The Briton. Catherine Palmer
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their mother’s death. Enit’s skin hung in thin folds beneath her chin, and tiny lines ran randomly across her face. But when she grinned, as she did now, showing her three good front teeth, each line fell into its accustomed place with ease.
“That’s better.” Enit chuckled as Bronwen’s expression softened. “Now hurry down to the great hall, you two imps, before your father sends up the guard. And, Gildan, remember, ‘Silence is golden.’”
“Oh, Enit! Come Bronwen, you carry the rush light, and I shall carry your mantle down the stair.”
“Enjoy the feast!” Enit called after them.
Bronwen shook her head in contradiction of the nurse’s words. With barbarians in the keep and little to anticipate in the coming year, she felt the evening’s feast must be far less than enjoyable. But at last she lifted her head, slipped her arm around her sister and set a smile upon her lips.
As Bronwen followed Gildan down the stone stairs, she breathed deeply the fresh scent of newly laid rushes on the floor. She had worked hard to prepare for the feast, just as she labored at every endeavor. Since her mother’s death, she had been mistress of the hall. She had, on occasion, even managed the entire holding while her father was away at battle.
Standing in the light of the entrance to the great hall, the sisters surveyed the merry scene before them. Guests, all of whom were men, stood around the room discussing the latest news from the south. Bronwen recognized most of them. Some were her father’s close friends, and others came only because they were loyal to the Briton cause. Few of the men held much land, and many served Norman conquerors.
“Look, Bronwen. Those swinish Vikings are already inside the hall. How vulgar their tongue sounds!” Gildan crossed her arms in contempt.
Bronwen spotted the Viking party in one corner, where they had gathered to tell bawdy stories and laugh raucously. She identified the leader standing in their midst. A heavy old man he was, probably boasting of his battle prowess. He owned Warbreck Castle and its surrounding lands—a holding that adjoined her father’s. Thanks be to the gods, he had never threatened Rossall nor made any attempt to seize it. Indeed, he had allied himself with Edgard against the Norman invaders. But a Viking in their halls? A Norse barbarian? She sighed in frustration.
“Look!” Gildan broke in on Bronwen’s thoughts. “The minstrels are beginning to play. It’s time we made our appearance. I wonder if Aeschby will have come.”
“Of course he will. Father has invited all our neighbors.”
“How lovely the hall appears tonight!” Gildan said as they made their way toward the dais. Sounds of music—lutes, harps, dulcimers and pipes—drifted down from the gallery at the far end of the hall. Beneath it stood a high table draped in white linen and a green overcloth. Metal tankards and goblets were scattered across its surface and down the two long side tables next to the walls.
Cupbearers bustled from one man to another offering drinks. Servitors removed platters, pitchers and spoons from the cupboard and laid them on the tables.
As the sisters made their way through the crowded hall, Gildan admired aloud the sheaves of wheat decorating the tables, and the green ivy, holly and mistletoe hanging from the torches. “Father is looking well tonight,” she whispered. “Is that Aeschby he stands with? What a fine red tunic he wears.”
Bronwen spotted the tall blond man across the room. He stood well above their father in height. Because of the tract of land he held across the Wyre River to the east, and because of his Briton bloodline, Aeschby often had been mentioned as a possible husband for Bronwen, even though they were cousins.
But Bronwen had never cared for Aeschby. The times they had met as children, he had played cruel tricks on her and Gildan. And once he had dropped a kitten to its death from the battlements just to see if it could land on its feet.
“Indeed, Aeschby appears in good spirits tonight,” Bronwen had to acknowledge. “But look, the piper has seen us, and now the feasting begins.”
As she spoke, trumpets sounded and each man moved to his appointed place, according to his rank. The sisters stepped onto the dais and waited beside their father’s chair. Bronwen looked fondly at the heavy, aged man as he lumbered to his place. His long white mustaches hung far down into his beard. And though the top of his head was bald, thick locks of snowy hair fell to his shoulders. He had always been a proud man, Edgard the Briton, and he stood tall before his guests.
“Welcome, welcome one and all. The house of Edgard enjoins all friends of the great Briton kingdom of this isle to share in our winter feast.”
He lifted his golden cup high over his head, and a mighty cheer rose from the crowd.
“Now let us eat in fellowship. And when my daughters are gone to bed, we shall enjoy an even greater merriment!” At that all the men burst into laughter. Bronwen glanced over to see Gildan blushing. “But before they are gone, Edgard the Briton will make an announcement of great import to all gathered here. And now, let the feasting begin!”
Bronwen sank into her chair. An announcement of great import? What could her father mean? Perhaps he had some news of the civil war between the Norman king, Stephen, and his cousin, the Empress Matilda, both of whom claimed the throne of England. Yet Bronwen felt quite certain the news was something closer to herself. She knew it must be the announcement of her betrothal in marriage, for her father had been hinting of an arrangement for many months now.
But to whom? Edgard had called Bronwen to his side upon her last birthday. She remembered thinking how old and withered he looked. Though his body was still strong, he had put on much weight, and he often complained of aches in his joints. Bronwen recalled how he had placed his arm around her shoulders, a sign of affection he had not displayed since she was a child. “Bronwen, you have eighteen years, now.” His voice had been filled with emotion. “You are well into womanhood. For too long I have depended on you for the management of my household. You remind me so of your mother when she arrived from Wales to become my wife.”
Her father had stopped speaking for a moment and gazed at his thick fingers, entwined in his sash. Though the marriage had been arranged by their fathers, Bronwen knew he had truly cared for her mother.
“Now it is time that you had a husband. Though we are dwindled in number, there are some men remaining who sympathize with our cause. Bronwen, I want you to know I have been negotiating for your marriage, that you may prepare yourself for what lies ahead.”
Was this to be the night she learned of his plan? Bronwen looked at her father. He was talking with Gildan and admiring her long golden braids and the bright ribbons binding them. Yes, Bronwen was certain her father meant to announce her marriage betrothal.
How paltry all her dreams seemed in the harsh light of this reality. She felt foolish at the memory of the man she had so often imagined in the fire. Indeed, she had to smile at the childish imagination that had led her to believe she someday might wed such a one.
As the servitors poured into the hall bearing food and drink, a commotion near the door drew Bronwen’s attention. A small band of strangers dressed in heavy woolen mantles had entered the great hall. At their head stood a tall figure whose hood concealed his features from the curious crowd.
“Edgard the Briton,” the man spoke through the fold of cloth as he approached the dais. “We weary travelers request your kindness upon us this night. We ask to sup with you before we resume our journey.”
Edgard studied the visitors before replying. “This is our winter feast. Who are you, and whom do you serve?”
“We are merely wanderers, sir.”
“Sup with us, then, and be welcome. But take heed…we are men of strength and power. We tolerate no deceit.”
The robed man bowed slightly in acknowledgment and led his companions to a table among the guards lowest in rank. Bronwen watched as he began his meal without removing his hood.
“Father, why do you speak of deceit?” she asked.