The Briton (18 page)

The Briton whirled around and sneered at her. “You have no skill to please a man, Gildan—how will you ever please God? The next you hear of me, I shall be lord over all Amounderness. I’ll get me an heir easily enough, but you will stay my wife, for you’ll never have the wealth to divorce me.”

Gildan stood in the church aisle, her fists knotted, as Aeschby stepped through the door and into the sunlight. Observing from the shadows, Jacques leaned one shoulder against a stone pillar. Such delicate, gentle-looking women, these two Briton sisters, he thought. Yet the moment they
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opened their mouths, they transformed from butterflies into dragons. But where Gildan was frail and drew from her sister’s strength, Bronwen was the boldest, most outspoken, and certainly the loveliest woman upon whom he had ever laid eyes.

“Jacques,” she said now, approaching him with an appro-priately meek expression written on her face. “I beg you to forgive me for shouting at you earlier. Also for questioning your intentions here. And for speaking ill of your people. You have been kind.”

“I see,” he said, hoping to provoke a continuation of this fascinating charade of humility.

“Thank you for following Aeschby to Preston,” she went on. “And for being here to offer your protection. But now, as you can see, the event is ended and we must speak with the priest about a nunnery.”

Jacques knew he had been brushed off in exactly the same manner as she had rid herself of him each time they met. “You truly wish to enter the church, Bronwen?” he asked, attempting to conceal his amusement at the very idea of this outspoken hothead in a houseful of silent nuns. “It seems you have much life ahead of you. The nunnery is but an early grave for one of your intelligence and beauty.”

She looked down for just a moment, and he realized that at last her emotions were genuine. “What life have I ahead of me, sir?” she asked. “My husband is dead. You hold Warbreck. Aeschby holds Rossall. I have no home, no family, no wealth. For Gildan and me, the nunnery is more a chance of life than it is an untimely death.”

“You will adopt Christianity as your faith, then?”

This clearly gave her pause. “I suppose I must,” she told him. “Yes, I shall.”

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“Then you believe that there is but one God. That His son Jesus Christ was born of a virgin girl—”

“A virgin?” she cut in. “How can that be?”

“Aeschby thinks I cannot become a nun,” Gildan said storming up the aisle. “But I’ll show him I can. I’m just like that woman Rodan told us about—Eleanor of Aquitaine, who is wife to Henry Plantagenet. She got rid of her French husband, even though he was a king.”

“Gildan,” Bronwen chided. “Save your boasting for another time and place. Aeschby is right about one thing. You can never afford to go before the church court. Neither of us has any hope for revenge against the man. Now stop your foolish chatter and let us make plans.”

Gildan stopped before the altar, her hands on her hips. “I have a plan, Bronwen.” She looked at the priests. “Sirs, where may we find a nunnery—a large and wealthy one with all the comforts of a fine home? The ladies there will know how to convert me to Christianity, and I shall convince them to assist me in paying for my annulment at Canterbury.”

The oldest of the priests cleared his throat. “Madam, a nunnery is a place to serve God, not to seek revenge and certainly not to gain wealth. Most nuns are widows or maidens who have chosen a life of chastity and prayer above marriage and children. They’re humble women searching for God’s truth while serving the sick and the poor. I am not at all certain that a nunnery would suit you.”

“Then you do not know me well enough. You paint such a pious picture—but I cannot believe what you say. What woman would welcome such a life? Surely these nuns wear fine gowns and jewels. They eat tasty foods, and spend their days strolling through gardens singing and playing harps.

This is the sort of nun I plan to be.”

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“You’ll not find a nunnery like that in the north of England. Now if you will excuse us, we have the Lord’s work to do.”

Bowing slightly, the old man motioned to his fellow priests, who set off across the stone floor. As he was about to disappear through a narrow door, he turned back to the group in the chancel.

“My church has served as your sanctuary long enough,”

he said. “Please gather your arms and disturb us no more.”

Gildan glared after him. “What of that?” she said to her sister. “He denies us sanctuary—and calls this his church.

Come Bronwen, let’s depart this dank and odorous place.”

Bronwen caught her sister’s arm. “Listen to me, Gildan.You act as though we are in control of our destinies. But you must consider our position. We have nothing—not one single thing.

We have only Enit and the clothing we wear. So stop behaving as though you’re the daughter of a lord. You are not—and I am a widow who hasn’t even a mourning dress to wear.”

Gildan appeared stunned at her sister’s words. Then her expression hardened. “I thought you would be the last to abandon hope, Bronwen. You have always been the one to tell me everything would work out well. Have you grown weak and spineless now—just when we need your courage?”

“Your sister is hardly spineless, Gildan,” Jacques said. “At Warbreck, she very nearly took off my head.”

For the first time since they had met again, the hint of a smile tipped the corners of Bronwen’s mouth. “You well deserved any fright I gave you, sir. Your Norman army stole a large portion of an ancient and vital land. You violated Amounderness, and I weep for our loss.”

“Whether you believe it or not, dear lady, your small wedge of swampland already belongs to another people.

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Aeschby is merely a caretaker of a holding that will soon belong to Henry Plantagenet.”

He had gone too far, Jacques knew. Bronwen turned away from him and spoke to her sister. But as he listened to her words, he sensed she intended them for him.

“You say I lack courage, Gildan,” she said. “You are wrong. I’ve not lost my dream of happiness and the boldness to strive for it. But one thing I learned in my marriage is that life—and the people you meet in it—are not always as you may expect or hope them to be. You cannot depend on things to turn out the way you plan—and you can never be certain people are who you thought.”

Jacques could not let that rest. “You avow that people are not what they seem,” he said, taking her elbow and forcing her to meet his eyes. “You think of me as nothing more than a Norman conqueror. Allow me to prove you wrong. Again, I offer my protection and care at Warbreck Castle. For you, your sister and your nursemaid.”

“Who is this knight, Bronwen?” Gildan asked.

“Jacques Le Brun is the man who took Warbreck from my husband. He is a Norman under fealty to Henry Plantagenet.”

Gildan’s lips parted in astonishment. “We want neither protection nor care from Normans. Your people are nothing but scavenging dogs, devouring everything in sight. I beg of you—depart our company at once.”

Jacques studied the bruised and ragged woman. Then he turned his attention to her proud sister. “I’m learning firsthand of Briton prejudice and hatred,” he told them. “I’ve done nothing to deserve your ill will. Though I took your husband’s lands for Henry Plantagenet, I treated you fairly, Bronwen.

You will find Henry to be a just man, as well—far more intelligent, capable and respectful than the Briton who left this
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church moments ago. Upon my honor, I believe you would much prefer Norman lordship to that of any other.”

Bronwen moistened her lips as if preparing to speak, but he no longer had patience for her injustice and defiance.

Beautiful and spirited though she was, the woman clearly had no desire to know him more intimately. Though her kiss had been filled with yearning and her eyes spoke of deep longing, she always chose her family and her heritage over him. The doors to her heart were locked tight, and he did not have the key with which to open them.

“I offered you my protection once, and I have offered it again. Though spurned twice, I remain constant. Only say the word.”

With that, he turned and strode down the aisle and out into the day.

Bronwen stood rooted to the floor, staring after him. With all her inner self she wanted to run after Jacques—to fall into his strong arms, to tell him she was sorry, to go with him back to Warbreck. But how could she allow herself to trust a man again? And especially a Norman.

At the sound of a door opening, the women’s attention was drawn to the young priest, who was walking toward them.

“Ladies,” the man addressed them in a near whisper.

“There are several nunneries near London. A merchant I know—he comes often to Preston to trade in spices and silks from the Holy Land—sets sail for London this very day. He is a pious Christian. If I spoke to him, perhaps he would take you there free of charge.”

Bronwen glanced at her sister and then at Enit. Both looked aghast at the very idea of traveling so far from home. But what other options did they have?

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“Please go and ask the merchant on our behalf,” she told the priest. “We’ll await you.”

As the women followed him to the door, Bronwen considered what their tutor had told them of Christian nuns—women who served God, read holy books, prayed in silence. The idea flooded her with unexpected serenity. Perhaps this was the life for her, after all. Perhaps this one God, this unknown deity, wanted her to become His servant.

Fearful that Aeschby lingered nearby, Bronwen peered around the church door into the crowded market. A gentle gust bore a heady mixture of smells—the musky scent of new wool, the pungent odor of fresh fish and newly slaughtered lamb, the sweet aroma of honey and cakes. Cries of the fish-mongers and fruit sellers filled the air over the sounds of earnest bartering. Great round orange cheeses lay piled in pyramids, brightly dyed fabrics—blues, yellows and reds—

flapped in the summer breeze.

Mounds of fruit—red and green apples, golden pears, berries and grapes—filled the stalls and flowed out onto small tables.

Piles of nuts, brown and white eggs, jugs of fresh cream and bunches of vegetables—beans, peas, parsnips, cabbages, turnips, carrots, celery, beets and onions—crowded other small stands.

It was a magical place, and she longed to explore it. But she spotted the young priest running toward them. “Come!

Come!” he shouted. “The ship departs even now.”

Bronwen grabbed one of Enit’s hands, Gildan took the other and they started after the priest. In short order, they caught sight of the water lapping against a dock where a sturdy-looking ship was taking on the last of its cargo.

Bidding the young man farewell, they crossed a ramp to the vessel’s deck where a short, weather-beaten man stood calling out orders.

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“Three of you?” he said on noting them. “The priest told me two.”

“This is our nurse, Captain,” Bronwen told him.

“My name is Muldrew.” The old man studied Enit. “You’ve been at sea before, woman?”

Enit squared her shoulders. “Of course. Scratch a Welshman, find a seaman, as they say.”

“You hail from Wales! I, too—from the north, just past the isle of Anglesey.”

“Upon my word—my home was very near there.”

“Welcome then. Excuse me, ladies, for I must see that we cast off.” With a jaunty bow, the captain strode away.

Bronwen turned to her nurse. “Enit, you hate the sea. You cursed the
snekkar.
What is this about scratching—”

“Whist, Bronwen. Mind your tongue. He has taken me aboard. Don’t endanger my passage.”

At that moment, the sound of clattering hooves drew Bronwen’s attention, and she spotted Aeschby riding toward the wharf with Haakon at his side. Gildan screamed and hid behind her sister.

“Cast off!” Captain Muldrew shouted. “Cast off!”

The ship began to drift away from the dock, but Aeschby brandished his sword. “You’ll not escape me, Bronwen!”

Aeschby roared. “I’ll have my wife back, and I’ll keep my holdings! And I shall see you dead!”

A nearby movement caught Bronwen’s eye and she turned to find Jacques Le Brun’s gray steed thundering down the wharf.

“Aeschby!” the dark Norman shouted, drawing his sword.

“Stand by, man! You have driven the women from this land—

let them go in peace.”

Aeschby whirled his horse. “This is none of your affair, Norman!”

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Jacques reined his mount. “I defend the honor of Bronwen the Briton. Pay your insults and threats to me, knave.”

At once, Aeschby spurred his horse and drew his sword.

“Bronwen, he means to kill you!” Gildan wailed. “And now he’ll murder the man who saved you at the church.”

Bronwen held her breath as the men galloped toward each other. At the first clash, she wrapped her arms around her sister and closed her eyes. “We will escape Aeschby. He’ll never find us again. The Norman is bold and able. I pray he can defend himself.”

“But there are two of them against him.” Sniffling, Gildan pivoted her sister toward the fracas on the wharf where Haakon had joined Aeschby in attacking Jacques.

For all her confidence in Jacques’s skills as a swordsman, Bronwen’s heart quaked. She had seen Viking bloodlust, and she knew with what fervor a Briton could do battle. Could the Norman hold them back? Would he survive their assault?

As the ship made its way toward the sea, the figures on shore grew faint. “Why is the Norman fighting Aeschby?”

Gildan asked. “What did he mean when he said he had come to defend your honor, Bronwen? I cannot understand it.”

“Nor can I, Gildan,” her sister said softly. “Nor can I.”

Chapter Nine

After a few days and Gildan’s endless complaints over the ship’s tight and smelly quarters, Bronwen decided to venture to the deck and speak in earnest with Captain Muldrew. He was well traveled and would have good advice for three lone women on their way to London. Clutching the rigging to keep her balance, she picked her way through coils of rope and buckets of pitch. The old vessel creaked and groaned with every wave.