THE BASTARD OF BRITTANY

by Victoria Vane

  “I must also confer with my council,” Hrolfr replied.

  By now, all of the Norse were seething with the urge to shed Frankish blood over the mass of insults piled upon them. It made little difference to Bjorn, however, he had already lost faith in his own gods. Perhaps he would have better luck offering his sacrifices to the White Christ?

  Though his men were enraged, Hrolfr acted the diplomat, convincing his men to keep their eyes on the prize—lands and riches beyond their wildest desires.

  When Hrolfr returned, the archbishop asked, “Are you and your men prepared to swear enduring fealty to His Majesty Charles the Third and be baptized by the Holy Ghost?”

  “We are,” Hrolfr replied.

  “His Majesty’s generosity exceeds all bounds,” remarked the Marquis of Neustria. “A show of humility to one’s liege lord is most befitting this occasion.”

  “Indeed,” the priest agreed. “The recipient of such beneficence should make an appropriate gesture of obeisance to the one who bestows such great gifts.”

  Hrolfr’s expression darkened. “What mean you by show of obeisance?”

  The marquis looked to the archbishop with a sly smile. “I propose the Norseman should kiss the king’s foot. Surely His Majesty deserves such a token gesture of good faith.”

  There could be no greater insult. It was an obvious ploy by the marquis to sabotage the negotiations, given that his Neustrian lands were being bartered.

  “Sometimes is it necessary to suffer unpleasantness for greater gain,” Hrolfr replied calmly. “A bit of lip service is a small price to pay—even if the lips in question must be plied to the king’s foot.”

  “Unpleasantness? Valdrik erupted in a humorless laugh. “A war chieftain would never so degrade himself.”

  “That is true, nephew. And that’s why you will do it.”

  “Me!” Valdrik looked ready to explode.

  “Yes. You.” Hrolfr nodded. “You have made your name as one of Odin’s great warriors. Now it is time to prove yourself in statecraft.”

  Valdrik cursed under his breath. “I’ll kiss your hairy arse first, Uncle.”

  “You will do it, Valdrik,” Hrolfr insisted, steely-eyed, “and with a smile upon your face. I promise you will be well-rewarded for your sacrifice.”

  “And what prize awaits the man who debases himself? What price do you set on my honor? My pride?”

  “A crown,” Hrolfr replied blandly. “A kiss seems a small token in exchange for a kingdom, does it not?”

  “I will need men, arms, and horses.”

  “You will have your pick of three hundred mounted warriors.” Before Valdrik had time to respond, Hrolfr ushered him forward with a shove. “My kinsman, Valdrik, seeks this honor.”

  The king’s brows came together in a frown. He dropped his foot from his stirrup. His horse shifted in impatience. The seconds lengthened into minutes as Valdrik glowered at the king’s foot but made no move to comply.

  “This treaty will not be concluded without a proper demonstration of goodwill,” the archbishop’s voice rang out. “Defiance shall be construed as a declaration of war.”

  Exchanging looks, Bjorn and Ivar laid hands on their swords. The Frankish forces were mounted. The Norse were on foot. The odds were not favorable.

  They were ready to draw their steel when Valdrik suddenly grasped the royal foot and jerked it upward to meet his lips. The sheer violence of his act threw the king off balance, nearly unseating him from the horse!

  The lines of Frankish soldiers stood gape-mouthed while the Norsemen erupted in riotous laughter. Perhaps he hadn’t adhered to the spirit of the decree, but no man could claim he hadn’t discharged the command.

  After sealing the bargain with the dubious kiss, Valdrik, his two brothers, and three hundred hardened Viking warriors set out to conquer the kingdom of Brittany.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Carhaix Castle

  Poher, Brittany

  “Ouch!” Gwened stared at the drop of crimson forming on the tip of her finger. Her first thought was to admire the deep red color, more vivid red that anything she could ever produce from madder. Then realizing she might stain her precious white linen, she laid down her needle and sucked the droplet from her finger.

  What had begun six years ago as naught but a means of filling her empty hours had become her greatest passion. The embroidered cloth, now stretched the entire length of the solar. Much of it was her own family history. In her mind’s eye she had envisioned the faces of the proud men and woman who had once ruled the kingdom, and her nimble fingers had brought those images to vivid life, stitch by tiny stitch. It was a long and proud heritage that she feared would be lost forever if neither Rudalt nor Mateudoi produced an heir.

  She couldn’t recall the last time she’d pricked her finger, but she was growing more distracted by the day. Two months had passed with no word from Mateudoi. Where was he? Had he gone to Rome to petition the pope? She found it difficult to imagine him tolerating such a long and arduous journey. Had something happened to him?

  Although he kept to himself most of the time, it was strange to be alone in a castle after six years. What would he do once they annulled the marriage? She could easily see him returning to Redon Abbey. It was more home to him than Castle Carhaix had ever been. Perhaps he was even now at the abbey, his wife and home far from his mind? Unable to stand the uncertainty, Gwened resolved to send someone to inquire after his whereabouts. Having at least made that decision, she once more picked up her needle to resume her work.

  “My lady!” Gwened’s maid, Agnes gasped as she entered the solar. Her voice was breathless as if she’d been running and her expression was one of alarm. “I bear terrible news from Vannes!”

  Throwing down her tambour, Gwened instantly took to her feet. “What is it, Agnes?”

  “A party of soldiers have arrived with news that an army of Vikings has invaded Brittany!”

  “Where are these men?”

  “They await you in the great hall.”

  “Go at once to the kitchens and notify the cook we need food and drink for these men!” Gwened’s thin slippers slapped the flagstones as she made haste to meet the messengers. As she entered the great hall, three men turned to face her with haggard faces and bloodstained clothes.

  “You have come from Vannes?” she asked.

  “Aye, milady.” One of the men stepped forward, his eyes grave. “Duke Rudalt is slain and a battle wages at Castle Quimper.”

  “Dear God!” Gwened gasped. “My brother is dead?”

  “Aye, milady.” He crossed himself. “God rest his soul.”

  Gwened’s next thought was of her sister-in-law. “What of the Duchess Adèle?” she asked.

  “Best I know, she lives, milady,” the captain answered. “We rode on to Quimper to warn Count Gormaelon the moment Duke Rudalt was killed. The Vikings, however, were swift to follow us. They laid siege to the castle.”

  “Then I will send men at once to Gormaelon’s aid!”

  The captain of the trio, shook his head. “Count Gormaelon has already fallen.”

  “What?” Gwened clutched a hand to her throat.

  “These Vikings did not set out just to plunder, my lady. These godless savages have come to conquer all of Brittany.”

  “Conquer?” she repeated blankly as the world began to spin. How could this be?

  “Do you know anything of the Count of Poher? Was he also slain?”

  “I know nothing of him, milady.”

  “Then let us pray he is somewhere safe,” Gwened said. “What of Lady Emma?”

  “She still held the castle when we rode out but ‘tis only a matter of time ‘til they set it aflame.”

  A strange calm settled over Gwened. Rudalt had gravely misjudged the danger at his door and now her homeland had been overrun by a pagan army. Worse, it seemed these pagans had not come just to pillage, they had come to stay.

  “Tell me everything from the beginning,” she demanded,
her heart beating in her throat. The two most powerful men in the land were dead, and many soldiers with them. The ones that remained were now without leadership. Brittany had never been more vulnerable. “I must know exactly how this came about if we are to put up any defense.”

  For decades Brittany had been free of Vikings while they ran rampant in England and Frankia. But the Franks had finally united against them and driven them into Brittany. If Rudalt had joined the Franks, might they have been better prepared to protect their own borders? He’d been warned of the threat, but his pride had overcome caution.

  “Surely there must be some way we can rid ourselves of them,” Gwened declared.

  “We cannot fight them, milady,” the captain said. “Our men have scattered.”

  “Then we will pay tribute if we must,” she said. “I don’t care if we have to empty every coffer.”

  “They will only return later and demand more,” the captain argued.

  “They almost certainly will,” she agreed. “But at least it will buy us some time. We must regroup and strengthen our defenses or we have no chance at all. I will ride to Vannes on the morrow and see for myself what havoc they have reeked. I will learn what manner of foe we face and find a way to deal with them.”

  ***

  The ride from Carhaix to Vannes was three days under normal conditions, but pushing her horse and her men, Gwened covered the distance in two. Halting on a rise about half a mile from the castle, she surveyed the landscape. To her great surprise, there were no smoldering fires or severed heads hanging from trees—the usual aftermath of a Viking raid. There was no evidence that a siege had ever taken place. Instead, it all seemed oddly quiet. Was there some mistake?

  “I do not comprehend this,” Gwened remarked. “It appears…so normal.”

  Signaling her men-at-arms, Gwened rode onward toward the castle gate. All of her senses were on alert, but there were no damaged buildings or slaughtered animals. Was this some kind of trickery designed to lure her in? Her spine was rigid and her hands clenched the bridle reins as she urged her horse forward.

  Halting at the gate, she listened for the sounds of activity from within. She caught the sound of Breton voices, the complaining bleat of sheep, and the lowing of cattle. None of this made any sense.

  “Go to the gate,” she commanded Guerec. “Tell them I have come to see the duchess.”

  A moment later, Guerec returned to her. “I am told she is not here, milady, but you are welcome to enter the gate.” He nodded to the portcullis rising behind him.

  “Not here?” Adèle was gone? She noted several men standing at the gate. They wore long hair and had bearded faces. Bretons were clean-shaven.

  “Where is she?” she asked, her suspicion growing as the strangers approached. Had they lied? Was the duchess also dead? Gwened fought a surge of fear.

  Guerec opened his mouth to answer, but another voice replied.

  “She has ridden to Quimper to treat my injured brother,” one of the Vikings answered in Breton. His voice was a low, soft baritone with a peculiar lilt. “You are welcome here, Lady Gwened. You must be fatigued. ‘Tis a long journey from Poher.”

  Gwened stared at him wondering how he spoke her tongue so well. He was dressed like the others in a woolen tunic and leather trews, but his beard was more closely trimmed than the other warriors, revealing a rather handsome face. He had darker hair than most Norsemen, and the strangest golden colored eyes.

  “’Tis not so far,” she finally replied. “I often come to visit my sister-in-law,” she lied.

  “Do you often travel without your husband?” he asked, eying her with a look of speculation that made her skin tingle.

  “I have protection,” she replied, inclining her head to her three men-at-arms.

  “Do you indeed?” He regarded her men with a look of contempt.

  “Is my brother within?” she asked, determined to hide her apprehension and act as if she knew nothing at all.

  “No,” he replied tersely, his intense eyes meeting hers. “But I think you already know this. I think it is the real reason you have come.”

  He knew! What should she do? Ride on to Quimper? Turn around and go back to Poher? Before she could decide, he laid a hand on her horse’s bridle.

  She bit back a cry of alarm as Gueric drew his sword.

  “Sheath the blade,” the Norseman growled. “The lady is in no danger.”

  “Do as he commands, Gueric,” Gwened said, knowing there was no escape. They were outnumbered and he had hold of her horse.

  “Come. Let us talk,” he said. “We have much to discuss.” Giving her no choice, the Norseman took the reins from her hands and led her horse through the castle gate.

  “Who are you?” she demanded as they entered the bailey. “And what are you doing here?”

  “My name is Bjorn Vargrson,” he replied. “And I am looking after things on my brother’s behalf.”

  “On your brother’s behalf? This castle belongs to my brother, Rudalt, Duke of Brittany!”

  “Rudalt is no longer Duke of Brittany,” he replied matter-of-factly. “You!” he called out to a young Breton boy. “Take care of the horses.”

  Gwened sucked in a gasp as he put his hands about her waist. Her body trembled with fear and outrage as he lifted her from the saddle. She glared down at him only to soon find herself looking up…way up. He stood a full head and shoulders above her. She was not a particularly small woman, but he was a very large and powerful man. She was painfully reminded of Hugo. Would this barbaric invasion ever have happened if Hugo had lived?

  “Do not ever touch me again without my permission.”

  He shrugged. “How else would you have dismounted?”

  Having no answer, she ignored his taunt.

  Gwened silently seethed as he escorted her into the castle.

  “I suppose you know your way around,” he said. His civility irritated her beyond measure. Nothing about this encounter was as she’d imagined. Vikings were brutal savages who ransacked and raped. They didn’t engage in polite conversation!

  “Of course I do,” she snapped. “I grew up here.”

  “Then you are very fortunate. It is a fine castle.” He slowly surveyed the great hall with a look of admiration. “We have none like it where I come from.”

  Gwened refused to continue this inane exchange of pleasantries. She jerked around to face him. “How much do you want?”

  He cocked a dark brow.

  “To go!” she clarified. “How much money must we pay you?”

  “We did not come for tribute,” he said. “We came to conquer.”

  “Do you really believe you can just march into this land and simply claim it as your own?”

  His answer was blunt. “Aye. Haven’t we done so?”

  Gwened gaped. The arrogance of his answer was astounding. But she realized it was also indisputable. They had indeed claimed her ancestral home and by all accounts would soon succeed in taking Quimper, if they had not already done so. Two of the most populous and prosperous provinces had fallen at their feet with barely a fight, and Poher surely would follow. They had no defense.

  “Vikings rape and plunder and return at will, but you have never settled in this land…or in any other!”

  “Perhaps our will has changed?” he suggested with a subtle smile. “There is a colony of Danes who have settled in the south of Frankia. Their chief is named Rognvald, a brutal savage. Choosing the better of two evils, the king offered our kinsman lands in Neustria in exchange for an alliance.”

  “But this isn’t Neustria!” she said. “Did you get lost?”

  He responded with a chuckle. “No. We are not lost. Quite the contrary, I believe we have found something…something worth keeping.” The look in his eyes filled her with dread. He meant what he said. They had every intention of staying.

  “Tell me what happened to my brother.” She would have the truth of it one way or another.

  “You will know all soo
n enough,” he replied blandly. “First, you will refresh yourself. Then we will talk.”

  ***

  Though Bjorn refused to show it, the Countess of Poher’s appearance at Vannes had caught him off guard. He’d half-expected a Breton army to show up at his door, but a woman? Where was her husband? Could she have come as a spy? Or was her arrival a ploy to keep Bjorn occupied while the count raised an army against Valdrik? It was impossible to know, but he intended to find out.

  Her arrival, however, was fortuitous. His injured brother would not have to worry about any trouble from Poher if Bjorn were to hold the countess hostage until Valdrik recovered. She was an inconvenience, of course, but one he had to accept. Rudalt’s former mistress Gisela was already trouble enough. Thankfully, Ivar had handled her, which now left Bjorn to deal with the countess. But what to do with her? Inconvenient men were easily dispatched, but women were another matter altogether. He was reluctant to keep her locked up.

  The thought of having to entertain her made him strangely uncomfortable. He wasn’t used to females, let alone those of high breeding. Nevertheless, he resolved to treat her with all the respect due her station. “Bring food and wine,” he commanded the servants. “We have an important guest.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Feeling unnerved and seeking security, Gwened passed by her old bedchamber, and went instead to the queen’s apartments, rooms that were rarely used since the dowager’s passing. Rather than moving into the queen’s chambers, Adèle had opted to remain in her own, as far as possible from Rudalt’s domain.

  Unlike the queen before her, Adèle spent most of her time in her still room, rather than in the solar. Gwened, however, had passed most of her girlhood in this room. The rays of sun shining through the window lit up the dust motes that had taken residence, but other than the light film of dirt coating the furniture, distaffs, and spindles, the room was largely unchanged.

  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.