The Briton. Catherine Palmer

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СКАЧАТЬ 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! СКАЧАТЬ