The Briton (16 page)

“I’ve seen what that man has done to the poor girl,” Ogden concurred. “I’ll take her the garments of a peasant. Clad in such a way, she can escape with me here.”

“But if Aeschby learns of this deed,” Bronwen protested,

“he will kill you. The man has no conscience.”

“Madam, I am the butler. I know the secrets of your father’s keep—doors, tunnels, hidden passages. Your sister will be gone long before Aeschby discovers her missing, and he will never learn how she escaped.”

Bronwen could hardly argue with the man. It was the only plan at all possible. Without allowing dissent, Ogden took a
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bundle of his wife’s clothing and slipped through the door into the darkness. Bronwen closed her eyes, leaned her head against Enit’s shoulder and tried to sort out her thoughts.

The golden box hidden under the floor at Warbreck was all but useless in light of Aeschby’s claims. Her mind wandered to the tall Norman with his head of dark curls and his firm jaw. How easy it would be to go back to him. Jacques had asked her to stay and told her he would protect her. And yet, he was a Norman. Bronwen shuddered at the thought of her father’s words if she were to accept the man’s protection.

To Edgard, a land-hungry Norman was the devil incarnate.

But Aeschby was a Briton, and his treacherous actions far outweighed those of the Norman and Viking men whose lives had twined with Bronwen’s. If she could not return to Rossall or Warbreck, what was to become of her?

As Enit and Ebba ate, Bronwen realized that her only treasures were three gold balls and a jeweled dagger—all gifts from Jacques Le Brun. Even with that wealth, where could she live? Any lord who discovered the daughter of an enemy on his land would banish her. Not even her father’s Briton allies would welcome the woman Aeschby had vowed to kill.

A tapping at the door brought Bronwen to her feet. Ebba lifted the heavy wood bar. “Ogden is returned,” she told the others. The butler slipped into the house and assessed its safety. Then he drew a slender figure through the door. Two pale hands pulled back the hood of a brown cloak, and Gildan’s golden head emerged.

“Sister!” Bronwen cried. She threw her arms about Gildan’s thin shoulders. In an instant, Enit was embracing the pair, hugging and kissing them both.

“La, Gildan!” Enit cried, wiping tears from her wrinkled cheeks. “You’re as thin as a comb. What are these marks on
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your face? I vow, if I could get my hands on that man for one moment, I’d tear him limb from limb.”

Gildan clapped a hand over Enit’s mouth. “Silence, I beg you. He’ll kill you all if he finds me here. It cannot be long before Aeschby knows I’ve fled.”

As the woman began to weep, Bronwen drew her sister close and kissed her golden head. “Gildan, where will he think you’ve gone?”

“To you. I’ve told him many times I would find you if I ever escaped him.”

“He’ll know we could not return to Warbreck. He must think we journeyed down the coast to Preston, for it can be our only haven. We must take a different path then. With a boat, we can follow the Wyre as far as possible—and then go overland.”

Gildan’s eyes shone. “At Preston, we’ll find a place of Christian worship. Our tutor told us that churches offer sanctuary, and there we shall take refuge from Aeschby.”

Bronwen stood beside a small boat bobbing at the edge of the River Wyre. Filled with blankets, cheeses, dried fish and black bread, it had been provided by a fisherman and other villagers still loyal to Edgard and his daughters. The women began to board, but a rustle in the bushes halted them.

Bronwen put a hand on her dagger.

“Halt, travelers,” a stocky man called, his sword drawn.

“Who crosses the land of Aeschby of Rossall?”

Bronwen’s heart skipped a beat. “We’re merely travelers.

Let us pass, guard, for we bear you no malice.”

“And I bear you no malice, madam. I served your father well when he was lord of Rossall Hall.” He grinned at the surprise on her face. “I should take you to my lord on penalty of death, but I know how ill he treats his wife—and his own
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men. Nay, I’ll tell him nothing. Indeed, you must have my bow and arrows.”

The guard shrugged off his quiver and handed it and the bow to Bronwen. Then he knelt before her. “I do swear to protect the true heir to Rossall with my life. If you seek to claim your rights, madam, you’ll have my loyalty.”

Bronwen touched his shoulder. “Rise, sir. You are a good man. God be with you.”

The women stepped into the boat and set to with the oars, taking turns rowing and resting until dawn began to spread across the sky. By midmorning, the river had narrowed at last, and Bronwen knew they were almost out of the estuary and into the river proper.

Shedding her mantle, she folded it and tucked it beside her.

She wiped the beads of sweat from her brow and pulled at the oars. Gildan sat in the stern of the boat, her golden hair long and tangled, and her bruises blue-black. One cheek had turned a livid purple.

Noting that Enit snored, Bronwen spoke to her sister in a low voice. “Gildan, what happened between you and Aeschby?

At our wedding, you were overjoyed to marry him.”

“He is not what he seemed,” she said. “You’re lucky your husband was killed. Surely you despised that old man. If I had known what marriage was like, I sooner would have had myself baptized a Christian and become a nun.”

Bronwen had to smile. “Come, Gildan. You could never live like a nun, hiding in a cell and praying all day.”

“Indeed I could. As bad as Normans are, they cannot be worse than my husband.”

“On what grounds can your marriage possibly be terminated? The agreement between our father and Aeschby was spoken aloud and witnessed by many.”

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“Edgard of Rossall is dead, Bronwen. Even if he were alive, his word would hold no power over anyone except the Britons of Amounderness. Everywhere else, the Christian church judges matters of ritual and faith, while the king enforces civil law.”

“If so, perhaps your marriage never really existed. You may be free already.”

“Not in Aeschby’s eyes. I’ll need a greater authority than you to enforce an end to the union.”

With a nod, Bronwen had to acknowledge that her sister was right in this. “But how does your marriage violate church or civil law?”

“Do you recall the tutor our father employed to teach us how to speak Norman French?” Gildan asked. “It was he who told us tales of the Christian God—His birth, miracles and death. He spoke of strange customs that Christians practice.”

“I remember stories of Easter and a God risen from the dead. I know Christians hold certain holy men and women in high esteem. Saints, they call them. Nicholas who saved three virgins, Paul who wrote much of the holy book—”

“But think of their
laws,
” Gildan cut in. “We Britons marry our cousins in order to increase the family’s holdings. But our tutor said the Christian church forbids marriage between close relatives. Aeschby and I are cousins, Bronwen. By church decree, our union is illegal. I shall have it violated on the grounds of consanguinity.”

Gildan was no fool, Bronwen knew. “Sister, I believe you may be right. You have given this much thought.”

“Oh, Bronwen, I had little to do these past months but de-liberate how I might escape that man,” she confessed in a wavering voice. “My marriage bed was unbearable agony.

Aeschby is determined that I bear him an heir. He knows it’s
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the only way he can keep his own holding and claim Rossall, too. Every day and every night he forced me to submit to him.

If I begged for respite or tried to flee, he beat me into submis-sion.”

Gildan’s voice faltered as she continued. “Often he locked me in my chamber—once for nearly a week. I tried desperately to conceive. I used charms and potions, and I said all manner of prayers and spells. But as each month passed without a sign of a child, he would punish me for my failure. I don’t know why I’m barren, Bronwen. I tried to be a good wife. Truly I did.”

Bronwen stopped rowing and put her arms around her weeping sister. “Gildan,” she whispered. “You were only married six months. That is hardly a sign of barrenness.”

“He… He said he would bring in a village woman and get her with child. And he would make me raise that son as my own—as his heir.”

“No!”

“Yes, and when Father died, he revealed the plan he had meant to follow all along—to take Rossall. I fought him over that, Bronwen! I kicked him and tore his flesh with my nails.

I hate that man, and I’ll never return to him. I shall do everything in my power to see that he is destroyed and Rossall returned to our line.”

Bronwen resumed rowing. “Very well,” she said at last. “At Preston we must take refuge in the church. We shall speak to the priests there about your plight.”

“I intend to become a Christian,” Gildan announced. “You should do it, too. Why not?”

Reflecting on the spirits of earth, sky, fire and water that she had worshipped since childhood, Bronwen had no answer for her sister. Was the Christian God simply another deity to add to this list? Or might He be different altogether?

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“My aim is to set you free of your suffering, Gildan,” she said. “I hope the priests will hear your argument against Aeschby and agree to dissolve the marriage. But what we might do after that, I cannot say. We are two women without husband, protector, treasure, land or home.”

“We must join a nunnery. Then all will be well, you’ll see.

We’ll never have to think about Normans or Vikings or men ever again.”

Unable to hold back a tired smile, Bronwen felt sure their lives never would be quite as tidy as her sister imagined.

Damp, muggy days made the journey exhausting, and chilly nights brought scant relief. The boat mired often in the sticky black mud, and roots and brambles choked the water.

When the river flattened out into wild moorland covered with heather and gorse, it became so shallow in places that it resembled a series of large puddles.

After more than a week of exhausting travel, the women left the water and set out by land. At dawn one day, they met a peasant leading an ox-drawn cart filled with woolen fabrics. Bronwen greeted the sturdy fellow, who introduced himself as Rodan.

“How far is it to Preston, good man?” she asked him.

“Not far,” he said. “I go to market there. Come, seat yourselves in my wagon and take your rest.”

Grateful, the women climbed in and settled among the man’s bolts of woven cloth. “What is Preston like?” Gildan asked. “We’ve never seen a town.”

He laughed. “Never seen a town? There’s a church, of course, and our lord’s manor home is nearby. The market lies near the edge of the Ribble River.”

“Is your lord a Norman?”

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“Can there be any other? He’s a good man. He doesn’t tax us too greatly, though we feel the burden. He supports Matilda’s choice for the crown—Henry Plantagenet.”

The familiar name prickled Bronwen’s attention. “We are Britons and have heard little of Henry Plantagenet.”

“Who could not know of that man? You must have come from the upper wastelands. I heard there were a few bands of ancient tribes there—though I never believed it.”

“Ancient tribes?” Gildan retorted.

“Tell us more of Henry,” Bronwen spoke up.

“He’s the son of Matilda Empress, and the great grandson of William the Conqueror. He is but nineteen years old.

Matilda wants Henry to be king after Stephen—but Stephen wants his own son, Eustace, to take his place.”

As the peasant spoke, Bronwen realized that nearly all the nobility in England must now be Norman. How odd to think that a great civil war had raged while she and Gildan had been tucked away at Rossall, believing that their father’s Briton dreams posed a real threat to Norman rule.

“Two months ago, Henry made himself a fine marriage,”

Rodan continued. “He wed Eleanor of Aquitaine, wife to the king of France for fourteen years. She never bore a son.”

“She was barren,” Gildan said, glancing at Bronwen.

“No, there was a daughter who now causes much ado in the south of England. She believes men should honor, respect and do battle for women. I’m told she holds court, where she judges cases of
amour—
passionate love between men and women.”

“What nonsense,” Enit muttered. “Foolish Normans.”

“Perhaps, but if Henry becomes king, those odd French ideas will make their way to England. Eleanor is a powerful woman. She had her marriage with the French king annulled,
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and then—before a decent waiting time was up—she wed Henry Plantagenet.”

“An old woman with such a young man,” Enit marveled.

“To this marriage, Eleanor brought Aquitaine—a large part of France—and added it to Henry’s inheritance. He now holds more than half of France. If he wears England’s crown, he’ll be more powerful than the French king.”

“Do people here truly support a Norman as their king?”

Bronwen asked in wonderment. “The French can have no idea how deeply we love this isle, how far into the past our roots go—beyond Arthur to that shrouded mystical time when the world began.”

“Most of us in the north support Henry, for Stephen is allied with the Scots. Farther south, the battle lines are evenly drawn.”

“But the Normans who’ve ruled England never cared to spend much time here,” Bronwen reminded him. “They use their kingship to extort taxes and build armies in order to support their interests in Europe and the Holy Land.”

As she spoke, Bronwen reflected on Jacques Le Brun. He could be no better than any other power-hungry Frenchman.

Even now, she pictured him seated on the dais at Warbreck.

She could almost see the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck, hear his deep voice as it whispered in her ear.