Three Book Collection

by Vane, Victoria

“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 hilltop 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 a 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 anymore.”

  “Have we lost so many?” Bjorn asked.

  “Not to death,” Ivar agreed. “But many are wounded. An injured solidier 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 h
ealer 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.”

  “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.

  A siege that wasn’t going well. He hadn’t slept in three days and his own garments were soiled with dirt, sweat, and blood. He was very close to defying Valdrik and setting the castle aflame.

  “If you wish to end the siege, you must offer to treat with her,” the duchess said.

  “Her?” Ivar repeated. “I have been fighting a woman?”

  “If the count is dead. It can only be his daughter, Emma, who commands the fortress. Why do you find this so difficult to comprehend? ’Twas I, after all, who made the decision to raise the gate when you assaulted Vannes.”

  “But this assault?” he waved to the archers.

  “Aye.” She nodded. “It is what I would expect of her. Emma would fight to her death. Pray, let me treat with her. If you will allow it, I would endeavor to enter the gate and end this bloodshed.”

  “Nay.” Ivar shook his head. His mistrust of the duchess compelled him to accompany her. “I will also meet with this virago.”

  “Very well,” she replied. “Anything to be done with this pointless bloodshed.”

  Emma walked the ramparts in a trans-like state. She’d barely eaten and hadn’t seen her bed in nearly three days. Although she had sufficient stores to last for weeks, her instincts told her the Norse would not allow her the luxury of time. They would either continue the assault until the gates to Quimper gave way to their siege machines, or they would burn her out. Part of her wondered why they hadn’t already done so. She could only deduce that greed kept their savagery in check. If they burned her out, there would be little left to loot.

  On a whispered supplication to the Blessed Virgin, she cast her eyes to the south, squinting desperately into the empty horizon, but all of her prayers, thus far, had been uttered in vain. While fear compelled her to maintain her vigilance, the faint hope of relief was her sustenance. Surely Count Ebles had received her father’s message. Whether he was inclined to intercede or not, the betrothal contract legally bound him to protect her. He was already her husband in word, if not yet in deed. Perhaps he was even now marshaling his forces. She consoled herself that even if he had no knowledge of the siege, he would be coming in six days to claim her as his bride.

  Six more days of siege…could they survive it?

  She fought a violent surge of nausea as she took in the blood stained earth and decomposing bodies that lay beyond the bailey walls. The stench of smoke assailed her nostrils as the Norse gathered and burned their own dead. If she called for a truce, would the savages allow her own people the same honor? To bury their dead while they could still be identified? Mayhap such a truce would buy her time?

  “My lady!” Gurwent, the captain of her guard, pointed to a rider wildly waving the purple and white pennant of Vannes.

  “Adèle?” Was it indeed the duchess? Her heart surged in her chest to see Adèle alive and apparently unharmed. “Cease arrows!” Emma shouted to the archers the moment she recognized her friend. Why had she come to Quimper? Did she seek sanctuary? But wasn’t she a prisoner of the Norse? This turn of events didn’t make any sense.

  “Go to the gate,” Emma commanded her captain. “I must know why the duchess has come.”

  From the safety of her perch, Emma watched the gate, trying to interpret the rapid exchange of words and gestures between the captain and the duchess while a menacing Norseman remained at her side. Unwashed and covered in dried blood, he also had the fearsome look of a savage. He stood at least half a head taller than Gurwent, which made him the largest and most physically imposing man she had ever seen. By all appearances, Adèle was indeed a prisoner. How could she help her?

  Emma’s mind scrambled for a plan, but moments later, when the captain returned, she still had no strategy to deal with the Norsemen, other than stalling for time. “The duchess seeks entrance, my lady. She says the Norseman wishes to treat with you.”

  “Just one man?” she asked.

  “Aye.” Gurwent nodded. “But he is the size of two.”

  “What do you think of this, Gurwent? Is it a trick?”

  Gurwent scratched his beard and then shook his head. “I trust them not, my lady, but ’tis the duchess herself who entreats you to talk.”

  “Then let her come to me.”

  “The Norseman won’t allow it. He said she is his surety that you will cooperate.”

  “He holds her hostage?”

  “It seems so, my lady, but she appears unharmed.”

  Chewing her lip, Emma paced. “How can I believe this isn’t trickery? That they don’t use her simply to breach our gates?”

  “I can only urge caution, my lady.”

  “I have little choice but to talk with them,” Emma confessed. “They could burn us at any time. I need at least to forestall that.” She spun back to her captain. “Open the gate to him, but send ten men to insure he carries no weapons. I will meet them in the great hall.”

  Acutely aware of her disadvantage if he perceived any vulnerability in her, Emma hastily retreated to her chambers to wash and change her tunic. “Havoise!” she called to her maid. “I must have clean linen at once. And bring out my gold Byzantine silk.”

  Havoise’s eyes widened. “The one you were to be wed in?”

  “Yes. If the savage wishes to talk, I will receive him according to my station.”

  But once dressed in her finest, Emma reconsidered. As a woman, she would only be perceived as weak. Her father had warned her that the Viking savages only respected strength. Thus, she would confront the Viking, not woman-to-man, but warrior-to-warrior.

  Half an hour later, she descended the staircase with a rac
ing heart, trembling knees, and a body weighted down by a chainmail hauberk and the sword her father had given her strapped to her side.

  Ivar entered the outer gate of Quimper only to be surrounded by armed men with a hungry look that told him one wrong move on his part and they would happily skewer him. He could smell their bloodlust. Was he foolhardy to have entered the gates? Should he have sent another in his stead? Valdrik surely would have done so, but curiosity and pride compelled him to confront the adversary who refused to surrender to him.

  Caked as he was in dirt and blood, Ivar knew he was a sight to strike fear in even the hearts of his own men, but refused to cleanse his body or change his tunic. Fear and intimidation would be his greatest assets in this negotiation.

  “Drop your weapons,” the captain-of-the-guard commanded him.

  Ivar stabbed his sword into the ground. His shield followed with a thud.

  “Now check him for knives,” the captain ordered.

  While two men pointed their blades at his throat, another searched his clothing, finding and removing the dagger he carried in his boot. It joined his sword and shield.

  Devoid of weapons, Ivar felt naked and vulnerable, but nevertheless, faced the force of ten with boldness. “Be warned that I will have all of your heads on a pike if they are not here when I return.”

  Now that he had no defenses, would they murder him in hope of ending the siege? They had to know of Valdrik’s injury, which had left Ivar in charge of the Norse army. What would he do in their place? There was no question in his mind. He would kill the enemy invader.

  Instincts on high alert, he tensed, anticipating the fight that would ultimately end his life while mentally calculating how many he would take with him. To his surprise, the moment passed without incident. Fools.

  “This way,” the guard commanded.

  Escorted with spears at their backs, he and the duchess crossed through the bailey, toward the bridge to the hilltop keep. Ivar covertly scanned the fortification to assess it for weaknesses. There were archers on the walls but few men inside. Easily taken if only a handful of his men breached the gate.