Three Book Collection

by Vane, Victoria

  “Why does an isolated attack on a Cotentin monastery have you quaking in your boots?” Duke Rudalt asked with a snort. “Brittany has not had to deal with any real Viking threat for decades.”

  “They will not stop at one monastery,” the priest insisted. “They rejoice in defiling the house of God and do so in unspeakable ways.”

  “This is not isolated,” Hugh said. There is a growing colony of them in the Loire that the Franks have failed to eradicate. If this new group gains a foothold, the Godless heathens will spread over the land like a plague.”

  “Let the Franks deal with their own problems.” Rudalt dismissed their concern. “Brittany is separated from Saint Marcouf by the Cotentin peninsula. Once the Norse realize there are no riches to be plundered there, they will not tarry long. They will travel up the Seine and harry Paris instead.”

  “What if you are wrong?” Count Gormaelon demanded. “What if they are testing the waters now that the man who drove them from Brittany is dead?”

  “Testing the waters…or testing me?” Duke Rudalt’s gaze narrowed. “What exactly are you implying, Gormaelon?”

  Gwened’s gaze darted from one man to the other. The king would surely roll in his grave if he knew how much Brittany had weakened only four years after his death. Everyone knew the king had not trusted his own son to rule with autonomy, and this knowledge only weakened Rudalt’s position. To make matters worse, rather than working to earn their respect and confidence, he flouted his authority, ruling as a tyrant and liked by no one but his mistress.

  But now it seemed Count Gormaelon was prepared to challenge him. “I imply nothing. I speak openly! The Vikings are once more on our doorstep and you do nothing!” Gormaelon slammed his fist on the oaken council table with a thud. “We must join with Richard of Burgundy and drive them out!”

  “And leave us vulnerable in the south?” Rudalt asked. “Damn the Franks! I am far more concerned about the Count of Poitou’s designs on Vannes.”

  “As God’s appointed ruler of this land, it is your God-ordained duty to care for and protect His church,” Mateudoi’s soft voice broke the strained silence. “By failing to act, my brother, I fear you will be damned.”

  Rudalt glowered at his young brother-in-law with a visage flooding with color, but to Gwened’s surprise, Mateudoi did not cower under Rudalt’s belligerent stare.

  Although Mateudoi was well-read in history and had absorbed an extraordinary theoretical understanding of statecraft, he had never spoken a single opinion on political matters—until now. She wondered if Mateudoi fully understood the danger he had placed himself in by defying the duke. Rudalt was not a forgiving man in the best of circumstances. She was certain he would make Mateudoi pay for this humiliation.

  “While I regret that I am physically unable to lead such an army,” Mateudoi continued, “I am willing to lend my support to the Duke of Burgundy.” He then looked to Hugh of Nantes. “I will raise men from Poher to drive these pagans from our shores.”

  Rudalt rose with a roar. “I am the Duke of Brittany! You will all do as I command.”

  Fearing blood might soon be spilled right there in the council chamber, Gwened stood. “Please! There must be another answer. Duke Rudalt has a point in that the land of Cotentin is indeed very poor. He is also right in saying there is no saving what has already been destroyed. It is indeed possible they will head toward Paris, but might it be a good idea to at least send a small contingent of men to the Duke of Burgundy?” she looked to her brother with pleading eyes. “If nothing else, we will then learn the strength of the Norse and their intentions.”

  Rudalt transferred his glower from Mateudoi to Gwened. “I will commit to nothing unless the Vikings become a direct threat to Brittany.”

  Hugh of Nantes shook his head. “By then it might well be too late.”

  Kingdom of Frankia

  Standing on the hilltop, the three brothers surveyed the landscape. Thousands of corpses peppered the ground, their once-gleaming metal axes and swords now stained to the color of rust. Bjorn looked longingly past the field of the fallen to the river where their boats were moored—within sight, but ever out of reach.

  “Hrolfr grossly underestimated the foe, not only did they refuse to pay tribute, they united against us!” Ivar pointed to the campfires that surrounded them for almost as far as the eye could see. “Now we are sitting on the hilltop waiting to be slaughtered like a herd of hapless sheep! By Odin’s eye,” Ivar exclaimed. “I wish I’d fallen in battle!”

  Bjorn shared his brother’s sentiments. They’d come seeking riches only to be routed and humiliated! But nothing about the expedition had gone according to plan. Their entire series of misadventures since leaving Norway had Bjorn wondering if he was the source of their misfortune. Did the curse the gods had placed on him now affect all those around him?

  Upon landing on the coast, they’d worked their way inland, ransacking monasteries and churches along the way, but the riches were few. They then set out to pillage Paris, but the city had become well-fortified. The Frankish walls stood strong. After failing to take Paris, they’d made camp a few miles from the city where the chieftains conferred while the men paced the camp murmuring words of mutiny.

  The counter-attack had come as a complete surprise. Unbeknownst to the Norse, the Franks, Neustrians, and Aquitainians had formed an alliance against them.

  “Victory or Valhalla!” they had roared as they charged forth with ax and sword to meet the foe, but outmaneuvered and outmanned, the Viking chieftains had swiftly sounded a retreat. Now the remains of a once fearsome Viking army now blanketed the hilltop behind a fortification of dead bodies and animal carcasses.

  “Enough of this!” Valdrik exclaimed, throwing down his empty wineskin. “The time has come to act!”

  “How?” Ivar asked, his brows pulling together. “The only way to the boats is through the enemy camp!”

  “Then we must go through it,” Valdrik declared. “The Franks are so confident of victory that they will not expect an offense. We only want for an element of surprise to penetrate their lines. We have but one chance out of here. We must act tonight.”

  It was eerily quiet with the soft glow of the moon painting ghostly patterns over the landscape when the vanguard led by Valdrik, stalked stealthily down the hill. Knives in hand, they moved as silently as shadows, eliminating the Frankish sentries with quiet lethality, until they’d advanced deep into the enemy encampment where fires smoldered and men slumbered.

  Taking positions throughout the camp, the men raised their battle horns. At Valdrik’s signal, they sounded a deafening peal, echoed by a dissonant din of shield rattling and Norse battle cries.

  Like a stirred hornet’s nest, the Franks surged from their tents, many fleeing into the darkness. Others, terrorized by the melee of screams and clashing steel, mistakenly took up arms against each other. Through the mass confusion and chaos, the Norsemen made a rapid advance toward their waiting boats. By the time the fiery ball of the sun cast its first rays over the land, the Norsemen were sailing back up the Seine.

  Chapter Five

  After the council meeting, Gwened sought out Adèle. She found her sister-in-law working in her still room. Just as Gwened filled her empty hours with needlework, Adèle spent her days grinding herbs, boiling roots, and pressing precious medicinal oils to aid the needs of those under her care and protection.

  Gwened paused at the threshold to inhale the mixed scents of sweet herbs and pressed flowers. “I miss the smells of this place.”

  “And I miss you,” Adèle said wistfully. “We see each other so rarely anymore.”

  “I wish it were not so,” Gwened replied. “But I must soon go home.”

  Adèle instantly looked dismayed. “You are leaving already?”

  “We have angered Rudalt,” Gwened said. “’Twould be best to stay out of his sight for a time.”

  Adèle sighed. “You are probably right, but ’tis my brother who has truly inspired
his wrath. I was shocked to hear that Mateudoi stood up to him. I would never have expected it.”

  “Neither would I,” Gwened confessed. “But I have learned that though weak in body, Mateudoi is exceedingly strong in his convictions.” Gwened idly fingered the jars that sat upon the shelf. She opened one and gave it a sniff. It was lavender, a soothing scent and one of her favorites.

  “Take it,” Adèle said. “It is good for megrims.”

  “Thank you,” Gwened said. She lingered still, desiring to confide in her sister-in-law but wondering how to broach the delicate subject. “Are you content in your marriage?” she finally asked.

  “Content?” Adèle looked up in surprise. “I am content enough under the circumstances. Rudalt has his whores and I have my stillroom. I suppose I would say I have found peace in it.”

  “Peace?” Adèle’s reply filled her with dismay. “So nothing has improved? I had hoped you and he would come to care for one another and that you would have children.”

  “As did I,” Adèle said. “But there is little chance of that.”

  “Why? Do you believe yourself barren?”

  Adèle released a bitter laugh. “I wouldn’t know if I was or not. Rudalt prefers his mistress. If rumor is to be believed, the duke has spawned an entire litter of bastards. He is the same brute he has always been, but at least he stays away from me. Surely this cannot come as a great surprise. You know how it began between us.”

  “Then there is no hope of an heir?”

  “None,” Adèle responded with a snort. “I fear it is up to you and my brother to ensure the line continues.”

  Gwened sighed. “Then there is no hope at all for Brittany.”

  Adèle’s gaze narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “I want a child, but Mateudoi denies me.”

  In the beginning, Gwened had understood Mateudoi’s resentment of the heavy burden the king had placed upon his young shoulders but had believed that given time, he would become accustomed to both his role as Count of Poher and that of a husband. But six years of marriage had changed little. Mateudoi still conducted himself much as if he still resided in a cloister. He rarely ate meat, abstained from strong drink, and passed many hours each day in study and prayer. Most notably, he never came to her bed.

  Adèle’s gaze widened. “He does not come to you?”

  “No. He does not.” Gwened gazed at the teeming shelves. “Have you anything that might incite … desire?”

  “You mean an aphrodisiac?”

  “Yes,” Gwened said, her face heating with a flush. “Perhaps it is the only way I will ever conceive a child.”

  Adèle’s gaze flickered with sympathy. “We are both cursed. I am wed to a philandering beast and you to a monk.” Adèle reached for a vial and handed it to Gwened. “While I have no hope of changing Rudalt, perhaps a bit of this in my brother’s wine might suffice to stir his passion?”

  “What is it?” Gwened asked.

  “Ground Mandrake root. It is a powerful aphrodisiac. It is also believed to aid in conception.”

  “Thank you,” Gwened said. “I wish it could have been different for both of us.”

  Adele replied with a sad smile, “If wishes were horses… beggars would ride.”

  Gwened prepared to act that very night when she and Mateudoi retired to their shared bedchamber. It was the opportunity she had waited for. Sleeping together was not their customary arrangement, but they had little choice at Vannes as the other guest rooms were all occupied by Rudalt’s advisors.

  “You surprised me this day,’ Gwened said as she unbound and began brushing out her hair.

  “Why?” Mateudoi’s brows pulled together over his pale blue eyes. “Because I defended the Church?”

  “Because you stood up to Rudalt,” Gwened said. “Few men would dare to do such a thing.” The compliment was not spoken just to please his male vanity, it was the truth.

  “I do not fear him,” Mateudoi said. “No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper; This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord.”

  Gwened paused, brush in hand. “If this is so, how do you explain what happened to the monks of Saint Marcouf?”

  “Do not pity them, Gwened. Martyrdom for Christ is a certain path to sainthood and all saints receive their due reward in Heaven.”

  “Is that why you support the idea of sending men to fight? To become martyrs?”

  “I do not condone killing,” Mateudoi answered, “but the Church must be protected at any cost.”

  “What will happen when the burden sits solely upon your shoulders to protect us all?”

  He looked confused. “What do you mean?”

  “Brittany has no heirs. Should anything happen to Rudalt, the crown would fall to you.”

  “Adèle and Rudalt had yet to conceive a child and Gwened’s eldest sister Avicia, wife of Count Gormaelon, had died in childbirth along with her infant son. As a grandson of the first Grand Duke of Brittany, Mateudoi was next in line to the throne.

  He regarded her with a frown. “I do not want it.”

  In confronting Rudalt, Gwened had mistakenly believed that Mateudoi was finally ready to take up the mantle of responsibility, but now she realized he had only acted to protect the Church. He cared for nothing but the church.

  “Is our marriage still so very distasteful to you?” she asked softly.

  “Aye,” he replied. “I never wanted to wed. Indeed, I would have done anything within my power to avoid this situation… but the king gave me no choice!”

  His answer pained her. Gwened wondered if he ever felt sexual desire or if he just willfully suppressed it. She too, found no satisfaction in their marriage, but desperately desired a child. Moreover, the kingdom needed heirs. It was their duty to ensure the succession of Brittany. Although she found the idea far from appealing, Gwened was determined to persuade him.

  Laying down her brush, she poured a glass of Mandrake-laced wine and went to where Mateudoi sat by the fire. “Mayhap this union is not what either of us wanted, but we could try to make the best of it, couldn’t we?” She stared down at his gnarled left hand. His hands and face were the only parts of his body that he ever exposed. She laid hers on top of it. He stiffened at her touch.

  He snatched his hand away. “I thought we had made the best of it. I have never placed any…demands…on you.”

  She knelt beside his chair and offered the chalice. “If you are uncomfortable, perhaps a bit of wine…”

  “I am not thirsty.” He shoved the cup away, splashing the wine and nearly knocking it from her hand.

  With a sinking heart, Gwened stared down at the red stain on her white linen. “Please, Mateudoi… It is our duty to produce a child.”

  “The duty lies with Rudalt to produce heirs for Brittany.”

  “But I want a child!” Gwened answered in a choked voice.

  “Then I am sorry for you. I am not my brother in any way, Gwened. My desire is only for the things of God.”

  “But relations between a husband and wife is not sin,” Gwened protested. “The joining of bodies for procreation is expected in a marriage.”

  “Even so, scripture says that it is good for a man not to touch a woman. ’Tis better to set ones’ affection on things above, not on things on the earth.”

  She stared at him in incomprehension. Why was he doing this? “You would deny me children?”

  “If it was God’s will, you would have conceived,” he replied.

  She let loose an incredulous laugh. “After only one coupling?”

  His reply bitterly reminded her of their wedding night. After retiring to their chamber, Mateudoi had insisted that they pray together. They had spent hours on their knees until Gwened had eventually fallen asleep. On the night that followed, Mateudoi vowed to do his conjugal duty, if only to consummate the union. He came to her in total darkness with no murmured endearments, kisses, or tender caresses. After fumbling with her shift, he came over her, prodded once with a
grunt, and spent his seed betwixt her legs. She wasn’t certain if he had even breached her maidenhood. The experience was brief and embarrassing for both of them, and he had never repeated it.

  “It is not unheard of,” he answered.

  Was he truly devoid of passion, or just fearful of it? Or was he perhaps afraid of creating a malformed child?

  “Do I repulse you, Mateudoi?” she asked. The cruel irony of the question almost made her want to laugh.

  “It is not you,” he confessed with a sigh. “Marriage itself repulses me. It was designed for those who are too weak to resist carnal temptation. Perhaps it is the frailty of my body that has given strength to my spirit, but I have no taste for the temptations of the flesh.”

  “Have you never experienced desire…of any kind?”

  “I have not.”

  She wondered at his words. She had heard rumors of men who entered the monasteries purely to fill unnatural desires. Was he one of them?

  Determined to discover the truth, Gwened loosed the ribbon at her neck and let her gown slip from her shoulders. The fine linen fell with a whisper to puddle at her feet. She had never acted with such boldness before, but she was growing desperate.

  “Look at me, Mateudoi, and tell me you feel nothing.”

  His eyes barely flickered. “I’m sorry, but you ask for what I cannot give you.”

  He reached to the floor and retrieved her shift. “Cover yourself, Gwened. The chamber is cold.”

  Mortified with shame and humiliation, Gwened snatched the garment from his hands with a stifled sob. “Not half as cold as your heart.”

  Gwened awoke to find a sealed parchment on the pillow beside her head. Sitting up, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and broke the wax. The handwriting was Mateudoi’s and the missive was written in Latin.

  She squinted at the neatly penned script, struggling to make sense of it. Although she understood the spoken language, she had never learned to read it well. Only two phrases stood out to her—Consummatum est and decreta nullitate.