Catherine Palmer
The Briton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Mary Edstrom Robitschek, my dear friend,

encourager and prayer warrior. Thank you for

loving and supporting me all the way back to

Rosslyn Academy in Kenya, and for helping me

survive seventh grade math.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Acknowledgments

My great thanks to four special people.

To my agent, Karen Solem, for representing me

with such love and care. To my editor, Joan Golan,

for believing in The Briton twenty-three years after

I wrote it. To Mary Robitschek, for transcribing all

694 pages of the manuscript from hard copy to disk.

To Tim Palmer, for seeing the potential in the

first book I ever wrote and for reading and

editing its 694 pages more times than either of us

likes to remember. May God bless you all.

Chapter One

December 1152

Amounderness in northeast England

Like some relic of a half-forgotten age, the Viking longboat sliced through the icy waters of the natural harbor. Its once brightly painted bow was scarcely visible through a thick coating of barnacles and algae. The sails hung limp and tattered.

A soft dipping of oars drifted through the mist toward an ancient walled keep, where a thin shaft of light from an open window glimmered on the water. An anchor suddenly splashed into the water, shattering the light.

The dark-haired young woman at the window of the keep watched as a small boat, heavily laden with armed men, left the longboat and made its way to shore. A burly old Viking lord stepped from the boat and waded to the beach. Then, with a shout that echoed into the marrow of the woman’s bones, he called his men to follow him across the hard sand toward the stronghold.

“The barbarian has come,” the woman whispered as she barred the wooden shutter.

She turned to find her younger sister looking at her with a petulant expression. “Do leave off peering into the night, Bronwen. I want no gloomy tidings on the eve of our winter feast. Just look how Enit has arranged my tunic. Please come and drape it properly.”

A chill ran through Bronwen as she hurried from the window across the rush-covered wooden floor toward her sister, who stood by a fire built on a stone hearth in the center of the room. The warm flicker of the flames served only to intensify Bronwen’s discontent. And the smoke, drifting upward to the vents in the roof, filled her nostrils with an acrid tang.

How could her father invite the Viking to their feast? To her, the barbarian stood for everything evil that her people, the Briton tribe, had worked so hard and so long to defeat. Vikings! Raiders of villages, ravishers of women, pillagers of the countryside. Why would her father, with the Viking threat all but over, extend the arm of friendship to this barbarian now? Bronwen shook her head in dismay.

But she was forced to smile as she caught sight of Gildan fussing over the folds of her tunic with the nursemaid.

“Sister, you look lovely just as you are,” Bronwen admonished. “Let me help you with your gown, and then I shall plait your hair. Most of the guests have arrived, and Father will be growing impatient.”

“Yes, only to have us make an appearance and then send us back up to our rooms again so the entertainments may begin.” Gildan pouted as her sister arranged a golden gown over her tunic. “I do think this waist is too long, Enit. And just look how pointed the sleeves are!”

The old nurse clucked at her charges. “You two sisters are even fussier than your mother, may she rest in peace. But you do look pretty. As they say, ‘Fine feathers make fine birds.’”

Taking an ivory comb, Bronwen divided and began to weave Gildan’s hair into two long golden braids. Her sister was entirely lovely, Bronwen realized. Though she had been a sickly child most of her life, tonight Gildan’s pale skin glowed rosily and her blue eyes shone. She would make some man a lovely bride to carry on the great line of Edgard the Briton, their ancestor.

At the thought of marriage, Bronwen gazed into the fire. As her fingers continued nimbly in the familiar braiding pattern, Bronwen imagined she could see in the coals a dark shape. A man’s black eyes flickered, and in the wraithlike fire his raven hair floated above his temples. Bronwen sensed a strength in his determined jaw, a gentleness in the curve of his lips and a high intelligence in the smooth planes of his forehead.

Sighing, she turned away from the vision she had conjured more than once in the flames. Her father would never link her with such a man. She must wed the one he selected, and his choices were few indeed. He must betroth her to one of the remaining Briton landholders in the area, for her veins coursed with blood of the most ancient tribe still dwelling on the great island of Britain.

“Bronwen, just look at what you’ve done!” Gildan’s voice broke into her sister’s reverie. “You have wrapped this ribbon backward. Do stop your daydreaming and help me with my mantle.”

Bronwen gathered the soft woolen cloak and laid it over her sister’s shoulders. She placed her own mantle on the heavy green gown she wore and arranged her thick black braids over its folds. Kneeling on a pillow, she waited patiently as Enit veiled Gildan and set a circlet of gold on the younger woman’s head.

“Bronwen, you do look fine,” Enit remarked as she arranged Bronwen’s veil. “Let me rub a bit of fat into those dry fingers. You’ve worked far too hard on this feast. You must learn to let things go a bit, child. And do stop worrying over your father’s choice of guests. Edgard is a wise man.”

The young woman looked up into Enit’s bright eyes. The old nurse had cared for her since Gildan’s birth had resulted in their mother’s death. Enit’s skin hung in thin folds beneath her chin, and tiny lines ran randomly across her face. But when she grinned, as she did now, showing her three good front teeth, each line fell into its accustomed place with ease.

“That’s better.” Enit chuckled as Bronwen’s expression softened. “Now hurry down to the great hall, you two imps, before your father sends up the guard. And, Gildan, remember, ‘Silence is golden.’”

“Oh, Enit! Come Bronwen, you carry the rush light, and I shall carry your mantle down the stair.”

“Enjoy the feast!” Enit called after them.

Bronwen shook her head in contradiction of the nurse’s words. With barbarians in the keep and little to anticipate in the coming year, she felt the evening’s feast must be far less than enjoyable. But at last she lifted her head, slipped her arm around her sister and set a smile upon her lips.

As Bronwen followed Gildan down the stone stairs, she breathed deeply the fresh scent of newly laid rushes on the floor. She had worked hard to prepare for the feast, just as she labored at every endeavor. Since her mother’s death, she had been mistress of the hall. She had, on occasion, even managed the entire holding while her father was away at battle.

Standing in the light of the entrance to the great hall, the sisters surveyed the merry scene before them. Guests, all of whom were men, stood around the room discussing the latest news from the south. Bronwen recognized most of them. Some were her father’s close friends, and others came only because they were loyal to the Briton cause. Few of the men held much land, and many served Norman conquerors.

“Look, Bronwen. Those swinish Vikings are already inside the hall. How vulgar their tongue sounds!” Gildan crossed her arms in contempt.

Bronwen spotted the Viking party in one corner, where they had gathered to tell bawdy stories and laugh raucously. She identified the leader standing in their midst. A heavy old man he was, probably boasting of his battle prowess. He owned Warbreck Castle and its surrounding lands—a holding that adjoined her father’s. Thanks be to the gods, he had never threatened Rossall nor made any attempt to seize it. Indeed, he had allied himself with Edgard against the Norman invaders. But a Viking in their halls? A Norse barbarian? She sighed in frustration.

“Look!” Gildan broke in on Bronwen’s thoughts. “The minstrels are beginning to play. It’s time we made our appearance. I wonder if Aeschby will have come.”

“Of course he will. Father has invited all our neighbors.”

“How lovely the hall appears tonight!” Gildan said as they made their way toward the dais. Sounds of music—lutes, harps, dulcimers and pipes—drifted down from the gallery at the far end of the hall. Beneath it stood a high table draped in white linen and a green overcloth. Metal tankards and goblets were scattered across its surface and down the two long side tables next to the walls.

Cupbearers bustled from one man to another offering drinks. Servitors removed platters, pitchers and spoons from the cupboard and laid them on the tables.

As the sisters made their way through the crowded hall, Gildan admired aloud the sheaves of wheat decorating the tables, and the green ivy, holly and mistletoe hanging from the torches. “Father is looking well tonight,” she whispered. “Is that Aeschby he stands with? What a fine red tunic he wears.”

Bronwen spotted the tall blond man across the room. He stood well above their father in height. Because of the tract of land he held across the Wyre River to the east, and because of his Briton bloodline, Aeschby often had been mentioned as a possible husband for Bronwen, even though they were cousins.

But Bronwen had never cared for Aeschby. The times they had met as children, he had played cruel tricks on her and Gildan. And once he had dropped a kitten to its death from the battlements just to see if it could land on its feet.

“Indeed, Aeschby appears in good spirits tonight,” Bronwen had to acknowledge. “But look, the piper has seen us, and now the feasting begins.”

As she spoke, trumpets sounded and each man moved to his appointed place, according to his rank. The sisters stepped onto the dais and waited beside their father’s chair. Bronwen looked fondly at the heavy, aged man as he lumbered to his place. His long white mustaches hung far down into his beard. And though the top of his head was bald, thick locks of snowy hair fell to his shoulders. He had always been a proud man, Edgard the Briton, and he stood tall before his guests.

“Welcome, welcome one and all. The house of Edgard enjoins all friends of the great Briton kingdom of this isle to share in our winter feast.”

He lifted his golden cup high over his head, and a mighty cheer rose from the crowd.

“Now let us eat in fellowship. And when my daughters are gone to bed, we shall enjoy an even greater merriment!” At that all the men burst into laughter. Bronwen glanced over to see Gildan blushing. “But before they are gone, Edgard the Briton will make an announcement of great import to all gathered here. And now, let the feasting begin!”

Bronwen sank into her chair. An announcement of great import? What could her father mean? Perhaps he had some news of the civil war between the Norman king, Stephen, and his cousin, the Empress Matilda, both of whom claimed the throne of England. Yet Bronwen felt quite certain the news was something closer to herself. She knew it must be the announcement of her betrothal in marriage, for her father had been hinting of an arrangement for many months now.

But to whom? Edgard had called Bronwen to his side upon her last birthday. She remembered thinking how old and withered he looked. Though his body was still strong, he had put on much weight, and he often complained of aches in his joints. Bronwen recalled how he had placed his arm around her shoulders, a sign of affection he had not displayed since she was a child. “Bronwen, you have eighteen years, now.” His voice had been filled with emotion. “You are well into womanhood. For too long I have depended on you for the management of my household. You remind me so of your mother when she arrived from Wales to become my wife.”

Her father had stopped speaking for a moment and gazed at his thick fingers, entwined in his sash. Though the marriage had been arranged by their fathers, Bronwen knew he had truly cared for her mother.

“Now it is time that you had a husband. Though we are dwindled in number, there are some men remaining who sympathize with our cause. Bronwen, I want you to know I have been negotiating for your marriage, that you may prepare yourself for what lies ahead.”

Was this to be the night she learned of his plan? Bronwen looked at her father. He was talking with Gildan and admiring her long golden braids and the bright ribbons binding them. Yes, Bronwen was certain her father meant to announce her marriage betrothal.

How paltry all her dreams seemed in the harsh light of this reality. She felt foolish at the memory of the man she had so often imagined in the fire. Indeed, she had to smile at the childish imagination that had led her to believe she someday might wed such a one.

As the servitors poured into the hall bearing food and drink, a commotion near the door drew Bronwen’s attention. A small band of strangers dressed in heavy woolen mantles had entered the great hall. At their head stood a tall figure whose hood concealed his features from the curious crowd.

“Edgard the Briton,” the man spoke through the fold of cloth as he approached the dais. “We weary travelers request your kindness upon us this night. We ask to sup with you before we resume our journey.”

Edgard studied the visitors before replying. “This is our winter feast. Who are you, and whom do you serve?”

“We are merely wanderers, sir.”

“Sup with us, then, and be welcome. But take heed…we are men of strength and power. We tolerate no deceit.”

The robed man bowed slightly in acknowledgment and led his companions to a table among the guards lowest in rank. Bronwen watched as he began his meal without removing his hood.

“Father, why do you speak of deceit?” she asked. “And why will this stranger not reveal himself to us?”

Edgard looked grim. “There have been rumors for many months now that the Empress Matilda’s son, Henry Plantagenet, is spying out our land. He hopes to make it his own one day. Of course, King Stephen will never allow it as long as he lives. Though we have not chosen sides in this war between Stephen and Matilda, I do not like the idea of spies on our land.”

“And you think this man could be a spy? Is that the announcement of which you spoke, Father?”

Edgard squeezed his daughter’s hand and shook his head. “Bronwen, leave these matters to men. Look now! Aeschby has risen to pay homage to me. Let us hear him and dismiss this weighty talk.”

Edgard took his knife to a hunk of spicy meat as Aeschby strode to the dais. Gildan, obviously enjoying herself, picked up a tart. She was unconcerned by her father’s announcement, Bronwen realized. Probably, Gildan assumed it was purely political in nature.

Bronwen cut a sliver of omelet, but its strong onion smell displeased her. She stared down from the dais at Aeschby in his bright red tunic. Was he the one chosen for her? She had a sizable dowry—all her father’s land, upon his death, would go to Bronwen’s husband, according to Briton custom. And this acreage, together with Aeschby’s, would reunite the old lands and make a fine large holding.

He was looking now at the dais, his white teeth gleaming in a proud smile. Bronwen had heard that Aeschby was a cruel and harsh master to his serfs, and he had been known to fly into rages.

But at this moment, he appeared serene as he gazed—not at Bronwen—but at her sister. Gildan had blossomed into womanhood, and she was beautiful. Though the younger woman had no land dowry, Bronwen was certain her father would provide much gold to the man she would wed.

Gildan hardly needed gold to draw the attention of a man. Aeschby could not keep his eyes from her. And Bronwen noticed Gildan glancing at him from time to time with a coy smile upon her lips.

Perhaps there was some true affection between the two. Bronwen dreaded the thought of marriage to a man who desired her sister.

Aeschby now signaled one of his retainers. The man carried a black box from his position at a table below the salt container. Together they stepped up to the dais, and Aeschby lifted the box from the hands of his kneeling servant.

“Take this heirloom, my lord,” he addressed Edgard, “as a sign of my loyalty to you, and of my fealty to our Briton cause.”

A loud cheer rose from the crowd as Aeschby lifted a golden neck-ring from the box and held it high over his head. It was a truly magnificent work, hand-wrought many generations ago for some unknown king.

Edgard received the ring and thanked Aeschby. “This young lord shows himself to be a treasure-giver worthy of his noble heritage,” he said. “I accept this ring as a father accepts a gift from his son.”

At that, another roar went up, drowning the sound of the minstrels as they announced the second course of the feast. Bronwen was impressed with the gift her father had been given, but she was startled to hear him address Aeschby as “son.” Perhaps there was truth in her speculation that their betrothal would be announced that evening.

The next courses came and went, but to Bronwen the meal seemed a blur. According to her plan, mince pies, dilled veal balls, baked lamprey eels, swan-neck pudding, giblet custard pie, currant tart and elderberry funnel cake marched out of the kitchen one after the other. Men rose and gave one another treasures, as at all feasts, and speeches of thanks and boasting followed. Bronwen sampled little of the foods set before her, but her father and Gildan ate with relish.

“Father, Bronwen has been deep in thought all evening,” Gildan said over the din. “Perhaps we should have a song to waken her.” Gildan looked at her sister with teasing eyes.

Edgard laughed. “Always the pensive one, Bronwen. Indeed, it is time for the boar’s head now!” He called the musicians. “Let us sing to the boar’s head on this night of feasting.”

As the marshal entered the hall bearing a large platter, all the company stood and began to sing. Bronwen noticed that the tall stranger had risen, but a hood still covered his features.

“The boar’s head in hand bear I,” the feasters sang. “Bedecked with bays and rosemary, and I pray you my masters, be merry!”

As the song ended, the marshal knelt before Edgard and offered the platter to him. “And now may the gods bless all noble sons of Britain,” Edgard said. “May the coming year bring prosperity to one and all.”

The carver sliced the meat, and the servers passed it from one guest to another. As feasters cut into the delicacy, Bronwen tried to believe this was to be a happy evening after all. There was no need to dwell on gloomy things. Even if she were to marry Aeschby, she could return often to her beloved home to visit Gildan and her father. These were her people, the Briton men, and she must—indeed she wished to—carry on their lineage.

Then a movement caught her eye, and she turned to see the old Viking leader rise from his seat. “I salute you noble Edgard the Briton, ring-giver and sword-wielder,” he said in a strong voice.

Bronwen noted that the other men quieted as the barbarian spoke, some glancing darkly at the Viking. It was clear to her that this man was resented at the feast, though Edgard appeared pleased with the salutation. It was strange to hear her father addressed as ring-giver, for he had awarded few treasures in recent years. No battles had been won or glories deserved.

“A feasting so fine as this,” the man continued, “we Vikings have never before seen. We commend the food-provider and the hall-adorner for this pleasure.”

Bronwen wanted to laugh at the odd way his Norse tongue spoke their language. It was an outrage against decency to have him here. Yet the barbarian was making some effort to be civilized. She scrutinized the heavy brown woolen tunic he wore, so out of place in the brightly decorated hall. As he lumbered forward, Bronwen wondered what his gift would be. The barbarian was an old man, nearly the age of her father. Though his hair and beard were still the color of saffron, his face was crisscrossed with lines and his walk was pained.

“I, Olaf Lothbrok,” he intoned, “who have done many brave deeds, who have crossed the salt sea and borne hardship on the waves, I, who have wrestled with the whale-fishes and battled mighty monsters, I come gladly into the hall of the strong and generous Edgard. Before this one filled with manly courage, this battle-brave ring-giver and treasure-lord, I present this cross.”

Bronwen gasped. The cross he now held before her father was a work of immeasurable value. Almost as long as his arm from elbow to hand, the piece was wrought in fine gold and set with rubies and sapphires. It was obviously a relic stolen from some Norman church the barbarian or his father had raided. Though Bronwen knew little about this religion that had been brought to Britain by wanderers known as Christians, she believed all sacred objects should be respected. How could such a gift—a plundered holy symbol—be accepted? Yet here was her father now, holding the cross and admiring its workmanship.

“Olaf Lothbrok,” Edgard addressed the man, “this generous gift I receive from the hand of a neighbor and friend. Though our people were once at war, now—in these difficult times—we are allies.”

A murmur arose from the men, and Bronwen noticed the hooded stranger at the far end of the room speaking with great animation to his companions. She was appalled. It was bad enough to invite the Viking to the feast—a move Bronwen had protested vehemently—but for Edgard the Briton to claim him as a friend and ally? Surely her father had lost his wits. Bronwen turned to Gildan and saw her staring open-mouthed at the Viking as he returned to his table.

It was too much! Bronwen wanted to bolt from the room, escape the house and run down to the beach, where she could sit alone and ponder what her father’s actions could mean. The Britons had tried to keep themselves a pure race, never to be allied with such a people as this old Viking and his Norse companions. Blood pounding through her head, Bronwen forced a deep breath as she watched her father step back onto the dais and lay the cross on the table.

“Fellow Britons,” her father said loudly, “at the start of the feast, I spoke to you of a great announcement. As you know, I am possessed of two fine treasures. Stand, Bronwen! Stand, Gildan!”

Bronwen rose shakily to her feet, and the men began to cheer. Gildan had turned pale and appeared also to be short of breath.

“Though I have no sons to continue the line of my forefathers, I have two daughters, both now of marriageable age. They are fine women, and through long negotiations, I have found worthy husbands for both.”

So it was to be Gildan, too, Bronwen realized. Poor Gildan. For so long she had dreamed of a husband, and now that her betrothal was to be announced, she stood ashen and shivering. Bronwen longed to go and take her sister’s hand as she had done when they were children.

“My elder daughter, Bronwen,” Edgard continued, “the child who seems almost the spirit of her mother, so nearly do they look alike—I now betroth to Olaf Lothbrok.”

At the name, Bronwen gasped aloud, incredulous at her father’s words. Gildan cried out, and all the company of men began to murmur at once.

“Silence please,” Edgard spoke up. “Allow me to continue. My daughter Gildan I betroth to Aeschby Godwinson. Gildan brings to her marriage one fourth of all my gold and treasure, and upon my death I will her to receive one fourth more.”

Half! At this news, the men cheered wildly. Bronwen saw that bright spots of pink had flowed back into Gildan’s cheeks, and her sister was smiling again. Aeschby moved to the dais and stood proudly beside his betrothed.

Edgard spoke above the roar. “Bronwen brings to her marriage one half of all my gold and treasure.” He stretched out his hands, motioning for silence. “Now you must listen carefully, Britons. Hear my will to my daughter Bronwen upon my death.”

The men in the room fell silent, and even the servitors stopped to listen. Bronwen knotted her fingers together as her father continued to speak.

“When I die, Bronwen will receive all my lands and this Rossall Hall into her own hands. They will not pass under the governance of her husband, Olaf Lothbrok, as is the Briton custom. I shall not permit my possessions to slip from the hands of my tribe. If my daughter Bronwen gives birth to a son by this Viking, then the inheritance will fall to the son upon his coming of age. If she has a daughter or no child, at her death these lands will pass to Aeschby and his lineage through my daughter Gildan.”

Edgard stopped speaking for a moment and looked long at his stunned guests. Then he began to recite the many brave deeds of his forefathers, those beloved tales Bronwen knew so well. As the Briton talked, Olaf Lothbrok moved from his bench and came to stand beside her. Bronwen drew back from the touch of his woolen tunic as it grazed her hand. She could not bear to look at this man or meet the hard gaze of the silent Briton company.

Instead, she found herself staring down at her own slippers, intricately crafted of gold threads and purple embroidery. Edgard had brought them for her from the market fair in Preston, and she had saved them for this special feast. Her eyes wandered to the large leather boots of the Viking. They were caked with mud and sand, and small bits of seaweed clung to their thick crossed bindings.

Could she ever learn to care for the man who wore those boots? Would she one day look forward to the heavy sound of their entrance into her chamber? Would there be a time when her eyes grew accustomed to their presence beside her own thin slippers at the foot of their marriage bed?

Bronwen shook her head, then shuddered as she felt the barbarian’s huge hand close around her own. Why had her father done this? She could make no sense of his plans. At last she lifted her chin as the Viking beside her raised their hands high above their heads.

“And so the continuation of the great line of Briton nobles is assured,” her father was saying. “I have accomplished this by the favorable marriages of my two daughters to these worthy men.”

For a moment, the room was silent. Slowly one or two guests began to applaud, then several others pounded their mugs upon the tables. At last the entire company broke into a thunderous roar of cheering and shouting.

Bronwen looked up in time to see the group of travelers rise and move toward the door. Their tall leader bowed toward the dais, then stepped out of the great hall. Bronwen gave their departure little thought, for the eyes of the Briton guests burned into her. She dared not look into any man’s face, for she knew she would find it filled with questioning, doubt and pity.

As Edgard finished speaking, he turned to Bronwen and wrapped his arms around her, though she knew no warmth from the embrace. Then he grasped Olaf Lothbrok by the shoulders and congratulated him heartily. Finally he turned to embrace Gildan and Aeschby, and Bronwen knew she was at last free to go.

Without another look around the hall she had worked so hard to prepare, she pulled her hand from the grip of the Viking and stepped down from the dais. As she hurried toward the door, she felt a hand catch hold of her skirt.

“Welcome to the family, Briton,” one of Olaf’s men said in a mocking voice. “We look forward to the presence of a woman at our hall.”

Bronwen grasped her tunic and yanked it from the Viking’s thick fingers. As she stepped away from the table, she heard the drunken laughter of the barbarians behind her.

Running down the stone steps toward the heavy oak door that led outside from the keep, Bronwen gathered her mantle about her. She ordered the doorman to open the door, and he did so reluctantly, pressing her to carry a torch. But Bronwen pushed past him and fled into the darkness.

Dashing down the steep, pebbled hill toward the beach, she felt the frozen ground give way to sand. She threw off her veil and circlet and kicked away her shoes and mantle. The sand was cold on her feet as she raced alongside the pounding surf, and hot tears of anger and shame welled up and streamed down her cheeks. Unable to think beyond her humiliation, Bronwen ran—her long braids streaming behind her, falling loose, drifting like a tattered black flag.

Blinded with weeping, she did not see the dark form that sprang up in her path. Iron arms circled her, and a heavy cloak threatened suffocation.

“Release me!” she cried. “Guard! Guard, help me.”

“Hush, my lady.” A deep voice emanated from the darkness. The man spoke her tongue, though his accent was neither Norman French nor any other that she recognized. “I mean you no harm. What demon drives you to run through the night without fear for your safety?”

“Set me free at once! I demand it!”

“I shall hold you until you calm yourself. We had heard there were witches in Amounderness, but I had not thought to meet one this night.”

Still bound by the man’s arms, Bronwen drew back and peered up at the hooded figure. “You! You and your band of wastrels spied on our feast. Unhand me, or I shall call the guard upon you.”

The man chuckled at this and turned toward his companions, who stood in a group nearby. Bronwen caught hold of the back of his hood and jerked it down to reveal a head of glossy raven curls. But the man’s face was shrouded in darkness yet, and as he looked at her, she could not read his expression.

“So, you are the blessed bride-to-be.” He returned the hood to his head. “Your father has paired you in an interesting manner.”

Relieved that her captor did not appear to be a highwayman, she pushed away from him and sagged onto the wet sand. “Please leave me here alone. I need peace to think. Go on your way.”

The tall stranger shrugged off his outer mantle and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Why did your father betroth you to the aged Viking?” he asked.

“For one purported to be a spy, you know precious little about Amounderness. But I shall tell you, as it is all common knowledge.”

Despite her wariness of the man, she pulled his cloak about her, reveling in its warmth. “This land, known as Amounderness, has always been Briton territory. Olaf Lothbrok, my betrothed, came here as a youth when the Viking invasions had nearly subsided. He conquered the Briton lord of the holding directly to the south of Rossall Hall, where he now makes his home. Then the vile Normans came, and Amounderness was pillaged by William the Conqueror’s army.”

The man squatted on the sand beside Bronwen. He listened with obvious interest as she continued. “When William took an account of Amounderness in his Domesday Book, he recorded no remaining lords and few people at all. Some say it was because our marshy land was too difficult for his census-takers to penetrate. Perhaps so. But our tales insist that the Britons had hidden in caves and secret places of the forest.”

“And when the Normans retreated?”

“We crept out of hiding and returned to our halls. My father’s family reoccupied Rossall Hall, our ancient stronghold. And there we live, as we should, watching over our serfs as they fish and grow their meager crops. Indeed, there is not much here for the greedy Normans to covet, if they are the ones for whom you spy.”

Unable to continue speaking when her heart was so heavy, Bronwen stood and turned toward the sea. Rising beside her, the traveler touched her arm. “Olaf Lothbrok’s lands—together with your father’s—will reunite most of Amounderness under the rule of the son you are beholden to bear. A clever plan. Your sister’s future husband holds the rest of the adjoining lands, I understand.”

“You’ve done your work, sir. Your lord will be pleased. Who is he—some land-hungry Scottish baron? Or have you forgotten that King Stephen gave Amounderness to the Scots, as a trade for their support in his war with Matilda? I certainly hope your lord is not a Norman. He would be so disappointed to learn he has no legal rights here. Now, if you will excuse me, I shall return to Rossall.”

“Amounderness is Scottish by law,” the man said, stopping her short. “Would you be so sorry to see it returned to Norman hands?”

“Returned to the Normans? Amounderness belongs to the Briton tribe. Neither Stephen nor David of Scotland has deigned to set foot here. We are a pawn in their game. As far as I am concerned, it matters not who believes himself to own our land—so long as he does not bring troops or build fortresses here. Tell your lord that any man who aspired to that folly would find a mighty battle on his hands. We Britons do not intend to forfeit our holding.”

Bronwen turned and began walking back along the beach toward Rossall Hall. She felt better for her run, and having explained her father’s plan to the stranger, it didn’t seem so far-fetched anymore. Distant lights twinkled through the fog rolling in from the west, and she suddenly realized what a long way she had come.

“My lady,” the man’s voice called out behind her.

Bronwen kept walking, unwilling to speak to him again. She didn’t care what he reported to his master. She wanted only to return to the warmth of her chamber and feel the softness of Enit’s hands plaiting her hair before she dropped off to sleep.

“My lady, you have quite a walk ahead of you.” The traveler strode to her side. “I shall accompany you to your destination.”

“You leave me no choice in the matter.”

“I am not one to compromise myself, dear lady. I follow the path God has set before me and none other.”

“And just who are you?”

“I am called Jacques Le Brun.”

“French?” Given his accent, she had not expected this. “Then you are a Norman.”

The man chuckled. “Not nearly as Norman as you are Briton.”

As they approached the fortress, Bronwen could see that the guests had not yet begun to disperse. Perhaps no one had missed her, and she could slip quietly into bed beside Gildan.

She turned to go, but Le Brun took her arm and studied her face in the moonlight. Then, gently, he drew her into the folds of his hooded cloak. “Perhaps the bride would like the memory of a younger man’s embrace to warm her,” he whispered.

Astonished, Bronwen attempted to remove his arms from around her waist. But she could not escape his lips as they found her own. The kiss was soft and warm, melting away her resistance like the sun upon the snow. Before she had time to react, he was striding back down the beach.

Bronwen stood stunned for a moment, clutching his woolen mantle about her. Suddenly she cried out, “Wait, Le Brun! Your mantle!”

The dark one turned to her. “Keep it for now,” he shouted into the wind. “I shall ask for it when we meet again.”

Chapter Two

“Bronwen! Bronwen!” A thin high voice drifted through the mist. Bronwen turned from the shadow of the retreating man and looked toward the keep. Enit was searching for her.

Hurrying along the wet sand, Bronwen cried out, “Enit! I’m here!”

“Silly girl,” the nursemaid scolded as she scurried down the hill. At the bottom she picked up Bronwen’s slippers and waved them in the air. “You’ll catch your death in this cold, and I cannot say I shall be sorry to be rid of you. Hurry up, hurry up, foolish girl!”

Bronwen laughed in spite of herself. “A fool’s head never whitens, Enit,” she chirped, throwing one of the nursemaid’s favorite proverbs back at her.

Enit stopped, exasperated. “You’ll see I’m right. You’ll be sick before tomorrow. Time trieth truth.”

Bronwen slipped her arm around her old nursemaid as they made their way up the incline. “I’m to marry the Viking, Enit,” she said softly.

“I have heard.” They walked on in silence for a moment. “Your sister is pleased with her match. You must try to share her joy.”

As they passed into the courtyard and climbed the stairs, Bronwen noticed the old woman was trembling. This must be a sad day for Enit, too. Her charges soon would leave the hall and travel to new homes. The women crossed the entrance to the great hall, but Bronwen did not look inside. She could hear the throaty laughter of the men and the music of the pipers.

Soon the guests would listen to tales from the scop and gawk at the jugglers and tumblers she had hired. But Bronwen desired only to slip under the heavy warm blankets of her bed.

As she and Enit entered the sleeping chamber, Gildan rushed toward them, face aglow. “Oh, Bronwen! Where have you been? Such a day! I’m to marry Aeschby!” She whirled about the room. “I’m so happy! Did you see his face when Father said—”

Gildan stopped short when she noticed Bronwen’s wind-tangled hair and tattered gown. “Have you been on the beach? Whatever for? Oh dear sister, I’m such a fool. You aren’t happy at all.”

“I’m not happy at the moment,” Bronwen said. “That is true. But I’m not sad either. Our fate is in the hands of the gods, is it not? Now let me remove these damp tunics, and you must tell me everything Aeschby said to you.”

Enit pushed Bronwen toward the fire, then bustled about stripping off the damp gowns and rubbing the girl down with heavy linen cloths. Gildan, too excited to sympathize long with Bronwen’s situation, chatted joyfully as she combed the tangles from her sister’s hair.

Soon Enit ordered her charges to bed and took her own place on the cot outside their door. While Gildan slept, Bronwen lay staring up at the dark ceiling, too troubled to sleep despite her exhaustion. She had been betrothed to the old Viking—and then the dark stranger had taken her in his arms. But one memory weighed even more heavily than the other. Why had she not resisted the Norman’s embrace? She had been taught to despise his breed—and truly she did. Yet, why did the warmth of his kiss still linger on her lips? And what of his parting words? Certainly their paths would never cross again.

And yet…

Bronwen reached for the woolen mantle she had pushed under a blanket so no one would notice it. She held it to her cheek and recalled her wild run down the beach. A faintly spicy scent still clung to the folds of the garment, evoking the presence of the raven-haired traveler.

A girl must marry for the good of her family, Bronwen reminded herself as she closed her eyes and stroked the rough black wool. Everyone knew that.

Yet, was it possible that the gods who inhabited the trees and the stones and the driving seas that surrounded Amounderness had another destiny in store for her?

The morning dawned under threatening skies, and Bronwen awoke to Gildan’s fervent tugging.

“It worked! It worked, Bronwen,” Gildan cried. “I dreamt of my future husband. I put one shoe on either side of the bed, as Enit told me. Then I put rosemary in one and thyme in the other. I slept on my back all night. And I did dream of the one I’m to marry—Aeschby!”

Gildan danced around the room, her gowns flying. “Get up, silly goose! We must make haste to welcome the day. Hurry.”

At the commotion, Enit entered the room and began to take the sisters’ tunics from a wooden chest.

“My red one, Enit,” Gildan commanded. “And for my sister, the purple.”

Bronwen struggled from the bed and quickly opened another chest to hide the mantle Le Brun had wrapped around her the night before. As she combed out her long hair, Enit dressed her. Then Bronwen plaited her hair and slipped on her shoes.

“Are you well, Bronwen?” Enit asked.

“Quite,” Bronwen replied.

“Good, then listen closely to what I tell you now.” Enit spoke in a low voice. “The Viking fears that a large storm is gathering and will hinder his sea passage, making his land vulnerable to attack during his absence. He insists that your marriage ceremony take place tomorrow.”

Bronwen was too stunned to reply. She had thought the wedding was weeks or even months away. Before she could question Enit further, Gildan pulled her down the stairs into the hall. It was crowded with men, some still sleeping and others conversing quietly. Servants carried about jugs of frumenty and chamomile tea. Bronwen accepted a bowl of the hot, spicy frumenty and took a spoonful. The milky concoction laden with raisins warmed her stomach.

“Your appetite has returned, daughter,” Edgard said, coming up behind her. Despite the night’s revelries, her father looked hale and wore a broad grin. “I know the announcement of your betrothal was unexpected. Yet, I hope not too unpleasant. Lothbrok is a good man, and he will treat you fairly.”

“But, Father, must the wedding take place so soon? Surely it is not our custom nor the Vikings’ to have a wedding follow an engagement by two short days!”

Edgard frowned. “I worry more about the reaction to my will than I do about this hasty wedding to a Norseman.”

Bronwen knew by his tone of voice that arguing was futile. “I believe all will be well. Enit told me there was much excitement in the kitchen last night.”

Edgard nodded. “It is a novel idea, but I saw no better way to preserve our holdings. After lengthy negotiation, Lothbrok agreed. Come with me, daughter. I must show you something.”

Bronwen followed her father from the hall toward the chamber built below ground many generations before. As they made their way through the darkness, she heard him fumbling with his keys. At length, they reached the door that Bronwen knew led into the treasure room. Her father unlocked the door and beckoned her inside.

The chamber was filled with wooden chests, one stacked upon another, and all locked and sealed. Once, as a child, when she and Gildan had been exploring the keep and its grounds, they had come upon this room. Bronwen had to smile at the memories of her adventures with her reluctant sister. Scaling the timber palisade that surrounded the keep, getting lost in the forest, stumbling upon the entrance to a secret tunnel and following it from outside the walls to a trapdoor ending somewhere deep beneath the fortress—all were a part of the childhood she soon would leave behind forever.

“These treasures one day will be yours,” Edgard said, interrupting her thoughts. “Some will go to Gildan, of course. Gold coins and bars fill the chests. Several contain jewels. When I am gone, Bronwen, you must see that this room is well guarded.”

“Yes, Father,” Bronwen answered, conscious of the great responsibility he placed upon her.

“But this small chest contains the greatest treasure of all.” Edgard lifted an ornate gold box to the torchlight. “It is my will—set down in writing. As you well know, in declaring that you will inherit my domain upon my death, I have broken a long Briton tradition. Some of our countrymen may see fit to overlook or disregard the pronouncement. But beyond providing us with a reliable ally in Lothbrok, this document does two important things.”

“What are they, Father?”

“It keeps these holdings in Briton hands. Though they be the hands of a woman, you are capable of managing them. Of this I am confident. And this will encourages you to bear a son soon or to remarry quickly should Lothbrok die. Though the lands will be yours, you must remarry in order to provide a reliable caretaker.”

“Why Lothbrok?” Bronwen asked. “Aeschby is the stronger ally.”

“I had to give you to the weaker. If Gildan were to wed Olaf, nothing would prevent his changing loyalties upon an invasion. He could simply conquer Rossall for himself under the authority of King Stephen or Matilda. But with you as Olaf’s wife, Bronwen, he has hope of securing our lands through a child. The Viking will defend all lands destined for his future heirs.”

Bronwen knew her father spoke the truth. And like him, she felt confident that she was as well trained to oversee the land and serfs as a son would have been. Indeed, she had been left in charge several times when her father had gone away to battle or to meet with other lords. Yet the law of inheritance remained, and she accepted that it was right for a man to be the primary caretaker of an estate and all its assets.

“The will inside this box,” Edgard told her as he drew a golden key from his cloak and inserted it into the lock, “was inscribed by the same scholar who came from Preston to teach you and Gildan to speak the French tongue of Britain’s Norman invaders.”

When her father lifted the lid, Bronwen saw a folded parchment imprinted with her father’s seal. He touched it with his fingertips as he spoke. “Whether written in my native tongue or in French, I cannot read this document to know what was written. But my marshal assured me the scribe was an honest man. And he taught you well, did he not?”

Bronwen recalled the months the balding man had spent instructing her and Gildan in the cramped room behind the great hall. She had objected to having to learn Norman French. After all, why should they compromise themselves to speak that hated tongue?

“Times are changing, daughter,” Edgard spoke up. “You do not know half of what happens now in England. There is much turmoil, and our dream of reuniting this island under Briton rule grows ever more dim. Though I send out my spies and discuss such matters with other Briton landholders, even I am unaware of many things. But this I know—the written oath will prove more convincing than the spoken.”

“Can this be possible, Father?” Bronwen asked. “Among the Britons, a man’s word must be true. The history of our people is known only through the stories and ballads of the scops and bards. Few Britons can read and write more than their names. Indeed, I believe Gildan and I may be the only speakers of Norman French in all Amounderness.”

“This is a new world, daughter,” Edgard said in a low voice. “And not a good one. Promise me you will guard this box, Bronwen. Keep the key always about your neck. Never take it off!”

“Of course, and may the gods protect it.” She took the golden key and slipped it onto the chain about her neck. By the urgency of her father’s speech, she understood that his strange deed was important. More than once he had consulted with those deep forest-dwellers who could foresee the future, and his plans had served their family.

“Father, I thank you for leaving me your lands. Though I cannot desire a union with the Viking Lothbrok, I understand its purpose. I shall obey you, as I always have. My desire is to bear a son soon, that you may know our Briton line continues.”

Edgard smiled. “Your obedience pleases me, Bronwen. When you depart Rossall, carry this box with you unobserved. No one must suspect its contents. Come let us return now to the hall, for we must prepare to see you wed.”

As they climbed the stairs and approached the great hall again, Bronwen spotted a young man with flaming red hair. He sat with his back against the wall, a desolate expression on his face. Concerned as always for her people, she tucked the golden will box under her cloak, left her father’s side and went to him.

“You are troubled,” she declared.

“Seasick,” he corrected her, speaking their tongue in the crude fashion of Briton peasants. “All night. I never felt worse in me life. I’m the serf of them brutish Vikings, you see. Now morning comes, and I’m hungry as a wolf. Poor Wag, I says to meself, sick and hungry. But all the food is gone—not even a trencher to be had.”

“I shall see you are given something to eat, Wag,” she told him. “But first—tell me something of your lord. He is to be my husband.”

The peasant scrambled to his feet and made an awkward bow. “Be you the bride then? The daughter of Edgard?”

She smiled. “Indeed I am.”

“Much obliged for your kindness, my lady. The Viking is a good master, though his men can be cruel at times. I fear you will see little of your new husband, for he follows the ways of his forefathers and is often gone to sea in his horrid, creaky boat.”

This came as glad news on a day of unhappy and confusing surprises. Bronwen thought of questioning Wag further, but she decided against it.

“Go into the kitchen and tell cook that the lord’s black-haired daughter promised you a large bowl of frumenty, with plenty of raisins.”

“Thank you, ma’am. And best wishes in your marriage.”

In her bedchamber, Bronwen found Gildan in a flurry of excitement. The younger woman had learned that her wedding, too, would take place the next day—a decision Aeschby had made on learning of the Viking’s plans. Bronwen pursed her lips as her sister thrust three tunics into her arms and bade her decide which was the loveliest.

“I adore the red,” Gildan said with a pout, “but silly old Enit keeps saying, ‘Married in red, you’ll wish yourself dead.’ And I do so admire this green woolen, but ‘Married in green, ashamed to be seen!’ I am attached to the red, but Enit says blue is good luck. ‘Married in blue, love ever true.’”

“Does she now? Then blue it must be.”

“But this is such a dull, common tunic!”

Gildan appeared so distressed that Bronwen had to suppress a chuckle. “Come, sister. You must have the golden ribbon that was brought to me from the last fair at Preston. We shall stitch it down the front of this blue woolen, and you can trim the sleeves with that ermine skin you have had for years.”

“Oh, Bronwen, you are so clever!” Gildan embraced her sister. “Indeed, it will be the loveliest gown Aeschby has ever seen. Is my lord not a handsome man? And powerful! And rich! The gods have smiled on me indeed.”

Realizing she must begin to think of her own nuptials, Bronwen went to the chest where she kept her most elegant tunics. But as she lifted the lid, the mantle given her the night before by the stranger slid onto the floor. Hastily, lest anyone notice, she swept it up. As she began folding it into the chest again, her attention fell on the garment’s lining. It was a peacock-blue silk, startling in its contrast to the plain black wool of the outer fabric. Even more stunning was the insignia embroidered upon the lining near the hood. A crest had been worked in pure gold threads, and centered within the crest were three golden balls.

The elegance of the fabric and the nobility of the crest gave evidence of a wealthy owner of some influence and power. Jacques Le Brun. Who could he be, and why did the mere thought of the man stir her blood?

Bronwen pressed the mantle deeply into the corner of the chest and took out several tunics. “What do you think of these, Gildan?” she asked, forcing a light tone to her voice. “Which do you like best?”

Gildan took the garments and fluttered about the room, busy with her plans. But Bronwen’s thoughts had left the warm, smoky chamber to center upon a dark traveler with raven curls and a kiss that could not be forgotten.

As the day passed, it was decided that Enit would go to live with Bronwen at the holding of the Viking—Warbreck Castle. Gildan protested, but she was silenced with Enit’s stubborn insistence that this was how it must be. She could not be divided in half, could she? By custom, the older girl should retain her. Pleased at the knowledge that her faithful companion would share the future with her, Bronwen tried to shake the sense of impending doom that hung over her.

During the day, Bronwen worked to fit and embroider the wedding gowns. In the hall below, Edgard’s men stacked the girls’ dowry chests along with heavy trunks of their clothing and personal belongings. But Bronwen slid the small gold box containing Edgard’s will into the chatelaine purse she would hook to a chain that hung at her waist.

Toward evening, the hall filled once again with the sounds and smells of a feast. Rather than joining yet another meal with her future husband, Bronwen bade Enit walk with her in silence along the shore as the sun sank below the horizon. Looking up at Rossall Hall, Bronwen pondered her past and the years to come. She must accept the inevitable. At Warbreck Castle, there would be no pleasure in the nearness of the sea, no joy in the comforts of a familiar hall, no satisfaction in the embrace of a husband.

Surely for Gildan, marriage might someday become a source of joy in the arms of one who cared for her. But for Bronwen, only the heavy belly and grizzled face of an old man awaited. As she imagined her wedding night, Bronwen again reflected on the traveler who had held her. Though she tried to contain her emotion, she sniffled, and tears began to roll down her cheeks.

“Fare you well, Bronwen?” the old woman asked.

“Dearest Enit,” she burst out. “I cannot bear this fate! Why do the gods punish me? What ill have I done?”

She threw herself on the old woman’s shoulder and began to sob. But instead of the expected tender caress, Bronwen felt her head jerked back in the tight grip of the nurse’s gnarled hands.

“Bronwen, hold your tongue!” Enit snapped. “Be strong. Look!”

Bronwen followed the pointed direction of the long, crooked finger, and she saw the fearsome profile of her future husband’s Viking ship. It was a longship bedecked for war—a Viking snekkar—and it floated unmoving, like a serpent awaiting its prey.

“Enit, we must hurry home.” Bronwen spoke against her nursemaid’s ear. She must not be met on the beach by Olaf Lothbrok’s men. They would question her and perhaps accuse her of trying to escape. Now she had no choice but to return to her chamber and make final preparations for her wedding. When Lothbrok saw her the following morning, she would be wearing her wedding tunic, having prepared herself to become a wife.

At their request, the two brides ate the evening meal alone in their room, though Bronwen could hardly swallow a bite. “Gildan,” she said as they sat on a low bench beside the fire. “I hope you will be happy with Aeschby. I shall miss you.”

At that, Gildan began to weep softly. “And I shall miss you. You must come to see me soon in my new home.”

She flung her arms around her sister, and the two clung to each other for a long moment. Bronwen felt as though she had never been more as one with her sister…or more apart. Gildan looked so young and frail. If only Bronwen could be certain that Aeschby would treat his wife well, the parting might come more easily.

“I smell a storm coming across the sea,” Gildan whispered. “Let us send Enit out and go to bed. I have had more than my fill of her predictions and proverbs about weddings. Truly, I am not sad she goes with you. She can grow so tiresome.”

“You will miss her, sister. She’s the only mother you have known.”

Gildan’s face softened as she rose from the fireside and climbed into the bed the young women had shared almost from birth. “Just think…from now on it will be Aeschby sleeping beside me, Bronwen. How strange. How wonderful!”

Bronwen dismissed Enit for the evening and set the bowls and spoons into a bucket beside the door. Then she banked the fire and pulled the rope hanging from the louvered shutters in the ceiling. Now the smoke could still make its way out, but the cold night wind would be blocked from blowing into the chamber.

Shivering slightly, Bronwen slipped under the coverlet beside her sister. For one brief moment, she pictured herself on the beach again, wrapped in Le Brun’s mantle. She imagined the silken lining of the hood caressing her cheek and tried to smell again the faintly spicy scent clinging to the woolen folds. As she recalled the embrace of the man who had worn it, a pain filled her heart. Unable to bear it, she forced away the memory, and hid it in a dark, secret place—just as she had done the mantle.

The two weddings had been set for midmorning, to be followed by a feast, and perhaps even a day or two of celebration. Gildan flew about the chamber like a mad hen, refusing to allow Bronwen a moment to herself. Both women had chosen to wear white woolen undertunics. Enit laced up the tight sleeves of the fitted dresses. Gildan hurried to slip on her beautifully embroidered and fur-trimmed blue frock.

“Bronwen!” She laughed as Enit combed the shining golden waves of her hair. “Such a happy day! Hurry and put on your gown.”

Bronwen had chosen a light gray tunic embroidered with red and silver threads. It hung loose to her ankles, and she sashed it with a silver girdle. Then she clasped about her waist the chain that held her purse with the will box hidden inside. After carefully plaiting her long braids, she stepped into a pair of thin kidskin slippers.

“I am quite sure I shall freeze during the ceremony,” Gildan was protesting.

Enit, already in a sour mood from being ordered about since dawn, glowered at her. “Your mantle will keep you warm, girl. Now put it on and stop fussing. It’s almost time.”

On an impulse born of a sleepless night and a heart full of fear, sorrow and anguish, Bronwen lifted the lid of her wooden clothing chest and drew out the dark mantle Le Brun had given her. Wrapping it over her bridal tunic, she followed her sister out into the day.

The sun was barely visible behind a thick curtain of snow that sifted down like flour as the young women stepped into the great hall. Bronwen spotted her beaming father. The two bridegrooms stood beside him.

With a grim expression written across his face, Olaf Lothbrok stared at Bronwen as she took her place beside him. He wore a heavy bearskin cloak that fell to his leather boots. His hair was uncovered, and his thick beard spread across his chest.

A druidic priest began the ceremony by burning sacred woods and leaves, then chanting ritual petitions for health, safety and fertility. Before Bronwen could fully absorb the significance of the man’s words, the wedding was ended. As if with the snap of a finger or the crash of a wave upon the shore, she became a wife. She had stood beside this aged and heavy Norseman who had once been her people’s enemy, and now she was wedded to him forever.

Clinging to the edges of the black mantle around her shoulders, Bronwen joined the wedding party as it left the great hall. The snowstorm had worsened, and she lifted the hood over her head as pebbles of sleet stung her cheeks and slanted across the keep’s muddy yard. A heavy gray fog obscured the horizon to the west across the water.

Lothbrok surveyed the sky and turned to Edgard. Speaking in his broken Briton tongue, he told Bronwen’s father of his decision. “I must set sail at once. The weather comes bad across the seas.”

Edgard scowled. “The wedding feast is being prepared in the kitchens. There is yet time for a celebration. Stay longer here, Lothbrok—at least allow your new wife time to eat and refresh herself before the journey.”

A shiver ran down her spine as Bronwen stood on the steps and watched her new husband in animated discussion with her father. They must be nearly the same age, she surmised. Together, they looked like a pair of old bears, scarred and spent with years of battle.

As Olaf finished speaking and stomped down the stairs toward the waiting ship, Edgard turned to his elder daughter. “Bronwen, the Viking insists he must return to Warbreck at once. He has been sent a message that a village near his holding was burned. Whether it was the work of Normans or Scots he cannot tell, but he fears the coming storm could hold him several days here. You must depart with him at once.”

“But what of the feast? Has he no respect for our traditions?”

“Daughter, you must remember that this man’s ways are not our ways. You sail at once.”

Bronwen ran to her sister’s side and embraced Gildan. And so this was how it must be. A wedding. A ship. A new life far from home and family. Bronwen held her sister for a moment, then pulled away.

“We must part,” she said. “My love goes with you. Be happy, Gildan.”

Without a final glance at her beloved home, Bronwen stepped into the biting gale. In the distance, a small boat moved toward the shore. She saw that her chests and trunks were being loaded in another.

Edgard followed his daughter down the steep hill toward the water’s edge. He took her arm and drew her close. “Do you have the golden key?” he whispered. “And the will box?”

“Yes, Father. I have them both.” She drew back the mantle that he might see the outline of the box inside her chatelaine purse.

Edgard nodded with satisfaction. “Keep them with you always lest they fall into the wrong hands. Never let Lothbrok know of the will. He would not understand that in this new world of Norman kings and knights, the written word holds great power. And now, farewell, my beloved daughter. You, who are nearest to my heart, go farthest away. You will dwell with a strange people and an aged husband, but you must never forget that you are a Briton and that Rossall is your true home. When I die, return here and join my lands to those of your husband.”

Bronwen slipped her arms around her father and held him close for a moment. Then she turned and hurried toward the waiting boat. As she was rowed across the bay toward the snekkar, Bronwen buried her head in the folds of the dark woolen cloak and wept bitter tears.

When the small boat bumped against the bow of the Viking ship, she looked up to see the head of a dragon rising above her, and higher still, a purple sail painted with a black crow billowed in the buffeting wind. But once aboard the snekkar, she turned her face away from the land, away from her father and from her sister and her home. She looked out into the darkening fog and tried to summon her courage. Fate had laid out this path, and she had no choice but to walk it.

As the snekkar inched its way southward, icy rain began to fall more heavily. Bronwen huddled under the thick mantle and covered her head with the hood that once had concealed the features of a man she must no longer remember. Enit, shivering beside Bronwen on the cold, hard deck, held up a soggy blanket to shield her head from the pelting sleet.

The sky grew black as heavy fog rolled over them from the Irish Sea. The mouth of the Warbreck River lay only ten or twelve miles south along the coast, but darkness fell before it came into sight. Wind whipped and tore at the sails and sent waves crashing into the seamen who tried to keep the ship upright with their twin rows of countless oars. At the front of the ship, Lothbrok stood peering out into the fog, now and then pointing east or west.

Bronwen hugged her knees tightly to her chest, and the hard edges of the small gold box pressed against her legs. Thinking of her father’s earnest lecture about the power of the written word, she tried to erase from her mind the image of the boat, herself, and the box sinking to the bottom of the sea, lost forever.

As the night deepened, the storm continued raging until at last Bronwen heard shouts from the crewmen. Rather than continuing south, the ship began to turn eastward. Peering out from under the hood, she saw a pinprick of light in the distance. When the ship drew close enough to shore to weigh anchor, Lothbrok hurried his bride and her nursemaid into a small boat. Giving no instruction, he turned his back on them as crewmen hurriedly lowered the boat toward the water.

“Wait!” Bronwen shouted at her husband. “Lothbrok, where do you send us?”

The Norseman peered down at them. “See that light? Go ashore and find shelter. I cannot abandon my snekkar in such a storm.”

“Yet you would send your wife away with only her nursemaid for protection?”

“My man will stay with you. Go now!”

“Whisht,” Enit muttered, elbowing Bronwen. “Speak no more. Keep your thoughts to yourself, girl.”

Two crewmen rowed the women toward the fog-shrouded shore. As soon as the boat scraped bottom, the men helped them out and dragged them through the icy surf. Her clothing heavy with seawater, Bronwen struggled across the wet sand toward the light. While one of Lothbrok’s men rowed back to the snekkar, the other accompanied them along the beach.

The light in the distance proved to be that of a candle burning inside a small wattle hut along the edge of the forest that met the beach. Lothbrok’s man hammered on the door, which opened to reveal a tall, fair-haired man. To Bronwen’s surprise, he did not ask their identity or loyalties, but warmly bade them enter. Around the fire, a small group of travelers took their rest.

When Bronwen approached, one of their number rose and withdrew silently to a darkened corner. Bronwen’s heart stumbled at the sight—for as the man pulled his hood over his face, the hem of his black mantle fell aside to reveal a peacock-blue lining.

Chapter Three

His visage protected by shadow and the hood of his cloak, Jacques Le Brun studied the party his friend was now ushering toward the fire. One man. Two women. And unless his eyes failed him in the dim light, the taller lady was the daughter of Edgard the Briton.

“Thank you for welcoming us.” The man spoke the Briton tongue poorly, and he was no Norman. A Viking, then. A rough, barbaric breed. Jacques felt for his sword and knife as the boorish fellow stepped in front of the two women and took a place in the circle around the crackling flame.

“We were caught up in the storm at sea,” he told the others. “I protect the women while my father keeps charge of his ship. I am called Haakon, a Viking of Warbreck and the son of Olaf Lothbrok.”

Edgard’s daughter gasped aloud to learn that her escort was Olaf’s son. Clearly they had not yet been introduced. Jacques couldn’t imagine what had compelled the lady to leave her father’s hearth in this weather and so soon after her betrothal to the old Viking. Jacques knew a Briton wedding would never take place until the spring or summer, when conditions were optimum for their pagan marriage rites. For a maiden to reside with a man unwed was unseemly. Yet the Britons—an ancient race that sought out witches for their charms and seers for their supposed foresight—were hardly more civilized than the Norsemen. Perhaps the woman’s father had made this arrangement for some ulterior purpose.

“Hail to you in the name of our Lord, my friend. I am called Martin.” The tall, scrawny man who had opened the door to these vagabonds now held out a hand toward the fire in the center of the hut. Jacques realized his companion’s ability to converse with them was good, for he had been brought up not far from this place. This would be a help in days to come.

“Greetings all three,” Martin said. “Ladies, I beg you to remove your wet cloaks and take places beside the blaze.”

“Thank you, sir,” the younger woman said. “You are good.”

As she removed her mantle, Jacques knew for certain that this was the woman who had mesmerized him during the feast at Rossall Hall. And it was she to whom he had given his first kiss in many a long year.

“Only God is truly good,” Martin replied with a smile as the other men made room for the women to seat themselves on a low bench. “So you are from Warbreck? We passed through that village this very day.”

Jacques grimaced. Leave it to Martin to welcome total strangers without removing their weapons and to disclose information they hadn’t even requested. Jacques must speak to his friend about this on the morrow, though he feared it would do little good.

When Edgard’s daughter turned her face into the light of the fire, Jacques could no longer keep his thoughts focused on Martin’s latest faux pas. The woman again captured him—her dark beauty smiting him with misty memories of days he could hardly recall and fancies he had rarely permitted himself to imagine.

She was beautiful—truly, the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld. Long black braids reached down past her shoulders, and her brown eyes danced in the flames. Yet, despite the woman’s loveliness, Jacques knew from their prior encounter that she had a sharp tongue and strong opinions.

“I am Bronwen, daughter of Edgard the Briton,” she stated in her own language. “This is my nurse, Enit. We hail from Rossall Hall.”

“Not Warbreck?” Martin registered confusion. “But Rossall is a fine keep, too, I understand. We have just roasted a small deer, and here on the fire, you see I am baking bread and warming drink. I hope you’ll join us for dinner. You must be hungry after such a journey.”

“I confess I am half-starved,” Bronwen acknowledged. “I’m sure we all would enjoy a hot meal.”

After speaking, she glanced directly at Jacques, who had kept to his station in the corner of the room. Clearly, she had noted his presence. But had she recognized him? From beneath his hood, he stared at her. What was it about the woman that drew him so? And why had he been so foolish, so recklessly impulsive, as to kiss her that night on the beach? Even now he could hardly countenance what he had done—yet the memory of that moment haunted him like nothing else.

The men cordially welcomed their guests and resumed their muted conversations. As expected, none drew attention to their master’s presence in the room. Jacques had trained them well. Bronwen the Briton, however, peered at him now and again—often enough that he began to suspect she had recognized him.

In the warmth of the fire, she and her nurse spread their skirts to dry. Their once ashen faces began to regain color, and they smiled as they whispered to each other—their good spirits obviously restored. As the maiden unbraided her wet hair, her nurse produced an ivory comb and set to work on the tangled knots in her charge’s black tresses.

Martin began to slice the meat as the company watched in anticipation. Earlier, he had wrapped a few wild turnips and onions in wet leaves and placed them among the coals. The scent of roasted deer, steamed vegetables and baking bread began to fill the hut, and Jacques acknowledged his own hunger. He did not wish to reveal himself to the women, yet how could he resist the opportunity to fill his belly after his long journey?

“I’m sure I shall never be completely warm again,” the nurse said with a small laugh. “Such waves and wind! It’s cold enough to starve an otter to death in wintertime, as they say.”

“That it is,” Martin concurred. “I don’t envy your master on the high seas in the midst of it. Here now, Enit, put this dry blanket about you. I’ll have some hot drink for you in a moment.”

Jacques shook his head in bemusement at this act of kindness toward a servant. That Martin had chosen such a deferential path in life perplexed him still. The tall man placed a thick blanket around Enit’s shoulders, and Bronwen accepted a cup of the steaming brew that bubbled in a pot on the coals.

When Martin announced that the meal was ready, he called those in the room to rise. Jacques remained in the shadows, yet he stood as Martin lifted his hands and began to pray. “Bless us, oh God. Bless these gifts which we receive from Your bosom, and make us truly thankful. In the name of our Savior we pray. Amen.”

As Bronwen seated herself again, she addressed Martin. “Good sir, may I ask which god you serve? Or do you make prayers to all of them?”

Martin smiled at her as he began to pass around slices of the dripping meat. “I am a follower of the one true God. I serve His only Son, my Lord Jesus Christ.”

“Christ?” she said. “Then you are a Christian?”

“Indeed I am. This party travels to London, that I may join believers in obedience to His Spirit through service to Jesus. Those who live at the monastery make it our mission to preach the good news of the Kingdom of God.”

“Strange words,” Bronwen said. “I have heard tales of Christians. Is it true you worship only this one God and give no homage to the spirits of the trees and mountains?”

Martin smiled. “God fashioned the earth and all that dwells upon it. We choose to worship the Creator rather than His creation.”

“But surely your God has a dwelling place?”

“He abides in the heart of every true believer.”

“Only in the heart of man? Why should this Spirit not also wish to inhabit the rest of His creation? Surely man is not solely blessed with the presence of the gods.”

As the two spoke, one of Jacques’s men rose and carried a slab of venison to him. Without pausing in the conversation, Bronwen turned and peered into the corner where he sat. She was opening her mouth to speak when Martin handed her a bowl filled with chunks of meat and steaming vegetables. He gave her a brief nod and then turned to Enit with another bowl.

“Putting the feast on the board is the best invitation,” the older woman cackled.

Bronwen smiled at her nurse before returning to Martin. “The venison is tender and succulent, while the turnips and onions melted away like butter. I daresay I have never tasted such a fine meal or been so warm. Again, sir, we thank you for sharing your dinner with us.”

“I am honored to be of service, my lady,” Martin replied.

Haakon, the Norseman who had been consuming his portion in silence, tossed an onion over his shoulder before speaking up. “Tell me, holy man, where did you slay this deer?”

Martin and the others stopped their eating to eye the Viking. Jacques stiffened. Setting his meal aside, he again touched his knife. Clearly Martin’s generosity meant nothing. Haakon wanted to know if the deer had been poached from his father’s land.

“Where Christopher bought his coat, as they say, sir,” Martin answered.

Haakon glowered at him. “I asked you a question, man. I expect an answer.”

“We got the deer where ’twas to be had.”

The burly Viking stood and pointed a thick forefinger at Martin. “You play games with me, do you? That deer belonged to the lands of Olaf Lothbrok, and you—”

“And you have kindly fed his wife and her attendant,” Bronwen cut in. “We appreciate your generosity, Martin. Do we not, Haakon? You, too, have filled your belly. Would you now turn against your provider?”

Wife? Jacques could hardly believe he had heard aright. Was it possible she had wed the old man already? Teeth clenched, he drew his knife from its scabbard and rose on one knee.

Haakon was glaring at Bronwen, as she stood to address him across the fire. “I am your mistress now, and I command you to apologize to this gentleman.”

“I obey no command given by a woman,” Haakon snarled. “I protect my father and his possessions, and I comply only with his requests.”

The woman lifted her chin. “I am the chattel of Olaf Lothbrok—not only his possession but his chosen wife. Obey me now, as you will in the future. I insist upon it.”

Jacques understood the deep significance of this confrontation. Though the custom of both Briton and Viking gave authority to men, Bronwen had chosen to assert her own station as Haakon’s superior. She must not relent. Failing to defend her claim would put her forever under the man’s domination and control.

“Apologize, Haakon,” she repeated. “I command you.”

The Viking started to speak, but he held his tongue as he glared at Bronwen. She maintained her cold, steady gaze. Finally, he turned to Martin and muttered, “As this woman commands, I apologize for questioning you about the animal.”

Martin nodded. “No offense taken.”

Bronwen did not acknowledge Haakon’s obedience. Instead, she bent down to help the old nursemaid to her feet. As the young woman gathered their now-dried woolen cloaks, she cast a glance at Jacques, who still crouched in deep shadow. Though he fully expected her to confront him with as much fervor as she had the Viking, she took Enit by the elbow, stepped to another corner of the small room and began arranging a sleeping pallet.

Jacques sheathed his knife again and picked up his dinner. In time, his men finished their meal and began to settle around the room. He was glad they had found this shelter near the beach, for all were weary from the day’s journey. Jacques watched as Haakon took a place near the door and cast a final hostile glance at Bronwen. She turned her back on him and lay down beside her nurse, who soon was snoring softly.

Exhausted, Jacques leaned his head against the wall. He was tired, but he would not sleep. Though silence had fallen over the gathering, he knew that darkness often brought misdeed.

Unable to sleep, Bronwen considered the fate of the ship that had brought her to this place. Vikings were legendary seamen and rarely lost a vessel. She had no doubt that Lothbrok would return for his wife and son—perhaps even by morning. Was he as brash and spiteful as his son? The thought sent a curl of dread through her stomach.

As the icy rainfall quieted from a roar to a gentle patter, Bronwen turned her thoughts to Martin and his kindness toward her and Enit. What was the nature of this God he served, and what powers could He offer to faithful worshippers? Did Martin tremble at the power of his God, or was this God the cause of his smiles and humility?

Recalling the festivals, rituals and sacrifices of her people, Bronwen considered the questions that filled her mind. As the hours passed, she came to realize that she didn’t know enough to pass judgment. It was a mystery—but one she wished to explore.

And the man in the corner? Could he truly be Jacques Le Brun? She had studied him in the firelight, but she couldn’t be certain. It seemed impossible that they should meet again so soon. And if he recognized her, why not identify himself? No, it could not be the man. Yet as dearly as she wished to wash away her memories of Le Brun, she was powerless.

Late in the night, the rain ceased, leaving only the soft sound of waves breaking on the beach. Unable to rest her mind or even stretch her legs in the cramped, smoky hut, Bronwen decided to walk down to the sea. Perhaps she would see the Viking snekkar in time to steel herself for another meeting with her new husband. Rising, she slipped the mantle over her shoulders. The man in the corner dozed with his head against the wall. And Haakon, lying next to the hut’s door, was snoring as she edged past him and stepped out into the night.

The dense bank of clouds had rolled back, leaving a cover of newly washed stars. Bronwen dug her bare toes into the wet sand and shook out her long hair as she wandered toward the water’s edge. Some years ago, her father had employed a tutor, a man who once had been steward to a Norman family in the town of Preston. He had taught Bronwen and Gildan to speak French, to learn how their enemy viewed the world, and to understand some sense of the characteristics of the Christian God.

Much of what the tutor had told the girls was either laughable or revolting, but his explanation of the natural world fascinated Bronwen. On this night, she could see that nature was in balance again. Earth, fire, water, air—the four elements making up everything on the earth—must always remain in harmony, the tutor had said. When one asserted itself, the others brought it back into order.

So it was with kings, lords and serfs. It would take a mighty king indeed to subdue all of England and bring it under control. Bronwen had heard that Matilda had such a man in mind—her son Henry Plantagenet—to rule England if she prevailed against King Stephen in their civil war. But Henry was a Norman to the core, and Bronwen doubted he had any interest in the island to the north of his French homeland. She didn’t care what the Normans did anyway. As long as they kept their distance from Amounderness and Rossall Hall.

As she strolled, Bronwen came upon a log washed up by the storm. But as she sat, her eye caught a movement down the beach near the hut. If she had wakened Haakon as she’d left the hut, he could have revenge in mind. Heart pounding, she slipped behind the log, hoping its shadow would conceal her.

As she watched the figure draw nearer, Bronwen saw it was Haakon. She closed her eyes and prayed to the gods—even to Martin’s one God—that she might be spared. How foolish she had been to leave the hut unarmed. Yet, even if she had a weapon, she could never hope to physically overcome a strong, well-trained warrior. Would the man be so foolish as to harm his father’s wife? Of course. He could kill her and slip back into the hut. All would believe him innocent.

She heard the Viking’s footsteps crunching the sand near the log, and then he stopped. “So, Bronwen the Briton, we meet again in the dark of night. Is it your habit to wander beaches alone and without protection?”

With a gasp, she sat up. “Le Brun? But I thought you were…someone else.”

“Your Viking protector? But you have no fear of that man, do you? At dinner you were quite impressive.”

“And you—crouching in the corner like a mouse? Do you fear him?”

“I fear only God.”

“So, you follow your friend to London to pay homage to this God so favored by Normans. Or are you still spying out Amounderness?”

The man chuckled but made no answer. “You must call me Jacques. We know each other too well for formalities. And I see you have put my mantle to good use. I’m glad of that. Now perhaps you’ll tell me why you attempt to hide when the stars illuminate everything on this beach.”

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.”

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 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. 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. 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?”

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.”

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 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.”

“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.

As the sun peeked over the distant mountains behind them, the company stepped out of the hut. Bronwen breathed deeply of the clean sea air. Though tired, she longed to be on her way from this place.

“Thank you for your generosity,” Enit was saying to Martin as she readied her bag for the journey.

“You are most welcome. And you, Haakon, may we part as friends? I wish no enmity between us.”

Bronwen turned in time to see the Viking walk away from the proffered hand. “I feel no enmity for you, Norman,” Haakon spoke over his shoulder. “I desire no friendship either. Come, women. The sun rises.”

Bronwen set out after the Viking, but she stopped when a familiar deep voice spoke her name.

“Bronwen the Briton,” Jacques said from his horse. “I wish you well in your new life. Please tell your lord I look forward to our meeting.”

Bronwen turned to him, her heart thundering again. “Sir, my husband will welcome neither you nor your lord Henry Plantagenet, I assure you. Nevertheless, I wish you safety and godspeed.”

At this she turned away and rejoined her companions, never looking back.

Chapter Four

The sun was fully risen when Bronwen’s party arrived at the mouth of the Warbreck Wash, a swampland where the Warbreck River met the sea. Jacques had been wrong. The Viking snekkar was not moored there. Despite exhaustion and hunger, Bronwen’s spirits lifted. She was grateful for the reprieve, even though she knew that unless the gods had altered her fate, Olaf Lothbrok would soon return. In his absence she could take time to accustom herself to her new role in life.

At the river’s edge stood a small village, busy with the day’s activities. Men readied boats for fishing, while half-naked children poked into the sand with sticks and looked for cockles. Haakon shouted at them in his Norse tongue, and three of the youngsters scurried toward the nearby buildings.

Bronwen was appalled by the filthy condition of this seaside village—far worse than those of Rossall’s holding. Enit muttered her disgust as they lifted their skirts over the wet places in the streets. When they came to the river—afloat with rotted vegetables and rags—two men waited with a small fishing boat. Once they were settled, the men set to with their oars.

The gentle rocking of the boat as it pulled upstream against the sluggish current lulled Bronwen’s body and soothed her troubled mind. Before long she fell asleep on Enit’s shoulder and stirred only when the boat bumped against a wooden pier at their journey’s end.

Rubbing her eyes, she looked up into a sky filled with towering gray clouds. Outlined against them stood the imposing battlements of Warbreck Castle. The dizzying height of the keep that rose behind the stone wall took her breath away.

“Look, child!” Enit cried out. “Rooms built one on top of another.

“Imagine that.” Bronwen’s private chambers at Rossall had been on a higher level than that of the hall, but certainly not on top of it. She had never thought such a thing possible.

“Welcome, Haakon, son of Olaf Lothbrok.” A mail-clad guard saluted as the party approached the keep. When he spoke, Bronwen realized that Viking warriors must have inter-married with their conquered Briton populace some generations ago. Though their tongue was different from her own in many ways, she understood it well enough.

“Where is my lord?” the guard asked. “And the snekkar?”

Haakon related the details of the storm and its consequences. “And this,” he said, pointing a thumb at Bronwen, “is the bride.”

To her satisfaction, the guard knelt before her. She bade him rise and lead her to the keep.

“Such a great number of men,” Enit said under her breath as they passed through the wall’s gate into the courtyard. “Look at ’em standing at post and walking about the perimeters of the wall. They’re everywhere.”

“This holding is far more heavily guarded than Rossall,” Bronwen returned in a low voice. “I fear we are surrounded.”

Ahead of them, Haakon pushed open the heavy oaken door of the great hall and led them inside. Though a large log blazed in the center of the room, its high stone walls were cold and desolate.

“They have a dais,” Bronwen whispered to Enit.

“But no musicians’ gallery above it. Perhaps these barbarians don’t even have music.”

Bronwen elbowed her nurse to silence as Haakon pointed out the servitors gathered before her. “These are your personal attendants,” he said. “Most speak some form of your vulgar tongue.”

Bronwen pasted on a smile as she studied the motley group, though she wondered dismally if they would be as difficult as Haakon. A small woman with flaming red hair and ruddy skin beckoned, leading Bronwen out of the hall and up a steep flight of stone stairs. Enit puffed along behind, muttering good riddance to Haakon, boats and stormy seas.

At the top of the stairs a guardroom was filled with spears, swords, bows and arrows. In its center, coals from the night’s fire glowed, while a heap of blankets and furs indicated that this was also a sleeping room.

“So many weapons, Enit,” Bronwen murmured as they picked their way across the room.

To her surprise, the red-haired woman responded. “Your husband’s lands are hard pressed by Normans to the south and by Scotsmen to the northeast. He often travels to aid his neighboring allies and strengthen his borders.”

The women crossed the guardroom to a door on the far wall. It opened into a small chamber with a sagging wooden bed in one corner and a narrow slit for a window. Thick layers of rotting rushes on the floor sent up a dank musty odor. “Your chamber, my lady.”

Bronwen turned to Enit, who stood aghast. “This?” Enit muttered. “This room is fit only for pigs.”

“Enough,” Bronwen snapped. “Our trunks are aboard the snekkar, and I need a clean, dry tunic. See what you can find.” She turned to the other woman. “I must have a fire, and send at once for the rush strewers. I’ll not sleep this night in such an odor.”

“We have no fresh rushes, madam. It is our custom to gather them once before winter, and not again until spring.”

Bronwen shook her head in disbelief. “Upon the morrow I insist that fresh rushes be gathered and set to dry.”

The servitor nodded and followed Enit from the room. Alone in the foul chamber, Bronwen stepped to the bed and ran her hand over the pile of furs. These at least were clean. The narrow arrow-loop window allowed only a slit of light, and she peered out it into the gathering gloom. A village lay far below, and in the distance the wide expanse of woodland was broken now and again by a glint of setting sun reflected on the river.

Was Jacques Le Brun traveling those woods even now? Bronwen at last permitted herself to reflect on the man who had held her twice in the darkness. Did he truly travel toward London and a house for holy men? Or did he journey to meet his lord, Henry Plantagenet?

What were those Normans scheming for Amounderness? Haakon had referred to Jacques as a dog, and Bronwen’s father insisted the French conquerors were the scourge of England. If Normans were so vile, why did Jacques speak to her with such kindness? Why was his touch so gentle? And how would she ever forget that man?

“You are too much like your mother, child,” Enit said to Bronwen as they ate together the following day. “She was dismayed at the state of Rossall when she first arrived with your father. But soon she put it right and let everyone know she was mistress. You’ll do the same.”

Heavyhearted over Jacques’s departure and uncertain what had become of Olaf’s ship, Bronwen had spent the morning surveying her new home. The kitchen was well stocked. Dried herbs and onions hung in bundles from the beams; strips of salted fish lay in baskets, and a freshly dressed boar roasted over the fire. But when Bronwen had run her fingers through a bag of dried beans, tiny black bugs had scurried across her hand.

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