The Briton

by Catherine Palmer

  Closing her eyes, Bronwen prayed to gods the druids had taught her to honor and worship in her youth. Then she offered petitions to her husband’s Norse gods. Perhaps they would intervene on her behalf. She was beginning a desperate prayer to the last deity she could recall—the Christian God of Martin and Le Brun—when the door to her room fell open.

  Peering over the edge of a blanket of brown bear pelts, she saw Olaf Lothbrok step into the room. He kicked the door shut behind him and approached. Quaking, Bronwen could do nothing but silently utter the name of Jacques Le Brun’s one God. Oh, dear Jesus…Jesus…Jesus…

  “You boldly leave my castle without protection,” Olaf addressed her, standing wide-legged and planting his fists at his hips. “Your behavior flouts my authority. And today my son tells me you have been a false wife. Like a harlot, you shamelessly slept with another man on the night of our wedding. A Norman and a stranger. Yet now, I find you shivering in your bed—a mouse worthy of nothing but a snap of the neck.”

  Bronwen tried to reply but words would not come. She gripped the fur, her fingers tight and her body quivering. Olaf took another step toward her, and she shut her eyes, waiting for it to begin.

  “Well?” he barked. “What have you to say for yourself, wife?”

  “Me?” Her eyes flew open. “You wish me to speak?”

  The Viking stood outlined against the fire. “Defend yourself, if you can.”

  Confusion and incredulity filling her, Bronwen gazed at him. “But…but what do you mean, sir?”

  “Are you dim-witted as well as disloyal? Surely you know that when a person is charged with an offense, we consider him innocent until his peers decide his fate. It is our custom to allow a person to testify on his own behalf. So speak for yourself if you have any justification for your deeds.”

  Bronwen had never heard of such a thing as this. A Briton lord always decided guilt or innocence based on hearsay or tests of honor. But Olaf Lothbrok—full of ire and thrice as strong as she—was permitting her to testify to her own blamelessness.

  With this unexpected hope, she summoned courage. “I went to your bedside this morning,” she said. “You were sleeping. I woke you, but you sent me away. I felt certain you did not require my presence.”

  Olaf’s brow furrowed. “You did come to me. I recall it now. But surely I gave you no permission to leave this stronghold, to wander the woods without a guard.”

  “No, sir. You did not. But I beg you to understand that at Rossall, it was my custom to walk the countryside alone in order to clear my thoughts. I never meant to alarm you, my lord, yet I confess, I did leave this castle. Of that I am guilty. My intent was innocent, however, and such a thing will never happen again.”

  “Continue,” he said. “Explain this tale of Haakon’s. He swore to me that he witnessed your misdeed with his own eyes. I cannot imagine you untarnished in the event.”

  Bronwen swallowed. “When you put your son, my nursemaid and me ashore on the night of the storm, we discovered a hut on the beach. It was already occupied by a band of wanderers. They shared a deer they had killed, for they saw we were hungry. Haakon ate his fill—and then accused the men of poaching the deer from your lands.”

  “Ate first and then laid blame?” Olaf fingered his beard. “Haakon would do such a thing, I fear. He is…young. Brash. Continue, wife.”

  “I predicted conflict, my lord. The strangers outnumbered us, and they were well armed. We were but two women and your son. Sir, the men had been respectful to us. More than polite, they were welcoming. As your wife, I chose to reprimand Haakon. After much dispute with me, he apologized. Now I believe he takes his revenge by spreading evil rumors to disgrace me in your eyes.”

  “Then you deny that you were on the beach with a Norman? A member of the wandering band you had found in the hut?”

  “I do not deny it, my lord,” Bronwen said, meeting her husband’s blue eyes. “I could not sleep for I wondered how you fared in the storm, and I was dismayed over Haakon’s behavior. Just as I foolishly did today, that night I left the hut to walk alone and put my thoughts in order.”

  “Again this walking nonsense?” Olaf said, shaking his head. “Perhaps it is a Briton custom. No Viking wife would be so unwise. And the Norman? Surely he was not putting his thoughts in order, too.”

  “He came to warn me of the danger in my action.” She hung her head, realizing how rash she had been on both occasions. “We spoke, it is true. Nothing untoward passed between us. I thanked him for his caution and returned to the hut, where I slept the rest of the night at my nursemaid’s side. I am innocent of disloyalty to you, my husband. Indeed, I am yet a maiden and as chaste as the day of my birth. You will discover the truth this night when you test my purity yourself.”

  Without response, Olaf squatted by the fire and held his hands over it. He fell silent, and Bronwen knew he must be weighing her words against those of his son. More time passed than she imagined possible in such a situation. The man appeared to be hovering on the verge of his decision, testing it, forming a verdict. Some inner struggle ate at him as he rubbed his forehead and drew his fingers through his beard. At last, he stood.

  “I accept your word as truth, wife,” he said, meeting her eyes. “You speak well and honestly.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Bronwen replied. Relief flooded through her. “I await you humbly now.”

  His lips tightened as he studied her. “Tomorrow I return to Warbreck Wash where my men and I will repair the snekkar. From thence, I survey my borders. While I was at your father’s holding, word came to Warbreck that an army of Scots has attacked my neighbor to the east. My spies report that his hall is under siege. The lord requests my aid, and he is my ally. At dawn, I leave with my men.”

  At the news of Scottish aggression, Bronwen’s ire rose. Pushing back the furs, she left the bed and joined her husband at the fire. “Those coarse and hostile Scots believe this is their land now,” she said. “If I could have that Norman king in my power for one moment, husband, I would send him to London’s white tower and order his head lopped off. With his foolish treaty he has lost the best part of his kingdom to our northern enemy.”

  “You know of the land grant King Stephen gave to Henry of Scotland?” Olaf asked.

  “The grant that includes both Rossall and Warbreck? My father told me about it, of course. It’s an intolerable situation.”

  Rolling a few strands of his beard between thumb and forefinger, Olaf gave a low chuckle. “You astonish me, wife. A woman innocent of personal danger, yet well informed of politics? This is a wonder.”

  “I am to hold Rossall one day, sir, and I am prepared for the task.” She turned to him, aware that seeing her in the bed gown must surely encourage her husband to set aside his consternation about his bride, his son and his lands. If she were to win an alliance with the man, she must ensure that their union this night was pleasurable to him.

  She touched his arm. “Your hurry to aid a neighbor betrays the seriousness of these Scottish raids. While you’re away, I shall see to the keep, my lord. You’ll find it secure on your return.”

  Nostrils flaring and breath labored, Olaf jerked his arm from her touch and stepped away. “I must sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

  Bronwen indicated the bed. “Very well, husband. Come now and take your satisfaction.”

  “Another night,” he said and turned from her.

  Before she could speak again, he was gone. The sound of the door closing behind him echoed through the stone chamber. Breathless, Bronwen stared at the blank wall. Then she looked at the fire. And last, she gazed down at her bare feet on the icy floor.

  “May the gods go with you, my husband,” she murmured.

  The following morning Enit could hardly wait to tell Bronwen of the excitement among the servitors. Even the guards seemed happier this day, for Olaf had gone to his wife’s chamber at last.

  “La, my good girl!” Enit clucked. “Everyone will be looking for signs of
a child now! You must be certain to tell me if you start to feel ill. I’m sure it won’t take long for the old man to do his work in you. Your mother was bearing you only two months after she married Edgard.”

  Bronwen looked away from Enit. “I will thank you to leave this matter to me. Stop your gossip, I beg you, and see to my day’s garments.”

  Enit nodded and set about her work, but Bronwen could not help noticing the smile that played about her nursemaid’s lips. Bronwen thought of the heavy, aged man who was her husband. The night before, she had offered herself to Olaf exactly as she had been taught. To her satisfaction, he had declared her innocent of wrongdoing, chuckled at her wit and expressed admiration of her knowledge. Truly, he had seemed to admire her. But then he had left the room without touching her.

  Why had he gone away? What had she done wrong? Did Norse women have some other way of welcoming their husbands or had Olaf truly preferred to sleep in preparation for his journey? Or, Bronwen wondered, was her appearance unpleasant to him?

  Without intending it, she drifted back to the night on the beach when she had first spoken with Jacques Le Brun. How her heart ached for the stranger who had held her in his arms. She had known by his voice and by his touch that he was a man of strength and honor. And he had called her beautiful…desirable.

  Now, in the light of Olaf’s rejection, Le Brun’s words began to ring false. Surely she was not desirable. Surely she was not beautiful at all.

  “Are you in pain?” Enit was asking. “Your face is pale and your expression troubled. I have herbs to ease your tenderness, child. Trust me, each night with your husband will be better than the last. Some women even learn to enjoy—”

  “Olaf will not be at Warbreck tonight,” Bronwen cut in. “He and his men left at dawn to begin repairs on the snekkar. After the ship is seaworthy, he will survey his borders. An ally is besieged by Scots, and my husband plans to render aid.”

  Enit’s face fell. “But he may be away for weeks!”

  “Or months. I am to remain at the keep with the retinue of guards he has left to defend me. My obligation now is to protect and improve my husband’s holding. But first, I wish to send messages to my father and Gildan. Enit, send for two couriers to meet me in the great hall. I have tarried too long in this duty.”

  Bronwen settled down to her breakfast with an uneasy heart. Olaf had left his bride chaste. Haakon must surely despise his father’s wife all the more. Far away, Edgard would be tending to his own affairs at Rossall. And Gildan was surely at peace in Aeschby’s arms. Bronwen felt abandoned and forgotten.

  Worse yet, Jacques Le Brun must be approaching London. He would soon put her out of his mind. Certainly she must set her memories of the Norman aside. All she would have of him was the black mantle with its peacock-blue lining. That, and a small box containing three gold balls.

  Once it became clear that Bronwen was not carrying Olaf’s child, Enit and the rest of Warbreck’s staff registered great disappointment. But as winter’s chill began to subside, Bronwen threw herself into the tasks at hand.

  Inside the castle, the rotting rushes gathered up from the floor were burned and new ones were strewn across the freshly swept and washed floors. Servitors scrubbed down the table boards in the hall to remove layers of greasy fat and spilled mead. Several women set about to make new over-cloths for the tables, and Bronwen instructed Enit to embroider one with the great black crow that festooned the sails of the snekkar. Though the bird seemed evil to Bronwen, she sensed it would please Olaf.

  “Do you know the symbol of the crow?” she asked a cook one afternoon while they cleaned stones and insects from the lentils.

  The woman explained. “If in battle a crow flies by with flapping wings, victory is certain. But if it glides with motionless wings, defeat will soon follow.”

  Pondering the many differences between two peoples so closely connected by land, Bronwen wondered if these disparities had something to do with Olaf’s rejection. Perhaps she had broken some Viking custom. She could only hope the cause would become clear to her before his return.

  Outside, Bronwen ordered a large garden staked out and tilled near the kitchen. Workmen brought marl from the fields and turned the lime-rich soil into the ground. She selected seeds from all manner of vegetables and legumes to be saved for spring planting. The sad condition of the few tattered basket beehives made her wonder how any of the valuable honey and wax was retrieved. Thus she set several women to begin weaving new hives at once, and she instructed the herders to be on the lookout for wild swarms with which to replenish the depleted stock.

  Several dead fruit and nut trees were chopped down and burned while dairymaids scrubbed the buttery from top to bottom. Most of the cheeses that had gone blue during the winter were tossed away, though a few were saved to place on sores and wounds for their healing powers. It was well known that a piece of moldy cheese placed on an open infection usually healed it within a week.

  Two light snowfalls ushered in the busy days of February, and several stormy days marked the beginning of March. One morning late in that month, Bronwen espied a red-haired man carrying dung to the kitchen garden, and she recognized him as the peasant who had been so seasick at Rossall.

  “Good morrow, my lady,” he greeted her.

  “You are called Wag.” She smiled at his obvious amazement. “I see you made your way back to Warbreck.”

  “Indeed. And you—have you found the place to your liking?”

  “It pleases me well enough.”

  The redhead wiped his hands on the apron at his waist. “May I ask the health of your sister? Are things improved with her husband?”

  “You speak of Gildan and Aeschby?” Bronwen stepped forward. “How could they be better? What do you mean by this question?”

  The man swallowed and looked away. “Never you mind, madam. I must be about my work now.”

  “Stop at once.” Bronwen lifted her skirts and strode toward him. “Do you have news of my sister? I demand to hear it.”

  He chewed his lower lip for a moment. “’Tis said there is trouble in the marriage, madam. But that is only a rumor, and I put no great stock in such talk.”

  Rooted to the garden soil, Bronwen numbly watched the fellow shrug and go his way. Was something wrong with Gildan? Trouble in the marriage? But she had been so happy at her wedding. What could have happened?

  Knowing she could not leave Warbreck to go to her sister, Bronwen later spoke to Enit about her encounter with Wag.

  But the nursemaid reinforced the peasant’s nonchalance. “People love to gossip, child,” she reminded her mistress. “They want nothing more than to imagine intrigues for their lords and ladies. It enlivens their own dreary days.”

  Deeply troubled, Bronwen decided to send another courier to her sister. These riders reported messages by word of mouth, and too often the information got muddled along the way. By the time they returned, news they brought might be old or distorted. But as Bronwen was forbidden to leave Warbreck, she had no choice. When the courier arrived from Aeschby’s keep, he brought no reply from Gildan. He said he had not even seen the woman. Indeed, weeks passed with no word from Rossall Hall, nothing from Gildan, and utter silence from Olaf Lothbrok.

  As the days of April bloomed brightly one after the other, Bronwen tried to convince herself that all was well. May slipped by and then lapsed into the warm, brilliant month of June when the hardest field work began. Bronwen ordered the sheep washed in the streams and shorn of their thick white wool. Men mowed the long meadow grass and stored the hay for winter feed. In the early mornings they plowed and planted the fields, and later they cleaned and greased their carts. The mistress of Warbreck ordered new hog sheds built to shelter the piglets, and hovels erected to store peas and other dried vegetables.

  A swarm of bees had been captured in late May, and now the hives were flowing with honey. But Bronwen gathered few combs, for she wanted the colonies to grow strong and healthy. With the days and nights so wa
rm again, there was no need for mantles or thick woolen undertunics. But she found herself unable to pack the silk-lined mantle in her chest. It was the stuff of which dreams were woven—and she needed her dreams.

  The Midsummer’s Day celebration arrived with great excitement among the villagers, but duty called Bronwen to spend the hours riding from one hut to another, collecting the steep rents on her husband’s behalf. The sun was dipping low in the west when she rode through the castle gate to behold the courtyard swarming with armed men, who shouted as they hoisted tankards of drink. Here and there lay groups of wounded being tended by village women.

  Olaf, she understood, had returned at last.

  Inside the great hall, Bronwen made her way past piles of dull and dirty shields, bloodied swords, bows and spears as she headed toward the dais. When she approached, Olaf’s men stood aside.

  “Good husband,” she said, dipping a deep curtsy before him. “I welcome your return.”

  “Ah, wife. You are a pleasant sight for weary eyes.”

  Keeping her head low to ensure he recalled her subservient position, she spoke again. “How fares the snekkar? I hope she is restored to good service, sir.”

  “The ship has been repaired and is seaworthy. We took her out for two days and felt that the gods had given us back our home.”

  “The sea is your home?” She looked up, aware for the first time that to the Vikings, Warbreck was only a stone castle and not a warm, longed-for sanctuary.

  “Our conquest of the sea enables us to possess the land,” Olaf said. “It is our way.”

  Bronwen tried to respond, but the shock of her husband’s appearance swept all polite repartee from her mind. Barely able to accept that this was the same man who had left her in late winter, she saw that Olaf looked much thinner, and his face appeared older than ever.

  “What has happened?” she asked him. “I fear you are not well, my lord.”

  Olaf drew a shaking hand through his long beard. “Our journey to aid my eastern ally brought hardship. At first, we routed the Scots and entered the hall in victory. But a second army joined by remnants of the first surrounded us. We have been held in siege these many months.”