The Briton

by Catherine Palmer

  Bronwen listened carefully. Perhaps Martin was right. Perhaps she was learning new things. But she had no direction in life, as he had.

  “I can find no sense of purpose to my existence, Martin,” she told him. “Should I join Gildan and become a nun?”

  “What do you think?”

  “That I do not know your God well enough to give over my future to His service. But I want to know Him, Martin. I want to understand Him as you do. I need the peace that you have found.”

  “Peace comes when we seek God, worship Him and do His bidding.”

  “Sir Gregory tells me that God and His Son are one with the Holy Spirit. Three in one? I cannot fathom it.”

  “Nor can I. If there were nothing unfathomable about God, why would we need faith? There is much of majesty, glory and mystery to our Father. How did the womb of a virgin—a created being—contain the essence of the Creator? How could Jesus have risen to life after His violent death on the cross? Where is heaven and where is hell? Why would our holy God permit evil to have such power on this earth? Madam, there are more questions in Christianity than we will ever have answers.”

  “Then what use is it?”

  “When one puts full trust in Christ, allowing Him to reign over desire, will and the impulse to do evil, He fills the heart with His Spirit. Such peace, such joy as that, is beyond explanation. It gives life meaning and purpose. The goal becomes to please Him and do good to others. Self is lost, utterly lost.”

  Bronwen shook her head. “I have always been driven by my father’s will. It is hard to hear God speak.”

  “Forsake the gods of your youth, madam. They are false. Instead, pray and worship only the one God, the Creator King of heaven and earth. Go to church and listen to what is said. Study what is written in the Holy Scripture. Then you will hear Him.”

  “But that must take many years, sir. I cannot sit at Sir Gregory’s house forever. My sister’s virtue is at risk. My own life has no purpose. And what of Rossall?”

  “What of it? Do you feel God pressing you there?”

  “I do, Martin. I must go back to Rossall. I have known it all along. I must find a way to reclaim my father’s lands. It is my duty—and my desire.”

  The monk smiled at her. “Of course you must go back to Rossall. Your sister must make her own path. God brought you to London to show Himself to you. Now it is time for you to return home with a new heart and a soul committed to Him.”

  For the first time in many weeks, Bronwen felt the dark clouds roll back and the path before her grow plain. “Rossall needs me. My people have so much to learn. Not only do they need the power and comfort of the Christian God, but they must have knowledge of this new world or it will overwhelm them. But how can I reclaim my lands? I have no knights and no husband. And I left the box containing my father’s will at Warbreck.”

  Martin sat up. “Your father left a written will?”

  “Yes, as a safeguard against just such treachery as has been committed against me. But what use is it? No one can read it, not even I. And who will honor a piece of parchment against the word of so strong a man as Aeschby?”

  “There is great value in the written word, my lady. I am a scribe. All my days are spent copying the Holy Scriptures onto parchment. The written Word of God is the foundation of our faith. As more men learn to read, the value of the written document increases. Even now, a court of Norman law places more trust in a piece of writing than in what a man may say. You must go to Warbreck. Jacques will give you the box.”

  “How can I trust a man who took my husband’s lands?” Bronwen asked. “His dream is to acquire Amounderness for Henry Plantagenet. Surely he has already set his eye upon Rossall. We are enemies.”

  “You do not know his heart, my lady.”

  “I know men of battle. You are a man of God, and I implore you not to speak of our conversation to Le Brun. You must not tell him about my father’s written will.”

  The monk’s deep gray eyes regarded her. “If you wish to learn to put your faith in God, madam, you would do well to begin by finding at least one human you can trust. Jacques Le Brun could be that man. He cares for you. Truly, he would never betray you.”

  “Martin, you may trust him, but I cannot! Swear you will tell him nothing of this exchange between us.”

  “I will never speak of it. You have my word. But you are going to need your father’s will to regain your lands. Of that you can be certain.” He paused for a moment. “Before I joined this monastery, Jacques and our retinue made a journey to Canterbury. There we met a young churchman who is influential in legal, political and religious matters. We became fast friends, and he often comes here to visit me.”

  “Is he trustworthy?” Bronwen asked.

  “I don’t believe the man to be always correct in his actions—but he is wise and well respected. People flock to his home for counsel, and he finds time for each one. I believe he could make your decision easier. He will tell you whether your document has value and advise you on ways to regain your lands.”

  “Who is this man?”

  “He calls himself Thomas of London, but others know him as Thomas à Becket.”

  Bronwen stepped down from the carriage and crossed to the gate that protected Sir Gregory’s home. London’s streets were not safe even by day, and she was relieved to have arrived before the sun was fully set. As she slid back the hasp, something brushed her elbow. She had seen no one nearby when she’d left the carriage, and she started at the touch.

  “Bronwen the Briton,” Jacques spoke. “You are as difficult to pin down as a feather in the wind.”

  He stood beside her, garbed not in mail but in the clothes of a London gentleman. In the fading light, his dark gaze settled on her face, and he smiled. “You thought I had returned to Warbreck—and you were pleased.”

  She glanced at the door to Sir Gregory’s home, praying that no one could see her. “I could not imagine you would stay away so long with Aeschby and Haakon threatening.”

  “I left good men to hold my castle. My best, in fact. If Aeschby and I continue to live, I imagine we’ll threaten each other forever. Men spend much time at battle, and leave too little opportunity for more important things.”

  “Your friend Martin chooses wisely. He spends his time at prayer.”

  “And copying Scripture. A worthy cause.”

  “Yes, for those who can read.” She reached for the hasp again. “I must go inside. My sister will wonder about me.”

  “I wonder about you more,” he said. Taking her arm, he tucked it under his and turned her away from the house. “Come, let us stroll.”

  “Sir, I cannot!” She struggled to free herself. “This is unseemly.”

  “I have come to see you, waited nearly an hour behind that blasted shrubbery and will not be denied.” He laid his free hand on her arm, effectively preventing any hope of escape. “We have spoken rarely, yet you refuse to leave my thoughts. Why is that?”

  “I cannot say, sir. Perhaps your brain is faulty.”

  At that, Jacques gave a hearty laugh. “Madam, you delight me. At this moment, in the most loathsome of cities and weighted by demands I cannot hope to meet, I find myself happier than I’ve been in years.”

  Wondering where he was taking her, Bronwen fought to steady her breath. “If you dislike London, you should leave it. You are needed at Warbreck.”

  “And you? Will you stay here?”

  “No,” she told him. “I intend to settle my sister and return to Rossall. It is my home.”

  “Rossall is rightfully yours, but what of the Viking? It is you he most dreads, and he means to see you dead. I fear greatly for you, my lady.”

  He turned them onto a path that led up to a fine house, not as tall as Sir Gregory’s but more sturdily built. Grand stone steps rose to a wooden door studded with brass and iron. Jacques fitted a key into the lock, turned it and held out a hand to welcome Bronwen inside.

  “Where is this?” she asked. “I hav
e never been to this house before. Who lives here?”

  “I do. My father owned it before he joined the Crusade, and now it is mine. Will you come in?”

  “The two of us, alone together? Sir—”

  “Bronwen, I mean you no harm. Surely you know that by now. Come and sit. Take refreshment and speak with me. Merely speak, that is all I ask.”

  Trying to listen for the will of God as Martin had encouraged her to do, Bronwen could hear nothing but the urging of her heart. Lifting her skirt, she stepped into the foyer and saw that candles had already been lit. It was a comely chamber with a marble floor, tapestried walls and a blazing fire. The scent of some exotic spice lingered in the room, and she drifted toward the fire as if in a dream.

  “I have sat here many an evening,” Jacques said as he followed her across the room. “The hearth at Warbreck, too, has been my comfort. But my idle thoughts turn always to you. I picture you here in London—alone. You have nothing. No one.”

  “Why do you think of me at all? I am nothing to you. I am no more than the widow of a vanquished lord. I cannot understand why you pursue me—why you care.”

  He reached out and touched the side of her neck with his fingertips. “I cannot explain it. I only know that when I see you, I long to hold you. When I think of you, I remember your bold spirit, your tenderness, your dark beauty.”

  Bronwen laid one hand on the mantelpiece, struggling for some measure of reason to prevail. Were these words of passion true? Or did the man have guile behind his avowals of desire? She thought of Sir Gregory and his explanation of Norman amour. She knew Amounderness was a large area that Jacques intended to possess for Henry Plantagenet. Surely this speech of his reeked of falsehood, luring her into a trap from which she could not escape.

  “I know by your silence that you think me unworthy of you,” he said. For a moment he could not speak. Then he raked his fingers through his hair. “It is true what you said—I am a half-breed. Many have taunted my heritage of mixed blood. My skin is the deeply tan shade of my mother’s land, and I was given the name Le Brun because of it. You are a Briton, lily-white, a woman of noble ancestry, the proud bearer of an ancient bloodline.”

  “Jacques,” she said carefully. “Please…Please know that I was wrong to judge you by your lineage. I was unfair. Thoughtless. Cruel. My father brought me up with the belief that Britons were superior to all and must eventually once again rule this isle. I was taught to hate and mistrust anyone who didn’t share my heritage. Though I respect and honor my father, in this he was wrong. I have learned that some good may be found in a Viking, a Welshman, a Norman. And in a man whose life represents a blending of people.”

  “You speak of me.” He paced away from the fire and then back again. “Have you learned not to hate me?”

  “I am wary of you, sir. But I see the admiration you have earned from many others, and I trust it.”

  “Even if you can accept that I am not Briton, Norman or Viking, I am no nobleman. I am the son of a merchant. My Norman name is a symbol of what I have tried to become.”

  “Once you were called Jacob,” she said softly. “Captain Muldrew who brought us to London knew your father. He told me of your home in Antioch.”

  “I was Jacob there, but now I am Jacques. It is what I want in life—to be a Norman lord, a knight in service to Henry Plantagenet, king of England. And yet all I am and want to be causes you pain. Please, Bronwen, you must accept me as I am.”

  He captured her arm and drew her close. Before Bronwen could hold him back, he slipped his arms around her and pressed her against his chest. His breath stirred the wisps of hair on her forehead. She resisted his embrace, desperately trying to think, to protect herself, to keep herself from this man. But his warmth and strength were too much. She let her hands slide across his back as she laid her cheek on his shoulder. Why had he uttered such words of confession and pain? What could they mean? She must make some sense of this madness between them.

  “My lord—” she began.

  “No, do not speak. I fear what you must say, my dearest lady. Too many barriers stand between us. I know that. I see them all as clearly as you do. Just let me hold you now, and deceive myself into believing that you are mine.”

  Bronwen felt tears well. How she longed to tell Jacques everything in her heart—every dream, every joy, every fear. She ached to stay in his arms, to be held forever by this strong yet gentle man. He spoke so openly to her. She wanted to believe him, to trust him. How could she doubt his motives? And yet she must. To become a pawn in some game he played would ruin her forever.

  As the tumult of emotion spun within her heart, Bronwen tried to pull away from the man whose very existence threatened her purpose in life. But when she tried to draw away, he slid his arms more tightly about her. When she lifted her focus to his face, his lips brushed hers, robbing them of purpose. He kissed her again, this time with greater urgency, and his fingers slipped beneath her veil into the dark locks of hair that tumbled around her shoulders. Unable to resist, she drew her own hands up his broad back and across his shoulders.

  “Bronwen, please,” he murmured against her ear. “Do not leave me.”

  “I must go.” She could hardly find breath to form the words. “I don’t know what you want of me, Jacques.”

  “Give me a chance to prove myself. Allow me to defend and protect you. Let me stand up for the honor of your name against Aeschby. Permit me to give you all that is in my heart to give. The seeds of love grow between us, my lady. Let us nurture them, I beg you.”

  Defend…protect…honor…love. Frightened of the very words, Bronwen drew away from him and bent to retrieve her veil. “You confuse me, sir,” she said. “Your words make no sense. I should go.”

  She started toward the door, but he caught her and turned her toward him again. “Bronwen, you have said my heritage no longer repels you, and I have offered you my protection and aid. Why do you continue to reject me?”

  “You speak of love, my lord. Pure love, mixed love, amour—is this what you mean? If so, I must refuse it. I revile these French games of immorality and sin.”

  “Games? Upon my honor, I—”

  “When you hold and kiss me, I can only assume you desire something from me. I shall not cast myself at your feet to be used by you and then tossed aside should you get me with child. Or do you want Rossall? Is that the object of your charade? But you know Aeschby has taken it. You know I am a widow. Indeed, I have nothing to give you. I have no lands, no wealth, no dowry. What do you want of me? What?”

  “Bronwen—”

  “Leave me in peace, sir. Do not torment me again.”

  She swept her veil over her head and fumbled for the latch. At last her fingers found the cold metal and she opened the door. Stepping out into the night, she ran down the street. Fleeing the cry of her heart…and his…she ran until she found the gate to Sir Gregory’s house. When she stepped into the warm foyer, she buried her head in her hands and wept.

  Chapter Eleven

  Exhausted, Bronwen climbed the stairs that night to find Gildan seated on the second landing. The younger woman rose and drew her mantle about her shoulders.

  “Are you not abed, Gildan?” Bronwen greeted her.

  “How can I sleep when I think what you have done to me? Why did you go to see the monk? Had it something to do with my marriage to Aeschby? Did you tell him about Chacier? I know you spoke to Sir Gregory about us.”

  “Calm yourself, sister,” she said, as Gildan rose to meet her. “The monk gave advice about my own life—not yours.”

  “Why did you talk to Sir Gregory, Bronwen?” Gildan stamped her foot in anger. “Now Chacier has learned I am married, and you have ruined all my happiness!”

  “Both Sir Gregory and I know the admiration Chacier holds for you—and the dangers that entails.”

  “Chacier loves me! My life is changing for the better, and it is all because of him. Perhaps I don’t understand this amour of which he speaks, bu
t I want to, Bronwen. Unlike you, I refuse to close myself off from all affection and become a sour, bitter, heartless old woman.”

  Bronwen grew hot with anger at Gildan’s words. “Very well, then. Go about this illicit affair your own way. But be aware that Sir Gregory has his eyes on you. Chacier is his heir, and you are nothing but a dowerless, poverty-stricken married woman.”

  Gildan’s blue eyes brimmed with tears of fury and dismay. “Well, Bronwen, you think you know so much about people. But you’re wrong about Chacier and me. You’ve closed your mind to new ideas and your heart to tenderness—and I pity you. Just because you’re miserable does not mean I must be condemned to unhappiness also. Stay out of my affairs, Bronwen. Out.”

  Gildan turned on her heel and stomped up the stairs, weeping. Bronwen started after her, then stopped as tears spilled down once again. How could Gildan say her sister was doomed to be a sour, bitter, lonely old woman? Yet, as Bronwen sat wiping her damp cheeks, she saw a picture of herself—her dark widow’s robes, her often angry eyes, her tight lips. Was Gildan right? What had happened to that carefree young girl exploring the riverbank near Rossall?

  Should she have let herself believe the words Jacques had spoken to her by the fireplace of his London home? Dare she have given herself to his touch, to his fire?

  More unsettled than ever, Bronwen climbed into bed beside her sister without even discarding her tunic. Gildan would not look at her, but lay curled into a ball with the blankets over her head.

  The next morning at breakfast, Lady Mignonette and her daughters pressed Bronwen for news of her meeting with the monk. Sir Gregory frowned at the three from across the table. He had led Chacier into the solar for the first time since his son’s injury, and he motioned for silence. “Bronwen has no desire to discuss personal affairs at the breakfast table. Do let us have a moment’s peace, girls.”