The Briton

by Catherine Palmer

  “Whom do you support for the throne—Stephen or Henry?” he asked.

  Bronwen could not answer at first. As a Briton, she would prefer one of her own people to become king. But she soon realized the purpose of Becket’s question. Normans believed that all lands belonged to the king. He distributed properties to his barons according to their merit. Each baron then divided his lands among lesser lords. Despite all this allocation, the land yet belonged to the king. Bronwen knew she must answer, and she found it easy to choose between the two men Becket proposed.

  “I support Henry Plantagenet,” she said.

  “And which baron usurped your father’s lands?”

  “A man who supports neither Henry nor Stephen,” she told him. “Amounderness is in dispute. King Stephen has awarded it to the Scots, but they give it no heed and never set foot there. The original lords revile the Scots.”

  “If Henry were to become king and restore the lands to their original lords, would all serve him gladly?”

  “I have not spoken with each man, sir. But this I do know. My brother-in-law serves only himself.”

  “But you—if you were to regain your father’s holding—would you place yourself under the guardianship of the pretender to the throne, Henry Plantagenet? And would you then marry the man he selected for you, that your lands might be held securely for the king?”

  Now Bronwen realized she had made a fearful mistake in coming to see this man. She had no intention of becoming a ward to Henry Plantagenet—of placing her life and Briton property in the hands of a man she did not even know, and a Norman at that. But Becket had trapped her. She had no option but to agree with him or show herself loyal to King Stephen.

  “I would accept the authority of Henry Plantagenet,” she answered at last.

  It was a lie, and even as she spoke it, Bronwen begged forgiveness from God. The many deities of her youth permitted curse-casting, spell-making, fortune-telling, sacrifices and many other things the Christian faith forbade. Since meeting with Martin, Bronwen had visited the nearby church and discussed religion with Sir Gregory many times. God the Father, she had learned, found a great list of behaviors reprehensible and termed them sin. But He was also eager to forgive and filled with compassion for His creation. Indeed, He had sent His only Son to a sacrificial death in order to build a bridge between Himself and mankind.

  Bronwen knew she still had much to learn, but at this moment, she placed her trust in God’s willingness to pardon her lie.

  “Hear this, madam,” Becket told her. “Your father’s will is not as unusual as you suppose. Perhaps he didn’t school you well in the history of Norman royalty. Indeed, the very dispute which has caused this bloody civil war between Henry’s mother, Matilda, and King Stephen rests in part on just such a will. You see, Henry I—son of William the Conqueror—left all his dominions to his daughter Matilda to the exclusion of her husband Geoffrey Plantagenet. And upon the birth of a son, all those dominions were to go directly to that son.”

  “Oh, my,” Bronwen whispered. “I did not know.”

  “Henry Plantagenet is Matilda’s son,” he continued. “He claims the throne by direct descent. Stephen, son of one of Henry I’s other daughters, asserts that Plantagenet has no claim and that his own son, Eustace, deserves the crown. But, of course, due to the will of Henry I, his grandson—Henry Plantagenet—is the rightful king of England. Were Henry to become king, no doubt he would support your cause over your brother-in-law’s. And he would aid you in any way possible.”

  Bronwen sat back in shock. She had no idea that Henry’s quest was so like her own. “But Henry is not king,” she pointed out.

  “No, madam, he is not. But as you’re eager to claim your rightful possessions, and as they’re already in dispute, here’s my advice. Take your father’s written will to Henry Plantagenet. Declare your loyalty and agree to become his ward and wed the man he selects. Henry will then either give you the troops with which to battle for your lands, or he will go to Amounderness with you and there hold trial against your brother-in-law.”

  “Which is more likely?” Bronwen asked.

  “I believe he’ll give you troops,” Becket answered, “though he will make certain you’re married first. After all, he’s not yet king and has no authority to hold trial. If he becomes king, however, you can take comfort in knowing that Henry places more importance on the written law than any man I’ve ever known.”

  Bronwen stood trembling. All this wise counsel would do only one thing—put Rossall in Norman hands. That was the very thing her father had wanted to prevent. “Your advice has opened my eyes, sir,” she said, trying to control her voice. “I thank you.”

  Becket acknowledged her words with a brief bow and led her out into the hall. As he handed her back into the charge of a servitor, he said in a low voice, “When you have made your decision, please inform me. I’ll gladly arrange an interview for you with our future king.” With that, he wished her good night and strolled back into his chamber, his crimson robes swishing behind him and the jewels on his fingers twinkling in the candlelight.

  Bronwen stared after him. Why had she been such a fool to consult with this Norman? Now he knew everything. No doubt he would tell Henry Plantagenet, and all hope would be gone. She had ruined what small chance she ever had of regaining her home.

  Hurrying down the hall, she saw Jacques Le Brun waiting for her beside the front door. He joined her as she made her way to the carriage. “I hope your mourning is near an end, madam.”

  Bronwen paused. “I shall be in mourning until the last Norman leaves our land. If you will excuse me now, I must prepare for a journey.”

  “So the churchman gave you unhappy counsel,” Jacques said. “I feared as much. Becket knows more than anyone about current politics—but you must follow where your heart leads you.”

  “Is that all you Normans think of—your hearts? I’m sorry, but I cannot follow emotion. I must do what is right by my father’s training and discipline. Now let me go.”

  “You cannot mean you plan to face Aeschby alone. I beg of you, stay here in London with the merchant’s family. At least here you’re safe.”

  “Safely out of your way while you take my father’s lands for Henry Plantagenet? No, sir. I shall fight Aeschby or any man who tries to take my home. Even you.”

  Chapter Twelve

  As Bronwen entered Sir Gregory’s house, she heard laughter floating down from the solar.

  “Ho, Bronwen! Come at once!” Gildan cried.

  Met halfway up the staircase by her sister, Bronwen was crushed in an embrace and then pulled into the brightly lit chamber. The family had gathered to enjoy cups of hot spiced cider and bread still warm from the oven. As Bronwen sank onto a chair, a servitor pressed a steaming mug into her cold hands. She took a sip and looked up to see Gildan, Linette and Caresse dancing hand in hand about the room while Chacier stood watching by the fire.

  “Bronwen, what do you suppose has happened?” Gildan teased. “Sir Gregory has agreed to everything!”

  “Is that so?” Bronwen responded, turning to the elderly man who sat beside his wife.

  “Your sister speaks the truth. I have arranged with my partner, Firmin of Troyes, to accept you and Gildan as his wards for six months. In France, you will be converted to Christianity, and the court will proceed with the marriage annulment. Firmin will then arrange for the wedding of his ward, Gildan, to my son, Chacier. It will be a more than proper alignment. As we are partners, it’s sensible to consolidate our business union with a marriage. And I’m certain he will arrange a profitable marriage for you as well, my dear Bronwen.”

  She frowned with the effort of grasping the implications of this new development. “Sir Gregory,” she asked, “who will provide my sister’s dowry?”

  “It will be arranged,” he replied.

  Bronwen suspected that he planned to provide the dowry to his partner in exchange for the six months’ lodging.

  “Bronwen, how c
an you worry about such things as a dowry?” Gildan asked. “We’re going to France tomorrow! In six months, I shall wed my beloved Chacier and return to London to become a proper wife. You must marry as well and live very close to us. We shall visit one another, and our children will play, and everything will be lovely.”

  “France?” Bronwen asked Sir Gregory.

  “Troyes is a city in eastern France,” he confirmed. “It is the cultural center of Western Europe.”

  “They have two grand fairs in Troyes, Bronwen,” Gildan added. “We’ll see goods from all over the world. It’s going to be marvelous. Though I shall long for my wedding day to arrive, I’ll learn to be a proper Norman—in a city even more exciting than London.”

  As all eyes studied her, Bronwen considered the news. If she went with Gildan to France, she might have a deeper drink of the vast fountain of knowledge that she had tasted today at Becket’s house. Perhaps she might marry a scholar or merchant and find joy in a life far from England and Rossall—and a certain dark Norman lord bent on conquest.

  She had told Jacques she planned to take Rossall, but could she ever hope to succeed? It would be far easier to follow her sister to France and allow her future to be molded there than to submit to the leading of the one God to whom she now prayed.

  Though the choice was difficult, Bronwen knew what she must say. “I’ll leave for Rossall in the morning,” she told the family. “In speaking with Becket today, I saw the importance of returning home. My sister’s future has been accounted for—thanks to Chacier’s love and Sir Gregory’s great kindness—and I have no cause to linger in London.”

  Gildan squealed in disbelief. “No, Bronwen, you cannot go back to Rossall! How can you even consider trying to overpower Aeschby? Are you as blind as our father to believe Rossall will stay Briton?”

  Lady Mignonette patted Gildan’s hand as she spoke to her sister. “Truly my dear, you would be unwise to set out across the country as winter begins. You would have to go by land, for the seas are not to be trusted till spring.”

  Sir Gregory cleared his throat. “I agree with my wife. Madam, where is the logic in this idea? Has Sir Thomas à Becket really given you such dubious advice? Where does he suppose you can find arms for your cause?”

  “Becket did not suggest that I go to Rossall. It is my own plan and my only choice.”

  “But who’ll protect you against Aeschby, Bronwen?” Gildan asked, her blue eyes filled with tears.

  Bronwen rose and hugged her sister. “God will protect me, Gildan, if He chooses. My life is in His hands. I must try to recapture Rossall. Surely you understand.”

  Gildan nodded as she dabbed at her cheeks. “I do understand, Bronwen. You are bound by our father’s dream of preserving Rossall as a Briton holding. That’s why he willed Rossall to you. But I’ll miss you so. Oh Bronwen, if you go against Aeschby alone, you go to your death!”

  Early the next morning, Bronwen was supplied with two horses, a cart carrying food and blankets, and an entourage of four armed guards. Enit had decided against all protest that she would return to Rossall with Bronwen.

  With Enit driving the cart, the two sisters rode together in a carriage down a row of quays along the Thames to a large old trading ship. There they met Sir Firmin of Troyes, an elderly white-haired gentleman who warmly welcomed Gildan as his ward. She hugged everyone and burst into tears as Chacier kissed her farewell. Soon the ship weighed anchor and Bronwen watched her fair-haired sister waving a pink handkerchief and blowing kisses until she was a speck on the horizon.

  Finding Sir Gregory alone for a moment, Bronwen made her way over to him and touched his shoulder.

  “Why did you do it?” she asked.

  The old man looked up. “Do what, madam?”

  “Why did you agree to help my sister get an annulment so she can marry your son?”

  The gentleman thought for a moment. “In truth, I cannot be certain. I suppose it was something in Chacier’s eyes as he pleaded with me for the girl. He offered to give up his birthright in the business that he might wed her and not shame me. Dear lady, your sister brought my son to life. I’ve never seen him so happy. I believe there seems to be something in this amour that is all the fashion. Indeed, I begin to take to the idea myself.”

  Bronwen had to smile. “Gildan is happier, too, Sir Gregory. I am pleased for them both.”

  He chuckled. “Come Mignonette, girls. Do you want to miss the opening of market?”

  At this, his daughters turned and ran toward him, leaving their lovelorn brother still gazing off toward the horizon. As Bronwen embraced the family one by one, she knew she would miss them dreadfully. But her sorrow turned to consternation when she lifted her head to find Jacques Le Brun and a full contingent of armed horsemen nearby.

  “Ah, yes,” Sir Gregory spoke up before Bronwen could utter a word. “In all the madness of the morning, I forgot to mention an occurrence of great import to you, madam. May I introduce Sir Jacques Le Brun, a nobleman and a loyal supporter of Henry Plantagenet. I know his father well, for we have engaged in much trade through the years. Indeed, Captain Muldrew often carries cargo between our warehouses. Sir Jacques owns a London home not far from my own, and he overheard you yesterday at Becket’s house.”

  “Did he?” Bronwen said, eyeing the dark-haired Norman.

  “Le Brun came to see me late last night. He told me that he has been given charge of a holding in Amounderness, and that Henry Plantagenet himself journeys even now by ship to inspect loyal fortresses along the west coast—including Le Brun’s castle. Can you imagine?”

  “Hardly,” she replied.

  “Le Brun travels overland to Amounderness to meet our future king,” Sir Gregory continued. “Hearing of your plans, he generously offered to accompany and protect you, and of course I agreed at once. You’ll not regret this, I assure you. He is among the finest of men.”

  The thought of traveling so many miles in the company of Jacques Le Brun—of trying to elude his touch, avoid his gaze, focus on her mission and not on the man whose presence even now sent her heart skittering—left Bronwen in a quandary. She should refuse his help. She knew that beyond doubt. But what excuse could she give Sir Gregory? And, in truth, such a large company of men-at-arms would speed her journey.

  “You have always treated me well,” she told Sir Gregory, giving him another hug. “May God bless you.”

  Then with a last glance at Jacques, she walked to the cart. “Are you comfortable, Enit?”

  “Dear girl, I’m as happy as a mule eating a nettle in early spring. Let’s be off. I can’t wait to see my home.”

  Bronwen smiled and mounted her horse. Just as she had settled herself on the gelding’s saddle, the first snowflakes of winter began to fall. Pulling the hood of the black mantle over her head, she urged the horse forward away from the river. As the travelers started for the road that led out of London, Bronwen noted the sandy-haired young man standing alone at the edge of the water, bent and weeping for his lost love so lately sailed away to France.

  Jacques rode well to the front of the company, ensuring that Bronwen and the cart with her nursemaid and their supplies remained safely surrounded by his men. They would make haste for the city of Coventry, for the road was frequented by outlaws. Jacques had no desire to expend valuable weapons on such wastrels. He had little doubt that his men and their arms would be needed once they neared Amounderness, especially with Henry Plantagenet expected at Warbreck not long after Jacques arrived.

  Remote inns would provide secure lodging for the nights their journey must entail. After Coventry, the next town was Lichfield, and after that, Chester. The route would take them past few villages or castles, for the country remained wild and open with vast expanses of virgin forest always threatening to close over the road.

  As they set out across the white moorland, Jacques turned to see how Bronwen fared. She rode her horse alongside the cart, and he could not make out her features beneath the hood of his mantle.
That she still wore the gift pleased him beyond measure.

  Her tongue was sharp and her will strongly set against him, but her heart had softened the moment they’d met. The few times he had held her in his arms, she’d yielded willingly to his touch. Her kisses matched his in ardor. Her eyes pleaded for more. Even as she pushed him away, the expression on her face beckoned him to return. And he would.

  The old nursemaid, just visible under piles of blankets, lifted her grizzled head and smiled at him. He knew that despite the unexpected company, both women could not deny their joy in starting for home at last. He, too, anticipated his return to Warbreck. Before leaving, he had commissioned many improvements to the battlements and refurbishments to the hall, and he was eager to see how his workmen had fared.

  Looking about at the stark black trees with withered brown leaves still clinging to the branches, Jacques wondered how long it would take to reach their destination. The safest place in England must be Amounderness, he thought. It was a land so marshy and so heavily forested that hardly anyone lived there. Not even kings could bother themselves to count the population.

  Yet Amounderness had come to the attention of Henry Plantagenet, and Jacques was happy to begin the quest of taking it bit by bit for England and the throne. If Edgard of Rossall had known the political situation his daughter understood now, what would he have done? Could he still have believed it possible to return the entire island to Briton rule? If the father was anything like his daughter, Jacques thought, not a single dream would have changed.

  That evening as the sun slanted across the dusting of snow, the travelers came to an inn at the edge of the forest. Determined to cause Bronwen no discomfort in the presence of his men or her nurse, Jacques said little to her as he arranged for rooms. The night passed swiftly, and soon dawn was upon them.

  The track wound around small hills and beneath great silent oaks and beeches on to Coventry. That night and the next, the party managed to find inns able to welcome them for a few coins. Each day the track grew more crooked and rugged. Never once did they meet another traveler.