THE BASTARD OF BRITTANY

by Victoria Vane

  He digested that slowly. It did much to explain her animosity and fear. “I come from a harsh place where only the strong survive. The winters are long and hard and most of our stores are depleted by spring. Raiding is a means of surviving until the harvest. It is a way of life for us.”

  “Do you deny that Norsemen take great delight in bloodshed?”

  “I do not deny it. Many of us do.”

  “But not you?” she asked.

  “I did at one time,” he answered. “I have killed many men in my time, Countess, but I have never harmed a woman.” Somehow it was important that she knew that. He wanted her respect not her fear. “Do you believe me?” he asked.

  She stared back at him as if struggling with her answer. “I suppose I have to believe you,” she said. “I have seen no evidence to the contrary, but that doesn’t mean I trust you.”

  “Do you trust any man?” he asked.

  “I trusted only one, but he is gone.”

  “You do not trust your husband. And you do not love him.” This time it was a statement rather than a question, and she made no effort to deny it.

  “I do not. I still grieve for Hugo.”

  “Yet, you wed another?” he asked.

  “It wasn’t my choice. I was compelled by the king to wed his younger brother.”

  Her answer confirmed his earlier suspicion about her marriage.

  “How long has it been?” he asked.

  “Six years,” she replied. “But I remember it as if ‘twere yesterday. I think the pain will never fade.”

  “It does not lessen,” he agreed. Yet, as he watched her work, Frigg’s words rang inside his head. The wound in your heart will be healed when you meet the one destined to be your life mate.

  ***

  As Bjorn lay naked in the bed, it was all Gwened could do to keep her mind focused on her work. He was the very first unclothed man she had ever beheld. The vision of him sprawled out in all of his masculine glory stirred something strange and unfamiliar deep inside her. His thighs were thick with muscle and covered with dark hair that prickled her skin as she worked.

  Although his male parts were now covered, that portion of his body was at eye level every time she glanced up. She could still detect the size and shape of him which made it a struggle to keep her focus on her task. Was this just idle curiosity? Were most men thus proportioned? Mateudoi surely was not! Her face flushed with awareness of her mind’s wayward thoughts. Virtuous women were not supposed to have such lurid imaginings. Nevertheless, she had oft wondered what her wedding night would have been like had she not wed Mateudoi. Would she have found any satisfaction in the marriage bed had Hugo lived?

  “Did you love her?” the question in her mind somehow slipped from her lips. She couldn’t help wondering how this man had felt about his dead wife. Were they happy together?

  “I did,” he answered.

  “Yours was not an arranged marriage, then?”

  “Nay.” He laughed, a full-throated chuckle. “Her father had much higher aspirations. He had hoped to wed her to Valdrik.”

  “If you are brothers, why would her father object to you? He would still achieve an alliance with your family.”

  “He objected because I am a bastard. My mother was a concubine, which means I had no inheritance. Nevertheless, Astrid still chose me over Valdrik.”

  “She was given a choice? She was allowed to wed for love?”

  “Why do you seem so surprised?” A hint of a smirk hovered over his lips. “Do you think Norse savages are incapable of love?”

  “I never thought of it at all,” she snapped.

  Gwened cut the thread and then smeared the wound with a thick and sticky paste comprised of yarrow and honey. “My sister-in-law is the true healer, but I hope this will prevent putrefaction. You must apply this to the wound daily.”

  She froze when he laid his large callused hand on hers. “Thank you,” he said.

  “It needed tending.”

  Gwened pulled her hand away and proceeded to collect her sewing implements. His mere touch made her tremble. Why did she have such a strong reaction to him? “’Twould be best if you do not move about excessively,” she advised, willing her voice to remain cool and steady.

  He snorted with contempt. “I will not stay abed, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I didn’t expect you would,” she replied. “Just be mindful of it and tell me right away if it reddens or becomes swollen.”

  Gwened left his chamber feeling angry and confused. The world suddenly seemed so unfair. She was a devout Christian and a dutiful daughter. Why had God forced her into a loveless and childless marriage? She envied this Norseman’s wife. Even his heathen bride had known both a husband’s devotion and the joy of motherhood. She was overwhelmed with a sudden sense of desolation.

  She felt robbed.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Avoiding Bjorn, Gwened confined herself to the solar where she applied herself to the distaff and spindle, spinning all of the baskets of wool into fine thread. The coarser thread she intended for weaving cloth, while the fine thread would be reserved for her embroidery. Though she endeavored to keep her mind occupied along with her hands, the Norsemen was never far from her thoughts.

  What did he think to achieve by keeping her here? With no answer to that question, she then wondered how Bjorn’s wound was healing. And why had he not sent for her? Was he on the mend or had the wound putrefied?

  “Mathilda,” she asked her maid. “How fares the Viking chief?” She couldn’t bring herself to speak his name.

  “Milord seems well enough,” Mathilda answered. “He tends to business as usual.”

  “What kind of business?” Gwened asked. “How does he spend his days?”

  “He rides out each morn, milady, through his men’s encampment. He meets with the captains and then inspects crops or rides onward to the village. He speaks much with the farmers and merchants.”

  “No doubt demanding a hefty share of the harvest and profits from the merchants,” Gwened said.

  “No more than Duke Rudalt took,” Mathilda answered. “On the contrary, this one seems more intent on learning how we do things. He even speaks of planting more fields and improving trade with Neustria.”

  The information took Gwened very much by surprise. As duke, her brother had delegated all of his responsibilities to others so that he could do nothing but drink, hunt, and whore. He gave no thought to planting fields or expanding trade. He cared only for his own pleasures.

  “Does he? And what do his men do?” Gwened asked.

  “Many of them have taken up the plow, milady.”

  Gwened took it all in with increasing cynicism. Why did Bjorn and his brothers act with such uncharacteristic restraint? Could it be true that they wanted to settle peacefully in Brittany? She found it hard to believe. Although her father had finally freed Brittany of the terror, Vikings were still a plague all over Europe. They came every spring and left a path of death and destruction in their wake.

  “Do you think this is just a charade, or do you believe they truly wish to become farmers and tradesmen?” Gwened asked. “How long will it be before they experience the overwhelming urge to return to raiding?”

  “I think only time will tell, milady,” Mathilda said.

  And time was passing all too slowly for Gwened. She been nearly a fortnight at Vannes with no word from anyone. She coiled the last skein of spun wool with a sigh.

  “Mathilda, would you please bring me the chamber pots when you collect them each morn?”

  Mathilda regarded her with a questioning look. “Whatever for, milady?”

  “I need the urine to extract the dye from the lichens I collected. I only need a few cups.”

  “Milady, the Norsemen do not use the chamber pots.”

  “They don’t?”

  “Nay.” Mathilda shook her head.

  “Men, in general, prefer to relieve themselves out of doors,” answered a deep voice.

/>   Bjorn stood in the doorway. “You have not left this room for two days.”

  “I have been busy,” she replied, nodding to the baskets.

  He regarded her with a strangely hostile look. “You spun all of this?”

  “Aye,” Gwened answered. “I have spun it and now I intend to dye it. I don’t know why this should surprise you. My mother was a queen, yet she spun her own thread. Are Norse noblewomen not encouraged to be industrious?”

  “They are very industrious,” he replied.

  “Is there a reason you have come?” she asked.

  “The wound is red and hot,” he said. “It pains me.”

  “Then why are you walking about?”

  “Because you did not come to me,” he answered with a glower.

  “I would have come, had you asked.”

  “I didn’t want to ask,” he muttered.

  Gwened shook her head with a sigh. Did all men consider it a weakness to ask for help? Or was it just women they refused to be indebted to?

  “You will look at it?” he asked.

  “Aye. Come.” She beckoned him to follow her into the adjoining bedchamber.

  Gwened’s skin prickled with awareness the moment he entered the room behind her. Though the queen’s bedchamber was spacious and well-lit, with sun shining through the large windows, it suddenly felt small and airless in his presence. Why did she find it so difficult to breathe evenly when he was near?

  “You need to remove your trews,” she said, averting her face the moment he moved to do so. Facing away from him, she heard him undress.

  “Do you wish me to remain standing or should I sit?” he asked.

  “’Twould be best if you lie on the bed,” she answered. She heard the mattress groan under his weight.

  “I am ready.”

  When Gwened turned around he was lying naked from the waist down, but at least this time his shirt covered his privates. He was grinning at her.

  “What is so funny?” she snapped.

  “You,” he replied. “Why are you so afraid of me? To my friends, I am quite harmless.”

  “We are not friends,” she replied.

  His brow cocked. “You would refuse friendship to one who saved your life? ‘Tis not the way of it where I come from.”

  “I owe you my gratitude,” she said, “but friendship cannot be based on obligation, it must be freely given.”

  “What if I asked for your friendship? Would you still deny me?”

  She licked her lips and considered his question. “I would wonder why you ask,” she replied. “Friendship between a man and a woman is not a common thing.” She knelt beside him and drew his shirt up. His flesh was hot under her fingers and the skin was an angry shade of red.

  “It does not look well,” she remarked. “Did you apply the poultice?”

  “Aye,” he answered, “but I ran out.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.

  “I thought you would come.” His eyes flickered with an emotion she couldn’t quite decipher. Was he actually hurt that she hadn’t checked on him? For the first time she noticed the brightness of his eyes and the pink tinge to his cheeks. “Are you feverish?”

  “Perhaps,” he confessed with a shrug.

  “’Tis good you sought me,” she said. “Mathilda!” she called out. “Pray bring me hot water, yarrow, and honey!”

  “Aye, milady,” her maid replied.

  Gwened then rose to retrieve her own wash basin and a clean cloth. As she cleansed his wound, Gwened suddenly realized this might be her chance to escape. If he became feverish, he would be unable to pursue her. All she needed to do is drug him with mandragora. He would sleep deeply and no one would be the wiser. She could return home.

  But even as she formulated the plan, she knew she could not go through with it. He had indeed saved her life, and she was indebted to him for that reason, if nothing else. But there was something else. Something she’d tried to ignore—his trust.

  He had come to her, trusting her to heal him. Perhaps she was a fool for not seizing the opportunity, but enemy or not, she couldn’t betray the faith that he’d placed in her. Suddenly she understood Adèle’s actions. Ironically, she found herself in a very similar position—forced to choose between fighting or helping the enemy. Like Adèle, Gwened had been left with no defenses, but neither of these Norsemen seemed inclined to exploit and abuse their power.

  When Mathilda returned with the herbs, Gwened mixed part of the yarrow in a cup of hot water as a fever tea, then added a generous dose of mandragora to help the pain, then some honey to combat the bitter taste. She saved the rest of the herbs and honey to make another poultice.

  “Drink this,” she commanded, handing him the cup.

  His golden gaze sought hers. “What is in it?”

  “Yarrow and mandragora. ’Tis good to treat fever.”

  “Mandragora? Is that what made me dream?”

  “It has been known to induce vivid dreams,” she said.

  “You could easily drug me and escape.”

  “I was thinking of it,” she confessed.

  “’Twould do no good,” he said. “My men would catch you.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Your goodwill… Peace in Poher.”

  “Ah! Poher,” she replied. “That is the real reason you hold me! You fear rebellion against your brother. You said he was also wounded. How badly?”

  “I hate to disappoint you, but my brother, thank the gods, is on the mend. I expect his return very soon.”

  “And then what?” she asked.

  “When Valdrik returns, I will accompany you back to your home.”

  “There is no need. I have my men to escort me.”

  “You misunderstand, Countess. I do not go as your escort. I go in my brother’s service. I will remain in Poher to administer his affairs. And I expect your cooperation.”

  “My cooperation? I won’t give it to you and I won’t give up Poher!”

  “I don’t ask for it,” he replied. “You have no choice in that matter. I only ask that you care for my wounds.”

  Gwened was at first tempted to throw the bowl of poultice in his face, but she somehow managed self-restraint. However, she wasn’t particularly gentle in applying it this time, but other than a grunt or two, the Viking made no complaint.

  ***

  When Bjorn opened his eyes, the room was dark, save for a flickering rush light. He sat up in confusion. This wasn’t his bed or his chamber. Where was he?

  “How do you feel?” a soft voice asked.

  It took a moment before the countess’ face came fully into focus. “What in Odin’s name did you put in that tea?” he groaned. “My head feels as if I’ve been struck by Thor’s hammer.”

  “I added some poppy extract to help you sleep,” she said. “It seems to have worked.”

  “Too well,” he grumbled. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “A day and a half,” she answered. “It appears your fever has broken. How is your leg?”

  He reached down to touch the flesh. The heat and pain had dissipated. “It seems improved.”

  “Good,” she said. “I would very much like to have my bed back.”

  “It is a large bed,” he remarked, adding with a grin,“ there is room for two.”

  “I am accustomed to sleeping alone,” she replied.

  Her answer struck a chord. “Are you?”

  She suddenly looked flustered. “That’s not what I meant…”

  “That your husband does not come to you? Is that why you are childless?”

  She glowered back at him. “How would you know I am childless?”

  “Tis obvious,” he replied. “You never voiced concern over the care of your children when I said I would keep you here. Any mother would have done so. Are you barren?” he asked. “Is that why your husband left you for his mistress?”

  “No!” she snapped. “My husband’s only mistress is the Holy M
other Church!”

  “I have not heard these things of the Christians. They condemn our fertility rites, yet perform sexual acts with the priestess of your church?”

  “There is no priestess!” she declared with a look of exasperation. “I didn’t mean a literal mistress. I meant that his devotion is only to the Church. He does not want children with me.”

  Bjorn studied her with incredulity. What sane man would reject such a woman? “Is there something wrong with you?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so,” she replied.

  “Did you not please him in bed?”

  Her face flushed. “I never had the chance!” she replied in a choked voice.

  “What do you mean? You are his wife!” he asked.

  “In name only!” she retorted. “After we consummated the union, he never returned to me.”

  He snorted in disbelief. “And you are certain he has no mistress?”

  “He does not,” she replied. “He is excessively devout. Before we wed, he was studying for the priesthood. When his older brother unexpectedly died, we were compelled to wed. Neither of us wanted the marriage.”

  “Any man who does not bed his wife is no man! He is eunuch! Why did you not divorce him? A Norse woman would have done so.”

  “There is only one way aside from death to end a marriage,” she said. “It requires a special petition to the Pope. It can take months or even years. The Church is very strict about marital unions.”

  “If you want children and cannot divorce him, the solution is simple enough—take a lover.”

  “A lover?” Her eyes flickered. “’Tis not done! ’Twould be adultery.”

  He shook his head with a humorless laugh. “Though I try, I cannot comprehend your nonsensical Christian beliefs.”

  “Nor can I comprehend your animal sacrifices,” she challenged.

  “My gods require gifts for special favors. Have you never offered anything to your god in exchange for something you desire?”

  “I offer my prayers, my obedience, and my devotion. My God does not require any other sacrifice,” she said. “Why do you feel compelled to offer every boar you kill? Is one not enough?”

  “It can take many offerings to remove a curse,” he replied.