The Briton by Catherine Palmer Read Free Book Online

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 46
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    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 48
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    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