Free The Briton by Catherine Palmer Page A

sleep this night in such an odor.”
    “We have no fresh rushes, madam. It is our custom to gather them once before winter, and not again until spring.”
    Bronwen shook her head in disbelief. “Upon the morrow I insist that fresh rushes be gathered and set to dry.”
    The servitor nodded and followed Enit from the room.
    Alone in the foul chamber, Bronwen stepped to the bed and ran her hand over the pile of furs. These at least were clean.
    The narrow arrow-loop window allowed only a slit of light, and she peered out it into the gathering gloom. A village lay far below, and in the distance the wide expanse of woodland was broken now and again by a glint of setting sun reflected on the river.
    Was Jacques Le Brun traveling those woods even now?
    Bronwen at last permitted herself to reflect on the man who had held her twice in the darkness. Did he truly travel toward London and a house for holy men? Or did he journey to meet his lord, Henry Plantagenet?
    What were those Normans scheming for Amounderness?
    Haakon had referred to Jacques as a dog, and Bronwen’s father insisted the French conquerors were the scourge of England. If Normans were so vile, why did Jacques speak to her with such kindness? Why was his touch so gentle? And how would she ever forget that man?

    Catherine Palmer
    71

    * * *
“You are too much like your mother, child,” Enit said to Bronwen as they ate together the following day. “She was dismayed at the state of Rossall when she first arrived with your father. But soon she put it right and let everyone know she was mistress. You’ll do the same.”
    Heavyhearted over Jacques’s departure and uncertain what had become of Olaf’s ship, Bronwen had spent the morning surveying her new home. The kitchen was well stocked. Dried herbs and onions hung in bundles from the beams; strips of salted fish lay in baskets, and a freshly dressed boar roasted over the fire. But when Bronwen had run her fingers through a bag of dried beans, tiny black bugs had scurried across her hand.
    The cook had dismissed the pests as if they were of little consequence. She was more interested in telling her new mistress about the nuts that could be gathered in the nearby forest. Fruits, too, were plentiful. Apples, pears and plums were harvested in season.
    Bronwen sighed as she handed Enit a slice of cheese.
    “They grow no flowers here. Did you know that?”
    “What, none?” Enit’s brow furrowed. “At Rossall we had roses, violets, primroses, all manner of blossoms. I loved to sugar the petals and eat them.”
    “As did I.”
    “But shall we have no petals to scent the water for hand washing and to flavor our sweets? Do they have bees then?
    And honey?”
    “I don’t know.” Unable to hold back the tide of emotion any longer, Bronwen covered her face with her hands. “Oh Enit, I feel so far from home. I miss my father and Gildan.”
    “Hush, my girl,” Enit soothed her. “Continue your duties, and each morning as it comes will look brighter.”

    72
    The Briton
    The thought of Enit faithfully lying in her blankets by the door reassured her. And indeed, as the nursemaid had predicted, the next days passed peacefully enough. With no word of the snekkar’ s fate, Bronwen had little choice but to take on management of the holding, just as she had done when her father was away from Rossall.
    Each morning she rose early and washed from head to toe in warm water. After breakfast she inspected the house and set the servitors to work cleaning and strewing fresh rushes on the floors. Outside, the kitchen gardens had been planted in haphazard rows and were dried out and weedy. Bronwen ordered them plowed under, even though the ground was almost frozen.
    A walk through the village of Warbreck disclosed that it subsisted in the same state of filth and disrepair as the coastal town. A week after her arrival at the castle, Bronwen was discussing the deplorable situation with Enit when a tumult arose from the grounds. The