Three Book Collection

by Vane, Victoria

  “Sheath the blade,” the Norseman growled. “The lady is in no danger.”

  “Do as he commands, Gueric,” Gwened said, knowing there was no escape. They were outnumbered and he had hold of her horse.

  “Come. Let us talk,” he said. “We have much to discuss.” Giving her no choice, the Norseman took the reins from her hands and led her horse through the castle gate.

  “Who are you?” she demanded as they entered the bailey. “And what are you doing here?”

  “My name is Bjorn Vargrson,” he replied. “And I am looking after things on my brother’s behalf.”

  “On your brother’s behalf? This castle belongs to my brother, Rudalt, Duke of Brittany!”

  “Rudalt is no longer Duke of Brittany,” he replied matter-of-factly. “You!” he called out to a young Breton boy. “Take care of the horses.”

  Gwened sucked in a gasp as he put his hands about her waist and he lifted her from the saddle. She glared down at him only to soon find herself looking up…way up. He stood a full head and shoulders above her. She was not a particularly small woman, but he was a very large and powerful man. She was painfully reminded of Hugo. Would this barbaric invasion ever have happened if Hugo had lived?

  “Do not ever touch me again without my permission.” Her body trembled with fear and outrage.

  He shrugged. “How else would you have dismounted?”

  “I would have managed.” She silently seethed as he escorted her into the castle. This invader’s civility irritated her beyond measure. Nothing about this encounter was as she’d imagined. Vikings were brutal savages who ransacked and raped. They didn’t engage in polite conversation!

  “I suppose you know your way around,” he said.

  “Of course I do,” she snapped. “I grew up here.”

  “Then you are very fortunate. It is a fine castle.” He slowly surveyed the great hall with a look of admiration. “We have nothing like it where I come from.”

  Gwened refused to continue this inane exchange of pleasantries. She jerked around to face him. “How much do you want?”

  He cocked a dark brow.

  “To go!” she clarified. “How much money must we pay you?”

  “We did not come for tribute,” he said. “We came to conquer.”

  “Do you really believe you can just march into this land and simply claim it as your own?”

  His answer was blunt. “Aye. Haven’t we proven as much?”

  Gwened gaped. The arrogance of his answer was astounding. But it was also indisputable. They had indeed claimed her ancestral home and by all accounts would soon take Quimper, if they had not already done so. Two of the most populous and prosperous provinces had fallen at their feet with barely a fight, and Poher surely would follow. They had no defense.

  “Vikings rape and plunder and return at will, but you have never settled in this land…or in any other!”

  “Perhaps our will has changed?” he suggested with a subtle smile. “There is a colony of Danes who have settled in the south of Frankia. Their chief is named Rognvald, a brutal savage. The King of the Franks offered our kinsman lands in Neustria in exchange for an alliance against them.”

  “But this isn’t Neustria!” she said. “Did you get lost?”

  He responded with a chuckle. “No. We are not lost. Quite the contrary, I believe we have found something…something worth keeping.” The look in his eyes filled her with dread. He meant what he said. They had every intention of staying.

  “Tell me what happened to my brother.” She would have the truth of it one way or another.

  “You will know all soon enough,” he replied blandly. “First, you will refresh yourself. Then we will talk.”

  Though Bjorn refused to show it, the Countess of Poher’s appearance at Vannes had caught him off guard. He’d half-expected a Breton army to show up at his door, but a woman? Could she have come as a spy? Where was her husband? Was her arrival a ploy to keep Bjorn occupied while he raised an army against Valdrik?

  Her arrival, however, was a grave miscalculation on her part. His injured brother would not have to worry about any trouble from Poher if Bjorn held her hostage until Valdrik recovered. She was an inconvenience, of course, but one he had to accept. Rudalt’s former mistress Gisela was already trouble enough. Thankfully, Ivar had handled her, which now left Bjorn to deal with the countess. But what to do with her? Inconvenient men were easily dispatched, but women were another matter altogether. He was reluctant to keep her locked up.

  The thought of having to entertain her made him strangely uncomfortable. He wasn’t used to females, let alone those of high breeding, but he resolved to treat her with all the respect due to her station.

  “Bring food and wine,” he commanded the servants. “We have an important guest.”

  Chapter Eight

  Feeling unnerved and seeking security, Gwened by-passed her old bedchamber and went instead to the queen’s apartments, rooms that were rarely used since the dowager’s passing. Rather than moving into the queen’s chambers, Adèle had opted to remain in her own, as far as possible from Rudalt’s domain.

  Unlike the queen before her, Adèle spent most of her time in her still room, rather than in the solar. Gwened, however, had passed most of her girlhood in this room. The rays of sun shining through the window lit up the dust motes that had taken residence, but other than the light film of dirt coating the furniture, distaffs, and spindles, the room was largely unchanged.

  She took up a tambour that still held a piece of gossamer thin silk, very much like the veil the queen had embroidered for her. The stitchery, depicting vines and leaves in silver thread, was tiny and perfect, the work of the queen. Gwened wistfully traced it with her fingers. Although they were never close, Gwened felt a connection to her mother in this room. Oreguen was a strong woman, and Gwened had never been more in need of strength.

  Feeling somewhat fortified, Gwened left the solar to settle her few belongings in her mother’s chamber. She then called for water to bathe. Her request was answered by Adèle’s personal maid, Mathilda. Gwened was elated to see a familiar face at last.

  “What has happened here?” Gwened asked. “Do you know what became of the duke?”

  “I do not,” Mathilda answered with a shake of her head. “I only know that a messenger came bearing news of Vikings, and the duke rode out with his men to confront them. He never returned.”

  “How could I know nothing of it?” Gwened was astonished. “How long ago was this?”

  “Not long milady, barely a fortnight. It all happened so quickly! We were not prepared. The duchess only got word of the duke’s death when the entire Viking army stormed the castle gates. Fearing for our lives, she negotiated a treaty.”

  “What kind of treaty?”

  “She let them in on the promise no one would be harmed.”

  Gwened snorted. “What good is a Viking’s promise?” Yet, even as she refuted their sense of honor, she recalled that there had been no evidence of violence when she’d arrived at Vannes. “They held to this vow?” Gwened asked.

  “Aye, milady. Our men were disarmed but only those who resisted perished.”

  “And the women?” Gwened asked. “How many have been raped?”

  “None have come to any harm.” The maid averted her gaze. “To our shame, many of them have been all too willing.”

  Gwened digested that remark slowly. The big, brawny Norsemen with their long hair and beards were very different from the Breton men. This was likely the source of their appeal to the maidens, most of whom had never been outside of their own province.

  “What can you tell me about the duchess?” Gwened was almost afraid to ask.

  “Milady seems well enough, given the circumstances. She had little choice but to wed that savage.”

  “Wed?” Surely Gwened misheard her!

  “’Tis true my lady. The Viking leader who killed the duke demanded that she marry him. Duke Rudalt’s body was in the ground less t
han a day before he took the duchess to wife.”

  Gwened’s heart leaped into her throat. “He forced her?”

  “Tis not as you think.” Mathilda shook her head. “I do not believe he harmed her.”

  “Then where is she?” Gwened asked.

  “She has ridden to Quimper. The moment she got word that he was injured in battle, she went to tend him.”

  “Why? Why would she tend this man?” Gwened was flummoxed. Of course they would seek her out as a healer. Adèle was very knowledgeable about medicinal herbs. But why would she help them? She could hardly comprehend her sister-in-law’s actions.

  “I know not, milady. But she went of her own accord. That is all I know of it.”

  The entire story was a great mystery! The more she learned, the more questions Gwened had. She didn’t know what to think of the Norseman who presumed to play host in her brother’s castle. Had he intended to harm her, he surely would have done so already. He had, thus far, treated her well enough. Hostility toward him would get her no answers, but she refused to drop her guard.

  An hour later, he summoned her to supper, but Gwened took her time, refusing to look like a victim of conquest arriving in her rumpled and dirty traveling clothes. No, if she was going to assert her family’s rightful position in this kingdom, she must look the part. She might only be a countess, but she would act like a queen. Rifling through her mother’s trunk, she found a tunic of crimson silk along with her mother’s golden coronet.

  She stroked the cool, smooth metal, wondering that no one had found it yet. She would have expected them to have combed the castle for such treasures. It was another piece to the growing mystery. Gwened unbound her hair and proudly donned the ancestral crown worn by the queens of Brittany. Modesty required her to also don a veil, but didn’t modesty imply submission? Refusing to appear diffident, she eschewed the veil.

  The Viking would recognize the worth of the queen’s golden headdress at sight. If she wore it, would he snatch it from her head? She would soon know exactly what manner of man she dealt with.

  Acting as Valdrik’s seneschal, Bjorn sat at the head of the high table. With its tapestry laden walls and great hall with two roaring fireplaces, the four-story castle of the Breton dukes was grander than the longhouses of the richest Jarls. As the bastard son of a Norse chieftain’s concubine, Bjorn had never in his wildest dreams imagined commanding such a position, but Valdrik had promised riches to both of his brothers. The only thing missing from this great victory was the knowledge that Astrid would not share in his new prosperity.

  Determined to push her from his thoughts, Bjorn took a long drink of lambig, a hard cider, highly favored by the Bretons. It was a strong and unfamiliar drink to the Norse, who favored mead, but if this land was to become his new home, Bjorn was determined to adopt some of its customs.

  He was surrounded by his men, a few of the former duke’s retainers, as well as a handful of the Breton women, who to his men’s delight, had chosen to ally themselves with the Norse. The hall was filled with food, drink, and the occasional bark of laughter. Although his men still wore their weapons, the wariness and mistrust were gradually beginning to ease between the victors and the vanquished.

  Looking over the great hall, Bjorn wondered how soon his men would begin to settle down and marry Breton women. By the look of things, it would not be long. He wondered how his brother fared with his new wife. When he’d left them at Quimper, Valdrik was in the capable care of his duchess. Valdrik had responded quickly to her treatment. His wound had improved and his fever had abated. Her actions were not those of a hostile captive, but those of a caring wife. Though Bjorn had initially suspected her motives, she had proven herself trustworthy.

  Did she love him? Though he would deny it to his dying breath, Valdrik was enthralled with his Breton duchess. Bjorn had never seen him look at a woman the way he looked at her. It was almost as if she’d bewitched him.

  When he’d announced his intention to marry, Valdrik had made it clear that he also expected both Bjorn and Ivar to wed Breton noblewomen, claiming it was necessary in order to keep this land they’d claimed.

  “Not me,” Bjorn had replied. “I will serve you in any capacity you ask, but I will never take another wife.” Following Astrid’s death, Bjorn had avoided women…until now.

  Where was the countess? He was growing impatient. He’d sent a servant for her nearly an hour ago. Bjorn drained his cup and was prepared to fetch her personally when he spotted her at the base of the stairs. She wore a gown of crimson silk with a golden circlet over her waves of loosely flowing dark hair. With chin held high, she entered the hall.

  Their gazes met. He read defiance in her eyes, but there was also a hint of fear that she failed to conceal. She was a curious mixture of pride, poise, and defiance that stirred something inside him. He inclined his head to the vacant seat to his right. His gaze transfixed on her as she moved across the room.

  “You have come at last,” he remarked with a strong hint of sarcasm.

  “I only came at all because you promised to tell me what happened to my brother,” she said.

  “Eat,” he urged, waving to her trencher. “And then we will talk.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Very well.” He poured her a cup of cider. “I will answer your questions if you answer mine. We will start with your husband. Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered, gaze averted.

  “I think you lie,” he said.

  “I do not lie!” she declared angrily. “He had some business with the Church.” She then countered with a question. “What happened to my brother, the duke?”

  “Duke Rudalt ventured his title and lands in hand-to-hand combat against my brother Valdrik. He lost the fight, and Valdrik came here to claim the spoils.”

  “The spoils included the duchess?”

  “She was part of the bargain,” Bjorn answered with a shrug. “So Valdrik took her to wife. When does your husband return to Poher?”

  “I don’t know. I expected him some time ago.”

  “What business did he have with the church?” he asked.

  “’Twas some legal matter,” she replied. “Perhaps it is already settled and he has returned to Poher.”

  He studied her for a long moment. She was being far too vague. She was hiding something. “Does your husband often leave you alone?”

  “I have my men-at-arms,” she reminded him.

  Bjorn leaned back and studied her. She appeared unusually calm for a woman who feared her husband’s death. What manner of husband was he? Clearly, there was no great love between them. He could only guess that it was an arranged marriage. Bjorn counted himself fortunate to have been low born. It had kept him from such a loveless union.

  “Why did you really come here?” he asked.

  “I needed to see for myself if it was true that you had taken Vannes. What is your price to leave us in peace?”

  “I told you, there is no negotiation. We will not be leaving.”

  “Then what are your intentions?”

  “Our intentions?” He cocked a brow and considered how to answer her.

  “You have taken Vannes and Cornouailles. Is Poher next?”

  “Aye,” he replied. “Your arrival saved us much trouble.”

  “What do you mean?” Her eyes widened. “Do you intend to keep me here? As a prisoner?”

  “As a guest,” he corrected. “You will have the freedom to move about as you please, so long as you do not abuse my trust.”

  “But I cannot leave?”

  “Nay,” he replied. “You will stay under my protection until your husband swears his fealty to Valdrik.”

  “What if Mateudoi refuses your demands?”

  “He would be wise to consider his actions carefully,” he replied. “Our men wish to settle and prosper. We intend to live peaceably, if possible, but we will fight to keep what we have claimed. Any who resist will do so at their peril.”
r />   “Like Count Gormaelon?” she suggested.

  “He chose to fight.” Bjorn shrugged. “Now he is dead.”

  “I wish to retire now,” she suddenly said.

  He replied with a nod. “Do as you please.”

  She rose stiffly and departed. She had entered the enemy camp virtually alone and defenseless, but still managed to conduct herself with the haughtiness of a queen.

  After the countess retired, Bjorn stayed in the great hall drinking, recounting tall tales and exchanging good-humored insults with his men until most of them lie sprawled around the great hall snoring. Bjorn, however, had no desire to seek his bed. Instead, he sat by the fire alone with his thoughts—but those thoughts kept straying back to the Breton countess.

  Everything he learned about her only stirred his curiosity to know more. There was no denying her regal beauty, with her slim figure and delicate features, but there was also steel in her spine and ice in her eyes. A woman like that challenged a man, made him wonder what it would take to soften the steel and melt the ice.

  Recognition of his desire flooded him with guilt. Although his wife was long dead, he still remained loyal. Until he could forgive himself for her death, he would not betray his vows to her. But thus far, the gods had been deaf to those prayers.

  Chapter Nine

  Gwened returned to the queen’s chambers feeling overwhelmed and dismayed. Her conversation with Bjorn had been much like a game of chess, each of them taking turns asking and answering questions while revealing as little as possible about themselves. Curiously, she had sought only the facts, while some of his questions seemed far too personal. Why did he care if Mateudoi frequently left her alone?

  The only thing she knew for certain was that she was now a prisoner. How long before Mateudoi learned of it? And what would he do? She could hardly depend on him to ride to her rescue. Would he seek aid from the Franks? Who else could he turn to? But if what Bjorn said was true, the Franks were the very reason for this invasion!