The Briton (7 page)

Bronwen stood and unclasped the cloak. “Stars reveal the future and the present. But they don’t show your face, sir. You are the one who hides, not I. Here—take your mantle. I want nothing to do with a scoundrel and a spy.”

Jacques caught the hood of the cloak before it could slip to the ground. “Keep it, my lady. I beg you.”

“No, I—”

“Please honor my request.” He drew the garment around Bronwen’s shoulders again and fastened the clasp at her neck.

“I am not ready to collect it just yet. We are met untimely.”

His fingers lingered for a moment at the clasp as he looked into her eyes. Then he drew away, took a place on the log and stretched out his long legs. Reaching up, he grasped Bronwen’s hand and gently pulled her down beside him. She settled herself at some distance, wary of the Norman yet grateful for the warmth of his mantle.

“Your husband is at sea,” he said. His voice was deep, and his eyes searched the horizon as he spoke. “When were you married?”

“This morning. Soon after the rite, we left Rossall Hall in haste because of the storm.”

“Little good it did. And now you spend your wedding night sitting on a wet log.”

“It is of no consequence to me. My husband and I have never spoken a single word. Our vow is all that unites us.”

“A vow has great power, Bronwen.” He glanced at her.

“May I call you by name?”

“As you wish. It matters not, for I don’t imagine we shall meet again after this night.”

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Jacques leaned back against a twisted branch and folded his arms across his chest. “You were imprudent to leave the safety of the hut. You have no protection.”

“I assumed the men were sleeping. Clearly I was mistaken.”

“A leader of men is never fully at rest, even in his own home. When I saw you leave, I feared for your safety.”

Bronwen clasped her hands together, uncomfortable at his words. “You are leader of your party, then. But who do you serve—Matilda? Stephen? Or perhaps the Scot, David, who presumes to claim Amounderness by virtue of Stephen’s treaty.”

“You know more of politics than a woman should, madam.

Perhaps you had best tend to your new home and leave such intrigues to your husband.”

Annoyed, Bronwen stood. “A wise woman knows as much of politics as any man. You will recall that my father willed his landholdings to me—not to my husband. He prepared me well for that responsibility, and I should like to know who spies out our lands and for what lord?”

“I am no spy, Bronwen.” Jacques rose to face her. “I serve Henry Plantagenet, the son of Matilda Empress, who has battled King Stephen these many years. Henry is wise and learned beyond his eighteen years. Already he is heir to Anjou and Normandy in France. Many in England support him.”

Bronwen squared her shoulders. “We Britons will not serve any Norman king—and you have my permission to report that to your beloved Henry Plantagenet. Our men will fight to the death to protect Rossall from Norman rule.”

“You’re already a pawn of King Stephen.” Jacques shook his head. “Don’t be so foolish as to think you rule yourselves.

Stephen has given your lands to Scotland by treaty. Would you
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not rather have a fair and just king like Henry Plantagenet? I assure you, he would treat your people well in his dealings with other landowners in this country.”

“I know nothing of this young Plantagenet. Neither Stephen nor David of Scotland has made his presence felt in Amounderness—and for that I am grateful. Certainly Plantagenet has never come our way. Our lands have been Briton since time began, and they will remain so.”

As Bronwen fought the frustration and vulnerability that shackled her, Le Brun reached out and covered her hands with his own. Warm and strong, his fingers stroked her wrists, and his thumbs pressed against her palms. Startled, she shrank back, but he held her firmly.

“Have you been so sheltered that you tremble at a man’s touch?” he asked. “I mean you no harm, my lady. We speak from our hearts. Though we differ, the honesty in our words is good. Forgive me if I’ve dismayed you.”

“You do dismay me, sir. And more than that.”

Bronwen drew her hands from his and attempted to tame her hair into some semblance of order. But again, Jacques caught them.

“Leave your hair,” he said, drawing her hands to his chest.

“It’s beautiful blowing in the wind as it does now.”

At his words, Bronwen felt the blood rush to her face, and she turned her focus to the ground. She had been told she was plain, especially compared with Gildan, the golden one. Often while standing beside her sister, Bronwen pictured herself—

a thin, angular, olive-skinned creature. No one, not even Enit, had ever called her beautiful.

Jacques reached out and lifted her chin. “So shy? A moment ago, you would have run me through had you carried a sword. My lady, you are indeed most lovely and desirable.

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You may recall I held you in my arms on such a night. And I kissed your lips.”

His fingers trailed from her chin, down the side of her neck to a wisp of hair that snaked between the folds of the mantle.

Bronwen shivered as he traced its course to the soft skin of her throat.

Her thoughts reeled as he wove his fingers through her hair.

Craving again the kiss of this man, she struggled for air. This must not be. She belonged to another man. A husband who had never spoken her name.

“How I am drawn to you, Bronwen the Briton.” Jacques’s breath was ragged on Bronwen’s cheek. “Though we have met only twice, you beckon me as no woman ever has.”

She lifted her eyes to his shadowed face. “Sir, you are wrong to hold me in this manner.”

“If I sin, then you sin, too—for I feel your desire as strongly as I do my own.”

“No,” Bronwen whispered. “I am another man’s wife. I know nothing of such wickedness.”

“All are sinners,” he said. “Even you, my lovely Bronwen.

But your words return me to my senses. You are wed. I cannot ignore a vow made before God.”

“Indeed, I must return to the hut.”

“Stay with me a little longer—on the beach, where we can be alone.”

“I dare not.” Bronwen backed away from him. “It is unseemly. And you…you are a Norman. My enemy.”

“I am not your enemy. My blood is that of a man, and yours is that of a woman. On this night, we are neither Norman nor Briton.”

“Blood can never lie,” she said. “I go.”

Turning from him, she pulled the mantle tightly about her.

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The sand felt cold beneath her feet as she started toward the hut. Dizzy with emotion, she brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. How could she have allowed this to happen? And how would she bear his memory now?

“My dearest lady.” Jacques’s long stride brought him to her side. “What troubles you?”

“
You
trouble me!” Bronwen cried out. “You know I am a married woman. You know I am a Briton, and you a Norman.

Yet your words belie those facts. What is it you want of me, sir?”

Jacques fell silent for a moment. Bronwen sensed his presence beside her as they walked, but she could not bring herself to look at him. “Your question is well asked,” he said at last. “I don’t know what I want of you.”

She halted. “Then why do you pursue me? Why do you behave as a knave?”

“I am not a knave. I am a knight. And I cannot say why my training in chivalry has deserted me. I know only that I have never met a woman like you—a woman of such fire, such wit, such dark beauty. When I saw you in the great hall at Rossall, I felt my heart drawn to you. Yet I sat in silence as your father betrothed you to the Viking. You obey him in every way, do you not?”

“Of course,” Bronwen said. “He is my father.”

“But when we met later on the beach, and when I took you in my arms—though it was wrong to have done so by my code of knightly honor—”

“Indeed it was. It was wrong.”

“But I am more than a knight. More than a Norman. I am a man. And since that night, my thoughts have been consumed by you. Can you deny what passed between us then—

and now?”

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Bronwen looked away. “I must deny it. There was nothing between us, and there is nothing now. You say you are a man—more than a knight and a Norman. Are you a Christian, too, Jacques? Do you follow any guide that holds power over your passion? I do. More than woman, I am a Briton and a wife. We have met, as you predicted, but we shall not meet again. So when you chance to think on me again, know this—

I am a Briton above all else.”

“And a stubborn one.”

“If you had taken a vow that pledges you to the future awaiting me, you would understand that stubbornness must be your fortress.”

“Don’t let it blind you to the stirrings of your heart, Bronwen.”

“What place can the heart have in the life of a lord’s wife, sir? As a knight, you should know that my work is to tend to my husband’s castle and his holdings. I must bear him sons to succeed him—and daughters to wed the sons of his allies.”

“Such cold determination to duty.” He ran his fingertips down her arm. “But this is not the way of noblewomen in France, my lady. In France—”

“In France? My lord, look about you. This is hardly France. We stand on the shore of Amounderness—the most rugged and desolate land in England. Here we fight to survive.

We have no time for Norman luxuries of the heart.”

“I disagree. It is in the cruelest of lands that one needs the warmest solace.”

Bronwen clutched his mantle about her shoulders. “It matters not to me what you think, Jacques the Norman. Go on about your French ways, then. Go back to Normandy where you belong, and leave us in peace. Our lives are difficult enough without your interference.”

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As she stepped past the man, he caught her shoulder and swung her around. “I shall not forget you, Bronwen. When we meet again, I believe our lives will be changed.”

“You speak with certainty,” she said. “I am certain only that I go to my husband’s castle. Tell your Henry Plantagenet we shall never give over to him.”

With that, she turned away and hurried down the beach to the hut. The tall knight was left standing in the starlight and looking far out to sea.

The remainder of the night passed slowly for Bronwen.

Her breast was filled with a tumult of new emotions, and her mind whirled with thoughts. In a moment of time, her life had changed inexorably. Though she knew almost nothing of the man with whom she had argued so fiercely, and who had kissed her so passionately, she sensed that he had thrown open a door before her. And she knew she had stepped through it. For the rest of her life, this Jacques Le Brun would live within her.

She had never felt so fully alive as when she was with him.

Never had she known a man to hold a woman in high esteem.

He had encouraged her to speak her opinion. He had freely praised her. Certainly Bronwen knew men desired women.

But to speak of their beauty? To openly express feelings of admiration? Never.

Britons married by arrangement, often never having seen their spouse before the ceremony. The pair contemplated contentment with children and a sense of partnership in the venture of life. As for desire—women never felt such strong emotion for their husbands. And men were far too involved with daily business to show tenderness toward their wives.

Confused and restless, Bronwen knew only that her loyalty
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must remain with her father. Though she ached for the touch of this Jacques Le Brun, it could not be. She must face forward and carry on.

The sun had not yet risen when Enit began to stir. The old woman yawned and stretched, scratching her grizzled head.

In a moment, she nudged Bronwen.

“I’m awake,” Bronwen said softly. She had watched the door all night, but Jacques had not returned to the hut.

“Girl, you look as though you have not slept at all,” Enit clucked as she surveyed her charge with dismay.

“I daresay she has not,” Haakon remarked gruffly, stepping out of the hut.

Bronwen started at his words, fearful that he knew she had been out in the night with Le Brun. If he did, he must suspect all manner of evil about her, and he might use his knowledge to disgrace her. But as she considered this, Bronwen realized that Haakon’s word would be weighed against hers. She held a powerful position as his father’s wife, and she would not let him forget it.

Martin was bent over the fire, his blond hair tousled from sleep. He was stirring a mixture of oats and honey he had taken from his bag. Enit began combing and plaiting her charge’s dark braids as the other men went about strapping on their swords and traveling gear. Bronwen was fastening Le Brun’s mantle at her throat when the door fell open and the man himself strode into the hut.

“The day is clear and the sea has calmed,” he announced.

“Haakon, your father’s ship has not returned. You should journey to the Warbreck Wash by foot. He will have weighed anchor there, knowing you would meet in time.”

The Viking’s eyes narrowed as he studied Jacques. “What do you know of the ways of Olaf Lothbrok?You are a Norman dog.”

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“Even a dog has the sense to take shelter from a storm.”

“And who are you, good sir?” Enit asked Jacques. “You are a stranger to us. Do you journey to London with these men?”

“I am Jacques Le Brun, their leader. We take our brother Martin to a monastery in London. I must see he is well settled.”

Enit smiled. “Well now, I suppose you do have a godly brow, Martin. Listen sir—beware of those other Christian men.

Not all are as pure as you might wish. As we say in Amounderness, ‘He who is near the church is often far from God.’”

“I shall be as wary as a fox,” Martin assured her. With a grin, he went about collecting the empty mugs. Jacques had gone back outside, and Bronwen could hear the men saddling their horses. She felt for the key around her neck and the will box inside the chatelaine purse that hung at her waist. Again reminding herself of her duty to her father and countrymen, she determined that she must not look at Jacques again. Even a meeting of their eyes might weaken her resolve, she realized as she helped Enit into her cloak and mantle.