“Where you would help to raise an army against me?”
“Yes,” she once more confessed the truth. “Would you have done any differently, were you in my shoes?”
For the span of a heartbeat his expression went slack, but then unadulterated rage filled his eyes. His body shook as his grip tightened, once more squeezing her shoulders. “I pledged myself to you! I’ve never broken my word once given, but you didn’t even hesitate to break faith with me!” He threw her onto the bed. “But your efforts were in vain, Duchess.” He spat her title. “I won’t fail. But when I return…” he added ominously, “you will surely wish that I hadn’t.”
After he left Adèle’s bedchamber, Valdrik was fit to kill a thousand men. Surely cursed would be anyone who crossed his path at this moment. He just hoped none of them would be his own men. He had too few to spare. Bjorn had the ill luck of being the first one he set eyes on as he entered the bailey. “How many men are fit to ride?” Valdrik demanded.
“Two hundred at most,” Bjorn answered. “The rest drank the polluted wine. ’Twill be many hours before they can be roused.”
Valdrik swore a long stream of oaths. “All three hundred will ride with me, whether they be fit or not. If we do not move now, we lose our advantage. Taking them by surprise is our only chance with such a small force.”
“’Twas she who polluted the wine?” Bjorn asked.
Valdrik acknowledged his brother’s question with a grunt. He didn’t wish to speak of it. Her betrayal had both hurt and humiliated him. “I will find and punish all who conspired with her.”
“Then you must also punish me,” Bjorn said.
Valdrik responded with a cold stare. “What do you mean?”
“’Twas I who allowed her to go to her still room. I thought she only sought to soothe a headache,” he added, looking chagrinned. “I was a fool to drop my guard.”
“You were no greater fool than me,” Valdrik said. “I trusted her honor. She has none. I won’t make that mistake again. Ivar will ride with me, but you will stay here. Let that be your punishment.”
“But you’ll need me,” Bjorn insisted angrily.
“I need you more here,” Valdrik replied. “I must keep someone in place that I can trust. I’ll leave fifty of the duke’s men with you. They have sworn fealty, but if the duchess is any example of Breton honor, you’d do well to watch your back.”
Although the Bretons had pledged fealty to him, Valdrik also knew they would be loath to wield their swords against their own countrymen. It was best to leave them behind.
“What will you do with her?” Bjorn asked.
Valdrik’s fixed his gaze on a distant point, not wanting to answer. Would he kill her? He knew he could not, but he also couldn’t keep her. “I would gladly have had her as my wife,” he said hoarsely. “But now I must put her away. I will deal with it when I return. By that time I should know whether or not she carries my child. Until then, you will treat her as a prisoner.”
Adèle bit her fist on a gut-wrenching sob. Valdrik had stormed out of the room, nearly ripping the door from its hinges in his haste to be gone from her. What had she done? Had her trickery just decided his death? Wasn’t that what she’d secretly hoped for? It had been, until only a day ago. But everything had changed since last night. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t resurrect her former enmity. It had died a fiery death somewhere in the throes of ecstasy.
Valdrik was nothing like the savage Norseman she’d expected. His arrogant and tyrannical nature was offset by a calm, pensive, and rational mind. He was indeed the kind of man born to lead others, the kind of man Brittany needed. Had he only been born a Christian, she might even desire such a man as her lord and protector…and lover. She had never before thought of any man in that sense. In sooth, she had never thought she would know passion or desire. She’d believed such things only existed in the fantasies of poets. But what she’d experienced with him went beyond any poetic fantasies. She fingered the torque, wishing things could have been different.
She didn’t wish his death, but she also couldn’t allow him to take what was not his. Brittany belonged to the Bretons, to the people like her father and brother who had shed their blood protecting it from those who would plunder and raid. She’d never felt so divided, as if her heart would tear in two.
“Mathilda! Help me to dress!” Adèle cried, suddenly spurred to action. She didn’t know what to do, but couldn’t allow him to leave this way, believing only the worst of her. She was determined to go after him and try and make peace with him before he left. She hastily donned her clothes.
Lifting her skirts, she ran through the keep, but by the time she reached the bailey gate, the only thing that remained was the cloud of dust he’d left in his wake. She spun at the sound of footsteps behind her. She was surprised to see Bjorn.
“You don’t ride with him?” she asked.
“Nay,” he answered, with a stern stare. “It seems I am destined to be your jailer.”
“Is that what he said? What else?” she asked, wondering at her fate.
“He said very little. I have never seen him so furious. You should not have crossed him.”
“I only wanted to escape,” she said. “I wasn’t trying to kill anyone.”
“Nevertheless, it was a betrayal of trust. He does not trust lightly.”
“What will he do to me?” she asked.
“I do not know, but don’t put your hope in clemency. My brother is not a forgiving man.”
“I don’t wish his death,” she said. “On the contrary, I fear it.”
He regarded her suspiciously. “Why should I believe you?”
“Why would I lie?” she countered, touching the wolf heads at her throat.
The gesture must have called his attention to the torque. His gaze narrowed. “What are you doing with that?”
“He left it on the pillow this morning.”
“It is customary to give a gift to the bride the morning after the wedding.”
“So he meant it as a gift for me?” She licked her lips, never feeling so much like a Judas. “I dreamt of wolves last night,” she said, fingering the torque. “It was such a peculiar dream. Why would I dream of wolves?”
Bjorn shrugged. “I am no soothsayer. Perhaps the wine caused it. Poppy extract often triggers vivid dreams.”
But she hadn’t drunk any of the wine. She didn’t understand the dream. Did the wolves have something to do with Valdrik? She stared off into the distance, biting her lip and blinking back the tears that burned her eyes. Would she ever see him again? If he did return, would they be able to make peace or would he truly fulfill his parting threat?
Chapter Twelve
The coward believes he will live forever if he holds back in the battle, but in old age he shall have no peace though spears have spared his limbs.
—Hávamál
Cornouailles, Western Brittany
Valdrik led his column of Norse soldiers to Quimper, the seat of Count Cornouaille. Many of the men had begun the march in a drug-induced stupor, but Valdrik nevertheless pressed onward, ignoring those who fell from the saddle. Refusing to allow anything to hamper his progress, they rode hard for two days, resting for only two-hour stretches. Nevertheless, the early delays had cost him. As the fortress of Quimper came into view, the gleam of mail hauberks and shields catching the first rays of the sun, told him the count was well aware of his coming.
Ivar drew up beside him. “How many do you estimate?”
Valdrik squinted at the lines that formed a semi-circle in front of the fortress. “I would guess they outnumber us at least two-to-one,” he replied. “But surely this is his entire force. The count knows he must try to intimidate us with a show of strength. If he had more men, we would see them.”
Ivar nodded. “On a normal day, one of our men would easily equal three of theirs. But our force is barely recovered from the bad wine. The odds don’t favor us, brother.”
Valdrik turned to face the re
d giant. “You would give up so quickly? Without even unsheathing your sword?”
Ivar’s brows drew together in a frown. “I speak not out of craven heartedness. I just begin to think this scheme to conquer a kingdom with three hundred men is a fool’s errand. Even if we prevail this day, how many of us will remain after the fight? Two hundred? Will two hundred be able to march on and take Poher? You know we will all follow you to the death, but is your ambition and pride worth all of our lives?”
Valdrik considered the question. Was Ivar right? Had he put pride and ambition above loyalty to his men? “You would rather have us all return to a life of random raiding?” Valdrik asked. “Where we live from hand-to-mouth? We all took this chance because we wanted something better for our lives. Fortune favors the bold, Ivar.”
“Aye,” Ivar agreed.
“I will see this out,” Valdrik vowed. “For me, the die is already cast. I would ride alone up that hilltop and impale myself on Cornouaille’s sword before I would turn back.” Sliding the weapon from its scabbard, Valdrik raised it to display the gleaming blade and bejeweled hilt. His horse gave a snort and shifted nervously under his weight as he called out to his men. “You see before you the ancestral sword of the Kings of Brittany. Follow me or not, at your will.”
Valdrik spun and dug his heels into his horse’s flanks. Behind him came the clang of metal and the roar of battle cries as the Norse charged the hilltop to meet Cornouaille’s forces.
The stab of her embroidery needle jolted Adèle her out of her thoughts. She’d been gazing out her window lost in abstraction. Now she stared dumbly at the drop of blood forming on her fingertip. Nearly a se’nnight had passed since Valdrik’s departure from Vannes; seven days and night’s she’d been confined to her room with only Mathilda for company. She was beginning to think she’d go mad.
Why wasn’t there any word of the battle yet? Cornouailles was no more than a three-day ride if one went at a leisurely pace. Surely Valdrik would have done it in two. Had they fought or had they laid siege? Had Bjorn sent a rider out to inquire? Surely his brother must be just as anxious as she was. She was growing almost desperate for news when she heard the tumult of horses and riders entering the bailey. Throwing down her embroidery hoop, she flung the shutters open wide and craned her head out the window for a better view. It was a party of Norsemen. News at last!
Bjorn met the men as they dismounted. The horses’ heaving flanks and the foam issuing from the animals’ mouths indicated the urgency of their ride. She watched in growing frustration as the men exchanged a flurry of words and gesticulations. Bjorn suddenly turned his head and directed his gaze straight to her window. Their eyes met. His expression was grim.
“Valdrik,” his named choked in her throat. She knew at once something had happened to him. Was he dead? She’d prepared herself all along for his death, had even told herself ’twould be for the best, but the reality of it felt like a fist squeezing her heart.
Was she a widow barely a se’nnight since she’d pledged her vows to him? She spun from the window wondering what would become of her now. She thought longingly of the convent, but Count Cornouaille was an aging and ambitious widower with no sons. He’d wed Rudalt’s sister in hope of gaining a male heir, but Avicia and her babe had both perished. Adèle was descended from a Breton king. Surely he would now look in her direction. She had been a political pawn her entire life. Was that to remain her fate?
A sharp rap sounded on her door. Was it only Mathilda with her supper or Bjorn with news? She’d had minimal contact with him since Valdrik had left. The key turned in the lock. The door swung open to Bjorn. A scowl hung over his brow. Had he come to deliver the news of his brother’s death?
“What has happened?” she asked, steeling herself for the dire report.
“It’s Valdrik,” he said. “He fell in battle.”
“He is slain?” she asked.
“No,” he shook his head. “Not yet, but his wounds putrify.”
“He must be treated at once,” she said. “You must allow me access to my still room. I have medicinals that could save him.”
“You would help him?” Bjorn asked, looking ever wary. “Or would you kill him with your so-called medicinals?”
“I would not have him die if I could help him,” she insisted fiercely.
“Why should I trust you?” he asked, still looking uncertain.
“If murder was in my heart I could have done it on our wedding night while he slept,” she replied. “I could have poisoned him. I could have hidden a dagger under my pillow. There are any number of means I could have employed.”
He considered her words and then acknowledged the truth with a nod. “Then pack your things,” he replied. “We ride at once to Cornouailles.”
“We?” she repeated dumbly. “You will take me with you?”
“Aye,” he nodded, repeating her words almost verbatim. “I would not have him die if you could help him.”
Covered in his mantle of wolf pelts, Valdrik lay shivering by the smoldering fire. The noises around him were muddled—muffled voices, the sounds of battle. The mixed smells of smoke and blood and death. His mind was clouded. Visions flashed before his shuttered eyes—the charge, the chaotic clash of swords, axes, and spears. The mixed screams of men and horses. The pain of a blade impaling his side. The grimace of a dying foe. Was it Cornouaille? Was he soon to follow him into the afterlife? A light touch and a whispered voice, soft and feminine, roused him to consciousness.
He cracked his lids to discover the face of a goddess with eyes the color of the North Sea. Was it one of Odin’s Valkyries or Freyja herself come to choose among the fallen warriors? Or was he even now in the sacred meadow of Fólkvangr?
“Freyja?” he murmured.
“Drink this.” She placed a cup to his lips. “It will take away the pain and give you pleasant dreams.”
White hot pain sluiced through his side as he struggled to raise himself. He managed a few swallows and then fell back with a groan. Soon the sounds and smells faded away like a distant memory.
Adèle and Bjorn had arrived at the Norse camp to find Ivar in the midst of a siege. Bjorn had been told that the battle against Cornouaille had been a victory. Valdrik had led a charge of such ferocity that half of the count’s forces had fled in terror. The other half had engaged in a bloody combat in which the nobleman had fallen to Valdrik’s sword, but not without meting out some reciprocal punishment.
She found Valdrik laying on the ground by a fire. Had they not even built him a shelter? She could see at once that he was feverish and his wound festering. Strands of hair clung to his face. His color was ghastly grey and sweat dampened his clothes. She offered wine with poppy extract to sooth the pain and then explored his wounds. Peeling away his blood encrusted clothing, she gently probed. The gash was deep, but had not pierced his innards or surely he would already be dead. She would apply a salve of garlic and leeks and maggots to eat away the putrefied flesh and then brew willow bark tea for the fever. She prayed she was not too late.
Hours later, Ivar appeared to confer with Bjorn. His garments were soiled with dirt, sweat, and blood. “This cannot continue,” he pronounced direly, casting his gaze to the fortress ramparts where archers continued to rain their arrows upon the Norse. “We cannot afford to lose more men if we hope to take Poher. Valdrik forbade burning them out, but I would as lief end this now.”
“But we need only wait,” Bjorn argued. “They will eventually run out of arrows.”
“Before we run out of men?” Ivar asked.
“Surely we have not lost so many,” Bjorn said.
“Not to death,” Ivar agreed. “But many are wounded. An injured soldier only counts as half a man.” He looked then to Valdrik. “How fares our brother?”
Kneeling again by Valdrik’s side, Adèle perceived little change in his condition. His face was still ashen and his breathing labored. If his fever did not break soon, he would surely die of the infection. After forci
ng him to take some choking swallows of willow bark tea, she rose and brushed off her skirts. “It’s too soon to know,” she said. “But I have done all I can do for him.”
“If he dies, know that I will send you to the hereafter with him,” Ivar threatened with a menacing look that left her with no doubt he meant it.
“If you wish to end the siege, you must offer to treat with her,” Adèle said.
“Her?” both men repeated incredulously.
“Aye. If Cornouaille is dead. It can only be his daughter, Emma, who commands the fortress.”
Ivar looked unconvinced. “I have been fighting a woman?”
“Why do you find this so difficult to comprehend?” Adèle asked. “’Twas I, after all, who made the decision to raise the gate when you assaulted Vannes.”
“But this assault?” he waved to the archers.
“Aye. Emma would fight to her death. For years she has acted as castellan in her father’s absence. In sooth, her strong nature has put off many suitors. The count despaired that she had not wed and even trebled her dowry to no effect.”
Ivar’s brows rose. “Even offered a fortune, no man would have the hag?”
“Emma is assuredly no hag,” Adèle contested. “But she is an intimidating woman. She stands half a head over most men. Pray, let me treat with her. If you will allow it, I would endeavor to enter the gate and end the bloodshed.”
Ivar was prepared to set the castle aflame. Inside would be many innocent women and children who would perish. She couldn’t stand by and let it happen.
“Nay.” Ivar shook his head. “I trust you not. I will go with you to meet with this virago.”
“Very well,” she replied. “Let us go and be done with this madness.”
Disarmed of all weapons, Adèle and Ivar, entered the gate of Quimper only to be immediately surrounded by armed men. Escorted with spears pointed at their backs, they crossed through the bailey and over the bridge to the hilltop keep. As they traveled through the fortification, she could see Ivar appraising the structure and assessing it for weaknesses.
The Wolves of Brittany Collection: A Romance Bundle Books 1-3 Page 10
