The Briton (11 page)

Bronwen looked away from Enit. “I will thank you to leave this matter to me. Stop your gossip, I beg you, and see to my day’s garments.”

Enit nodded and set about her work, but Bronwen could not help noticing the smile that played about her nursemaid’s lips.

Bronwen thought of the heavy, aged man who was her husband. The night before, she had offered herself to Olaf exactly as she had been taught. To her satisfaction, he had declared her innocent of wrongdoing, chuckled at her wit and expressed admiration of her knowledge. Truly, he had seemed to admire her. But then he had left the room without touching her.

Why had he gone away? What had she done wrong? Did Norse women have some other way of welcoming their husbands or had Olaf truly preferred to sleep in preparation for his journey? Or, Bronwen wondered, was her appearance unpleasant to him?

Without intending it, she drifted back to the night on the beach when she had first spoken with Jacques Le Brun. How her heart ached for the stranger who had held her in his arms.

She had known by his voice and by his touch that he was a man of strength and honor. And he had called her beautiful…desirable.

Now, in the light of Olaf’s rejection, Le Brun’s words began to ring false. Surely she was not desirable. Surely she was not beautiful at all.

“Are you in pain?” Enit was asking. “Your face is pale and
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your expression troubled. I have herbs to ease your tenderness, child. Trust me, each night with your husband will be better than the last. Some women even learn to enjoy—”

“Olaf will not be at Warbreck tonight,” Bronwen cut in.

“He and his men left at dawn to begin repairs on the
snekkar.

After the ship is seaworthy, he will survey his borders. An ally is besieged by Scots, and my husband plans to render aid.”

Enit’s face fell. “But he may be away for weeks!”

“Or months. I am to remain at the keep with the retinue of guards he has left to defend me. My obligation now is to protect and improve my husband’s holding. But first, I wish to send messages to my father and Gildan. Enit, send for two couriers to meet me in the great hall. I have tarried too long in this duty.”

Bronwen settled down to her breakfast with an uneasy heart. Olaf had left his bride chaste. Haakon must surely despise his father’s wife all the more. Far away, Edgard would be tending to his own affairs at Rossall. And Gildan was surely at peace in Aeschby’s arms. Bronwen felt abandoned and forgotten.

Worse yet, Jacques Le Brun must be approaching London.

He would soon put her out of his mind. Certainly she must set her memories of the Norman aside. All she would have of him was the black mantle with its peacock-blue lining. That, and a small box containing three gold balls.

Once it became clear that Bronwen was not carrying Olaf’s child, Enit and the rest of Warbreck’s staff registered great disappointment. But as winter’s chill began to subside, Bronwen threw herself into the tasks at hand.

Inside the castle, the rotting rushes gathered up from the floor were burned and new ones were strewn across the
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freshly swept and washed floors. Servitors scrubbed down the table boards in the hall to remove layers of greasy fat and spilled mead. Several women set about to make new overcloths for the tables, and Bronwen instructed Enit to embroider one with the great black crow that festooned the sails of the
snekkar.
Though the bird seemed evil to Bronwen, she sensed it would please Olaf.

“Do you know the symbol of the crow?” she asked a cook one afternoon while they cleaned stones and insects from the lentils.

The woman explained. “If in battle a crow flies by with flapping wings, victory is certain. But if it glides with mo-tionless wings, defeat will soon follow.”

Pondering the many differences between two peoples so closely connected by land, Bronwen wondered if these dis-parities had something to do with Olaf’s rejection. Perhaps she had broken some Viking custom. She could only hope the cause would become clear to her before his return.

Outside, Bronwen ordered a large garden staked out and tilled near the kitchen. Workmen brought marl from the fields and turned the lime-rich soil into the ground. She selected seeds from all manner of vegetables and legumes to be saved for spring planting. The sad condition of the few tattered basket beehives made her wonder how any of the valuable honey and wax was retrieved. Thus she set several women to begin weaving new hives at once, and she instructed the herders to be on the lookout for wild swarms with which to replenish the depleted stock.

Several dead fruit and nut trees were chopped down and burned while dairymaids scrubbed the buttery from top to bottom. Most of the cheeses that had gone blue during the winter were tossed away, though a few were saved to place
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on sores and wounds for their healing powers. It was well known that a piece of moldy cheese placed on an open infection usually healed it within a week.

Two light snowfalls ushered in the busy days of February, and several stormy days marked the beginning of March. One morning late in that month, Bronwen espied a red-haired man carrying dung to the kitchen garden, and she recognized him as the peasant who had been so seasick at Rossall.

“Good morrow, my lady,” he greeted her.

“You are called Wag.” She smiled at his obvious amazement. “I see you made your way back to Warbreck.”

“Indeed. And you—have you found the place to your liking?”

“It pleases me well enough.”

The redhead wiped his hands on the apron at his waist.

“May I ask the health of your sister? Are things improved with her husband?”

“You speak of Gildan and Aeschby?” Bronwen stepped forward. “How could they be better? What do you mean by this question?”

The man swallowed and looked away. “Never you mind, madam. I must be about my work now.”

“Stop at once.” Bronwen lifted her skirts and strode toward him. “Do you have news of my sister? I demand to hear it.”

He chewed his lower lip for a moment. “’Tis said there is trouble in the marriage, madam. But that is only a rumor, and I put no great stock in such talk.”

Rooted to the garden soil, Bronwen numbly watched the fellow shrug and go his way. Was something wrong with Gildan? Trouble in the marriage? But she had been so happy at her wedding. What could have happened?

Knowing she could not leave Warbreck to go to her sister, Bronwen later spoke to Enit about her encounter with Wag.

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But the nursemaid reinforced the peasant’s nonchalance.

“People love to gossip, child,” she reminded her mistress.

“They want nothing more than to imagine intrigues for their lords and ladies. It enlivens their own dreary days.”

Deeply troubled, Bronwen decided to send another courier to her sister. These riders reported messages by word of mouth, and too often the information got muddled along the way. By the time they returned, news they brought might be old or distorted. But as Bronwen was forbidden to leave Warbreck, she had no choice. When the courier arrived from Aeschby’s keep, he brought no reply from Gildan. He said he had not even seen the woman. Indeed, weeks passed with no word from Rossall Hall, nothing from Gildan, and utter silence from Olaf Lothbrok.

As the days of April bloomed brightly one after the other, Bronwen tried to convince herself that all was well. May slipped by and then lapsed into the warm, brilliant month of June when the hardest field work began. Bronwen ordered the sheep washed in the streams and shorn of their thick white wool. Men mowed the long meadow grass and stored the hay for winter feed. In the early mornings they plowed and planted the fields, and later they cleaned and greased their carts. The mistress of Warbreck ordered new hog sheds built to shelter the piglets, and hovels erected to store peas and other dried vegetables.

A swarm of bees had been captured in late May, and now the hives were flowing with honey. But Bronwen gathered few combs, for she wanted the colonies to grow strong and healthy.

With the days and nights so warm again, there was no need for mantles or thick woolen undertunics. But she found herself unable to pack the silk-lined mantle in her chest. It was the stuff of which dreams were woven—and she needed her dreams.

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The Midsummer’s Day celebration arrived with great excitement among the villagers, but duty called Bronwen to spend the hours riding from one hut to another, collecting the steep rents on her husband’s behalf. The sun was dipping low in the west when she rode through the castle gate to behold the courtyard swarming with armed men, who shouted as they hoisted tankards of drink. Here and there lay groups of wounded being tended by village women.

Olaf, she understood, had returned at last.

Inside the great hall, Bronwen made her way past piles of dull and dirty shields, bloodied swords, bows and spears as she headed toward the dais. When she approached, Olaf’s men stood aside.

“Good husband,” she said, dipping a deep curtsy before him. “I welcome your return.”

“Ah, wife. You are a pleasant sight for weary eyes.”

Keeping her head low to ensure he recalled her subservi-ent position, she spoke again. “How fares the
snekkar?
I hope she is restored to good service, sir.”

“The ship has been repaired and is seaworthy. We took her out for two days and felt that the gods had given us back our home.”

“The sea is your home?” She looked up, aware for the first time that to the Vikings, Warbreck was only a stone castle and not a warm, longed-for sanctuary.

“Our conquest of the sea enables us to possess the land,”

Olaf said. “It is our way.”

Bronwen tried to respond, but the shock of her husband’s appearance swept all polite repartee from her mind. Barely able to accept that this was the same man who had left her in late winter, she saw that Olaf looked much thinner, and his face appeared older than ever.

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“What has happened?” she asked him. “I fear you are not well, my lord.”

Olaf drew a shaking hand through his long beard. “Our journey to aid my eastern ally brought hardship. At first, we routed the Scots and entered the hall in victory. But a second army joined by remnants of the first surrounded us. We have been held in siege these many months.”

“Besieged? Had I but known, I should have come to your aid.”

A weary smile crossed his face. “A woman fending off her husband’s foes? I see you have not forgotten how to astound me, wife.”

“But you defeated the Scots, did you not?”

“They tried to starve us—and nearly succeeded. The winter stores ran out, and my ally was unprepared to feed so great a number. We fought boldly, but each time, we were driven back into the hall. At last we devised a plan. In one great body, we drove through the gates and fought our way across their lines. Feigning retreat, we hid in the forest nearby.

When they rushed into the hall, we turned back upon them and set fire to the place.”

Bronwen held her breath as Olaf continued. “We could not have succeeded, but the Scots taunted us that a great Norman army was marching toward Warbreck. Our fury and dread led us to victory. Yet now my ally’s hall is burned, and so, in the end, the Scots had their way.”

“But is this rumor true?” Bronwen asked. “Do enemies approach us?”

“Indeed,” Olaf replied. “We expected to find them here already. The gods spared us, but we have little time to ready our weapons. If you are the worthy wife I hoped to find on my return, you will assist me.”

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“Of course, my husband. As you wish.”

“My soldiers must rest. I have ordered the village children to clean and polish our weapons and armor. The women will carry sacks of cheeses, dried meats, beans and flour into the keep’s storehouses against the threat of siege. The men must groom the horses and repair weak places in our walls.”

“My father is wary of the Normans,” Bronwen told Olaf,

“but he refuses to fear them. He believes Amounderness protects itself. The great wet forests, marshy ground, wild moors and windy fells are not easily tamed. The woods are difficult to cross and the rivers, ponds and shallow meres make travel almost impossible. You must have no doubt about your strength, husband. The Normans are not nearly as strong as the Scots, are they? I have heard they grow soft and tame like King Stephen. My father believes they soon will lose the country.”

“Your father forgets that the Normans are descended from Vikings,” Olaf grunted. “Their line comes directly from Norsemen who raided France and settled in the northern region they called Normandy. Their first duke was Rollo—a Dane. No, wife, Normans are not soft men. They hunger for land and power. They desire England not so much for herself as for the influence it gives them in France. King Stephen is a mere duke in France. But here, he is king. Many English knights owe him homage, and this makes him a mighty force against the French king.”

“You teach me more of politics than even my father did,”

Bronwen said. “But do you know anything about the one who comes to Warbreck?”

“My spies tell me he is of mixed heritage. Half his blood runs Norman, and half is of some eastern race—Jew, Turk, Moor or another such breed.”

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Bronwen frowned at this news. “Then he can have no religion, no traditions, no worthy lineage. His men will not be loyal—you may be assured of that. I have no dread of the Norman, for your men will easily defeat him.”

Olaf took her hand and rubbed his thumb over it for a moment. “You are a good wife,” he murmured. “Your father was too generous with me.”

Her cheeks growing warm at this earnest tribute, Bronwen realized that for the first time since meeting Olaf Lothbrok, she knew a sense of kinship with him. Perhaps their marriage would be a good one after all. Maybe, in time, they would even learn to care deeply for each other.