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his blond hair tousled from sleep. He was stirring a mixture of oats and honey he had taken from his bag. Enit began combing and plaiting her charge’s dark braids as the other men went about strapping on their swords and traveling gear. Bronwen was fastening Le Brun’s mantle at her throat when the door fell open and the man himself strode into the hut.
    “The day is clear and the sea has calmed,” he announced.
    “Haakon, your father’s ship has not returned. You should journey to the Warbreck Wash by foot. He will have weighed anchor there, knowing you would meet in time.”
    The Viking’s eyes narrowed as he studied Jacques. “What do you know of the ways of Olaf Lothbrok?You are a Norman dog.”

    Catherine Palmer
    65
    “Even a dog has the sense to take shelter from a storm.”
    “And who are you, good sir?” Enit asked Jacques. “You are a stranger to us. Do you journey to London with these men?”
    “I am Jacques Le Brun, their leader. We take our brother Martin to a monastery in London. I must see he is well settled.”
    Enit smiled. “Well now, I suppose you do have a godly brow, Martin. Listen sir—beware of those other Christian men.
    Not all are as pure as you might wish. As we say in Amounderness, ‘He who is near the church is often far from God.’”
    “I shall be as wary as a fox,” Martin assured her. With a grin, he went about collecting the empty mugs. Jacques had gone back outside, and Bronwen could hear the men saddling their horses. She felt for the key around her neck and the will box inside the chatelaine purse that hung at her waist. Again reminding herself of her duty to her father and countrymen, she determined that she must not look at Jacques again. Even a meeting of their eyes might weaken her resolve, she realized as she helped Enit into her cloak and mantle.
    As the sun peeked over the distant mountains behind them, the company stepped out of the hut. Bronwen breathed deeply of the clean sea air. Though tired, she longed to be on her way from this place.
    “Thank you for your generosity,” Enit was saying to Martin as she readied her bag for the journey.
    “You are most welcome. And you, Haakon, may we part as friends? I wish no enmity between us.”
    Bronwen turned in time to see the Viking walk away from the proffered hand. “I feel no enmity for you, Norman,”
    Haakon spoke over his shoulder. “I desire no friendship either.
    Come, women. The sun rises.”

    66
    The Briton
    Bronwen set out after the Viking, but she stopped when a familiar deep voice spoke her name.
    “Bronwen the Briton,” Jacques said from his horse. “I wish you well in your new life. Please tell your lord I look forward to our meeting.”
    Bronwen turned to him, her heart thundering again. “Sir, my husband will welcome neither you nor your lord Henry Plantagenet, I assure you. Nevertheless, I wish you safety and godspeed.”
    At this she turned away and rejoined her companions, never looking back.

    Chapter Four
    The sun was fully risen when Bronwen’s party arrived at the mouth of the Warbreck Wash, a swampland where the Warbreck River met the sea. Jacques had been wrong. The Viking snekkar was not moored there. Despite exhaustion and hunger, Bronwen’s spirits lifted. She was grateful for the reprieve, even though she knew that unless the gods had altered her fate, Olaf Lothbrok would soon return. In his absence she could take time to accustom herself to her new role in life.
    At the river’s edge stood a small village, busy with the day’s activities. Men readied boats for fishing, while half-naked children poked into the sand with sticks and looked for cockles. Haakon shouted at them in his Norse tongue, and three of the youngsters scurried toward the nearby buildings.
    Bronwen was appalled by the filthy condition of this seaside village—far worse than those of Rossall’s holding. Enit muttered her disgust as they lifted their skirts over the wet places in the streets. When they