The Briton

by Catherine Palmer

  “Who brings this news?”

  “Our spies have ways of leaving and entering the walls undetected. But also we have watched the Normans felling trees and gathering great stones.”

  “And what of Olaf? Why does he allow them time to build? Why not go out to meet them on the battlefield?”

  The guard let out a deep breath. “Madam, we have few men, and our weapons are no longer adequate. We must hold our ground until they bring out this new armament. Then we shall try to burn it and overcome them as they approach. We have no other choice.”

  “Carry on, then. I wish you well.”

  As Bronwen left his side, she saw two men carrying a wounded comrade into the guardroom. An arrow protruded from his leather breastplate, and blood foamed from his mouth. He groaned in agony as he tried in vain to pull out the arrow.

  Dismayed, she took Enit’s hand and hurried down the stairs into the main hall where the cries and wails of the wounded echoed to the high ceiling. Sprawled about the floor lay the injured and the dead—far more men than Bronwen could have imagined. Two women moved from one to the next, attempting to administer care and ease pain.

  “Where are the others?” Bronwen demanded of one exhausted lady. “Why does no one assist you?”

  Looking up at her mistress with great ghostlike eyes, she wiped her fingers on an apron. “Most women labor in the kitchens or repair weapons. Many are yet in the village, for the Normans came so quickly that few were able to get inside the walls.”

  “Enit,” Bronwen said. “Return to the chamber and gather your medicine bags and herbs. We are needed here.”

  The hours crept toward sunset as the women removed arrows, bound wounds and dragged the dead into a corner. Bronwen set a pot of mallow root to boil for bathing injuries. A second pot of chamomile tea would help the men to sleep. She and Enit taught the other women how to make poultices of goldenseal and slippery-elm bark, which stopped the bleeding for many of the deep punctures.

  In all her life, Bronwen had never seen such horror. Her anger at Olaf diminished as she gazed into the pain-filled eyes of the wounded. When the sky grew dark and the battle ended for the day, warriors poured into the hall in search of food. Their women brought dried meats and bread, and the men fell to their meal, seated among their moaning comrades but saying little.

  Enit nestled beside her mistress on the cold floor where they shared a small green apple and a piece of salty pork. As she rested her head upon the stone wall, Bronwen’s focus fell on Olaf. The old man stood at some distance across the hall. He leaned heavily upon his sword and looked at her with tired blue eyes.

  “Stay here, Enit,” she murmured. “I must speak to Olaf. Keep close watch on his son—there by the fire. Haakon is my enemy.”

  Before Enit could question her, Bronwen crossed to the Viking and asked to speak to him in private. Nodding, he led her to the curtained alcove where he slept. “What do you need of me, wife?” he asked. “I have little to give at this hour, but what I have is yours.”

  “I need answers, sir.” She crossed her arms, as if that might defend her against the agonizing truth. “Today, Haakon told me of your plan. He said you intend to keep me childless so that your only son will inherit Rossall. You deceived my father and me.”

  Olaf held up a hand. “Wait. I must sit.”

  But as he sank onto his bed, Bronwen could no longer hold her tongue. “Haakon ridiculed me as a fool for not perceiving your scheme. Since my wedding day, I have been his greatest threat. He fears I will lure you to my bed, and his dreams will be lost. But he has little to dread, because you join him in this mockery of our vows. You would have your household believe I am barren.”

  “Madam, please—”

  “Do not suppose I am without power and influence, Olaf Lothbrok. Despite the Norman attack, I shall escape both you and your wicked son.”

  Olaf sat silently before her, his face as pale as ivory. Bronwen waited for him to speak, but when he said nothing, she poured out her heart. “I thought you were kind. Indeed, held a measure of affection for you. I had learned to accept your people’s strange ways, and I had all but come to call this place my home. But now I see you as an evil, heartless man and our marriage as a sham.”

  Staring down at his interlaced fingers, Olaf shook his head. “I can say nothing in my own defense. Haakon spoke the truth—but, believe me, our treachery was woven before I knew you.” He looked up at her. “My son has reason to fear. Given time, I would not be able to resist you. You are a woman like no other…and I am the fool.”

  At that the old man pushed himself up from the bed, lifted his sword and lumbered from the alcove.

  As Bronwen stepped into the hall again, she spotted Enit fast asleep on the floor. Her heart softening, she decided they should return to the silence and safety of the upper chamber. They needed to rest, and Bronwen had much to consider.

  But as she lifted her tunic and stepped over the legs of a wounded man, she saw Olaf beckon her. He stood near the door, again leaning on his sword, as he spoke with a peasant who wore the garb of a woodsman.

  “Come, wife,” Olaf said. “Before we hear this man speak, I must tell you that when I heard the Normans were approaching, I summoned my spies for word of an ally who might assist us. This man has just arrived. He brings news from the north.”

  “North?” Bronwen’s heart stumbled. “Have you been to Rossall Hall? Do you have word of my father? Surely he will come to our aid!”

  The man dropped to one knee before her. “Madam, I bear unwelcome tidings. Edgard the Briton has died.”

  “Died?” Bronwen cried out, pulling the man to his feet. “You lie! This cannot be true.”

  Olaf gently drew her back. “Tell us what has passed at Rossall, man.”

  “Edgard was taken ill in early summer, but he insisted he would recover. Indeed all believed it must be so. He would allow none to go to his daughters lest they be alarmed for no good cause. For the same reason, I did not inform you, my lord. But a fortnight ago, Edgard died in the night. He has been buried. I was journeying to Warbreck with that news when I received your summons.”

  “No, no, no,” Bronwen moaned as hot tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “It cannot be.”

  “What of Rossall?” Olaf asked. “Who holds it now?”

  “My lord, the Briton had not been buried a week before Aeschby Godwinson—husband of Edgard’s younger daughter and holder of the land across the Wyre River to the east—rode into Rossall and declared himself its lord.”

  “Aeschby?” Olaf grabbed the messenger’s tunic by the neck. “Is this true? Did you see the man himself, or have you only a rumor?”

  “With my own eyes, I saw Aeschby, his men and his entire household take possession of the keep. At that, I departed for Warbreck at once.”

  “You did well.” Olaf clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Take your rest now.”

  As the Viking ordered a servitor to find his son, Bronwen stood numb. It was impossible. Unthinkable. Her father was dead? Rossall taken by Aeschby? No.

  “I must go home,” she murmured as she tried to stem her tears. “My father…My sister…”

  “You forget we have a battle outside our walls. When the time comes, I’ll send Haakon to Rossall.”

  “Haakon? No—”

  “Go to your chamber, woman. Bar the door, mourn your father and wait in silence. When the castle is safe again, I shall come to you.”

  Bronwen covered her face with her hands and wept in the dark emptiness of her bed. In clear memory, she saw Edgard’s dear face before her. His warm arms seemed almost within reach.

  “I have lost my father,” she sobbed to Enit who lay on a pallet beside the bed. “I have lost Rossall. My husband has deceived me. And what of Gildan? Is she at Rossall? Does she assist her husband in betraying our father? Oh, Enit, I fear I shall never see my home again. The Norman dogs will rip us to shreds or carry us away as captives.”

  “Whisht, child,”
Enit murmured. “Sleep if you can. The morrow will bring trouble enough of its own.”

  As Bronwen closed her eyes, a distant voice emerged. Take the box, her father whispered as he passed the small chest to his daughter in secret. Try not to let him know of it. He would not understand.

  Bronwen’s breath went shallow at the recollection of that moment. Her father had not completely trusted Olaf after all. Perhaps he had even suspected Aeschby of duplicity. Wiser than she could comprehend, Edgard had ordered a scribe to set down his will. Words, he insisted, held sway with Norman conquerors. In their courts of law, the pen would always defeat the sword.

  Heart slamming against her chest, Bronwen slipped from the bed and located the chatelaine purse she had always kept chained at her waist. As she removed her father’s will box, she grasped the key at her neck. She inserted it into the tiny lock, and the lid lifted. For a moment, she stroked her fingers across the parchment. This was power? But the fragment would vanish in flame or water. It seemed impossible that anyone could care what had been marked down with inky nicks of a goose’s quill. Surely such an object could have no influence.

  But Edgard the Briton had entrusted his daughter with it, and she had nothing else of him. His health was broken and his life lost, his older daughter betrayed, and his land and keep usurped. Bronwen knew she must protect the box, but she could no longer carry it. By morning, she might be a prisoner of the Normans. If Olaf triumphed and she survived, the written will would mean nothing to him or his son. But somehow, some way, it must survive.

  “Why do you slip about in the dark, girl?” Enit whispered. “Did I not beg you to sleep?”

  Bronwen knelt at the old woman’s side. “Enit, on the night of my betrothal, my father declared his will for Rossall. Do you remember?”

  “Of course I do. He broke with Briton tradition by leaving management of his holding to you.”

  She held up the chest. “Inside lies a document on which Edgard the Briton’s will was inked in words.”

  Enit propped herself up on one elbow and peered at the box in the firelight. “Bronwen, your father was wise, but I fear that both of you are bewitched to believe that squirrel scratches on rolled parchment have any meaning or worth. The document may declare you to be mistress of Rossall, but it will have no power against the might of Aeschby’s men or the force of Olaf and his son.”

  “Nevertheless, I am honor-bound to protect it. I must hide it in a safe place until I can return to Rossall.”

  “Hide it here?”

  “Where else? I’m not an eagle to soar off to a far mountain, Enit. Here I am, and here the box must stay. If I’m released or can escape, it will go with me. But the Norman dogs outside this castle must never have it.”

  Grumbling, the nursemaid clambered up from her pallet. “You try me, child. I lie in fear of my death, and you bid me conceal a box of ink blotches.” Padding across the room, she spoke in a low voice. “When we laid new rushes, I noted that this floor is made of wood instead of stone. More easily burned, true, yet a good hiding place.”

  Bronwen knelt and swept back a thick layer of rushes. The women used a knife to pry up two boards, and then Bronwen set the will box into a space directly below the window. As they replaced the slats and redistributed the rushes, Enit heaved a sigh.

  “Now may we rest?” she asked.

  “Promise me you’ll never forget where this box is hidden,” Bronwen said.

  “You have my vow.”

  Bronwen kissed Enit’s cheek and both returned to their beds. But the younger lay awake for many hours. She decided that at dawn, she would find Olaf’s spy and offer him one of her three gold balls to reveal a way through the castle wall. She must escape, for she could rely on no one now. Every man she knew—Olaf, Haakon, Aeschby—had proven treacherous. There was but one who had treated her with honor, but Jacques Le Brun was far away in London with his beloved Henry Plantagenet.

  A hammering at her door woke Bronwen the following morning. “Madam,” a deep voice cried out. “The Normans approach with their machines! My lord sends word that you must stay in your chamber.”

  Throwing her mantle over the tunic in which she had slept, Bronwen ran to the door and lifted the bar. The guard she had spoken with before stepped into her chamber. “The new weapons may threaten all our lives,” he told her. “You are not to go down to the hall.”

  “But the wounded—they need our help!”

  “Leave them to the gods, madam. You can do nothing more now.”

  “What are these terrible new weapons, then?”

  “First comes a wooden tower on high wheels. Norman warriors cover their heads with shields as they roll it toward us. Behind the tower comes a catapult, madam. It has a long arm on which rests a great bowl. They will use it to launch stones at our outer wall. Once the catapult breaches the fortification, the tower will be rolled forward so that the Normans can climb over and attack us.”

  “We must burn the weapons! Surely it can be done.”

  “The Norman leader on his gray steed directs all the action on the field. He’s shrewd and clever. Your husband is…He is uncertain how to respond.”

  Even as he spoke the words, a stone missile struck the wall around the castle. The fortress shuddered from the impact, and Bronwen could hear rocks tumbling to the ground below. Enit screeched in terror as the guardsman bolted from the chamber to return to his post.

  Unwilling to lock herself into a doomed chamber, Bronwen followed the man. Through his window, she saw hordes of Normans racing past the catapult, swarming up the wheeled tower and climbing onto the crumbling parapet of Warbreck Castle. The catapult flung another stone and knocked away a second section of the wall’s top. The lower wall began to weaken and collapse as well.

  As one band of Norman warriors worked the catapult and a second climbed the rolling tower, a third regiment bore down on the gate with a massive iron-tipped battering log. Though shields covered their heads, the assailants were turned back when Olaf’s men poured boiling oil on them from the battlements. But at once another group took their place.

  Bronwen left the window and ran back to her chamber. “Enit!” she cried, bursting through the door. “The Norman army overpowers us, and I fear they mean to kill us all. Their leader thirsts for Viking blood. These warriors live to die by the sword!”

  “They live to die for their honor, child.” Enit had covered herself in Bronwen’s furs as if somehow they might cushion her from the falling walls. “This is the way of men, and we cannot hope to understand it. Sit down with me and await your fate, for this is the way of women.”

  “Last night I spoke with one of Olaf’s spies.” Bronwen knelt beside her nurse. “He can lead us to safety. We must find him and escape this place. My father is dead, and I will not lose you, too. Take my hand and follow me.”

  Enit shook her head. “If you find a way out, return for me. Either way, I am ready to meet my destiny.”

  Nearly bursting with fear and frustration, Bronwen left the chamber again and hurried through the guardroom. As she passed a window, she looked out to discover that the Normans had already overrun the outer wall. Within the castle courtyard, men wielded sword, shield, spear and mace in fierce hand-to-hand combat. Many of the Norman troops had ridden their horses through the battered gate that now hung splintered and broken on its hinges. These men held a clear advantage over their unmounted Viking foes, who fell beneath the heavy blows of Norman swords.

  But the Vikings fought on. In their wild eyes and bared teeth, Bronwen saw a bloodlust not present in the calculated strikes of the Normans. She recalled Olaf’s words—to Vikings, death by sword was the only death. Only then might men walk in Valhalla with the gods.

  As she scanned the throng for Olaf, Bronwen realized that some of the Vikings had turned upon their own men. They killed each other rather than face capture and lose the glory of death by sword.

  A loud thud below told Bronwen the Normans had moved their battering ram to the wo
oden door of the castle itself. Panic rising in her throat, Bronwen tried to think what to do. In a moment the enemy would be inside. She was too late to escape! And how could she protect Enit?

  She had started up to her chamber for the nursemaid when she heard a great splintering crack and the crash of the huge keep door falling open. Shouts of victory flooded the hall and echoed up the stairway. Running for her chamber, she felt the heavy pounding of footsteps behind her—and a massive, mail-clad warrior threw her to the floor. Just as a sea of blackness swam before her eyes, the Norman jerked her to her feet.

  “Release me!” she cried, pushing at him. “I am the wife of Olaf Lothbrok!”

  “So we know,” the knight replied brokenly in her tongue. “Our orders are to take you to our lord.”

  Surrounded, Bronwen saw she had no choice but to go with them. She spotted Enit standing ashen in the door of the chamber as the men ushered her forward.

  “I walk alone,” Bronwen told them, speaking the Norman French the tutor had taught her. “Release my arms.”

  The knights halted in surprise. “She speaks our language.”

  “Yes, and you will treat me well. Now unhand me.”

  The men set her free, and Bronwen smoothed out her tunic and straightened her mantle. Just as they reached the bottom of the stair, four Viking men carried the blood-soaked body of their lord through the broken door. With a cry, Bronwen pushed between the knights escorting her and ran to Olaf’s side.

  The Vikings placed the old man on the floor and Bronwen knelt beside him. His face was gray and blood-spattered, and the tired blue eyes were half-closed. Bronwen saw that Olaf’s mail had been hewn across the arm, leg and chest. The gaping wounds bled freely.

  “Olaf,” she whispered. “It is I, your wife.”