The Briton. Catherine Palmer

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ