Catherine Palmer - The Briton

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.

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.”