The Briton (17 page)

Jacques had offered his protection, but she had refused. She knew she had done right. He was a Norman, after all.

As the sun rose, Bronwen marveled at the dusty road now lined with carts and wagons bound for Preston. When the wagon crested a small hill, the sight below took her breath away. Crowded along both banks of a narrow river stood more houses than she had ever seen. These were timber structures,
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and many had generous gardens. In the distance, the square tower of a large stone church rose above the sea of thatched roofs.

At the women’s cries of amazement, Rodan chuckled.

“This is but a small town, ladies. I’ve been to Chester, and it is far bigger. London must be larger still.”

“What does everyone do?” Gildan asked.

“Many things,” Rodan said as the cart bumped along. “In the villages a man’s entire family works to survive, but here one man catches and sells fish, another sells eggs and cheese, another cloth, and another leather goods. A craftsman trades his wares for other items he needs. Some people use money, but I don’t trust it myself.”

Bronwen agreed with Rodan. It was foolish to trade goods for coins. Proof of the fact was the hoard of gold and silver pieces gathering dust in the treasure room at Rossall. Other ancients had tried to make such a system succeed, but common people always returned to the simpler, more reliable method of trade and barter.

As Bronwen surveyed the bustling town, her attention narrowed at the city gate. A robust man with yellow hair and armed men accompanying him stood near the wall. He was speaking earnestly to a town guardsman. As the wagon approached, Bronwen gasped and grabbed Gildan’s hand.

“Aeschby!” she cried. “He is here in Preston.”

“Oh, sister! How did he know?”

“Rodan,” Bronwen whispered. “Our father’s enemy waits at the gate. We must find another way into town.”

The fellow frowned. “You did not tell me you were pursued. This is the only entry other than the watergate.”

“We must go there,” Gildan pleaded. “He’ll kill us.”

“The watergate is only for boats,” Rodan told them. “Hide
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yourselves under my fabric. I’ll take you to the protection of the church. He cannot touch you there.”

Bronwen held her breath as the rickety cart jolted through the gate without incident. But Gildan chose that moment to push a bolt of fabric aside and sit up for a peek out the back of the cart. Bronwen heard her gasp, and then an angry shout sounded from behind them.

“There!” Aeschby cried out. “My wife. Follow her.”

“Down, Gildan!” Bronwen grabbed her sister’s sleeve and tugged her under cover again. As Rodan goaded his ox into the market, the pursuing horsemen were slowed by crowds of shoppers. The stone church loomed at the end of the square, and the cart at last creaked to a halt before it. Falling over each other, the three women called out their thanks as they fled the cart and ran for the steps.

Following Gildan and Enit toward the upper portico, Bronwen felt herself swept from her feet and borne upward to the church door.

“Bronwen the Briton,” a deep voice said above her. “You embrace trouble.”

“Trouble embraces me,” she gasped out. “And its name is Jacques Le Brun.”

Chapter Eight

Jacques carried Bronwen into the cool shadows of the church and set her on her feet. He slammed the door behind them, then dropped the bar. Only a moment later, heavy thuds sounded on the door. Lifting her into his arms again, he strode down the nave into a small dark room in which a young priest sat at a table copying a manuscript. There, Jacques set Bronwen on her feet beside her sister, who was shivering and sobbing in their nursemaid’s arms.

“Who pursues you?” the priest asked. “You must tell me at once, or I cannot grant sanctuary.”

“Allow me to make introductions,” Jacques spoke up. He gestured at Bronwen, who was staring at him as if seeing an apparition. “This is Bronwen, widow of Olaf Lothbrok, lately of Warbreck Castle. This is her sister, Gildan. And this woman, I believe, is their nursemaid.”

“And who are you?” the priest inquired.

“I am Jacques Le Brun, lord of Warbreck, bound in service to God and to the rightful king of England, Henry Plantagenet.”

“Who’s outside? Who defies the sanctity of the church by pounding on our door?”

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“It is my husband,” Gildan choked out. “He used me ill, sir. To save my life, my sister helped me escape, and I take haven in the church. I come to you now, pleading that you terminate my marriage.”

“Wait here,” the priest told them. “Bolt this door after I leave. Sanctuary is easy to grant but often hard to enforce.”

When he was gone, Bronwen pinned Jacques with a dark look. “Why are you here?” she demanded. “What has brought an armed Norman to Preston—to this church? I left you at Warbreck, but now I see you wear battle mail—and today your crest is not that of Plantagenet.”

“No, indeed, this is my own.” He glanced at the peacock-blue symbol with three gold balls engraved on his sword’s scabbard. “Yet all I do is in behalf of my lord.”

Pleased to see she had lost none of her fire, Jacques was hard-pressed to hold back a smile. “I came to rescue you,” he said. “I learned that Aeschby had gone in pursuit of his fugitive wife. When I heard what had occurred between you and that man at Rossall, I knew trouble was afoot. So I followed.”

“I have no need of rescue, sir,” Bronwen told him. “You see with your own eyes that we are safely inside this sanctuary.”

“Bronwen,” her sister interrupted. “Aeschby wants
you
more than me. He fears you. I saw the look on his face when he heard your claim. He believes you’ll try to take Rossall. I am no more to him than a womb with the proper bloodline.

But you are a threat to his lands and wealth.”

The old nurse nodded. “It’s you Aeschby pursues, Bronwen.”

At a knock on the door, Jacques drew his sword and lifted the bar. Two priests entered the room, the young one and his elder.

“Which of you is called Gildan of Rossall?” the more senior priest asked.

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The tattered blonde lifted her hand. “I, sir.”

“Come with us, madam. We shall hear your argument against your husband.”

“Where is that man?” Jacques asked, stepping in front of her. “I believe he means great harm to these women.”

“Aeschby of Rossall waits in the chancel.”

“I won’t go!” Gildan cried. “He’ll take me away. He is not a Christian and has no respect for church law.”

“Let me go with her,” Bronwen said, starting forward. “I am her sister.”

Jacques took Bronwen’s arm, tucked the spirited creature behind him and held her there while he addressed the priests. “I must accompany these women. They are in danger of their lives.”

The priest weighed his words, then beckoned. “Very well.

All may come.”

Jacques insisted on leading the entire group into the church, a stone building with high walls supported by great pillars arching overhead. Rows of wooden benches filled either side of the long aisle. Despite the peril ahead of them, he welcomed the familiar scent of the place—the smell of years passing, of people sweating out their sins, of incense carrying prayers to God, of melted candle wax burned in honor of the saints. The church he had attended in Antioch was much older than this one, but the holy sense of God’s presence was in both places.

As the group made their way across the rush-strewn floor, Jacques spotted Aeschby standing near a carved wooden screen. Unlike himself, the man had been disarmed and was waiting in the gloom between two more priests. Close by his side stood the Viking, Haakon, who had fled Warbreck not long after it had fallen to the Plantagenet cause.

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The elder priest now called on Jacques’s party to remove their weapons. With reluctance, he set his sword to one side and was surprised to note that Bronwen removed the dagger he had given her. He had fully expected her to argue with the command. Perhaps her lack of respect for the Christian faith was not as great as he had assumed.

“Aeschby of Rossall,” the old priest began. “Is this woman, called Gildan, your wife?”

“She is,” he barked out, “and I mean to have her back.”

“Why did she leave you? What caused her to run away?”

“Her sister—that woman there—stole my wife in the night.”

At the heat of Aeschby’s words, Jacques heard Bronwen suck in a deep breath. Her backward step brought her against his chest. He took her cold hand and closed his own over it, preventing her from moving away again.

“Is this man your husband, Gildan of Rossall?” the priest asked.

“Yes—and he knows very well why I left him. He married me because he had made a treacherous plot against my father, Edgard of Rossall. Father willed all his lands to my sister, but Aeschby planned to get me with child and claim the lands for himself and his heir. When my father died, he waited not a day before taking Rossall himself.”

The priest turned. “Is this true, woman? Did your father will his lands to you and your heirs?”

“He did,” Bronwen confirmed.

“I can attest to that,” Jacques spoke up. “I was at the betrothal where Edgard of Rossall made his will known.”

“The old man had lost his mind,” Aeschby blurted. “Anyone will tell you that. A woman could never manage and protect so large a holding as Rossall. Edgard was mad. He believed that Britons could conquer Normans one day.”

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Jacques gripped Bronwen’s hand more tightly. Leaning forward, he whispered into her ear. “This man is determined to work you great evil. Allow me to intervene.”

At the touch of his mouth against her hair, she stiffened.

“Your offer is kind, but my head tells me you are like every other Norman. Hungry for land and power.”

“What does your heart tell you?” Though he kept his eyes on the others in the church, Jacques felt dizzied at the nearness of the woman. The soft skin of her cheek mesmerized him, and the turn of her ear beckoned for his touch.

His lips brushed it as he spoke again. “When I saw you the night of your betrothal—standing beside the old Viking—I pitied you. But when we met on the beach, when I kissed your lips, I knew it was no longer pity that moved me, my lady.”

“I beg you to refrain from addressing me in such a manner,” Bronwen murmured, her cheeks flushing pink. “I have no cause to trust you. You took my husband’s lands just as Aeschby has taken mine. Are you so much better than he that you presume to offer me protection?”

Before he could answer, she withdrew her hand and stepped into Gildan’s side. “May I speak plainly?” she asked the priest. “My father and my husband are both dead, and I have no ability to dispute Aeschby’s claim to Rossall. But this man has beaten my sister and used her ill. She wishes to have the marriage invalidated. What say you to that, sir?”

The man looked her over. “Are you and your sisters Christians, madam? If not, the church has no authority over you.”

“I wish to become a Christian at once,” Gildan told him.

“By any means necessary, make haste to convert me and then dissolve my marriage.”

“The church does not annul a holy union simply because
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the two parties are not agreeably matched,” the priest told her.

“God ordained marriage for the procreation of children.

Although your husband’s motives and behavior may be questionable, your primary task in life is to bear him sons and heirs. I see no grounds for annulment.”

“But there
are
grounds,” Gildan cried out as Aeschby made a move for her. “My husband and I are cousins. Our marriage is consanguineous. My grandfather and his were brothers, sons of Ulfcetel of Rossall.”

The priest’s brow furrowed. “Is this true?”

“You cannot deny it, Aeschby,” Gildan said. “You know it is so. The line runs through your mother.”

Bronwen spoke up. “The union was arranged because Aeschby is a Briton and had agreed to allow me to inherit Rossall. But he broke his vow to shield and care for my sister.”

The priest faced Aeschby. “What is your mother’s name, sir?”

“Edina,” Aeschby muttered.

“And your grandfather’s?”

“Alfred of Preesall.”

“And your great grandfather’s?”

“Ulfcetel of Rossall.”

Jacques knew that consanguinity would doom Aeschby’s marriage to Gildan in the eyes of the church. Yet, he could never deny the facts of his blood lineage, or he would have no claim whatsoever to Rossall.

“And your father’s name?” the priest asked Gildan.

“Edgard of Rossall.”

“Your granfather’s?”

“Sigeric the Briton, of Rossall.”

“And your great grandfather’s?”

“Ulfcetel of Rossall.”

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After a moment’s deliberation among the priests, the eldest spoke again. “The woman has chosen to convert to Christianity, an act that will put her under the authority of the church. But I myself do not have the power to annul a marriage. One or both of you must take the issue before the church court in Canterbury. This is an expensive undertaking, and I cannot see how it will be accomplished without substan-tial funds. In light of the confession of consanguinity, however, I must declare that any cohabitation between these two is fornication and a sin before God.”

As the priest finished, Aeschby spat on the church floor and started down the aisle, followed by Haakon.

“Madam,” the priest said to Gildan, “you must join me and the other priests if you wish to convert. There is much to be done before such a rite may take place.”

“Oh, never mind that now,” Gildan snapped at the man. “I shall do it in London.”

The priest frowned as Gildan called after her husband. “Do not rest too peacefully in your stolen hall, Aeschby! Bronwen and I are going to become nuns, and we shall pray every hour for God to send his wrath down upon you for your treachery.”