“The queen sent me to fetch you to her solar,” Adèle said.
“I have no desire to see anyone. Tell her I am ill.”
“I too, mourn him, Gwened.” Adèle came toward her with soft and sympathetic eyes. “But we both must accept that he is gone… and life… goes on.”
“I still cannot comprehend it!” Gwened said. “Why did it have to be Hugo who was slain? Why wasn’t it someone who would not be mourned? Why wasn’t it Rudalt?”
The moment she said it, she wished she hadn’t.
Adèle’s eyes widened. “You should not say such things of your own brother.”
“’Tis true, nevertheless!” Although Adèle was too kind and well-bred to say so, Gwened suspected that Adèle would not have mourned Rudalt half as much as Hugo.
“I’m sorry,” Gwened said after a moment. “It was thoughtless of me. I didn’t mean it.”
“The queen awaits you,” Adèle gently reminded her. “She will wonder why you tarry.”
“Pray tell her I will come anon,” Gwened answered.
Adèle turned to leave but then hesitated at the door.
“What is it?” Gwened asked.
“I heard something… something that I fear will further distress you.”
“What is it?”
“Can I trust you not to betray me if I tell you?”
“Yes.”
“I heard the king and queen speak of your marriage.”
“My marriage? But Hugo is dead.”
“They spoke of another betrothal.”
“Surely you misheard!” Gwened protested. “I cannot believe they would talk so soon of another marriage!”
Adèle shook her head. “Nae, sister. I did not mishear.”
“Who was it?” Gwened’s mind raced. How could the king be so cruel as to consider another marriage when her betrothed was so recently laid in his grave? Even as Gwened struggled to understand the king’s motives, the answer came. Politics. The proposed marriage was contrived to safeguard the sovereignty, if not the unity, of Brittany. Her betrothal to Hugo had been no different, but at least she had loved him.
“Alas, I did not hear the name,” Adèle replied with an apologetic look. She squeezed Gwened’s hands with a plaintive look. “Please do not let on that I told you any of this. I only wanted to save you the surprise.”
“It is indeed a shock,” Gwened said. “But thank you for telling me.”
Although Gwened’s heart rebelled against the thought of another marriage, she knew she was powerless to prevent it. As soon as Adèle departed, Gwened removed her veil and golden fillet. Caressing the fabric for the last time, she locked them away in the bottom of her chest, burying her hopes and dreams with them.
The queen sat in her usual place, needle in hand and tambour resting on her lap. She looked up to acknowledge Gwened, her expression as always, cool and serene.
“You sent for me Majesty?” Gwened asked.
“Come forth child,” her mother commanded, arms extended.
She offered her cheek for a kiss and then took Gwened into a brief and awkward embrace. Gwened recognized the gesture as sympathy. Her parents had never shown affection but today there was almost a hint of compassion in her mother’s eyes.
“How do you fare?” the queen asked after releasing her.
“I am heartbroken,” Gwened replied. What more was there to say?
“Hearts do not break,” her mother corrected with an arched brow. “Whether we like it or not, they continue to beat until we die. At times such as this, we must remember that God’s will is perfect, even if it surpasses human understanding.”
“Don’t you miss him?” Gwened asked, biting her lip to cease the quivering. Her mother strongly disapproved of tears or any show of emotion, for that matter.
The queen sighed. “The king fears Brittany will suffer for the loss of Hugo. Thus, he must take immediate measures to secure the future of the kingdom.”
“I don’t understand,” Gwened said. “What has this to do with me?”
“Sit, child.” The queen patted the cushion beside her. “And I will endeavor to explain.”
Gwened took her place on a silk cushion beside her mother.
“Not so very long ago,” the queen began, “Brittany was a land that suffered great strife. We were surrounded by wolves in the form of Norse Vikings. Their raids were constant and ruthless. Our people were brutally raped and murdered and taken into slavery. Many of my own kinsmen suffered such a fate, until your father, who was then Count of Vannes, combined forces with his chief rival for power, Judicael, Count of Poher. Together, these two great warriors drove out the marauders.”
“I have heard this story many times,” Gwened said. “Hugo told me that his father was slain at the battle of Questembert.”
“He was,” the queen said. “And his dying request was that our two great families would unite and share the throne of Brittany for perpetuity. ’Tis why Adèle was betrothed to Rudalt at such a tender age, and why you were also bound to Hugo. But with Hugo’s death, the king is uneasy. He does not trust Rudalt and refuses to go to his grave without taking additional measures to safeguard the kingdom. To this end, he has spent many days in conference with his counselors. There is only one solution, Gwened. Though it may seem distasteful to you at present, you must wed the second son of Judicael of Poher.”
“A second son?” Gwened shook her head in confusion. “But Hugo has no brothers.”
“On the contrary, Judicael had two sons—Hugo and Mateudoi.”
“I don’t understand. Hugo and Gwened never spoke of a brother.”
“Because Gwened doesn’t know of his existence, and Hugo was sworn never to speak of him.”
“Why?” Gwened asked.
For the first time in Gwened’s memory, the ever-composed queen struggled for words. “Because he was… sickly.”
“Sickly?” Gwened repeated. “Has he recovered?”
“Although his health is otherwise fair, Mateudoi’s infirmity has no cure,” the queen said. “At birth, his father commanded that he be left to die, but the Countess of Poher secretly defied his wishes and sent the babe away to be suckled by a peasant woman. When Judicael eventually learned that Mateudoi lived, he ordered him to be kept apart from his other children and sent him to the Abbey at Redon as an oblate.”
“How very tragic,” Gwened said. Her heart filled with sympathy for both the child and the mother who was forced to give up her babe in order to protect it. “I don’t understand. Why would his father do such a thing? How could he reject his own son?”
The queen sighed. “He rejected the child because Mateudoi’s body is misshapen.”
“Misshapen? You are saying he is…malformed?”
“’Tis my understanding,” the queen replied.
“Have you ever seen him, mother?”
“I have not, but rest assured that he is far from the monster that some have claimed.”
“A m-monster?” Gwened’s imagination immediately fired. What manner of deformity would create a monster? Two heads? Cloven feet? A tail? Gwened’s horror was growing greater by the revelation. The man she loved was barely cold in the grave and now she was expected to wed his crippled brother? “How could you consider this marriage?”
“Regardless of his condition, he is still the son of the great Judicael,” the queen replied matter-of-factly. “And he has thrived at the monastery. Hugo visited him several times and remarked how devoted his brother is to his studies. He believed that Mateudoi is destined to become an eminent scholar. It is our hope that his great learning will benefit the kingdom.”
“What more do you know of him?” Gwened asked.
“Very little. I only know that he has spent his entire life at Redon Abbey.”
“How old is he?” Gwened asked.
“Fourteen,” the queen answered.
“Fourteen?” Gwened threw her head back with a snort. “He is still a boy!”
“He is old enough to
marry with the king’s consent.”
“But I do not want to marry him!” Gwened exclaimed tearfully. How could they even consider misshapen Mateudoi as a prospective husband?
“What you want is irrelevant. Mateudoi is no doubt as surprised as you are by the betrothal. He was destined for the priesthood, after all.”
“But if he objects—”
“He cannot object,” the queen said. “Mateudoi has been a ward of the king since his father’s death. He will do as he is commanded… as will you.”
“So that is it? Is it already decided? I am to marry him?”
The queen nodded. “It is decided. I know that you grieve Hugo and talk of another marriage must be abhorrent to you, but you have a duty to uphold.”
“But why such haste?” Gwened asked. “Am I to have no time to grieve?”
“You have had a fortnight to do nothing else,” the queen replied coldly. “Mourning will not bring Hugo back, Gwened.”
It was true. Nothing would bring Hugo back, yet she still couldn’t bear the thought of marrying anyone else. Nothing could make this palatable to her. Her only hope was to delay the marriage. Perhaps, given time, she could think of someone more suitable? Her hopes, however, were dashed in the next moment.
“You will go now to meet your new betrothed,” the queen commanded.
Gwened’s pulse skittered in panic. “Mateudoi is here?”
“He arrived several hours ago to meet with the king.” The queen took up her needlework. “You will find them in the council room.”
Summarily dismissed, Gwened departed the queen’s solar. Was there no escape? She was so dazed and distraught that she nearly collided with Adèle who was standing outside the door.
“You are to marry Mateudoi?” Adèle’s eyes were wide with incredulity.
“The queen said you knew nothing of his existence.”
Adèle flushed. “Hugo told me about him years ago, but I was sworn to secrecy. I know this distresses you, Gwened, but surely my brother is no happier about it than you are. Marriage was never to be part of his future. Is it his youth or his deformity that most concerns you?”
“Everything about this situation distresses me!” Gwened exclaimed.
“Hugo told me that Mateudoi’s infirmity is not half as bad as people say. His left hand is crippled and his legs are bowed which makes walking difficult for him, but otherwise, he is quite normal. Hugo said that when he is sitting, you would barely even notice.” Adele laid a hand on her arm. “I know Mateudoi is nothing like Hugo, but perhaps in time you will come to care for one another?”
“I will never love another!” Gwened insisted fiercely, her eyes blurring with tears she refused to shed.
“But if the king commands this, what choice have you?”
“None,” Gwened whispered with morose resignation. There was no way out. “I have no choice but to make the best of it.”
Gwened arrived in the king’s council chamber to find him surrounded by his advisors and several men wearing clerical garb.
“Ah, Gwened! Come forth,” the king beckoned her with an impatient wave of his bejeweled hand.
Gwened felt the weight of a dozen stares upon her as she approached and made her obeisance. Yet she willed her gaze to remain fixed on the king. “You sent for me, your Highness?”
“Aye. I summoned you to meet you’re betrothed, the newly vested Count of Poher.” He inclined his head to a pale young man wearing the black robe of the Benedictines.
Was this Mateudoi? He looked nothing like Hugo, but after studying his face for a moment, she thought she detected a subtle resemblance to Adèle.
“Mateudoi, Count of Poher,” the king continued, “I make known to you, Lady Gwened.”
“My lady,” Mateudoi’s face flushed and he quickly dropped his gaze.
Taking each of them by the hand, the king joined them and solemnly pronounced, “Your nuptials will proceed in a sennight.”
When Mateudoi glanced up at her again his pale blue eyes reminded her all too much of a scared rabbit. In truth, they had both been ensnared in the same trap.
Chapter Three
Giske, Norway, 911 A.D.
“Great Odin, Allfather, god of gods, lord of earth and sky, giver and taker of life, please accept my humble sacrifice.” Kneeling before the stone altar, Bjorn continued his supplication. “With this offering, I pray that you will either take this pain from me…or take me from this world.”
With one great slash of his blade, Bjorn slit the squealing, thrashing animal’s throat, then watched dispassionately as its struggles ceased and a warm stream of crimson stained the stone altar below.
Countless times he had come to this lonely spot in the woods offering a sacrifice in hope of gaining solace for his soul, but the gods still denied him the peace he sought. What more must he do to be free of this agony and guilt that continued to haunt him?
The soft crunch of footsteps on leaves followed by the snap of a twig drove him instantly to his feet. Blood still dripping from his knife, Bjorn spun to face the intruder.
“Valdrik,” Bjorn glared at his half-brother. “You trespass where you are not welcome.”
“My apologies for intruding.” His brows arched as his gaze lit upon the bloody knife. “Perhaps my blood might satisfy Odin more than that boar’s, but I am not willing to let you sacrifice it.”
Bjorn wiped the blade on his leather trews and then sheathed it. “Why have you come here?”
“I thought I would find you here,” Valdrik said. “When you were not at the mead hall, this seemed the most likely place. Drink?” he offered Bjorn a bladder filled with mead.
Bjorn accepted it and took a long drink, followed by another. He hadn’t realized until now how thirsty he was. Or how hungry, for that matter. While the entire village feasted, he had chosen to abstain from food and drink. It was his act of penance.”
“Haakon would have been five years old today,” Bjorn said after a time. He took a third drink that emptied the bladder, then wiped his mouth with his hand. “I was raiding when they died. Perhaps if I had been here instead, my family would still be alive.”
He felt Valdrik’s hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps this needed to happen for you to accept the gods’ will for you. Perhaps a whole new life awaits you away from this place.”
“A new life?” Bjorn angrily shook off Valdrik’s hand. His brother’s words of consolation only ignited his fury. “What was wrong with my old life? Did my happiness so displease the gods that they felt the need to strip me of all that I loved?”
Valdrik raked a hand through his long, fair hair with a sigh. “I understand your pain, brother, but everything happens for a reason. It would have made no difference where you were. “The gods decree the day of our death. Whether you like it or not, in the end, all of our fates lie in their hands.”
“Do we truly have no say in our destiny? Part of me wonders if it is so,” Bjorn replied.
“Do not question the gods,” Valdrik warned. “They may punish your disbelief.”
“But why should I believe?” Bjorn exclaimed. “The gods do not hear my prayers.” He spun and pointed to the pig’s carcass. “Every month I come here and make sacrifices to Allfather in Astrid and Haakon’s names, but it makes no difference! There is a great gaping hole in me that will never be filled!” He pounded his breast with his fist. “I feel nothing anymore, brother! I care about nothing!”
“Because there is nothing left for you to care about,” Valdrik said. “And this place is a constant reminder of that…of them. You need a change of scenery. Leaving would do you good.”
“And where would I go?”
“Hrolfr is planning another raid in Neustria. Ivar and I intend to go this time. Leave the farming to the thralls and come with us.”
“Neustria, you say?”
“Aye. It is said there are great riches in the southern lands of Frankia, lands that have yet to be looted by anyone. Hrolfr wants to establish a base at the mouth
of the River Seine. The Neustrians are poorly organized and know nothing of maritime warfare. We will use the rivers to raid further inland than others have ever ventured before. Mayhap we will settle there for a while?”
Bjorn snorted. “Ivar settle? He lives to raid.”
“True enough.” Valdrik laughed. “But there will be ample enough opportunity even for Ivar. Will you join us?”
A year ago, he would have dismissed the suggestion, but now he knew things would never be right again. Given the choice, he would rather raid and pillage and flirt with death than continue to walk around like an empty shell.
“Aye,” Bjorn decided after considering his options.
Valdrik smiled. “Good! I am greatly pleased to have both of my brothers by my side! We three will depart in spring and make our fortune. If the god’s smile upon us, we will return home very rich men.”
Bjorn cast his gaze back up to the hanging carcass. “If you depend on the gods for their blessing, we may not return at all.”
Chapter Four
Duchy of Vannes, Brittany
The fire flickered in the great hall, casting dancing shadows over the men’s faces, making it difficult for Gwened to study their expressions. Nine counts comprised the war council, with Rudalt as the Grand Duke of Brittany, presiding at the table’s head.
Gwened was the only woman present, albeit to her brother’s extreme displeasure. But whether he liked it or not, he was bound to accept her position there. The king’s will had declared that she, rather than Rudalt, would co-rule Poher with Mateudoi until he reached his age of majority—which left her essentially in charge of the county of Poher for another year.
“The Norse have returned to Brittany,” declared Father Francis, the Abbot of Redon Abbey. “The bloodthirsty Pagans pillaged the Abbey of Saint Marcouf without mercy. Only a handful of the brothers escaped. Only under the saint’s protection were they able to save the holy relics. Thanks be to God.” Looking heavenward, he made the sign of the cross.
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