“Who are you and what do you seek?” Emma repeated her questions, ignoring his.
His brow wrinkled as he studied her with closer scrutiny. Although his obvious appraisal annoyed her, she could hardly blame him. Even on a good day, she bore little resemblance to a gently bred woman. “I am Hugh of Nantes,” he finally volunteered. “We come on behalf of the Marquis of Neustria to seek an audience with Count Gourmaëlon.”
“Then I fear you have made a wasted journey, my lords, as my father, Count Gourmaëlon, is also presently away.”
“Your father?” he repeated blankly. “Then you are…”
Taking sodden skirts in hand, Emma made her own introduction with an exaggerated curtsy. “Lady Emma of Quimper, my lord.”
Three sets of eyes raked her in disbelief from the muddy toes peeking out from under the hem of her dripping tunic, to her immodestly uncovered hair. She glanced toward the branch where she’d hung her veil. She’d only removed it to keep it from dragging in the river as she worked.
The man who’d identified himself as Hugh dismounted in a show of respect. He was not a small man by any measure and his dark eyes widened in surprise when he found himself level with her. Dropping his bridle reins, he took her hand in his and bent to one knee. “You have our sincere apologies, my lady. We meant no disrespect. It is just that…”
“No apologies are needed, my lord. I am quite certain you did not expect to find the count’s daughter wading in the river,” she replied with a conciliatory chuckle. “I come here often to reap the bulrushes.”
“You are reaping rushes?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Weaving them is my chief occupation.”
Born with few natural feminine graces, Emma had all but given up genteel womanly pursuits—until she’d discovered weaving. From her youth, her unusual height and large hands had always made her feel awkward and ungainly, but it seemed as if her strong hands and long, nimble fingers had been created precisely for the purpose of plaiting rushes.
As a young girl, she’d often wandered beyond the bailey walls and down to the river when her father was away; not that he’d ever paid much heed to her even when he was at home. It was on one such occasion, that she’d come across a group of peasants harvesting tall, reedy grasses. She’d watched in fascination as they cut, bundled, and floated them in bunches on makeshift rafts, then laid them out to dry in the sun. A sennight later, she’d returned to find a group of women huddled together laughing and weaving the now dried bulrushes. Although looms, spindles, and needlework bored her senseless, creating intricate mats and baskets had become her art and greatest passion.
“Does the marquis seek some favor from my father?” she asked.
Hugh’s gaze narrowed. “I am not in the habit of discussing political affairs with women.”
“You think me presumptuous?” she asked icily. “I frequently act as hostess for my father and am well educated regarding political affairs.”
“How…er… extraordinary,” the nobleman remarked.
“I suppose so,” she replied. She was accustomed to being thought unusual by most people and even an object of curiosity to some. It was also largely why she remained unwed. Any would-be suitors were either intimidated by her size or put off by her frank, often blunt nature. “Since I am also in charge of the keep in the count’s absence, I would be pleased to offer our hospitality in his stead. I am certain he would not have me turn you away.”
The three men eyed one another, their hesitation palpable. “When do you expect your father to return?” Lord Hugh asked.
“Any day now,” she replied.
“We durst not tarry, my lord,” the second man insisted.
“At least come and take some refreshment,” Emma offered, hoping to learn more of their purpose. Robert of Neustria had a longstanding enmity with Brittany. Why would he seek out her father?
“Your offer is gracious, but time is of the essence,” Hugh said. He regarded the other two men with a grim look. “First the duke and now the count? I fear the marquis will be most displeased with this fool’s errand.”
The priest chimed in, “Our only hope is that both the count and the duke will have returned when we come back this way.”
“The duke?” Emma inquired. By now, her curiosity was most piqued. “Did you also seek an audience with Rudalt of Vannes?”
“Aye,” Hugh said grimly. “But the duke was off a hunting. We had little hope of bearing fruit from that quarter anyway, so we rode on to Cornouailles.”
“If we cannot speak with Count Gourmaëlon,” the second man interrupted as if she were invisible, “we must ride on to Poitou.”
“Agreed.” Hugh nodded and then turned back to his horse.
Emma marveled that they would tarry not even an hour to refresh themselves. What news did these men so urgently carry?
“Poitou?” she repeated. “But that is precisely where my father went. He had business with Count Ebles.”
“Did he indeed?” Hugh’s mouth twisted into a semblance of a smile. “Then fortune favors my master at last. We will ride south in hope of killing two birds with one stone.” He raised his foot to the stirrup, mounted, and then bowed from his saddle. “Adieu, my lady. We shall ride onward to Poitou.”
With a frown between her brows, Emma watched the riders disappear into the horizon. Why would Robert of Neustria send his emissaries to seek out the Breton nobles? And what was her father’s true purpose in Poitou? A shiver of foreboding rippled down her spine. Although Brittany had been at peace for most of her lifetime, it appeared as if the sands might be shifting once again.
Chapter Two
The Duchy of Vannes, southeastern Brittany
Ivar tossed a leftover gallette to the pack of hungry-eyed dogs, watched as they fought over it, and then sat back with a belch. “Where are the damned women in this place?” he demanded. Although his eyes were blurring and his body had settled into a dangerous state of lethargy, he refilled his tankard. “A man wants a willing wench to warm his bed after a battle.”
“What battle?” his brother, Bjorn, asked dryly. “Valdrik was the only one who put his sword to any use.”
“Aye, and by the look, he’ll be the only one using it this night,” Ivar grumbled. The day had been a victory for Valdrik, but it was a great disappointment for Ivar. The fight he’d so eagerly anticipated had never happened. Instead, Valdrik and the Duke of Vannes had faced one another in mortal combat—winner take all. Valdrik and his mighty, some believed magical, Ulfberht, had prevailed. Now they had come to Vannes to claim the spoils, but rather than basking in their success, Ivar felt strangely restless and dissatisfied. What in Odin’s name was wrong with him? Was it unsated bloodlust or something more? It had all seemed far too easy. Was this victory indeed a gift from the gods or was Loki up to no good? “Are you going to take her?” Ivar asked Valdrik.
“The duchess?” Valdrik replied. “Aye. But I would wed her first.”
“Wed her?” Ivar sputtered his drink all over his tunic. “Why? She’s yours for the taking!” Valdrik had slain the duke in combat and was entitled to the spoils. He couldn’t comprehend why his brother’s plan now included the shackles of wedlock. Then again, he’d never truly understood Valdrik.
“And I will take her in good time,” Valdrik replied. “Once I wed and bed her, we will claim the rest of this land.”
“You’ve never spoken of marriage before,” Bjorn said. “Why now?”
Valdrik stared into his cup. “If I want to keep these lands, I must have a Breton noblewoman to bear my sons.”
Perhaps it made sense, after all, given his brother’s grand scheme to conquer Brittany. The Norse were small in number. Valdrik could never hold the lands beyond Vannes without additional support. Ivar just hoped leg-shackles weren’t also in his future.
“Were I in your place, I would take a woman for every day of the week,” Ivar said.
“You think one not enough to satisfy you?” Bjorn asked.
&n
bsp; “I am a large man possessed with an equally great appetite,” Ivar countered with a grin.
“Then you should do as the god Freyr did and take a giantess to wife,” Valdrik suggested. “Make a sacrifice pleasing to him and mayhap, you will find such a woman among the Bretons.”
“I don’t seek a wife and have seen none here worth taking,” Ivar grumbled. “The only ones in this wretched place either have no teeth or their teats hang to their knees.”
“They are hiding from you Ivar,” Valdrik jibed. “Your reputation has scared them away.”
“Mayhap if you bring one of the hags into your bed tonight you’ll have the luck of Helgi,” Bjorn taunted. “The ugly crone he took into his bed turned into a beautiful, elvish woman. Then again, you could awaken instead with a toothless hag and a withered prick.”
“You only wish,” Ivar rejoined. “Even withered, ’twould be twice the size of your—” Ivar’s gaze suddenly riveted to the staircase, beyond Valdrik’s shoulder. “Damn! But what have we here?”
The woman wore an indecently thin almost translucent tunic and the look of one who knows a man’s desires and is more than willing to fulfill them. Who was she?
Ivar stood, almost toppling his chair. “Come to me, woman,” he urged with a broad grin and open arms. “We are in sore need of entertainment.”
She approached them boldly. “I am Gisela and I wish to know which of you will come to me in the duke’s bed tonight. I desire to know the siege machine of the man who slew him.” She came to Ivar, brazenly taking hold of his belt buckle with one hand, while she slid the other down to his crotch. “I can do things you only dreamed of.”
In an instant, he was hard as a pike. “’Twas not me who slew the duke,” Ivar grudgingly confessed and looked to Valdrik.
Letting loose of Ivar, she eyed Valdrik appraisingly, hands on her shapely hips. “Make me your duchess and I will do anything you desire.”
Her black gaze flickered from Valdrik to Ivar. “I would even pleasure you both. “Upon occasion,” she looked to Bjorn with a lascivious curl of her lips,” I have even taken three men at once.”
Although her proposition had completely captured Ivar’s imagination, Valdrik had never taken to whores. “I don’t seek a whore for my bed.” Valdrik said and pushed out of his chair.
“Where are you going?” Gisela demanded with a pout.
“To bed,” he answered. “But there is no point in wasting your talents. You are free to pleasure my brothers.” He nodded to Ivar and Bjorn. “I leave you to enjoy her.”
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 Mateudoi 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 lamb
ig 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.
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