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.”
“And I knew nothing of this?” 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 who were unwilling 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 is well enough,” Mathilda said, “though she was forced to wed that savage,” she spat.
“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 than a day before he took the duchess to wife.”
Gwened’s heart leapt into her throat. “He forced her?”
“Tis not as you think.” Mathilda shook her head. “He gave her no choice in the marriage but I do not believe he harmed her.”
“Then where is she?” Gwened asked.
“They were only wed one day before he marched on to Quimper. When she got word that he was injured in battle, she went to tend him.”
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.
“Why? Why would she tend this man?”
“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, but hostility toward him would get her no answers. Though she refused to drop her guard, he had, thus far, treated her well enough. Had he intended to harm her, he surely would have done so already.
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 was 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 then 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. Though Bjorn had initially suspected her motives, she had proven herself trustworthy. 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.
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.
She looked up at him. “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 asked, her eyes wide with incredulity.
“She was part of the bargain,” Bjorn answered. “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 then asked.
“’Twas some legal matter,” she replied. “Perhaps it is already settled and he has returned.”
He studied her for a long moment. She was being far too vague. She was hiding something. “Does your husband often leave you alone?” he asked.
“I am not without protection if that is what you imply. I have my men-at-arms,” she reminded him. “When I came here I feared you might have killed Mateudoi as you killed Rudalt.”
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.
“I know nothing of the whereabouts of the Count of Poher,” he finally answered. “Why did you really come here?”
“I needed to see for myself if it was true that you had taken Brittany from us. I also wanted to know what it would take for you to leave us in peace. What is your price?” she asked.
“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. “You mean to keep me here? As a prisoner?”
“As a guest,” he corrected. “You will have 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 remain here under my protection until your husband swears his fealty to Valdrik.”
“What if Mateudoi refuses your demands?” she asked.
“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.”
“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.”
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.
She had entered the enemy camp virtually alone and defenseless, but still managed to conduct herself with the haughtiness of a queen. 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.
CHAPTER EIGHT
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!
Restless and agitated, she paced the chamber. She wondered when Adèle would return to Vannes. She still couldn’t comprehend what had compelled her to help Valdrik. Why hadn’t she just let him die?
Even as she questioned Adèle’s behavior, she pondered her own reaction to Valdrik’s brother, Bjorn. Although she passionately wanted to despise him, he’d provided little fuel to her fire. He hardly seemed like the bloodthirsty beast she’d imagined, and no one seemed the worse off for his being here. Bjorn was calm, polite, and impossible to read. But far worse was her disconcerting physical reaction to him. His rugged good looks, deep voice, and strangely arresting eyes, were agitating.
Mathilda soon arrived to help her undress. “You will be sleeping here in the queen’s chamber?”
“Aye,” Gwened said. “I somehow feel more secure here.”
“You should know that he sleeps nearby in the duke’s bedchamber.”
“Oh.” Gwened swallowed hard, wondering if she’d made a poor choice. “Should I fear him? What do you think of these Norsemen?” Gwened asked.
Mathilda paused, boar’s bristle brush in hand. “I do not trust them. Nor do I like that they are here, but milady Adèle suffered far worse under Duke Rudalt.”
The maid’s response came as no great surprise. “My brother was a brute,” Gwened said. Rudalt had treated his wife abominably from the very night of their wedding. “Are you saying this Viking, Valdrik, treats her with respect?”
“More like a man smitten,” the maid replied with a snort. “I would not presume to guess what he thinks or feels, but anyone can see how he reacts to her.”
Gwened spun around to face her. “And what of Adèle? How does she react to him?”
“At first, she only cooperated out of fear and the desire to prevent bloodshed, but I think ‘tis much more than that now.”
“You think she cares for him?”
The maid shrugged. “When she heard of his injury, she went immediately to Quimper.”
Gwened sighed as Mathilda began stroking her hair. “I wish she would return. There is so much I don’t understand.”
Although he had given her no reason to fear, caution prevailed. After Mathilda departed, Gwened barricaded the door with a chair. It would hardly keep him out if he truly wanted to enter her chamber, but at least it gave her a small measure of peace.
***
For the next two days, Gwened avoided the Vikings altogether, taking her meals in her chamber and busying herself with tidying the solar. If she was going to be a hostage, she decided she might as well keep herself usefully occupied.
Hoping to fill her hours with needlework, she searched for supplies. Although there were several distaffs, spindles, tambours, and needles, she was dismayed to find very little embroidery thread. Gwened stared at the basket of combed wool with a sigh. This would not do at all! Although she probably could have found a servant to procure her some spun thread, they were unlikely to have any in the colors she sought.
She supposed she could spin it herself, but it would take her many days just to make the thread, let alone dye it. Nevertheless, the more she thought about it, the more Gwened longed to escape the castle, if only for a few hours. Bjorn had promised her the freedom of the bailey; m
ight he also allow her to go outside its walls to gather lichens for dye?
Taking up a basket, she descended to the great hall, only to find servants cleaning up the aftermath of breakfast. “Where is…Bjorn?” Gwened asked, refusing to call him by any other title than the name he’d provided.
“Milord just left a short time ago intent on hunting, milady,” one of the servants replied.
“Thank you.” Gwened hurried from the great hall in hope of catching him before he departed. She found him with a group of his men, girded with knives and spears, but with no dogs or horses. What manner of hunt was this?
He suddenly looked in her direction, his brow cocked. “Countess? Do you intend to join us for the hunt?”
The curious looks his men exchanged told her it was a joke.
“I do not hunt,” she replied. “At least not anything that moves.”
His brows furrowed in a silent question.
“I only hunt lichens,” she explained, raising her basket.
“Lichens?” his mouth twisted. “Is this some Breton delicacy?”
His look of revulsion almost made her laugh.
“We do not eat them,” she explained. “We use them for dye. Your tunic is a beautiful color,” she remarked with admiration. “That shade of blue is hard to achieve from woad. Do you know what kind of dye was used?”
He glanced down at his tunic with a shrug. “I am partial to this color, but I know naught of lichens and dyes.”
“I do. It’s one of my chief interests,” she said. “I dye my own wool for my needle work. Which is why I sought you. I would very much like to go to the forest to gather dye stuffs.”
He frowned at her. “You cannot go alone.”
“Then send a servant with me,” she suggested. “I won’t go far.”
“How can I know this isn’t a ruse to escape?” he asked.
“I suppose you will just have to trust me.”
World of de Wolfe Pack: THE BASTARD OF BRITTANY (Kindle Worlds Novella) (THE WOLVES OF BRITTANY Book 3) Page 5
