“The gash is deep,” she said. “But it does not appear to have pierced his innards. If it had, surely he would already be dead.
She stood and stripped off her own cloak to cover him. “Why is there no shelter for him?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, duchess, we are in the midst of a siege,” Ivar snapped.
A siege that wasn’t going well. He hadn’t slept in three days and his own garments were soiled with dirt, sweat, and blood. He was very close to defying Valdrik and setting the castle aflame.
“If you wish to end the siege, you must offer to treat with her,” the duchess said.
“Her?” Ivar repeated. “I have been fighting a woman?”
“If the count is dead. It can only be his daughter, Emma, who commands the fortress. Why do you find this so difficult to comprehend? ’Twas I, after all, who made the decision to raise the gate when you assaulted Vannes.”
“But this assault?” he waved to the archers.
“Aye.” She nodded. “It is what I would expect of her. Emma would fight to her death. Pray let me treat with her. If you will allow it, I would endeavor to enter the gate and end this bloodshed.”
“Nay.” Ivar shook his head. His mistrust of the duchess compelled him to accompany her. “I will also meet with this virago.”
“Very well,” she replied. “Anything to be done with this pointless bloodshed.”
***
Emma walked the ramparts in a trans-like state. She’d barely eaten and hadn’t seen her bed in nearly three days. Although she had sufficient stores to last for weeks, her instincts told her the Norse would not allow her the luxury of time. They would either continue the assault until the gates to Quimper gave way to their siege machines, or they would burn her out. Part of her wondered why they hadn’t already done so. She could only deduce that greed kept their savagery in check. If they burned her out, there would be little left to loot.
On a whispered supplication to the Blessed Virgin, she cast her eyes to the south, squinting desperately into the empty horizon, but all of her prayers, thus far, had been uttered in vain. While fear compelled her to maintain her vigilance, the faint hope of relief was her sustenance. Surely Count Ebles had received her father’s message. Whether he was inclined to intercede or not, the betrothal contract legally bound him to protect her. He was already her husband in word, if not yet in deed. Perhaps he was even now marshalling his forces. She consoled herself that even if he had no knowledge of the siege, he would be coming in six days to claim her as his bride.
Six more days of siege…could they survive it?
She fought a violent surge of nausea as she took in the blood stained earth and decomposing bodies that lay beyond the bailey walls. The stench of smoke assailed her nostrils as the Norse gathered and burned their own dead. If she called for a truce, would the savages allow her own people the same honor? To bury their dead while they could still be identified? Mayhap such a truce would buy her time?
“My lady!” Gurwent, the captain of her guard, pointed to a rider wildly waving the purple and white pennant of Vannes.
“Adèle?” Was it indeed the duchess? Her heart surged in her chest to see Adèle alive and apparently unharmed. “Cease arrows!” Emma shouted to the archers the moment she recognized her friend. Why had she come to Quimper? Did she seek sanctuary? But wasn’t she a prisoner of the Norse? This turn of events didn’t make any sense.
“Go to the gate,” Emma commanded her captain. “I must know why the duchess has come.”
From the safety of her perch, Emma watched the gate, trying to interpret the rapid exchange of words and gestures between the captain and the duchess while a menacing Norseman remained at her side. Unwashed and covered in dried blood, he also had the fearsome look of a savage. He stood at least half a head taller than Gurwent, which made him the largest and most physically imposing man she had ever seen. By all appearances, Adèle was indeed a prisoner. How could she help her?
Emma’s mind scrambled for a plan, but moments later, when the captain returned, she still had no strategy to deal with the Norsemen, other than stalling for time. “The duchess seeks entrance, my lady. She says the Norseman wishes to treat with you.”
“Just one man?” she asked.
“Aye.” Gurwent nodded. “But he is the size of two.”
“What do you think of this, Gurwent? Is it a trick?”
Gurwent scratched his beard and then shook his head. “I trust them not, my lady, but ‘tis the duchess herself who entreats you to talk.”
“Then let her come to me.”
“The Norseman won’t allow it. He said she is his surety that you will cooperate.”
“He holds her hostage?”
“It seems so, my lady, but she appears unharmed.”
Chewing her lip, Emma paced. “How can I believe this isn’t trickery? That they don’t use her simply to breach our gates?”
“I can only urge caution, my lady.”
“I have little choice but to talk with them,” Emma confessed. “They could burn us at any time. I need at least to forestall that.” She spun back to her captain. “Open the gate to him, but send ten men to insure he carries no weapons. I will meet them in the great hall.”
Acutely aware of her disadvantage if he perceived any vulnerability in her, Emma hastily retreated to her chambers to wash and change her tunic. “Havoise!” she called to her maid. “I must have clean linen at once. And bring out my gold Byzantine silk.”
Havoise’s eyes widened. “The one you were to be wed in?”
“Yes. If the savage wishes to talk, I will receive him according to my station.”
But once dressed in her finest, Emma reconsidered. As a woman, she would only be perceived as weak. Her father had warned her that the Viking savages only respected strength. Thus, she would confront the Viking, not woman-to-man, but warrior-to -warrior.
Half an hour later, she descended the staircase with a racing heart, trembling knees, and a body weighted down by a chainmail hauberk and the sword her father had given her strapped to her side.
***
Ivar entered the outer gate of Quimper only to be surrounded by armed men with a hungry look that told him one wrong move on his part and they would happily skewer him. He could smell their bloodlust. Was he foolhardy to have entered the gates? Should he have sent another in his stead? Valdrik surely would have done so, but curiosity and pride compelled him to confront the adversary who refused to surrender to him.
Caked as he was in dirt and blood, Ivar knew he was a sight to strike fear in even the hearts of his own men, but refused to cleanse his body or change his tunic. Fear and intimidation would be his greatest assets in this negotiation.
“Drop your weapons,” the captain-of-the-guard commanded him.
Ivar stabbed his sword into the ground. His shield followed with a thud.
“Now check him for knives,” the captain ordered.
While two men pointed their blades at his throat, another searched his clothing, finding and removing the dagger he carried in his boot. It joined his sword and shield.
Devoid of weapons, Ivar felt naked and vulnerable, but nevertheless, faced the force of ten with boldness. “Be warned that I will have all of your heads on a pike if they are not here when I return.”
Now that he had no defenses, would they murder him in hope of ending the siege? They had to know of Valdrik’s injury, which had left Ivar in charge of the Norse army. What would he do in their place? There was no question in his mind. He would kill the enemy invader.
Instincts on high alert, he tensed, anticipating the fight that would ultimately end his life while mentally calculating how many he would take with him. To his surprise, the moment passed without incident. Fools.
“This way,” the guard commanded.
Escorted with spears at their backs, he and the duchess crossed through the bailey, toward the bridge to the hilltop keep. Ivar covertly scanned the fortification to assess it for
weaknesses. There were archers on the walls but few men inside. Easily taken if only a handful of his men breached the gate.
Women and children scurried out of their way as they traveled. A brave old hag muttered a curse and spat on him as he passed. Ivar halted and spun around with a roar that sent her melting into the crowd of gawkers.
Perhaps they only delayed his death in order to make it a public spectacle? How would Christians torture a godless heathen? Would they burn him at the stake? His mind conjured an image of the same old woman who’d spat, lighting the pyre. How degrading that would be— to have his ears ringing with a crone’s cackle as he burned. He didn’t fear death but would prefer to depart the earth with a sword in his hand.
Ivar’s curiosity magnified tenfold upon entering the keep. The hall was massive and grander than any he’d ever seen, with colorful tapestries adorning the walls and elaborately patterned mats covering the floors and trestle tables laden with silver. It was so much as he’d envisioned Valhalla would be, that his gaze tracked upward, expecting to find golden shields on the ceiling.
He’d barely overcome his initial surprise when his gaze lit upon the woman who commanded the chamber—and his breath froze. Donned in golden silk covered by a mail hauberk and bearing a sword, she had every appearance of a Valkyrie.
“Who are you and what do you want?” she demanded with icy contempt that both annoyed and intrigued him. Hooking his thumbs in his belt, he assessed her slowly and silently. With the air of a queen and her dark, flashing eyes, Lady Emma of Quimper was magnificent.
When he didn’t respond to her questions, she turned her attention to the duchess. “Does this savage have a tongue?”
“Aye. He does,” Ivar answered, adding with a leer, “Were you not such a harpy, I’d show you.” In truth, he’d have her, harpy or not.
“You didn’t answer my question. Why are you here?”
“I am called Ivar the Red. My brother, Valdrik the Wolf, slayed both Duke Rudalt and Count Cornouailles on the field of battle and has come to claim the spoils.”
“Your brother presumes to claim Quimper?” she asked with a curl of her lip.
“Nay,” he shook his head. “I do.” He rocked back on his heels as he cast an appraising gaze over the keep. “Tis not much, but ‘twill do…as will you,” he added provocatively.
“Me?” she replied with a snort of disdain.
Did she really believe herself too good for him? The fire in her eyes strangely annoyed and excited him. He moved slowly toward her, wondering if she’d retreat, but she stood her ground, eyeing him with defiance. “As the new lord of Quimper, I will be in need of a woman to keep my house…and warm my bed.”
“I think not, savage,” she hissed. “I would kill you first.”
In a flash, Ivar found a dagger at his throat and a slight sting as the point grazed his flesh. A drop of crimson stained his boot. One swift slice could end his life. He knew he should disarm her, but curiosity held him back. He’d given her the chance. Would his Valkyrie act?
***
With the knife poised at his throat, Emma had the perfect opportunity to take his heathen life and end the plague that had overtaken Brittany, but a split second of hesitation cost her everything.
Before she could even blink, his brawny arm encircled her waist. She shrieked in frustration as he effortlessly twisted the dagger from her hands. Why had she not killed him when she had her chance? She could have so easily done it, but now found the tables turned, with her life completely in his very large hands—and the dagger she’d wielded plied to her own throat.
The injustice and impotence of her position filled her with fury, but her own reckless impetuosity was her downfall. She’d lost the protection of her guards the moment she’d assailed him.
His rumbling chuckle filled her ears. “For sooth, you should have been born a man.” His breath was hot and humid against her skin as he murmured his next infuriating impertinence into her ear. “Surely beneath those milky white breasts beats the heart of a warrior.”
The heat of his gaze drifted over her bosom. His open ogling made her quiver with righteous rage. “Let me go now, or I swear I won’t hesitate next time to cut yours out!”
Still plying the cold metal blade against her skin, he turned them both to face the gaping duchess and Quimper’s former captain-of-the-guard. “Now that the castellan of Quimper is at my mercy, let us discuss the terms of surrender.”
“I will never surrender!” Emma shrieked and stomped on his foot.
He hissed a curse but held her fast. The Viking inclined his head to Gurwent. “Go and open the gates. Refuse to obey me at the lady’s peril.”
“Don’t do it!” Emma cried. “Kill him, Gurwent!”
Gurwent’s tormented gaze darted between Emma and her captor. He reached for his sword.
The Viking continued evenly, “You should also know that I left orders to torch the keep if I don’t return in an hour.”
“You wouldn’t,” she insisted. “You would die as well.”
He shrugged. “What is death to a heathen like me? I will die when the gods desire it, not before. My fate is already written.”
“If you burn us, there will be nothing left for your people to plunder,” she argued.
“And you think that would stop them?” Adèle interjected. “It would mean nothing to them to burn it all. This is not a raiding party, Emma. They have not come just to plunder and leave. They came to conquer.”
“The land is indeed what we came for,” he said. “The rest can easily be replaced.”
“Let me go,” Emma pleaded. “I have silver and jewels. You may take it all if you leave us in peace.”
“You offer what is already mine,” he said. His grip tightened around her, constricting her breath. He once more addressed Gurwent, “Open the gates. Now.“
Gurwent’s shoulder’s sagged in defeat. “I’m sorry, milady. I’ve failed you. There’s naught else to be done.”
The Viking jerked his head to indicate Adèle. “The duchess will go with you and see to my brother’s care. The rest of you,” he addressed the guards. “Leave us.”
Emma watched in horror as everyone vacated the great hall. He wanted her alone? What would he do with her? Did he intend to rape her? Her throat filled with bile. He was bigger, stronger, fiercer, and smelled of blood and death. He could easily overpower her. As panic struck, her gaze darted about the chamber, seeking any object that might serve her as a weapon, but she had no defense.
Bracing for the assault, she squeezed her eyes shut as his hands slid down her body. To her shock, he removed her sword belt and released her. When she opened her eyes, she found him smiling smugly and strapping her sword around his own hips. With utter indifference, he then crossed the hall and flung himself into her father’s high seat where his smile stretched to mocking proportions. “Now we talk.”
“I have nothing to say to you,” she spat.
“All the better. I will talk and you will listen,” he replied mildly. “Consider it your first lesson in obedience.”
“Obedience?” she snorted. “Do you think to make me your slave?”
He shook his head. “Fortunately for you, your high station protects you from that fate.”
“I don’t understand.” Emma knew her country’s history well. Her grandfather had fought and died by King Alain’s side in their effort to drive out the Norsemen who had once enslaved her people. “Isn’t it Norse practice to press captors into bondage?”
“Only lowborn captives are put into bondage.” He smiled fully for the first time, revealing even, white, teeth. “I see your surprise that even savage Norsemen have a code of conduct.”
“What do you want from me?” Emma demanded.
“You will swear fealty to my brother, Valdrik, Duke of Brittany.”
“I will do no such thing!” she answered defiantly. “I will never submit to any of you.”
“You will if you wish to remain in your home with all
of the comforts you have become accustomed to.”
“And if I refuse?”
“I will let my brother decide. Perhaps he will hold you for ransom.”
“There is no one to pay you,” she replied. Suddenly remembering the betrothal ring that could give her away, Emma slipped it from her finger and concealed it in her hand. The less he knew about Count Ebles, the better. His arrival must come as a surprise or the rescue would surely fail.
He raised one ginger brow. “No one?”
”Nay. You killed my father,” she answered.
He shook his head. “’Twas Valdrik, not I, who killed your father.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Emma said. “You are all godless, heartless, swine.”
He inclined his head to the chair next to him and reached for a chalice. “Come, Lady Emma, let us cease the insults and speak civilly. I will deal fairly with you.” He poured a cup of wine and offered it to her. “You have earned the honor.”
She stood rooted in place. “Is it an honor to bargain with Lucifer?”
“Lucifer?” he repeated with a blank look.
“Satan,” she explained. “The devil who has been consigned to the eternal flames of Hell.”
“Ah. Hel.” He nodded in apparent understanding and returned a slow smile. “I know this place, Hel.”
“A certes, you do,” she snapped.
He laughed then, a full, rumbling sound that echoed in the chamber and rippled down her rigid spine. How dare he ridicule her! She raised her chin defiantly. “I have no patience for pointless conversation. Just tell me what you want from me.”
“I also find little pleasure in… conversation.” One corner of his lips twitched as he eyed her up and down. Refusing to show any sign of weakness, she resisted the urge to look away. She hadn’t noticed the color of his eyes before, but now they were intently and inscrutably fixed on her. They were not the icy blue she’d imagined, but the greenish hue of a stormy sea. “Your station protects you from slavery, but it does not guarantee your freedom.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“All things come at a price, Lady Emma.”
World of de Wolfe Pack: Ivar The Red (Kindle Worlds Novella) (The Wolves of Brittany Book 2) Page 4
