THE BASTARD OF BRITTANY Read online

  “Because Gwened doesn’t know of his existence, and Hugo was sworn never to speak of him.”

  “Why?” Gwened asked.

  “Because he was born …” For the first time in Gwened’s memory, the ever-composed queen struggled for words. “… sickly.”

  “Sickly?” Gwened asked. “But he has recovered?”

  “He will never completely recover,” the queen said. “He was malformed at birth, but 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? “In what manner is he…malformed?” she asked.

  “The left side of his body is misshapen,” the queen explained.

  “Misshapen? In what way?”

  “Mateudoi’s left hand is gnarled and his left leg is extremely bowed. His father, would not accept his imperfection and commanded that he be left to die, but the Countess of Poher secretly defied his wishes and sent him away to be suckled by a nurse maid. 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 sad,” Gwened said.

  “It is said that he has thrived at the monastery,” the queen said. “Hugo visited him several times and remarked how devoted his brother is to his studies. He believed that Mateudoi is destined to be an eminent scholar. It is the king’s hope that his great learning will benefit the kingdom. Although his health is otherwise fair, his deformity has no cure. His left hand is crippled and he will always be lame.”

  The man she loved was barely cold in the grave and now she was expected to wed his crippled younger brother? Gwened’s horror of her marriage was growing greater by the revelation.

  “I know that you grieve Hugo and talk of another marriage must be abhorrent to you, but you have a duty to uphold.”

  “I am to marry him? Is it already decided?” Gwened asked.

  The queen nodded. “It is decided.”

  “Why such haste?” Gwened asked. “Am I to have no time to mourn?”

  Her only hope was to delay the marriage. Surely the king and queen would allow her more time to mourn Hugo. Perhaps in the meantime, she could think of someone more suitable? Her hopes, however, were dashed in the next moment.

  “You have had a fortnight to do nothing else,” the queen replied coldly. “Mourning will not bring Hugo back, Gwened. You will go now to meet your new betrothed.”

  “He is here?” Gwened asked, her pulse skittering in panic.

  “Mateudoi arrived several hours ago to meet with the king. He is no doubt as surprised as you are by the betrothal, but you both have a duty to your king and to your country.” The queen took up her needle work. “You will find them in the council room.”

  Realizing she’d been dismissed, Gwened departed the queen’s solar. How could they even consider misshapen Mateudoi as a prospective husband to her? There was nothing that could make this palatable to her. Was there no escape? She was so dazed that she nearly collided with Adèle who was standing outside the door.

  “It is Mateudoi of whom they speak?” Adèle’s eyes were wide with incredulity.

  “You were listening again?” Gwened accused. “The queen said you knew nothing of his existence.”

  “Hugo told me about him years ago. I was sworn to secrecy,” Adèle said. “Sadly, I have never met my younger brother. He has spent his entire life at Redon Abbey. He was to have become a priest.”

  “The king has other plans for him,” Gwened replied. “Perhaps if he were to object, however…”

  “He cannot object,” Adèle said. “Mateudoi has been a ward of the king since my father’s death, but he is much too young to wed!”

  “You said he is too young?” Gwened replied. “How old is he? The queen made no mention of his age.”

  “He is only fourteen.”

  “Fourteen?” Gwened threw her head back with a snort. “He is still a boy! Why did the queen not tell me this?”

  “Perhaps because the priest told her he is of age to wed?” Adèle suggested.

  “But I do not want to marry him!” Gwened exclaimed tearfully.

  Adèle frowned. “If it is his deformity that most concerns you, Hugo told me it is not half as bad as people say. Walking is difficult for him, but other than that, he is quite normal. Hugo said that when he is sitting, you would barely even notice.”

  “It isn’t just that! It’s everything!”

  “I am certain he is just as reluctant,” Adèle said. “Marriage was never to be part of his future. But if the king commands it, what is to be done?”

  “Nothing,” Gwened whispered with resigned resolution. “There is nothing to be done.”

  ***

  Gwened arrived in the king’s council chamber to find him surrounded by his advisors and several other men wearing clerical garb. She felt all their eyes upon her as she entered.

  “Gwened, come forth,” the king beckoned her. “I called you here to meet 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? She glanced down to look at his left hand, but both were hidden in his sleeves.

  “Mateudoi, Count of Poher,” the king continued, “I make known to you, Lady Gwened.”

  Mateudoi turned to face her. He looked nothing like Hugo. He seemed particularly small for his age and his lip and chin were still hairless. His brother Hugo had been a large, powerful man, who would have physically dwarfed Mateudoi, even without his disability. But after studying his face for a moment, she thought she saw a resemblance to Adèle.

  His expression was blank as he greeted her, but his pale blue eyes were anxious, reminding her all too much of a snared rabbit. A moment later, she realized that she too, had been ensnared. Taking both of their hands in his, the king pronounced, “Your nuptials will proceed in a sennight.”

  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 alter, 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 draught, 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.”

  ***

  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 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 majority—which left her essentially in charge of the county of Poher for another year. The marriage was a purely political union that King Alain had contrived to safeguard the sovereignty, if not the unity, of Brittany.

  “The Norse have returned to Brittany,” Father Francis, the Abbot of Redon Abbey declared. “The bloodthirsty Pagans pillaged the Abbey of Saint Marcouf without mercy. Only a handful of the brothers escaped. Under the saint’s protection, they managed to save the holy relics. Thanks be to God.” Looking heavenward, he made the sign of the cross.

  “The Duke of Burgundy is assembling a coalition army,” declared Hugh of Nantes who had arrived with the priest. “He seeks the help of Brittany to deal with this threat.”

  “Why does one attack on a Cotentin monastery have you quaking in your boots?” Duke Rudalt asked with a dismissive wave. “Brittany has not had to deal with Viking raids for decades.”

  “They will not stop at one monastery,” the priest insisted. “They rejoice in defiling the house of God and do so in unspeakable ways. If this new group gains a foothold, they will spread over the land like a plague.”

  “There is already a large colony of them in the Loire that the Franks have failed to eradicate,” Hugh said.

  “Let the Franks deal with their own problems.” Rudalt dismissed their concern. “Brittany is separated from Saint Marcouf by the Cotentin peninsula. Once the Norse realize there are no riches to be plundered there, they will not tarry long. They will travel up the Seine and harry Paris instead.”

  “What if you are wrong?” Count Gormaelon demanded. “What if they are testing the waters now that the man who drove them from Brittany is dead?”

  “Testing the waters…or testing me?” Duke Rudalt’s gaze narrowed. “What exactly are you implying, Gormaelon?”

  Everyone knew the king had not trusted his own son to rule with autonomy, and this knowledge only weakened Rudalt’s position. To make matters worse, rather than working to earn their respect and confidence, he flouted his authority. Rudalt ruled as a tyrant, liked by no one but his mistress. But now Count Gormaelon seemed prepared to challenge him.

  “I imply nothing. I speak openly! The Vikings are once more on our doorstep and you do nothing!” Gormaelon, slammed his fist on the oaken council table with a thud. “We must join with Richard of Burgundy and drive them out!”

  Gwened’s gaze darted from one man to the other. The king would surely roll in his grave if he knew how much Brittany had weakened only four years after his death.

  “And leave us vulnerable in the south?” Rudalt asked. “Damn the Franks! I am far more concerned about the Count of Poitou’s designs on Vannes.”

  To everyone’s surprise, Mateudoi’s voice broke the strained silence. “By failing to act, my brother, I fear you will be damned.”

  Although Mateudoi was well-read in history and had absorbed an extraordinary theoretical understanding of statecraft, he had never spoken a single opinion on political matters—until now. Rudalt glared at his young brother-in-law, his visage flooding with color, but Mateudoi did not cower under Rudalt’s belligerent stare.

  “As God’s appointed ruler of this land, it is also your God-ordained duty to care for and protect His church,” Mateudoi calmly and quietly chided him. “While I regret that I am physically unable to lead such an army, I am willing to lend my support to the Duke of Burgundy.” He then looked to Hugh of Nantes. “I will raise men from Poher.”

  Rudalt rose with a roar. “I am the Duke of Brittany! You will all do as I command.”

  Gwened wondered if Mateudoi fully understood the danger he had placed himself in by defying the duke. Rudalt was not a forgiving man in the best of circumstances. She was certain he would make Mateudoi pay for this humiliation.

  Fearing blood might soon be spilled right there in the council chamber, Gwened spoke out, hoping to assuage both sides. “Please! There must be another answer. Duke Rudalt has a point. There is no saving what has already been destroyed, and the land of Cotentin is indeed very poor. It is possible they will head toward Paris, but might it be a good idea to at least send a small contingent of men to the Duke of Burgundy? At least we will then learn the strength of the Norse numbers and their intentions.”

  Rudalt transferred his glower from Mateudoi to Gwened. “I will commit to nothing unless the Vikings become a direct threat to Brittany.”

  Hugh of Nantes shook his head. “By then it might well be too late.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Hoping to avoid any further confrontations with Rudalt, Gwene
d and Mateudoi retired to their chamber directly after the council meeting and prepared to depart Vannes early the next morning. Although bedding together in the same room was an awkward arrangement, they accepted that they had no choice. The guest rooms were all occupied by the other counts and advisors. Moreover, there would be talk if it became commonly known that Mateudoi and his countess had never shared a bed.

  In the beginning, she had attributed his reluctance to resentment of the heavy burden of responsibility the king had placed upon his young shoulders. She had assumed that, given time, he would become accustomed to both his role as Count of Poher and as her husband and protector, but their six years of marriage had changed little.

  Mateudoi spent his days much as if he still resided in a cloister and his habits were very much those of a monk. He rarely ate meat, abstained from strong drink, and passed many hours each day in study and prayer. Most notably, he never came to his wife’s bed.

  She wondered if he ever felt sexual desire or if he just willfully suppressed it. Although she found no satisfaction in the marriage bed, Gwened desperately desired a child, and the kingdom needed heirs. Her eldest sister Avicia, wife of Count Gormaelon, had died in childbirth along with her infant son. Adèle and Rudalt had yet to conceive a child.

  Mateudoi was a grandson of the first Grand Duke of Brittany, and Gwened was the daughter of the last king. It was their duty to ensure the succession of Brittany. If he would not take the initiative, perhaps she could find a way to persuade Mateudoi to fulfill this one duty to her and the kingdom? Although she found the idea less than appealing, she was determined to try.

  “You surprised me this day,’ Gwened said as she unbound and brushed out her hair.

  “Why?” His brows pulled together over his pale blue eyes. “Because I defended the Church?”

  “Because you stood up to Rudalt,” Gwened said. “Few men would dare to do such a thing.” The compliment was not spoken just to please his male vanity, it was the truth.