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 mother, 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 the 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 marri
age 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.”
“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.
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