Valdrik’s laughter was still rumbling in his ears as Ivar departed the chamber, bound for the great hall where he was determined to make his bed. With Valdrik on the mend, he could now catch some badly needed rest. He’d never endured such a long period of wakefulness. He hardly cared where he laid his head as long as he could steal a few hours of sleep. He was still furious as he crossed the room seeking the warmth of the great hearth. The best chair by the fire was occupied, but one silent glare had the man leaping to his feet with mumbled apologies. Snatching a fur rug from one of the slumbering bodies, Ivar balled it up under his head and closed his eyes. Sleep, however, was elusive.
He was agitated and his mind refused to empty. His brother had given him no alternative. Whether he liked it or not, wedlock was now a certainty. He did, however, have two choices. He could sacrifice himself and pay off a long due debt to his brother by taking Gisela or he could satisfy his own burning desire for Emma—if he could convince her to accept him as a husband.
When he finally slept, his mind was filled with dreams. He’d found himself in a hall even more glorious than that of Quimper. In the center was a man sitting on a gilded throne with a silver chalice in hand—surely a god of the Vanir. Was he face-to-face with Freyr himself? The rest of the dream had mirrored the story of Freyr and Gerda, but in his visions, it wasn’t Freyr’s servant, Skirnir, who the god sent to woo the giantess on his behalf, but Ivar himself.
Bearing gifts and a magical sword, Ivar rode to the land of the giants to seek out Gerda’s father, Gymir, to plea for the hand of the giantess who had unwittingly captured the heart of a god. After braving many perils and penetrating walls of fire, he finally arrived at the home of Gymir, but the giantess who greeted him at the door was none other than Lady Emma of Quimper.
Chapter Nine
Emma’s heart pounded with trepidation as she once more reviewed her escape plan. Although her wedding date was only three days away, she had no guarantee that Ebles would come. This might be her only chance to save Quimper. She feared the penalty she might have to pay should she fail, but failure wasn’t an option.
Havoise arrived at her customary time with a tray laden with galettes and cider. Though her stomach wanted to revolt, Emma forced herself to eat heartily. Poitou was four days of hard riding and she could only carry what few provisions she could hide under her mantle. It could be days before she had another full meal.
After having been kept under constant surveillance, Emma was surprised at how easily she was able to carry out her plan. She was accompanied by a guard of only three Norsemen. To her surprise, they escorted her to the family chapel where she found Gurwent and Father Pascweten awaiting her.
“My lady,” Gurwent greeted her with a look of shame. “I cannot express how sorry I am to have failed you.”
“What’s done is done,” she replied stiffly. “Where is my father’s body?”
“It is inside the mausoleum.” The priest nodded to the door leading down to the crypts. “My lord’s body has already been prepared.”
“How is this?” she remarked in surprise. “I didn’t receive permission until last night to give him a proper burial.”
“We were roused from our beds last eve with the orders,” Gurwent said.
“Orders? Who instructed you to do this?”
“Captain Ivar,” Gurwent replied. “He commanded his men to follow all of your instructions regarding the internment.”
“All of his men are to follow my instructions?” she glanced nervously to the guards posted at the door. Slipping by them unrecognized was her greatest challenge.
“Aye, my lady,” the priest replied.
“How considerate,” she said. “I hardly expected him to be so accommodating.” Emma was completely taken aback. Matters surely could not have worked more in her favor. Truly, the Virgin was watching over her this day.
“If it means anything, my lady,” Gurwent continued, “he has treated all of us fairly, and his men seem to have no complaints.”
Stealing a last lungful of fresh air, Emma plied a scented handkerchief to her nose and descended the staircase to the crypts.
Ivar slept until almost midday and awoke feeling much like a bear coming out of hibernation—disoriented, ravenously hungry, and thirsty. The great hall was all but abandoned when he sat down to satisfy his physical needs with a loaf of brown bread, a wedge of soft cheese, and a pitcher of mead.
He ate in silent contemplation of how he would answer Valdrik. His brother would soon be expecting a response but Ivar still had come to no conclusions. There was no question about his desire for Emma, but lust for her body was quite a different thing from binding himself to her soul for life. The problem was that Ivar had never desired any wife.
Was his resistance because he had so little faith in the custom of marriage, a tradition that the gods themselves, with their respective consorts and concubines, espoused? Or was it the example set by his own father, a man who’d taken a wife, a concubine, and kept a bed slave? Perhaps he secretly feared he would prove inadequate as a husband and father? He’d never examined his feelings about it too closely.
His younger brother, Bjorn, had married happily, only to lose his wife during childbirth. It had devastated him. Maybe he still hadn’t recovered. Valdrik, who had hardly ever spoken of marriage until he’d come to conquer Brittany, had hardly waited for the duke’s body to grow cold before taking the newly widowed duchess to wife. Even after her betrayal, he seemed disinclined to end the union. Both of his brothers had experienced deep feelings for a woman, yet Ivar never had.
Was he capable of love? Did he care if he was? So many unanswered questions made his head ache. No wonder he preferred fighting to deep thought.
His life had suddenly come to a crossroads and he didn’t care for either direction.
His third option was to leave Brittany altogether and strike out on his own. Perhaps even go home to his sisters. In truth, nothing bound him to Valdrik but gratitude and loyalty, but both of his brothers would feel betrayed if he were to strike out on his own. In the end, he knew he would make whatever sacrifice Valdrik asked of him.
It still disturbed him that he had so many more questions than answers. Here he was in the land of his mother’s birth, yet he knew so little of his own family history. Emma had told him the priest was from the same village as his mother’s family, Ille-et-Vilaine. That knowledge had wormed its way into his brain. He’d never be able to rest until he knew more, but even if there was anyone left alive from that raid, surely they would not recall a ten-year-old girl. Nevertheless, he needed to know. He would approach the priest with his questions.
Determined to confront his past, Ivar drained his cup and slammed it down on the table. Ivar moved with ground-eating strides as he made his way through the inner bailey to the chapel. He noted with a frown that there was no guard posted at the door.
He paused at the entrance to the chapel with a sudden feeling of unease. Would the gods frown upon him for entering the temple of the White Christ? He vowed to make a sacrifice to his gods as atonement for the trespass. As he entered the chapel, his gaze riveted to the altar with its ceremonial vessels of gold and silver and then to the ornately wrought cross hanging above it. His chest tightened in sudden remembrance of his mother and her stubborn refusal to abandon her own faith—though it nearly cost her life.
As a young boy, he’d listened raptly to her stories of the Christ God who’d come to earth in mortal form. In his enthusiasm, he’d related the stories to Valdrik, who then informed his father. As punishment, his mother had been severely beaten and threatened with death. Although she secretly held steadfast to her beliefs, Ivar rejected any talk of the Christ after that. If he were indeed a god, would he not have protected his mother?
Arriving at the chapel, he was disturbed to find it empty. Was it done already? Had Lady Emma buried her father with so little ceremony? Where was the priest? And the guards he’d posted? His senses told him something wasn’t r
ight. He spun around once more on a mission for answers.
“Is it done already?” Ivar asked the first man he encountered. “Has Lady Emma paid her last respects to her father?”
“Aye.” The man licked his lips nervously. “The body is entombed…but the lady is gone.”
“Gone?” Ivar’s fists clenched. “Gone where?”
“She escaped. We believe she rode south.”
“How in Hel did this happen?” Ivar growled.
“She tricked us, Captain. We didn’t know ’twas her. She disguised herself as the priest. Lars and Anders have already ridden after her.”
“As will I,” Ivar declared with an oath. “Saddle my horse!”
Fighting to control his fury, Ivar crossed the inner bailey, taking the steps two at a time to his brother’s chambers. He knocked only once and burst inside, startling Valdrik and his wife out of an impassioned embrace. Valdrik muttered a stream of oaths while the duchess hastily adjusted her clothes.
“Forgive my intrusion,” Ivar said gruffly, “But the matter couldn’t wait. Lady Emma has fled.” The duchess’ gaze widened as Ivar directed his attention to her. “I thought you might know where she went.”
She licked her lips with a guilty look. “Why would you think I am in her confidence?”
He took a step toward her. “Are you not? I know you have visited her chambers.”
“That doesn’t mean she told me anything.”
“You evade the question, Duchess.”
“I…I…” She looked beseechingly to Valdrik who responded by grasping her arm with a fierce look.
“Our bonds of trust are tenuous at best, Adèle. As your husband, you owe your first and last loyalty to me. If you know anything about this, you must tell us. Now.”
Adèle looked to Ivar. “I will tell you nothing unless you first promise that no harm will come to her.”
Ivar nodded. “I swear in the name of Allfather that I only intend to bring her safely back.”
She looked back to Valdrik. “She will not be punished?”
Valdrik glanced at Ivar. “I can’t promise you that. Since he is bent on retrieving her, I can only presume that my brother has decided to wed her. It seems to me this will be punishment in itself.”
“The day of reckoning we discussed grows nearer, brother,” Ivar threatened.
“Is it true? You wish to marry, Emma?” The duchess eyed both brothers with puzzlement. “Aye,” Ivar confessed with a scowl. “Now tell me where she has gone.”
“I believe she went south to Poitou to seek aid from Count Ebles… her betrothed.”
“Her betrothed?”
“Her father recently arranged a match with Count Ebles,” she explained.
“She lied to me!” Ivar declared.
“She did what she thought best under the circumstances,” Adele defended. “Would you not do the same?”
Ivar was too incensed to answer. He was not only furious that Emma had lied to him that there was no one to pay a ransom for her, but enraged beyond reason that another man had a claim to her. She’d made a complete fool of him.
He left his brother’s chambers and entered the bailey roaring to the guard to open the gate, flung himself onto the waiting horse, and dug his heels into its sides. Clattering over the bridge toward the gate, he crouched low over the animal’s neck, barely clearing it without taking off his own head.
For the first time in her life, Emma was grateful for her unusual stature. Donning the priest cowl which hid her face, she and Gurwent slipped from the chapel without suspicion. After placing her father in his tomb, the priest had informed her guard that she would remain in the chapel alone for three hours of private prayer. As promised, Budic had horses and provisions at the ready.
Her escape from Quimper was both terrifying and exhilarating. She didn’t think the Vikings would let her get away without pursuit, but three hours had given her an excellent head start. She was also thankful to have her servant as her guide and protector. Had she been alone, she might well have become lost. She’d only been outside of Cornouailles but four times in her entire life, and never outside of Brittany.
The first time she’d traveled was when her father had wed his second wife. It was on this occasion, that Emma had first met Adèle who was living with the king and queen as a foster daughter. Close in age, they’d become instant friends—until Adèle had married Duke Rudalt. Her second time away from Quimper was to the county of Poher, for the marriage celebration of Duke Rudalt’s younger sister, Gwened, to Adèle’s younger brother, Mateudoi.
The last time she’d visited Vannes, she and her father had gone to pay their respects upon King Alain’s death, and her father had sworn begrudging fealty to Duke Rudalt. It was then that she’d first met Count Ebles. She remembered cringing when the count had gazed up at her with a lecherous smile displaying his decaying teeth. Her father had later punished her for rudeness.
What kind of greeting awaited her in Poitou? Surely this time when the count greeted her with his sickening smile, Emma would force herself to smile back. The vision made her shudder with revulsion. She reminded herself that her sacrifice was necessary to save Quimper from the pagan invaders.
Nevertheless, she couldn’t help comparing the man who would soon be her husband to the Norseman. Though Ivar was rough, filled with self-conceit, crude, and ill-mannered, she had to concede that he was a far superior specimen of manhood than Count Ebles.
When she’d first encountered the red-headed Viking in the great hall, covered in blood and filth, he was everything she’d expected and despised, but his actions had taken her completely by surprise. He had not come to rape and pillage and had kept his men in tight check. In the aftermath of the siege, she’d seen no evidence, nor heard any reports of rape or torture. Moreover, the Vikings had been quick to repair the damage of war.
And then had come the revelation that his mother was a Breton. Emma still hadn’t quite come to grips with that knowledge. Who was the young girl who was so cruelly taken from her home to a savage land and placed into bondage? Did he also wonder about his family history? Had any of them survived? Was his personal history part of his motive for invading? Given his connection to the land, she wondered what kind of ruler he might be. For the very first time, she questioned her decision to leave Quimper. Why was she having these thoughts?
Part of her knew the answer—the kiss. Emma had no experience of passion. It was as foreign to her as his pagan ways, but he’d awakened in her a deep yearning to know the secrets of the flesh. She also knew she would never feel the same kind of desire, or any desire at all, for Count Ebles. Nevertheless, the die was cast. There was no turning back now.
Budic suddenly signaled her to pull up. “The horses need rest, milady.”
“We can’t afford to stop, Budic. Too much weighs on our success.”
“If we press on, we’ll surely kill the horses,” he warned.
Though her mount’s flanks were heaving from exhaustion, Emma chewed her lip in uncertainty. “Do you think we’ve put enough distance between us? I’m certain they’ll pursue us.”
“There’s no way to know, my lady.” He frowned up at the gray and pink-tinged sky. “But we’re also losing daylight. We can’t venture much further once darkness sets in. Mayhap we should find shelter? We are still on your father’s lands. Surely you can rely on the loyalty of your tenants.”
“No, Budic,” she said. “I don’t dare take the chance. We must press southward for as long as we are able. Let us rest the horses for a short time and then ride on.”
“As you wish, my lady,” Budic replied with a shake of his head. He then dismounted from his sweat-lathered horse.
Emma followed suit, throwing her leg over the pommel with a groan. She was so exhausted in both mind and body that her legs almost gave way as her feet hit the ground.
“Are you all right, my lady?” Budic rushed to her side.
“’Tis nothing.” She brushed away his concern with a w
ave. “I am just unaccustomed to such riding.”
“As am I,” Budic confessed, grimacing and rubbing his backside. “I’ll tend the horses if ye’d like to take some victuals and a short rest.”
“No fires,” Emma said, pulling her woolen mantle more tightly around her. The temperature was dropping and the clouds had darkened. “Let us hope we are blessed by a clear night with a bright moon.”
As Emma walked out the cramps in her legs, she cast her gaze heavenward in a silent prayer that it would not rain. Shortly after her petition to the Blessed Virgin, a thunderclap sounded.
Chapter Ten
After two days of riding in icy rain, Emma was numb from the chill that reached deep into her bones. They had long ago slowed their pace to a walk, but she had stubbornly refused to take shelter. She hunched into her woolen mantle but there was no warmth to be found within its sodden folds. She wondered if it was now too late. Would she ever know warmth and comfort again?
While Emma considered herself a strong woman, she’d never suffered such a trial before, had never been tested by the elements. The men who pursued her, however, were seasoned warriors whose bodies were hardened to such conditions. She’d vowed to press onward but her body now racked with shivers of such violence that she could barely sit the horse. She desperately yearned for the welcoming heat of a fire and the comfort of her own bed.
Shutting her eyes, Emma crouched lower over her horse’s neck, seeking the heat from its steaming body. She was so desperately tired. And hungry. And cold.
“My lady?” Her eyelids barely fluttered at the concern in Budic’s voice. “C-cold. So v-very c-cold,” she murmured back before closing them again and slipping into the welcome darkness.
Hard riding in miserable icy rain, quickly transformed Ivar’s fiery fury into stone cold resolution. He was done with her this time. He told himself he’d never wanted a wife, anyway. Let alone, one that would surely drive him to drink. He caught up with his men Lars and Anders by midday. They both wore worried looks as he found them resting by a stream. As they should. Why had they not found her yet?
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