Catherine Palmer - The Briton

“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.