The Briton

by Catherine Palmer

  Who did own the land? Perhaps all her father’s dreams of reuniting England under Briton rule had been nothing but wisps in the wind. Perhaps Jacques Le Brun’s chosen king, Henry Plantagenet, would be as capable as any Briton. But such musings had no value now. Jacques was far away, possibly lying dead, and all because of her.

  Confirming the women’s freedom from pursuit at last, their journey into Chester proved uneventful. They purchased fabrics and other necessities, and then they returned to the ship in time to settle in for the remainder of their journey.

  In the following days they sailed around the rugged green coast of Wales. At Bangor, the crew unloaded the cheeses in exchange for woolen blankets. At Cardiff, they took on boxes of fishing nets. Next the ship rounded Cornwall, a stormy finger of land protruding into the blustery Atlantic, and sailed along the southern coast of England to Exeter and Southampton. By the time they passed through the Strait of Dover—with tall white cliffs rising from the sea on one side and the distant shore of France on the other—the ship was laden with all manner of goods.

  “A good day to you, ladies,” Captain Muldrew said as he crossed the deck to the bench where Bronwen, Gildan and Enit had taken up regular residence. “Come up to have a look at the old city, have you?”

  All three stood at once. “Is it London?” Gildan asked.

  “’Tis Canterbury, the center of church power in England. The School of Canterbury, under Theobald, has pledged itself to the succession of Henry Plantagenet.”

  “That man again,” Gildan said. “Everywhere I go, I hear of Henry Plantagenet. Everyone adores him.”

  “Not everyone,” the captain said with a chuckle. “King Stephen has a loyal following. Indeed, I fear this blood-soaked civil war will continue for years.”

  “Who do you favor in the struggle for the throne, Captain Muldrew?” Bronwen asked.

  “I support the man who’ll do the best for trade. His name is Henry Plantagenet.”

  While Bronwen absorbed this information, Enit was questioning the captain about where they might find a nunnery when they arrived in London. The man found the idea of himself even associating with such pious women highly amusing and declared that he had no idea. As they could not pay for a room at an inn, he suggested they visit the home of Gregory, Lord Whittaker. He was a wealthy Norman merchant with whom Captain Muldrew often traded, and they were friends.

  The thought of beseeching this stranger—an enemy to her father’s cause—for food and shelter distressed Bronwen. She suggested they find an almshouse instead.

  “Never!” Gildan exclaimed. “I’ll not set foot in such a place. We aren’t beggars who must depend upon the charity of others.”

  “Be reasonable, Gildan,” Bronwen admonished her sister. “We have no money and nothing to recommend us.”

  “The almshouse nearest the wharf is named after St. Nicholas,” the captain said. “I’ll give you directions if you wish, but I do believe Sir Gregory would welcome you.”

  At the mention of St. Nicholas, whose symbol appeared on her mantle’s crest, Bronwen’s heart stumbled. Throughout the journey from Preston, she had done her best not to worry about what had become of Jacques Le Brun in his battle with Aeschby and Haakon. Indeed, she had tried to forget him altogether and concentrate on the freedom of the sea and the future that stretched out before her.

  But once again, the man’s glossy black curls and high cheekbones formed in her mind. At her final refusal of his offer, his eyes had gone a liquid brown, and she’d felt the sting her words had inflicted. Expecting him to despise her, she had been astonished beyond measure to see him riding along the wharf and declaring himself her defender.

  Had she made the gravest error of her life in setting sail for London? Or was her action honorable—a deed about which her father would have boasted to his men?

  It seemed the ship had barely passed Canterbury when the old captain stretched out a knobby finger. “Look there in the distance,” he said. “There’s your destiny, ladies—’tis London.”

  After much discussion and argument, Gildan finally persuaded Bronwen to go to Lord Whittaker’s house and make inquiry. But now on the wharf, the two young women stood hand in hand, afraid to move. Enit had gone as pale as a frog’s belly. The vast city with its innumerable chimneys, rows of wooden houses and endless winding streets all but overwhelmed them.

  Bronwen could not count the ships of all shapes and sizes moored along the brown river. Every sort of food, drink and spice that could be made was rolled in barrels down long planks, or packed in timber crates and burlap sacks ready for export. In the shops that supplied the wharfsmen lay dried cod, whiting, hake and eel. The aroma of freshly baked breads, cakes and puddings mingled with cinnamon, chives, garlic, mint and thyme.

  “Madam, I had hoped to see you before you went, and now I have.”

  To Bronwen’s surprise, she discovered that Captain Muldrew was addressing Enit. The nursemaid’s cheeks flushed a brilliant pink as the elderly man removed his hat and gave her a bandy-legged bow.

  “May your stay in London prove pleasant,” he said. “I shall look in upon you—and your charges—when I return from the Holy Land. Perhaps you would like to journey on my ship to your home in the north of Wales.”

  Enit nodded, suddenly as shy as a young rabbit. “Certainly, Captain. I’ll look forward to it.”

  Before Gildan could open her mouth to remark on this unexpected exchange between the two, Bronwen spoke up. “Thank you, sir, for your kindness in bringing us here. If we could, we would reward you well.”

  “No trouble,” he said, giving Enit a last glance. “No trouble at all.”

  As he hurried away, Bronwen turned the other two women toward the city. Taking their hands, she set off through a confusing array of alleys and streets. They soon spotted St. Nicholas Almshouse not far from the river. The bells rang in the tower, and a nun who stood outside the front door beckoned the women.

  “The bells signal the time for prayer. You are welcome to join us.”

  Bronwen made a quick survey of the place in case they must return. It was clean but barren of all furnishings save a bench and a cross hanging over the arched entry to the main hall. Inside that unlit chamber, long rows of narrow straw pallets were already occupied by resting women.

  “Do you make a schedule of your prayer?” Bronwen asked the woman.

  “We nuns pause throughout the day to offer praise and petition to the Lord. Matins, Terce, Sung Mass, Sext, Vespers, Nocturnes—bells announce each of these special services. But as Christians, we are free to kneel before God at any time we choose. Will you come in?”

  “No,” Gildan said firmly. “We’re on our way to Lord Whittaker’s house.”

  “Lord Whittaker is our patron,” the nun exclaimed. “You’ll find him a generous and kind man.”

  “Thank you for welcoming us,” Bronwen told her. “But we must be on our way.”

  As the women set off through the city again, Bronwen pondered the many differences between this world and the one she had known all her life. Normans, Christians, nuns and church bells—what would her father think if he could see his daughters now? He had so carefully planned out their futures, but fortune’s wheel, it seemed, had spun them into the hands of the One God and His whims.

  Bronwen found it hard to imagine that a God so great as Jacques Le Brun had portrayed would turn His eye on three impoverished women in the midst of the great city of London. What could He want with her, after all? As she hurried toward the merchant’s home, she heard Jacques’s deep voice in her heart. And now you have your own crusade, he had told her.

  Almost as if God Himself had answered her query, Bronwen realized that crusade—her pursuit to regain control of Rossall—must be uppermost in her thoughts. She would settle Gildan into a nunnery. Then she must find a way to return to Rossall and take the holding. But how? How could she ever hope to succeed?

  As they finally found the street on which the merchant lived, the cl
ash of swords and the cries of angry combatants suddenly rang out nearby. A man racing toward the fracas had already drawn his blade. “Henry Plantagenet has returned to London from a chevauchée around the countryside to raise support,” he said to the frightened women as he hurried by. “King Stephen doesn’t want him back in the city, and so our battle rages anew.”

  A contingent of armed knights thundered down the street. Weapons at the ready, they shouted their loyalty to Stephen, the king. Gildan began to cry, and Enit pressed Bronwen to return to the almshouse before they were caught up in the melee. But she spotted a young man running down the steps of his home toward an iron gate. He, too, had drawn his blade for the skirmish.

  “Sir,” Bronwen called out to him. “Good sir, we seek the home of Gregory, Lord Whittaker. Can you tell us how to find him?”

  Tall and sandy-haired, the man halted. “This is the home of Sir Gregory. I’m his son, Chacier. What would you have of my father?”

  “We are sent at the commendation of Captain Muldrew. He told us that Lord Whittaker might hear our plight and offer us refuge.”

  Clearly eager to join the swordplay down the street, Chacier wavered for a moment. Finally, he opened the iron gate and ushered them inside. “My sisters will greet you. Mention the captain, and you’ll be welcomed.”

  Before they could speak further, he raised his sword and bolted through the gate. Bronwen hurried Gildan and Enit toward the large home. They were nearing the top of the steps when the door fell open and two young Norman women stepped outside.

  “Has he gone?” one of them demanded of Bronwen. “Did you see our brother go out just now?”

  “If your brother is Sir Chacier, son of Lord Whittaker, he left us moments ago.”

  “Father will be furious,” the elder lady said to the younger. “But who are you? Did Chacier let you in?”

  One of the Norman girls appeared to be about Gildan’s age, while the other was several years younger. Both had dimpled smiles and turned-up noses. Each had flaxen hair that had been twisted into rolls on either side of her head and held in place with a net. Rather than veils and circlets, they wore cloth bands beneath their chins to secure colorful round, flat-topped hats. Their embroidered tunics glittered in the last of the evening sunlight.

  Bronwen repeated the information she had given their brother, and at the name of Captain Muldrew, the two ladies brought them quickly into the house. Though their journey from the gate to the front door had been hasty, Bronwen had noted that the house stood three stories high with a sharply pointed roof housing a fourth level. The front courtyard contained intricate beds of bright flowers and shrubs. Numerous windows of various shapes and sizes faced the gate. It could never be called a castle, but this home certainly outshone anything at Warbreck.

  “Captain Muldrew is our dear friend,” the elder sister said as they gathered inside a candlelit room. “He brings us gifts each time he visits. May we have your names?”

  After hearing Bronwen’s introductions, the woman presented her younger sister, Lady Caresse. She was called Lady Linette. “But are you truly noblewomen?” Caresse asked. “You are oddly garbed, and where are your guards?”

  “We are of noble blood, madam,” Bronwen explained. “Our father, Edgard of Rossall, died this summer. Soon after, an enemy usurped his lands. We fled for our lives.”

  “Such tragedy! Then you must agree to be our guests. With Captain Muldrew’s good word, you are surely honorable women. Please follow us.”

  They led their visitors into an even larger chamber with yet more lights. Wide-eyed, Gildan finally managed to speak. “This is your home? How magical!”

  The Whittaker sisters giggled. “We love it,” Linette said. “And you must not fret about the disturbance in the street. We are accustomed to such incidents now. Soon Henry will attain the crown, and England will be at peace.”

  “You said your father has died,” Caresse spoke up, “and I see by your mourning tunic that you must be a widow, Lady Bronwen.”

  “My husband was killed in battle. We had not been married long.”

  “Did you love him?”

  Bronwen glanced at Enit in consternation at the unusual question. “He was my husband. I respected him.”

  “Had you many young suitors to sing you ballads and steal kisses in the halls of your northern castle?”

  Bronwen hardly knew how to respond to such a query. “Upon my honor, I was a faithful wife.”

  Lady Linette and her sister elbowed each other as they snickered behind their hands. “We are an amorous people here in London,” Linette said. “You’ll soon learn our ways. We shall take you all about London and introduce you to our friends, for we are cheerful all the year long.”

  At this announcement, Bronwen noticed her sister’s face beginning to regain its color. But their hostesses sobered when an elderly gentleman stepped into the room.

  “Girls, who is here? And what has become of my son?”

  The elder spoke. “Papa, Captain Muldrew sent these women to you with his commendation. They are noblewomen from the north. As for Chacier—the last we saw, he was racing out the door into a fray at the end of the street.”

  The old man’s face grew grim. “I must send him reinforcement. Go to the guard, good man.” He motioned to a servitor standing in the shadows. “Linette, will you please remember your manners and make introductions?”

  “Ladies, this is our father, Gregory, Lord Whittaker. Papa, these are Lady Bronwen and Lady Gildan, along with their nurse. They’ve fallen on difficult times—the loss of a dear father and husband.”

  “Then consider this your home until you have sorted out your affairs,” Sir Gregory told them. “Take your time and be in no great hurry to depart. It is often the hasty decisions that we most regret.”

  “Thank you, Sir Gregory,” Bronwen said. “Your generosity is more than we had ever hoped for.”

  He lifted a hand. “Think no more of it. Linette, Caresse—take these women to your mother.”

  “Yes, Papa,” the sisters said as one. In a moment the door had shut behind him.

  “That is our father’s counting room,” Linette explained, pointing out a closed door as she led the others through the chamber. “Near the stair is the storeroom where the wares are kept. Across the hall is the merchants’ room, where Father meets with tradesmen.”

  They climbed a steep flight of stairs, and Linette pushed open a door that led to a room with many windows and a great fireplace. Instead of a circular area in the center of the hall with smoke vents in the roof, as at Rossall, this fireplace stood against a back wall, and smoke rose through a hidden pipe or tunnel. Dismantled tables had been propped against another wall on which hung tapestries embroidered with battle scenes.

  “Here is the solar where we eat,” Linette announced. “Caresse, do go across the hall and find Mother. She is probably speaking to the cook.”

  “Is your kitchen inside the house?” Gildan asked.

  “Of course! Where else could it be?”

  Before Gildan could reply, a small red-cheeked woman rushed in, followed by Caresse. Flinging her arms toward the ceiling, she cried, “Oh, you poor dears! Come, come—we must draw you a bath at once. Do you like salmon pie? The cook has just brought one out of the oven.”

  “Allow me to introduce the ladies Bronwen and Gildan,” Linette said. “This is Lady Mignonette.”

  When Bronwen and Gildan curtsied, the woman urged her daughters to see to the welfare of their guests. After ascending to a third floor, the group emerged from the stairwell into a long hallway. Linette walked down it, calling out occupants of each room.

  “Here dwell Chacier, Roussel and Gilbert—our brothers. And here is the garderobe.”

  “Garderobe?” Gildan asked.

  “The room for privacy, of course,” Linette explained. Bronwen peered inside to find a wooden platform containing an oblong hole. How barbaric, she thought, to have both your kitchen and your privy inside the house!


  “Did you not have garderobes in the north?” Caresse wanted to know.

  “Certainly not,” Gildan replied. “Our privy stood near the stables. Do you not fear infections?”

  The Whittaker sisters laughed at the very idea. “Here sleep my mother and father, and here is our chamber,” Linette said. Much like the parents’ room, theirs contained a row of bright garments that hung from a pole near the ceiling. Each bed likewise was suspended from the ceiling beams by four thick ropes, and they were covered with blankets and furs. At the foot of each bed sat a large brass-studded chest and a washstand.

  The guest room was across the hall. Gildan paused to admire an embroidered hanging of an outdoor scene with several ladies serenaded by gentlemen who played pipes and lutes as they all lounged in the grass.

  “How marvelous,” she remarked. “Your home is so different from ours. Our father slept in the great hall with his men. We never imagined building chambers one on top of the other, did we, Bronwen?”

  “No, but Sir Gregory is a merchant and has no need for a great hall with many warriors.”

  A knock at the door brought in three servants. One bore a large oaken tub, and the others each carried buckets of warm water. They filled the tub and emptied a pouch of herbs into it. Bronwen frowned at the idea of stepping into an entire vat of water. But Linette and Caresse would hear of nothing but that both guests must strip off their clothes and enter the tub. Gildan shivered as she shook her head. “I shall die of frogs and worms that will eat my flesh!”

  Lest her sister protest further, Bronwen slipped into the tub and discovered that the water was not only warm and fragrant, but relaxing. Gildan finally joined her, but she sat trembling and clearly at the verge of tears.

  “How often do you take baths here?” Enit asked from the corner where she stood warily observing the event.