Catherine Palmer - The Briton

“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.