The Briton

by Catherine Palmer

  A new stone wall now extended across the river and back again—enclosing the village and ensuring a water supply for the moat that had been dug around the castle. Though the wall was not yet complete, Bronwen could see it was far stronger than the wooden palisade at Rossall.

  The tall gate that the party now approached had been built of wood, but it was studded with iron spikes to deter a battering ram. When they neared, a formation of guards opened the gate, allowing the group to enter.

  Again Bronwen caught her breath at the changes. The village had grown. Huts had been built against the base of the inner wall. The lanes running between the houses were paved with cobblestone. A market area had been cleared, and a white stone cross designated its center.

  As she rode toward the castle, Bronwen saw that not everything was altered. There stood the kitchen, just as she remembered it. And there were the stables looking much as they had before. She recalled the care she had taken to improve the place for her husband.

  Olaf Lothbrok…now joined by his son. Did they walk the halls of Valhalla, as they had believed? Bronwen’s new understanding of the one God and the teachings in His holy book led her to fear that Olaf had been sadly mistaken.

  “May I take your horse, madam?” a stable hand asked.

  She did not recognize the man, but Enit knew him at once. Before Bronwen could dismount and smooth out her rumpled skirts, he had invited the old woman to join his family for dinner that very evening. Unable to resist her nursemaid’s glee, Bronwen dismissed her into his care.

  Jacques had already vanished, surrounded by men eager to acquaint their lord with everything that had happened in his absence. Bronwen was relieved. Their final encounter had left her in great turmoil. She felt she should speak to him alone again—try to explain how she felt about him, attempt to make him see that it was not his heritage that separated them. It was her own.

  Approaching the castle door, Bronwen gathered up her courage and stepped inside. Just as she remembered, the long stone staircase rose at her left toward the guardroom and her former bedchamber. But through the archway before her, she saw not the familiar hall with its rush-strewn floor and bare walls, but a changed room. Thick carpets of bright color and pattern were echoed on walls hung with tapestries that had been adorned with scenes of battles, flowers, trees, unicorns and dragons.

  Each table was covered with cloths dyed in brilliant peacock-blue. The fireplace, no longer in the center of the room, now stood against the far wall. The dais was in its accustomed place, but over it hung a baldachuin made of blue silk and ornamented with gold balls. On a newly erected minstrel’s gallery above the canopied dais, a large group of musicians played a lively tune.

  Already servitors prepared for the evening meal, rushing about with silver trays, golden goblets, and yes—even ewers that diners might wash their hands. Feeling almost as though she was in a different place altogether, Bronwen at last recalled her mission at Warbreck. She must find the small box she and Enit had hidden. She was hurrying toward the staircase and her old chamber when Jacques stepped through the front door.

  “Madam?” he called out. “Do you climb to the guard tower for some malevolent purpose…or are you gone astray in your own home?”

  As his men chuckled, Bronwen faced the man whose eyes even now beckoned her. “My bedchamber is upstairs,” she told him. “I’m weary, and I mean to retire for the night.”

  “You may have stayed there once, but that stair now leads to weapons storage and sleeping quarters for my men.”

  “The entire floor?”

  “Indeed. My workmen have constructed more comfortable chambers just down the corridor. Will you accompany me?”

  He held out an arm, and she could do nothing but slip her hand around it. As he escorted her toward a second newly built staircase with carved wood newel posts and a fine banister, Bronwen spoke in a low voice.

  “Sir, may I be so bold as to ask for a moment of your time? I wish to shed light on our previous conversation.”

  “You spoke clearly enough for me to see your heart,” he said. “Any further exchange between us is unnecessary.”

  “But that is not true. You misunderstood me.”

  “Did I? I think not. If I may boast, I’m known as a man of high intellect, and I rarely mistake anything.”

  Followed by his men, Jacques accompanied her up the steps to a door that opened into a chamber far grander than the one at Sir Gregory’s house—and she had believed that one to be more magnificent than anything possible. The windows were covered with blue silk curtains, while matching hangings surrounded a large sumptuous bed.

  “Nevertheless,” she murmured as he led her into the room, “you have mistaken my words. Please may we speak?”

  “I assume this will be suitable, madam,” he said loudly enough for his men to hear. “I shall see that the chests of clothing you left here previously will be brought up, and a meal provided. You have my invitation to stay as long as you wish—though I would encourage you to remain at least one more day. Henry Plantagenet’s ships have been sighted not far from Warbreck Wash, and I expect him to arrive on the morrow. I’m sure he would take great interest in your view of current politics.”

  Before Bronwen could respond, Jacques and his men left the room, shutting the door on her. A curl of pain crept through her chest at the echo of their footfalls down the corridor. She had, indeed, rejected Jacques Le Brun for the last time. His dismissal of her was obvious, his disdain palpable.

  Crossing the room, she drew aside a curtain. The small window looked out on the forests, once verdant and thriving. Now they appeared as dark and lifeless as her own spirit. Retrieving her father’s written will from a guarded armory seemed futile and pointless. Opposing Aeschby was a vain dream that must surely end in her death. But the ache that caused her the greatest agony was the certainty that her own pride and selfishness had driven away the one thing that might truly fill the rest of her days with peace and joy.

  She would never again know Jacques’s passion. His words of love were ended. Now she had only herself and God. Martin had promised that His Spirit would fill her if she honored the Christian deity above all gods. She had chosen to obey that calling. Now she must trust in Him to bring her peace.

  “Henry Plantagenet is to be king!”

  “King Stephen signed a compromise.”

  “The civil war is at an end.”

  Jacques heard the rumble of excited discussion from the knights who surrounded him as he waited outside the great hall. Earlier that afternoon, Plantagenet and his attachment had arrived at Warbreck Castle. Henry had given Jacques the good news at once. Soon exaltation and merriment had broken out from the village to the castle towers. Everyone from knight to peasant rejoiced.

  Jacques, too, was delighted at his lord’s triumph over Stephen. Even more, he felt pleased at Henry’s public acknowledgment of the presence of Amounderness in his future kingdom. The swampy forest land had been hard won, and Jacques knew his men were proud to present it to their sovereign. The one thing that dampened Jacques’s joy was the knowledge that Bronwen had made her distaste for him undeniable. No matter how wealthy or powerful he became, no matter how passionate or tender his love, she hated him.

  She was a proud Briton. He was a Norman dog—worse than that, he was of mixed blood. A cur. A mongrel.

  On this night, if she deigned, Bronwen would enter his hall and observe the very best he had to offer. And then she would leave him—marching away in stony silence to confront her enemy. Still driven by the obsolete notion that her people might one day rule the island, she would defy her kinsman, and he would kill her.

  “Sir? May I have a word?”

  One of the younger men stood before Jacques. The lad had followed Jacques from his knighthood, through the battle for Warbreck, to this victory. “Sir, some of us are wondering. Why did Stephen sign the treaty?”

  Jacques smiled. “He saw he had no chance against us, of course. Henry Plantagenet is
God’s man for the throne.”

  “But what of Eustace, Stephen’s son?”

  The answer would soon become a source of glee, he knew. Yet it had to be told. “Eustace choked to death while eating a plate of eels.”

  “Eels?” the young man repeated. “He choked on eels?”

  “Yes, and we would do well to remember that Stephen yet lives. Only when he dies will Henry become king.”

  When the minstrels ceased their song, Jacques drank down a breath and squared his shoulders.

  “Presenting Jacques Le Brun, lord of Warbreck,” the ward-corn announced.

  Jacques strode into the hall and allowed his men to gather beside him as the crowd bowed and began to applaud. Within an instant, he spotted Bronwen among the throng. She stood at a table some distance from the dais, but her beauty radiated as if a fine emerald had suddenly been revealed on a swath of dark velvet.

  At last the woman had decided to remove her widow’s garb. Tonight she wore a green gown that revealed her lovely figure to great advantage. Discreet but well-fitted, it served only to remind Jacques of what he had so desired…and lost. Though a white veil covered her head, he could see that she had plaited her dark hair into two long ropes woven with green ribbon.

  Their eyes met, and she looked away.

  He fought the rising tide of anguish that welled inside him at her rejection. It mattered not what the woman thought, he told himself. Tonight he was lord of Warbreck Castle. Beneath his fur-lined black mantle, he wore a crimson tunic embroidered in gold. A ruby-encrusted gold belt loosely cinched his waist and a magnificent sword hung at his side. His boots and leggings were of black leather and had been polished to a high sheen, and a golden circlet crowned his head.

  The horn sounded again. “Presenting Henry Plantagenet—Duke of Normandy, Anjou, Touraine, Maine and Aquitaine…and future king of England!”

  The crowd burst into a cheer and knelt to the floor as the man entered the room. He stood for a moment on the threshold and looked about. Jacques knew that although the man was stocky, even tending toward corpulence, the impression would soon be dismissed by his air of kingliness. Indeed, everyone in the room grew silent as the young man strode to the platform. They seemed to understand they were in the presence of a man who knew himself completely, who had a great sense of mission, who bore the stamp of nobility on his forehead.

  The feast began with a prayer offered by Henry himself. Once he had been seated, everyone else followed. The servitors then circled the room bearing ewers that the guests might wash their hands. Platter upon platter of meat, poultry and fish were carried into the room. Jacques noted with pleasure that his lord sampled every dish presented—spiced tripe, marrow-and-fruit tart, smoked pike salad in pastry, swan-neck pudding and artichokes with blueberry rice. He spooned up mouthfuls of pheasant in lemon wine sauce, and savored the giblet pie. Bronwen ate also, Jacques noted, but her attention was trained on her plate. Those seated beside her tried to engage her in conversation without success. And each time she glanced at Jacques and found him looking back at her, she shrank and turned away.

  Entertainers performed between each course. Henry roared with pleasure at the tumblers and jugglers. The live bear delighted him so much that the creature’s owners were obliged to present it several times. Singers gathered before the dais and performed a local melody without the accompaniment of musicians. Bronwen seemed especially pleased with this, Jacques noted. But of course, these were her people, singing in her native tongue.

  At the instigation of a dance tune performed in the gallery, many knights rose and escorted ladies toward the center of the room. As they arranged themselves into a circle and began a rhythmic, swaying dance, Jacques looked toward Bronwen’s table once again.

  This time, she was gone.

  With Jacques’s attention drawn to the musicians in the gallery, Bronwen rose and slipped behind the tables of feasters. Mesmerized at the brilliance before them, no one took note of the lone figure making her way out of the hall. Guards, busy with a game of snapdragon, barely looked up. She watched as they covered a bowl of raisins with brandy and set it ablaze to remove the alcohol. Then, when one of the guards snatched a raisin from the fire and popped the burning treat into his mouth—to the great mirth of his friends—Bronwen started up the staircase.

  The passageway was lit with torches, and she found that a door had been built into the opening of the guardroom where there had been none before. Taking the iron handle, she turned it and the door swung open. Her fear that she might meet someone there was eased at once. Everyone, it seemed, was enjoying the feast.

  As it had been before, the large room was filled with weapons—row after row of spears, shields, swords, knives and maces. She hurried across it in the dark and pushed open the door to the chamber where she once had slept.

  Empty cots and several chairs stood about a low fire, while carved chests lay along its perimeter. A thick curtain covered the slotted window from which she had gazed and thought of Jacques. This drape blocked the wind and allowed the blaze to warm the room. Her heart hammered as she approached the window, for she knew that beneath the floorboards lay the small box containing her father’s will.

  Downstairs the song ended and another began. Bronwen knelt and lifted the curtain. Just as she touched the floor, she heard the sound of footsteps. Someone was coming up the stairs. Low voices told her that several men were crossing the guardroom.

  Reaching for her dagger, she realized that for the first time in these many months it was not at her side. Wanting Jacques to notice her, perhaps admire her and maybe speak with her, she had worn her loveliest gown. The dagger and black mantle lay abandoned in her bedchamber.

  As the door opened and two rushlights brightened the chamber, she slipped behind the curtain.

  “You have fine minstrels here in the north.”

  “Thank you, my lord. I’m pleased you approve.” Bronwen knew that voice too well. Jacques himself was in the room.

  “This chamber is where my guards may sleep between watches,” he said. “It’s small but adequate.”

  “Your weapons room is amply stocked, and this one is remote and quiet enough for the men to rest. I’m impressed with what I’ve seen thus far. Thank you for this tour, my friend. The castle is well fortified.”

  “When the outer wall is complete, I’ll be satisfied. The place was in disrepair when I conquered it. My workmen have followed my instructions with diligence, sir.”

  “Of course! Who would defy such a man as you? And please—call me Henry. After all, we are old friends.”

  Bronwen pressed against the wall. Henry… The future king of England stood not five paces from her hiding place!

  “Do you remember when we met as boys?” Jacques asked. “You told me you would become a king.”

  “Did I?” Henry chuckled. “You always listened to my dreams. In this dark, silent room beside a warm fire, I can almost imagine we are children again. How carefree those days seem to me now.”

  “Indeed they were.”

  “Come, Jacques, let us sit a moment. No servitors lurk in the shadows here, and my guards stand outside the door. We can speak freely.”

  The sound of a breath exhaling told Bronwen that one of the men had elected to seat himself on a chair near the fire. A squeak indicated the other man had joined him. Her heart sinking, Bronwen realized she was now listening to the private conversation of England’s future king. She could be executed for this—and rightly so.

  “Now tell me,” Henry said. “What are your plans for Warbreck?”

  “What are your plans for England—specifically Amounderness?” the deep voice returned. “My plans depend on yours.”

  “Ah, England. Did you know that my grandfather and great grandfather cared nothing for this isle? But I love her. I see greatness in this rough country and her plain, solid natives. Saxon blood flows in my veins, you know.”

  At this revelation, Bronwen stifled a gasp.

  “How
did it come about?” Jacques asked.

  “My grandmother was niece to Edgar Atheling, a descendant of England’s Saxon kings. A remote connection—but I feel sure it has influenced my character. If I had a drop or two of Briton blood, I’d be satisfied indeed. King Arthur—now there was a leader of men.”

  A chill ran through Bronwen as she listened to the man. Was this true? Did he honor her Briton forebears? Through a small hole in the curtain, she could see Jacques. Leaning back, he had stretched his long legs before the fire. For the first time, he appeared truly at peace.

  Henry, on the other hand, moved constantly. His fingers slid along the smooth chair arm, stroked his own fine tunic, tugged at his beard. Beginning to speak again, he rose and began to wander about the room, lifting objects, weighing them, even opening chests and sorting through their contents. It was as though his brain demanded constant stimulation. Clearly curious and inquisitive, he spoke with great understanding.

  “I’m grateful for my Saxon ancestors,” he said. “Using their principle of King’s Peace, I plan to revolutionize England’s judicial system. My royal court of law will use a jury of the defendant’s peers to decide a case. The judge will pass sentence based on recommendation of this jury. All laws must be set down in writing, and no man may defy them without consequence.”

  “You may encounter trouble with that,” Jacques said. “People here place no value on written documents, Henry. Only a few scribes and priests in the larger cities can read. In Amounderness, the spoken oath and law hold sway.”

  “I mean to change that, Jacques. The English now live in a dark age. When I’m king, I’ll encourage education.”

  “We shall have our hands full in Amounderness,” Jacques replied with a chuckle. “My people are wise but unlearned. What do you intend for us, Henry? By treaty, we belong to Scotland. Will you leave us beholden to a foreign power—or will you reclaim us for England?”

  “You should know the answer to that. A true Norman—and certainly a Plantagenet—never willingly parts with any land.”