THE BASTARD OF BRITTANY

by Victoria Vane

  “I do not fear him,” Mateudoi said, then quoted scripture, “No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper; This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord.”

  Gwened paused, brush in hand. “If this is so, what of the monks of Saint Marcouf?”

  “Martyrdom for Christ is a certain path to sainthood,” Mateudoi said. “And all saints receive their due reward in Heaven.”

  “Martyrdom? Is that why you support the idea of sending men to fight?”

  “While I do not condone killing,” Mateudoi answered, “the Church must be protected from those pagans at any cost.”

  “What will happen when the burden will sit solely upon your shoulders to protect it?”

  He looked confused. “What do you mean?”

  “Brittany has no heirs. Rudalt and Gwened are childless. Should anything happen to Rudalt, the crown would fall to you.”

  He regarded her with a frown. “I do not want it! Indeed, I would have done anything to avoid…” He looked away.

  “Our marriage?” she finished softly.

  “Aye,” he replied. “I never wanted to wed, but the king gave me no choice!”

  Laying down her brush, she went to where he sat by the fire and knelt beside his chair. “Mayhap this union is not what either of us wanted, but we could try to make the best of it, couldn’t we?”

  “I thought we had made the best of it,” he replied. “I have never placed any…demands…on you.”

  His eyes widened and body stiffened as she rested her hand on top of his. “But it is our duty to produce a child.”

  He snatched his hand away. “It is for Rudalt, not I, to produce heirs for Brittany.”

  “But I want a child!”

  “Then I am sorry for you, Gwened,” he replied. “I am not my brother in any way. My desire is only for the things of God.”

  “It is no sin to desire to be touched, Mateudoi,” Gwened said. “The joining of bodies between husband and wife is expected in a marriage.”

  “Yet, scripture says that it is good for a man not to touch a woman. Set your affection on things above, not on things on the earth.”

  She stared at him in incomprehension. Why was he doing this? “You would deny me children?”

  “If it was God’s will, you would have conceived,” he replied.

  She responded with an incredulous laugh. “After only one coupling?”

  She was bitterly reminded of her wedding night. Mateudoi hadinsisted that they pray together. After hours on her knees, Gwened had eventually fallen asleep. On the night that followed, he vowed to do his conjugal duty, but spent his seed almost immediately upon breaching her maidenhood. The experience was brief and unpleasant for both of them, and he had never repeated it.

  “It is not unheard of,” he replied.

  “Do I repulse you, Mateudoi?” she asked. The cruel irony almost made her want to laugh.

  “It is not you,” he said with a sigh. “Marriage itself repulses me. It was designed for those who are too weak to resist carnal temptation. Perhaps it is the frailty of my body that has given strength to my spirit, but I have overcome the temptations of the flesh.”

  “You have never experienced desire…of any kind?” She had heard rumors of men who entered the monasteries purely to fill unnatural desires. Was he one of them?

  “I have not.”

  She wondered at the truth in his words. Was he truly devoid of passion, or was he just fearful of it? Was he afraid of creating a malformed child? Gwened loosed the ribbon at her neck and let her gown slip from her shoulders. She had never acted with such boldness before, but she was growing desperate. The fine linen fell with a whisper to puddle at her feet.

  Fighting the urge to cover her nakedness, Gwened forced her arms to her sides. “Look at me, Mateudoi, and tell me you feel nothing.”

  “You ask for what I cannot give you.” His eyes barely flickered before he reached to the floor and retrieved her shift. She burned with shame and humiliation as he offered it back to her. “Cover yourself. The chamber is cold.”

  Choking back a sob, Gwened snatched the garment from his hands. “Not half as cold as your heart.”

  ***

  Kingdom of Frankia

  “Hrolfr grossly underestimated the foe, not only did they refuse to pay tribute, they united against us!” Ivar pointed to the campfires that surrounded them for almost as far as the eye could see.

  “It gets worse,” Valdrik remarked, taking a swig from his wineskin while staring down at the enemy camp. “They have brought in reinforcements.”

  Bjorn and Ivar tracked the direction of the older brother’s gaze. Sure enough, beyond the dense lines of horse and foot soldiers was a large contingent of newly arrived Frankish forces.

  “Their horses are picketed and they are preparing to bed down for the night,” Valdrik said. “They will attack at sunrise.”

  “And Hrolfr has us sitting here on the hilltop waiting to be slaughtered like a herd of hapless sheep! By Odin’s eye,” Ivar exclaimed. “I wish I’d fallen in battle!”

  Bjorn shared his brother’s sentiments. They’d come seeking riches only to be routed and humiliated!.

  But nothing about the expedition had gone according to plan. Their entire series of misadventures since leaving Norway had Bjorn wondering if he was the source of their misfortune. Did the curse the gods had placed on him now affect all those around him?

  Upon landing on the coast, they’d worked their way inland, ransacking monasteries and churches along the way, but the riches were few. They then set out to pillage Paris, but the city had become well-fortified since Hrolfr’s last victorious raid. Though forever scarred from the Norse siege machines, the Frankish walls stood strong.

  After failing to take Paris, they’d sailed further down the Seine and into the tributary of the Eure, but Chartres had proven equally impenetrable. Forced to withdraw and make camp a few miles from the city, the chieftains conferred while the men paced the camp murmuring words of mutiny.

  The counter-attack the next day came as a complete surprise. Unbeknownst to the Norse, the Franks, Neustrians, and Aquitainians had formed an alliance against their common foe.

  “Victory or Valhalla!” His brothers had roared as they charged forth with ax and sword to meet the foe. The battle was bloody and brief. Outmaneuvered and outmanned by at least ten-to-one, the Viking chieftains had swiftly sounded a retreat. Building a hastily constructed fortification of dead bodies and animal carcasses, the remains of a once fearsome Viking army now blanketed the hill top.

  Thousands of corpses peppered the landscape, their once gleaming metal axes and swords now stained to the color of rust, while the mixed blood of Norse and Franks soaked into the thirsty earth. Beyond the field of the fallen was the river where their boats were moored—within sight, but ever out of reach.

  “Enough of this!” Valdrik exclaimed, throwing down his empty wineskin. “The time has come to act!”

  “How?” Ivar asked, his brows pulling together. “The only way to the boats is through the enemy camp!”

  “Then we must go through it,” Valdrik declared. “The Franks are so confident of victory that they will not expect an offense. We only want for an element of surprise to penetrate their lines. We have but one chance out of here. We must act tonight.”

  ***

  It was eerily quiet with the soft glow of the moon painting ghostly patterns over the landscape when the vanguard led by Valdrik, stalked stealthily down the hill. Knives in hand, they moved as silently as shadows, eliminating the Frankish sentries with quiet lethality, until they’d advanced deep into the enemy encampment where fires smoldered and men slumbered.

  Taking positions throughout the camp, the men raised their battle horns. At Valdrik’s signal, they sounded a deafening peal, echoed by a dissonant din of shield rattling and Norse battle cries.

  Like a stirred hornet’s nest, the Franks surged from their tents, many fleeing into the darkness. Others, terrorized by t
he melee of screams and clashing steel, mistakenly took up arms against each other. Through the mass confusion and chaos, the Norsemen made a rapid advance toward their waiting boats. By the time the fiery ball of the sun cast its first rays over the land, the Norsemen were sailing back up the Seine.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Gwened awoke the next morning to find herself alone in the bedchamber with a sealed parchment on the pillow beside her head. Sitting up, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and broke the wax. The handwriting was Mateudoi’s, but to her dismay, the missive was written in Latin.

  She squinted at the neatly penned script, struggling to make sense of it. Although she understood the language well enough, she had never learned to read it well. Two phrases, however, stood out to her— matrimonium conubium tolli and decreta nullitate. Decree of nullity? Was Mateudoi preparing to appeal to the Pope for an annulment?

  Stunned, she was still staring at the letter when her maid, Agnes, came in to light the fire. “Have you seen the count?” Gwened asked.

  “He left this morn with Father Francis.”

  He left with the Abbot of Redon? Why would he have left with the priest instead of returning to Poher with her? “Are you quite certain?” Gwened asked.

  “Aye,” she replied. “I was there when he called for his litter. Do we await milord’s return, or do we leave for Poher this morn?” Agnes asked.

  “I don’t know when he will return,” Gwened replied. “Let us leave this place. I wish to go home to Poher. Since Mateudoi has taken the litter, I suppose I will be obliged to beg a palfrey from my brother and ride back to Poher.”

  Not that she minded. Gwened enjoyed travelling by horseback far better than confinement in the litter.

  After dressing and packing, Gwened sought out Adèle. She found her sister-in-law working in her still room. Just as Gwened filled her empty hours with needlework, Adèle spent her days grinding herbs, boiling roots, and pressing precious medicinal oils to aid the needs of those under her care and protection.

  Gwened paused at the threshold to inhale the mixed scents of sweet herbs and pressed flowers. “I miss the smells of this place.”

  “And I miss you,” Adèle said wistfully. “We see each other so rarely anymore.”

  “I wish it were not so,” Gwened replied. “But I must go home.”

  Adèle instantly looked dismayed. “You are leaving already?”

  “I have angered Rudalt,” Gwened said. “I think ‘twould be best to stay out of his sight for a time.”

  Adèle sighed. “You are probably right, but ‘tis my brother who has truly inspired his wrath. I was shocked to hear that Mateudoi stood up to him. I never would have expected it.”

  “Neither would I,” Gwened confessed. “But I have learned that though weak in body, Mateudoi is exceedingly strong in his convictions.” She hesitated, wondering if she should reveal Mateudoi’s letter to Adèle. Although they never discussed their respective marriages, Gwened knew that Adèle was as unhappy as she was. Would she support the decision?

  Gwened idly fingered the jars that sat upon the shelf. She opened one and gave it a sniff while she composed her thoughts. It was lavender, a soothing scent and one of her favorites.

  “Take it,” Adèle said. “It is good for megrims.”

  “Thank you,” Gwened said. “There is something important I must tell you. Mateudoi and I have decided to seek an annulment.”

  “Oh?” Adèle’s eyes widened.

  “Surely this cannot come as a great surprise,” Gwened said. “You know how it is between us.”

  “In all this time, nothing has improved?”

  “No. You were right that he should have become a priest. I wanted a child, but Mateudoi denies me. We had words about it last eve and this morning he is gone.”

  Adèle’s brow furrowed. “Gone where?”

  “He didn’t say. I only know he left with Father Francis. I assume by his letter that he intends to petition the Pope about the marriage.”

  “I wish it could have been different for both of us,” Adèle said. “I am wed to a brute and you to a monk.” She shook her head with a melancholy sigh. “It seems neither of us has any hope of children.”

  “Do you believe yourself barren?”

  “I wouldn’t know if I was or not,” Adèle replied with a bitter laugh. “Although I have not conceived, it is no fault of mine. Rudalt prefers his mistress. If rumor is to be believed, he has also spawned an entire litter of bastards. I fear for the fate of Brittany if we have no legitimate heirs…but there is something else you may not have considered. If your marriage is annulled before Mateudoi comes of age, Poher will fall under Rudalt’s authority.”

  ‘Twas true, Gwened hadn’t considered that possibility. But her father had. Suspecting his son would be a poor ruler, King Alain had taken measures to ensure this would not happen. Although Mateudoi had indeed stood up to Rudalt regarding protection of the Church, he would have little interest in other matters. Over time, Mateudoi would become naught but a cypher to Rudalt. But given Mateudoi’s reluctance to rule, perhaps that would please him best.

  “I doubt it will happen so quickly,” Gwened said. “Mateudoi is less than a year from his twenty-first birthday and these matters are not swiftly resolved. The Church frowns upon any dissolution of marriage. It could take months or even years.”

  “What will you do then? Where will you go when Poher is no longer your home?”

  Only now did Gwened realize that Poher would no longer be her home if Mateudoi succeeded in his appeal to the pope. What would she do then? Turn to her brother for protection? She was certain Adèle would not turn her away, but Rudalt was volatile and unpredictable.

  “I don’t know,” Gwened replied. “But I refuse to fret about it. I must take my leave of you now, dear sister.” Extending her arms, she took Adèle into a tight embrace and bade her farewell.

  ***

  Two months after the fateful battle that had thwarted their designs on Paris and Chartres, the Norse who still remained loyal to Hrolfr were entrenched in Rouen. Although they had lost, Hrolfr had refused to concede defeat. Instead, they made camp along the Seine where they could easily harry anyone who traveled the river. No one was allowed to pass without paying a hefty fine. Those who refused forfeited their vessels. This new form of piracy proved surprisingly profitable in the end. Hrolf quickly amassed both a fortune and a small fleet.

  Faced with a new Norse threat in addition to the established Loire Viking colony, the King of the Franks had been forced to negotiate.

  As they met on the designated field, however, the Frankish forces, bedecked in full combat regalia, appeared prepared for war rather than peace. The gleaming helmets, lances, and long swords rattling against mail hauberks, added a deafening cacophony to the earth-quaking thunder of five hundred sets of iron-shod horses.

  “Why should we treat with them?” Ivar grumbled. “We control the mouth of the Seine and all the surrounding lands. We cripple their trade at will.”

  “But for how long?” Valdrik countered. “We already fight rival forces from our own race and now the Franks, Neustrians, and Aquitanians are united. Hrolfr believes we would serve ourselves best to negotiate with these Franks. Their lands are fertile and there are many among us who would be well content to take a Frankish wife and turn his hands from the sword to the plow.”

  “Others would rather plow the Frankish woman and move on to greener pastures,” Ivar remarked.

  The Archbishop of Reims, King Charles’ chief emissary came forth to greet the Norse chieftain. “His Majesty is prepared to offer you Rouen and all lands bounded by the rivers Bresle, Epte, Avre, and Dives in exchange for the cessation of all raiding and plundering of his Majesty’s kingdom,” stated the king’s emissary.

  “These are the very lands we already control,” Hrolfr pointed out.

  “Yes, but by the terms of this treaty, they will become yours uncontested and freehold.”

  Hrolfr rocked back on his
heels and speared the king of the Franks with his most ferocious stare. “It is not enough.”

  The king urged his horse forward until he looked straight down on Hrolfr, who would otherwise have dwarfed him. It was an obvious intimidation tactic. Little did he realize that one swipe of Hrolfr’s great arm could land his royal Frankish arse on the ground.

  “I also grant you the kingdom of Brittany,” the sovereign of the Franks offered.

  Hrolfr eyed him with a quizzical look. “Generous indeed to offer up lands you do not possess.”

  The king’s smile broadened. “Brittany is without a strong ruler. Since Alain’s death, the kingdom is divided and contentions run high. If invaded, it will easily crumble. It is yours for the taking.”

  “If that is all true, why have you failed to take it?” Hrolfr asked.

  “I have been occupied elsewhere,” the king answered, adding with a sly smile. “And I pledge to remain occupied thusly, should your men discover an ungovernable urge to raid and plunder.”

  “You will not contest me for it?” Hrolfr asked, his eyes taking on an avaricious gleam.

  “I will not,” the king replied. “But in return for this fiefdom, I would demand a sworn oath that you and your men will henceforth secure my borders from any other invaders and serve me in any other requested capacity.”

  “There is one further contingency,” the archbishop said. “All of your men must renounce your pagan worship and be baptized into the Holy Catholic Church of our blessed Lord.”

  The ranks of Norse erupted in a rumble of low curses.

  The archbishop continued unaffected. “His Majesty is appointed by our God and is ruled by Him in all things. Any vow sworn to the King is also sworn to He that rules the universe. Thus, without such a pledge to God, what guarantee does His Majesty have that you will not overreach him?”

  Hrolfr fingered his sword with a black look. “Do you imply that the word of a Norseman is worth less than that of a Frank?”

  “I would answer that the vow of a Christian carries infinitely more weight than that of a pagan,” the archbishop replied. “These are nonnegotiable terms. Do you accept them, Norseman?”