“I’m glad to hear it. Amounderness may be no jewel, but I love her deeply. I have dreams for her as well.”
“Tell me your dreams, my friend?”
Bronwen could see Jacques leaning toward the fire, warming his hands. “I want my people to be happy and to labor profitably for me—and therefore for you,” he said. “But my dream is to develop this land into a place worthy of respect and admiration. Already the village has grown. It’s clean now, and I’ve had a marketplace built. Soon, I’ll introduce coinage to encourage trade, and I may drain some of the marshes for plowing. In my mind, Henry, I see ripe fields and heavy orchards, hives flowing with honey, sacks of salted fish, wool and grain. I see traders, roads, churches and schools all filling Amounderness with bounty beyond belief.”
“We might be boys again for all our dreaming.” Henry laughed as he clapped Jacques on the shoulder. “But I do fear for you, my friend. How long can you hold Warbreck? You’ve never married and have no heirs. I’m only twenty and already I’m wedded to Eleanor who has given me my first son. Why have you no interest in matrimony?”
“I do care about this matter, Henry.” Jacques’s face was pained. “But my ancestry makes me unfit for Norman women. Even in Antioch I’m known as a poulain—a half-caste. Only one woman can satisfy my desire for a wife, but she has refused me.”
Wife? At that, Bronwen caught her breath.
“Impossible!” Henry cried. “You’re the finest among men! How can—”
“One moment,” Jacques cut in. He held up a hand, and Plantagenet fell silent.
Bronwen stiffened at the whisper of a sword drawn from its scabbard. Catching her breath, she drew back against the wall. A knife left its sheath. Heart thudding, Bronwen heard two sets of footsteps move toward the window.
Just as she closed her eyes in panic, the curtain flew open and a flash of cold steel slid beneath her chin, stopping just above her pulsing vein. She clenched her teeth and waited for death to take her.
When it did not come, she looked up the length of the long sword into the flashing eyes of Jacques Le Brun.
“But who is this?” Henry asked in surprise.
“Bronwen the Briton,” Jacques said.
“You know this woman?” Henry asked.
“Tell him,” Jacques ordered. “Reveal your identity and purpose to the future king of England on whom you spy.”
For the first time, he saw fear in the woman’s gaze. “I am no spy. I never meant to hear your conversation.”
“Jacques, put away your sword,” Henry suggested. “She seems harmless enough.”
Pleased to see that she immediately made a deep curtsy before his friend and master, Jacques sheathed his sword.
“Sir, I am Bronwen of Rossall.” Her hands trembled as she knotted them together, and her words came softly. “My husband was Olaf Lothbrok, lord of Warbreck Castle. Jacques Le Brun took it from him, and I was widowed.”
“What treason do you mean to work?” Jacques asked.
Bronwen lowered her eyes. “I intend no treason, sir. When I lived at Warbreck, this was my bedchamber. I returned tonight to retrieve a possession.”
“Where is that possession?”
“It is yet where I hid it when I fled the castle.”
Henry touched Jacques’s arm. “Why speak to her with such animosity, my friend? She can work us no harm.”
“This woman reviles Normans, my lord. Her intentions toward you are questionable at best. She has made it clear that she despises me.”
“Upon my honor,” Henry said, “I observe great passion between the two of you, and my insight is never wrong.”
“Indeed, sir. It is the passion of enemies.” Jacques studied Bronwen’s face. Though Henry’s intuition was accurate, Jacques would never divulge the truth of his emotion. In the past, he had read every feeling plainly written in the woman’s eyes. But now he could not tell whether she spoke the truth or lied to protect herself.
“Retrieve your possession, then,” he told her. “We eagerly await you.”
Bronwen looked toward the wooden door as if willing it to open that she might flee. Then with a sigh of resignation, she knelt and ran her hands over the plank floor beneath the window. With the tips of her fingers she grasped an edge and pulled one of the boards. It lifted easily, and she laid it aside. Reaching into the hole, she felt around for a moment and then removed a small box.
“My father gave this to me the last time I saw him alive,” she said softly as she stood.
“What does it contain?” Jacques asked.
“Trinkets, I’m sure,” Henry said. “Leave the poor creature in peace.”
Jacques shook his head. “Trinkets? My lord, you do not know this woman as I do. Madam, open the box and let us see its contents.”
Bronwen’s dark eyes met his, and this time he read her agony as she clutched the box to her chest. Finally, she drew a necklace from the bodice of her gown. A small key dangled from it, and she used it to unlock the lid.
Before either man could see what was inside, she spoke in a rush. “Henry Plantagenet, future king of all England, this is my father’s written will that Rossall holding in Amounderness belongs to me. Please do not take the will from me, I beg you. Allow me to keep it, for this is all that I have of my family and my home.”
“A will?” Henry’s voice was incredulous. “Jacques, not moments ago, you told me these people placed no value on the written word. Yet this woman insists that her father penned a document containing his resolve to give his daughter all his lands. Madam, let me have it.”
With obvious reluctance, Bronwen took the manuscript from the box and handed it to Henry.
“Now, then,” he said, stepping toward the fire and reading aloud. “Edgard of Rossall in Amounderness, the son of Sigeric, the grandson of Ulfcetel the Briton, doth herein declare his final will and testament upon this thirteenth day of December in the year of our Lord 1152.”
Henry paused. “Edgard was your father?”
“Yes, my lord.”
He continued reading. “Upon my death, all my lands, Rossall Hall and half of my treasures must go to my elder daughter Bronwen. They will not pass into the possession of any husband she may wed, but must remain in her hands until that day when her firstborn son may come of age.”
Henry looked at Bronwen again. “Your father thought very highly of you, dear lady. But perhaps he was not as fond of your husband as you were.”
“I had never met my husband until my wedding day, sir,” Bronwen told him. “The will is testimony to my father’s faith in me.”
“And his desire to keep his land under Briton rule,” Jacques added. “You see, Henry, this woman labors under the misguided belief that a ghost of King Arthur may someday rise from the mists and reunite all England.”
“Perhaps Edgard was right, Jacques.” The corners of Henry’s mouth turned up. “It could well be that the spirit of King Arthur stands before you even now.”
As Henry continued reading the will, Jacques studied Bronwen’s luminous brown eyes, now focused on his face. He told himself she was consumed with the document being perused. That flickering fire he saw was passion for her land and her people. But how could he mistake her look of desire, for he had seen it so clearly when he’d held her in his arms? Her eyes pleaded with him, beckoning, luring him toward her.
With one word of longing, she would have his heart again in an instant. The fortress he had built to protect himself crumbled as if made of sand. Why did she do this? What could it mean that she always gazed at him in such a way—and then spoke words of rejection and denial? How could he conquer the yearning she roused inside him?
“Fascinating,” Henry said, handing the document to Jacques. “Her father had great foresight, and I believe the manuscript is genuine. Madam, have you any witnesses to guarantee it?”
“I heard Edgard’s vow, Henry.” Jacques spoke in a low voice. “Her father did bequeath Rossall to his daughter.”
Bronwe
n’s eyes softened into liquid pools. “Thank you, sir.”
“Excellent, then,” Henry exclaimed. “Jacques, you can vouch for her. Bronwen of Rossall, you came to this room with the intent to regain the will and use it to your advantage. What was your aim?”
“My aim has not altered since the day I understood my father’s plan. It is my duty to administer the keep at Rossall, her lands and her people.”
She swallowed before continuing. “When I spoke with Thomas à Becket in London, my lord, he urged me to place myself under your guardianship. He assured me that when you become king, you will set my appeal before the court. If I were to submit to you, sir, what would you do?”
Henry turned to Jacques with a broad smile. “By George, you must be wary of this woman, my friend. She has an ample measure of intelligence.”
“Believe me, sir, I am more than wary.”
Henry took Bronwen’s hand. “If you become my ward, Bronwen of Rossall, I’ll do exactly as Becket recommended. Your document will be your primary evidence in court. Le Brun will be your witness. With two valid testimonies, you’ll easily win your land again. If the present holder refuses to surrender it, I’ll send an army against him.”
“To what end?” she asked. “Will you then give my land to a Norman, perhaps a faithful knight like this man—Jacques Le Brun? To do so would be a grave injustice to me, sir. My father intended the land to remain in his family, and he taught me to manage it faithfully.”
“I believe you would make a good manager,” Henry said. “I do, indeed. Thus, I shall say that if everything we have discussed here tonight should come about, I will see that you’re given your family’s land, Bronwen of Rossall. So it remains to you, now? Will you become my ward?”
Jacques could almost feel Bronwen’s anguish. She knew full well that Henry Plantagenet was a Norman. If she placed herself in his hands, then ultimately Rossall would belong to him.
“Yes,” she replied at last. “I accept your guardianship, Henry Plantagenet. I shall serve you faithfully and obey your commands. But I caution you to remember that Briton blood flows through my veins. I’ll honor you as lord and king, but if I see the need to act against the usurper of my land, I will do it with or without your help. It may be many years before you become king, and I cannot wait long.”
“Very well. I accept this affiliation between us. I’m pleased to have the loyalty of a woman of King Arthur’s tribe.”
Bronwen curtsied. “And now, I must apologize for my imposition on your privacy, sir.” She looked at Jacques. “May I have my document, please?”
He returned it to her, and as she locked the box and tucked away the key, he realized he might not see her again for many a month. Perhaps longer. She started for the door, but he touched her elbow.
“One moment, my lady,” he said. “Where will you dwell? If you intend to wait for King Stephen to die, you must stay somewhere.”
She gazed down at the box as if it held the answers she sought. And perhaps it did.
“I’ll stay with Enit,” she told him. “My nursemaid needs my care.”
“Bring her here. I have chambers enough for both of you. I’ll spare no expense to see that she’s comfortable and well fed. As Henry’s ward, you may take your leisure in the castle and be certain of my respect and generosity.”
Bronwen searched his eyes. For a moment, he felt certain she would agree. Her answer hung suspended between them, and he found he could not draw breath. Then she spoke.
“I must go home to Rossall, Jacques,” she told him. “I made Enit a promise.”
“But Aeschby will find you there. Bronwen, he’ll have you killed—you know that. The risk is too great. Even Warbreck village would be unsafe, for the man has as many spies as I. You must remain inside this castle. I insist upon it.”
Reaching out, she laid her hand on his. Her fingers touched his palm, and he closed his hand around them. “I was wrong about you, Jacques,” she murmured. “Wrong in every way. I beg your forgiveness, and I plead with you to accept my gratitude for all you’ve done on my behalf. Without you, I am nothing. I draw from your strength, and I honor your faithfulness. It is because of you, sir, that I have no choice but to go to Rossall. Please understand.”
With that, she bent and kissed his hand. Pressing the small box to her chest, she hurried from the room. Jacques stared at the open door, watching her cross the guardroom, her gown an emerald glow in the firelight. And then she was gone, slipping down the stairs to another life in another place. He had no doubt Aeschby would kill her, and the life they might have shared would be lost forever.
“My word,” Henry muttered. “Such a creature. No wonder you love her, Jacques. And no wonder she loves you, too.”
Chapter Fourteen
“You’ll not go into the village again today, will you?” Enit asked as Bronwen sat up from the straw pallet on which she had slept. “I have little doubt Aeschby knows you’re here, child. If one of his henchmen sees you, he’ll take you to his master, and that will mean your death.”
“You’re in a cheery humor this morning, Enit.”
Bronwen had woken to the scent of fresh fish frying. As she slipped a tunic over her head and fastened on the black mantle Jacques had given her, she noted Enit studying her from the fireside in their small hut.
Nearly a month had passed since they’d departed Warbreck Castle and traveled by horse and cart to Rossall. Ogden, the butler who had served Edgard, and his wife, Ebba, had been delighted to see them again. Well aware of the danger Bronwen faced should she be discovered by Aeschby, they’d led her and Enit to a stream in the midst of the forest where a hovel had stood untouched for many years. There, Ogden and Ebba had settled the two women with blankets, firewood, a good black kettle and provisions to tide them through the winter.
“Of course I go to the village,” Bronwen told her nurse. “I’m to speak to Malcolm at the butchery just after sunset.”
Though she did not like to share too much with her nurse, Bronwen had been pleased to locate the guard she had met while leaving Rossall with Gildan and Enit nearly a year before. On that black day, Malcolm had professed his loyalty to her and had given her his bow and a quiver of arrows. He’d assured her that if she ever returned, he and many others would support her cause against Aeschby.
Now she was back, and Malcolm had been steadily gathering a small force of men. At first, Bronwen had intended to wait until she heard of King Stephen’s death before pursuing her rights. But word of Aeschby’s mismanagement of the land and his exploitation and abuse of Rossall’s people spurred her to action.
Within days of Bronwen’s decision to oppose the usurper, faithful men—some of them Edgard’s former guards and others loyal peasants—had begun gathering by night at Malcolm’s hut to lay out a plan of action. Bronwen had joined them in their plotting, and this evening, they would put the final pieces in place.
“I suppose fish will do for your final meal on this earth, then,” Enit said. “I’ll save some of this batch for your pocket. When Aeschby imprisons you tonight, at least you’ll have a bite to eat before his sword severs your head from your neck.”
“Enit, please!” Bronwen laughed. “You are too dire.”
The winter chill seeped through the wattle-and-daub hut, and the women huddled together as they ate. Though their lives had sunk to a point lower than Bronwen could ever have imagined, at least she could take joy in knowing that Enit was well again. Or nearly so. Now and then, the old woman confused people’s names or told a tale in the wrong order. She forgot the words to songs and sometimes left an ingredient out of a loaf of bread. But all in all, she had healed from the head injury she’d suffered during Aeschby’s attack, and Bronwen thanked God daily.
“I must go to the stream,” she told the old woman. They had eaten a little of the fish and shared an apple. Now water must be drawn for drinking and pot scrubbing. “I’ll see to our nets, too. Perhaps we’ve captured a nice fat trout. Do not go outside until
my return.”
Enit had begun singing and paid little heed as Bronwen left the hut. Setting out through the woods with the water pail, she tried to squelch her discomfort about the events to come. Not only did she feel almost certain of failure, but she had no confidence that God approved of her plot. Had He not ordained peasants to live beneath lords? Edgard had told his daughter that the common people must never be allowed to revolt. Do the stones rise up against the grass? he had asked. Does the fly attack the hawk?
At a Christian church in London, Bronwen had heard the tale of God’s creation of the heavens and the earth. When the angel Lucifer had defied God, he had been cast into eternal darkness. No, she should not urge the peasants to attack their lord. Yet, if she sat by and did nothing, what would become of the keep, the land, the people? How would her father advise her if he knew what Aeschby had done to Gildan and to Rossall?
Kneeling on the stream’s bank, Bronwen dipped her pail into the water. Enit was right to worry. It was safe enough here in the forest, but Bronwen had no doubt that with each passing day her chances of exposure grew. She kept Jacques’s dagger at her side at all times, and when she walked alone, she searched the trees and listened for rustling in the brush.
As she bent over the brook to lift out the water, that very sound caught her ears. At once, she let go of the pail and reached for her knife. As she turned, Jacques Le Brun stepped out onto the sand.
“You frightened me!” she exclaimed.
“And you’ve lost your bucket.” He sprinted downstream, grabbed the pail and carried it back to her filled with water.
“There,” he said, setting it beside her. “My misdeed is corrected.”
At the sight of the man, garbed in mail and carrying his sword and bright blue shield, Bronwen made an awkward effort to tidy her hair. How she must look to him—as a peasant in the humblest garb with charcoal-smudged cheeks and not even a braid or a ribbon. She smoothed down her skirt, the same green gown she had worn when she’d left him. Its hem had been peppered with holes by embers popping from the fire, and her sleeves had been tattered by brambles.
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