Kitabı oku: «The Briton», sayfa 2
“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 came, and Amounderness was pillaged by William the Conqueror’s army.”
The man squatted on the sand beside Bronwen. He listened with obvious interest as she continued. “When William took an account of Amounderness in his Domesday Book, he recorded no remaining lords and few people at all. Some say it was because our marshy land was too difficult for his census-takers to penetrate. Perhaps so. But our tales insist that the Britons had hidden in caves and secret places of the forest.”
“And when the Normans retreated?”
“We crept out of hiding and returned to our halls. My father’s family reoccupied Rossall Hall, our ancient stronghold. And there we live, as we should, watching over our serfs as they fish and grow their meager crops. Indeed, there is not much here for the greedy Normans to covet, if they are the ones for whom you spy.”
Unable to continue speaking when her heart was so heavy, Bronwen stood and turned toward the sea. Rising beside her, the traveler touched her arm. “Olaf Lothbrok’s lands—together with your father’s—will reunite most of Amounderness under the rule of the son you are beholden to bear. A clever plan. Your sister’s future husband holds the rest of the adjoining lands, I understand.”
“You’ve done your work, sir. Your lord will be pleased. Who is he—some land-hungry Scottish baron? Or have you forgotten that King Stephen gave Amounderness to the Scots, as a trade for their support in his war with Matilda? I certainly hope your lord is not a Norman. He would be so disappointed to learn he has no legal rights here. Now, if you will excuse me, I shall return to Rossall.”
“Amounderness is Scottish by law,” the man said, stopping her short. “Would you be so sorry to see it returned to Norman hands?”
“Returned to the Normans? Amounderness belongs to the Briton tribe. Neither Stephen nor David of Scotland has deigned to set foot here. We are a pawn in their game. As far as I am concerned, it matters not who believes himself to own our land—so long as he does not bring troops or build fortresses here. Tell your lord that any man who aspired to that folly would find a mighty battle on his hands. We Britons do not intend to forfeit our holding.”
Bronwen turned and began walking back along the beach toward Rossall Hall. She felt better for her run, and having explained her father’s plan to the stranger, it didn’t seem so far-fetched anymore. Distant lights twinkled through the fog rolling in from the west, and she suddenly realized what a long way she had come.
“My lady,” the man’s voice called out behind her.
Bronwen kept walking, unwilling to speak to him again. She didn’t care what he reported to his master. She wanted only to return to the warmth of her chamber and feel the softness of Enit’s hands plaiting her hair before she dropped off to sleep.
“My lady, you have quite a walk ahead of you.” The traveler strode to her side. “I shall accompany you to your destination.”
“You leave me no choice in the matter.”
“I am not one to compromise myself, dear lady. I follow the path God has set before me and none other.”
“And just who are you?”
“I am called Jacques Le Brun.”
“French?” Given his accent, she had not expected this. “Then you are a Norman.”
The man chuckled. “Not nearly as Norman as you are Briton.”
As they approached the fortress, Bronwen could see that the guests had not yet begun to disperse. Perhaps no one had missed her, and she could slip quietly into bed beside Gildan.
She turned to go, but Le Brun took her arm and studied her face in the moonlight. Then, gently, he drew her into the folds of his hooded cloak. “Perhaps the bride would like the memory of a younger man’s embrace to warm her,” he whispered.
Astonished, Bronwen attempted to remove his arms from around her waist. But she could not escape his lips as they found her own. The kiss was soft and warm, melting away her resistance like the sun upon the snow. Before she had time to react, he was striding back down the beach.
Bronwen stood stunned for a moment, clutching his woolen mantle about her. Suddenly she cried out, “Wait, Le Brun! Your mantle!”
The dark one turned to her. “Keep it for now,” he shouted into the wind. “I shall ask for it when we meet again.”
Chapter Two
“Bronwen! Bronwen!” A thin high voice drifted through the mist. Bronwen turned from the shadow of the retreating man and looked toward the keep. Enit was searching for her.
Hurrying along the wet sand, Bronwen cried out, “Enit! I’m here!”
“Silly girl,” the nursemaid scolded as she scurried down the hill. At the bottom she picked up Bronwen’s slippers and waved them in the air. “You’ll catch your death in this cold, and I cannot say I shall be sorry to be rid of you. Hurry up, hurry up, foolish girl!”
Bronwen laughed in spite of herself. “A fool’s head never whitens, Enit,” she chirped, throwing one of the nursemaid’s favorite proverbs back at her.
Enit stopped, exasperated. “You’ll see I’m right. You’ll be sick before tomorrow. Time trieth truth.”
Bronwen slipped her arm around her old nursemaid as they made their way up the incline. “I’m to marry the Viking, Enit,” she said softly.
“I have heard.” They walked on in silence for a moment. “Your sister is pleased with her match. You must try to share her joy.”
As they passed into the courtyard and climbed the stairs, Bronwen noticed the old woman was trembling. This must be a sad day for Enit, too. Her charges soon would leave the hall and travel to new homes. The women crossed the entrance to the great hall, but Bronwen did not look inside. She could hear the throaty laughter of the men and the music of the pipers.
Soon the guests would listen to tales from the scop and gawk at the jugglers and tumblers she had hired. But Bronwen desired only to slip under the heavy warm blankets of her bed.
As she and Enit entered the sleeping chamber, Gildan rushed toward them, face aglow. “Oh, Bronwen! Where have you been? Such a day! I’m to marry Aeschby!” She whirled about the room. “I’m so happy! Did you see his face when Father said—”
Gildan stopped short when she noticed Bronwen’s wind-tangled hair and tattered gown. “Have you been on the beach? Whatever for? Oh dear sister, I’m such a fool. You aren’t happy at all.”
“I’m not happy at the moment,” Bronwen said. “That is true. But I’m not sad either. Our fate is in the hands of the gods, is it not? Now let me remove these damp tunics, and you must tell me everything Aeschby said to you.”
Enit pushed Bronwen toward the fire, then bustled about stripping off the damp gowns and rubbing the girl down with heavy linen cloths. Gildan, too excited to sympathize long with Bronwen’s situation, chatted joyfully as she combed the tangles from her sister’s hair.
Soon Enit ordered her charges to bed and took her own place on the cot outside their door. While Gildan slept, Bronwen lay staring up at the dark ceiling, too troubled to sleep despite her exhaustion. She had been betrothed to the old Viking—and then the dark stranger had taken her in his arms. But one memory weighed even more heavily than the other. Why had she not resisted the Norman’s embrace? She had been taught to despise his breed—and truly she did. Yet, why did the warmth of his kiss still linger on her lips? And what of his parting words? Certainly their paths would never cross again.
And yet…
Bronwen reached for the woolen mantle she had pushed under a blanket so no one would notice it. She held it to her cheek and recalled her wild run down the beach. A faintly spicy scent still clung to the folds of the garment, evoking the presence of the raven-haired traveler.
A girl must marry for the good of her family, Bronwen reminded herself as she closed her eyes and stroked the rough black wool. Everyone knew that.
Yet, was it possible that the gods who inhabited the trees and the stones and the driving seas that surrounded Amounderness had another destiny in store for her?
The morning dawned under threatening skies, and Bronwen awoke to Gildan’s fervent tugging.
“It worked! It worked, Bronwen,” Gildan cried. “I dreamt of my future husband. I put one shoe on either side of the bed, as Enit told me. Then I put rosemary in one and thyme in the other. I slept on my back all night. And I did dream of the one I’m to marry—Aeschby!”
Gildan danced around the room, her gowns flying. “Get up, silly goose! We must make haste to welcome the day. Hurry.”
At the commotion, Enit entered the room and began to take the sisters’ tunics from a wooden chest.
“My red one, Enit,” Gildan commanded. “And for my sister, the purple.”
Bronwen struggled from the bed and quickly opened another chest to hide the mantle Le Brun had wrapped around her the night before. As she combed out her long hair, Enit dressed her. Then Bronwen plaited her hair and slipped on her shoes.
“Are you well, Bronwen?” Enit asked.
“Quite,” Bronwen replied.
“Good, then listen closely to what I tell you now.” Enit spoke in a low voice. “The Viking fears that a large storm is gathering and will hinder his sea passage, making his land vulnerable to attack during his absence. He insists that your marriage ceremony take place tomorrow.”
Bronwen was too stunned to reply. She had thought the wedding was weeks or even months away. Before she could question Enit further, Gildan pulled her down the stairs into the hall. It was crowded with men, some still sleeping and others conversing quietly. Servants carried about jugs of frumenty and chamomile tea. Bronwen accepted a bowl of the hot, spicy frumenty and took a spoonful. The milky concoction laden with raisins warmed her stomach.
“Your appetite has returned, daughter,” Edgard said, coming up behind her. Despite the night’s revelries, her father looked hale and wore a broad grin. “I know the announcement of your betrothal was unexpected. Yet, I hope not too unpleasant. Lothbrok is a good man, and he will treat you fairly.”
“But, Father, must the wedding take place so soon? Surely it is not our custom nor the Vikings’ to have a wedding follow an engagement by two short days!”
Edgard frowned. “I worry more about the reaction to my will than I do about this hasty wedding to a Norseman.”
Bronwen knew by his tone of voice that arguing was futile. “I believe all will be well. Enit told me there was much excitement in the kitchen last night.”
Edgard nodded. “It is a novel idea, but I saw no better way to preserve our holdings. After lengthy negotiation, Lothbrok agreed. Come with me, daughter. I must show you something.”
Bronwen followed her father from the hall toward the chamber built below ground many generations before. As they made their way through the darkness, she heard him fumbling with his keys. At length, they reached the door that Bronwen knew led into the treasure room. Her father unlocked the door and beckoned her inside.
The chamber was filled with wooden chests, one stacked upon another, and all locked and sealed. Once, as a child, when she and Gildan had been exploring the keep and its grounds, they had come upon this room. Bronwen had to smile at the memories of her adventures with her reluctant sister. Scaling the timber palisade that surrounded the keep, getting lost in the forest, stumbling upon the entrance to a secret tunnel and following it from outside the walls to a trapdoor ending somewhere deep beneath the fortress—all were a part of the childhood she soon would leave behind forever.
“These treasures one day will be yours,” Edgard said, interrupting her thoughts. “Some will go to Gildan, of course. Gold coins and bars fill the chests. Several contain jewels. When I am gone, Bronwen, you must see that this room is well guarded.”
“Yes, Father,” Bronwen answered, conscious of the great responsibility he placed upon her.
“But this small chest contains the greatest treasure of all.” Edgard lifted an ornate gold box to the torchlight. “It is my will—set down in writing. As you well know, in declaring that you will inherit my domain upon my death, I have broken a long Briton tradition. Some of our countrymen may see fit to overlook or disregard the pronouncement. But beyond providing us with a reliable ally in Lothbrok, this document does two important things.”
“What are they, Father?”
“It keeps these holdings in Briton hands. Though they be the hands of a woman, you are capable of managing them. Of this I am confident. And this will encourages you to bear a son soon or to remarry quickly should Lothbrok die. Though the lands will be yours, you must remarry in order to provide a reliable caretaker.”
“Why Lothbrok?” Bronwen asked. “Aeschby is the stronger ally.”
“I had to give you to the weaker. If Gildan were to wed Olaf, nothing would prevent his changing loyalties upon an invasion. He could simply conquer Rossall for himself under the authority of King Stephen or Matilda. But with you as Olaf’s wife, Bronwen, he has hope of securing our lands through a child. The Viking will defend all lands destined for his future heirs.”
Bronwen knew her father spoke the truth. And like him, she felt confident that she was as well trained to oversee the land and serfs as a son would have been. Indeed, she had been left in charge several times when her father had gone away to battle or to meet with other lords. Yet the law of inheritance remained, and she accepted that it was right for a man to be the primary caretaker of an estate and all its assets.
“The will inside this box,” Edgard told her as he drew a golden key from his cloak and inserted it into the lock, “was inscribed by the same scholar who came from Preston to teach you and Gildan to speak the French tongue of Britain’s Norman invaders.”
When her father lifted the lid, Bronwen saw a folded parchment imprinted with her father’s seal. He touched it with his fingertips as he spoke. “Whether written in my native tongue or in French, I cannot read this document to know what was written. But my marshal assured me the scribe was an honest man. And he taught you well, did he not?”
Bronwen recalled the months the balding man had spent instructing her and Gildan in the cramped room behind the great hall. She had objected to having to learn Norman French. After all, why should they compromise themselves to speak that hated tongue?
“Times are changing, daughter,” Edgard spoke up. “You do not know half of what happens now in England. There is much turmoil, and our dream of reuniting this island under Briton rule grows ever more dim. Though I send out my spies and discuss such matters with other Briton landholders, even I am unaware of many things. But this I know—the written oath will prove more convincing than the spoken.”
“Can this be possible, Father?” Bronwen asked. “Among the Britons, a man’s word must be true. The history of our people is known only through the stories and ballads of the scops and bards. Few Britons can read and write more than their names. Indeed, I believe Gildan and I may be the only speakers of Norman French in all Amounderness.”
“This is a new world, daughter,” Edgard said in a low voice. “And not a good one. Promise me you will guard this box, Bronwen. Keep the key always about your neck. Never take it off!”
“Of course, and may the gods protect it.” She took the golden key and slipped it onto the chain about her neck. By the urgency of her father’s speech, she understood that his strange deed was important. More than once he had consulted with those deep forest-dwellers who could foresee the future, and his plans had served their family.
“Father, I thank you for leaving me your lands. Though I cannot desire a union with the Viking Lothbrok, I understand its purpose. I shall obey you, as I always have. My desire is to bear a son soon, that you may know our Briton line continues.”
Edgard smiled. “Your obedience pleases me, Bronwen. When you depart Rossall, carry this box with you unobserved. No one must suspect its contents. Come let us return now to the hall, for we must prepare to see you wed.”
As they climbed the stairs and approached the great hall again, Bronwen spotted a young man with flaming red hair. He sat with his back against the wall, a desolate expression on his face. Concerned as always for her people, she tucked the golden will box under her cloak, left her father’s side and went to him.
“You are troubled,” she declared.
“Seasick,” he corrected her, speaking their tongue in the crude fashion of Briton peasants. “All night. I never felt worse in me life. I’m the serf of them brutish Vikings, you see. Now morning comes, and I’m hungry as a wolf. Poor Wag, I says to meself, sick and hungry. But all the food is gone—not even a trencher to be had.”
“I shall see you are given something to eat, Wag,” she told him. “But first—tell me something of your lord. He is to be my husband.”
The peasant scrambled to his feet and made an awkward bow. “Be you the bride then? The daughter of Edgard?”
She smiled. “Indeed I am.”
“Much obliged for your kindness, my lady. The Viking is a good master, though his men can be cruel at times. I fear you will see little of your new husband, for he follows the ways of his forefathers and is often gone to sea in his horrid, creaky boat.”
This came as glad news on a day of unhappy and confusing surprises. Bronwen thought of questioning Wag further, but she decided against it.
“Go into the kitchen and tell cook that the lord’s black-haired daughter promised you a large bowl of frumenty, with plenty of raisins.”
“Thank you, ma’am. And best wishes in your marriage.”
In her bedchamber, Bronwen found Gildan in a flurry of excitement. The younger woman had learned that her wedding, too, would take place the next day—a decision Aeschby had made on learning of the Viking’s plans. Bronwen pursed her lips as her sister thrust three tunics into her arms and bade her decide which was the loveliest.
“I adore the red,” Gildan said with a pout, “but silly old Enit keeps saying, ‘Married in red, you’ll wish yourself dead.’ And I do so admire this green woolen, but ‘Married in green, ashamed to be seen!’ I am attached to the red, but Enit says blue is good luck. ‘Married in blue, love ever true.’”
“Does she now? Then blue it must be.”
“But this is such a dull, common tunic!”
Gildan appeared so distressed that Bronwen had to suppress a chuckle. “Come, sister. You must have the golden ribbon that was brought to me from the last fair at Preston. We shall stitch it down the front of this blue woolen, and you can trim the sleeves with that ermine skin you have had for years.”
“Oh, Bronwen, you are so clever!” Gildan embraced her sister. “Indeed, it will be the loveliest gown Aeschby has ever seen. Is my lord not a handsome man? And powerful! And rich! The gods have smiled on me indeed.”
Realizing she must begin to think of her own nuptials, Bronwen went to the chest where she kept her most elegant tunics. But as she lifted the lid, the mantle given her the night before by the stranger slid onto the floor. Hastily, lest anyone notice, she swept it up. As she began folding it into the chest again, her attention fell on the garment’s lining. It was a peacock-blue silk, startling in its contrast to the plain black wool of the outer fabric. Even more stunning was the insignia embroidered upon the lining near the hood. A crest had been worked in pure gold threads, and centered within the crest were three golden balls.
The elegance of the fabric and the nobility of the crest gave evidence of a wealthy owner of some influence and power. Jacques Le Brun. Who could he be, and why did the mere thought of the man stir her blood?
Bronwen pressed the mantle deeply into the corner of the chest and took out several tunics. “What do you think of these, Gildan?” she asked, forcing a light tone to her voice. “Which do you like best?”
Gildan took the garments and fluttered about the room, busy with her plans. But Bronwen’s thoughts had left the warm, smoky chamber to center upon a dark traveler with raven curls and a kiss that could not be forgotten.
As the day passed, it was decided that Enit would go to live with Bronwen at the holding of the Viking—Warbreck Castle. Gildan protested, but she was silenced with Enit’s stubborn insistence that this was how it must be. She could not be divided in half, could she? By custom, the older girl should retain her. Pleased at the knowledge that her faithful companion would share the future with her, Bronwen tried to shake the sense of impending doom that hung over her.
During the day, Bronwen worked to fit and embroider the wedding gowns. In the hall below, Edgard’s men stacked the girls’ dowry chests along with heavy trunks of their clothing and personal belongings. But Bronwen slid the small gold box containing Edgard’s will into the chatelaine purse she would hook to a chain that hung at her waist.
Toward evening, the hall filled once again with the sounds and smells of a feast. Rather than joining yet another meal with her future husband, Bronwen bade Enit walk with her in silence along the shore as the sun sank below the horizon. Looking up at Rossall Hall, Bronwen pondered her past and the years to come. She must accept the inevitable. At Warbreck Castle, there would be no pleasure in the nearness of the sea, no joy in the comforts of a familiar hall, no satisfaction in the embrace of a husband.
Surely for Gildan, marriage might someday become a source of joy in the arms of one who cared for her. But for Bronwen, only the heavy belly and grizzled face of an old man awaited. As she imagined her wedding night, Bronwen again reflected on the traveler who had held her. Though she tried to contain her emotion, she sniffled, and tears began to roll down her cheeks.
“Fare you well, Bronwen?” the old woman asked.
“Dearest Enit,” she burst out. “I cannot bear this fate! Why do the gods punish me? What ill have I done?”
She threw herself on the old woman’s shoulder and began to sob. But instead of the expected tender caress, Bronwen felt her head jerked back in the tight grip of the nurse’s gnarled hands.
“Bronwen, hold your tongue!” Enit snapped. “Be strong. Look!”
Bronwen followed the pointed direction of the long, crooked finger, and she saw the fearsome profile of her future husband’s Viking ship. It was a longship bedecked for war—a Viking snekkar—and it floated unmoving, like a serpent awaiting its prey.
“Enit, we must hurry home.” Bronwen spoke against her nursemaid’s ear. She must not be met on the beach by Olaf Lothbrok’s men. They would question her and perhaps accuse her of trying to escape. Now she had no choice but to return to her chamber and make final preparations for her wedding. When Lothbrok saw her the following morning, she would be wearing her wedding tunic, having prepared herself to become a wife.
At their request, the two brides ate the evening meal alone in their room, though Bronwen could hardly swallow a bite. “Gildan,” she said as they sat on a low bench beside the fire. “I hope you will be happy with Aeschby. I shall miss you.”
At that, Gildan began to weep softly. “And I shall miss you. You must come to see me soon in my new home.”
She flung her arms around her sister, and the two clung to each other for a long moment. Bronwen felt as though she had never been more as one with her sister…or more apart. Gildan looked so young and frail. If only Bronwen could be certain that Aeschby would treat his wife well, the parting might come more easily.
“I smell a storm coming across the sea,” Gildan whispered. “Let us send Enit out and go to bed. I have had more than my fill of her predictions and proverbs about weddings. Truly, I am not sad she goes with you. She can grow so tiresome.”
“You will miss her, sister. She’s the only mother you have known.”
Gildan’s face softened as she rose from the fireside and climbed into the bed the young women had shared almost from birth. “Just think…from now on it will be Aeschby sleeping beside me, Bronwen. How strange. How wonderful!”
Bronwen dismissed Enit for the evening and set the bowls and spoons into a bucket beside the door. Then she banked the fire and pulled the rope hanging from the louvered shutters in the ceiling. Now the smoke could still make its way out, but the cold night wind would be blocked from blowing into the chamber.
Shivering slightly, Bronwen slipped under the coverlet beside her sister. For one brief moment, she pictured herself on the beach again, wrapped in Le Brun’s mantle. She imagined the silken lining of the hood caressing her cheek and tried to smell again the faintly spicy scent clinging to the woolen folds. As she recalled the embrace of the man who had worn it, a pain filled her heart. Unable to bear it, she forced away the memory, and hid it in a dark, secret place—just as she had done the mantle.
The two weddings had been set for midmorning, to be followed by a feast, and perhaps even a day or two of celebration. Gildan flew about the chamber like a mad hen, refusing to allow Bronwen a moment to herself. Both women had chosen to wear white woolen undertunics. Enit laced up the tight sleeves of the fitted dresses. Gildan hurried to slip on her beautifully embroidered and fur-trimmed blue frock.
“Bronwen!” She laughed as Enit combed the shining golden waves of her hair. “Such a happy day! Hurry and put on your gown.”
Bronwen had chosen a light gray tunic embroidered with red and silver threads. It hung loose to her ankles, and she sashed it with a silver girdle. Then she clasped about her waist the chain that held her purse with the will box hidden inside. After carefully plaiting her long braids, she stepped into a pair of thin kidskin slippers.
“I am quite sure I shall freeze during the ceremony,” Gildan was protesting.
Enit, already in a sour mood from being ordered about since dawn, glowered at her. “Your mantle will keep you warm, girl. Now put it on and stop fussing. It’s almost time.”
On an impulse born of a sleepless night and a heart full of fear, sorrow and anguish, Bronwen lifted the lid of her wooden clothing chest and drew out the dark mantle Le Brun had given her. Wrapping it over her bridal tunic, she followed her sister out into the day.
The sun was barely visible behind a thick curtain of snow that sifted down like flour as the young women stepped into the great hall. Bronwen spotted her beaming father. The two bridegrooms stood beside him.
With a grim expression written across his face, Olaf Lothbrok stared at Bronwen as she took her place beside him. He wore a heavy bearskin cloak that fell to his leather boots. His hair was uncovered, and his thick beard spread across his chest.
A druidic priest began the ceremony by burning sacred woods and leaves, then chanting ritual petitions for health, safety and fertility. Before Bronwen could fully absorb the significance of the man’s words, the wedding was ended. As if with the snap of a finger or the crash of a wave upon the shore, she became a wife. She had stood beside this aged and heavy Norseman who had once been her people’s enemy, and now she was wedded to him forever.
Clinging to the edges of the black mantle around her shoulders, Bronwen joined the wedding party as it left the great hall. The snowstorm had worsened, and she lifted the hood over her head as pebbles of sleet stung her cheeks and slanted across the keep’s muddy yard. A heavy gray fog obscured the horizon to the west across the water.
Lothbrok surveyed the sky and turned to Edgard. Speaking in his broken Briton tongue, he told Bronwen’s father of his decision. “I must set sail at once. The weather comes bad across the seas.”
Edgard scowled. “The wedding feast is being prepared in the kitchens. There is yet time for a celebration. Stay longer here, Lothbrok—at least allow your new wife time to eat and refresh herself before the journey.”
