Three Book Collection

by Vane, Victoria

  “I am no man’s whore,” she protested. “I was and still am the Duchess of Vannes. Rudalt was killed in a duel that he chose to fight. His bloated pride led him to wager everything and he lost. By wedding the Norseman, I have maintained my position and saved my people.”

  “Saved them?” Emma scoffed. “By selling them into bondage?”

  “We are not enslaved,” Adèle insisted. “We have made peace with the Norse. As you should do.”

  “Why would you do it? How can you support these godless brutes?”

  “I was wed to far worse,” Adèle responded with a bitter laugh. “But you did not know Rudalt as I did.”

  Emma had to concede her point. What little she did know of Duke Rudalt was less than savory. Her father had loathed and despised him. Had he not been plotting to usurp Rudalt in order to save Brittany from this very threat of invasion?

  “With Rudalt dead, we had no defense against them,” Adèle continued. “I chose what I thought was best for Brittany. Am I a traitor for not sacrificing the lives of my people?” the duchess asked. “For negotiating instead of allowing them to be taken into bondage?”

  “Negotiation?” Emma responded with a scornful laugh. “Is that what you call it? You tricked me!” Emma cried, fighting back tears of fury. How could Adèle have betrayed her when they’d known each other most of their lives? “I thought you sought sanctuary. I would never have opened the gates to them had you not come.”

  “Are you saying you would have allowed them to set all of Quimper aflame rather than making peace? That you would value your own pride above the lives of your people?”

  “There is nothing you can say to convince me to give up my homeland to our mortal enemy,” Emma replied.

  “Please consider the facts, Emma. These men are hardened warriors who came to conquer. They would not have left the keep standing. When you ran out of arrows and food, who would have come to your aid? Half of your men fled. Many are dead. Your father was slain. Who is left to fight for us?”

  Emma almost spoke up about Count Ebles but chose to hold her tongue for fear the duchess might betray her to the Vikings.

  “There is only my brother,” Adèle continued, “but he is weak and will not dare raise a sword against them. Make peace with them now or surely you will all suffer. If you would only make an outward show of cooperation with Ivar, you could make your circumstances more tolerable.”

  “Cooperate? Don’t you understand what he wants? He expects me to become his whore!”

  Adèle’s brow furrowed. “Is that what he said?”

  “He first thought to ransom me but when I told him there was no one willing to pay for me, he insinuated he would keep me as a concubine.” Emma shuddered at the thought of sacrificing both her chastity and her self-respect to that filthy pagan.

  “He is a proud man, Emma, and your defiance of him has bruised that pride. No one, except his brother, supersedes his authority. To save face with his men, it is now impossible for him to deal gently with you.”

  “You waste your breath,” Emma replied. “I will never willingly concede to him.”

  “I don’t see that you have any choice.”

  “What if I choose to fight?” Emma asked. “Would you betray me?”

  “No, Emma. I swear before God I would not, but where will you find an army? You said your brother will not fight.”

  “Before his death, my father made an alliance with Count Ebles of Poitou. He betrothed me to wed him which would also bind him to protect me.”

  “You think he will come?” Adèle asked.

  “I don’t know. I have waited in hope, but if he does not, I must find a way to escape and go to him. Would you join me?” Emma asked.

  “No.” Adèle shook her blonde head. “I already made my choice. As long as Valdrik keeps his word to me, I also must also uphold my vows to him. Speaking of which, I must tend to him.”

  Emma scowled. “He is here? In my home?”

  “Yes. In the count’s chambers. He is gravely wounded.

  “Why would you help him? Why don’t you just let him die?”

  “Why? Because I fear what would befall us without him. Valdrik is a fair man, Emma. Although he was harsh at first, he has been honest with me. He has also shown strength, intelligence, and character. I would never have wished this upon us, but Valdrik seems to be a far better man and would be a far better duke than Rudalt ever was. As long as he has the strength to hold what he has taken, we can continue to live peacefully and prosperously under his rule. It is only if he fails to hold Brittany that we will suffer. You know as well as I that the Franks are no better than hungry dogs waiting to fight over the scraps. Despise him if you must, Emma, but Brittany could do far worse.”

  “And if he dies? What then?” Emma asked.

  Adèle’s expression grew solemn. Had she developed tender feelings for that barbarian? “I don’t know. I suppose our fate would fall to his brothers.”

  “To Ivar, the beast who presumes to take Cornouailles from me?” The redheaded behemoth who had ruthlessly man-handled her. She’d never felt so powerless against anyone. She despised him as much for that as any other of his multifarious sins.

  “He already has and there’s nothing you or I can do about it. Please, Emma,” Adèle appealed, “for your own sake as well as that of your people, make peace with him.”

  “I cannot,” Emma replied as tears burned her eyes. “Quimper is my home. This is who I am and all I have. Can’t you understand that?”

  “I do, Emma. I also fear what this decision might cost you in the end, but you must follow your own heart as I have followed mine.” Shaking her head in resignation, Adèle turned toward the door.

  “Wait,” Emma called out just as Adèle’s hand touched the latch. “I must know what has happened to our dead. Have they been buried or just left to rot?”

  Strangely, she had yet to even shed a tear for her father. In truth, she felt almost devoid of emotion. It was if the past days were just a very bad dream that she had yet to awaken from. But she had to awaken. She had to find a way to overcome this travesty.

  Adèle turned back to face her. “All of the bodies have been gathered to be burned. It is Norse custom.”

  “But it is not Christian custom,” Emma protested. “Is this how it is to be under them? Are our ways to be thoughtlessly discarded and our beliefs suppressed?”

  “I don’t think that is the intent, Emma, but I cannot answer for him. Perhaps you should ask him yourself. Surely any reasonable man would honor your wish to lay your father to rest.”

  “But that’s the question, isn’t it?” Emma answered with a bitter laugh. “Is he a reasonable man? Or a devil in disguise?”

  Ivar was dead on his feet, but still worried for his brother. Although it was beyond his power to do anything more for Valdrik, Ivar still spent the night in wakeful vigilance. With Valdrik still in peril, he had much on his shoulders—far more responsibility than he had ever wanted.

  Dozens of men, both Breton and Norse, were dead or wounded. Managing both required his attention—the living needed to be tended and the dead laid to rest. The remainder of their forces needed to be kept under strict discipline.

  While he knew he could depend on Bjorn, who was loyal to a fault, Bjorn had returned to Vannes—leaving everything else to Ivar. Although they had prevailed in battle, without Valdrik, he feared the dream of conquering Brittany would soon crumble to dust. He wasn’t normally a man to fret about tomorrow. He’d never before cared what lay beyond the present, but all that had changed the moment Valdrik had been stricken down. Now Valdrik’s fate lay in the hands of the gods.

  What if it fell to him to fill Valdrik’s shoes? Ivar excelled in combat, but political machinations and domestic matters were a complete mystery to him. He was born to be a warrior, not an overlord. And he was far from certain that this was what he wanted for himself. He’d come to Brittany in support of his brother’s dream, never imagining being in this position. Fo
r the first time in his life, he felt unequal to the task.

  “I need you, brother,” he said, kneeling by Valdrik’s side, hoping in vain for a response. “This was your destiny, not mine.” He was still on his knees when the duchess entered. Embarrassed to have been caught in a vulnerable moment, he rose quickly to his feet. “What do you want?” he snapped.

  “I came with willow bark tea to treat the fever,” she replied. “Is there any change?”

  “None,” he answered tersely. “He’s still delirious, but sleeps at the moment.”

  “You should also rest,” she said with a look of concern. “I will sit with him.”

  “I don’t trust you,” he replied. He still refused to leave her alone at his brother’s sickbed.

  “It seems trust is in short supply these days.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” he growled. His men trusted him implicitly.

  “Because of your treachery, Emma thinks I betrayed her.”

  “My treachery?” Ivar scoffed. “You proved at Vannes that treachery is your specialty. What have I done to earn her mistrust? ’Twas she, not I, who first pulled the knife. I reacted accordingly.”

  “You entered this keep under false pretenses,” she accused. “Then, after seizing her home, you locked her up. Do you suppose that might have something to do with her resentment?”

  He muttered a litany of curses. Had he not treated her mercifully? And with all of the regard due her station? Her home was relatively intact and all who had surrendered peacefully were unharmed. It had taken threats of dire punishment to keep his men in check, but he’d done so in order to foster her goodwill—not that Lady Emma had recognized his efforts. It seemed his mercy and forbearance had gotten him nowhere. She continued to flaunt her contempt of him.

  “Doesn’t she realize I could have done far worse?”

  “Please try to understand that Emma has had a great deal of freedom. Her father was often away, leaving her to act as castellan of this keep. For years, she was left much to her own devices and is unaccustomed to answering to anyone. You can’t order her about like you do your men and expect her blind obedience.”

  “Did her father make no effort to rein her in?”

  “They frequently butted heads. She is an unusually strong woman.”

  “In need of a strong hand repeatedly plied to her backside until she learns her place,” he retorted. “And I’m just the man to do it.”

  “That would certainly win you into her good graces,” the duchess replied sarcastically.

  Ivar swore another oath. “I don’t look for her good graces. I expect obedience. She should be on her knees thanking me for my mercy.” The mere thought of Lady Emma on her knees sent a surge of hot lust to his loins. He envisioned a number of pleasant ways she could show her gratitude from that position. He swore to the gods he would, but not by brute force. Only a coward forced a defenseless woman into submission. He would find another way.

  “There is one thing you could do to soften her,” the duchess suggested.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  “Allow her a proper Christian burial for her father.”

  “She believes I would deny her this?” he demanded angrily. Did she think so little of him? Her father had died honorably and deserved all the rites of a fallen warrior.

  “She believes you have no respect for Christian traditions.”

  “Is that so? Then you will tell Lady Emma that I will show her the same respect she reciprocates. If she wishes to bury her dead, she must come to me.”

  Chapter Seven

  Emma was furious at Ivar’s command to sup with him. Did he mean only to speak with her or would he force her to go to his bed? When she’d asked Adèle, the duchess answered that he wasn’t inclined to elaborate. Neither was Emma inclined to acknowledge the summons.

  Nevertheless, she had nothing to gain by refusing to speak to him. Although entire being revolted against responding to Ivar’s summons, her father deserved a proper burial, and she needed freedom from her rooms if she had any hope of escaping.

  She finally had the semblance of a plan, but it all hinged on the Norseman granting her request to lay her father to rest. How far was she willing to go to persuade him? Would she be compelled to betray herself to secure her escape? She prayed it would not come to that. Dropping to her knees, she murmured a prayer to the Holy Mother asking for courage and protection from the fiend who presently occupied her father’s high seat. If she rebuffed him again, how long would he keep her prisoner? The confinement was already about to drive her mad, but her hope of rescue was still five days away.

  “He calls for you again, my lady,” Havoise said. “Mayhap ’tis unwise to tarry.”

  “I do not tarry,” Emma scoffed at the warning. “I will go to him when I am ready.”

  She was already an hour late for supper but purposely dragged her feet, changing her tunic three times, and then fussing unnecessarily with her veil and filet. Was she delaying from nerves or just to agitate him? Perhaps it was a bit of both. With a final fortifying breath, Emma crossed the chamber only to have the door burst open.

  “My supper has grown cold.” The beast himself filled her doorway, wearing an expression that would have sent a meeker woman cowering.

  “You need not have waited,” she said.

  His stance broadened and his gaze hardened. “Leave us,” he commanded Havoise.

  The old woman looked to Emma, her eyes wide with alarm.

  “Do as he says, Havoise,” Emma calmly replied. She feared what was about to transpire but even more that he’d turn his wrath upon her servant.

  He closed the door the moment her servant shuffled out and leaned back against it, with his powerful arms crossed over an equally massive chest, regarding her in silent scrutiny. He was much larger than she remembered and also much cleaner. In truth, she would not have recognized him. His wildly ungroomed beard was neatly trimmed and his shining, russet hair fell in loose waves to touch his shoulders. The open neck of his shirt revealed more coppery hair dusting his chest. His tunic was finely woven wool in deep sea green, the same shade as his eyes. Once more, Emma shook off the strange notion that there was something familiar about his eyes.

  She noted a silver torque engraved with symbols she didn’t recognize around his thickly muscled neck. He wore a similar band of silver about his wrist. Dressed in such finery, he might even have passed for a Breton nobleman. Yet, this more civilized version of the Norseman seemed somehow more ominous than the savage she’d expected to meet downstairs in the great hall.

  Raising her chin, she asked, “Why are you here?”

  “You didn’t come to me. I will not tolerate your disrespect.”

  “I was feeling indisposed.” She glanced away, herself unable to hold his gaze.

  “Reneging is cowardly, Lady Emma. And lying is equally dishonorable. I expected better from you.”

  His barb hit home. She had indeed acted cowardly. “I will never respect you. And it is not I, but you, who acts the part of a liar and a coward.”

  His chest expanded as if he were about to explode. Releasing a long, slow breath, he replied ominously, “If you were a man I would cut out your tongue.”

  “Because I speak the truth? You said you would not enslave me, yet you would make me your whore!”

  He came toward her with a steely stare. “I want you willing. If I intended force, I would have had you already.”

  An almost hysterical gurgle of laughter bubbled up in her throat. “How can you call it willing when you use threats and coercion?”

  He stopped mere inches away from her. Emma found her gaze even with his chin. “The difference is that you would not be shackled to a bed… as my mother was.”

  He’d stunned her into silence. Was it true? “Your father treated your mother as a slave?”

  “My mother was a bed thrall. She was taken as a young girl many years ago from this very land.”

  Emma’s mind whirled. How c
ould this be? She studied him anew. She’d marveled that he had such a perfect command of her tongue. And his eyes seemed so familiar. Was that also due to his Breton heritage? “Your mother was a Breton? Is this really true?”

  He nodded. “She was from the north, Ille-et-Vilaine.”

  “Our priest, Father Pascweten, is from Ille-et-Vilaine,” she remarked, still incredulous. “When did this happen?”

  “Over thirty years ago,” he replied. “She was only nine or ten-years-old when her entire family was killed and she was taken as a slave. She was intended as a house thrall but she was very beautiful once she grew into womanhood. My father noticed her and took her for his pleasure. She later bore him a son and two daughters.”

  “Where is she now?” Emma asked.

  “She is dead.” His tone was flat and his expression seemed strangely devoid of emotion. “She died before I could redeem her.”

  Emma was still stunned. He was half Breton and his mother was a slave? Each new revelation about him only increased her curiosity. What must it be like to be the offspring of such an unholy union? “I’m sorry,” she murmured the words of sympathy without even thinking.

  “As am I,” he replied.

  “What do you mean by redeem?”

  “In my homeland, a slave can be made free—either for a price or as a gift. My freedom was a gift from my half-brother Valdrik.”

  “Your freedom?” Emma gaped. “You were also a slave?”

  “Aye,” he replied. “Valdrik and I grew up together. Although I served him, we were near the same age and very close. The season before our first raid, when we were both barely past our twelfth summer, he asked our father for my freedom as his coming-of-age gift.”

  “He did?”

  “Aye. He also helped me later to redeem my sisters.” His gaze clouded, giving her another brief glimpse of his humanity. “I owe him much.”

  “And where are your sisters now?” she couldn’t help asking.

  He regarded her for a long moment, as if considering whether he would respond. “My sisters are both happily wed to farmers back in my homeland. I have not seen them in many years.”