Kitabı oku: «The Briton», sayfa 3

A shiver ran down her spine as Bronwen stood on the steps and watched her new husband in animated discussion with her father. They must be nearly the same age, she surmised. Together, they looked like a pair of old bears, scarred and spent with years of battle.

As Olaf finished speaking and stomped down the stairs toward the waiting ship, Edgard turned to his elder daughter. “Bronwen, the Viking insists he must return to Warbreck at once. He has been sent a message that a village near his holding was burned. Whether it was the work of Normans or Scots he cannot tell, but he fears the coming storm could hold him several days here. You must depart with him at once.”

“But what of the feast? Has he no respect for our traditions?”

“Daughter, you must remember that this man’s ways are not our ways. You sail at once.”

Bronwen ran to her sister’s side and embraced Gildan. And so this was how it must be. A wedding. A ship. A new life far from home and family. Bronwen held her sister for a moment, then pulled away.

“We must part,” she said. “My love goes with you. Be happy, Gildan.”

Without a final glance at her beloved home, Bronwen stepped into the biting gale. In the distance, a small boat moved toward the shore. She saw that her chests and trunks were being loaded in another.

Edgard followed his daughter down the steep hill toward the water’s edge. He took her arm and drew her close. “Do you have the golden key?” he whispered. “And the will box?”

“Yes, Father. I have them both.” She drew back the mantle that he might see the outline of the box inside her chatelaine purse.

Edgard nodded with satisfaction. “Keep them with you always lest they fall into the wrong hands. Never let Lothbrok know of the will. He would not understand that in this new world of Norman kings and knights, the written word holds great power. And now, farewell, my beloved daughter. You, who are nearest to my heart, go farthest away. You will dwell with a strange people and an aged husband, but you must never forget that you are a Briton and that Rossall is your true home. When I die, return here and join my lands to those of your husband.”

Bronwen slipped her arms around her father and held him close for a moment. Then she turned and hurried toward the waiting boat. As she was rowed across the bay toward the snekkar, Bronwen buried her head in the folds of the dark woolen cloak and wept bitter tears.

When the small boat bumped against the bow of the Viking ship, she looked up to see the head of a dragon rising above her, and higher still, a purple sail painted with a black crow billowed in the buffeting wind. But once aboard the snekkar, she turned her face away from the land, away from her father and from her sister and her home. She looked out into the darkening fog and tried to summon her courage. Fate had laid out this path, and she had no choice but to walk it.

As the snekkar inched its way southward, icy rain began to fall more heavily. Bronwen huddled under the thick mantle and covered her head with the hood that once had concealed the features of a man she must no longer remember. Enit, shivering beside Bronwen on the cold, hard deck, held up a soggy blanket to shield her head from the pelting sleet.

The sky grew black as heavy fog rolled over them from the Irish Sea. The mouth of the Warbreck River lay only ten or twelve miles south along the coast, but darkness fell before it came into sight. Wind whipped and tore at the sails and sent waves crashing into the seamen who tried to keep the ship upright with their twin rows of countless oars. At the front of the ship, Lothbrok stood peering out into the fog, now and then pointing east or west.

Bronwen hugged her knees tightly to her chest, and the hard edges of the small gold box pressed against her legs. Thinking of her father’s earnest lecture about the power of the written word, she tried to erase from her mind the image of the boat, herself, and the box sinking to the bottom of the sea, lost forever.

As the night deepened, the storm continued raging until at last Bronwen heard shouts from the crewmen. Rather than continuing south, the ship began to turn eastward. Peering out from under the hood, she saw a pinprick of light in the distance. When the ship drew close enough to shore to weigh anchor, Lothbrok hurried his bride and her nursemaid into a small boat. Giving no instruction, he turned his back on them as crewmen hurriedly lowered the boat toward the water.

“Wait!” Bronwen shouted at her husband. “Lothbrok, where do you send us?”

The Norseman peered down at them. “See that light? Go ashore and find shelter. I cannot abandon my snekkar in such a storm.”

“Yet you would send your wife away with only her nursemaid for protection?”

“My man will stay with you. Go now!”

“Whisht,” Enit muttered, elbowing Bronwen. “Speak no more. Keep your thoughts to yourself, girl.”

Two crewmen rowed the women toward the fog-shrouded shore. As soon as the boat scraped bottom, the men helped them out and dragged them through the icy surf. Her clothing heavy with seawater, Bronwen struggled across the wet sand toward the light. While one of Lothbrok’s men rowed back to the snekkar, the other accompanied them along the beach.

The light in the distance proved to be that of a candle burning inside a small wattle hut along the edge of the forest that met the beach. Lothbrok’s man hammered on the door, which opened to reveal a tall, fair-haired man. To Bronwen’s surprise, he did not ask their identity or loyalties, but warmly bade them enter. Around the fire, a small group of travelers took their rest.

When Bronwen approached, one of their number rose and withdrew silently to a darkened corner. Bronwen’s heart stumbled at the sight—for as the man pulled his hood over his face, the hem of his black mantle fell aside to reveal a peacock-blue lining.

Chapter Three

His visage protected by shadow and the hood of his cloak, Jacques Le Brun studied the party his friend was now ushering toward the fire. One man. Two women. And unless his eyes failed him in the dim light, the taller lady was the daughter of Edgard the Briton.

“Thank you for welcoming us.” The man spoke the Briton tongue poorly, and he was no Norman. A Viking, then. A rough, barbaric breed. Jacques felt for his sword and knife as the boorish fellow stepped in front of the two women and took a place in the circle around the crackling flame.

“We were caught up in the storm at sea,” he told the others. “I protect the women while my father keeps charge of his ship. I am called Haakon, a Viking of Warbreck and the son of Olaf Lothbrok.”

Edgard’s daughter gasped aloud to learn that her escort was Olaf’s son. Clearly they had not yet been introduced. Jacques couldn’t imagine what had compelled the lady to leave her father’s hearth in this weather and so soon after her betrothal to the old Viking. Jacques knew a Briton wedding would never take place until the spring or summer, when conditions were optimum for their pagan marriage rites. For a maiden to reside with a man unwed was unseemly. Yet the Britons—an ancient race that sought out witches for their charms and seers for their supposed foresight—were hardly more civilized than the Norsemen. Perhaps the woman’s father had made this arrangement for some ulterior purpose.

“Hail to you in the name of our Lord, my friend. I am called Martin.” The tall, scrawny man who had opened the door to these vagabonds now held out a hand toward the fire in the center of the hut. Jacques realized his companion’s ability to converse with them was good, for he had been brought up not far from this place. This would be a help in days to come.

“Greetings all three,” Martin said. “Ladies, I beg you to remove your wet cloaks and take places beside the blaze.”

“Thank you, sir,” the younger woman said. “You are good.”

As she removed her mantle, Jacques knew for certain that this was the woman who had mesmerized him during the feast at Rossall Hall. And it was she to whom he had given his first kiss in many a long year.

“Only God is truly good,” Martin replied with a smile as the other men made room for the women to seat themselves on a low bench. “So you are from Warbreck? We passed through that village this very day.”

Jacques grimaced. Leave it to Martin to welcome total strangers without removing their weapons and to disclose information they hadn’t even requested. Jacques must speak to his friend about this on the morrow, though he feared it would do little good.

When Edgard’s daughter turned her face into the light of the fire, Jacques could no longer keep his thoughts focused on Martin’s latest faux pas. The woman again captured him—her dark beauty smiting him with misty memories of days he could hardly recall and fancies he had rarely permitted himself to imagine.

She was beautiful—truly, the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld. Long black braids reached down past her shoulders, and her brown eyes danced in the flames. Yet, despite the woman’s loveliness, Jacques knew from their prior encounter that she had a sharp tongue and strong opinions.

“I am Bronwen, daughter of Edgard the Briton,” she stated in her own language. “This is my nurse, Enit. We hail from Rossall Hall.”

“Not Warbreck?” Martin registered confusion. “But Rossall is a fine keep, too, I understand. We have just roasted a small deer, and here on the fire, you see I am baking bread and warming drink. I hope you’ll join us for dinner. You must be hungry after such a journey.”

“I confess I am half-starved,” Bronwen acknowledged. “I’m sure we all would enjoy a hot meal.”

After speaking, she glanced directly at Jacques, who had kept to his station in the corner of the room. Clearly, she had noted his presence. But had she recognized him? From beneath his hood, he stared at her. What was it about the woman that drew him so? And why had he been so foolish, so recklessly impulsive, as to kiss her that night on the beach? Even now he could hardly countenance what he had done—yet the memory of that moment haunted him like nothing else.

The men cordially welcomed their guests and resumed their muted conversations. As expected, none drew attention to their master’s presence in the room. Jacques had trained them well. Bronwen the Briton, however, peered at him now and again—often enough that he began to suspect she had recognized him.

In the warmth of the fire, she and her nurse spread their skirts to dry. Their once ashen faces began to regain color, and they smiled as they whispered to each other—their good spirits obviously restored. As the maiden unbraided her wet hair, her nurse produced an ivory comb and set to work on the tangled knots in her charge’s black tresses.

Martin began to slice the meat as the company watched in anticipation. Earlier, he had wrapped a few wild turnips and onions in wet leaves and placed them among the coals. The scent of roasted deer, steamed vegetables and baking bread began to fill the hut, and Jacques acknowledged his own hunger. He did not wish to reveal himself to the women, yet how could he resist the opportunity to fill his belly after his long journey?

“I’m sure I shall never be completely warm again,” the nurse said with a small laugh. “Such waves and wind! It’s cold enough to starve an otter to death in wintertime, as they say.”

“That it is,” Martin concurred. “I don’t envy your master on the high seas in the midst of it. Here now, Enit, put this dry blanket about you. I’ll have some hot drink for you in a moment.”

Jacques shook his head in bemusement at this act of kindness toward a servant. That Martin had chosen such a deferential path in life perplexed him still. The tall man placed a thick blanket around Enit’s shoulders, and Bronwen accepted a cup of the steaming brew that bubbled in a pot on the coals.

When Martin announced that the meal was ready, he called those in the room to rise. Jacques remained in the shadows, yet he stood as Martin lifted his hands and began to pray. “Bless us, oh God. Bless these gifts which we receive from Your bosom, and make us truly thankful. In the name of our Savior we pray. Amen.”

As Bronwen seated herself again, she addressed Martin. “Good sir, may I ask which god you serve? Or do you make prayers to all of them?”

Martin smiled at her as he began to pass around slices of the dripping meat. “I am a follower of the one true God. I serve His only Son, my Lord Jesus Christ.”

“Christ?” she said. “Then you are a Christian?”

“Indeed I am. This party travels to London, that I may join believers in obedience to His Spirit through service to Jesus. Those who live at the monastery make it our mission to preach the good news of the Kingdom of God.”

“Strange words,” Bronwen said. “I have heard tales of Christians. Is it true you worship only this one God and give no homage to the spirits of the trees and mountains?”

Martin smiled. “God fashioned the earth and all that dwells upon it. We choose to worship the Creator rather than His creation.”

“But surely your God has a dwelling place?”

“He abides in the heart of every true believer.”

“Only in the heart of man? Why should this Spirit not also wish to inhabit the rest of His creation? Surely man is not solely blessed with the presence of the gods.”

As the two spoke, one of Jacques’s men rose and carried a slab of venison to him. Without pausing in the conversation, Bronwen turned and peered into the corner where he sat. She was opening her mouth to speak when Martin handed her a bowl filled with chunks of meat and steaming vegetables. He gave her a brief nod and then turned to Enit with another bowl.

“Putting the feast on the board is the best invitation,” the older woman cackled.

Bronwen smiled at her nurse before returning to Martin. “The venison is tender and succulent, while the turnips and onions melted away like butter. I daresay I have never tasted such a fine meal or been so warm. Again, sir, we thank you for sharing your dinner with us.”

“I am honored to be of service, my lady,” Martin replied.

Haakon, the Norseman who had been consuming his portion in silence, tossed an onion over his shoulder before speaking up. “Tell me, holy man, where did you slay this deer?”

Martin and the others stopped their eating to eye the Viking. Jacques stiffened. Setting his meal aside, he again touched his knife. Clearly Martin’s generosity meant nothing. Haakon wanted to know if the deer had been poached from his father’s land.

“Where Christopher bought his coat, as they say, sir,” Martin answered.

Haakon glowered at him. “I asked you a question, man. I expect an answer.”

“We got the deer where ’twas to be had.”

The burly Viking stood and pointed a thick forefinger at Martin. “You play games with me, do you? That deer belonged to the lands of Olaf Lothbrok, and you—”

“And you have kindly fed his wife and her attendant,” Bronwen cut in. “We appreciate your generosity, Martin. Do we not, Haakon? You, too, have filled your belly. Would you now turn against your provider?”

Wife? Jacques could hardly believe he had heard aright. Was it possible she had wed the old man already? Teeth clenched, he drew his knife from its scabbard and rose on one knee.

Haakon was glaring at Bronwen, as she stood to address him across the fire. “I am your mistress now, and I command you to apologize to this gentleman.”

“I obey no command given by a woman,” Haakon snarled. “I protect my father and his possessions, and I comply only with his requests.”

The woman lifted her chin. “I am the chattel of Olaf Lothbrok—not only his possession but his chosen wife. Obey me now, as you will in the future. I insist upon it.”

Jacques understood the deep significance of this confrontation. Though the custom of both Briton and Viking gave authority to men, Bronwen had chosen to assert her own station as Haakon’s superior. She must not relent. Failing to defend her claim would put her forever under the man’s domination and control.

“Apologize, Haakon,” she repeated. “I command you.”

The Viking started to speak, but he held his tongue as he glared at Bronwen. She maintained her cold, steady gaze. Finally, he turned to Martin and muttered, “As this woman commands, I apologize for questioning you about the animal.”

Martin nodded. “No offense taken.”

Bronwen did not acknowledge Haakon’s obedience. Instead, she bent down to help the old nursemaid to her feet. As the young woman gathered their now-dried woolen cloaks, she cast a glance at Jacques, who still crouched in deep shadow. Though he fully expected her to confront him with as much fervor as she had the Viking, she took Enit by the elbow, stepped to another corner of the small room and began arranging a sleeping pallet.

Jacques sheathed his knife again and picked up his dinner. In time, his men finished their meal and began to settle around the room. He was glad they had found this shelter near the beach, for all were weary from the day’s journey. Jacques watched as Haakon took a place near the door and cast a final hostile glance at Bronwen. She turned her back on him and lay down beside her nurse, who soon was snoring softly.

Exhausted, Jacques leaned his head against the wall. He was tired, but he would not sleep. Though silence had fallen over the gathering, he knew that darkness often brought misdeed.

Unable to sleep, Bronwen considered the fate of the ship that had brought her to this place. Vikings were legendary seamen and rarely lost a vessel. She had no doubt that Lothbrok would return for his wife and son—perhaps even by morning. Was he as brash and spiteful as his son? The thought sent a curl of dread through her stomach.

As the icy rainfall quieted from a roar to a gentle patter, Bronwen turned her thoughts to Martin and his kindness toward her and Enit. What was the nature of this God he served, and what powers could He offer to faithful worshippers? Did Martin tremble at the power of his God, or was this God the cause of his smiles and humility?

Recalling the festivals, rituals and sacrifices of her people, Bronwen considered the questions that filled her mind. As the hours passed, she came to realize that she didn’t know enough to pass judgment. It was a mystery—but one she wished to explore.

And the man in the corner? Could he truly be Jacques Le Brun? She had studied him in the firelight, but she couldn’t be certain. It seemed impossible that they should meet again so soon. And if he recognized her, why not identify himself? No, it could not be the man. Yet as dearly as she wished to wash away her memories of Le Brun, she was powerless.

Late in the night, the rain ceased, leaving only the soft sound of waves breaking on the beach. Unable to rest her mind or even stretch her legs in the cramped, smoky hut, Bronwen decided to walk down to the sea. Perhaps she would see the Viking snekkar in time to steel herself for another meeting with her new husband. Rising, she slipped the mantle over her shoulders. The man in the corner dozed with his head against the wall. And Haakon, lying next to the hut’s door, was snoring as she edged past him and stepped out into the night.

The dense bank of clouds had rolled back, leaving a cover of newly washed stars. Bronwen dug her bare toes into the wet sand and shook out her long hair as she wandered toward the water’s edge. Some years ago, her father had employed a tutor, a man who once had been steward to a Norman family in the town of Preston. He had taught Bronwen and Gildan to speak French, to learn how their enemy viewed the world, and to understand some sense of the characteristics of the Christian God.

Much of what the tutor had told the girls was either laughable or revolting, but his explanation of the natural world fascinated Bronwen. On this night, she could see that nature was in balance again. Earth, fire, water, air—the four elements making up everything on the earth—must always remain in harmony, the tutor had said. When one asserted itself, the others brought it back into order.

So it was with kings, lords and serfs. It would take a mighty king indeed to subdue all of England and bring it under control. Bronwen had heard that Matilda had such a man in mind—her son Henry Plantagenet—to rule England if she prevailed against King Stephen in their civil war. But Henry was a Norman to the core, and Bronwen doubted he had any interest in the island to the north of his French homeland. She didn’t care what the Normans did anyway. As long as they kept their distance from Amounderness and Rossall Hall.

As she strolled, Bronwen came upon a log washed up by the storm. But as she sat, her eye caught a movement down the beach near the hut. If she had wakened Haakon as she’d left the hut, he could have revenge in mind. Heart pounding, she slipped behind the log, hoping its shadow would conceal her.

As she watched the figure draw nearer, Bronwen saw it was Haakon. She closed her eyes and prayed to the gods—even to Martin’s one God—that she might be spared. How foolish she had been to leave the hut unarmed. Yet, even if she had a weapon, she could never hope to physically overcome a strong, well-trained warrior. Would the man be so foolish as to harm his father’s wife? Of course. He could kill her and slip back into the hut. All would believe him innocent.

She heard the Viking’s footsteps crunching the sand near the log, and then he stopped. “So, Bronwen the Briton, we meet again in the dark of night. Is it your habit to wander beaches alone and without protection?”

With a gasp, she sat up. “Le Brun? But I thought you were…someone else.”

“Your Viking protector? But you have no fear of that man, do you? At dinner you were quite impressive.”

“And you—crouching in the corner like a mouse? Do you fear him?”

“I fear only God.”

“So, you follow your friend to London to pay homage to this God so favored by Normans. Or are you still spying out Amounderness?”

The man chuckled but made no answer. “You must call me Jacques. We know each other too well for formalities. And I see you have put my mantle to good use. I’m glad of that. Now perhaps you’ll tell me why you attempt to hide when the stars illuminate everything on this beach.”

Bronwen stood and unclasped the cloak. “Stars reveal the future and the present. But they don’t show your face, sir. You are the one who hides, not I. Here—take your mantle. I want nothing to do with a scoundrel and a spy.”

Jacques caught the hood of the cloak before it could slip to the ground. “Keep it, my lady. I beg you.”

“No, I—”

“Please honor my request.” He drew the garment around Bronwen’s shoulders again and fastened the clasp at her neck. “I am not ready to collect it just yet. We are met untimely.”

His fingers lingered for a moment at the clasp as he looked into her eyes. Then he drew away, took a place on the log and stretched out his long legs. Reaching up, he grasped Bronwen’s hand and gently pulled her down beside him. She settled herself at some distance, wary of the Norman yet grateful for the warmth of his mantle.

“Your husband is at sea,” he said. His voice was deep, and his eyes searched the horizon as he spoke. “When were you married?”

“This morning. Soon after the rite, we left Rossall Hall in haste because of the storm.”

“Little good it did. And now you spend your wedding night sitting on a wet log.”

“It is of no consequence to me. My husband and I have never spoken a single word. Our vow is all that unites us.”

“A vow has great power, Bronwen.” He glanced at her. “May I call you by name?”

“As you wish. It matters not, for I don’t imagine we shall meet again after this night.”

Jacques leaned back against a twisted branch and folded his arms across his chest. “You were imprudent to leave the safety of the hut. You have no protection.”

“I assumed the men were sleeping. Clearly I was mistaken.”

“A leader of men is never fully at rest, even in his own home. When I saw you leave, I feared for your safety.”

Bronwen clasped her hands together, uncomfortable at his words. “You are leader of your party, then. But who do you serve—Matilda? Stephen? Or perhaps the Scot, David, who presumes to claim Amounderness by virtue of Stephen’s treaty.”

“You know more of politics than a woman should, madam. Perhaps you had best tend to your new home and leave such intrigues to your husband.”

Annoyed, Bronwen stood. “A wise woman knows as much of politics as any man. You will recall that my father willed his landholdings to me—not to my husband. He prepared me well for that responsibility, and I should like to know who spies out our lands and for what lord?”

“I am no spy, Bronwen.” Jacques rose to face her. “I serve Henry Plantagenet, the son of Matilda Empress, who has battled King Stephen these many years. Henry is wise and learned beyond his eighteen years. Already he is heir to Anjou and Normandy in France. Many in England support him.”

Bronwen squared her shoulders. “We Britons will not serve any Norman king—and you have my permission to report that to your beloved Henry Plantagenet. Our men will fight to the death to protect Rossall from Norman rule.”

“You’re already a pawn of King Stephen.” Jacques shook his head. “Don’t be so foolish as to think you rule yourselves. Stephen has given your lands to Scotland by treaty. Would you not rather have a fair and just king like Henry Plantagenet? I assure you, he would treat your people well in his dealings with other landowners in this country.”

“I know nothing of this young Plantagenet. Neither Stephen nor David of Scotland has made his presence felt in Amounderness—and for that I am grateful. Certainly Plantagenet has never come our way. Our lands have been Briton since time began, and they will remain so.”

As Bronwen fought the frustration and vulnerability that shackled her, Le Brun reached out and covered her hands with his own. Warm and strong, his fingers stroked her wrists, and his thumbs pressed against her palms. Startled, she shrank back, but he held her firmly.

“Have you been so sheltered that you tremble at a man’s touch?” he asked. “I mean you no harm, my lady. We speak from our hearts. Though we differ, the honesty in our words is good. Forgive me if I’ve dismayed you.”

“You do dismay me, sir. And more than that.”

Bronwen drew her hands from his and attempted to tame her hair into some semblance of order. But again, Jacques caught them.

“Leave your hair,” he said, drawing her hands to his chest. “It’s beautiful blowing in the wind as it does now.”

At his words, Bronwen felt the blood rush to her face, and she turned her focus to the ground. She had been told she was plain, especially compared with Gildan, the golden one. Often while standing beside her sister, Bronwen pictured herself—a thin, angular, olive-skinned creature. No one, not even Enit, had ever called her beautiful.

Jacques reached out and lifted her chin. “So shy? A moment ago, you would have run me through had you carried a sword. My lady, you are indeed most lovely and desirable. You may recall I held you in my arms on such a night. And I kissed your lips.”

His fingers trailed from her chin, down the side of her neck to a wisp of hair that snaked between the folds of the mantle. Bronwen shivered as he traced its course to the soft skin of her throat.

Her thoughts reeled as he wove his fingers through her hair. Craving again the kiss of this man, she struggled for air. This must not be. She belonged to another man. A husband who had never spoken her name.

“How I am drawn to you, Bronwen the Briton.” Jacques’s breath was ragged on Bronwen’s cheek. “Though we have met only twice, you beckon me as no woman ever has.”

She lifted her eyes to his shadowed face. “Sir, you are wrong to hold me in this manner.”

“If I sin, then you sin, too—for I feel your desire as strongly as I do my own.”

“No,” Bronwen whispered. “I am another man’s wife. I know nothing of such wickedness.”

“All are sinners,” he said. “Even you, my lovely Bronwen. But your words return me to my senses. You are wed. I cannot ignore a vow made before God.”

“Indeed, I must return to the hut.”

“Stay with me a little longer—on the beach, where we can be alone.”

“I dare not.” Bronwen backed away from him. “It is unseemly. And you…you are a Norman. My enemy.”

“I am not your enemy. My blood is that of a man, and yours is that of a woman. On this night, we are neither Norman nor Briton.”

“Blood can never lie,” she said. “I go.”

Turning from him, she pulled the mantle tightly about her. The sand felt cold beneath her feet as she started toward the hut. Dizzy with emotion, she brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. How could she have allowed this to happen? And how would she bear his memory now?

“My dearest lady.” Jacques’s long stride brought him to her side. “What troubles you?”

“You trouble me!” Bronwen cried out. “You know I am a married woman. You know I am a Briton, and you a Norman. Yet your words belie those facts. What is it you want of me, sir?”

Jacques fell silent for a moment. Bronwen sensed his presence beside her as they walked, but she could not bring herself to look at him. “Your question is well asked,” he said at last. “I don’t know what I want of you.”

She halted. “Then why do you pursue me? Why do you behave as a knave?”

“I am not a knave. I am a knight. And I cannot say why my training in chivalry has deserted me. I know only that I have never met a woman like you—a woman of such fire, such wit, such dark beauty. When I saw you in the great hall at Rossall, I felt my heart drawn to you. Yet I sat in silence as your father betrothed you to the Viking. You obey him in every way, do you not?”