“Go into the kitchen and tell cook that the lord’s black-haired daughter promised you a large bowl of frumenty, with plenty of raisins.”
“Thank you, ma’am. And best wishes in your marriage.”
In her bedchamber, Bronwen found Gildan in a flurry of excitement. The younger woman had learned that her wedding, too, would take place the next day—a decision Aeschby had made on learning of the Viking’s plans. Bronwen pursed her lips as her sister thrust three tunics into her arms and bade her decide which was the loveliest.
“I adore the red,” Gildan said with a pout, “but silly old Enit keeps saying, ‘Married in red, you’ll wish yourself dead.’ And I do so admire this green woolen, but ‘Married in green, ashamed to be seen!’ I am attached to the red, but Enit says blue is good luck. ‘Married in blue, love ever true.’”
“Does she now? Then blue it must be.”
“But this is such a dull, common tunic!”
Gildan appeared so distressed that Bronwen had to suppress a chuckle. “Come, sister. You must have the golden ribbon that was brought to me from the last fair at Preston. We shall stitch it down the front of this blue woolen, and you can trim the sleeves with that ermine skin you have had for years.”
“Oh, Bronwen, you are so clever!” Gildan embraced her sister. “Indeed, it will be the loveliest gown Aeschby has ever seen. Is my lord not a handsome man? And powerful! And rich! The gods have smiled on me indeed.”
Realizing she must begin to think of her own nuptials, Bronwen went to the chest where she kept her most elegant tunics. But as she lifted the lid, the mantle given her the night before by the stranger slid onto the floor. Hastily, lest anyone notice, she swept it up. As she began folding it into the chest again, her attention fell on the garment’s lining. It was a peacock-blue silk, startling in its contrast to the plain black wool of the outer fabric. Even more stunning was the insignia embroidered upon the lining near the hood. A crest had been worked in pure gold threads, and centered within the crest were three golden balls.
The elegance of the fabric and the nobility of the crest gave evidence of a wealthy owner of some influence and power. Jacques Le Brun. Who could he be, and why did the mere thought of the man stir her blood?
Bronwen pressed the mantle deeply into the corner of the chest and took out several tunics. “What do you think of these, Gildan?” she asked, forcing a light tone to her voice. “Which do you like best?”
Gildan took the garments and fluttered about the room, busy with her plans. But Bronwen’s thoughts had left the warm, smoky chamber to center upon a dark traveler with raven curls and a kiss that could not be forgotten.
As the day passed, it was decided that Enit would go to live with Bronwen at the holding of the Viking—Warbreck Castle. Gildan protested, but she was silenced with Enit’s stubborn insistence that this was how it must be. She could not be divided in half, could she? By custom, the older girl should retain her. Pleased at the knowledge that her faithful companion would share the future with her, Bronwen tried to shake the sense of impending doom that hung over her.
During the day, Bronwen worked to fit and embroider the wedding gowns. In the hall below, Edgard’s men stacked the girls’ dowry chests along with heavy trunks of their clothing and personal belongings. But Bronwen slid the small gold box containing Edgard’s will into the chatelaine purse she would hook to a chain that hung at her waist.
Toward evening, the hall filled once again with the sounds and smells of a feast. Rather than joining yet another meal with her future husband, Bronwen bade Enit walk with her in silence along the shore as the sun sank below the horizon. Looking up at Rossall Hall, Bronwen pondered her past and the years to come. She must accept the inevitable. At Warbreck Castle, there would be no pleasure in the nearness of the sea, no joy in the comforts of a familiar hall, no satisfaction in the embrace of a husband.
Surely for Gildan, marriage might someday become a source of joy in the arms of one who cared for her. But for Bronwen, only the heavy belly and grizzled face of an old man awaited. As she imagined her wedding night, Bronwen again reflected on the traveler who had held her. Though she tried to contain her emotion, she sniffled, and tears began to roll down her cheeks.
“Fare you well, Bronwen?” the old woman asked.
“Dearest Enit,” she burst out. “I cannot bear this fate! Why do the gods punish me? What ill have I done?”
She threw herself on the old woman’s shoulder and began to sob. But instead of the expected tender caress, Bronwen felt her head jerked back in the tight grip of the nurse’s gnarled hands.
“Bronwen, hold your tongue!” Enit snapped. “Be strong. Look!”
Bronwen followed the pointed direction of the long, crooked finger, and she saw the fearsome profile of her future husband’s Viking ship. It was a longship bedecked for war—a Viking snekkar—and it floated unmoving, like a serpent awaiting its prey.
“Enit, we must hurry home.” Bronwen spoke against her nursemaid’s ear. She must not be met on the beach by Olaf Lothbrok’s men. They would question her and perhaps accuse her of trying to escape. Now she had no choice but to return to her chamber and make final preparations for her wedding. When Lothbrok saw her the following morning, she would be wearing her wedding tunic, having prepared herself to become a wife.
At their request, the two brides ate the evening meal alone in their room, though Bronwen could hardly swallow a bite. “Gildan,” she said as they sat on a low bench beside the fire. “I hope you will be happy with Aeschby. I shall miss you.”
At that, Gildan began to weep softly. “And I shall miss you. You must come to see me soon in my new home.”
She flung her arms around her sister, and the two clung to each other for a long moment. Bronwen felt as though she had never been more as one with her sister…or more apart. Gildan looked so young and frail. If only Bronwen could be certain that Aeschby would treat his wife well, the parting might come more easily.
“I smell a storm coming across the sea,” Gildan whispered. “Let us send Enit out and go to bed. I have had more than my fill of her predictions and proverbs about weddings. Truly, I am not sad she goes with you. She can grow so tiresome.”
“You will miss her, sister. She’s the only mother you have known.”
Gildan’s face softened as she rose from the fireside and climbed into the bed the young women had shared almost from birth. “Just think…from now on it will be Aeschby sleeping beside me, Bronwen. How strange. How wonderful!”
Bronwen dismissed Enit for the evening and set the bowls and spoons into a bucket beside the door. Then she banked the fire and pulled the rope hanging from the louvered shutters in the ceiling. Now the smoke could still make its way out, but the cold night wind would be blocked from blowing into the chamber.
Shivering slightly, Bronwen slipped under the coverlet beside her sister. For one brief moment, she pictured herself on the beach again, wrapped in Le Brun’s mantle. She imagined the silken lining of the hood caressing her cheek and tried to smell again the faintly spicy scent clinging to the woolen folds. As she recalled the embrace of the man who had worn it, a pain filled her heart. Unable to bear it, she forced away the memory, and hid it in a dark, secret place—just as she had done the mantle.
The two weddings had been set for midmorning, to be followed by a feast, and perhaps even a day or two of celebration. Gildan flew about the chamber like a mad hen, refusing to allow Bronwen a moment to herself. Both women had chosen to wear white woolen undertunics. Enit laced up the tight sleeves of the fitted dresses. Gildan hurried to slip on her beautifully embroidered and fur-trimmed blue frock.
“Bronwen!” She laughed as Enit combed the shining golden waves of her hair. “Such a happy day! Hurry and put on your gown.”
Bronwen