Breton Wolfe Read online

  Once it had risen, Adèle had expected the Norse army to flood into her bailey much like waters through a broken dam, but only three men rode forward, the Norse leader called Valdrik, her own captain, Berengar, and a second Norseman whose eyes resembled their leader’s. Were they kinsmen?

  Valdrik flung himself down from his horse without the use of stirrups. He was surprisingly agile for such a large man. And he was large, standing a full head and shoulders above her. He removed his helmet to reveal fair hair and a face bronzed by the sun. He gazed down at her for a long moment, his brows furrowed over eyes the pale blue of moonlight. His lips curved slightly at the corners as if he were secretly amused by something. Did this murderer mock her?

  “You are the duchess?” he asked.

  “Aye,” she replied. “I was raised to the station with my marriage four years ago. Come into the keep where I will order you food and drink,” she said stiffly. “And then I will hear the terms of this treaty.”

  She spun her back to him with chin lifted high, refusing to acknowledge she was now his hostage rather than his hostess. She would avoid that painful truth for as long as she possibly could. She would conduct herself as if they were honored guests and fill their heathen gullets with food and drink until they passed out cold. Whatever it took, she must buy time. Her only hope was that Count Cornouaille would bring an army to her rescue.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Hail to the giver! A guest has come; Where shall the stranger sit? Swift shall he be who, with swords shall try the proof of his might to make. - Hávamál

  AS HE DISMOUNTED in the bailey, Valdrik could barely tear his eyes from the duchess. Though covered head to toe in veil and tunic, nothing could conceal her beauty. Her features were fine and delicately honed, bearing a likeness to an ancient goddess. Her eyes were large, intelligent, and expressive. Were they blue or green? Valdrik decided they were both—the color of the stormy North Sea. Strength and fire reflected back at him from those fathomless depths of blue-green.

  As his gaze swept slowly over her, he wondered what further treasures the veil and tunics concealed. What color was her hair? He had a powerful desire to see it uncovered and unbound, preferably spread out over a silken pillow, or better yet, cascading freely over her bared breasts. His groin awakened, stirring with desire for this proud duchess.

  Before ever seeing her, Valdrik had resolved to take the widowed Duchess of Vannes to wife. He would have done so, had she been a toothless hag, but it seemed the gods had favored him once again. He’d defeated the duke in einvigi. She was his by right. He could take her now. His body urged him to do just that, but he hadn’t entered this gate to raid and plunder. He’d come to stake a permanent claim in Brittany. If he wished to succeed, he could not bed her as he would a slave or a concubine. He must take her as his wife. But how to go about it? He was the enemy. He’d just killed the duke. She would hardly welcome him with open arms.

  Valdrik turned this puzzle over in his mind as he followed her through the baily and over the bridge leading to the keep that functioned as both a fortress and the residence of the duke. His gaze swept over the people who scrambled out of his way like frightened mice, their eyes following him with a mixture of fear and curiosity.

  They entered the great hall with its soaring timbered ceiling and two massive stone fireplaces, one at each end of the room. While the duchess murmured instructions to the servants, he paused in the center of the chamber to take in his new surroundings. In the center of the room was a massive table honed of oak, and dividing a wall laden with embroidered hangings, was a staircase leading to the private rooms above. For a man raised in an earthen-covered hut, it was grand beyond his imaginings. Valdrik’s entire being swelled with awareness and pride that it was all his—including this woman.

  She turned back to face him again. Her expression was guarded and her eyes revealed the unease she tried to hide.

  “You have nothing to fear from me.” He impulsively stepped toward her, offering his hand in reassurance. She shrank back with brows lifted and lips curved slightly as if his hand were some vile or filthy thing. Valdrik’s temper flared. Instead of the soothing touch he’d intended, he clasped his fingers around her arm, not hard enough to bruise her, but tight enough to send a clear message—he would not abide her disdain.

  Her eyes darted to his face. This time there was no disguising her fear. “Release me.” She jerked her arm in a fruitless attempt to pull out of his grasp.

  “Know this from the outset, duchess, I will not suffer your scorn.” He continued, his tone purposely low and ominous, “As I said before, how we deal together depends completely on you.”

  Her eyes widened. “What do you want with me? I have little of value,” she replied, “but I will give you everything I have if you will just go and leave us in peace.”

  “Then we do have a dilemma,” Valdrik replied. “For I do not intend to leave at all.”

  She gaped at him. “What do you mean?”

  “I defeated Duke Rudalt,” he said. “Now I have come to claim what is rightfully mine.”

  “And you presume to think that includes me?” Her eyes flashed. “I won’t be used like this again. I would die first.”

  Though part of him grudgingly admired her spirit, it was time to teach her respect. “If that is your wish,” he replied calmly. “I am prepared to grant it.” He dropped his free hand to his sword hilt. Her gaze flickered, telling him that death wasn’t what she desired at all. “You wish to reconsider?” he suggested softly.

  She swallowed hard. “Perhaps I spoke rashly.”

  He released her arm. She withdrew with a soft gasp. “Leave us,” he called out to the men who’d followed them inside. Once they were alone, Valdrik gestured to a long bench beside the hearth. “Let us sit and we’ll speak.”

  “I have nothing to say to you,” she snapped.

  “All the better for listening,” he replied blandly. He accompanied his words with a look that demanded obedience. She wisely complied, sitting stiff-backed, gaze directed forward, her hands folded in her lap. “My demands are simple,” he said. “If you acknowledge my claim to the duke’s lands and all of his possessions, no harm will come to you or any of your people.”

  “And if I don’t acknowledge you?”

  “Then we will subjugate by force,” he replied.

  “This treaty talk is a farce!” she cried. “You give us no choice.”

  “On the contrary, you get to choose between life and death,” he said.

  “What happens if I agree to acknowledge you?” she asked. “Will you let us go free?”

  “Where would you go?”

  “To seek sanctuary to the west with my brother or with Count Cornouaille.”

  “Nay,” he replied. “I will not permit you to leave.”

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “Because I intend to make you my wife.” He watched her reaction, the soft hitch of breath and widening gaze. He’d already known that the haughty duchess would reject any overtures on his part. He must make it impossible for her to refuse him. “My destiny has taken an unexpected turn,” he said. “I am in need of a noble wife to bear me sons.”

  A servant woman entered bearing two silver chalices and a jug of wine. The duchess took up a cup and filled it, then offered it to Valdrik. She glanced up at him as the liquid sloshed from the tremor of her hand. Was it poisoned?

  “You will drink first,” he ordered her. He was parched but caution reigned.

  “You do not trust me?” she asked, brows arched. He noted the lightness of those brows. She would be blonde beneath her veil.

  “Nay. I do not,” he replied. “Trust between enemies must be earned.”

  “Very well.” She took a sip of the liquid and then handed him the cup with a tight smile.

  He accepted it with a sniff. It was sweet and hinted at apples. “It is not wine.”

  “It is chouchen,” she corrected, “a Breton wine made of fermented honey and crushed a
pples.”

  He raised it to his lips and drained the cup dry. She wordlessly refilled it. He watched closely, ensuring that she put nothing into the cup but the contents of the jug.

  “You would force me to wed you?” she asked after a time.

  “Force? Nay,” he replied. “The decision is yours to wed or not.”

  “And if I choose not to?” she asked, “What fate then awaits me?”

  “If you come to me willingly, you will become my honored wife,” he replied. “If you do not, you and your people will become our slaves.”

  ***

  Adèle studied her adversary in silence. Although she’d become accustomed to dealing with Rudalt, who was a brutish man with an ungovernable temper, this man was nothing like her husband. He was calm and controlled, a man of intellect and cunning, and far more dangerous. She had expected him to demand tribute money. She’d even anticipated rape. She’d believed that once he’d taken what he wanted he would leave. She never could have imagined that he intended to stay or that he would enslave them. But the Norse had conducted such barbarous acts for half a century.

  But this Norseman needed something from her. By sacrificing herself, would she really save her people from such a fate or was it all just a pack of lies? If she agreed to his terms, they would still be completely at his mercy. She’d never felt so helpless. Perhaps there was another way out? If she could only escape with her money and jewels, she would go to her brother and Count Cornouaille and help them to raise an army to drive these savages out of Brittany. Between the two options she would rather take the risk of escaping than to lie down without a fight.

  “It is not a matter of my choice,” she replied. “I cannot give you what you want.”

  “Cannot or will not?” he asked, gaze narrowed.

  “I cannot,” she replied, down casting her eyes as if ashamed. “I am barren.”

  “Barren?” he repeated with a look of disbelief.

  “Yes,” she replied. “I have never conceived a child these four years I am wed, while the duke has sired many bastards.” That much was the truth, if not the entire truth. In fact she didn’t know if she could conceive or not. Rudalt had stopped coming to her long ago. “You see? You have no use for me. Pray let me go to my brother or allow me to retire to a cloister.” If he chose the latter, she would still carry out her plan. Her family were well known to the church. The Abbott would see her safely to her brother and Gwened in Carhaix.

  His mouth straightened into a hard line as his ice blue gaze fixed on her face. She studied his more intently. He had arresting eyes of icy blue, framed by thick, dark lashes. “You believe I have no use for you?” he said. “I would be the judge. Remove the veil.”

  “I will not,” she replied rebelliously. She understood very well what this meant. “A woman of virtue keeps her head covered.”

  “Do not defy me,” he growled. “You will be sorry if you do.”

  She tried not to show fear, but he was large and strong. Her mutiny would only fail. He would overpower her in the end. Recalling his iron grip on her arm, she reluctantly obeyed. Refusing to meet his gaze, she removed her embroidered fillet and set it on the bench beside her. She then pulled away the thin layer of silk that concealed her plaited coronet of silvery blonde hair.

  “Now the hair,” he commanded. “Unbind it.”

  Her fingers trembled as she fished for the pins that held it in place. What next would he have her remove? Or would he do as Rudalt had done and just lift her tunic and take her?

  She froze as he moved in behind her. His hands joined hers, working to loosen the waves of hair. He was close enough to feel the heat of his body, close enough to smell him, a scent laden with leather and musk, and not entirely offensive. She felt the full weight of her hair as it came free of the last pins to tumble over her shoulders and down her back.

  Her breath hitched as he nuzzled his face into it. “What is that scent?” he asked.

  “Apple blossoms,” she blurted. “I have a still room where I extract their essence.”

  “No wonder you smell good enough to eat,” his voice rumbled low in her ear, sending a ricochet of shivers down her spine.

  She spun to face him. “I don’t like this game you play with me.”

  “It is no game,” he replied. “You asked my leave to retire to a cloister. I will not consider that request without first knowing what I would be giving up.”

  Her stomach knotted as his gaze dropped to her mouth. Before she could react, his lips were on hers, warm, firm, and commanding. They demanded entrance to her mouth. Refusing to open to him, she tried to jerk her head away, but he held her chin firmly with his fingers. She hadn’t expected the kiss, but knew what would follow. Bracing herself for the inevitable assault, she stiffened and squeezed her eyes shut. The more rigid she became, the quicker he would finish with her. It had always worked thusly with Rudalt. But once more this man surprised her—by releasing his hold. “Open your eyes,” he commanded.

  Her lids fluttered open to find him regarding her with a puzzled expression. “You act as if you are made of ice, but I wonder, my duchess, if you are truly as cold as you would have me believe. Do you find all kisses so repugnant or just mine?”

  “I am not accustomed to kisses,” she said.

  “Not accustomed?” One of his tawny brows rose. “Did you find no pleasure in your marriage bed?”

  “I refuse to answer such a vulgar question.”

  “Vulgar?” He laughed. “I thought I phrased it quite delicately. I could have asked if you enjoyed a good fucking.”

  “How much pleasure do you think you would experience in having a long, hard object rammed repeatedly into your body?” she answered with a glare.

  His blue eyes flickered. “I have my answer. Is that how it was between you and the duke? Did he teach you nothing about the acts of love?”

  “Acts of love?” It was her turn to laugh. “There was no love between Rudalt and me.”

  “You have been ill-used. I would teach you that it could be different.”

  “Different how?” she asked, growing more curious all the time about this man.

  “Why did you wed him?” he asked, ignoring her question.

  “Because we were pledged to each other as children,” she answered. “It was all part of an alliance our fathers made when they joined forces to drive out the accursed Norse.” She eyed him defiantly.

  “’Tis a pity you are infertile,” he said. “But perhaps with a sacrifice the gods would intervene. They have favored me thus far.”

  “A sacrifice? We are Christians!” she protested. “We do not adhere to your pagan rites.”

  “I am also a Christian,” Valdrik replied blandly. “Just as I accepted the baptismal rites for your God, so shall you accept the sacrifices to mine.”

  “Then you don’t understand Christianity at all! Ours is a jealous God who allows no others. You will be punished rather than blessed for such sacrilege.”

  He lifted a lock of her hair and stroked it along her cheek, his brow wrinkled as if in deep contemplation. “For you, duchess, I am willing to take the risk. I suspect there is great passion hidden in you. It reveals itself in those blue-green depths. Nay,” he continued with a slow shake of his head. “I would not give you up without first making a sacrifice to Freyja.”

  She realized in dismay that her plan was failing. “You would still force me to marry you knowing I cannot bear your sons? What if I do not conceive?” she asked.

  “If you please me, I will keep you for my pleasure and take another wife to bear my sons. If you do not please me, I will sell you to another.”

  “Sell?” His words sent a shudder of horror through her. Was there no way out of this? She was growing desperate. Escape seemed the only answer. But if she were to get caught in the attempt, the Norseman might kill her. Then again, becoming wife to this heathen could well be a fate worse than death.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Even with one you ill-trus
t and doubt what he means to do, false words with fair smiles

  may get you the gift you desire. - Hávamál

  THE DUCHESS had left Valdrik to retire to her bedchamber, leaving several older servant women in charge of the food and drink. Joined at the table by his half-brothers, Valdrik, Bjorn, and Ivar spent the remainder of the evening telling tales, trading insults, and enjoying the bounties of the duke’s table—particularly the fruit of his orchards, a strong cider the Bretons called lambig.

  After tossing a leftover gallette to the pack of hungry-eyed dogs and watching as they fought over it, Ivar sat back with a belch. “Where are the damned women in this place? A man wants a lusty wench to warm his bed after a battle.” Ivar the Red was a big man whose appetites matched his great size.

  “What battle?” 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. “Are you going to take her?” He pointedly asked Valdrik.

  “The duchess?” Vadrik asked. “Aye. But I intend to wed her before I bed her.”

  Ivar sputtered his drink all over his tunic. “Wed her? Why? She’s yours for the taking.”

  Bjorn leaned in and asked. “You’ve never spoken of marriage. Why now?”

  Valdrik stared into his cup. “If I want to keep these lands I must have a Breton noblewoman to bear my sons. Once I wed and bed her, we will take the rest of this land piece by piece. You will be well rewarded for your trouble, my brothers.” Once they were under his control, he intended to grant the county of Poher to Bjorn and the lands of Cornouailles to Ivar. The sons of Viggo Vargr would soon rule over the very land that he’d died in.

  “I hope there are better women in those parts. I have seen none here worth taking,” Ivar grumbled. “The only ones I’ve seen in this wretched place either have no teeth or teats that hang to their knees.”

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