The Briton and the Dane: Timeline
Page 1
Published by arrangement with Whispering Legends Press
Copyright © 2014 by Mary Ann Bernal
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-1494864620
ISBN-10: 1494864622
Cover design by Steven Novak
www.novakillustration.com
For
Alex and Kerry
Alex, Ana and Addy
Dedicated to the memory of
K Wardak Province, Afghanistan 30 May 2013
Staff Sgt. Joe A. Nunezrodriguez
KIA Bagram Afghanistan 18 June 2013
Sgt. Justin R. Johnson
Spc. Ember M. Alt
Spc. Robert W. Ellis
Spc. William R. Moody
and all the fallen
military and civilian heroes
in the ongoing fight against terror
Acknowledgements
My sincerest and heartfelt thanks are extended to my family and friends who have been a part of my writing journey these many years.
The enthusiasm and belief in the project provided by my editor, WeiEn Chen, is truly gratifying.
Diane Boni and Holliday Franger have been by my side from the first day I set pen to paper. Thank you both for believing in my abilities.
Also, to Steven Novak, my talented illustrator, my utmost appreciation for accurately depicting the theme of the series.
Novels by Mary Ann Bernal
The Briton and the Dane: Timeline
The Briton and the Dane: Concordia
The Briton and the Dane Trilogy:
The Briton and the Dane
The Briton and the Dane: Birthright
The Briton and the Dane: Legacy
England
A.D. 2066
University of London
Dr. Malcolm Knýtlinga
Department Head
Dr. Gwyneth Franger
Professor and archeologist
Philanthropy / Research Funding
Viscount Beaumont
Historic Market Town of Wareham
Edna Harris, Proprietor
Anglo-Saxon Lodge
Anglo-Saxon Britannia
A.D. 1062
Edward the Confessor
King of England
Earldom of Wessex
Earl Harold Godwinson
Earldom of Mercia
Earl Edwin
Earldom of Northumbria
Earl Tostig Godwinson
Kingdom of Wales
King Gruffydd ap Llywelyn
Citadel at Wareham
Erik - commandant
Bryson - first officer
Raulf - second in command
Wynstan - tower guard
Squad Officers
Norris - Godwinson supporter
Verrill - Norman supporter
Edlynn - wife of Wynstan
Rheda - servant to Gwyneth
Aedre - nursemaid of Erik
Seymour - court courier
Benedictine Order
Father Gerard
Brother Gottfried
Brother Damian
European Continent
A.D. 1062
Abbey at St. Gall
Abbot Nortpert
Brother Anthony
Brother Ulrich
Villagers
Eckhard - healer
Constance - wife of Eckhard
Matilda - wet nurse
Anne - daughter of Matilda
Judith - infant daughter of Matilda
Geoffrey - son of Matilda
Kingdom of France
King Philip I
Duchy of Normandy
Duke William
Duchy of Brittany
Duke Conan II
Port of Brest
Captain Jean Michel
Pierre - seafarer
Brother Luke
Kingdom of Norway
King Harald Hardrada
Mercenaries
Hugh
Magnus
Prologue
It was a crisp autumn day in the year of our Lord 2066. The sun was obscured by swollen storm clouds as wind gusts scattered leaves across the empty courtyard, scraping tree branches against office windows.
Inside the stone building, oblivious to the impending storm, students went about their daily tasks like automatons, cataloging fragile remnants of antiquated history. Their enthusiasm had been lost over time, vanquished by archaic rules and lack of funding, drowning in an apathetic sea.
The door opened just as heavy rain began to pummel the earth. Lightning flashed perilously close to the portico, the building shaken by crackling rolls of thunder. Dr. Malcolm Knýtlinga, department head, scoured the room, nodding to his worker drones as he headed towards the stairwell. He ran down the stairs, deeper into the bowels of the ancient edifice, slowing his gait once he reached the basement. Malcolm peered into the open doorways where artifacts were stored, priceless relics forgotten by a society no longer curious about the past.
The lights flickered briefly as the tempest enveloped the city. He walked the length of the corridor and stopped once he reached the last office, knocking on the doorframe before entering.
“One minute,” Gwyneth said, her eyes upon the monitor, her nimble fingers flying across the outdated keyboard.
While Dr. Franger had mastered every aspect of computer technology available at the present time, she preferred typing her words rather than speaking them aloud. She even had a typewriter that still worked, which was proudly displayed in her office at home. She was considered eccentric by her peers, but the student body praised her for her defiance, and her classes were always filled to capacity.
Malcolm shook his head as he sat in his favorite chair, his eyes transfixed on the portrait hanging above his protégé’s desk. An alleged likeness of Lord Erik, the last descendant of Gwyneth and Erik of Wareham, and painted years after his death by an unknown medieval artist. Legend described him as a mighty warrior, proficient not only with the sword but with the pen, a man of letters who had served his king well. Songs attesting to Lord Erik’s prowess on the battlefield had even been sung by the troubadours, only to be lost with the passage of time. Yet time simply enhanced the mystique of this Saxon of Danish descent whose untimely death was suspect, implying treachery and betrayal in a violent age.
Malcolm tolerated Gwyneth’s obsession with a man who had died centuries ago, but he was not sure why. Gwyneth and Erik started the dynasty, and maybe Dr. Gwyneth Franger was the reincarnation of the first Gwyneth if one believed in the transmigration of souls.
“You are doing it again,” Malcolm thought. “Why not just admit you love the woman and be done with it?”
Glancing about the room, Malcolm counted the numerous awards Dr. Gwyneth Franger had received over the past two years. He was proud of her accomplishments, her diligence, her commitment to the truth, even though the forces driving her were not rational. Science demanded validity, not emotional conjecture, but Gwyneth concealed her motives well, at least to everyone but himself. He had seen through the charade but remained silent. Yes, he was patronizing, but subtly. She was caught up in the premise, too closely attached to a dream, a forsaken love never to be realized.
“How could a person be in love with someone who lived hundreds of years ago? Especially someone whose intellect surpass
es most of the tenured professors at the University,” Malcolm thought, shaking his head. “If it were anyone else, you would have had her seen by a psychiatrist; it is not normal, and if you did not know any better, you would swear she was possessed.”
Malcolm’s stoicism did not betray his thoughts as the sound of deft fingers hitting the keyboard brought him out of his reverie. He glanced at his wristwatch as he shifted in the chair, his patience wearing thin. Gwyneth failed to notice his impatience as she ended her communication and gazed in Malcolm’s direction.
“It’s done, I leave for Wareham at the end of the week. Another reenactment, Alfred the Great and the Danish Vikings, when Lord Richard commanded the citadel!” Gwyneth exclaimed.
“I didn’t think there were any of those reenactment groups left.”
“There are a few, but finding these reenactors was quite by accident. I still can’t believe it’s happening.”
“How long will you be away?” Malcolm asked, calendar in hand.
“Just the weekend; I’ll be back early Sunday afternoon. I haven’t forgotten about the reception and convincing Viscount Beaumont to fund another year excavating the ruins; that is, unless you could speak to him?”
“Just how long is this event?”
“Two weeks.”
Malcolm watched Gwyneth intently, but their eyes locked for a brief moment, when the truth of unspoken feelings was revealed, acknowledged, then veiled within the recesses of two souls. Gwyneth averted his gaze as she stood up from her desk, the flickering lights creating eerie shadows. The seconds were a welcome respite from facing the inevitable.
Gwyneth fumbled through the drawers, searching for a flashlight, her shaking hands barely discernible as she groped for the familiar torch. She wrapped her fingers around the precious light source and was relieved when the ceiling lights finally stopped fluttering.
Malcolm was also unnerved, his vulnerability exposed for a split second. He coughed, his eyes upon the floor while waiting for the moment to pass. He concentrated on his work, his profession, and the reason for his visit.
“Take the two weeks,” Malcolm said. “I’ll deal with Beaumont.”
“Oh, Malcolm, really? Thank you. I will make this up to you, I promise,” Gwyneth beamed, hugging him briefly before stepping back, somewhat embarrassed. “I’m sorry, please forgive me.”
“Gwyneth, I don’t mind, really, but now that this matter is resolved, I would discuss the reason for my visit. I am pleased to inform you that you are now officially tenured, and I will be putting your name forward as head of the department.”
“That is your job; are you leaving?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Malcolm, stop being so secretive. Tell me, I cannot bear the suspense.”
“You are talking to the deputy vice chancellor, but you must not say a word until the appointment has been announced.”
In her excitement, Gwyneth embraced Malcolm, kissing him on his cheek, but this time he held her tightly, kissing her lips as the lights flickered unsteadily, plunging them into darkness.
Chapter One
Gwyneth stared out the window while the passengers found their seats aboard the aircraft. She was not surprised to find herself alone in First Class, the cost being ridiculously high for such a short flight. She did not care about the price, preferring the solitude since she needed to think.
It was not even twenty-four hours since Malcolm had kissed her, yet she could still feel his lips pressing hers as they had done so many times before, but in another lifetime. It was alarming, this feeling of déjà vu. Her body tingled when remembering the intimacy, an intimacy not yet shared in this century, and she began to question her sanity.
An obsessive love for a man who died almost a thousand years ago was delusional. Gwyneth knew it, yet she could not deny her feelings. Something, or someone, was driving her, calling her to determine the truth. But a riddle that had been lost through the ages, a meager reference in a history book would be difficult to solve, yet she was determined to try.
Gwyneth rubbed her fingers over her lips, her mind’s eye seeing the shadow of the man who had kissed her, a kiss that had awakened the fire burning within her soul. Was it Lord Erik or Malcolm that had held her in his arms? She could still feel his touch, his breath on her neck while he proclaimed his love in whispers beneath the moonlight. But she and Malcolm had been in her office, and there had been a storm.
“Please fasten your seatbelts,” came over the intercom, interrupting Gwyneth’s thoughts.
The aircraft was in the air moments later, but Gwyneth kept looking at the window, seeing her reflection in the glass, a silhouette shrouded in the past. Had Lord Erik been with his king when he died on that fateful October day, or had he been murdered before he and his army could join the battle, a battle that might have thwarted the Norman invasion?
In addition to the Norman bastard, there had been another contender for the throne, the Norwegian king. Harald and William, enemies of the Anglo-Saxon king, were unscrupulous and cunning. Either one of them could have ordered Lord Erik’s death, which would have had dire consequences for the king since there was no heir. Without a smooth transition of hereditary title, it would take too long to amass the numbers needed to swell the king’s army.
“We are making our final descent and will be on the ground shortly. Kindly return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts,” came over the intercom.
Gwyneth peered through the glass as she looked for the familiar fortress ruins as the plane approached the runway. She had booked lodgings in the village rather than in the city, which would give her more time to visit the excavation. She always hated the end of the season when the site would be shut down for the winter months. There was so much to be learned, but resources were limited. Fortunately, Malcolm was charismatic and persuasive and would without a doubt, convince Viscount Beaumont to fund her expedition for another year or two.
First Class passengers were the first to disembark, which meant that Gwyneth would be halfway through the terminal before her fellow travelers left their seats. She collected her luggage and proceeded to the exit, hailing a taxi as she stepped out the door.
The driver remembered Gwyneth, having driven her on many occasions over the summer months. After engaging in small talk, he left her to her own thoughts. She appreciated being left to herself as she closed her eyes and envisioned Lord Erik’s portrait. She could feel him watching her, following her every move, and she knew something extraordinary was about to happen.
The lobby was empty when she walked into the quaint building, a replica of an Anglo-Saxon lodging, which also happened to be her favorite inn.
“Dr. Franger, it is so good to have you back,” Edna Harris said. “Will you be having dinner with us this evening?”
“I would prefer to eat in my room if I may. I seem to be unusually tired.”
“That is understandable, the tiredness,” Edna replied as she beckoned the night porter to escort Gwyneth to her quarters.
As soon as Gwyneth was alone, she pulled the drapes back and stepped onto the patio, her eyes transfixed upon the solitary Keep that had been miraculously preserved. The radiant red and orange hues of twilight, coupled with the distant sound of waves breaking against the rocky shore, added to the mystique of the crumbling walls. She suppressed the urge to climb the tower before darkness set in. She wanted to glance upon the beach, just as Lord Erik would have done in another lifetime.
Fortunately, a gentle tapping on the door kept her from acting impulsively. She smiled at the night porter as he pushed the cart inside the room.
“Ham, peas, pudding, honeyed cakes, and a cup of mead, Dr. Franger.”
“Tell Mrs. Harris I am delighted with her choice,” Gwyneth replied as he left.
Gwyneth sipped the intoxicating brew, sitting on the settee as a soft sea breeze caressed her face. She closed her eyes, dreaming of a past she had never shared with the one man who held her heart.
&n
bsp; “I will discover the truth,” she thought.
“I know you will,” whispered the wind.
***
The drapes billowed in a sudden gust of wind, flapping wildly in the darkened room. Gwyneth slept restlessly as visions of past events mingled with the present. It was Erik or was it Malcolm? His words were but a whisper, calling her to join him atop the Keep. She sat upright, shivering as she looked through the open balcony doors. A dense fog had floated over the earth, blanketing the ruins on the hill.
Gwyneth, wearing a white night dress embroidered with Celtic knots, put on the matching robe and stood on the terrace, enthralled by the distant shadows moving along the citadel, as if warriors were patrolling the wall-walk in the dead of night. She stepped onto the grass, thanking God that she had the foresight to take a room on the ground floor as she walked towards the fortress.
The melodious sound of waves crashing against the cliff echoed in the distance, becoming louder as she reached the clearing. The wind whipped around her, lifting the fog along the forgotten path as Gwyneth quickened her pace.
“I am waiting for you. You must hurry,” whispered the wind.
Moonbeams filtered through the sea mist, shedding light on the pathway she knew so well. Gwyneth looked at the tower, but she stopped suddenly when she recognized the lone figure watching her every move.
“Run, Gwyneth, there is little time,” whispered the wind.
The moon was fully covered, hidden in the darkened sky, and Gwyneth was veiled by the dense fog. She counted her steps as she had done so many times before during the summer months. The sound of the breaking waves roared, shaking the ground as the angry sea pounded the rocky cliff. Gale force winds pushed her forward, causing her to run faster. Ribbon lightning flashed in the heavens, the electric discharge crackling throughout the eerie night, brightening the pathway as she ran towards the ruins of the main gate. Hurricane-speed winds strengthened, howling in her ear as she was thrust forward. The sea mist left its brine upon her lips, the salty pellets stinging her eyes.