Chapter Five
A day later, Tessa’s despair abated somewhat with the acceptance of change that youth affords and with the fact that her worst fears had not materialized. She was alive, though a prisoner; safe, though torn from all she knew well. To her surprise, Jeffrey Brixton had left her untouched; in fact, he had largely ignored her once the ship cleared Macbeth’s territory. Good, she told herself. She had nothing to say to the man anyway.
Having never been on a boat before, Tessa took some interest in the vessel on which she rode which smelled, not surprisingly, strongly of fish. It was clinker-built, which meant planks had been overlapped to form its sides. A single square sail hung on the mast, and oars bristled from the sides as alternate power. It was maneuvered by means of a “steer-board” roped to the right side. The center was about fifteen feet across, and the mid-section was tented to provide their private space, about six feet square. The sailors weren’t pleased to have a woman aboard, but gold counted for more than superstition.
Brixton stayed on deck except to sleep at night, avoiding contact with Tessa. From a small boy who came in to bring food and remove the slops, she learned they were headed south to Grimsby, a fishing town at the mouth of the Humber River, where she and Brixton would travel west toward York, Brixton’s home. Rob, who disliked the “Robin” most of the men on board called him, was from that area himself and enjoyed talking—and boasting—about home.
“There’s a fine minster, as fine as you would see in London, I’m thinking,” he told Tessa, bracing himself without effort as the little ship shifted. “And the town is full of shops where you can buy anything in the world.”
Tessa, though a few years older than the boy, felt intimidated by his description. She herself had never been in a town of any size at all, though her father and uncle had traveled as young men, and she had heard tales of London and even Paris. What if one became lost in all those tiny streets and huddled shops?
The boy was a good source of information, but he feared a box on the ears if he stayed too long at a time. “Young Brixton,” he told Tessa, using a term he’d heard the older men use, “he’s got no prospects. The estate went to his eldest brother, as is right, and there are two more brothers above him. So even though Lord Brixton has no children, this one will never see the title, more’s the pity, for we like him best of all, we do.”
Tessa had her own opinion of Brixton, but unwilling to alienate her source, she merely nodded. Perhaps the older Brixtons were less despicable than this one, but she couldn’t see how they could be. Did they all kidnap innocent young women and plot against neighboring governments? Of course, being English, they might.
Rob went on, picking up the porridge bowl she had emptied. “Master Jeffrey always treats us well, and he’s generous when he gets a payday.”
“And for what does Master Brixton get paid?” Tessa could not help but ask, wondering how much the boy knew of this man’s perfidious vocation.
“Young Brixton’s a soldier, Miss,” came the reply, “and a brave one too, I trow. He fights for armies that need men. A mercenary, he is, well paid sometimes but not often enough, he says. See, there’re lots of young men of good family with no money, so they hire themselves out to fight, like Master Jeffrey does. Cap’n says he’s making quite a name for himself, for he is both brave and smart.”
A mercenary! That explained things that had bothered her. Brixton had seemed a simpering sort at her uncle’s home, but that mien had been replaced with a stronger, harsher face the next morning. Now she understood he’d played a part, acting the pampered English fool the Scots expected, all the while beneath it gathering information and planning destruction. More detestable than she’d first thought.
She drank the last of her cider and handed Robin the tin cup. “So he’s in the employ of the Norwegians at the English king’s connivance?” she asked calmly.
Rob had the grace to look a bit abashed. “There’s many in the North country as doesn’t take to the Scots raiding our lands and stealing our cattle. If we can keep the thanes busy elsewhere, it leaves us in peace, y’see.”
“Mm,” was all Tessa could manage lest she let her anger spill out at the boy. Scottish raids were in reprisal for English attacks. She could have recounted generations of maltreatment the Scots had suffered from English troops, but she knew it was of no use. The boy, like most of the English, thought the Scots half-wild, half-wicked savages, fit only to be kept in their place with military might. If Rob could have seen the fine banquet her aunt had laid and her uncle had presided over that night when Jeffrey Brixton had falsely accepted their hospitality while plotting against the Scottish throne!
Rob finished his tasks and left, giving her a cheery nod. Alone in the tiny cabin, Tessa cast about for something to pass the time. The sounds and feel of the ship had quickly become monotonous, almost hypnotic. She wandered aimlessly in a circle, all the space available for exercise unless she went on deck, where the sailors leered until her face burned red. Attractive she was—“bonny Tess,” her father had called her—but their looks made her ashamed of her body, as if they were imagining what lay under the dress she wore. As a result she stayed below, all the while chafing with nothing to occupy her, not even the tapestry she had once detested.
In the corner where Brixton’s things lay she noticed a book’s corner protruding from under the blanket. Despite it not being usual for females, Tessa could read. Her father had taught her, having no sons and no other child who was in the least interested. Though her mother had considered it useless at best and evil at worst, Kenneth had worked with Tessa several evenings a week, teaching her to read the few precious books he possessed, proud of her progress. “It’s because she wears herself out with being a tomboy and so can do nothing useful a’ nights,” was her mother’s acrid response. Tessa loved the feel of books in her hands, loved deciphering the written word. She even had an understanding of the differences between her native Scots and English, languages similar but not the same.
Reaching to pick up the book, she hesitated. Would Brixton be angry? The thought itself was enough to urge her onward. So much the better if he was. He’d stolen her from her home and family. Let his anger have scope; she didn’t care!
The book was homemade: a sheaf of papers folded together and fastened with string to a leather sheet that formed a cover. The pages were written in a masculine hand, forming clear, large letters. Almost at once Tessa realized it was Brixton’s own writing, a journal of his activities, thoughts, and opinions, begun some two years back and continuing to just over a week before. Tessa paged through the book, reading bits here and there. A picture of the man emerged as she read:
May, 1037: I embark on my career, it being plain my brother William wants none of me. Ethelbert has chosen the church as his vocation, and Aidan stays home despite William’s broad hints and small discourtesies. I will have none of it. If the lord of Brixton Hall wants me gone, then gone I shall be. I aim to win for myself a name and perhaps even a title. Both are possible as strong men seek support for their various causes. One day I will no longer need my brother’s grudging providence of my equipment for campaign. Then I will pay him back and bid him farewell. Aidan will probably drink himself to death by thirty years anyway, and then William will be alone. My heart aches for Eleanor, though, left by herself in that crumbling house while her husband plays the courtier in London. Perhaps that’s why he dislikes me so. Eleanor is fond of me and it makes him uncomfortable. It is ironic he is jealous of what he holds so lightly. He treats her with cold politeness when she wants so much to be loved.
Tessa stopped reading for a moment. So Brixton was in love with his sister-in-law. No wonder his brother wanted him somewhere else. And he had the nerve to deplore the turmoil in Scotland! She scanned more recent entries.
November, l038. I have offered my sword to nothing, it seems. There is no real king of England. Hardecanute is more Dane than anything, and the court is full of foreigners. One must speak No
rman French, Norwegian Danish, and Anglish simply to eat a meal in the hall. There is much dissention among them, and while there is plenty of opportunity to fight, I wonder what it all means. They tell us we must subdue the Welsh, so we go east and make a show of force. Then we must sail to Denmark to help the king with unrest there, then to Norway and west again to Scotland. It is certainly enough to keep a man busy and earn him his keep, but to what avail is it?
Our little island seems destined to be ruled by one foreigner after another. My own people were Saxons who, with Angles, Jutes and other tribes of wanderers, took the land from the Celts who lived there after the Romans left, then the Vikings came with their terrible raids and settled the coast, pushing us inland. Even the Normans in France make noises about claims to the throne of England. For whom do I fight, or for what? Is there a nation called England, or will it disintegrate into small warring kingdoms as it has done before? I have little faith the current rulers can keep control.
Tessa stopped reading and considered. The boy who left home anxious for glory had changed in less than two years into a man who saw the world differently. She thought of her own family: two uncles, both unhappy with their king. One would betray him, and the other had probably considered it. Was there anywhere in the world where people lived peacefully?
The curtain parted at that moment and Brixton came in, taking in with one glance what she was doing. Tearing the book from Tessa’s hands, he threw it to the rough plank floor and grabbed her, his strong fingers digging into her arms. He pulled her to him, her face close to his, and hissed furiously, “You snooping little Scottish bitch! Is nothing safe from you? I only left it because I assumed you could not read, but you were reading, weren’t you?”
She felt momentary guilt, knowing she’d violated the man’s privacy, and fear, thinking he might strike her. Despite both, her temperament asserted itself, and she spat back at him, “I was not asked if I wanted this voyage, Englishman! You brought me against my will! Nothing is safe from you—not my family, my country, nor my life! It matters not to me what you do now, for I can never go back home after your hands have been on me!”
Jeffrey’s blue eyes blazed. “My hands on you? Why, I wouldn’t touch you at all if I didn’t have to! Hell kite!” He still held her close, and Tessa felt an odd sensation she had never known before. It was a kind of heat in the center of her, like melting from inside out. Fighting it back, she concentrated on her anger.
“Then let me go, Englishman,” she said as calmly—and as haughtily—as she could.
Brixton looked in confusion at first his left hand, and then his right, as if they disobeyed him. Finally they opened and released Tessa, who stepped back, face flushed and heart pounding. Neither said a word. Brixton bent to retrieve his journal, his face red but expressionless. Tessa stood rigid where he’d left her, feeling a mix of emotions she did not understand. Anger was there—she clung to that—but underneath was the heat of his touch. Her mind whirled with an unusual urge to apologize, to say she understood his disillusionment with life. She, too, had been rejected—by her own mother. She hadn’t seen the treachery of political struggle that he had, but she’d begun to understand at Inverness Castle the false smiles and hidden hatreds between those who had power and those who wanted it. Should she tell him she was sorry she’d read his private thoughts?
Tessa found it difficult to form the words. She’d never apologized to anyone but her father, and she’d been sure of his forgiveness. “Master Brixton, I—” She turned to face him and found he’d recovered himself, replacing the look of anger with the one she had disliked from their first meeting, amused scorn. His blue eyes gazed directly into hers, and one eyebrow rose in a sort of question as his lips quivered with humor and the tiny line appeared beside his mouth. It was his way of saying she hadn’t hurt him, and nothing ever could.
Any desire Tessa might have had to apologize fled. “Master Brixton, when next you enter this cabin, the civilized thing would be to give warning. A lady shouldn’t have to abide unannounced visits, even from an Englishman, who, of course, knows no better.” With that she lay down on the bunk and turned her back to Jeffrey Brixton, who stared in disbelief for a few seconds, then exited the cabin in disgust.