World of de Wolfe Pack: Ivar The Red (Kindle Worlds Novella) (The Wolves of Brittany Book 2)

by Victoria Vane

  “Only minutes ago,” she replied. “Thanks be to God.”

  “Which one do you thank? The Father, Son, or Holy Ghost?” Ivar scratched his chin, intentionally baiting her. “You Christians seem confused on the matter.”

  “There is only one,” she replied tersely. Her tone and gaze both softened as she addressed Valdrik. Her concern for him appeared sincere. “I will take my leave now. I’m sure you and your brother have much to discuss.”

  “As do you and I,” Valdrik reached out to take her hand. “You cared for me? Why?”

  “Because I care for you,” she replied with a soft smile that made Ivar feel like an intruder. “I will return in an hour,” she said, nodded to Ivar, and took her leave.

  Valdrik’s gaze followed her like a hungry dog longing for a bone. “Will you keep her?” Ivar asked.

  “Did she tend me under duress?” he asked, his voice hoarse and weak from disuse.

  “Nay,” Ivar replied. “She came of her own free will. She barely left your side,” he grudgingly added.

  Valdrik’s expression grew thoughtful. “Then I do have much to think about.” He tried to sit up and fell back with a curse. “Damn it! I feel weak and helpless as an infant.”

  “’Twill take time to regain your strength,” Ivar said.

  “There is no time. Our position is precarious at best. I can’t be seen as vulnerable. I will be leaving this sickbed on the morrow.”

  Ivar didn’t argue. Valdrik was right that a show of strength was needed if they had any hope of keeping what they’d claimed. “Then what?” Ivar asked. “Will we ride for Poher?”

  “What word have you from Poher?” Valdrik asked.

  “Nothing,” Ivar replied, “There has been no sign of an army either. Gisela said Mateudoi of Poher is weak—both a cripple and a coward.”

  Valdrik nodded. “Then he is unlikely to fight. I will exact tribute from him. Since you have your hands full here at Quimper, I will send Bjorn as my envoy.” His brow furrowed. “Where is Bjorn?”

  “He returned to look after your interests in Vannes.”

  “Good.” Valdrik’s features relaxed. “Let us hope he’s also kept Gisela occupied.”

  “Gisela?” Ivar repeated. In truth, he’d all but forgotten about her and his promise to send for her once he’d taken Quimper.

  “Have you come to any decision about her?” Valdrik asked. “Will you solve my problem and take her to wife?”

  “You said you would also speak with Bjorn,” Ivar reminded him.

  He half hoped that Bjorn had already taken her to bed and off of his hands, but had little faith. Bjorn was far more discriminating about women than he was.

  “I did,” Valdrik said. “I was just hoping you might save me the trouble.”

  “Sorry, brother,” Ivar said. “But Bjorn is the better choice. He has the temperament for marriage. I do not. I have no interest in settling down. I will keep my word and remain by your side as long as you needed me, but beyond that… I make no promises.”

  “If you would stay here with me, I have in mind to give you Quimper.”

  “That’s generous of you but might prove more difficult than you think,” Ivar said with a laugh.

  Valdrik’s brows furrowed. “Why is that?”

  “We may have ended the siege, but the castellan has yet to surrender.”

  “And this is a problem for you?” Valdrik said. “I’ve never known you to have difficulty subduing a foe.”

  “My foes are not usually female.”

  “Female?” Valdrik replied with a frown.

  “Aye. The recalcitrant castellan is the count’s daughter, Lady Emma. She refuses to concede.”

  Valdrik cocked a brow. “Ivar the Red who has killed countless hardened warriors can’t handle a mere woman?”

  Clasping his hands behind his back, Ivar paced the bedside. “You don’t understand. She is intractable. Infuriating. Impossible…”

  Valdrik’s lip kicked up in one corner. “In my experience, nothing is impossible.”

  “Only because you have not met her, brother. She will change your mind. I swear it. I’ve tried everything from bribery to bullying, and coercion. Yet, she still fails to acknowledge my authority.”

  “Yet here we are,” Valdrik gestured to the chamber. “In her home.”

  “Not by her choice,” Ivar said.

  “I remind you, we didn’t enter the gate at Vannes by invitation.”

  “Aye, but this is different. The one you chose didn’t come at you with a knife.”

  “A knife?” Valdrik shook his head with a laugh. “No. My duchess has much more subtlety. As to Lady Emma, she would be a valuable bargaining tool—even if she had two heads.”

  “What do you mean? What do you intend to do with her?”

  “I shall do what her father should have done—and find her a suitable husband.”

  A husband for Emma? That remark stopped Ivar in his tracks. The idea didn’t sit well with him. At all. “Good luck finding a man to take her!” Ivar scoffed. “She is utterly unmanageable!”

  “Mayhap she just needs a man who is capable of managing her.”

  Ivar speared his brother with a black look. “If you weren’t all ready half dead, I would kill you for that.” Foregoing a cup, he took up a pitcher of mead and flung himself into a chair. “She is no mere woman, brother. She is a giantess with the heart of a Valkyrie… ”

  “Ah.” Valdrik eyed his brother appraisingly. “It suddenly becomes clear.”

  “What is clear?” Ivar snapped.

  “It isn’t that you despise her. The problem is that you desire her,” Valdrik suggested with a bemused look. “Is my brother lovesick?”

  “I am no such thing!” Raising the pitcher to his lips, he drained the contents.

  Valdrik watched him in silence with that damnable smirk still playing about his mouth. “But by Odin’s eye, this thing is consuming me! I can’t eat. I can’t sleep…. She’s driving me half mad!”

  “If it is purely lust, I advise you to seek other pastures,” Valdrik warned.

  “I don’t want another, damn it!” Ivar threw back his head, raking a hand through his hair with a curse.

  “Nevertheless, I won’t let you use her as a whore. I killed her father, which places her under my protection. I cannot let you despoil her.” Valdrik paused. “Given your attraction to her, ‘tis not the wisest course to leave Lady Emma under your care. I had initially thought to ride to Poher on the morrow to treat with my wife’s brother, Mateudoi, but mayhap ‘twould be best to send you as my envoy.”

  Ivar glared. “What are you saying? You don’t trust me?”

  “I’m saying that unsated lust can be a dangerous thing. It impairs judgment in the best of men, but time and distance often works the cure. You will leave on the morrow.”

  “I am no politician,” Ivar remarked churlishly.

  “Precisely my point,” Valdrik said.

  Ivar rose with a grunt and stalked toward the door. He was furious that his brother thought he lacked self-control, but there was no arguing when Valdrik gave a direct order.

  Valdrik spoke again just as he reached for the latch. “Of course, there is another alternative that comes to mind—one that could save us both considerable aggravation.”

  Ivar spun to face his brother. “And what is that?”

  “You could marry her.”

  Ivar blinked. “Marry her?”

  “Aye.” Valdrik grinned. “If you want her in your bed, the only answer is to take Emma to wife—if you can convince her to have you.”

  “Convince her?” Ivar replied incredulously. “You can’t expect me to woo her?”

  Valdrik shrugged. “She is a free woman. I can facilitate the marriage, but I cannot force her into it.” Valdrik added with a grin Ivar wanted to wipe from his smug face. “If you are not up to the task, Adèle is very knowledgeable of herbs, mayhap she can concoct a love potion for you?”

  Ivar placed his hand on h
is sword hilt. “When you regain your feet, brother, I swear there will be a reckoning between us.”

  Ignoring the threat, Valdrik laughed. “Sleep on it, brother. I will expect your answer on the morn.”

  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 right. 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.”