She froze for just an instant on the landing. Their gazes met and held. Though she tried to disguise it with the jut of her chin, her eyes betrayed her unease. Wishing to reassure and encourage, he acknowledged her with an inclination of his head and a subtle smile of approval. She immediately jerked her head, but a twitch of her lips told him she was secretly pleased. Desire mixed with pride swelled within him. Soon she would be his.
This wedding was not merely a means of expediency to achieve his goal. Had he met her in another place, he knew he would have wanted her as much as he wanted her now. He would have felt the same way had she been a lowly milkmaid. If circumstances had been different would she have accepted his suit? He was baffled by the direction of his thoughts. He’d never even considered wooing a bride before, but he was moved to win this woman over. Though the wedding would soon unite them as husband and wife, he feared there would always be an impenetrable wall separating them.
Bjorn led her to him. He noted that his brother carried the duke’s bejeweled sword. It was a decent weapon albeit too pretentious for his taste, but tradition dictated he give up his ancestral sword into his wife’s safe keeping. As she came to stand with him, Valdrik unsheathed his blade and extended it horizontally in both hands.
“I give you my sword, to hold in safekeeping for our firstborn son, that one day his wife will also receive and thusly it will pass on to our progeny in perpetuity.”
Murmuring instructions, Bjorn handed the duchess the sword he carried. She held it out it to Valdrik in the same manner he had done. Ivar then stepped forward, pronouncing in a booming voice. “With this exchange of gifts, the bride and groom pledge the most sacred bond, as sanctified by the gods.” He then addressed the duchess, “Do you Adèle, Duchess of Vannes, come to be wed of your own free will and accord?”
Adèle looked to Valdrik, swallowed and replied in a clear and carrying voice. “I do.”
“Who gives you to be wed and whose blessings accompanies you?”
“I give this woman in her brother’s stead,” Bjorn replied.
“Valdrik, son of Vargr, if it be your wish to be united with this woman, place your ring on her hand.”
Valdrik held her gaze with his and replied. “Aye, it is my wish.”
Ivar continued, “Adèle, Duchess of Vannes, if it be your wish to be bound to this man, please place your ring on his hand.”
“It is my wish,” she replied.
Bjorn continued to murmur instructions to her as the ceremony continued. Then, with rings upon their respective fingers, Ivar joined their hands upon Valdrik’s sword hilt. “You will repeat after me, “I, Valdrik Vargr, before these many witnesses, take this woman to wife to be my helpmate, to possess and to protect with my own body…”
The vows were nothing more than a drone in her ears as Adèle mechanically pledged herself, hardly even comprehending the words she repeated as they sealed their promise in the names of pagan gods she knew nothing about. Was this heathen ritual a true union in the eyes of God? Was she truly wed to this man? She wanted to believe it was all just a mockery, yet the vows she’d spoken were much the same as those she had made to Rudalt. Her first wedding had proven a brief and disillusioning event. They had spoken their pledge before the king and queen and a few other witnesses. A priest had blessed the conjugal bed, and that was that. They were wed. A feast and dancing had followed, but she hadn’t even been permitted to dance. She didn’t care to dwell on the events of that wedding night.
As much as she hated to admit it, she had willingly pledged herself. She was now Valdrik’s wife—or would be as soon as they consummated the union. She glanced up at his harshly handsome face. A certes, it was a face to admire. That truth she could not deny. His features were strong and masculine and would have appeared stern, but for the hint of laugh lines around his eyes. She wondered what his laughter would sound like. Would he throw his head back and erupt in mirth or was he the type who’d keep a tight rein on his laughter even as he seemed to control everything else? Nor could she ignore the strength and virility that exuded from him. Had they come together under different circumstances, she might feel quite differently about this barbarian.
Their joined hands vividly reminded her that he had roused something she hadn’t even known existed in her. Desire had awakened. Akin to the scent of a fragrant perfume, once released from its jar, it could never be re-contained. His gaze caught hers. As if reading her mind, his warm thumb stroked over her knuckles, sending a shiver of awareness through her. Even now she craved to feel his kiss again, to taste and touch him just as she longed to be tasted and touched. If only she could forget that he was her enemy. But it was not to be. He was her enemy. Nothing could change that, and if her escape plan worked, she would be free of him forever.
When the giant named Ivar suddenly released their hands, she realized the ceremony was finished. She looked to Valdrik expectantly. “Is it done?”
“Not quite,” he said. “There are two further requirements for us to satisfy the marriage law.” He looked to Bjorn, “Have you the cup?”
“Aye. The smith made it just this morn’.” Bjorn produced a two-handled drinking vessel hewn of silver. She admired the intricate design with its handles in the shape of birds.
“It is a ceremonial wedding cup,” Valdrik explained. “We must each drink from it. By drinking together, we are made one in the eyes of the gods.”
Adèle signaled a servant to bring wine.
“Nay,” Valdrik forestalled her. “The wedding drink must be mead.”
“Mead?” she repeated with a sudden sinking feeling. “We have no mead.”
“You do now,” Ivar grinned. “We have two barrels in our stores. More than enough to fulfill the requirement.”
“Requirement?” she repeated blankly.
“As a newlywed couple, you must drink mead together from this cup for the first month of marriage. It is believed to promote fertility.” Grinning, Ivar handed her a jug.
Adèle wrinkled her nose at the strong, almost musty smell. “Our chouchen is also made with honey but has a much better smell. Mayhap we could drink that instead?”
Valdrik shook his head. “I will not risk displeasing the gods by breaking from tradition. You must serve me.”
Adèle poured the liquid into the cup and handed it to Valdrik who murmured some Norse words and then made a gesture she didn’t comprehend. “He asks for Allfather’s blessing,” Bjorn explained.
After taking a drink, Valdrik handed the cup back to Adèle. Once more he murmured some foreign words and then inclined his head, indicating that she should drink. Unlike her sweet chouchen, the mead had a yeastier taste with only a hint of its honey base. She hoped that upon further acquaintance, she would be able to accustom herself to it.
“Now let the feasting begin!” Ivar bellowed.
Cheers erupted from the men filling the great hall. Along with the tantalizing aromas of roasting mutton and suckling pig. Servants scurried, arms laden with bread and cheese and jugs of wine. Soon she noticed that many of her own people had entered the hall to join in the festivities.
She regarded Valdrik with a questioning look.
“Weddings should be enjoyed by all,” he answered, taking another drink, then handed the cup back to her. “Were we in the north, this celebration would carry on for an entire se’nnight, but I have not such a luxury as time.”
His remark caught her attention. “What do you mean?” She took a very small sip of the mead, watching in dismay as her servants began serving the adulterated wine to the wedding guests. Valdrik and his captains, however, were drinking the mead.
“We will consummate this union tonight, and then tomorrow, I will ride on to Quimper.”
She nearly choked on her drink. “What is your intent?”
“I will give the count a choice. He will pledge fealty to me or face me on the battlefield.”
“The count has been warned that you would come.”
Valdrik leaned forw
ard with brows tightly knitted under a narrowed blue gaze. “And how would he know this?”
“The Marquis of Neustria,” she said. “He tried to warn Rudalt that we would soon be overrun with Norsemen, but Rudalt refused to believe the threat.”
He sat back again with a grim smile. “And now Rudalt is dead.”
“Yes, but you will lose this time,” she blurted. “Cornouaille will be prepared for you. He has more men than you do. Thousands more,” she replied, exaggerating the count’s strength. “If you go you will not return.” She didn’t understand why she tried to warn him off. What did she care if he died?
“If his forces are so strong, why did he not overthrow the duke?” Valdrik asked.
“Because they were kinsman. Cornouaille wed Rudalt’s older sister.”
“Such bonds mean nothing to ambitious men. They only understand strength and competence. Duke Rudalt had neither, but I have both. I came to conquer Brittany and have no intention of making you a widow again.” He raised his hand. “Enough talk of war and politics.” Valdrik drained his cup and then signaled a servant to refill it.
“I have no mead, milord,” the servant said. “Would you take wine?”
Adèle’s heart leaped into her throat as the unwary servant filled his cup with the tainted drink.
Guilt stirred inside her as he raised the cup to his lips. What should she do? If he learned of her treachery, would he kill her? She almost confessed, but then held her tongue. His men had thus far drunk only mead. Perhaps he would not discover her treachery. She would pray that he did not. In panic, she snatched the cup from his grasp. “Where are the musicians?” she demanded. “Does Norse tradition allow no music?”
Valdrik rose and loudly clapped his hands, proclaiming much to the delight of the Bretons, “The duchess would have music and dancing at her wedding feast!” While his attention was elsewhere, Adèle slipped the cup under the table and dumped the wine.
As soon as the musicians began playing, the center of the floor cleared for dancing. “Come,” Valdrik extended his hand. “I wish to dance with my beautiful bride.”
“Dance?” she repeated incredulously.
“Do you not dance?” he asked.
“Not since I was a young girl,” she replied. “The queen did not think it proper.”
“Then when I make you a queen, you can deem what is and isn’t proper,” he replied with a grin. “In the meantime, as my new bride, you should desire only to please me. And it would please me greatly to dance with you.”
With skirts in hand, Adèle moved toward the circle of dancers only to find her feet swept out from under her as Valdrik scooped her up into his arms and spun her around as if she were a child.
“Put me down!” she cried out, trying unsuccessfully to suppress her laughter. She couldn’t even remember the last time she felt so giddy. “’Tis unseemly!” she protested half-heartedly.
“’Tis our wedding day. Nothing we do this day…or this night,” he added with a meaningful look, “is unseemly.” The words that made her insides quiver also brought her back to earth long before her feet touched the ground.
For those few delightfully dizzying seconds she’d let herself forget her enmity, but even this small lapse told her she was beginning to soften towards him. She couldn’t let it happen again. To do so would only bode disaster. He had come to take Brittany, but he could not possibly hold this land. He was an invader, a usurper. Sooner or later, he would be killed.
Chapter Ten
Fault with another let no man find, for what touches many a man; Wise men oft into witless fools are made by mighty love.
—Hávamál
Valdrik laughed, drank, and danced as he hadn’t done in years. Sitting back with drink in hand, he watched Adèle as she linked pinkie fingers with a circle of young maids. Her face radiated with unadulterated delight as she began the lively steps of the dance. With her hair loose and flowing and the crown of flowers on her head, she looked like a virginal maiden herself. To see her smile and laugh warmed his insides.
He took a long drink of mead wishing he could share in her joy, but knowing what lay ahead of him on the morrow dampened his delight. The dance broke up and a new set began with mixed couples, Valdrik watched in amusement as Ivar approached the virginal Breton maids looking for a partner. He could almost see them cower at the red giant.
Bjorn joined him with a chuckle. “I think he would do better to seek out Gisela.”
“But he has already sampled her charms,” Valdrik replied. “He will now seek a fresh flower to pluck. What of you?” Valdrik asked. “Will you not dance at my wedding?”
“I thought to ask the bride,” Bjorn replied, “but then feared you would have my head.”
“You think me jealous?” Valdrik asked, brows raised.
“I see the way you look at her,” Bjorn replied. “I have never seen you so fixated on a woman before. You hardly take your eyes off her. If I didn’t know better, I would think you were bewitched.”
Valdrik rolled his eyes with a sigh. “You and Ivar have overactive imaginations. He believes my sword is magical and now you suspect my bride is an enchantress.”
“Whether she is or isn’t, I think you are still going to have a damnably hard time pulling yourself away from her on the morrow. I fear I’ll be waking you with a bucket of cold water.”
Valdrik scowled. “Do you value your life so little, my brother?”
“Do you deny the truth?” Bjorn countered.
“Nay,” Valdrik laughed. “I will not be eager to leave my bridal bed. No doubt you will find yourself in similar straits soon enough,” Valdrik predicted.
“Not me,” Bjorn said, with a head shake. “I will serve you in any capacity you ask, but I will never take another wife.”
“Two years is long enough to mourn,” Valdrik said.
“You might feel very differently if you had lost a wife and child. Once was enough for me. Nor should you place any hope on Ivar. He would never limit himself to just one woman. Nay, our father’s blood must continue through your seed. Speaking of the fruit of one’s loins, how much longer are you going to wait to bed your bride?” Bjorn asked.
Valdrik looked to the circle of dancers that had just broken up. Adèle’s face was flushed pink and her eyes sparkled. His gaze dropped lower to softly rounded breasts that heaved from the exertions of the dance. He had waited long enough. He stood with a lecherous grin. “Call forth the witnesses. I am done waiting.”
Adèle returned to the high table to find Valdrik standing with his brother by his side. “It is time,” he pronounced.
“Time for what?” she asked, looking from one man to the other.
“Time for us to be escorted to the bridal chamber.”
“Escorted?” she repeated tightly.
“Aye. There must be six witnesses.”
“And they must watch us?” Bile rose into her throat at the remembrance of her first wedding night and the utter humiliation she suffered before Rudalt’s men.
“Nay,” he shook his head. “It is merely symbolic. They will see us to the bedchamber, watch as I remove your crown, and then they will leave us in peace.”
Unable to disguise her relief, she shut her eyes on a long shuddering sigh.
“Who among your women would you call to accompany us?” he asked.
“I would have my maid Mathilda and her sister Agnes,” Adèle answered.
Bjorn gathered up the party of witnesses who then formed a procession behind the bride and groom as they crossed the great hall. Pausing at the foot of the stairs, Valdrik once more swept Adèle into his arms.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“It is bad luck for the bride to trip,” he said. “I don’t intend to chance it.”
She cocked a brow. “I think ’twould be far worse for us both if you tripped.”
“I never trip,” he replied with a fierce look that made her laugh.
Adèle wrapped her arms around his nec
k thinking how good it felt to be in his arms. She considered the irony that the first time she truly felt safe, secure, and protected was in an enemy’s arms. He also smelled wonderful. His garments were simple linen and wool, but clean and freshly scented as his skin. She recognized the essence as Angelica. Had he bathed with it? Was it a usual practice for Norse men or just a wedding custom? There was so little she knew about him, but every piece of the puzzle only increased her curiosity.
Valdrik carried her over the threshold of the bedchamber where Adèle noted the fresh rush mats and the apple blossoms scattered on the bed covers. His brothers, two other men she didn’t recognize, and her two maids, followed them inside and stood at a distance.
“Now only two things remain,” Valdrik said, setting her back onto her feet. His eyes not leaving hers, he removed the wreath of now wilted blooms and handed it off to Mathilda who nervously wrung her apron. Adèle forced a reassuring smile as her maid accepted the floral crown.
“Leave us,” Valdrik commanded, his gaze still locked with Adèle’s.
The men made some ribald comments in Norse, broke into a chorus of chuckles, and then departed. Adèle’s throat grew suddenly tight as the door closed behind the last witness.
Valdrik stepped closer until he stood mere inches from her. “I know you did not desire this union, but know that I will never mistreat you so long as you do not break faith with me. We may not be united by bonds of love, but we are nevertheless bound by our vows. Thus, I ask that you put all enmity aside. Will you agree?”
Adèle considered his request. Once more he used logic and reason. There was little point in making war when they were joined in marriage. She was bound to him for at least six months, providing no army came to save her. She would have to make the best of it.
The Wolves of Brittany Collection: A Romance Bundle Books 1-3 Page 8
