Ivar The Red

by Victoria Vane

  “An army? Are you certain they were Norse?” Emma asked. Vikings were well known to pillage, plunder, rape, and murder, but generally in small bands.

  “’Twas an army,” Havoise insisted. “They have taken Vannes.”

  “A certes?” she asked in disbelief. “Vannes has fallen so easily?”

  “Aye, tis true,” she replied with a terse nod. “After the duke fell, they were unable to defend themselves.”

  Emma shut her eyes to grisly visions of bloodthirsty savages burning and looting her own home. There was a time that the kingdom had been overrun by Norse savages committing crimes against innocent Bretons, but for her entire lifetime, they had lived in peace. Must they now fear for their lives once more?

  “Have we any news of the duchess? Was she…” Emma shuddered, unable even to voice the question.

  “They did not burn the keep,” Havoise reassured her. “The rider says the duchess opened the gates to avoid that fate. Beyond that…” she shrugged. “We know nothing more.”

  “And my father? What does he say?”

  “According to Budic, milord sent riders to Poitou, seeking reinforcements.”

  “I must go to him! Where is he?”

  “The armory, my lady.”

  Havoise barely pronounced the words before Emma bolted out the door.

  The scene was chaos as Emma ran through the keep. Signs of stress and anxiety shone in the faces of every harried servant as they scurried through the halls. As she approached the armory, the clang of metal filled the air as the count’s men armed themselves with hauberks, shields, and spears. Her heartbeat accelerated at the grim look in his eyes as her father donned his sword. “What has happened at Vannes?” she asked, laboring for breath.

  “A Norse army has invaded,” the count replied. “The duke is dead and false pride was his downfall. His army might easily have dispatched them, but he chose single combat instead. Now I have no alternative but to meet them in battle.”

  “What of the duchess?” Emma asked. “Will you go to her aid?”

  “There is nothing to be done for Vannes,” he replied with a resigned shake of his head. “We must look to ourselves.”

  “But, are we strong enough?” she asked. “Should you not wait for aid?”

  “I have sent for help, but ‘twill be days in coming—if it comes at all. I will do what Rudalt bloody well should have done and face the threat with a show of force. The Norse savages only respect strength. According to the rider from Vannes, the Vikings are but a few hundred in number. ‘Tis my hope to force their retreat.”

  “And if they don’t?” she asked. “Will you buy them off with tribute?”

  “Nay. ‘Twill only encourage them further to reward their heinous deeds. If I fail to repulse them, I will fight.” He pulled another sword from the collection hanging on the wall and handed it to her. “While you, daughter, will prepare for a siege.”

  The metal was cold and the weight heavy and awkward in Emma’s hands. She prayed to the Virgin Mary that she would not be put to the test. Yet, if forced to wield it, she would fight to her very last breath to protect her home.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Bjorn! Ivar!” Ivar bolted upright as Valdrik’s booted foot connected none too gently with his ribs. “Odin’s eye! Are you trying to wake the dead?”

  “It seems I am.” Valdrik stood over him with a glare. “What the Hel happened here?”

  “Your wedding feast?” Lost in a fog of confusion, Ivar gave a violent shake of his head while Valdrik strode through the great hall poking and nudging the insensate bodies that littered the chamber. “What the devil? Did you kill everyone?” Ivar asked.

  “Of course not!” Valdrik said. He cast his gaze about the room with a frown. “I don’t know what has happened. I wondered at first if they’d all been struck down with plague…”

  “The plague would be more merciful,” Ivar groaned. “My skull feels like it’s going to burst.” His throat also felt dry as sand. Ivar reached for a half-full cup of wine. He’d barely touched it to his lips before Valdrik snatched it from his hands. “Did you drink this?”

  “Does it look like I drank it?” Ivar growled.

  Valdrik gave it an experimental sniff. “I mean last night? Did you drink the wine?”

  “Aye. But only after we ran out of mead.”

  “There must have been something in the wine,” Valdrik spoke his suspicions. “I am certain this was intended for us.”

  “Poison?’ Ivar sputtered and spat. The sickly sweet Breton chouchen was a perfect drink to adulterate.

  “Nay,” Valdrik replied. “Tainted for certain, but they are not dead.” He jerked his head toward his sleeping men.

  “Who did it?” Ivar asked. Poison was almost always the work of a woman. Was it Gisela? Or the duchess?

  “I don’t know,” Valdrik replied. “But I’m damned well going to find out. Now get up,” he commanded. “Go stick your head in a cattle trough if you have to, but you will have the men ready to march for Cornouailles as soon as I return.”

  Ivar pointed to the unconscious men. “I fear ’twill be many hours before they can be roused.”

  Valdrik swore a long stream of oaths. “All three hundred will ride with me, whether they be fit or not. If we do not move now, we lose our advantage. Taking Cornouailles by surprise is our only chance.”

  When Valdrik joined his warriors in the bailey, his men instantly scattered from his path. Ivar shook his head in disgust at the proud Norse warriors acting meek as a flock of sheep. Valdrik, however, looked fit to kill a thousand men. Surely, cursed would be anyone who crossed him this day. Ivar just hoped none of them would be his own. They had too few to spare.

  Growling orders, Valdrik mounted and spurred his horse, riding off as if he were a one-man army. Ivar wondered what was going through his head, but had sense enough to hold his tongue. Valdrik would speak only when he was inclined to.

  Riding side-by-side with his silent brother, they made exceedingly rapid progress as they led the column of Norse soldiers toward Quimper, the seat of Count Cornouailles.

  “Where is Bjorn?” Ivar finally asked, noting the absence of their brother.

  “I must keep someone in place that I can trust,” Valdrik replied. “I left him in charge of fifty of the duke’s men. Although they have sworn fealty to me, if the duchess is any example of Breton honor, he’ll do well to watch his back.”

  “So, ‘twas the duchess who tainted the wine?”

  Valdrik answered the question with a grunt. It was clear he didn’t wish to speak of it. “Bjorn allowed her to go to her still room, thinking she only sought to cure a headache.”

  Ivar glowered. “She is an enemy. He was a fool to drop his guard.”

  “And he is now her jailer as his punishment, but I am the greater fool,” Valdrik said. “I trusted her honor. She has none. I won’t make that mistake again.”

  Valdrik had insisted he’d married the duchess to legitimize his claim to Vannes, but it was clear that he had a far more personal interest in her. The betrayal had to have both hurt and humiliated him.

  He was reminded of Gisela. In hindsight, mayhap his brother would have done better to throw in his lot with her, but Ivar had yet to even broach the matter before Valdrik had announced his intention of marrying the duchess. By then, it was too late. Although hesitant to bring it up now, Valdrik needed to know of the woman’s plans.

  “There is another matter I must discuss with you.”

  “I’m not in a mood for it,” Valdrik answered with a black look.

  “’Tis important,” Ivar insisted.

  “Then speak,” Valdrik snapped.

  “The duke’s concubine, Gisela, has a bastard. I fear she is up to no good.”

  Valdrik pulled up his horse with a glare. “And you only tell me now?”

  “I thought I had her in hand. I led her to believe I would champion her cause with you, but then you wed the duchess. She was furious. I believe she will
make trouble for you.”

  “How?” Valdrik’s gaze narrowed.

  “She intends to assert her bastard son’s claim to Brittany.”

  “She has a son by Duke Rudalt?”

  “So she claims,” Ivar replied.

  Valdrik swore under his breath. “Then she will be a nuisance. No doubt of that. What does she want?”

  “She said she seeks protection, but she’s grasping. Since you would not have her, she will surely seek out another to challenge you for Brittany. She already tried to seduce me into betraying you.”

  Valdrik shook his head with a dry laugh. “As if I haven’t enough challenges.”

  “What do you intend to do with her?” Ivar asked.

  “There is only one solution to manage this—either you or Bjorn must take her to wife.”

  It was what Ivar had most feared, but was also what he’d expected Valdrik to say.

  “Not I!” Ivar shook his head. “I would not wish that scheming bitch on my worst enemy. Surely there is another option,” Ivar said.

  “I can think of nothing,” Valdrik replied. “She is a liability. If she were a man, there would be quite another answer, but as a woman, I cannot kill her. My only solution is to give her to one I trust to manage her—which leaves only you or Bjorn.“

  “Then let it be Bjorn,” Ivar groaned.

  “Bjorn is unlikely to be any more enthusiastic than you are. Perhaps you will have to draw straws over it, but I promise whoever takes her, will be well rewarded for the trouble.”

  “I don’t seek reward,” Ivar replied. “It’s not why I came here.”

  Valdrik looked surprised. “You would refuse land and riches?”

  “Mayhap I don’t like the shackles that go along with it,” Ivar replied, thinking of a future with Gisela.

  “Take heart, brother,” Valdrik said. “It may all be a moot point if we do not prevail at Cornouailles.”

  ***

  For the next two days, the Norse army rode like madmen. Many had begun the march in a drug-induced stupor, but sobriety came quickly to those who watched their comrades-in-arms fall unheeded from their horses. Valdrik refused to let anything hamper him, pressing ruthlessly onward, regardless of those he lost along the way.

  Although they’d made rapid progress, the gleam of mail hauberks and shields catching the first rays of the sun, as the fortress of Quimper came into view, revealed that the count was well aware of their coming.

  Both men squinted at the lines that formed a semi-circle in front of the fortress as they drew to a halt. “He is ready for us,” Ivar remarked. “And by appearances, the odds don’t favor us.” He had no fear of death, but that didn’t mean he sought to embrace it prematurely.

  Valdrik spun to face him. “You would give up so quickly? Without even unsheathing your sword?”

  Ivar’s blood heated at the implied question of his valor. “I speak not out of cravenness. You know I would follow you to the death, but I begin to think this scheme to conquer an entire kingdom with three hundred men is a fool’s errand.”

  “On a normal day, one of our men would easily equal three of theirs. But our force is barely recovered from the bad wine. Even if we prevail this day, how many of us will remain after the fight? Two hundred?” he asked. “Will two hundred then be able to march on and take Poher?”

  Valdrik’s expression grew fierce. “I will see this out. Do as you will, but for me, the die is already cast. I would ride alone up that hill top and impale myself on Cornouaille’s sword before I would turn back.”

  Sliding his weapon from its scabbard, Valdrik raised it to display the gleaming blade and bejeweled hilt. Ivar realized at once that it was not Valdrik’s famed Ulfberht he wielded, but the ancestral sword taken from the fallen duke. His horse gave a snort and shifted nervously under his weight as Valdrik called out to his men. “You see before you the sword of the Kings of Brittany. Follow me or not, at your will.”

  Ivar had never seen him so determined. Yet, he found himself vacillating between his desire to fight and plain good sense.

  True to his word, Valdrik spun and dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, charging up the hill without even a backward glance to see who followed.

  Ivar hesitated no longer. Unsheathing his own blade, he raised it with a lung-emptying roar. Moments later, his ears were filled with the clash of steel and splintering wood. Flaming arrows rained down upon them, as rational thought gave way to primal instinct—kill or be killed. Ivar’s vision was blurred with blood, yet he fought on as ferociously as a berserker. Today he would surely meet his destiny—either victory awaited or the Valkyries would carry him to the hallowed halls of Valhalla.

  ***

  Standing among her archers on the ramparts, Emma watched in horror as her father’s lines of men began to splinter under the Viking assault. The Norsemen’s sheer ferocity had sent half of the count’s forces fleeing in terror, whilst the reaming half engaged in a bloody, brutal battle. Though she wanted nothing more than to close her eyes, she was riveted to the grisly scene, as scores of her father’s men met their deaths, impaled on Viking swords.

  Paralyzed with terror, she gazed down at her father, engaged in combat with a fierce, blood-splattered Viking. For what seemed like endless agonizing hours, they traded blows until a final stoke in an unguarded moment felled him from his horse. Emma clawed at the wall in a struggle to hold herself upright as the enemy stood over him, stifling a shriek with her fist as the Norseman delivered the death blow. Seconds later, he staggered away and crumpled to the ground. She prayed he was dead. It was small recompense, but she would be glad to know that her father had not met his demise without meting out some reciprocal punishment.

  “Milady.” Havoise appeared, pulling at Emma’s sleeve. Her wrinkled face was pale and her voice choked with fear. “What is happening?”

  “My father has fallen and the men are fleeing,” Emma replied. “We must fend them off until help arrives.” Though her composure was melting fast, she vowed to maintain at least an outward show of courage.

  “Do you think help will come?” Havoise asked.

  “Surely Count Ebles will honor his pact with my father,” Emma replied with more confidence than she felt. It would take at least four days for an army to march from Poitou—if he had men at the ready. If not, it would take much longer.

  Would Count Ebles come with an army to rescue his betrothed before the savages set fire to the keep and burned them all alive? Her father had rejected any notion of tribute, but could paying the savages at least buy them some time? She was struck with irony as she gazed down at the gold betrothal ring on her right hand. The symbol of all that she detested had now become her only source of hope.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IVAR WAS IN THE MIDST of the siege when his brother Bjorn arrived at Quimper. Although the battle had been a victory, they had yet to breach the fortress. On top of that, Valdrik was seriously wounded, perhaps dying.

  “This cannot continue,” Ivar pronounced direly, casting his gaze to the ramparts where archers continued to rain their arrows upon the Norsemen.

  “We need only wait,” Bjorn argued. “They will eventually run out of arrows.”

  “Before we run out of men?” Ivar asked. “We cannot afford to lose any more.”

  “Have we lost so many?” Bjorn asked.

  “Not to death,” Ivar agreed. “But many are wounded. An injured solider only counts as half a man. Valdrik forbade burning them out, but I would end this now.”

  “No. You mustn’t!” The Duchess of Vannes stepped forward, chin jutted.

  “What is she doing here,” Ivar growled.

  “She’s a healer and insisted on coming.” Bjorn answered. “How does Valdrik fare?” Bjorn asked, his brow furrowed with lines of worry.

  “Not good,” Ivar replied with a head shake. “His wounds have putrefied. It is her fault.” He glowered at the duchess.

  “Mine?” the duchess contested. “I didn’t wound him.”r />
  “You may as well have,” he retorted. “Your sham of a marriage deprived him of Ulfberht. He’s never been wounded since he’s born that sword.”

  “He’s been lucky,” she said.

  “It protected him,” Ivar insisted. “It’s magical.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she said. “But there’s no point in arguing about it. He must be treated at once. I have medicinals that could save him. Where is he?”

  Ivar blocked her way. “You expect me to put our brother’s life in your hands after you took his sword and then tried to poison us all?”

  “I didn’t use poison,” the duchess protested. “It was only to make you sleep.”

  Still suspicious, Ivar continued his inquisition. “Why should I trust you? How do I know you won’t kill him with your so-called medicinals?”

  “If murder was in my heart, I could have done it on our wedding night while he slept.”

  Ivar considered the truth of her words. She and Valdrik had wed and spent a full night alone together. She would certainly have had the chance to kill him while he slept..

  “I don’t wish his death,” she insisted. “On the contrary, I fear it. Brittany is on the brink of collapse.”

  “Stand aside and let her tend him, Ivar,” Bjorn interceded. “Would you let him die if there is any chance she could help him?”

  Mumbling a stream of curses, Ivar led her to where Valdrik lay by a smoldering fire. “Just know that if he dies, I will not hesitate to send you to the hereafter with him.” Ivar accompanied the threat with a menacing look. He meant his words. Valdrik was a strong man, but a mere glance at his brother’s face filled Ivar with alarm.

  Ivar shadowed her as the duchess knelt to probe the wounds.

  “The gash is deep,” she said. “But it does not appear to have pierced his innards. If it had, surely he would already be dead.

  She stood and stripped off her own cloak to cover him. “Why is there no shelter for him?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, duchess, we are in the midst of a siege,” Ivar snapped.