World of de Wolfe Pack_Ivar The Red

by Victoria Vane

  Taking up his chalice, she eyed Emma with a smile and took a drink.

  Emma recognized the message in the gesture. Who was this Jezebel drinking from Ebles’ chalice and eating from his plate?

  The count’s gaze darted back and forth between them as Emma waited for an introduction. When none appeared forthcoming, she stepped forward with her chin raised. “I am Lady Emma, daughter of Count Gourmaëlon and Count Ebles’ betrothed.”

  The woman’s gaze widened. She then broke into a deep throated chuckle. “I find that most interesting, indeed, considering I am Lady Ebles of Poitou, the count’s new wife.”

  Emma’s jaw dropped. “His wife?”

  “Aye, his wife. We are even now celebrating our wedding feast.” She inclined her head with a smug smile to a vacant cushion. “Pray join us, Lady Emma of Quimper.”

  Shaking with rage, Emma spun to Count Ebles. “What is this treachery? You and my father signed an agreement.”

  “I-I got word of your father’s death,” he sputtered flush-faced. “And naturally assumed the worst.”

  “That makes no sense,” she accused. “I sent a messenger that we were under siege. How could I have done so if I were dead?”

  “Death is not always the worst fate.” He shrugged. “Moreover, your despoilment nullified our contract and any obligation I had to you.”

  “M-my despoilment?” Emma repeated in confusion.

  “You were taken by Vikings and lived. I am no fool, Lady Emma. There can be only one reason why they didn’t kill you.” He nodded to his companions who were eyeing Emma like hungry hounds waiting for the master’s scraps.

  “You think I…” Emma was momentarily speechless. “But my captor sent a ransom demand with my betrothal ring.”

  “Ransom?” he replied blankly. “I received no such notice, but have no fear, my dear. If you seek protection, there is yet room in the bridal chamber.” He turned to his wife. “What say you, Gisela?”

  Lady Ebles raised her chalice and took a sip. Then, smiling at the Norsemen, she poured the rest of the wine over her breasts with a chortle joined by the raucous laughter of the Norsemen. “The more, the merrier, my lord.”

  Emma’s shock turned to outrage. “You vile little dwarf!” Before she could think twice, she struck Ebles hard across the face.

  “Bitch! This is how you would return my hospitality? Guards!” he called out. “Take away this she-devil at once.”

  ***

  Riding alone gave Ivar too damned much time to think. And it didn’t take much thinking for him to realize, he’d made a huge mistake. Once more, he’d reacted purely from the gut rather than using his head. His brother would be furious when he learned he’d let Emma go. And rightfully so. Much like Gisela, Emma posed a threat to Valdrik’s claim. But Emma was far more dangerous than Gisela, who sought only her own gain. Emma would inspire others to take up arms, and releasing her to Ebles, essentially gave her the army she needed. It was a huge tactical blunder.

  He couldn’t let his own bruised pride become his brother’s downfall. She was not so far ahead that he couldn’t still catch her. He had no choice. He must hunt her down, return her to Quimper, and let Valdrik deal with her however he willed. With a sigh of resignation, he halted his horse and turned back toward Poitou.

  ***

  Emma’s exit from Count Ebles’ tent was far less dignified than her entrance. Bound up like a fowl trussed for roasting, she was carried to a smaller tent in the encampment where they held another prisoner—her own servant, Budic.

  “Milady!” he exclaimed. “How do you come to be here?”

  “’Tis a long story that I can hardly comprehend myself, Budic. Perhaps you could offer some enlightenment, starting with why they imprisoned you?”

  “That wh …” he paused with a flush… “er … woman… accused me of spying.”

  “The woman? You mean Lady Ebles?”

  “Aye, milady.” He scowled. “‘Twas she who took the ring.”

  “Why would she do such a thing?” But understanding came quickly. The woman had perceived Emma as a threat. She never gave Ebles the ring or the message. She’d wanted Ebles to believe Emma dead, or at least defiled by Vikings.

  “Who is she, Budic? And why are their Norsemen in this camp?”

  “I don’t know who she is, but the Norsemen be a bad lot. They’re a band of Danes come up from the south. They be mercenaries, milady. They don’t care who they fight. They sell their allegiance to the highest bidder,” he spat. “There be no worse breed of man on the earth.”

  “Ebles hired Vikings to fight Vikings? I suppose there is some logic in the madness,” Emma remarked. “But why would he choose to fight now? Why not while my father lived? Or when I sent for help?”

  “I know not, milady.”

  Try as she might, Emma couldn’t make sense of it. How could it be that the man who should have been her salvation had turned out to be far more perfidious than the one she’d regarded as her foe? The man her father had pledged her to, the one who should have been her protector and savior, was a faithless traitor and liar, while the one she’d believed a godless savage, had shown her nothing but patience and mercy.

  She’d been so misguided and naïve in so many ways. The Viking who’d held her captive had at least treated her with a modicum of respect. She’d despised Ivar for imprisoning her in her own comfortable rooms, but now she sat on the damp ground in Count Ebles’ camp, bound hand and foot. The count was everything she’d dreaded and more—a truly loathsome creature.

  The bindings of coarse hemp ate into the flesh of her wrists as Emma struggled against her bonds. Was there no way out of here? She had little hope of escape, but she still couldn’t regret striking Ebles. She did, however, regret her parting with Ivar. Deeply.

  She wondered how differently Ivar might have dealt with her if she’d swallowed her pride and surrendered to his authority? Would he have kept her as his concubine? Only days ago, she would have rejected the idea outright, but now that she’d experienced his passion, she questioned whether it would be such a terrible thing to be under his protection… to be his lover.

  ***

  Ivar crouched in a shelter of brush on the edge of the encampment watching for any sign of Emma. The army was a motley mixture of Franks and Danes. Was this a confederation with the Loire Vikings? They were well known for forging purely mercenary alliances. Many killed for gold but others for the pure joy of it. He understood them all too well. The same darkness had called to him most of his life, and beckoned to him still. Only, Valdrik, had saved him from selling his sword as well as his soul.

  A disturbance caught his eye from the pavilion that could only be the count’s quarters—two men carrying a bound and struggling prisoner. Emma! His gaze tracked their position as they moved toward the center of the camp where they shoved her inside a tent. There were only two guards posted to watch her, but as a lone man against seven hundred, he could not afford a misstep. He would wait for darkness to fall.

  Given the Norse contingent, infiltrating the camp would not be too difficult. His dilemma was how to get her out of the camp unnoticed. Success depended on her cooperation. Would she trust him? More importantly, could he trust her?

  Two Norsemen approached the tent. The guards at first looked uneasy. An exchange of words followed and then muffled laughter. Ivar’s pulse quickened. The larger of the two Vikings produced a coin purse from his tunic and handed it to the first guard—a bribe. Ivar’s hand closed around his sword hilt as the second Viking took up the watch position abandoned by the guards who disappeared into the camp. As the second Viking ducked into the tent, his pulse roared to life.

  ***

  Lost in her thoughts, Emma sat in almost total darkness listening to Budic softly snoring. How could he sleep? Her own nerves were on edge. What would tomorrow bring? Would Ebles kill her for humiliating him? She feared he might, but even death would be far better than spending her life bound to him. Whatever her fate, she vowed
to face it with dignity.

  Voices just outside the tent distracted her from her thoughts. Had the count changed his mind or had he sent an executioner? She cocked her head but couldn’t understand the conversation. Her pulse quickened at the low laughter that followed.

  The tent flap suddenly parted. She strained to see into the darkness, but the brief flicker of firelight from outside revealed only a large, ominous shadow. Who was this? Her heart surged into her throat. If the count had sent someone to release her, he would surely have brought a torch. Her stomach knotted as the shadow approached.

  She heard his every movement, the stealthy footfalls, the rasp of his breath, and the soft scrape of metal. Should she cry out? Budic had not yet stirred, but he could do nothing to save her.

  She gasped as a calloused hand came over her mouth. His other hand pawed at her tunic. Her spine stiffened at the sound of renting linen. Tears burned her eyes but struggling would do no good. She prayed that it would be over quickly and that he would spare her life. She didn’t want to die, but she also didn’t want to see his face. She shut her eyes, unable to bear the thought of remembering it in the nightmares that would surely haunt her.

  ***

  Knowing he’d be too conspicuous wielding his sword, Ivar entered the enemy camp with his dagger hidden in the folds of his mantle. Though small, the knife was deadly in his skilled hands and easily concealed.

  Bearing a wineskin and a smile, Ivar feigned a drunken stagger as he approached Emma’s prison tent. He paused to take a long swig, mumbled something lewd, and then offered the skin to the guard. Every muscle tensed with anticipation. His attack must be swift and lethal. The moment the guard tilted his head back to drink, Ivar sliced his throat.

  Shoving back the tent flap, he dragged the body inside.

  “Damn you, Knut!” a voice growled in the darkness. “You will wait your turn!”

  Ivar’s eyes hadn’t quite adjusted, so he let the voice guide him. Although he itched to draw his sword, he couldn’t afford to attract attention to the tent.

  “Perhaps I don’t like your leavings,” Ivar replied softly.

  The man froze. Ivar had never before attacked an enemy from behind, but the animal ravaging Emma deserved no honor. Grabbing a fistful of his hair, Ivar jerked his head back and sliced. With his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, Ivar held his thrashing, gurgling victim, until the body went limp and then tossed it aside.

  “Emma?” he rasped as he knelt by her side.

  “I-Ivar?” she sobbed his name. “Is it you?”

  “Aye, tis me.”

  “B-but I thought…”

  “Shh…” He placed a finger over her lips and began slicing through her bonds with his blade. “There is no time now.”

  “Budic is with me,” she whispered.

  Ivar rose and plied a booted foot none too softly into the ribs of the sleeping fool.

  “My lady!” he cried out.

  “Quiet, Budic!” Ivar chided softly as he cut the man free. He feared discovery at any moment. “Take their clothes,” he commended and began stripping the two bodies. Disguise was their only hope of getting out of the camp.

  His mind raced as he led Emma and Budic through the darkness and into the woods. His plan had one fatal flaw. Ivar hadn’t planned for Budic, and he only had one horse. He considered stealing another mount, but it was unlikely he could do so without alerting the army.

  “Take her to Quimper,” he commanded Budic. “Don’t stop until the horse fails you.”

  Emma’s eyes widened. “What about you?”

  “I’m not finished here,” he replied. “I must cut off the head of the snake.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked with a look of panic. “You must come now, Ivar. They will surely find you and kill you.”

  He shook his head. “It is not my time to die, Emma. The gods have clearly revealed another destiny.”

  “And what is that?” she asked breathlessly.

  He cupped her face in both hands and kissed her hard. “You, Emma of Quimper.”

  ***

  When he returned to the enemy camp, Ivar was relieved that his handiwork had not yet been discovered. But it was only a matter of time until the original guards returned and sounded the alarm. After that, the army would come to life like a nest of angry hornets. He couldn’t allow that to happen until he knew Emma was safe.

  He needed a new strategy and needed it quickly. There was only one guarantee to ensure Emma’s safety. Ivar waited until the guards returned and then silenced them as he had the others. He then waited until the darkest hours when the fires smoldered, keeping a watchful eye as he crept through the sleeping camp. He never would have allowed his own men to grow so over-confident and complacent.

  Cutting a slit in the back of the tent, Ivar entered the count’s quarters. He found Ebles in his bed entwined with a woman, both lost in deep and sated slumber. The woman turned in her sleep. Ivar recognized her face immediately. Gisela! He should have taken her threat more seriously. He should have warned Bjorn to keep her close at all costs.

  Ivar wrestled with indecision. He needed to put an end to this invasion and return to Emma. The easiest solution was to take both of their lives, but the thought of killing anyone in their sleep churned his stomach. Only the lowest craven did such a thing. Another option would be to take Ebles as his hostage and use him for escape, but once more, the idea reeked of cowardice.

  Ebles himself was the coward. As her betrothed, he should have come to Emma’s aid and fought for her. Instead, he’d betrayed her to align himself with Duke Rudalt’s whore. In truth, he didn’t deserve to call himself a man.

  He rubbed his chin with a smile. Perhaps there was another way to deal with this after all? With dagger in hand, Ivar lifted the bedcovers.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Quimper, Cournaille, West Brittany

  EMMA SPENT TWO AGONIZING DAYS on her knees in the chapel praying for Ivar’s safe return and appealing to the Virgin for intercession, should his life be taken.

  For the second time, he’d saved her, but this time, at risk to his own life. Pagan he might be, but she’d never known such a brave, selfless, and honorable man.

  “Emma?” Adèle’s soft voiced echoed off the cold stone walls.

  Emma startled and rose shakily to her feet. Could there be news? “Is there word of Ivar?” she asked.

  “No,” Adèle shook her head with a look of pity. “I’m afraid not.”

  “What of Count Ebles’ army?” Emma asked. “They could only have been a day behind me. Two at most.”

  “There is no news,” Adèle answered. “But we are well prepared for the attack. Valdrik owes you a great deal for rallying your father’s men. Thank you, Emma.” Adèle laid a hand on her arm. “I know this isn’t that you wanted.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Emma confessed, “But bloodshed in Brittany was inevitable. My father was conspiring to overthrow Duke Rudalt, which would surely have led to civil war. At least now we are united against a common foe. Count Ebles is a treacherous weasel who can’t be trusted. He would surely sell our sovereignty to the Franks.”

  “Valdrik would never do such a thing,” Adèle said. “He came to Brittany because he refuses to pay fealty to the Franks.”

  “I have a hard time picturing Ivar paying fealty to any man,” Emma said dryly. Was he dead? Emma almost couldn’t breathe at the thought. “He should have returned by now.”

  “Valdrik is even now preparing a scouting party. He intends to search for Ivar. Come, Emma.” Adèle took her hand. “There is nothing more you can do for him.”

  “But this is my penance,” Emma insisted. “If he is dead, the guilt rests upon my shoulders. If not for me, he never would have gone into that camp alone.”

  “It was his decision to make, Emma. Ivar knew the risks.”

  Emma choked back a sob. “And none of this would have happened if I’d only heeded your counsel.”

  “No one blames you, Emma
. You did what you thought was right.”

  “Did you know he was one of us?” Emma asked.

  Adèle’s gaze narrowed. “One of us? What do you mean?”

  “A Breton, or at least his mother was,” Emma explained. “She was taken as a young girl from Rennes.” Emma saw no need to reveal her fate as a bed slave.

  “Is that so?” Adèle’s brow wrinkled. “My family was also from Rennes.”

  “He told me all of her family were killed by Vikings. He believes that she was the only survivor.”

  “My family was almost wiped out as well,” Adèle said. “My grandfather, Gurwent, was Count of Rennes. He was killed at Questembert, my father was gravely wounded but survived. His younger sister, however, was taken by Vikings.”

  “Questembert?” Emma repeated incredulously. “He mentioned this battle.”

  Adèle’s green gaze widened. “Do you perchance know her family name?”

  “No,” Emma shook her head. “Only her Christian name. Rachelle perhaps. Her family lived at Ille-et-Vilaine.”

  “Could you mean Roscille?” Adèle asked, growing pale.

  “Yes! That was her name!” Emma exclaimed. “I’m certain of it.”

  Adèle began to tremble. “It cannot be!”

  “You know of her?” Emma asked.

  “My grandfather’s seat was at Ille-et-Vilaine and Roscille was the name of his youngest …my brother’s sister …” Adèle reached out to the altar to steady herself. “Had she lived, she would have been my aunt. If Ivar is indeed the son of Roscille of Rennes…”Adèle blinked. “Why are you staring at me?”

  “Your eyes,” Emma whispered. “Why did I not see it before? There can be no doubt of it! Ivar is your kinsman!”