Breton Wolfe

by Victoria Vane

  He gazed back at her wild-eyed for several painful heartbeats and then his expression darkened. “The bargain is now sealed,” he said gruffly. “We will wed tomorrow. Until that time, you will remain inside these walls.”

  ***

  Valdrik left the duchess’ bedchamber feeling like a stalking beast that had been denied his prey. His self-restraint had nearly snapped—until he comprehended that her husband had used her no better than a whore. Although he’d gone to her in anger and with every intention of taking her, punishing her with sex was the act of a brute. And that’s exactly what she believed he was—a ravaging monster from the north. He wanted her. His body had screamed with need, but there was something greater at stake.

  He’d come to Brittany with the ambition, not only to conquer, but to win over and reunite the land as one kingdom. If she would come to him willingly, she would be highly instrumental in helping him to achieve that goal. Thus, he was determined to win her over and gain her cooperation. He would prove himself a better man than her duke had been, shrewder, more competent, more capable, a man worthy of commanding… of ruling.

  He didn’t understand this strange need he had for her respect. Women had always been merely a way to pass the time between raids, but this one was different. She was proud, beautiful, and defiant with an untouchable air—that only made him want to touch…to take. But he wanted her admiration, not her revulsion. He’d come perilously close to losing any chance to win her over. His error was in trying to extort from her what had to be given freely. He’d learned that long ago with his men. Although they responded to a show of strength, in the end, their respect had to be won. He consoled himself that tonight he’d proven he was not a mindless savage bent on subjugation, but a man capable of reason.

  And she had accepted his bargain. That last kiss, however, was much more than he’d bargained for. The haughty duchess had begun to melt, revealing what he’d suspected—she hid passion beneath the ice. He stood to reap great benefits if he restrained himself enough to handle her with care. Tomorrow, he promised himself, she would be his.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A man shall trust not the oath of a maid, nor the word a woman speaks; For their hearts on a whirling wheel were fashioned, and fickle their breasts were formed. - Hávamál

  ADÈLE AWOKE the next morning with a raging headache. She’d never found herself in such a predicament. Was there no way out of this unholy union? A certes she’d made a devil’s bargain, and sealed it with a Judas kiss. She’d agreed to give him her body, but she refused to sell her soul.

  Although the Norseman had done nothing to harm her, she was far more wary of him than she had ever been of Rudalt. Maybe it was because the duke was a lazy brute while the Norseman was both shrewd and ambitious—a dangerous combination.

  She lay in bed frowning as she considered the events of the night before. She didn’t understand her reaction to this man. She knew she should despise him, but a very small part of her couldn’t help admiring his strength and intelligence. He’d surprised her with a hint of humor and the gentleness of his touch. She gave a slight shiver at the remembrance of that kiss. She’d never been kissed in such a way. Would her own lustful desires betray her? She prayed she would not be so weak. She must cling to the hope that the Norsemen might still be vanquished. If Cornouaille and the other counts combined forces, surely they would defeat these invaders.

  When Gisela didn’t appear to help her dress, Adèle rose from bed and applied herself to the task. She despised Gisela to the depth of her soul and would be glad to rid herself of the slattern. Maybe now that Gisela was no longer Rudalt’s concubine, she could take Mathilda back as her personal maid?

  Once her braids were pinned in place, she donned her veil and fillet and then retrieved a woolen mantle from her wardrobe. Wrapping it around her shoulders, she made to exit her rooms to seek out some herbs to sooth her head. Upon opening her door, she discovered a bearded Norseman guard with a fierce scowl. She recognized him as one of Valdrik’s captains, the darker one with similar eyes. She wondered again if they might be kinsmen.

  “Why do you stand here? Am I not permitted out of my chamber?” she inquired in annoyance.

  “You are to ready yourself to be wed,” he replied.

  “Already?” she repeated blankly. Although she dreaded this union, she was not filled with terror of what would follow. She’d already suffered the ultimate debasement at Rudalt’s hands.

  “Aye,” the Norseman’s face broke into a grin. “Valdrik is an eager groom. He makes preparations.”

  “What kind of preparations?” she asked.

  “He hunts a wild boar to sacrifice to Freyr.”

  “Who is Freyr?” she asked.

  “He is a god of prosperity and fertility. He will also sacrifice to Freyja, the goddess of love, wealth, and fertility. They are two of the most honored and renowned among our gods. After making his sacrifices, Valdrik will proceed with purification.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “Bathing,” he replied. “You will do the same. Your bath has already been ordered.”

  “And then what?” she asked. “I know nothing about your pagan wedding customs.”

  “Norse wedding custom requires an exchange of rings and swords,” he replied.

  “I have no ring to exchange,” she said. “Mayhap we could postpose the ceremony until a suitable ring could be made?” she suggested, hopefully.

  As expected, he saw through the ploy. “Nay. Valdrik is impatient to be done with it. He is already as foul tempered as a bear coming out of hibernation.” He pulled a ring with a large ruby from his own finger. “You will present this ring.”

  She reluctantly accepted his offering. “What of this sword exchange?” she asked. “What is the purpose of it?”

  “The gift of a family sword from the bride to the groom symbolizes the transfer of guardianship and protection over the bride to her new husband. Valdrik in turn must present the sword of his ancestors for you to keep for your firstborn. His Ulfbert is his most prized possession. If he is to become the Duke of Vannes, you cannot give him a lesser blade.”

  “But I have no sword,” she replied.

  “The duke’s sword was returned to you,” he pointed out.

  “But Rudalt’s sword belonged to the King of Brittany,” she protested. She would not give it up willingly.

  The Norseman nodded his head with a smile. “The king’s sword will do very well. You will present it to Valdrik.”

  She thought to argue, but realized there was little point. They would take the weapon from her either way. “Your chieftain,” she still refused to utter his name, “told me I am to remain inside the keep, but he said nothing about locking me in my room. I am feeling unwell and am in need of medicinal herbs.”

  His glower returned. “I am not to let you out of my sight until the wedding. Send your serving woman.”

  “I cannot,” she insisted. “I am the keeper of the still room. It is solely my domain.”

  He considered her with furrowed bows and then gave a grunt. “Then I’ll go with you.”

  “So be it,” she huffed. She made her way briskly down the stairs to the great room where several men still slumbered, bedded down by the barely smoldering fire. One of them was not alone. She recognized Gisela wrapped in a big hairy arm. Served her right to be sleeping on the floor with the Norse dogs. Adèle sniffed in disdain and walked briskly past, secretly pleased that Valdrik had not lied when he’d said he had no desire to take her to his bed. She didn’t know why that thought had troubled her, but didn’t care to examine those feelings too closely.

  Thankfully, the still room was tiny and the ceiling low which made it far too crowded to accommodate her hulking Norse shadow. Instead of following her inside, he stood outside, guarding the door. Ignoring him, she scanned the rows of jars. She chose chamomile for her head, but then eyed the jars of mandragora and poppy extract, suddenly realizing the answer to her troubles lay o
n these very shelves.

  On her wedding night when she’d half-heartedly attempted to drug Rudalt, the potion had been far too weak. Mandragora combined with poppy extract, however, would be far more effective to induce sleep. Her still room held many more medicinal oils, herbs, and roots—angelica, chaste berry, false unicorn root, coriander and black willow, licorice, and rue. All of these in the correct doses could be used to cure many ills, but incorrectly given … many of them could cause death. Would killing her mortal enemy endanger her soul? Did she dare chance such a thing? She gnawed her lip in indecision.

  Even a day ago she wouldn’t have hesitated to put a dagger through the Norseman’s heart, but now the idea of poisoning him seemed such a low and craven act. That was not to say she wanted to wed him. But if the Norseman forced her, mayhap she could at least ensure that their bargain ended with her freedom. She would conscript Mathilda’s help in drugging his food and wine in hope of avoiding the marriage altogether, but if she could not escape that destiny, she would employ whatever means she could find of avoiding conception.

  “What is taking so long?” The Norseman stuck his head inside, eyeing her with his persistent scowl.

  “Since it is my wedding day, I wish to select a special scent for my bath.”

  He rolled his eyes and sounded an impatient snort.

  Once he was out of sight again, she returned her attention to the shelves and reached for the crock of chaste berries. She often gave them to women who complained of pains with monthly courses, but they were also eaten by the monks at Redon in the belief that they dampened the desire for coitus. She added oil of rue to her basket. Rue had many healing properties, but was also used by the monks for the same purpose as the chaste berries.

  She would secretly add the berries to his food and rue to the wine. Valdrik was no fool. She knew he didn’t trust her as he’d already made her taste his wine. She would still be able to reassure him it was safe. Chaste berries would not harm her. Other than belly cramps, neither would oil of rue—unless she were carrying a child. That thought made her freeze. What if she did conceive? Would she dare use it on herself if ridding her body of his child would guarantee her freedom? She knew at once that she could not. She would simply have to conceal the pregnancy from him. How difficult could that be? Their bargain was only for six months. The chances that it would happen right away were slim at best. She left the still room with an inward smile. At last she had the makings of a plan.

  ***

  Edgy, restless, and foul tempered, Valdrik had spent his morning barking orders at his men. He’d attended many weddings in his lifetime, but had never given a single thought to his own. These kinds of arrangements should have fallen upon the women, but Breton women knew nothing of Norse customs. They were also a dirty people. One of the first things Valdrik vowed to do in Vannes would be to construct a proper Norse bathhouse. But for now, lacking that amenity, he made due with a wooden tub that he could barely fit into. Scenting the waters with sweet smelling angelica, he began scrubbing away the boar’s blood that stained his hands and arms.

  He was in the midst of this purification when Ivar barged in. “I don’t comprehend this haste to wed. Why do you not wait until we return and do the damned thing properly?”

  “I wed in haste because I do not wish to die without a son to follow after me,” Valdrik answered. “Should I fail in my quest, I would at least go to Valhalla with the hope that I have planted my seed in her belly.”

  Ivar nodded in understanding. “Then what will you do about the sword exchange?”

  Valdrik paused, a cake of lye soap in hand. “My Ulfbehrt was my father’s sword and his father’s before that.”

  “Then what will you carry with you when we ride west?” Ivar asked.

  “I will find another sword,” Valdrik replied, resuming his ablutions.

  “You cannot!” Ivar was among those who believed the sword was invincible.

  “It is not magical,” Valdrik insisted. “It failed our father at Questembert.”

  “Only because the gods had ordained that it was his time to die,” Ivar contested.

  “Nevertheless, I will not break with tradition,” Valdrik replied. “I will give her the sword.”

  Ivar shook his head. “You make the same mistake as Freyr. He was the first god to lose in Ragnarok because he gave up his magical sword to wed the giantess.”

  “You are too superstitious by far, my brother. If you believe my success has been solely due to my weapon, it is time you and I matched blades.”

  “I would not risk injuring you when the goal is so close at hand.” Ivar grinned. “But afterwards…”

  “’Tis not I who would suffer injury,” Valdrik countered. “But the time is not right to appease vanity when we have a kingdom to conquer.”

  “What is your plan?” Ivar asked.

  Valdrik grinned. “’Tis my wedding day. I plan to feast and fuck to my heart’s delight.”

  Ivar glowered. “I meant after the feasting and fucking.”

  Valdrik’s grinning face became grim. “We must move quickly before the counts can combine forces against us. I will leave Bjorn here with fifty Norse and fifty of the duke’s men. You and I will take the rest to Cornouaille. From thence, we will move on to Poher. If we are triumphant, the other counts will fall. If we do not succeed…” He lifted his hands from the blood stained bathwater in a fatalistic gesture. “Then Valhalla awaits us.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Fault for loving let no man find ever with any other; Oft the wise are fettered, where fools go free, by beauty that breeds desire. - Hávamál

  MATHILDA WAS placing the gold fillet over Adèle’s silken veil when a knock sounded on the door. “See who it is,” Adèle commanded, hoping it wasn’t her bridegroom.

  The knots in her stomach had been tightening from the hour since she had awoken. Mathilda had smuggled the poppy oil into the kitchen, but it was impossible to know which pitcher of wine would be served at the wedding table, so she liberally tainted them all. If the entire party of Norsemen fell asleep, perhaps she could make an escape. She just prayed he would not discover what she had done until she was long gone. Mathilda opened to the Norseman who still guarded her door.

  “Valdrik sent a gift for his bride.”

  Adèle came forward to see it. Her breath hitched. In his big hands the Norseman held a delicate crown of apple blossoms. That Valdrik had made such a gesture took her aback. Was the choice of flower purely coincidental, or did he ask someone which was her favorite?

  The guard offered it to her gruffly. “You must wear it without the veil.”

  “But I cannot,” she protested.

  “You will do as Valdrik commands. He awaits you below.”

  “Then he will continue to wait until I am ready,” Adèle snapped.

  He eyed her narrowly. “Be warned that my brother gave instructions to throw you over my shoulder if necessary.”

  “Brother?” she asked. “Is that why you have the same eyes?”

  “We have the same eyes because we share the same father.”

  “But not the same mother?” she continued to press, although the answer was obvious.

  “Nay. Our father was wed to his mother. My mother was his concubine. Ivar’s was his bed slave.”

  Her breath hitched in shock. “He threatened me with such a fate, but I wasn’t sure I believed him. There really is such a thing among the Norse as a bed slave?”

  “Aye,” he replied and changed the subject. “Do you come now as a willing bride or do I carry you like a sack of grain?”

  Adèle swallowed hard. It was time to face her bridegroom. “Mathilda?” she turned to her maid with a tight smile. “Pray secure the crown.”

  ***

  Chalice in hand, sword at his side, and pulse pounding relentlessly in his ears, Valdrik’s cast another furtive gaze to the staircase, hoping the hall full of Norse warriors would not notice his agitation. Where the devil was she? Was she even now hug
ging the bedpost and refusing to come to him? Bjorn had instructions to carry her should she renege. Perhaps he should do it himself. He was ready to do just that when he caught sight of a delicately shod foot, followed by another, and then the shimmer of silk. His gaze tracked slowly upward as she descended the stairs, looking as graceful and haughty as Freyja herself in a tunic of green with no other adornment save the gold embroidery on the hem and sleeves and the floral crown upon her head. Beneath the wreath of apple blossoms he’d sent, her silvery blonde hair hung in a cascade of soft waves down her back.

  She froze for just an instant on the landing. Their gazes met and held. Though she tried to disguise it with the jut of her chin, her eyes betrayed her unease. Wishing to reassure and encourage, he acknowledged her with an inclination of his head and a subtle smile of approval. She immediately jerked her head, but a twitch of her lips told him she was secretly pleased. Desire mixed with pride swelled within him. Soon she would be his.

  This wedding was not merely a means of expediency to achieve his goal. Had he met her in another place, he knew he would have wanted her as much as he wanted her now. He would have felt the same way had she been a lowly milk maid. If circumstances had been different would she have accepted his suit? He was baffled by the direction of his thoughts. He’d never even considered wooing a bride before, but he was moved to win this woman over. Though the wedding would soon unite them as husband and wife, he feared there would always be an impenetrable wall separating them.

  Bjorn led her to him. He noted that his brother carried the duke’s bejeweled sword. It was a decent weapon albeit too pretentious for his taste, but tradition dictated he give up his ancestral sword into his wife’s safe keeping. As she came to stand with him, Valdrik unsheathed his blade and extended it horizontally in both hands.