The Briton. Catherine Palmer

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      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.

      Chapter Three

      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. СКАЧАТЬ