The Wolves of Brittany Collection: A Romance Bundle Books 1-3 Read online

  Chapter One

  The lame rides a horse, the handless is herdsman. The deaf in battle is bold; The blind man is better than one that is burned. No good can come of a corpse.

  —Hávamál

  Chartres, Western Frankia – 911 AD

  Valdrik Vargr paced the hilltop squinting westward into the sinking sun, his body quivering, his ears still roaring with battle cries, and nostrils filled with the stench of death. Thousands of fallen peppered the otherwise pastoral landscape. The earth as far as the eye could see was stained with the mixed blood of Norse and Franks, the gleaming metal of axes and swords stained to the color of rust with dried blood.

  Retrieving his wineskin and raising it to parched lips, Valdrik cast a longing gaze southeastward to the shimmering waters where their boats were moored—within sight, but ever out of reach. Between the encampment on the hills and the river were dense lines of horse and foot soldiers—Frankish reinforcements freshly arrived.

  His kinsman, Hrolfr, the chieftain of the raid had predicted an easy victory with bountiful tribute money, but much had changed in the twenty-some years since his first incursion. Then, Charles the Fat, either too lazy or too craven, had not raised his sword. Instead, he’d willingly paid tribute and allowed the Norsemen free passage south to pillage Burgundy instead. Easily vanquishing their unwary victims, the Norsemen had returned home with boats laden with silver and plunder and stories to fill the sagas. But now, after half a century of raiding, it seemed the contemptible Franks had finally learned how to fight.

  Nothing about the expedition had gone according to plan. They’d set out to ransack Paris, but the city had become well-fortified since the last victorious raid. Having failed to take that city, they’d sailed further down the Seine and into the tributary of the Eure, but Chartres had proven equally impenetrable against their ballista, mangonel, and catapults. Though forever scarred from the Norse siege machines, the Frankish walls stood strong.

  The counter-attack had come as a surprise. In their supreme arrogance, the Norsemen had been unprepared. Led by Richard, Duke of Burgundy, the Franks, Neustrians, and Aquitainians had formed an alliance against their common foe. Splitting the great army into three divisions, they’d surrounded the Norse invaders. Outmaneuvered and outmanned, Hrolf’s warriors had fought valiantly, no longer for riches and glory, but to defend their lives and honor.

  Taking refuge behind a hastily constructed fortification of dead bodies and animal carcasses, the remains of a once fearsome army blanketed the colline, helplessly cut off, stores depleted. The only thing conquered—the closest hilltop.

  Damn it all! Valdrik cursed their humiliation with several long draughts of wine, draining the skin dry. He tossed it aside with another oath. With a nod to his blood-spattered half-brothers, Bjǫrn and Ivar, he spun toward his kinsman’s newly erected tent where the two sentries allowed him unmolested entry.

  Hunching his broad shoulders, Valdrik ducked into the shelter where Hrolfr, was surrounded by his war council. Valdric stood silently at a respectful distance as their voices rose in heated debate.

  “Where is the silver and gold you promised?” Agnarr demanded.

  “You grossly underestimated the foe,” Sinric angrily declared, “Not only do they refuse to pay tribute, they have united against us!”

  Hrolfr raised a hand to silence his council. Perceiving his opportunity to speak, Valdrik stepped forward to make his presence known. The chieftain acknowledged him with a mere flicker of his pale blue eyes. “Have you something to say, nephew?”

  “Yes,” Valdrik replied. “Are Hrolfr’s greatest warriors reduced to cowering like a pack of beaten curs with our tails between our legs?”

  “You are bold to speak your mind so plainly, nephew, perhaps too bold,” his uncle rebuked, gaze narrowed.

  “The time has come to be brash and bold,” Vadric retorted. “We are surrounded. The Count of Poitou has brought reinforcements that are now encamped between us and the river. They will surely attack at sunrise. We have but one chance, uncle. There is no other way to the boats but through the enemy camp.”

  “Through them?” Sinric repeated. “Are you taken with a death wish? They outnumber us ten to one.”

  “By Odin’s eye,” Valdrik exclaimed, “I’d as lief fall on the field of battle attempting escape than sit here on the hilltop waiting to be slaughtered like a herd of hapless sheep!”

  Hrolfr studied him, fingering his long, red beard. “What are you suggesting, Valdrik?”

  “The Franks are so confident of victory that they will not expect an offense. Their horses are picketed and they are preparing to bed down for the night. We only want only for an element of surprise to penetrate their lines. We must act tonight.”

  It was eerily quiet with the soft glow of the moon painting ghostly patterns over the landscape as Valdrik and a handful of his best warriors stood sentry on the hilltop, waiting for the opportune moment to carry out the attack. Casting his gaze to the sky, Valdrik offered up a prayer to Odin, for either a brilliant victory or a glorious death.

  Moments later it seemed his urgent appeal was answered when a large bank of clouds obscured the moon, casting the terrain below into darkness. The time had come.

  The vanguard led by Valdrik, stalked stealthily down the hill, followed at a distance by the Norse forces. Knives in hand, they moved silently as shadows, eliminating the sentries with quiet lethality, one by one, until they’d advanced deep into the enemy encampment where fires smoldered and men slumbered.

  Taking positions throughout the camp, the ten men raised their battle horns to their lips. At Valdrik’s signal, they sounded a deafening peal, echoed by a dissonant din of shield rattling and Norse battle cries.

  Startled like a stirred hornet’s nest, the Franks surged from their tents, many fleeing into the darkness. Others, terrorized by the melee of screams and clashing steel, mistakenly took up arms against each other. Through the mass confusion and chaos, the Norsemen made a rapid advance toward their waiting boats.

  By the time the fiery ball of the sun cast its first rays over the land, the Norsemen were sailing back up the Seine.

  Chapter Two

  Two make a battle, the tongue slays the head.

  —Hávamál

  Saint-Clair-sur-Epte, Île-de-France – two months later

  In his place of honor directly behind the warrior chiefs, Valdrik warily watched the approach of the Franks. They came bedecked in full combat regalia. Gleaming helmets, lances, and long swords rattling against mail hauberks added a deafening cacophony to the earth-quaking thunder of five hundred sets of iron-shod horses.

  “I don’t like this uncle,” Valdrik murmured in warning. “Surely ’tis a great deception. They come as if prepared for war rather than peace. Why should we treat with them anyway?” Valdrik asked. “We control the mouth of the Seine and all the surrounding lands. We may cripple their trade at will.”

  “But for how long?” Hrolfr asked. “We already fight rival forces from our own race and now the Franks, Neustrians, and Aquitanians are united.” The troops had come to a halt, forming up in neat lines behind the flapping gonfanon of the Frankish King. Hrolfr squared his stance and hooked his thumbs in his belt, almost hidden beneath his great belly. “Nay, nephew. We will treat for peace. The time for fighting has come to an end.”

  Sinric nodded in agreement. “We would serve ourselves best to negotiate with these Franks. The lands are fertile. There are many among us who would be well content to take a Frankish woman to wife and turn his hands from the sword to the plow.”

  “Others amongst us would as lief plow the Frankish woman with our longsword and then move on to greener pastures,” Agnarr added with a ribald guffaw.

  “Come Valdrik.” Rolfr clasped his nephew’s shoulder. “You have mastered the art of war, now I would school you in statecraft.”

  Still suspicious, Valdrik kept his hand in close proximity to his sword as the Archbishop of Reims, King Charles’ chief
emissary came forth to greet the Norse chieftain. “The King would propose a treaty with you, Norseman.”

  “I would hear this treaty,” Hrolfr replied with a nod.

  “His Majesty is prepared to grant you freehold lands in Flanders,” suggested the Archbishop.

  Hrolfr shook his shaggy head with a humorless laugh. “You think to buy me off with a swamp?” His laughter extinguished. His pale eyes narrowed. “As I am already well-established in Rouen, Neustria shall be the price of my fealty.”

  “You speak of my hereditary lands.” All eyes riveted to Robert, Marquis of Neustria, son of Robert the Strong who’d found death fighting to secure his lands from Norse invaders.

  “Lands you have already lost, son of Robert Not-Strong Enough,” Hrolfr taunted, baring his teeth in a mirthless smile.

  The marquis’ blackening expression and stiffening shoulders indicated Hrolfr’s taunt squarely hit its mark. “Nevertheless, you will not take them from me, Norseman.”

  Warily watching the antagonists, King Charles plucked at his beard.

  “Do you seek to challenge me for them?” Hrolfr asked. “If that is your wish, I am prepared to personally settle this score with you.”

  When it appeared as if they might soon come to blows, the king raised a staying hand. “I would confer privately with you, Marquis Robert.” He turned then to the archbishop. “Will you also join us?”

  The three nobles rode a short distance away, close enough to be observed, but not heard. They spoke heatedly for some minutes.

  “He would be a fool to permit the challenge,” Valdrik remarked. “Should you prevail over the marquis, the king loses a buffer between us and the rest of Frankia.”

  “Unlike his predecessor, this king, is no fool,” Hrolfr answered, closely watching the three Frankish noblemen. “He knows he would serve himself with an allegiance, but he must also appease the bruised pride of the marquis.”

  When the trio finally returned, the marquis’ countenance had deepened almost to purple, but he fumed in silence. The archbishop continued the negotiations in a patronizing tone. “His Majesty is prepared to offer you Rouen and all lands bounded by the rivers Bresle, Epte, Avre, and Dives in exchange for the cessation of all raiding and plundering of his Majesty’s kingdom.”

  “These are the very lands we already control,” Hrolfr pointed out.

  “Yes, but by the terms of this treaty, they will become yours, uncontested and freehold.”

  Hrolfr rocked his great bulk back on his heels and speared the king of the Franks with his most ferocious stare. “It is not enough.”

  The king urged his horse forward until he stood looking straight down on Hrolfr, who would otherwise have dwarfed him. It was an obvious intimidation tactic that almost made Valdrik laugh. One swipe of Hrolfr’s great arm could land his royal Frankish arse on the ground.

  “I also grant you the kingdom of Brittany,” the sovereign of the Franks offered.

  Hrolfr threw his head back with a guffaw. “Generous indeed to offer lands you do not possess.”

  The king’s smile broadened. “Brittany is without a strong ruler the past four years. Since Alain’s death, the kingdom is divided and contentions run high. If invaded, it will easily crumble. It is yours for the taking.”

  “If that is all true, why have you failed to take it?” Hrolfr asked.

  “I have been occupied elsewhere,” the king answered, adding with a sly smile. “And I pledge to remain occupied thusly, should your men discover an ungovernable urge to raid and plunder.”

  “You will not contest me for it?” Hrolf asked, his eyes taking on an avaricious gleam.

  “I will not,” the king replied. “But in return for this fiefdom, I would demand a sworn oath of fealty in which you and your men will henceforth secure my borders from any other invaders and serve me in any other requested capacity.”

  Hrolfr nodded acquiescence. “These are fair terms.”

  “There is one further contingency.” The king looked to the priest.

  The archbishop spoke, “All of your men must renounce your pagan worship and be baptized into the holy Catholic church of our blessed Lord.” The ranks of Norse erupted in a rumble of low curses and murmuring. The archbishop continued unaffected. “His Majesty is appointed by our God and is ruled by Him in all things. Any vow sworn to the King is also sworn to He that rules the Universe. Thus, without such a pledge to God, what guarantee does His Majesty have that you will not overreach him?”

  Hrolfr fingered his sword with a black look. “Do you imply that the word of a Norseman is worth less than that of a Frank?”

  “I would answer that the vow of a Christian carries infinitely more weight than that of a godless pagan,” the archbishop replied. “These are non-negotiable terms. Do you accept them, Norseman?”

  Hrolfr replied gruffly, “I must also confer with my counsel.” He jerked his head to his chiefs who promptly encircled him. “You also Nephew,” he called Valdrik into the fold.

  By now Valdrik was nearly trembling with the urge to shed Frankish blood over the mass of insults piled upon them. “They add slurs to their open contempt? I will swear fealty to their King if you require it of me, but they will not tell us which gods to worship.”

  “Easy, Valdrik,” Hrolfr spoke low, pressing his beefy paw to his nephew’s ready sword hand. “You have much to learn of politics. In such matters, one must never be governed by one’s spleen. All that’s required here is simple lip service. Let us make this treaty and then go our way into our own lands where we may then do as we please.” Hrolfr’s gaze tracked over the weathered and war-scarred faces of his chieftains. “Are we in accord?”

  One by one they gave their grunts and nods.

  “Very well then.” A smile broke over Rholfr’s fleshy face. “Let us be done with this business.”

  When they returned, the archbishop asked, “Are you and your men prepared to swear enduring fealty to His Majesty Charles the Third and be baptized by the Holy Ghost?”

  “We are,” Hrolfr replied.

  “His Majesty’s generosity exceeds all bounds,” remarked Marquis Robert. “A show of humility to one’s liege lord is most befitting this occasion.”

  “Indeed,” the priest agreed. “The recipient of such beneficence should make an appropriate gesture of obeisance to the one who bestows such great gifts.”

  Hrolfr’s expression darkened. “What mean you by a show of obeisance?”

  The marquis looked to the archbishop with a sly smile. “I propose the Norseman should kiss the king’s foot. Surely His Majesty deserves such a token gesture of good faith.”

  “You are expected to kiss his foot?” Valdrik growled low in his throat. There could be no greater insult.

  “Sometimes is it necessary to suffer unpleasantness for greater gain,” Hrolfr replied calmly.

  “Unpleasantness?” Valdrik erupted in a humorless laugh. “A war chieftain would never so degrade himself.”

  “That is true, nephew. And that’s why you will do it.”

  “Me!”

  “Yes. You.” Hrolf nodded. “You have made your name as one of Odin’s great warriors. Now it is time to prove yourself in statecraft.”

  Valdrik cursed under his breath. “I’ll kiss your hairy arse first, uncle.”

  “You will do it, Valdrik,” Hrolfr insisted steely-eyed, “and with a smile upon your face. You will be well-rewarded for your sacrifice.”

  “And what prize awaits the man who debases himself? What price do you set on my honor? My pride?”

  “A crown,” Hrolfr replied blandly.

  Valdrik shook his head. “You speak in riddles.”

  Hrolfr’s gaze took on a calculating look. “Brittany is in dire want of a strong lord to rule over it.” He added with a regretful sigh, “Were I but twenty years younger….”

  “You would give me leave to take Brittany?” Valdrik was incredulous. As a younger son, he had little hope of any inheritance. All of his possessions to d
ate had been acquired by raiding. The thought of establishing himself as a man of wealth and property made his heart race.

  “Whatever you claim of it will be yours, nephew. A kiss seems a small token in exchange for the Breton crown, does it not?”

  “I will need men, arms, and horses.”

  “You will have your pick of three hundred mounted warriors.” Before Valdrik had time to respond, Hrolfr ushered him forward with a shove. “My kinsman, Valdrik, seeks this honor.”

  Valdrik stumbled forward, his head reeling and his utter being rebelling against this act until his gaze fixed upon the gold circlet on the king’s helmet. A crown? Lands of his own in Brittany? The prize was indeed greater than he ever could have dreamed. Yet he stood frozen before the Frankish king, immovable as a glacier. Seconds passed. Valdrik raised his gaze to meet that of the king.

  The king’s brows came together in a frown. He dropped his foot from his stirrup. His horse shifted in impatience. The seconds lengthened into minutes. Still, Valdrik could not bring himself to act. Generations of warrior blood ran too thick in his veins. Though he tried, he was unable to quash his resistance to this demand of debasement. He would die before bending a knee to his enemy.

  “This treaty will not be concluded without a proper demonstration of goodwill. Defiance shall be construed as a declaration of war,” The archbishop’s voice rang out, his message loud and crystal clear.

  Valdrik looked beyond the Frankish nobles to survey the faces of the surrounding horsemen. All appeared prepared to enforce his act of obeisance if necessary. They were mounted. The Norse were on foot. The odds were not favorable.

  Perceiving no way to extricate himself, Valdrik grasped the royal foot, but rather than bowing, he jerked it upward to meet his lips. The sheer violence of his act threw the king off balance, nearly unseating him from the saddle. The lines of Frankish soldiers stood gape-mouthed while the Norsemen erupted in riotous laughter.

  Perhaps he hadn’t adhered to the spirit of the decree, but no man could claim he hadn’t discharged the command. With a grin breaking over his face, Hrolfr’s great paw slammed down on Valdrik’s back. “You have indeed learned something of politics this day!”