World of de Wolfe Pack_Ivar The Red Read online

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  (lIBRARY jOURNAL bEST e-BOOK ROMANCE)

  Text copyright ©2016 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Kathryn Le Veque. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original World of de Wolfe Pack remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Kathryn Le Veque, or their affiliates or licensors.

  For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds

  IVAR THE RED

  The Wolves of Brittany #2

  A De Wolfe Pack Novella

  VICTORIA VANE

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real.

  IVAR THE RED

  Copyright © 2016 by Victoria Vane.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Editor: Elizabeth Komisar

  Cover Illustration: Romance-covers.com

  Stock Photography: Period Images

  PROLOGUE

  Brittany

  911 A.D.

  THE SUN WAS SLOWLY SINKING as Ivar stood on a rise gazing out over the lush green lands of Brittany. He’d long wondered what his reaction would be to finally catch sight of this place he’d heard so much about as a boy. Would it somehow call out to him? Would standing on this plot of earth somehow fill the empty ache in his soul? If so, he would have been gravely disappointed. He felt absolutely nothing. He had no more sense of belonging here than anywhere else.

  Pulling a wineskin from his saddle bag, he wet his lips, and took a long draught, as he pondered the unanswered questions that wearied his mind.

  Most who had joined Valdrik had tired of a nomadic life. They desired the same things Valdrik sought—lands, riches, wives, children, and a fertile place to lay roots and prosper. Ivar, on the other hand, was a man who lived in the present. Until now, he’d neither dwelled on the past nor given much thought to the future, but now it seemed his past and future were about to collide.

  Valdrik appeared by his side, a welcome diversion from his thoughts. Ivar offered the wineskin to his brother, who accepted with a nod of thanks. It was several minutes before either man spoke.

  “We will soon see what this Duke Rudalt is made of,” Valdrik finally ventured.

  “Do you think he will meet us?” Ivar asked.

  “If he has the bollocks of a warrior, he will fight like one, but if he flees and locks himself inside his fortress…” Valdrik inclined his head toward a pile of newly hewn battering rams. “‘Twill make little difference. 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 wearied of it.”

  “Because Rolfr is old and fat,” Ivar scoffed. “And now that he is rich, he will grow soft and die in bed like an old woman.”

  “Yes. He is rich, but the treaty with the Franks means little. He will still have to fight to keep what he has. At least he now has something legitimate to fight for—lands. 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 very rich men.”

  It seemed that all he could ever desire lay just beyond those hills. He’d pledged to support his brother’s plan of conquest out of loyalty, but this venture should also have been the answer to his heart’s desire. Rather than filling Ivar with joy, once more he was plagued with doubts. Was this really what he wanted for himself? He still didn’t know. He’d felt like an outsider his entire life, as if he had no home. His existence of raiding and fighting had suited him well. He’d never before imagined settling in one place. Could he be content with such a life?

  The western sky glowed red against the setting sun. Was it an omen of the blood that would soon be shed? Soon they would ride out to meet their fate—either a glorious victory or a valiant death. Would this attempted conquest of Brittany become their lasting legacy or their greatest failure? He prayed for the former, but always prepared for the latter by augmenting his prayers with a sacrifice to Freyr, the god of prosperity. And with the gods’ blessings, they would soon claim for their own, the bounty of Brittany.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Quimper, Cornouailles, Western Brittany

  LADY EMMA OF QUIMPER was thigh-deep in the Odet, scythe in hand, when her manservant, Budic, spotted three men on horseback. “My lady. There are riders approaching.“

  Handing her scythe to Budic, Emma waded toward the bank, the deep river mud sucking at her bare feet as she drew slowly into the shallows. By the time she scrambled up the muddy bank, the men had pulled up and drawn their horses to a halt. Shielding her eyes against the sun, Emma took stock of the strangers. The garments of the first two men were made of richly dyed wool. Coupled with their fine horses, she identified them as either noblemen or at least high servants of one. The third wore the garb of a priest, but not one she recognized.

  “You there!” The first man called out to Budic. “Which way to Castle Quimper?”

  Emma eyed the trio speculatively. “If you’ve come to see Father Pascweten, I’m afraid he is away.”

  “We are not here for Father Pascweten,” the priest answered.

  “Might I inquire what business you have at Quimper?” Emma asked.

  The first man gazed down from his horse as if she were naught but a pismire. “Our business is none of your concern.”

  His self-important air made her hackles rise. Heedless of her wet and muddy appearance, Emma mustered as much dignity as she was able and haughtily lifted her chin. “Then you err gravely, my lord, for ‘tis very much my concern if you seek entrance to the keep.”

  “Indeed?” The second man pressed his horse toward her, brows raised in query. “And you would be…”

  “Who are you and what do you seek?” Emma repeated her questions, ignoring his.

  His brow wrinkled as he studied her with closer scrutiny. Although his obvious appraisal annoyed her, she could hardly blame him. Even on a good day, she bore little resemblance to a gently bred woman. “I am Hugh of Nantes,” he finally volunteered. “We come on behalf of the Marquis of Neustria to seek an audience with Count Gourmaëlon. “

  “Then I fear you have made a wasted journey, my lords, as my father, Count Gourmaëlon, is also presently away.”

  “Your father?” he repeated blankly. “Then you are…”

  Ta
king sodden skirts in hand, Emma made her own introduction with an exaggerated curtsy. “Lady Emma of Quimper, my lord.”

  Three sets of eyes raked her in disbelief from the muddy toes peeking out from under the hem of her dripping tunic, to her immodestly uncovered hair. She glanced toward the branch where she’d hung her veil. She’d only removed it to keep it from dragging in the river as she worked.

  The man who’d identified himself as Hugh dismounted in a show of respect. He was not a small man by any measure and his dark eyes widened in surprise when he found himself level with her. Dropping his bridle reins, he took her hand in his and bent to one knee. “You have our sincere apologies, my lady. We meant no disrespect. It is just that…”

  “No apologies are needed, my lord. I am quite certain you did not expect to find the count’s daughter wading in the river,” she replied with a conciliatory chuckle. “I come here often to reap the bulrushes.”

  “You are reaping rushes?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “Weaving them is my chief occupation.”

  Born with few natural feminine graces, Emma had all but given up genteel womanly pursuits—until she’d discovered weaving. From her youth, her unusual height and large hands had always made her feel awkward and ungainly, but it seemed as if her strong hands and long, nimble fingers had been created precisely for the purpose of plaiting rushes.

  As a young girl, she’d often wandered beyond the bailey walls and down to the river when her father was away; not that he’d ever paid much heed to her even when he was at home. It was on one such occasion, that she’d come across a group of peasants harvesting tall, reedy grasses. She’d watched in fascination as they cut, bundled, and floated them in bunches on makeshift rafts, then laid them out to dry in the sun. A sennight later, she’d returned to find a group of women huddled together laughing and weaving the now dried bulrushes. Although looms, spindles, and needlework bored her senseless, creating intricate mats and baskets had become her art and greatest passion.

  “Does the marquis seek some favor from my father?” she asked.

  Hugh’s gaze narrowed. “I am not in the habit of discussing political affairs with women.”

  “You think me presumptuous?” she asked icily. “I frequently act as hostess for my father and am well educated regarding political affairs.”

  “How…er… extraordinary,” the nobleman remarked.

  “I suppose so,” she replied. She was accustomed to being thought unusual by most people and even an object of curiosity to some. It was also largely why she remained unwed. Any would-be suitors were either intimidated by her size or put off by her frank, often blunt nature. “Since I am also in charge of the keep in the count’s absence, I would be pleased to offer our hospitality in his stead. I am certain he would not have me turn you away.”

  The three men eyed one another, their hesitation palpable. “When do you expect your father to return?” Lord Hugh asked.

  “Any day now,” she replied.

  “We durst not tarry, my lord,” the second man insisted.

  “At least come and take some refreshment,” Emma offered, hoping to learn more of their purpose. Robert of Neustria had a longstanding enmity with Brittany. Why would he seek out her father?

  “Your offer is gracious, but time is of the essence,” Hugh said. He regarded the other two men with a grim look. “First the duke and now the count? I fear the marquis will be most displeased with this fool’s errand.”

  The priest chimed in, “Our only hope is that both the count and the duke will have returned when we come back this way.”

  “The duke?” Emma inquired. By now, her curiosity was most piqued. “Did you also seek an audience with Rudalt of Vannes?”

  “Aye,” Hugh said grimly. “But the duke was off a hunting. We had little hope of bearing fruit from that quarter anyway, so we rode on to Cornouailles.”

  “If we cannot speak with Count Gourmaëlon,” the second man interrupted as if she were invisible, “we must ride on to Poitou.”

  “Agreed.” Hugh nodded and then turned back to his horse.

  Emma marveled that they would tarry not even an hour to refresh themselves. What news did these men so urgently carry?

  “Poitou?” she repeated. “But that is precisely where my father went. He had business with Count Ebles.”

  “Did he indeed?” Hugh’s mouth twisted into a semblance of a smile. “Then fortune favors my master at last. We will ride south in hope of killing two birds with one stone.” He raised his foot to the stirrup, mounted, and then bowed from his saddle. “Adieu, my lady. We shall ride onward to Poitou.”

  With a frown between her brows, Emma watched the riders disappear into the horizon. Why would Robert of Neustria send his emissaries to seek out the Breton nobles? And what was his father’s true purpose in Poitou? A shiver of foreboding rippled down her spine. Although Brittany had been at peace for most of her lifetime, it appeared as if the sands might be shifting once again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Duchy of Vannes, southeastern Brittany

  IVAR TOSSED a leftover gallette to the pack of hungry-eyed dogs, watched as they fought over it, and then sat back with a belch. “Where are the damned women in this place?” he demanded. Although his eyes were blurring and his body had settled into a dangerous state of lethargy, he refilled his tankard. “A man wants a willing wench to warm his bed after a battle.”

  “What battle?” his brother, Bjorn, asked dryly. “Valdrik was the only one who put his sword to any use.”

  “Aye, and by the look, he’ll be the only one using it this night,” Ivar grumbled. The day had been a victory for Valdrik, but it was a great disappointment for Ivar. The fight he’d so eagerly anticipated had never happened. Instead, Valdrik and the Duke of Vannes had faced one another in mortal combat—winner take all. Valdrik and his mighty, some believed magical, Ulfberht, had prevailed. Now they had come to Vannes to claim the spoils, but rather than basking in their success, Ivar felt strangely restless and dissatisfied. What in Odin’s name was wrong with him? Was it unsated blood lust or something more? It had all seemed far too easy. Was this victory indeed a gift from the gods or was Loki up to no good? “Are you going to take her?” Ivar asked Valdrik.

  “The duchess?” Valdrik replied. “Aye. But I would wed her first.”

  “Wed her?” Ivar sputtered his drink all over his tunic. “Why? She’s yours for the taking!” Valdrik had slain the duke in combat and was entitled to the spoils. He couldn’t comprehend why his brother’s plan now included the shackles of wedlock. Then again, he’d never truly understood Valdrik.

  “And I will take her in good time,” Valdrik replied. “Once I wed and bed her, we will claim the rest of this land.”

  “You’ve never spoken of marriage before,” Bjorn said. “Why now?”

  Valdrik stared into his cup. “If I want to keep these lands, I must have a Breton noblewoman to bear my sons.”

  Perhaps it made sense, after all, given his brother’s grand scheme to conquer Brittany. The Norse were small in number. Valdrik could never hold the lands beyond Vannes without additional support. Ivar just hoped leg-shackles weren’t also in his future.

  “Were I in your place, I would take a woman for every day of the week,” Ivar said.

  “You think one not enough to satisfy you?” Bjorn asked.

  “I am a large man possessed with an equally great appetite,” Ivar countered with a grin.

  “Then you should do as the god Freyr did and take a giantess to wife,” Valdrik suggested. “Make a sacrifice pleasing to him and mayhap, you will find such a woman among the Bretons.”

  “I don’t seek a wife and have seen none here worth taking,” Ivar grumbled. “The only ones in this wretched place either have no teeth or their teats hang to their knees.”

  “They are hiding from you Ivar,” Valdrik jibed. “Your reputation has scared them away.”

  “Mayhap if you bring one of the hags into your bed tonight you�
��ll have the luck of Helgi,” Bjorn taunted. “The ugly crone he took into his bed turned into a beautiful, elvish woman. Then again, you could awaken instead with a toothless hag and a withered prick.”

  “You only wish,” Ivar rejoined. “Even withered, ‘twould be twice the size of your—“ Ivar’s gaze suddenly riveted to the staircase, beyond Valdrik’s shoulder. “Damn! But what have we here?”

  The woman wore an indecently thin almost translucent tunic and the look of one who knows a man’s desires and is more than willing to fulfill them. Who was she?

  Ivar stood, almost toppling his chair. “Come to me, woman,” he urged with a broad grin and open arms. “We are in sore need of entertainment.”

  She approached them boldly. “I am Gisela and I wish to know which of you will come to me in the duke’s bed tonight. I desire to know the siege machine of the man who slayed him.” She came to Ivar, brazenly taking hold of his belt buckle with one hand, while she slid the other down to his crotch. “I can do things you only dreamed of.”

  In an instant, he was hard as a pike. “‘Twas not me who slayed the duke,” Ivar grudgingly confessed and looked to Valdrik.

  Letting loose of Ivar, she eyed Valdrik appraisingly, hands on her shapely hips. “Make me your duchess and I will do anything you desire.”

  Her black gaze flickered from Valdrik to Ivar. “I would even pleasure you both. “Upon occasion,” she looked to Bjorn with a lascivious curl of her lips,” I have even taken three men at once.”

  Although her proposition had completely captured Ivar’s imagination, Valdrik had never taken to whores. “I don’t seek a whore for my bed.” Valdrik said and pushed out of his chair.

  “Where are you going?” Gisela demanded with a pout.