Entering the great hall, Emma stepped forward to greet them, wearing a hauberk of mail over her gown with a sword strapped to her side. She then turned her glare on Adèle. “So the traitor has come knocking at my gate?”
“Am I a traitor for not sacrificing the lives of my people?” Adèle asked. “For negotiating instead of allowing them to be taken into bondage?”
“Negotiation?” Emma responded with a scornful laugh. “Is that what they call whoredom these days? Verily you have sold yourself as surely as a harlot.”
Adèle burned under the accusation. “So you would value your own pride above the lives of your people? You would allow these Norsemen to set all of Quimper aflame rather than make peace?”
Emma’s gaze widened. “If they burn it, there will be nothing left for them to take.”
“Aye. And you think that would stop them?” Adèle asked. “This is not a raiding party. They have not come to plunder and leave. They have come to conquer. It means nothing to them to burn it all. When you run out of arrows and food, who will come to your aid? Half of your men fled in the battle. Many of the others are dead. Your father is also slain. Who then is left to fight for us? There is only my brother, and he will not dare raise a sword against these men. Make peace with them, Emma, or surely you will all die.”
Emma turned her attention to Ivar. Her dark eyes flashed as she took in the red-haired giant. “Does this savage have a tongue?”
“Aye.” Ivar nodded, adding with a lascivious leer, “Were you not such a harpy I’d show you.”
“Who are you and what do you want?” she demanded.
“I am called Ivar the Red, brother of Valdrik Vargr, who has slain both Duke Rudalt and now Count Cornouailles on the field of battle and is rightfully entitled to his spoils.”
“He presumes to claim the county of Quimper?” she asked with a curl of her lip.
“Nay,” he shook his head. “I do.”
“You?” she repeated incredulously.
Hooking his thumbs in his belt, Ivar rocked back on his heels and cast a slow, assessing gaze over the keep and all of its contents before replying with a smirk. “Aye. ’Tis not much, but ’twill do.” His gaze narrowed, he raked it slowly over her as if appraising livestock for purchase. “As will you.”
“Me?” she snorted.
“Aye. As the new lord of Quimper, I am in need of a woman to keep my house…and warm my bed.”
In a flash, Emma had a dagger poised at his throat. “I think not, savage. I would kill you first.”
Adèle gasped at the speed in which Ivar disarmed Emma, spun her around, and plied her own dagger to her throat. “’Tis but a minor point of negotiation,” he replied with a rumbling chuckle. “In sooth, this wench should have been born a man. For surely beneath her milky white breasts beats the heart of a warrior.” He continued blandly, “Now that the castellan of Quimper is at my mercy, let us discuss my terms.”
Chapter Thirteen
Never reproach another for his love: It happens often enough that beauty ensnares with desire the wise, while the foolish remain unmoved.
—Hávamál
Valdrik opened his eyes to an unfamiliar room. A presence stirred beside him—Adèle.
“You have awakened!” She pressed a cool hand to his face. “Thank God! Your fever has finally broken.”
Where was he? And what was she doing here?
She rose from his side to fetch a cup that she plied to his lips. “You must drink this.”
He averted his head. “I want no more of your foul witch’s potions.” His voice emerged weak and gravelly.
“’Tis only wine,” she said. “As to the others, they were for your good.”
“Where am I?”
“You are in the keep at Quimper. The count is dead.”
He smiled slowly that the gods favored him still. He was alive and his charge had led to victory. “And my brothers?” he asked.
“They are both well. Bjorn has returned to Vannes to act in your absence and Ivar seeks to make himself lord of this place.”
“Seeks? I gave it to him.”
“Mayhap so, but the claim is not uncontested.”
His brow wrinkled. “How is that if the count is dead?”
“He has a daughter, Lady Emma.”
“What of Poher?” he asked. “I commanded Ivar to march on if we prevailed.”
“You need not,” she said. “My brother will not take up arms against you. He is no warrior, Valdrik, and is barely into manhood. Once he hears of your recovery, he will surely seek an allegiance with you. As your wife, I would beg you to honor that request.”
“My wife?” The word tasted foul in his mouth. “You betrayed me.”
“I acted as any other would have done in my stead,” she replied adamantly. “But if I wished you dead, I would not have come here.”
He considered both her words and actions. She was the goddess of his dreams who had come to him in his need, but he could not forgive her treachery. He’d sworn to deal with her accordingly and would lose the respect of his men if he did not. He’d resolved to put her away when he returned, once he knew whether or not she carried a child. Nevertheless, he was torn. His bitterness was tempered by gratitude for tending his wounds.
“How long have I been in this place?” he asked.
“Three days,” she replied.
His mind was still foggy, but he performed the calculation. A fortnight had passed since they had wed. Was it possible? Would she yet know? “Has your monthly course begun?” he asked.
She looked startled by the question. She licked her lips and then shook her head. “Nay. I hadn’t even thought of it until now. It should have come upon me a se’nnight ago.”
“Does it always commence when you expect it?”
“Aye. Since my twelfth summer.”
His heart quickened at the thought that she might have conceived. Did she know his thoughts? Was she lying to protect herself? “Come here,” he said.
She obeyed, perching warily on the edge of the bed just within an arms breadth. Ignoring the pain in his side, he reached out to her breast, giving it a squeeze.
“What are you doing?” She responded with a wince and a gasp.
“Are they tender?” he asked.
“You want to know if I have conceived?” she voiced his thoughts.
“Have you?” he asked.
“I don’t know, but ’tis possible. One more month will tell for certain.”
“Would you try to rid yourself of it?” he asked bluntly.
“Nay!” she insisted. “I could not do such a thing!”
“Even if it meant giving birth to your enemy’s spawn?”
She cringed at the cutting edge in his voice. She was silent for a long moment, as if trying to compose her thoughts. “I hated you for coming to Brittany,” she said at last. “I did not wish this marriage between us. Nevertheless, I did it for peace. By wedding you I sought to protect Brittany, but even if you had not come, Cornouaille would have turned on Rudalt and bloodshed would have ensued. The duke long suspected he was conspiring to seize Vannes and claim the entire kingdom as his own. By all indications, Rudalt was right. Neither were good men. Both weakened Brittany.”
“And now they are dead,” he said. “I gave them the choice to yield but they chose to fight me. Such is the way of it. The weak will always succumb to the strong.”
“But now the Franks will perceive us as weak and will surely gather as wolves at the door.”
“But you have already let the Norse wolves inside,” he said dryly. “And we keep what we have claimed as ours.”
“Will you indeed keep all that you have claimed?” she asked softly.
He knew what she really asked, but he still didn’t quite know how to answer.
“I took you to wife because I feared dying with no legacy. On the eve of battle a man thinks of his need to leave something behind besides dust and bones.” It was the truth, but not all. He’d been smitten
the moment he looked into her eyes, but that was a secret he would take to the grave. “In a month’s time, we will know if you carry my child.”
“And if I do not, would you then put me into bondage as you said?”
He shook his head. “If you have not conceived, I will let you retire to a convent.”
She looked up, her expression wary. “And if I have? I would know now if you intend to take my child from me or if I must raise a bastard.”
He collapsed back onto the pillows with a sigh. What to do now? Would he send her away until she gave birth and then take the child? The notion of separating a mother and babe churned his guts.
“This land is in dire need of a strong ruler, Valdrik,” she continued. “Were you not a savage Norseman, I would have wished for one such as you to rule over Brittany. Now the only hope for this kingdom’s survival is an heir from royal blood. If you and I were to have a child, and my brother and Gwened did not, ours would, in truth, be the rightful heir to Brittany.”
He threw his hands up with a sigh. “By Odin’s eye, I don’t know what the devil I should do with you, but I surely won’t keep a wife I cannot trust!”
Adèle averted her gaze to pluck at the coverlet. “You asked me once if I could put all enmity aside. I have already done this. Your brothers could have forced me to come here, but they could not have forced me to care for you. I did so on my own volition. Had I wished you dead, I could have put anything in my potions and no one would have been the wiser.” She looked up and asked, “Have not my deeds proven the truth of my heart?”
Searching her eyes, he finally asked the question that plagued him most. “Why did you save me, Adèle?
“You would not believe me if I told you,” she said.
“I would know your answer anyway,” he said.
“The thought of your death was as a fist squeezing my heart.”
Her confession had a similar effect on his. “The idea of sending you away does the same thing to me,” he replied.
Had she not proven herself? His men knew that she saved his life. Once they also knew she carried his child, who among them would challenge him for keeping her? He would kill the man who did.
“I have lived so long with war and death, but now I can finally begin to think of life and love.” He slid his hand over her abdomen. “I believe life does grow inside you.”
“And love?” she prompted softly, her gaze seeking his. “Does it grow inside you?”
He realized that she needed reassurance from him, but it was an admission he was loth to make. He’d always believed that love made great fools of otherwise good men. In forgiving her, had he also fallen victim to love’s folly? Mayhap so. It was a humbling acknowledgment. Nevertheless, he forced himself to answer, “I think the seed of it may have taken root.”
“Many seeds require a tender touch to produce fruit.” She leaned down to stroke his face. “Valdrik, I wish for us to bear fruit.”
“Do you?” he pulled her closer, noting the silver and bronze collar around her neck. “You wear the torque.”
“Bjorn told me it was meant as a gift. It was so peculiar to find it on the pillow after the dream I had.”
“What kind of dream?” he asked.
“It was most vivid,” she said, “but I can make no sense of it.”
“Tell me. The Norse believe that what a new bride dreams on her wedding night reveals her future.”
“I saw wolves,” she said. “A massive pack of them were scattered across this land and then suddenly they gathered together to swim across the ocean. Do wolves swim?” she asked.
“About as well as dogs do,” he replied.
“What does it all mean?” she asked.
“Many wolves?” he remarked. “I believe this dream means my seed will bear much fruit. He pulled her down beside him and kissed her lips. “And you will be my garden. My body is yet feeble and weak, but as soon as I am able, I will plow my wife’s lush and verdant fields.”
She gazed back at him with a grin. “Then I much look forward to your full recovery.”
Epilogue
Much have I fared, much have I found. Much have I got from the gods.
—The Ballad of Vafthruthnir
Vannes, Kingdom of Brittany – nine months later
His brothers stood by Valdrik’s side as the priest uttered the final invocation that would dedicate the souls of his offspring to the Holy Trinity. Honoring Christian tradition, Valdrik had named Ivar and Bjorn as godfather to his twin sons, Viggo and Vidar. As the ruler of a united Brittany, he knew he must adhere to Breton beliefs, but still secretly made his sacrifices to Allfather on the altar he’d resurrected for his private worship.
His heart swelled with love and pride as Adèle kissed each tiny forehead before handing the babes back to their nurses. She then gazed up at him with a smile that warmed him to his marrow. All was right in the world. With the love of his beautiful wife and two hardy sons to follow after him, he was truly a man blessed by the gods.
THE END
Ivar the Red
The Wolves of Brittany #2
Victoria Vane
Prologue
Brittany
911 A.D.
The sun was slowly sinking as Ivar stood on a rise gazing out over the lush green lands of Brittany. He’d long wondered what his reaction would be to finally catch sight of this place he’d heard so much about as a boy. Would it somehow call out to him? Would standing on this plot of earth somehow fill the empty ache in his soul? If so, he would have been gravely disappointed. He felt absolutely nothing. He had no more sense of belonging here than anywhere else.
Pulling a wineskin from his saddlebag, he wet his lips, and took a long draught, as he pondered the unanswered questions that wearied his mind.
Most who had joined Valdrik had tired of a nomadic life. They desired the same things Valdrik sought—lands, riches, wives, children, and a fertile place to lay roots and prosper. Ivar, on the other hand, was a man who lived in the present. Until now, he’d neither dwelled on the past nor given much thought to the future, but now it seemed his past and future were about to collide.
Valdrik appeared by his side, a welcome diversion from his thoughts. Ivar offered the wineskin to his brother, who accepted with a nod of thanks. It was several minutes before either man spoke.
“We will soon see what this Duke Rudalt is made of,” Valdrik finally ventured.
“Do you think he will meet us?” Ivar asked.
“If he has the bollocks of a warrior, he will fight like one, but if he flees and locks himself inside his fortress…” Valdrik inclined his head toward a pile of newly hewn battering rams. “’Twill make little difference. We will penetrate his walls and he will die a coward’s death.”
“And if we do not succeed?” Ivar asked.
“Then we die fighting,” Valdrik said. “I have tired of raiding. Even Rolfr has wearied of it.”
“Because Rolfr is old and fat,” Ivar scoffed. “And now that he is rich, he will grow soft and die in bed like an old woman.”
“Yes. He is rich, but the treaty with the Franks means little. He will still have to fight to keep what he has. At least he now has something legitimate to fight for—lands. That’s what I want, Ivar. If I die fighting, I want to know it was for a purpose and not just for plunder. With success, you and Bjorn will also become very rich men.”
It seemed that all he could ever desire lay just beyond those hills. He’d pledged to support his brother’s plan of conquest out of loyalty, but this venture should also have been the answer to his heart’s desire. Rather than filling Ivar with joy, once more he was plagued with doubts. Was this really what he wanted for himself? He still didn’t know. He’d felt like an outsider his entire life, as if he had no home. His existence of raiding and fighting had suited him well. He’d never before imagined settling in one place. Could he be content with such a life?
The western sky glowed red against the setting sun. Was it an omen of
the blood that would soon be shed? Soon they would ride out to meet their fate—either a glorious victory or a valiant death. Would this attempted conquest of Brittany become their lasting legacy or their greatest failure? He prayed for the former, but always prepared for the latter by augmenting his prayers with a sacrifice to Freyr, the god of prosperity. And with the gods’ blessings, they would soon claim for their own, the bounty of Brittany.
Chapter One
Quimper, Cornouailles, Western Brittany
Lady Emma of Quimper was thigh-deep in the Odet, scythe in hand, when her manservant, Budic, spotted three men on horseback. “My lady. There are riders approaching.”
Handing her scythe to Budic, Emma waded toward the bank, the deep river mud sucking at her bare feet as she drew slowly into the shallows. By the time she scrambled up the muddy bank, the men had pulled up and drawn their horses to a halt. Shielding her eyes against the sun, Emma took stock of the strangers. The garments of the first two men were made of richly dyed wool. Coupled with their fine horses, she identified them as either noblemen or at least high servants of one. The third wore the garb of a priest, but not one she recognized.
“You there!” The first man called out to Budic. “Which way to Castle Quimper?”
Emma eyed the trio speculatively. “If you’ve come to see Father Pascweten, I’m afraid he is away.”
“We are not here for Father Pascweten,” the priest answered.
“Might I inquire what business you have at Quimper?” Emma asked.
The first man gazed down from his horse as if she were naught but a pismire. “Our business is none of your concern.”
His self-important air made her hackles rise. Heedless of her wet and muddy appearance, Emma mustered as much dignity as she was able and haughtily lifted her chin. “Then you err gravely, my lord, for ’tis very much my concern if you seek entrance to the keep.”
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