Once Valdrik departed, Ivar filled three cups, offering one to his remaining brother and the other to Gisela. The wench seemed displeased by Valdrik’s retreat, but what did Ivar care?
Bjorn rose with a shake of his head. “Feel free to enjoy your revelries without me, brother. I am also for my bed.”
“Suit yourself,” Ivar replied. The night was finally looking up. “Come,” Ivar said, pulling Gisela onto his lap. “Valdrik has loftier aspirations, but my desires are easily satisfied.
“The duchess can do nothing to please him. Duke Rudalt despised the cold bitch.”
“Valdrik has other matters on his mind. I, on the other hand, am prepared to give you my undivided attention.” He brought her hand back to his crotch where his erection attested to his promise. Ivar groaned with pleasure as she began stroking up and down his length.
“But what will you do for me?” she asked.
“Please me well and mayhap I’ll convince my brother what he’s missing.”
“Not good enough.” She snatched her hand away.
Ivar laughed. “A lowly whore in a conquered land is hardly in a position to make demands.”
“I’m not a lowly whore!” she snapped. “If your brother desires Brittany, it is not the duchess, but I, who holds the key.”
Even wine-dulled, Ivar’s warrior instincts were suddenly on alert. “What do you mean?”
“I am the woman Rudalt loved and the mother of his son. He would have wed me if not for his father.”
“The duke has a son?”
“Yes,” she replied, eyes flashing. “And he had every intention of acknowledging him as his heir.”
“A bastard? There is no one of legitimate blood in the line of succession?”
“Only Count Mathedoi of Poher, but he’s a cripple and rumored to be impotent.”
T’was a valuable insight. If true, Poher would be an easy conquest. “’Tis a moot point,” Ivar said. “The duke is dead and my brother intends to take his place.”
“Duke Rudalt’s death will bring much turmoil upon this country. Even if your brother’s plan succeeds, he can only hope to gain the begrudging submission of a conquered people. He will never be secure on the throne.”
“Why do you tell me all this?”
“Because the duchess hates me and will send me away now that Rudalt is gone. She also might try to murder my son.” Her eyes grew misty.
Was she sincerely fearful or just trying to play to his sympathy? His gut told him that Gisela was trouble.
“If murder was on her mind, wouldn’t she already have taken his life?” Ivar argued.
“She wouldn’t dare while Rudalt lived, but his death has left us with no protector. Until we have that protection, I must keep him safely hidden away.”
“That is why you seek out my brother? For protection?” Ivar asked. Although he’d long tired of this conversation, his gut warned him to be wary of her. “Why should Valdrik trouble himself with the duke’s bastard?”
“Because your brother needs legitimacy if he hopes to claim all of this land. As my son’s guardian and protector, he would only need to dispatch the Count of Poher, and then there would be no one else to stand between him and the entire kingdom of Brittany.”
“My brother has no need of you to claim it. He has already taken Vannes. Cornouailles and Poher will also fall to his sword.”
“Perhaps, but for how long? This country has a sordid history. Many who sought the crown have been murdered.” She paused to take a sip of wine. “If your brother were to ally himself with me, he could rule legitimately as my son’s guardian until he comes of age. All of Brittany would rally behind the protector of noble Breton blood.”
Valdrik would never allow this woman to use him to advance her own ambitions, but Ivar had no doubt that she would not have to look far to find someone else who would. The crown of Brittany would be a powerful temptation to any ambitious nobleman. He must keep her close, for his brother’s sake, but bedding her was now the furthest thing from his mind.
“Because your brother would not hear this from my lips,” she continued, “I rely on you to tell him.” Her expression grew intense. “I will do anything to make this happen.”
Her message was clear. Although it would tarnish his reputation not to take her, he couldn’t risk rejecting her outright. A scorned woman always posed potential danger. Far better for her to believe him too drunk to fuck. He drained his cup and refilled it, intentionally slopping his drink.
“Give me some time to talk to my brother,” he said with a yawn. “If what you say is true, he would be a fool not to join forces with you.”
“You will convince him to champion my son?” Her lips curved into a satisfied smile.
Ivar smiled back, hiccupped, and raised his cup. “Let us drink on it.”
***
Quimper, Western Brittany
“How fared your journey, Father?” Emma asked.
With seeming languor, Count Gourmaëlon, plucked a ripe Anjou pear from the bowl and polished it on his sleeve. Her curiosity was riper than the fruit now. Indeed, it was feasting on her mind like worms on a rotting carcass. He’d arrived home that morning but had yet to speak of anything. Was it politics or something of a more personal nature that had sent him?
“I achieved my aim,” he replied blandly, his attention fixed on the pear.
“And pray what goal took you all the way to Poitou?” Emma asked, nonchalantly pouring more lambig into his cup. He was annoyingly vague, but strong drink always helped to loosen her father’s lips.
“My purpose was twofold.”
“Indeed?” she prompted, careful to keep her tone mild. Her father was a cunning and ambitious man who did nothing without a motive.
“I require allies if Brittany is ever to be reunited.”
“So you conspire against the duke?” she asked.
“If I do, I only act in the best interest of Brittany.” He punctuated his statement with a bite that sent rivulets of pear juice dribbling down his chin. “Rudalt has proven a poor substitute for the man who drove out the Norse and united the kingdom. He is lazy and complacent and far more interested in hunting and whores than managing Breton’s affairs. He has made us weak, and weakness makes us vulnerable. Brittany needs a strong ruler if we are to keep our sovereignty.”
“You believe our sovereignty is at risk?” she asked.
“There are wolves slavering at the door, Emma. In the Frank’s treaty with the Norse, the emperor gave them leave to invade Brittany.”
“Is this why Hugh of Nantes came to see you?” Emma asked. “To warn you? But why?” The Franks and Norse were both age old foes of Brittany. Why would one help them against the other? “Isn’t Robert of Neustria also a sworn enemy of Brittany?”
“Aye, but he was forced to sacrifice much of his land. He remains bitterly opposed to this treaty but cannot act openly against the king. So he desires a pact.”
“The marquis wishes you to drive out the Norsemen from Neustria? Why would you consider this?” she asked.
Her father returned a patronizing smile. “You are very astute, Emma, but you still have much to learn of alliances. Breton rulers have a long history of making alliances with sworn enemies. But such treaties are made to be broken. They only serve a purpose until the achievement of the goal—and my goal is to reunite Brittany.”
“So Robert will support your sole claim to Brittany?”
At what cost? Emma wondered. She feared her father’s grand scheme would only lead to civil strife. And then what? They would become vulnerable to both the Norse and the Franks.
His expression grew pensive as he reached for his cup. “‘Twas a cruel trick of nature that you are a woman. Had you only been born a son…”
It was no secret that his greatest disappointment in life was his failure to produce a male heir—even after two wives. Shortly after Emma’s mother had died, he’d wed King Alain’s eldest daughter, sister to Duke Rudalt. Like Emma’s moth
er, she had also perished in childbirth within the first year of marriage. After that, her father had given up on ever siring a son. Though Emma had long ago accepted her father’s displeasure with her gender, it still stung to hear him say it.
“I cannot act alone,” her father continued. “Thus I sought aid from Count Ebles of Poitou. He is rich, , influential, and has a standing army of mercenaries at his command.”
“Indeed?” She arched a brow. “But one wonders the cost of Count Ebles’ friendship?”
Slouching back in his chair, he eyed Emma. “He is a man in his prime and has need to sire an heir.”
Emma pushed her trencher away in disgust. She’d suspected her father’s true purpose when he’d departed for Poitou, and now those suspicions were confirmed. “An heir or a dwarf?” Emma snorted. “I stand head and shoulders over him.”
“It is precisely your unusual size that appeals most to the count. He believes you would be a superior breeder. “
“He is the bastard son of a Jewess!” she declared indignantly.
“Nevertheless, he carries the blood of a duke in his veins,” her father countered.
“He is old and fat!” Emma further protested.
“He is barely two and forty,” he countered, draining his chalice of lambig and emitting a loud belch.
“His teeth are rotten,” Emma muttered, recalling his foul breath with a shudder. He was also paunchy and reeked of sweat and garlic. The idea of marriage to him was loathsome.
“Enough, Emma!” her father snapped. “You are four and twenty, Emma, and long past the age of wedlock. You cannot remain under my care forever. Ebles has need of a wife, and I am in need of allies if I am ever to wear the crown of Brittany.”
Emma’s blood simmered and her nails bit into the flesh of her palms, yet she took great care to control her voice. “So you would act as whoremaster and barter me solely to further your ambitions?”
“Good’s teeth!” the count hissed. “Why am I cursed with such a perfidious child?” His beefy fist slammed down on the table, rattling the remaining platters. “You will do as I say and honor this betrothal, Emma!” Removing a gold ring from his little finger, he extended it to her. “Count Ebles sends this ring to seal his pledge. The nuptials will be performed in a fortnight.”
“I will not have him,” she countered coldly, refusing to accept the ring. “Punish me however you will, Father,” she continued with defiance, “but I refuse to wed the bastard half-Jew of Poitou!”
Eyes bulging, the count clutched the table edge and rose unsteadily to his feet. “Get thee out of my sight!”
Choking in anger, Emma rose and left the chamber, the clang of metal, likely her father’s chalice striking the flagstones, echoing closely behind her.
CHAPTER THREE
IVAR AND BJORN both stood by their brother’s side as Valdrik’s reluctant bride descended the stairs into the great hall. By his brother’s unusual restlessness and the way his eyes remained intently fixed on her, Ivar suspected the wedding was far more than just a means of expediency to achieve Valdrik’s goal.
The ceremony was brief and followed Norse tradition. While Ivar officiated, Bjorn murmured instructions to the duchess. Once the rings were settled on their respective fingers, Ivar joined their hands upon Valdrik’s sword hilt. “You will repeat after me, “I, Valdrik Vargr, before these many witnesses, take this woman to wife, to be my helpmate, to possess and to protect with my own body…”
After bride and groom pledged their vows, the witnesses in the great hall rejoiced with drink and dance. Usually the most boisterous, Ivar held back with uncustomary detachment. He still couldn’t comprehend this restiveness of spirit and disquiet that plagued him. What in the name of Allfather was wrong with him?
As Ivar watched his brother lifting and spinning his new sister-in-law in the dance, Gisela appeared by his side.
“Lying bastard!” she hissed like a snake. “You told me he would support my son’s claim!”
“I told you I would discuss it with him, but as you see, my brother had other plans.” Ivar inclined his head to the bride and groom who looked surprisingly joyful.
He should have told Valdrik about Gisela but given Valdrik’s haste to wed, he hadn’t even had the chance to broach the subject. Not that it would have made a difference. Valdrik wanted the duchess, and once fixed on a goal, Valdrik was single-minded and relentless.
“He was a fool for turning me away,” she remarked petulantly. “What of your plans?” Her gaze took on an assessing look as she placed a hand on his chest and ran it slowly down his torso. “Do they always align with your brother’s?”
“Not always,” Ivar replied.
“You are bigger and stronger than he, and the men respect and obey you. Surely some of them follow your brother only because of you.” She brought one of his hands up to her breast. His cock stirred instantly to life. “Are you also an ambitious man, Ivar?”
“I have plans,” he answered vaguely. A lie. He didn’t know what in the Hel he wanted beyond a good fuck. And she appeared willing to let him do it right here in the great hall.
Stepping closer to hide her actions from potential onlookers, she closed her hand around his cock and continued with a sultry smile. “There comes a time when every man must look to his own best interests.”
Something about her words jolted his lust-fogged brain. “What are you saying?”
“Should your brother fall in battle, you would be next in command, would you not?”
Verily she was a witch, a manipulative seductress bent on turning him against his brother. He was right to be suspicious of her.
His desire fizzled as abruptly as smoldering coals after a deluge of icy water.
He grasped her wrist, barely holding back the instinct to wrench it away. “Not here,” he growled. “This needs to be a private conversation.”
She raised her brows. “Then let us go someplace private.”
“I am needed here. It’s my duty to accompany my brother to the bridal chamber.”
“Then I will come to you tonight,” she offered.
“No,” he replied. “I will send word to you once we have taken Quimper. Valdrik has promised me lands there,” Ivar replied. “You will come to me then.”
Her gaze took on an avaricious gleam. “You will make me Lady of Quimper?”
Although the safest course would be to take her as his wife, Ivar had lost all interest in her the moment she’d revealed her scheming ways. Misleading her seemed the only way to put her off until Valdrik could decide what to do with her. Now that Valdrik had pledged himself to the Breton duchess, he would surely expect Ivar and Bjorn to do the same. But unlike Bjorn, who had already wed once before, Ivar had no desire to be burdened with a wife and children. He would do almost anything for his brothers, but Ivar prayed to the gods that he wouldn’t be saddled for life with Gisela.
***
Locked in her room for three days with only bread and water, Emma could only stew and pace. She wistfully gazed out of her window into the bailey below, wishing she could at least soothe her troubled mind by occupying her hands.
She would soon be taken from her home to Poitou, where she and Count Ebles would be wed. Why was this happening? She’d been so content with her quiet life and had no desire to wed. Marriage would end the freedom she’d known most of her life. Would her new husband, a man she’d met but once, also bestow such trust? It was unlikely.
Was there no way out of this damnable betrothal? Even if she could escape, she had nowhere to run. The cloister would be closed to her. The abbot would never accept rebellion against marriage as a valid reason for her to retire within the convent walls. She would simply be lectured on the godly virtues of duty and obedience and sent straight back home. She was only growing more restless and agitated as she contemplated her future.
Her gaze dropped to the ground below. It was perhaps a twenty-foot drop. Even if she were foolish enough to cast herself out of the window, she
would likely survive the fall. No. She was neither a craven nor a fool. Though the notion of bedding with the count made her skin crawl, she must suffer through with dignity. Her very being cringed at the thought, but in the end, she had little choice but to accept her fate as the future Countess of Poitou.
The rattle of the latch tore Emma’s attention from the bailey. Havoise entered bearing an expression of deep sympathy. “My lord asks if you are now ready to accept your duty.” She opened her hand to display the betrothal ring Emma had rejected.
Emma’s eyes blurred as she stared at the ring, a symbol of all that she detested about being a woman. “Is there no way out of this, Havoise?”
“I think not,” Havoise replied with a shake of her head and then opened her arms. “Ma paour mignonne.”
Giving in to a rare but ungovernable urge to weep, Emma threw herself into Havoise’s maternal embrace. It was Havoise who’d first taken Emma under her wing and taught her how to weave. Although a servant, she was the closest thing to a mother Emma had ever known. Eventually, she and her husband, Budic, had come to reside with Emma at Quimper.
The older woman stroked her hair and cooed endearments until the tempest passed. Drying her eyes with her palms, Emma withdrew with a sniff. “I will not accept this ring, Havoise. I must convince him to change his mind about this abominable espousal to Count Ebles.”
“’Tis not a good time, mignonne. My lord is occupied with more urgent matters.”
“More urgent?” Emma asked.
“A rider has just arrived from Vannes.”
“Is it a messenger from the duke?” Emma asked.
“If so, he is a messenger of death.”
Emma’s gaze narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Duke Rudalt is dead,” Havoise replied grimly.
“The duke is dead?” Emma repeated, stunned. “How? Was there an accident?”
“There was an attack,” Havoise said. “By an army of Vikings.”
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