the use of that for me? You have books and can learn everything you long to know.”