Free The Briton by Catherine Palmer Page B

nursemaid scurried to the window of the chamber.
    “Bah!” she exclaimed. “This window is too narrow. Come girl, let’s go down to the hall.”
    Bronwen considered for a moment. “No, Enit, that would be unseemly. You go down first and see if the mistress of Warbreck Castle is required.”
    Enit nodded approval and set off. Despite all intentions to remain calm, Bronwen’s heart began to flutter. But she didn’t have to wait long before Enit burst through the door.
    “It’s him, Bronwen! Your husband is returned. The old boat ran aground, but most of his men escaped with their lives.
    They’re in the hall now, demanding food and drink. Such confusion—shouting orders at the servitors. They’ve the biggest mouths I ever saw clapped under a lip!”

    Catherine Palmer
    73
    “And my husband? Does he ask for me?”
    “He’s too busy ordering a feast for his men,” Enit spat in disgust. “Never have I heard so loud a roar nor seen such mayhem.”
    Confused, Bronwen sat down on the bed. So Lothbrok had not even asked about her welfare. She was pondering the significance of the news when a company of servitors brought the clothing chests upstairs. Enit busied herself unpacking, but as hours passed with no word from below, Bronwen began to grow ever more dismayed.
    What could it mean that Olaf had ignored her? Surely the man had not forgotten his wedding day. He must know that his young bride awaited his bidding. Did he mean to consum-mate their union this night? The thought of acting upon her vows with the old Viking filled Bronwen with trepidation. Yet, she was not the first woman wedded to a stranger, and she wouldn’t be the last. Duty to ancestry and protection of land came above all else. Bronwen had no intention of shirking her responsibility.
    But when night fell and still no summons had come from below, Bronwen stood. “Enit, lay out my purple gown,” she said. “I shall wear it over the crimson undertunic.”
    “You mean to go down? Uninvited?”
    “I do.”
    The nursemaid clucked as she helped Bronwen dress, wove red ribbons into the long black plaits and placed a golden circlet over her veil. “But do you really wish to go among them now, girl?” she asked. “They’ll be drunk, you know, and he hasn’t called for you. It is unseemly.”
    Bronwen held up a hand to silence Enit, who drew a soft white woolen mantle over the shoulders of her charge. “Light a torch. I go alone.”

    74
    The Briton
    Muttering, Enit lit one of the rushlights that stood by the door and gave it to her mistress. As Bronwen started through the guardroom, she breathed deeply, trying to gain control of her trembling hands. She did not know what her reception would be in the hall, but she was determined to make known her presence as the woman of the household and the wife of Olaf Lothbrok.
    At the bottom of the stairs, Bronwen heard the raucous sounds from the hall. Summoning her courage, she pushed open the heavy door, entered the room and stood in silence.
    One by one, the men ceased their revelry and turned toward her. Lifting her chin, Bronwen began to make her way between the tables to the dais where Olaf sat.
    “Aha, my wife is come!” the man said on spying her.
    Unwashed from his journey, Olaf looked older and heavier than she remembered. He shoved one of his men aside and indicated a place next to him on the bench. Lifting his hands, he cried out, “Fellow Vikings, I present my bride—Bronwen, daughter of Edgard the Briton.”
    Bronwen could not help but wonder if her presence was a surprise—her existence a sudden afterthought—to her husband. His men applauded the announcement but soon resumed their laughter and feasting. When Olaf called a servitor to fetch the woman a slab of meat and a flagon of drink, Bronwen used the moment to assess her husband.
    Olaf’s aging skin was leathered from the sun, and his belly protruded over his belt as he seated himself beside his wife.
    The thick brown tunic he wore