The Briton. Catherine Palmer
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Bronwen! Stand, Gildan!”
Bronwen rose shakily to her feet, and the men began to cheer. Gildan had turned pale and appeared also to be short of breath.
“Though I have no sons to continue the line of my forefathers, I have two daughters, both now of marriageable age. They are fine women, and through long negotiations, I have found worthy husbands for both.”
So it was to be Gildan, too, Bronwen realized. Poor Gildan. For so long she had dreamed of a husband, and now that her betrothal was to be announced, she stood ashen and shivering. Bronwen longed to go and take her sister’s hand as she had done when they were children.
“My elder daughter, Bronwen,” Edgard continued, “the child who seems almost the spirit of her mother, so nearly do they look alike—I now betroth to Olaf Lothbrok.”
At the name, Bronwen gasped aloud, incredulous at her father’s words. Gildan cried out, and all the company of men began to murmur at once.
“Silence please,” Edgard spoke up. “Allow me to continue. My daughter Gildan I betroth to Aeschby Godwinson. Gildan brings to her marriage one fourth of all my gold and treasure, and upon my death I will her to receive one fourth more.”
Half! At this news, the men cheered wildly. Bronwen saw that bright spots of pink had flowed back into Gildan’s cheeks, and her sister was smiling again. Aeschby moved to the dais and stood proudly beside his betrothed.
Edgard spoke above the roar. “Bronwen brings to her marriage one half of all my gold and treasure.” He stretched out his hands, motioning for silence. “Now you must listen carefully, Britons. Hear my will to my daughter Bronwen upon my death.”
The men in the room fell silent, and even the servitors stopped to listen. Bronwen knotted her fingers together as her father continued to speak.
“When I die, Bronwen will receive all my lands and this Rossall Hall into her own hands. They will not pass under the governance of her husband, Olaf Lothbrok, as is the Briton custom. I shall not permit my possessions to slip from the hands of my tribe. If my daughter Bronwen gives birth to a son by this Viking, then the inheritance will fall to the son upon his coming of age. If she has a daughter or no child, at her death these lands will pass to Aeschby and his lineage through my daughter Gildan.”
Edgard stopped speaking for a moment and looked long at his stunned guests. Then he began to recite the many brave deeds of his forefathers, those beloved tales Bronwen knew so well. As the Briton talked, Olaf Lothbrok moved from his bench and came to stand beside her. Bronwen drew back from the touch of his woolen tunic as it grazed her hand. She could not bear to look at this man or meet the hard gaze of the silent Briton company.
Instead, she found herself staring down at her own slippers, intricately crafted of gold threads and purple embroidery. Edgard had brought them for her from the market fair in Preston, and she had saved them for this special feast. Her eyes wandered to the large leather boots of the Viking. They were caked with mud and sand, and small bits of seaweed clung to their thick crossed bindings.
Could she ever learn to care for the man who wore those boots? Would she one day look forward to the heavy sound of their entrance into her chamber? Would there be a time when her eyes grew accustomed to their presence beside her own thin slippers at the foot of their marriage bed?
Bronwen shook her head, then shuddered as she felt the barbarian’s huge hand close around her own. Why had her father done this? She could make no sense of his plans. At last she lifted her chin as the Viking beside her raised their hands high above their heads.
“And so the continuation of the great line of Briton nobles is assured,” her father was saying. “I have accomplished this by the favorable marriages of my two daughters to these worthy men.”
For a moment, the room was silent. Slowly one or two guests began to applaud, then several others pounded their mugs upon the tables. At last the entire company broke into a thunderous roar of cheering and shouting.
Bronwen looked up in time to see the group of travelers rise and move toward the door. Their tall leader bowed toward the dais, then stepped out of the great hall. Bronwen gave their departure little thought, for the eyes of the Briton guests burned into her. She dared not look into any man’s face, for she knew she would find it filled with questioning, doubt and pity.
As Edgard finished speaking, he turned to Bronwen and wrapped his arms around her, though she knew no warmth from the embrace. Then he grasped Olaf Lothbrok by the shoulders and congratulated him heartily. Finally he turned to embrace Gildan and Aeschby, and Bronwen knew she was at last free to go.
Without another look around the hall she had worked so hard to prepare, she pulled her hand from the grip of the Viking and stepped down from the dais. As she hurried toward the door, she felt a hand catch hold of her skirt.
“Welcome to the family, Briton,” one of Olaf’s men said in a mocking voice. “We look forward to the presence of a woman at our hall.”
Bronwen grasped her tunic and yanked it from the Viking’s thick fingers. As she stepped away from the table, she heard the drunken laughter of the barbarians behind her.
Running down the stone steps toward the heavy oak door that led outside from the keep, Bronwen gathered her mantle about her. She ordered the doorman to open the door, and he did so reluctantly, pressing her to carry a torch. But Bronwen pushed past him and fled into the darkness.
Dashing down the steep, pebbled hill toward the beach, she felt the frozen ground give way to sand. She threw off her veil and circlet and kicked away her shoes and mantle. The sand was cold on her feet as she raced alongside the pounding surf, and hot tears of anger and shame welled up and streamed down her cheeks. Unable to think beyond her humiliation, Bronwen ran—her long braids streaming behind her, falling loose, drifting like a tattered black flag.
Blinded with weeping, she did not see the dark form that sprang up in her path. Iron arms circled her, and a heavy cloak threatened suffocation.
“Release me!” she cried. “Guard! Guard, help me.”
“Hush, my lady.” A deep voice emanated from the darkness. The man spoke her tongue, though his accent was neither Norman French nor any other that she recognized. “I mean you no harm. What demon drives you to run through the night without fear for your safety?”
“Set me free at once! I demand it!”
“I shall hold you until you calm yourself. We had heard there were witches in Amounderness, but I had not thought to meet one this night.”
Still bound by the man’s arms, Bronwen drew back and peered up at the hooded figure. “You! You and your band of wastrels spied on our feast. Unhand me, or I shall call the guard upon you.”
The man chuckled at this and turned toward his companions, who stood in a group nearby. Bronwen caught hold of the back of his hood and jerked it down to reveal a head of glossy raven curls. But the man’s face was shrouded in darkness yet, and as he looked at her, she could not read his expression.
“So, you are the blessed bride-to-be.” He returned the hood to his head. “Your father has paired you in an interesting manner.”
Relieved that her captor did not appear to be a highwayman, she pushed away from him and sagged onto the wet sand. “Please leave me here alone. I need peace to think. Go on your way.”
The tall stranger shrugged off his outer mantle and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Why did your father betroth you to the aged Viking?” he asked.
“For one purported to be a spy, you know precious little about Amounderness. But I shall tell you, as it is all common knowledge.”
Despite her wariness of the man, she pulled his cloak about her, reveling in its warmth. “This land, known as Amounderness, has always been Briton territory. Olaf Lothbrok, my betrothed, came here as a youth when the Viking invasions had nearly subsided. He conquered the Briton lord of the holding directly to the south of Rossall Hall, where he now makes his home. Then the vile Normans