It is finished and decree of nullity? The words stunned her. What did this mean? Did Mateudoi plan to repudiate their marriage?
“Have you seen the count?” Gwened asked her maid, who had come to light the fire.
“He departed this morn with Father Francis,” Agnes answered.
“Are you quite certain?” Gwened asked.
“Aye. I heard him call for his litter,” Agnes said.
Why would Mateudoi have departed with the priest instead of returning to Poher with her? Did Mateudoi truly intend to appeal to the Pope for an annulment? How could he do such a thing without even discussing it with her?
Although Gwened longed to be free of the unhappy marriage, in all truth, she would not be free at all. If Mateudoi renounced the marriage, she would find herself under Rudalt’s protection. Even worse, Poher would fall under the authority of her volatile and unpredictable brother—precisely what her father, the king, had tried to prevent. What to do? Should she follow him? She briefly considered it but knew the effort would be futile. There was no changing Mateudoi’s mind once it was made.
“Let us leave this place, Agnes. I wish to go home.”
“Now?” Agnes asked. “Should we not await milord’s return?”
“No,” Gwened answered. “I don’t know where he has gone or when he will return…if he returns at all. I must go now before my brother gets wind of this.”
“But Milord has taken the litter,” Agnes protested.
“No matter, I will borrow Adele’s palfrey and ride home. If Mateudoi has abandoned us, it is now up to me to rule Poher.”
Agnes’ eyes widened. “What of Duke Rudalt? You would defy him?”
“I will do as my father wished. I must protect Poher from Rudalt. I will defend what is mine.”
Chapter Six
Two months after the fateful battle that had thwarted their designs on Paris and Chartres, the Norse were entrenched along the Seine, where they could easily harry anyone who traveled the river. No one was allowed to pass without paying a hefty fine. Any who refused forfeited their vessels. This new form of piracy proved surprisingly profitable. Hrolf quickly amassed both a fortune and a small fleet.
Faced with this situation, the King of the Franks had been forced to negotiate.
“Why should we treat with them?” Ivar grumbled. “We control the mouth of the Seine and all the surrounding lands. We cripple their trade at will.”
“But for how long?” Valdrik countered. “We already fight rival forces from our own race and now the Franks, Neustrians, and Aquitanians are united. Hrolfr believes we would serve ourselves best to negotiate with these Franks. Their lands are fertile and there are many among us who would be well content to take a Frankish wife and turn his hands from the sword to the plow.”
“Others would rather plow the Frankish woman and move on to greener pastures,” Ivar remarked.
“Not that we are finally in a position of strength, we will treat with them,” Hrolf declared.
On the designated day, however, the Frankish forces, bedecked in full combat regalia, appeared prepared for war rather than peace. The gleaming helmets, lances, and long swords rattling against mail hauberks added a deafening cacophony to the earth-quaking thunder of five hundred sets of iron-shod horses.
The Archbishop of Reims, King Charles’ chief emissary came forth to greet the Norse chieftain. “His Majesty is prepared to offer you Rouen and all lands bounded by the rivers Bresle, Epte, Avre, and Dives in exchange for the cessation of all raiding and plundering of his Majesty’s kingdom,” stated the king’s emissary.
“But these are the very lands we already control,” Hrolfr pointed out with a laugh.
“Yes, but by the terms of this treaty, they will become yours uncontested and freehold.”
Hrolfr rocked back on his heels and speared the king of the Franks with his most ferocious stare. “It is not enough.”
The king urged his horse forward until he looked straight down on Hrolfr, who would otherwise have dwarfed him. It was an obvious intimidation tactic. Little did he realize that one swipe of Hrolfr’s great arm could land his royal Frankish arse on the ground.
“I also grant you the kingdom of Brittany,” the sovereign of the Franks offered.
Hrolfr eyed him with a quizzical look. “Generous indeed to offer lands you do not possess.”
The king’s smile broadened. “Brittany is without a strong ruler. Since Alain’s death, the kingdom is divided and contentions run high. If invaded, it will easily crumble. It is yours for the taking.”
“If that is all true, why have you failed to take it?” Hrolfr asked.
“I have been occupied elsewhere,” the king answered, adding with a sly smile. “And I pledge to remain occupied thusly, should your men discover an ungovernable urge to raid and plunder.”
“You will not contest me for it?” Hrolfr asked, his eyes taking on an avaricious gleam.
“I will not,” the king replied. “But in return for this fiefdom, I would demand a sworn oath that you and your men will henceforth secure my borders from any other invaders and serve me in any other requested capacity.”
“There is one further contingency,” the archbishop said. “All of your men must renounce your pagan worship and be baptized into the Holy Catholic Church of our blessed Lord.”
The ranks of Norse erupted in a rumble of low curses.
The archbishop continued unaffected. “His Majesty is appointed by our God and is ruled by Him in all things. Any vow sworn to the King is also sworn to He that rules the universe. Thus, without such a pledge to God, what guarantee does His Majesty have that you will not overreach him?”
Hrolfr fingered his sword with a black look. “Do you imply that the word of a Norseman is worth less than that of a Frank?”
“I would answer that the vow of a Christian carries infinitely more weight than that of a pagan,” the archbishop replied. “These are non-negotiable terms. Do you accept them, Norseman?”
“I must also confer with my counsel,” Hrolfr replied.
By now, all of the Norse were seething with the urge to shed Frankish blood over the mass of insults piled upon them. It made little difference to Bjorn, however, he had already lost faith in his own gods. Perhaps he would have better luck offering his sacrifices to the White Christ?
Though his men were enraged, Hrolfr acted the diplomat, convincing his men to keep their eyes on the prize—lands and riches beyond their wildest desires.
When Hrolfr returned, the archbishop asked, “Are you and your men prepared to swear enduring fealty to His Majesty Charles the Third and be baptized by the Holy Ghost?”
“We are,” Hrolfr replied.
“His Majesty’s generosity exceeds all bounds,” remarked the Marquis of Neustria. “A show of humility to one’s liege lord is most befitting this occasion.”
“Indeed,” the priest agreed. “The recipient of such beneficence should make an appropriate gesture of obeisance to the one who bestows such great gifts.”
Hrolfr’s expression darkened. “What mean you by a show of obeisance?”
The marquis looked to the archbishop with a sly smile. “I propose the Norseman should kiss the king’s foot. Surely His Majesty deserves such a token gesture of good faith.”
There could be no greater insult. It was an obvious ploy by the marquis to sabotage the negotiations, given that his Neustrian lands were being bartered.
“Sometimes is it necessary to suffer unpleasantness for greater gain,” Hrolfr replied calmly. “A bit of lip service is a small price to pay—even if the lips in question must be plied to the king’s foot.”
“Unpleasantness? Valdrik erupted in a humorless laugh. “A war chieftain would never so degrade himself.”
“That is true, nephew. And that’s why you will do it.”
“Me!” Valdrik looked ready to explode.
“Yes. You.” Hrolfr nodded. “You have made your name as one of Odin’s great warriors. Now it i
s time to prove yourself in statecraft.”
Valdrik cursed under his breath. “I’ll kiss your hairy arse first, Uncle.”
“You will do it, Valdrik,” Hrolfr insisted, steely-eyed, “and with a smile upon your face. I promise you will be well-rewarded for your sacrifice.”
“And what prize awaits the man who debases himself? What price do you set on my honor? My pride?”
“A crown,” Hrolfr replied blandly. “A kiss seems a small token in exchange for a kingdom, does it not?”
“I will need men, arms, and horses.”
“You will have your pick of three hundred mounted warriors.” Before Valdrik had time to respond, Hrolfr ushered him forward with a shove. “My kinsman, Valdrik, seeks this honor.”
The king’s brows came together in a frown. He dropped his foot from his stirrup. His horse shifted in impatience. The seconds lengthened into minutes as Valdrik glowered at the king’s foot but made no move to comply.
“This treaty will not be concluded without a proper demonstration of goodwill,” the archbishop’s voice rang out. “Defiance shall be construed as a declaration of war.”
Exchanging looks, Bjorn and Ivar laid hands on their swords. The Frankish forces were mounted. The Norse were on foot. The odds were not favorable.
They were ready to draw their steel when Valdrik suddenly grasped the royal foot and jerked it upward to meet his lips. The sheer violence of his act threw the king off balance, nearly unseating him from the horse!
The lines of Frankish soldiers stood gape-mouthed while the Norsemen erupted in riotous laughter. Perhaps he hadn’t adhered to the spirit of the decree, but no man could claim he hadn’t discharged the command.
After sealing the bargain with the dubious kiss, Valdrik, his two brothers, and three hundred hardened Viking warriors set out to conquer the kingdom of Brittany.
Chapter Seven
Carhaix Castle, Poher, Brittany
“Ouch!” Gwened stared at the drop of crimson forming on the tip of her finger. Her first thought was to admire the deep red color, more vivid than anything she could ever produce from madder. Then realizing she might stain her precious white linen, she laid down her needle and sucked the droplet from her finger.
What had begun six years ago as naught but a means of filling her empty hours had become her greatest passion. The embroidered cloth now stretched the entire length of the solar. Much of it was her own family history. In her mind’s eye, she had envisioned the faces of the proud men and woman who had once ruled the kingdom, and her nimble fingers had brought those images to vivid life, stitch by tiny stitch. It was a long and proud heritage that she feared would be lost forever if neither Rudalt nor Mateudoi produced an heir.
She couldn’t recall the last time she’d pricked her finger, but she was growing more distracted by the day. Two months had passed with no word from Mateudoi. Where was he? Had he gone to Rome to petition the pope? She found it difficult to imagine him tolerating such a long and arduous journey. Had something happened to him?
Although he kept to himself most of the time, it was strange to be alone in the castle. What would he do once they annuled the marriage? She could easily see him returning to Redon Abbey. It was more home to him than Castle Carhaix had ever been. Perhaps he was even now at the abbey, his wife and home far from his mind? Unable to stand the uncertainty, Gwened resolved to send someone to inquire after his whereabouts. Having at least made that decision, she once more picked up her needle to resume her work.
“My lady!” Gwened’s maid, Agnes entered the solar with an expression of alarm. “I bear terrible news from Vannes!”
Throwing down her tambour, Gwened instantly took to her feet. “What is it, Agnes?”
“A party of soldiers has arrived with news that an army of Vikings has invaded Brittany!”
“Where are these men?”
“They await you in the great hall.”
“Go at once to the kitchens and notify the cook we need food and drink for these men!” Gwened’s thin slippers slapped the flagstones as she made haste to meet the messengers. Three men with haggard faces and bloodstained clothes turned to face her as she entered the great hall.
“You have come from Vannes?” she asked.
“Aye, milady.” One of the men stepped forward, his eyes grave. “Duke Rudalt is slain and a great battle wages at Castle Quimper.”
“Dear God!” Gwened gasped. “My brother is dead?”
“Aye, milady.” He crossed himself. “God rest his soul.”
Gwened’s next thought was of her sister-in-law. “What of the Duchess Adèle?”
“Best I know, she lives, milady,” the captain answered. “The moment Duke Rudalt was killed we rode on to Quimper to warn Count Gormaelon, but the Vikings were swift to follow. They laid siege to the castle.”
“Then I will send men at once to Gormaelon’s aid!”
The captain of the trio shook his head. “Count Gormaelon has already fallen.”
“What?” Gwened clutched a hand to her throat.
“These Vikings did not set out just to plunder, my lady. These godless savages have come to conquer all of Brittany.”
“Conquer?” she repeated blankly. How could this be? “What news of Lady Emma?”
“She still held the castle when we rode out but ’tis only a matter of time ’til they set it aflame. We cannot fight them, milady,” the captain said. “Our men have scattered.”
“Tell me everything from the beginning. I must know exactly how this came about if we are to put up any defense.”
The two most powerful men in the land were dead, and many soldiers with them. The ones that remained were now without leadership. Rudalt had gravely misjudged the danger at his door and now her homeland had been overrun by a pagan army. Worse, these pagans had not come just to pillage, they had come to stay.
For decades Brittany had been free of Vikings while they ran rampant in England and Frankia. But the Franks had finally united against them and driven them into Brittany. If Rudalt had joined the Franks, might they have been better prepared to protect their own borders? He’d been warned of the threat, but his pride had overcome caution. Brittany had never been more vulnerable. Rudalt and Gormaleon had failed to counter the threat and Mateudoi was gone.
Once she overcame her initial shock, a strange calm settled over her. “Surely there must be some way we can rid ourselves of this plague. We will pay tribute if we must,” she said. “I don’t care if we have to empty every coffer.”
“They will only return later and demand more,” the captain argued.
“They almost certainly will,” she agreed. “But at least it will buy us some time. We must regroup and strengthen our defenses or we have no chance at all. I will ride to Vannes on the morrow and see for myself what havoc they have reeked. I will learn what manner of foe we face and find a way to deal with them.”
The ride from Carhaix to Vannes was three days under normal conditions, but pushing her horse and her men, Gwened covered the distance in two. Halting on a rise about half a mile from the castle, she surveyed the landscape. To her great surprise, there were no smoldering fires or severed heads hanging from trees—the usual aftermath of a Viking raid. There was no evidence that a siege had ever taken place. Instead, it all seemed oddly quiet. Was there some mistake?
“I do not comprehend this,” Gwened remarked. “It appears…so normal.”
Signaling her men-at-arms, Gwened rode onward toward the castle gate. All of her senses were on alert, but there were no damaged buildings or slaughtered animals. Was this some kind of trickery designed to lure her in? Her spine was rigid and her hands clenched the bridle reins as she urged her horse forward.
Halting at the gate, she listened for the sounds of activity from within. She caught the sound of Breton voices, the complaining bleat of sheep, and the lowing of cattle. None of this made any sense.
“Go to the gate,” she commanded Guerec. “Tell them I have come to see the
duchess.”
A moment later, Guerec returned to her. “I am told she is not here, milady, but you are welcome to enter the gate.” He nodded to the portcullis rising behind him.
“Not here?” Adèle was gone? She noted several men standing at the gate. They wore long hair and had bearded faces. Bretons were clean-shaven.
“Where is she?” she asked, her suspicion growing as the strangers approached. Had they lied? Was the duchess also dead? Gwened fought a surge of fear.
Guerec opened his mouth to answer, but another voice replied.
“She has ridden to Quimper to treat my injured brother,” one of the Vikings answered in Breton. His voice was a low, soft baritone with a peculiar lilt. “You are welcome here, Lady Gwened. You must be fatigued. ’Tis a long journey from Poher.”
Gwened stared at him wondering how he spoke her tongue so well. He was dressed like the others in a woolen tunic and leather trews, but his beard was more closely trimmed than the other warriors, revealing an arrestingly handsome face. His skin was sun-bronzed, his brow was straight and smooth over large eyes with thick, dark lashes. He had darker hair than most Norsemen and the strangest golden colored eyes.
“’Tis not so far,” she replied, willing herself to hide her apprehension. “I often come to visit my sister-in-law,” she lied.
“Do you often travel without your husband?” he asked, eying her with a look of speculation that made her skin tingle.
“I have protection,” she replied, inclining her head to her three men-at-arms.
“Do you indeed?” He regarded her men with a look of contempt.
“Is my brother within?” she asked, determined act as if she knew nothing at all.
“No,” he replied, his intense golden eyes meeting hers. “But I think you already know this. I think it is the real reason you have come.”
He knew! What should she do? Ride on to Quimper? Turn around and go back to Poher? Before she could decide, he laid a hand on her horse’s bridle. She bit back a cry of alarm as Gueric drew his sword.
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