Only one male remained in the direct line of succession—Rudalt, Duke of Vannes. Though they’d been wed four years, Adèle was childless. If Rudalt perished, the next in the hereditary line of succession would be the first male born to Rudalt’s sisters, but Avicia, the former king’s eldest daughter, had perished in childbirth along with her infant son. Gwened’s son would be next in line, but she and Mateudoi had yet to produce any offspring. This left Brittany’s fate completely in Rudalt’s hands. Should he fall this day, the kingdom would surely be lost.
Norse camp several miles east of Vannes
Having reached a wooded glen on the outskirts of the duke’s seat, the Norse made camp, watering their horses and then picketing them in the shelter of the trees. The men’s spirits were high and eagerness shone in every eye. Moving through camp, Valdrik was galvanized by their energy. Their goal was within easy reach. Those who had joined him had wearied of incessant raiding. They desired the same things Valdrik sought—lands, riches, wives and children, and a fertile place to lay roots and prosper. Until now, Valdrik had thought a great deal about the lands and riches, but very little of what would follow. Hrolfr had advised that the best way for Valdrik to hold his lands would be to marry a Breton woman and sire strong sons to succeed him. Hrolfr had followed his own counsel. After splitting his Neustrian territory between the rivers Epte and Risle between his chieftains, Agnarr and Sinric, he’d settled himself with a de facto capital in Rouen.
To Valdrik’s surprise, his aging uncle had wasted no time in finding a wife. He’d sought and won the hand of a daughter of the Count of Rennes. Valdrik understood the wisdom in his uncle’s actions and knew he must do as his kinsman had done and take a Breton woman to wife. Hrolfr had indeed taught him the value of politics.
Smiling to himself, Vladrik pulled a wineskin from his saddlebag, wet his lips, and took a long draught. In a few hours, the twilight shadows would once more obscure their movements. He had three hundred fierce fighting men, but Hrolf had pledged no reinforcements. Thus, he must succeed or fail on his own merits alone. As dusk settled, Valdrik would make his move to claim his destiny.
After choosing the trees to fell for their battering rams, Valdrik spent the last hours of the afternoon in solitude. Going to a private place, he made his sacrifice to the gods. When he returned to camp, jangling spurs and the rattle of battle axes, swords, and spears broke the silence that had earlier governed the camp. The sun was slowly sinking. The warriors were restless. The time had come. Just as he was about to give the final orders, Ivar appeared, wild-eyed and winded.
“Riders,” he said breathlessly. “Approaching from the west.”
“How many?” Valdrik demanded.
“At least forty.”
Valdrik hesitated. Was a larger force waiting? Was this a trap to draw them out?
Ivar read his mind. “Bjorn and his men have gone scouting.”
“We must conceal our numbers,” Valdrik said. “If this small band comes upon us, they will surely flee back to Vannes and prepare for a siege. You will take fifty men north and flank them,” Valdrik said. “Send Erlandson with fifty more to the south. I will conceal the majority of our remaining forces in the woods and wait here in camp in hope of luring them to attack. We will soon see what this Duke Rudalt is made of. If he has the bollocks of a warrior, he will fight like one, but if he flees and locks himself behind his walls like a frightened woman…” Valdrik nodded to the battering rams. “’Twill make little difference to us in the end. We will penetrate his walls and he will die a coward’s death.”
“And if we do not succeed?” Ivar asked.
“Then we die fighting,” Valdrik said. “I have tired of raiding. Even Rolfr has tired of raiding.”
“Because Rolfr is old and fat,” Ivar scoffed. “He will soon grow soft and die in bed like an old woman.”
“He will still have to fight to keep what he has. But he now has something legitimate to fight for. That’s what I want, Ivar. If I die fighting, I want to know it was for a purpose and not just for plunder. With success, you and Bjorn will also become rich men.”
Ivar grinned. “When I am rich, I will take a wife for every day of the week.”
Grunting acknowledgment of the orders, Ivar hailed his men. They rode out with gleaming eyes and weapons at the ready. Valdrik despised this cat and mouse game, but he was resolved to act with thoughtful strategy, rather than with the reckless impetuosity of a raider. He must let Rudalt come to him.
Squinting westward into the distant hills, it seemed like hours passed before the riders came into view. The band halted. Valdrik kept his eyes on the leader, presumably Duke Rudalt, as he unsheathed his sword. Their swift formation into lines told him the duke had seen his camp but was it a defensive or an offensive maneuver? Still, Valdrik waited.
The leader of the group on the hill raised his hand, signaling a charge. Valdrik’s lips curved into a slow smile. The duke had taken the bait. Valdrik had fifty men in view of the enemy and over a hundred more lying in wait, ready to rush out of the woods at his signal. In minutes the duke’s entire band would be swallowed up in a surge of savage Norsemen.
Metal scraped metal as Valdrik slowly unsheathed his sword. His men followed suit. “Svinfylking,” Valdrik ordered his men. Taking up his position as the spearhead of the wedge, Valdrik prepared to confront the mounted Bretons. “Take heed!” he called out. “The duke is mine.”
Valdrik’s formation moved slowly forward, shields in place, as the Bretons approached.
Anticipation bloomed. His blood felt thick and heavy in his veins. His heart beat harder, faster, as if expanding in his chest. How would the duke react once he realized he’d led his men straight into an ambush? He didn’t have to wait long to find out.
Just as the horsemen approached the Norse camp, the duke drew back violently on his reins as if he’d suddenly become alert to the greater danger. He pulled up so hard that his horse reared, unseating and then toppling backward onto its rider. Chaos erupted as the mounted men surrounded the fallen duke in an attempt to defend him.
Valdrik raised a hand, signaling his concealed forces. The duke’s men paled. Three turned tail and fled. Valdrik gave a nod. A band of his men mounted up and rode after the deserters. They would be castrated for their cowardice. The duke had now regained his feet. Sword in hand, he confronted Valdrik. “You prefer trickery over combat, Norse dog?”
The insult struck a raw place. Although Valdrik had employed the strategy of a tactician, he was disappointed that the battle was over even before it had begun. His easy victory felt hollow, as if he’d somehow cheated not just his foe, but himself. “You are the Duke of Vannes?” Valdrik asked, keeping his tone mild and his expression bland.
“You seek tribute from me, heathen?” Duke Rudalt asked, his voice laced with contempt.
Though his hands itched to answer with his sword, Valdrik smiled slowly. “I seek far more than that, son of Alain the Great. I have come to take what you cannot hold.”
The duke’s gaze flickered, he puffed his chest out in defiance. “You will take nothing from me, savage.”
Valdrik laughed softly, his gaze speared that of his foe. “On the contrary, I could take your life in this very moment.”
“Bold words spoken while I am surrounded by a hundred of your men. Are you such a pusillanimous pismire?” Rudalt challenged.
All eyes riveted to Valdrik. There was no greater offense than to question a Norseman’s courage or honor. Valdrik directed the point of his blade to his captive’s throat. “In my land, we have methods by which a man can answer an affront to his honor.”
“Einvigi,” rippled through the ranks of the Norse, a duel of honor requiring hand-to-hand combat.
“We also have such customs, Norse swine,” the duke growled back.
“We will fight—to the death with only sword and shield,” Valdrik said. “If you defeat me, my army is yours. If I defeat you, I will rightfully claim the Duchy of Vannes and all you po
ssess. Let all who bear witness acknowledge your acceptance of these terms.”
The duke’s eyes were dark, close-set, and hawkish. He met Valdrik’s without blinking. “I accept the terms of this challenge.”
The duke’s men responded with low murmurs and nods.
“Release him,” Valdrik declared, tossing his helmet aide. “Remove the armor,” Valdrik commanded the duke, and then stripped off his own brynja.
Devoid of body armor, the two men unsheathed their swords and took up their shields. Facing one another surrounded by their witnesses, both Breton and Norse, Valdrik assessed his opponent. The duke was a large man with thick arms that would deliver heavy blows. The duke would try to overpower him, but his ruddy face and big belly belied a preference for food and drink over training exercises. He would be slow, weary quickly, and his soft belly would be easy to penetrate with the point of his sword.
Valdrik glanced down at his opponent’s weapon, a vastly inferior blade to his own precious Ulfberht, a rare and costly sword forged from unbreakable steel. Some credited such blades with magical qualities. Although he was not a superstitious man, Valdrik was half ready to believe them. The sword had brought him glory in countless battles. He prized it above all his possessions.
Bjorn and Ivar had returned in time to witness the combat. Ivar stepped in and gave the nod. Releasing a deafening roar, Valdrik lunged forward, slamming into his opponent. Shields crashed with the crack of splintering wood. Rudalt made an attempt on Valdrik’s vulnerable neck. Valdrik dodged, receiving a powerful blow to the shoulder that nearly sent him to his knees. Staggering sideways, he thrust upward, attempting to get under Rudalt’s shield. The duke was more skilled than he’d anticipated. Lungs burning, Valdrik struck again, alternating blows with sword and shield, he resolved to wear his opponent down.
The battle continued with the two warriors raining relentless blows upon one another, crashing shield-to-shield, dodging, thrusting, and jabbing, each waiting and watching for that split second opportunity when the other would weaken or drop his guard. Rudalt was visibly tiring. His chest heaved and his movements became clumsy. The end was in sight.
Rudalt must have known too. Tossing his own broken shield aside, he took his sword in both hands and charged with a roar, bloody spittle spraying from his mouth as he plunged his sword straight through Valdrik’s shield. The power of the thrust nearly pierced Valdrik’s heart. But now with Rudalt’s sword impaled almost to the hilt, Valdrik saw his chance. Rudalt’s eyes widened in terror and disbelief as Valdrik raised his sword and made the death blow.
Chapter Five
Within the gates ere a man shall go, (Full warily let him watch,) Full long let him look about him; For little he knows where a foe may lurk, And sit in the seats within.
—Hávamál
Adèle spent the night on her knees, gaze cast heavenward in prayerful supplication. She hadn’t dared to bow her head and shut her eyes for fear that sleep would overtake her. She couldn’t afford to be caught unawares when the marauders came. And they would come. That was a certainty. Rudalt had never returned from his ‘Norse” hunt. None had. They were dead. She felt it down to her bones. In his arrogance, Rudalt had taken the best warriors, leaving her defenseless.
She’d dispatched riders to Cornouaille, but he was days away. He would never arrive in time. Her home would be burned to ashes before help ever came. Perhaps she could buy them off? Did she have enough silver and jewels to pay tribute? Or would the Norsemen simply extract their payment in women’s flesh and men’s blood?
From her bedchamber window, Adèle gazed eastward where the sun was rising, painting the landscape of rolling hills in soft shades of pink and gold. She stared off into the distance, willing her nerves to settle. Last night she’d worn holes in her slippers and bitten her fingernails to the quick. She now accepted that her fate was out of her hands. She had no choice but to entrust herself to the merciful will of God. If death awaited her, she prayed it would be swift.
Moving shadows appeared on the horizon. A moment later they took shape as a solid line of men. Hundreds of mounted men. But rather than shrinking in terror, a strange peace settled over her. She was the daughter of Judicael, a great warrior and Duke of Brittany. Her great-grandfather was Erispoe, the first proclaimed King of the Bretons. She would do as her father and grandfather had done before her—she would fight them to her dying breath.
As Valdrik approached the castle of Vannes, ready to claim his spoils, he raised his sword and swore on the names of his ancestors, that if any man broke ranks to pillage, he would perish by Valdrik’s own hand. Pillaging of property would require replacement, destruction meant costly rebuilding. He could almost hear the grinding of their teeth, but none of the men would dare to defy him. Keeping what they had seized by force, would require winning over the people.
When they reached the gates, the riders drew up in lines and halted. Anticipating a storm of arrows, they raised their shields over their heads, but the castle was deathly quiet. If not for the sounds of bleating sheep and lowing cattle, Valdrik would have thought it abandoned, but they would never have left it provisioned for an enemy. He wondered how many armed men stood behind those walls waiting to attack. They would be foolish not to treat when he came in peace, but Valdrik had come prepared to fight if he had to.
He hadn’t killed the duke’s men but made each swear their allegiance to him on the hilt of Ulfbehrt. That was not to say he trusted them with their weapons or horses. Although he’d spared their lives, they would still have to prove their loyalty and make their way back to the castle on foot—all but one that is. He pushed the man forward who’d professed to be the duke’s captain, a man named Berengar.
“Go,” he commanded. “Tell them I would treat with them. Bjorn, you will go with him.” Valdrik handed his captain the duke’s sword to present as proof of his death. Returning it was also a sign of good faith and respect.
Bjorn nodded and rode forward with Berengar, who called out to the gatekeeper. A moment later, the peephole dropped open and a set of distinctly feminine eyes peered out. Large and vivid. Unusual eyes. A woman gatekeeper? Were there no men left behind the walls? A few words were exchanged. Valdrik strained to hear, but he was too far away. The eyes behind the peephole darted nervously in his direction. They held his gaze for just an instant. “Who are you?” the voice behind the eyes demanded.
While his men kept their attention on the archers, Valdrik spurred his horse forward. “I am Valdrik, son of Viggo Vargr, and kinsman to Hrolfr ‘the Walker’,” he announced proudly. He might not be noble, but he was the son of a revered chieftain and generations of warrior blood filled his veins.
“Those names mean nothing to me,” she replied, cold as an iceberg. “Why have you come?” she demanded.
Her gaze was unblinking and her voice proud and defiant. For a conquered foe, especially a woman, her hauteur surprised him. Suddenly he knew. This was no gatekeeper. This was the duchess herself.
Valdrik cocked his head in amusement. “You expect answers but do not extend the smallest courtesy. Whom do I address?”
“I am Adèle, Duchess of Vannes,” she haughtily introduced herself. “Enough of the pleasantries. I would know your business.”
“The duke is dead,” he proclaimed to the widow. “I come to return his sword that you may honor him.”
“Duke Rudalt is dead?” she repeated woodenly. “I suspected as much when he did not return. So now my husband and protector is slain by the same invaders who killed my father and my brother.”
Valdrik eyed her appraisingly, thinking it strange that she showed so little emotion over her husband’s death. “There is no greater glory for a warrior than death in battle.”
“We disagree,” she said. “There is greater honor in living peaceably and taking care of one’s people.”
“Caring and nurturing is for women,” he argued. “A man should hunt, fight, protect, and provide. Your duke died because he became soft like a w
oman.”
“How did he die?” she demanded. “Did you murder him?”
Valdrik glowered. “Murder is a cowardly act. Your duke challenged me before three hundred witnesses. Warrior-to-warrior, we fought. Had he killed me, he would have gained an army of three hundred hardened Norse fighters. But he lost.”
“So to the victor goes the spoils?” she replied dryly.
He shrugged. “That was the agreement.”
“You have killed my husband and now you expect me to just open my gate and welcome you?” she asked with a humorless laugh.
“I come in peace, unless you choose to make war with me.”
“Why should I believe you?” she asked.
“If I did not come in peace, do you think we would be having this polite conversation?” Valdrik asked, holding back a smile. With the duke dead, he’d wondered who he would be forced to negotiate with. He’d expected a kinsman or a sénéchal. He would never have anticipated dealing with a woman. “Had I come to fight, there would be no safety behind your walls.”
Adèle stared in puzzlement at the mounted warrior who called himself Valdrik. His voice was calm but commanding, and his air was autocratic. Although brusque, he was far from the barbarian she’d expected. Only his appearance hinted at his savage origins. He cut a fierce figure with his bloodstained garb and mantle of wolf pelts. She’d heard tales of the crazed Norse warriors called Berserkers who entered battle wearing nothing but animal skins, but this man seemed anything but crazed, and he spoke her tongue almost flawlessly. In sooth, she didn’t know quite what to make of him. Overcome by curiosity she asked, “How does a Norseman command such fluent Breton?”
“I came to this land when I was very young and speak several of its tongues,” he replied. His answer shouldn’t have surprised her. Norseman had established small settlements in this land long ago. It facilitated their raids. He continued, “It is a necessity when one’s people rely on trade.”
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