Chapter Three
Cattle die, and kinsmen die, and so one dies one’s self; One thing now that never dies, the fame of a dead man’s deeds.
—Hávamál
The Duchy of Vannes, lower Brittany
Adèle was drying herbs in the still room when her servant Mathilda came to inform her that the tower sentry had spotted a small band of riders. “Is it the duke returned from his hunt?” Adèle asked.
“Nay, my lady,” the old woman answered. “The riders come from the east. My lord duke rode out to the west.”
“There is little danger from a small party, but with most of our men at the hunt, ’twould be wise to identify them before we open the gates,” Adele replied. Although it had been many years since King Alain had vanquished Norse raiders from the land, wariness was ingrained in a people who’d suffered a century of pillaging. “You will inform me the moment they arrive,” she instructed as she tore off her dirty apron and shook out her robes. “I will go now to my chambers and prepare myself to receive our guests.”
Adèle made haste to her room and called out for Gisela, the slattern who’d served both the Duke and Duchess of Vannes since their wedding night, albeit in vastly differing capacities. Rudalt’s promiscuity knew no bounds. After savagely taking her virginity, he’d further shocked her by introducing Gisela into the marriage bed the very next night. Gisela still occupied it, along with an occasional serving woman. In the four years that had passed since her wedding, the duke had populated the inner walls with at least half a dozen bastards sired on different servant women. Rudalt had taken brutish pleasure in destroying every remnant of Adèle’s innocence. In many ways he’d succeeded, but she refused to be broken.
Thankfully, he’d almost forgotten Adèle’s existence, or at least he ignored it, which was fine by her. Though she ached for a child, the thought of bearing his spawn repulsed her to the core. So while Gisela occupied Rudalt, Adèle sought solace in the solitude of her still room, filling the void by grinding herbs, boiling roots, and pressing precious medicinal oils to aid the needs of those under their care and protection. In her still room she often lost herself for endless hours in the earthy scents of sweet herbs and pressed flowers. It was, in truth, her sanctuary.
With Gisela failing to answer her call, Adèle tore off her linen veil and tunics in favor of those more suitable to her station. She chose tunics of richly embroidered Byzantine silk in shades of gold and green to complement her hair and eyes, not that any of them would ever see her long golden locks, but her hair was still a source of private pride.
She wondered anew about the riders. A certes they must be nobles. Their horses declared them as such, or at least as high servants. A knock sounded on her door.
“Enter!” she called out as she tucked away a stray lock of hair.
“The three riders bid entrance, my lady,” Mathilda informed her, worry deepening the lines in her wrinkled face.
“Who are they?” she asked.
“Emissaries from the Marquis of Neustria seeking an audience with my lord duke.”
“Neustria?” she remarked with growing interest. Robert of Neustria was neither friend nor ally. Why had they come?
“Were they informed that he is off a-hunting?”
“Yes, my lady. Yet, they bade permission to wait upon his return.”
“Most curious indeed,” Adèle remarked. What would Robert of Neustria want with Rudalt? “See that they are given refreshment. I will speak with these men anon.”
Having made herself presentable, Adèle descended the stairs to the great hall where the weary-looking travelers awaited. The first she recognized as Father Francis, the Abbot of Redon, a priest she had known in her childhood. The other two she did not know but identified them as nobles by their manners and the quality of their deeply dyed, fine woolen garments. The men hastily rose in a show of deference as she entered.
“Father Abbot? What business takes you so far from Redon?” Adèle asked.
“We bring a message for the duke, my lady,” the priest answered. “I am with these men out of my grave concern regarding the outcome of this audience.”
“Then I regret to inform you that the duke is away and may not return for several days. If it is an urgent matter, perhaps I might assist you?”
One of the noblemen then stepped forward with a courtly bow. “I am Hugh of Nantes, my lady, kinsman to the marquis. The message I carry is for Duke Rudalt’s ears alone.”
“Then mayhap ’tis not so urgent?” she suggested softly, brows raised.
“On the contrary,” Hugh replied. “Our business is most pressing indeed.”
“Very well,” she sighed. “If you will not entrust me to deliver it, you are welcome to await his return. Come,” she urged with a smile. “Refresh yourselves with food and drink and we will speak of other things.”
Several hours later, after consuming a large meal of suckling pig and freshly baked bread, along with several jugs of fully aged lambig, their lips were beginning to loosen, just as she’d hoped.
“I am surprised that you have come here, given Duke Rudalt’s refusal to join the Frankish alliance,” she ventured, hoping they would rise to her bait.
Only two months ago, Rudalt had dissuaded the Breton counts from joining the Franks for fear of kicking the hornet’s nest and turning Norse savagery upon Brittany. His refusal was cowardly and enraged her brother-in-law, Count Cornouaille, which only added to the contention that already existed between the two men.
“He will soon learn that ’twas not in his best interest to have refused,” Hugh said, taking another long drink.
“Why is that?” she asked. “We have lived in peace these twenty-some years since my father and King Alain drove the Norse from Brittany.”
“The politics have shifted my lady. The King of the Franks has treated with the Norsemen.”
“He treated with those murdering, pillaging savages?” It was almost incomprehensible that the Franks would have signed a treaty with them. What good was the word of a Norseman? Was the king a simpleton?
“Aye. The lands were virtually lost anyway, so the king sought to turn his defeat into victory by securing their allegiance. The Norse chieftain, Hrolf has pledged his fealty to the King and even agreed to Baptism in the Church.”
“Hundreds have come to the Abbey seeking Christian Baptism,” Father Francis interjected. “But they are insincere. They act purely to gain lands. King Charles has only fed their ambitions.”
Adèle gaped in disbelief. She still burned with unpurged hatred for those vile heathens who’d taken the life of her brother and robbed her of a father years before that. His death while fighting the Norse at the Battle of Questembert had led to her fostering by the king and queen. The Norsemen’s actions had directly changed the course of her life. Now they would threaten her peace once again?
“Marquis Robert sacrificed much in the peace deal for which he is deeply resentful,” Hugh continued, “but he is not free to act openly against the king, or he could lose all. Thus, he desires an alliance with Duke Rudalt against the Norsemen and is willing to pay handsomely for it.”
“The enemy of mine enemy…” Adèle murmured. “What exactly does Robert seek from Rudalt?” Adèle asked.
“He seeks an army of Bretons to attack from the west whilst he would send his forces from the east. With Brittany’s help, we could vanquish the Norse from our lands and across the sea to England,” Hugh replied.
“And then what?” Adèle asked. “Surely King Charles will turn his wrath upon the marquis for his betrayal.”
Hugh of Nantes smiled. “The marquis has a very strong claim to that throne.”
“Ah. I see,” Adèle replied. “By eliminating King Charles’ alliance with the Norse, the marquis will then turn his forces against the Franks.”
Hugh’s smile remained.
“So you would have Bretons conspire against the Frankish king? The duke has already made clear that he has no interest in involving
himself in Frankish politics.”
“Mayhap the good duke does not realize he stands to lose everything—if the Norse cross the marches,” Hugh countered.
“And the Bretons have twice succeeded in driving them out whilst others have failed,” Adele answered back.
“Precisely why the marquis desires an alliance.”
“The Frankish king has sworn not to intervene if the Norse invade Brittany,” Hugh said. “Surely you see that it is only a matter of time.”
If what he claimed was the truth, a Norse invasion was inevitable. A certes, the barbarians would soon look to expand westward into Brittany.
“You already know Duke Rudalt’s position regarding Frankish politics,” she said.
“What of the other counts?” Hugh asked.
“My brother, Count Poher, is young and inexperienced,” she replied. “He defers to Rudalt in all things, but Cornouaille was of a mind to join the Franks against the Norsemen until Rudalt forbade him. They had a very heated argument over it. Cornouaille is a seasoned warrior and may well agree to this alliance, and any other Breton nobles who remember the past will likely join him.”
Sending these men to Cornouaille was a dangerous move, perhaps deadly. If Rudalt learned that she’d acted in complicity with his rival, he would surely construe her actions as treachery, but fear of Rudalt’s was secondary to her urgent need to protect her homeland. If it required every male in the kingdom to take up every conceivable weapon to eliminate the threat, so be it. No matter the personal cost or the amount of blood that needs must be sacrificed, the Norsemen must be vanquished for good.
The Breton nobles had little confidence in Rudalt’s abilities as a ruler. Other than siring bastards, the duke had hardly lived up to his father’s great name in any capacity. While Rudalt spent his days hunting and whoring, many of the nobles had secretly thrown their support behind the ambitious Count Cornouaille. Fearing usurpation by his brother-in-law, Rudalt had attempted to appease the nobles with lands in return for their oaths of fealty. Though he believed he’d saved himself in this way, in truth, he’d only weakened his own power. The duke’s indolence would surely be his downfall. She just prayed the entire kingdom didn’t topple with him.
Ruen, Norse-Controlled Neustria
With his gaze narrowed, Valdrik strode down the ranks of armed warriors, critically inspecting each man from leather-shod feet to gleaming metal helmet. Valdrik and his half-brothers, Bjorn the Bastard and Ivar the Red, had taken great care in assembling this small army—for that is exactly what it was. Although Valdrik’s men were small in number, they were highly skilled and experienced in warfare.
The element of surprise would be Valdrik’s greatest asset and discipline his greatest challenge. This was not to be a random raid in which the Norse would strike terror in the hearts of the populace with rape, pillage, and plunder. Nay, Valdrik’s mission was to conquer both the land and people. This could only be accomplished through a show of strength balanced with restraint.
Valdrik’s mounted army moved southward. Provisioned with salted meat to avoid cooking fires, they killed with quiet precision and moved swiftly, crossing the Neustrian and Breton marches by the shadow of night and making camp by day. At three hundred, they held the advantages of speed and stealth. A larger army could never cross the marches unnoticed. Blessed by Odin, they avoided detection. And with Allfather’s further blessing, they would seize the kingdom of Brittany.
In truth, he knew little of his chief foe, Rudalt, the Duke of Vannes. Rudalt was the son of the Breton king called Alain the Great, but unlike that king who had won his crown and united his people, his son had sown discord that once more divided the kingdom. Valdrik would take the land county by county, beginning with Vannes, the seat of the duke. Poher, whose count followed in the line of succession would be next. Poher was no warrior and would be easily dispatched. Cornouailles to the far west, controlled by the duke’s brother-in-law, also had a hereditary claim. He had a vested interest and would surely fight for it, but he would also lose.
He had a chance to do something he would never have dreamed possible. He had a chance to build a dynasty. If he was to succeed, he must be both ruthless and thorough. Once he’d defeated all of the hereditary heirs, Valdrik would seek out a woman of royal blood. He could then seize the crown of Brittany, knowing that no other claim to the kingdom could rival his own.
Chapter Four
A man shall not boast of his keenness of mind, but keep it close in his breast.
—Hávamál
The Duchy of Vannes
At the sentry’s cry, Adèle rushed to her bedchamber window overlooking the bailey just in time to see the wounded rider come to a halt at the gate. Dripping blood all over his horse’s neck, he crashed from the saddle. Taking her skirts in hand, Adèle flew down the staircase. Rushing through the great hall, she exited the keep toward the still room.
Snatching up a small wicker basket, she filled it with strips of linen and various medicinals, and then strode briskly toward the gate. Two men had carried the fallen rider inside. Blood flowed freely from somewhere beneath his mail hauberk. Vainly, she pressed her hands beneath the armor in an effort to locate and staunch the wound.
“Remove it,” she commanded, already kneeling in the mix of mud, straw, manure, and pooling blood.
“Norse, Norse,” the wounded man moaned, eyes fluttering. “Must… tell… the duke.”
Adèle’s chest seized. Norsemen? Were they too late? Had she been wrong not to inform Rudalt of the threat? Had an invasion already begun? “Send for the duke!” she cried.
Rudalt emerged from the direction of the stables with a black scowl hanging over his countenance, a look he’d worn since his spies had sent word two days ago that Count Cornouaille looked to be amassing an army. He had yet to discover the alliance with the Duke of Neustria, or her complicity in the scheme, but Adèle had a sick feeling he was soon to learn all.
“God’s nails! What is this?” Rudalt demanded.
“A rider from the north,” the sentry declared.
“Norse,” the wounded man muttered, bloody foam beginning to spew from his mouth.
“Norse? How many?” Rudalt demanded. The wounded soldier’s breaths became spasmodic, his eyes fluttered shut. Rudalt jerked him upright, shaking him violently by the shoulders. “Curse you man! How many Norse?”
This time no response, other than a final shuddering breath and the stench of excrement that assailed their nostrils, and marked his death. Rudalt flung the limp body from him with an oath. The man had given his life, yet Rudalt cast him aside as if he were refuse.
Adèle’s throat tightened. Had the time come to confess her transgression? But how?
“Father Francis came while you were a-hunting,” she began tentatively. “Two Neustrian nobles accompanied him. They sought an audience with you, but then rode on the next morning to Cornouaille in Quimper.” It was not a lie, albeit not the entire truth.
Rudalt speared her with a steely stare. “And you only inform me now?”
“It was several days before you returned. I have seen little of you since and didn’t even think of it again until now.” A blatant lie.
“They rode to Cornouaille?” he repeated. “Cornouaille gathers men against me. I have long suspected that grasping bastard seeks to usurp me.”
“Mayhap it is not you that he takes up arms against, but the Norse. They said the King of the Franks has treated with the Norsemen and given them lands. Perhaps they now aspire to claim ours?” she suggested. Instincts of self-preservation kept her from volunteering more.
His gaze narrowed. Did he suspect collusion? Though her heart raced, she willed her lungs to breath evenly and forced her gaze to remain steady on his.
“It is no doubt a raiding party.” Rudalt shrugged, more concerned with his brother-in-law’s imagined treachery than with the true danger at hand. “I shall ride out myself to assess this threat. The hunt provided me little sport.” His mouth stret
ched into a feral smile. “Mayhap I shall hunt some new game.”
Was Rudalt right? Was it just another raid or was it a greater menace as Hugh of Nantes had implied? “What if it’s more than a raiding party,” she asked.
“Then I will send to Cornouaille for aid and prepare for a siege.”
Rudalt was raised by a warrior king and had earned a reputation for great skill with weaponry, but those skills had never been put to a test in true combat. She feared that peace had made him soft. She had also placed her confidence in Count Cornouaille because she’d lacked faith in Rudalt, but now realized what a fatal error she’d made. If the Norsemen were coming to Vannes, they had little time to prepare.
Rudalt rode out with fifty men, armed with sword, spear, and bow. He’d determined to track down and kill the invaders in the same manner in which he’d pursue a pack of rabid wolves, not that there was much difference between the two species in Adèle’s estimation. The Norse were as savage as beasts of prey and killed as indiscriminately. They were thieves and rapists and murderers, taking whatever they wanted at will and leaving mass destruction in their wake.
Had she been a man, she would have taken up arms at once and ridden out to meet the heathen Norsemen with sword and shield raised…but she was not a man. Thus, she could only manage the danger with the skills with which nature had imbued her—common sense, courage, and a sharp intellect.
The Norse had slain a beloved brother and her father. Now she feared they would make her a widow. It wasn’t the idea of Rudalt’s death that distressed her. Indeed, in the past, she’d made many visits to the confessional and paid as many penances for wishing his death. No, it was fear for Brittany’s future that troubled her mind. Unlike the lands to the east and the empire to the south, where they elected their rulers, Brittany was a hereditary kingdom—and Brittany had no heir.
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