“And you think this man could be a spy? Is that the announcement of which you spoke, Father?”
Edgard squeezed his daughter’s hand and shook his head. “Bronwen, leave these matters to men. Look now! Aeschby has risen to pay homage to me. Let us hear him and dismiss this weighty talk.”
Edgard took his knife to a hunk of spicy meat as Aeschby strode to the dais. Gildan, obviously enjoying herself, picked up a tart. She was unconcerned by her father’s announcement, Bronwen realized. Probably, Gildan assumed it was purely political in nature.
Bronwen cut a sliver of omelet, but its strong onion smell displeased her. She stared down from the dais at Aeschby in his bright red tunic. Was he the one chosen for her? She had a sizable dowry—all her father’s land, upon his death, would go to Bronwen’s husband, according to Briton custom. And this acreage, together with Aeschby’s, would reunite the old lands and make a fine large holding.
He was looking now at the dais, his white teeth gleaming in a proud smile. Bronwen had heard that Aeschby was a cruel and harsh master to his serfs, and he had been known to fly into rages.
But at this moment, he appeared serene as he gazed—not at Bronwen—but at her sister. Gildan had blossomed into womanhood, and she was beautiful. Though the younger woman had no land dowry, Bronwen was certain her father would provide much gold to the man she would wed.
Gildan hardly needed gold to draw the attention of a man. Aeschby could not keep his eyes from her. And Bronwen noticed Gildan glancing at him from time to time with a coy smile upon her lips.
Perhaps there was some true affection between the two. Bronwen dreaded the thought of marriage to a man who desired her sister.
Aeschby now signaled one of his retainers. The man carried a black box from his position at a table below the salt container. Together they stepped up to the dais, and Aeschby lifted the box from the hands of his kneeling servant.
“Take this heirloom, my lord,” he addressed Edgard, “as a sign of my loyalty to you, and of my fealty to our Briton cause.”
A loud cheer rose from the crowd as Aeschby lifted a golden neck-ring from the box and held it high over his head. It was a truly magnificent work, hand-wrought many generations ago for some unknown king.
Edgard received the ring and thanked Aeschby. “This young lord shows himself to be a treasure-giver worthy of his noble heritage,” he said. “I accept this ring as a father accepts a gift from his son.”
At that, another roar went up, drowning the sound of the minstrels as they announced the second course of the feast. Bronwen was impressed with the gift her father had been given, but she was startled to hear him address Aeschby as “son.” Perhaps there was truth in her speculation that their betrothal would be announced that evening.
The next courses came and went, but to Bronwen the meal seemed a blur. According to her plan, mince pies, dilled veal balls, baked lamprey eels, swan-neck pudding, giblet custard pie, currant tart and elderberry funnel cake marched out of the kitchen one after the other. Men rose and gave one another treasures, as at all feasts, and speeches of thanks and boasting followed. Bronwen sampled little of the foods set before her, but her father and Gildan ate with relish.
“Father, Bronwen has been deep in thought all evening,” Gildan said over the din. “Perhaps we should have a song to waken her.” Gildan looked at her sister with teasing eyes.
Edgard laughed. “Always the pensive one, Bronwen. Indeed, it is time for the boar’s head now!” He called the musicians. “Let us sing to the boar’s head on this night of feasting.”
As the marshal entered the hall bearing a large platter, all the company stood and began to sing. Bronwen noticed that the tall stranger had risen, but a hood still covered his features.
“The boar’s head in hand bear I,” the feasters sang. “Bedecked with bays and rosemary, and I pray you my masters, be merry!”
As the song ended, the marshal knelt before Edgard and offered the platter to him. “And now may the gods bless all noble sons of Britain,” Edgard said. “May the coming year bring prosperity to one and all.”
The carver sliced the meat, and the servers passed it from one guest to another. As feasters cut into the delicacy, Bronwen tried to believe this was to be a happy evening after all. There was no need to dwell on gloomy things. Even if she were to marry Aeschby, she could return often to her beloved home to visit Gildan and her father. These were her people, the Briton men, and she must—indeed she wished to—carry on their lineage.
Then a movement caught her eye, and she turned to see the old Viking leader rise from his seat. “I salute you noble Edgard the Briton, ring-giver and sword-wielder,” he said in a strong voice.
Bronwen noted that the other men quieted as the barbarian spoke, some glancing darkly at the Viking. It was clear to her that this man was resented at the feast, though Edgard appeared pleased with the salutation. It was strange to hear her father addressed as ring-giver, for he had awarded few treasures in recent years. No battles had been won or glories deserved.
“A feasting so fine as this,” the man continued, “we Vikings have never before seen. We commend the food-provider and the hall-adorner for this pleasure.”
Bronwen wanted to laugh at the odd way his Norse tongue spoke their language. It was an outrage against decency to have him here. Yet the barbarian was making some effort to be civilized. She scrutinized the heavy brown woolen tunic he wore, so out of place in the brightly decorated hall. As he lumbered forward, Bronwen wondered what his gift would be. The barbarian was an old man, nearly the age of her father. Though his hair and beard were still the color of saffron, his face was crisscrossed with lines and his walk was pained.
“I, Olaf Lothbrok,” he intoned, “who have done many brave deeds, who have crossed the salt sea and borne hardship on the waves, I, who have wrestled with the whale-fishes and battled mighty monsters, I come gladly into the hall of the strong and generous Edgard. Before this one filled with manly courage, this battle-brave ring-giver and treasure-lord, I present this cross.”
Bronwen gasped. The cross he now held before her father was a work of immeasurable value. Almost as long as his arm from elbow to hand, the piece was wrought in fine gold and set with rubies and sapphires. It was obviously a relic stolen from some Norman church the barbarian or his father had raided. Though Bronwen knew little about this religion that had been brought to Britain by wanderers known as Christians, she believed all sacred objects should be respected. How could such a gift—a plundered holy symbol—be accepted? Yet here was her father now, holding the cross and admiring its workmanship.
“Olaf Lothbrok,” Edgard addressed the man, “this generous gift I receive from the hand of a neighbor and friend. Though our people were once at war, now—in these difficult times—we are allies.”
A murmur arose from the men, and Bronwen noticed the hooded stranger at the far end of the room speaking with great animation to his companions. She was appalled. It was bad enough to invite the Viking to the feast—a move Bronwen had protested vehemently—but for Edgard the Briton to claim him as a friend and ally? Surely her father had lost his wits. Bronwen turned to Gildan and saw her staring open-mouthed at the Viking as he returned to his table.
It was too much! Bronwen wanted to bolt from the room, escape the house and run down to the beach, where she could sit alone and ponder what her father’s actions could mean. The Britons had tried to keep themselves a pure race, never to be allied with such a people as this old Viking and his Norse companions. Blood pounding through her head, Bronwen forced a deep breath as she watched her father step back onto the dais and lay the cross on the table.
“Fellow Britons,” her father said loudly, “at