The Briton

by Catherine Palmer

  “Besieged? Had I but known, I should have come to your aid.”

  A weary smile crossed his face. “A woman fending off her husband’s foes? I see you have not forgotten how to astound me, wife.”

  “But you defeated the Scots, did you not?”

  “They tried to starve us—and nearly succeeded. The winter stores ran out, and my ally was unprepared to feed so great a number. We fought boldly, but each time, we were driven back into the hall. At last we devised a plan. In one great body, we drove through the gates and fought our way across their lines. Feigning retreat, we hid in the forest nearby. When they rushed into the hall, we turned back upon them and set fire to the place.”

  Bronwen held her breath as Olaf continued. “We could not have succeeded, but the Scots taunted us that a great Norman army was marching toward Warbreck. Our fury and dread led us to victory. Yet now my ally’s hall is burned, and so, in the end, the Scots had their way.”

  “But is this rumor true?” Bronwen asked. “Do enemies approach us?”

  “Indeed,” Olaf replied. “We expected to find them here already. The gods spared us, but we have little time to ready our weapons. If you are the worthy wife I hoped to find on my return, you will assist me.”

  “Of course, my husband. As you wish.”

  “My soldiers must rest. I have ordered the village children to clean and polish our weapons and armor. The women will carry sacks of cheeses, dried meats, beans and flour into the keep’s storehouses against the threat of siege. The men must groom the horses and repair weak places in our walls.”

  “My father is wary of the Normans,” Bronwen told Olaf, “but he refuses to fear them. He believes Amounderness protects itself. The great wet forests, marshy ground, wild moors and windy fells are not easily tamed. The woods are difficult to cross and the rivers, ponds and shallow meres make travel almost impossible. You must have no doubt about your strength, husband. The Normans are not nearly as strong as the Scots, are they? I have heard they grow soft and tame like King Stephen. My father believes they soon will lose the country.”

  “Your father forgets that the Normans are descended from Vikings,” Olaf grunted. “Their line comes directly from Norsemen who raided France and settled in the northern region they called Normandy. Their first duke was Rollo—a Dane. No, wife, Normans are not soft men. They hunger for land and power. They desire England not so much for herself as for the influence it gives them in France. King Stephen is a mere duke in France. But here, he is king. Many English knights owe him homage, and this makes him a mighty force against the French king.”

  “You teach me more of politics than even my father did,” Bronwen said. “But do you know anything about the one who comes to Warbreck?”

  “My spies tell me he is of mixed heritage. Half his blood runs Norman, and half is of some eastern race—Jew, Turk, Moor or another such breed.”

  Bronwen frowned at this news. “Then he can have no religion, no traditions, no worthy lineage. His men will not be loyal—you may be assured of that. I have no dread of the Norman, for your men will easily defeat him.”

  Olaf took her hand and rubbed his thumb over it for a moment. “You are a good wife,” he murmured. “Your father was too generous with me.”

  Her cheeks growing warm at this earnest tribute, Bronwen realized that for the first time since meeting Olaf Lothbrok, she knew a sense of kinship with him. Perhaps their marriage would be a good one after all. Maybe, in time, they would even learn to care deeply for each other.

  “I must go to the kitchen,” she said. “I will order a fine meal for you and your men. And I must oversee the women as they stock the storage rooms.”

  Olaf gave her a last look and then turned to speak to a guard. Bronwen left the dais and was hurrying across the great hall when she passed Haakon. Amid a group of his peers, he stood with his arm around a woman greatly swollen with child.

  “Greetings, Briton,” he called out as Bronwen passed. “I see you are not as fortunate as my wife. Soon I’ll name my son, but your womb is sure to dry like a grape forgotten on the vine.”

  He guffawed as the group around him snickered in amusement. Pretending she had not heard the untoward remark, Bronwen pushed open the door and left the hall.

  As she expected, Bronwen heard her husband’s footsteps outside her door that night. He entered her chamber, and she was pleased to see that he wore one of the many tunics she and her ladies had sewn for him during his absence.

  “You appear refreshed,” she said, turning from the narrow window through which she had been studying the stars. “I trust your meal was satisfactory.”

  “Delicious.” He walked to the fire. “You have been busy in the past months. I’m told you ordered so many tasks that my servitors now lie exhausted in their beds.”

  Bronwen smiled. “I have looked after the keep—as I promised.”

  “This honors me. You join the ranks of treasure-givers. You are my keep-protector, my respected wife.”

  Bronwen dipped her head. “Thank you, my lord. I take pride in my position as your life companion.”

  “Good,” he said. “Come and stand with me here in the warmth of the flame.”

  Obeying, Bronwen noted that her dread of the man had lessened. She would welcome him into her bed this night. Unless Haakon knew something about his father of which she was unaware, before long she would be bearing Olaf’s heir—the one who would someday unite both Warbreck and Rossall.

  “I had not realized your son was wed,” she said. “His wife is due to give birth.”

  “That woman—” Olaf stopped himself. “The woman is not Haakon’s chosen wife. I will never acknowledge the child, and my son knows it. He must marry the lady of my choosing—a good and virtuous wife. That wanton wastrel is a scrap of refuse Haakon met in the village at Warbreck Wash. She has no dowry, no lineage, no land, nothing.”

  Bronwen studied the man as he spoke. She felt that somehow she was looking into an ancient face, the face of Thor, perhaps, or Odin. It was the craggy, wrinkled face of the past, of centuries gone by—years filled with bloodshed and darkness and many gods. The face of a time that was passing and would not return.

  Olaf met her eyes. “You are honorable, and I fear I am…” He sighed. “I’m not worthy of you.”

  “My father believed differently. He trusted you with my life.”

  “Oh, woman,” Olaf groaned, his arms drawing her into his embrace. “You are strong and noble. And this makes you…difficult. Everything is now so difficult. Much more than I expected or planned.”

  Bronwen rested her cheek against his shoulder. “You had a wife once. Can it be so difficult to have another?”

  Olaf trembled as he took her shoulders and set her away. “You must try to understand. Try to accept.”

  “Accept what, husband?”

  He turned from her and strode to the door. “Accept this.”

  The door shut behind him and Bronwen knotted her fists in frustration. Not again! Why did he not take her as his wife? Sinking onto a bench by the fire, she buried her face in her hands.

  The next morning Bronwen woke to the sounds of a melee—shouts, cries, metal clanging, horses whinnying.

  “They come, they come!” Enit cried, bursting into the chamber. “A great throng of horsemen rides out of the forest and surrounds the keep walls. Get up, child. Get up at once.”

  “Normans? Are they here so soon? But we are unprepared!”

  Throwing back her blankets, Bronwen dressed in the first gown she could find and cast her black mantle about her shoulders. As she left her chamber and stepped into the guardroom, she saw several men standing at the windows, their longbows drawn and their arrows at hand.

  “Permit me to look,” she ordered one of them. Around the stone outer wall, the Norman forces took up posts just beyond arrow range. She observed that few of them carried the longbows common among Olaf’s men. Instead, the attackers bore short crossbows, which they held cocked and aimed at the
parapets.

  Olaf’s men stood in defense positions, their spears and broadswords at the ready. The courtyard echoed with panicked villagers rushing to seek shelter within the keep—a scene of utter chaos.

  “Oh, Enit,” Bronwen whispered as her nurse slipped to her side. “Look, the Norman leader rides out—and there stands my husband on the parapet.”

  A mail-clad, helmeted knight astride a large gray steed approached the gate. His horse and shield bore a red ground, with a golden lion on hind legs facing to the side. Looking up at the Viking, the man shouted his challenge. “I come in service of Henry Plantagenet, known as CurtMantle, FitzEmpress, and the Lion of Justice. Will you give homage to the rightful king of England?”

  Henry Plantagenet? Bronwen pressed her hands against the rough stone wall. This Norman served the same man as Jacques Le Brun. Could it be? But no—the warlord’s crest was nothing like the one on her mantle—golden balls on a blue field.

  Now Olaf leaned forward to respond. Beside him, Haakon held his family’s great purple standard emblazoned with a black crow.

  “I am Olaf Lothbrok, lord and master of Warbreck. I serve no man but myself! Never will you take my keep, Norman dog!”

  At that, Olaf’s men sent up a mighty cheer and with it a sally of arrows. But the Normans rode forward, sending a return volley. The guard beside Bronwen pushed her from the window and raised his bow to launch an arrow.

  Chapter Six

  “La, child,” Enit pleaded. “You must return to your room quickly. They’re upon us! Even now the Normans are upon us!”

  “Calm yourself, Enit. We are safe within the walls.”

  “Do you see their number? Oh, they’re a fearsome lot!”

  As the guard reached for another arrow, Bronwen touched his arm. “What will happen, good man? Has my husband spoken a plan?”

  “In a short time, we’ll know whether the Normans plan to storm the castle or lay siege to it.” The guard fitted the arrow to his longbow. “My master will never allow a siege, madam. We are unready. He must force a battle.”

  “But we have food! We can endure a blockade of supplies, I’m sure of it.”

  “Our men are too few to hold back the Normans. Many of us were injured in the battle with the Scots, and the rest are too weak to endure a siege. We must attack with what strength we still have. Madam, your husband would wish you to return to the protection of your chamber. Have you food? The kitchens are busy boiling oil for Norman heads.”

  Enit squawked in dismay. “I’ll try to find some bread and an apple or two, child. Go now, stay in your room.”

  Bronwen spoke to the guard again. “Is it safe for my nurse to cross the courtyard?”

  “For the time,” he said. “Few arrows fall inside the yard—the Normans are not close enough yet.”

  “Then I shall go to my husband.”

  “Bronwen!” Enit wailed. “Come back!”

  But she would not be deterred. If Norman forces took this castle, she would not perish without a battle of her own. Hurrying down the stair, she passed women and children struggling to push their way up to the protection of the highest point in the keep. Soon she broke out into the courtyard and paused to scan the parapets for Olaf.

  “I’m happy to see you care so little for your own peril,” a voice said at her shoulder. She turned to find Haakon sneering at her. “If the gods will it, a Norman arrow will find your Briton heart.”

  Hardly able to bear the sight of the man, with his thick lips and huge hands, Bronwen glared at him. “Leave me in peace, Haakon. I search for my husband.”

  “But does he search for you? Does he rush to your side to protect you from the Norman threat? I think not.”

  “My husband is busy with—”

  “My husband, my husband…” Haakon mocked. “Olaf Lothbrok is not your husband.”

  “What do you mean? Of course he is. You saw us wed.”

  Haakon leaned against her, his sour breath heating her cheek. “My father has never bedded you. Nor will he. You are a maiden. Do I not speak the truth, Briton?”

  Clutching the edges of her mantle, Bronwen took a step backward. “What is this? My husband cares for me. I know he does. Why do you say these things, fool?”

  “You are the fool,” he snarled. “Have you not discerned our plan? My father will never come to your bed—for you must not be allowed to bear his child. From the beginning we have planned that Rossall is to be mine. Mine! I am my father’s only heir. You will never see Rossall again.”

  “You lie!” Bronwen said. “Your father is a good man. He and my father arranged the marriage to benefit—”

  “To benefit me! I am the only son of Olaf Lothbrok. I am his heir. Why would he endow his holding to anyone else? No, loyal wife, you are a pawn in this game we play. Your father bartered you to win control of Warbreck for the Britons. My father took you, and will keep you barren, until Edgard of Rossall is dead—at which time that land will become mine.”

  With instinct born of fear, Bronwen touched the small will box she carried always in the chatelaine purse at her side. “Upon my honor, I remind you that Rossall is to be mine and my son’s. That was the agreement between our fathers.”

  “Rossall will belong to my son—the child my wife carries even now.”

  “Your father said you are unwed. He told me he intends to arrange a marriage for you.”

  “Olaf Lothbrok is not my master,” Haakon said. “I married Astrid, and she bears my heir. Heir to Warbreck and Rossall. My father might choose another woman for me, but I’ll not have her. He knows full well I’m wed to Astrid. She brings nothing to the union—nothing but beauty, pleasure and satisfaction. Those are all I need of a wife.”

  For a moment, Bronwen was unable to speak. The chaos inside the courtyard and the battle outside the wall seemed to fill her mind, echoing its pandemonium, confusion, turmoil. Could Haakon’s words be true? Was it possible that she and her father had been betrayed to such an extent?

  “Why do you tell me this now?” she demanded of Haakon. “Your father lives, as does mine. I, too, am alive and can testify to this outrageous tale you’ve spun. Olaf took my word over yours once—why should he not do so again?”

  “If you go to my father with your accusations, he will lie to you again. He knows the plan we made, and his absence from your bed proves I speak the truth. Now the Normans come, playing perfectly into my game. Before this battle is out, I will hold Warbreck and Rossall.”

  Haakon called for an armor-bearer and selected a sword. Holding it menacingly in Bronwen’s face, he laughed. “Watch and see, Briton. My Viking blood conquers all.”

  Running up the stairs to her chamber, Bronwen felt the first touches of fear and uncertainty. Had Haakon’s words been true? As much as she longed to deny them, he had been right about his father. Even now she could hear Olaf’s words as he turned away from her. You are strong and noble. And this makes you…difficult. Everything is now so difficult. Much more than I expected or planned…You must try to understand. Try to accept.

  Haakon had called this plan a game of treachery. Was she blind, and had her father been so deceived by his ally? Surely not. For all his barbaric ways, Olaf had become a man she honored and was determined to please. But now it appeared both men detested her presence in the castle. She was an obstruction, a barrier to their goal of taking Rossall. Indeed, her very life was in danger.

  If Olaf held his stronghold against the Normans, would he continue to protect her? Or did Haakon mean to use the battle as a shield behind which to kill her?

  And if by chance the Normans prevailed, would they let her leave? Could she return to Rossall and her father’s hall? How very far that dearly loved place seemed now.

  She found Enit huddled beside the fire in her room. For the first time in her life, Bronwen recognized fear in the old woman’s eyes. “I have found a piece of dried cod, some cheese and a little black bread,” Enit told her. “Eat, child.”

  “I cannot,”
Bronwen said, pushing away the trencher as she seated herself next to her nurse. “I feel ill.”

  “Did you find your husband? Can you tell me what he plans?”

  “I know nothing of that man. As for his plans, they intend only evil toward me. When the battle is over, you and I must return to Rossall. My father will have the marriage agreement terminated. In truth, it never was a marriage.”

  “Dissolve the union? But this defies your father’s will. And what if you are with child?”

  Bronwen looked into her nurse’s worried eyes. “Enit, you heard my father’s will for me. He intended me to inherit Rossall. I shall be obedient to him above all others. That land is the future of my people. It is our only hope.”

  Enit sighed and stirred the fire. “Great hopes are often quickly dashed.”

  “But if I have no hope, then I have nothing.” Bronwen felt a lump thicken in her throat. “Enit, I must have my dreams or I might as well die.”

  In the chamber where Bronwen and Enit sat, they could just make out the muffled roar of battle below. The narrow window provided little information, and no one had come to report on the conflict. By late afternoon, Bronwen could endure no more. Despite her nurse’s protests, she took Enit’s arm and left the protection of the room.

  The moment they stepped into the crowded guardroom, Bronwen heard the sounds of horses neighing in fear and the swift hiss of arrows. She located the guard she had spoken to earlier. He stood at his post near the window.

  “What news, good man?” she asked.

  He glanced her way. “Madam, the Norman army has set up pavilions along the river and in the forest. Their men remain positioned around our walls.”

  Bronwen peered around him. “Their arrows fall well within the courtyard now. Yet ours miss their mark. How can this be?”

  The guard stepped away from the narrow window and leaned heavily against the wall. “They have a new bow, my lady. Their crossbow shoots much farther than our longbow. Already we have lost many—while they have lost few. Their lord is an able warrior who leads his men with bravery and wisdom. We are told he prepares secret weapons in the woods.”