The Briton (22 page)

“And what becomes of this wild emotion in time? Do the lovers marry?”

“Usually not. Often the woman is already married.” Sir Gregory sighed. “Marie de Champagne—daughter of Henry’s wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine—has declared that love and marriage are incompatible. Men and women marry whom they must—but love whom they will. We hear rumors that her mother has many lovers besides her husband.”

Uncomfortable at the realization that Jacques Le Brun’s profession of desire for her so closely matched this drivel, Bronwen spoke again. “What becomes of the love if the woman accepts the man who has pursued her?”

“According to my daughters,” Sir Gregory said, “there are two kinds of love.
Pure love
exists when the amorous pair meets to kiss and caress, but the woman remains faithful to her husband.
Mixed love
occurs when the passion is carried to its completion.”

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“Mixed love?”
Bronwen said. “In the north, we call that
infidelity,
and we punish it.”

“We call it
adultery—
a vile sin. But don’t fear this dalliance between your sister and my son. Gildan’s marriage is not dissolved, and Chacier is no fool.”

“But I do fear it,” Bronwen said. “Gildan easily falls into traps set by her own need for admiration. She knows nothing of
pure love
and
mixed love.
I cannot allow your son to ruin her chance to annul her marriage and continue with her life because he has seduced her and perhaps gotten her with child.

Though I can’t control Gildan’s life, I shall do my best to protect her from misfortune—even at well-intentioned hands.”

Sir Gregory nodded. “You are wiser than your age would give you credit. Chacier intends no harm—you must believe me.

But you are right to protect your sister and want the best for her.”

“Will you speak to your son?”

“I already have,” he said. “He knows of my concern, but he avows that he has lost his heart to Gildan’s beauty and sweet nature. He begs me not to deny their love simply because you and I have not experienced it ourselves.”

Bronwen searched the man’s gray eyes and saw written in them a measure of her own ache. Perhaps he, too, had once felt the stirrings of the heart. Maybe some woman had captured him as surely as Jacques Le Brun had captured Bronwen. Could either deny the power and beauty of such passion? Yet, dare they allow it to continue?

On hearing that Henry Plantagenet’s meeting with his supporters was ended and his allies had returned to their posts, Bronwen realized Jacques must have seen the error in his desire to meet with her again. Though it pained her to think that her hesitation had rebuffed him at last, she convinced
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herself it was for the best. Sir Gregory told her that Henry’s resolve to defeat King Stephen and see that his son never sat upon England’s throne had increased in the past months. The civil war would continue unabated.

Though news of the continuing strife was important to Bronwen, she must make plans of her own. The affection between Chacier and Gildan grew stronger by the day, and it had become imperative that the golden-haired beauty be taken to a nunnery as soon as possible.

Deciding it was safe to seek Martin’s counsel with no danger of meeting Jacques again, Bronwen asked Sir Gregory if she might take his carriage to the monastery. He agreed at once and provided her with a full contingent of guards.

The monk greeted her warmly at the gate, and again they walked together to the small chamber built into the wall. As Bronwen expressed her confusion and lack of direction, Martin led her inside and saw her seated across from him on a low stool.

“You are deeply distressed,” Martin said, “yet, God can use things you are learning here to your benefit.”

“In what way? I am more confused than ever before.”

“You’ve begun to open your mind and see people as they really are—not as you had been taught to think of them. And you now understand that God’s plans for us may not be the ones we made for ourselves. Once I thought that I would live my life in service to Jacques Le Brun—the best and most intelligent man on this earth. Never once did I suppose I would find peace as a monk, devoted only to God. But when I felt His calling, I knew I must answer.”

Bronwen listened carefully. Perhaps Martin was right.

Perhaps she was learning new things. But she had no direction in life, as he had.

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“I can find no sense of purpose to my existence, Martin,”

she told him. “Should I join Gildan and become a nun?”

“What do you think?”

“That I do not know your God well enough to give over my future to His service. But I want to know Him, Martin. I want to understand Him as you do. I need the peace that you have found.”

“Peace comes when we seek God, worship Him and do His bidding.”

“Sir Gregory tells me that God and His Son are one with the Holy Spirit. Three in one? I cannot fathom it.”

“Nor can I. If there were nothing unfathomable about God, why would we need faith? There is much of majesty, glory and mystery to our Father. How did the womb of a virgin—

a created being—contain the essence of the Creator? How could Jesus have risen to life after His violent death on the cross? Where is heaven and where is hell? Why would our holy God permit evil to have such power on this earth?

Madam, there are more questions in Christianity than we will ever have answers.”

“Then what use is it?”

“When one puts full trust in Christ, allowing Him to reign over desire, will and the impulse to do evil, He fills the heart with His Spirit. Such peace, such joy as that, is beyond explanation. It gives life meaning and purpose. The goal becomes to please Him and do good to others. Self is lost, utterly lost.”

Bronwen shook her head. “I have always been driven by my father’s will. It is hard to hear God speak.”

“Forsake the gods of your youth, madam. They are false.

Instead, pray and worship only the one God, the Creator King of heaven and earth. Go to church and listen to what is said.

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Study what is written in the Holy Scripture. Then you will hear Him.”

“But that must take many years, sir. I cannot sit at Sir Gregory’s house forever. My sister’s virtue is at risk. My own life has no purpose. And what of Rossall?”

“What of it? Do you feel God pressing you there?”

“I do, Martin. I must go back to Rossall. I have known it all along. I must find a way to reclaim my father’s lands. It is my duty—and my desire.”

The monk smiled at her. “Of course you must go back to Rossall. Your sister must make her own path. God brought you to London to show Himself to you. Now it is time for you to return home with a new heart and a soul committed to Him.”

For the first time in many weeks, Bronwen felt the dark clouds roll back and the path before her grow plain. “Rossall needs me. My people have so much to learn. Not only do they need the power and comfort of the Christian God, but they must have knowledge of this new world or it will overwhelm them. But how can I reclaim my lands? I have no knights and no husband. And I left the box containing my father’s will at Warbreck.”

Martin sat up. “Your father left a written will?”

“Yes, as a safeguard against just such treachery as has been committed against me. But what use is it? No one can read it, not even I. And who will honor a piece of parchment against the word of so strong a man as Aeschby?”

“There is great value in the written word, my lady. I am a scribe. All my days are spent copying the Holy Scriptures onto parchment. The written Word of God is the foundation of our faith. As more men learn to read, the value of the written document increases. Even now, a court of Norman law
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places more trust in a piece of writing than in what a man may say. You must go to Warbreck. Jacques will give you the box.”

“How can I trust a man who took my husband’s lands?”

Bronwen asked. “His dream is to acquire Amounderness for Henry Plantagenet. Surely he has already set his eye upon Rossall. We are enemies.”

“You do not know his heart, my lady.”

“I know men of battle. You are a man of God, and I implore you not to speak of our conversation to Le Brun. You must not tell him about my father’s written will.”

The monk’s deep gray eyes regarded her. “If you wish to learn to put your faith in God, madam, you would do well to begin by finding at least one human you can trust. Jacques Le Brun could be that man. He cares for you. Truly, he would never betray you.”

“Martin, you may trust him, but I cannot! Swear you will tell him nothing of this exchange between us.”

“I will never speak of it. You have my word. But you are going to need your father’s will to regain your lands. Of that you can be certain.” He paused for a moment. “Before I joined this monastery, Jacques and our retinue made a journey to Canterbury. There we met a young churchman who is in-fluential in legal, political and religious matters. We became fast friends, and he often comes here to visit me.”

“Is he trustworthy?” Bronwen asked.

“I don’t believe the man to be always correct in his actions—but he is wise and well respected. People flock to his home for counsel, and he finds time for each one. I believe he could make your decision easier. He will tell you whether your document has value and advise you on ways to regain your lands.”

“Who is this man?”

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“He calls himself Thomas of London, but others know him as Thomas à Becket.”

Bronwen stepped down from the carriage and crossed to the gate that protected Sir Gregory’s home. London’s streets were not safe even by day, and she was relieved to have arrived before the sun was fully set. As she slid back the hasp, something brushed her elbow. She had seen no one nearby when she’d left the carriage, and she started at the touch.

“Bronwen the Briton,” Jacques spoke. “You are as difficult to pin down as a feather in the wind.”

He stood beside her, garbed not in mail but in the clothes of a London gentleman. In the fading light, his dark gaze settled on her face, and he smiled. “You thought I had returned to Warbreck—and you were pleased.”

She glanced at the door to Sir Gregory’s home, praying that no one could see her. “I could not imagine you would stay away so long with Aeschby and Haakon threatening.”

“I left good men to hold my castle. My best, in fact. If Aeschby and I continue to live, I imagine we’ll threaten each other forever. Men spend much time at battle, and leave too little opportunity for more important things.”

“Your friend Martin chooses wisely. He spends his time at prayer.”

“And copying Scripture. A worthy cause.”

“Yes, for those who can read.” She reached for the hasp again. “I must go inside. My sister will wonder about me.”

“I wonder about you more,” he said. Taking her arm, he tucked it under his and turned her away from the house.

“Come, let us stroll.”

“Sir, I cannot!” She struggled to free herself. “This is unseemly.”

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“I have come to see you, waited nearly an hour behind that blasted shrubbery and will not be denied.” He laid his free hand on her arm, effectively preventing any hope of escape.

“We have spoken rarely, yet you refuse to leave my thoughts.

Why is that?”

“I cannot say, sir. Perhaps your brain is faulty.”

At that, Jacques gave a hearty laugh. “Madam, you delight me. At this moment, in the most loathsome of cities and weighted by demands I cannot hope to meet, I find myself happier than I’ve been in years.”

Wondering where he was taking her, Bronwen fought to steady her breath. “If you dislike London, you should leave it. You are needed at Warbreck.”

“And you? Will you stay here?”

“No,” she told him. “I intend to settle my sister and return to Rossall. It is my home.”

“Rossall is rightfully yours, but what of the Viking? It is you he most dreads, and he means to see you dead. I fear greatly for you, my lady.”

He turned them onto a path that led up to a fine house, not as tall as Sir Gregory’s but more sturdily built. Grand stone steps rose to a wooden door studded with brass and iron.

Jacques fitted a key into the lock, turned it and held out a hand to welcome Bronwen inside.

“Where is this?” she asked. “I have never been to this house before. Who lives here?”

“I do. My father owned it before he joined the Crusade, and now it is mine. Will you come in?”

“The two of us, alone together? Sir—”

“Bronwen, I mean you no harm. Surely you know that by now. Come and sit. Take refreshment and speak with me.

Merely speak, that is all I ask.”

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Trying to listen for the will of God as Martin had encouraged her to do, Bronwen could hear nothing but the urging of her heart. Lifting her skirt, she stepped into the foyer and saw that candles had already been lit. It was a comely chamber with a marble floor, tapestried walls and a blazing fire. The scent of some exotic spice lingered in the room, and she drifted toward the fire as if in a dream.

“I have sat here many an evening,” Jacques said as he followed her across the room. “The hearth at Warbreck, too, has been my comfort. But my idle thoughts turn always to you. I picture you here in London—alone.You have nothing. No one.”

“Why do you think of me at all? I am nothing to you. I am no more than the widow of a vanquished lord. I cannot understand why you pursue me—why you care.”

He reached out and touched the side of her neck with his fingertips. “I cannot explain it. I only know that when I see you, I long to hold you. When I think of you, I remember your bold spirit, your tenderness, your dark beauty.”

Bronwen laid one hand on the mantelpiece, struggling for some measure of reason to prevail. Were these words of passion true? Or did the man have guile behind his avowals of desire? She thought of Sir Gregory and his explanation of Norman
amour.
She knew Amounderness was a large area that Jacques intended to possess for Henry Plantagenet.