Dedicated to princessegisla. oneiriad and the poster who has asked for Rollo+Gisla fanfiction
A wedding night.
Coercion can succeed; especially when the one coerced believes in the superior interest of one's country. The king was weak yet just like every coward he could be very stubborn while his daughter who had inherited the iron will of the Great Emperor was weakened by her wholehearted dedication to the well-being of Frankia.
She had to marry the beast who had killed so many of her people, the heathen who would no doubt relish in inflicting on her children just as pagan as their father. Far from saving Paris, she was enslaving her realm to the hated North men. From where they were seated in Heaven, her ancestresses must be ashamed of her. An abject failure to the long line of Christian Kings and Queens of Frankia, this was to be her fate.
Tears of despair mingled with sorrow freely ran from her eyes. Franks had a proverb as a rainy wedding was the harbinger of a happy marriage. Charles did not mind: he would have gladly married two daughters to the Viking leader if said sinful bigamist ceremony would save more of the Frankish kingdom. Tears also fell from the sincere Parisian well-wishers. Their princess was been sacrificed to a monster and resentment was building against the inept grandson of Charlemagne.
It was ineptitude, weakness and absence of a sense of leadership which had cost the throne to the first dynasty. Some might choose to forget the original coup which had handed the crown to Pippin, great grandfather of Charles. but some had not. Odo, count of Paris, marquis of Neustria had taken quite badly that part of his domain was handed to Rollo. Odo was just like Charles a descendent of Charlemagne though through the distaff side. Being the son of a bastard was not shameful but it was still a tall order to convince the plaid of the nobility of the kingdom that King Odo had a better ring than King Charles.
The North Man was keeping a cool exterior; but inside, he was totally bewildered by the process of the ceremony. People sang, then went silent to sing again. Incense was burnt and proffered under his nose. Sinric was helpfully hinting words he has to give to meaningless questions asked in a language which was not even Frank! Grunting and nods seemed acceptable. All he could do was to hope Odin was understanding he was doing all this to get married to the delicious girl this shadow of a man who was daring to call himself emperor had begotten.
Gisla, the Princess Gisla. The proud shield maiden who had defended Paris against his men with a simple shield of red fabric. The woman who had been there when they had attacked the bridge. He had seen here fighting against his desire to see more of her. They had almost made it but again the Christian God had protected the City. Ragnar has connived successfully to gain access inside it and they had raided it. But the palace has not fallen and the raid had not been repeated. Ailing, half-dead, Ragnar had had no choice but leave his brother behind. A brother sorely tempted by the Maid of the Franks. An ambitious, jealous sibling eager to throw away whatever duty he owed to his kingly brother to carve his own kingdom in the lands of this degenerated royal fool.
All was going according to plan when the prophecy became a reality. The Seer had told him: the princess will marry the bear, now he was getting married to Charles's beautiful daughter. Yet there was no reason whatsoever to dance naked on the beach. Sideways, he glanced to his bride as she was kneeling by him. He had not missed the desperate glance she had thrown at her father like a man condemned to death gives to the executioner hoping for a reprieve.
Everybody would see this was a sacrifice. A deadly one. Gisla would not let anyone miss the message of her despair. She was getting married against her will; any child born from this union against nature would be nothing more than an illegitimate child. She was not asking God to bless her wedding; she was not getting married. She would find an escape. This was the death of all her hopes to find a man worthy of her love, worthy of her trust; death it was but nobody had said martyrs had to die in silence.
Charles shuffled on his great chair, nodded as the unhappy archbishop and allowed the ceremony to proceed. More tears ran from Gisla; the city inhabitants were also giving free rein to their sorrow. The magnificent wedding was now turning into a bloody funeral.
Rollo cursed himself not to have tried and learned more words in Frankish if only to tell his girl he really loved her. If she was a princess, so much the better yet if she had been a slave like Thorunn he would have married her just the same. What had been good for his nephew, was just as good for him. it was Fate.
God of Chlothilde, give me courage. God of Esther, give me grace. God of…
Gisla felt a nudge from the man kneeling at her side along realizing that the priest was looking at her like she had not listened.
- Gisla, Your Highness, do you take this man Rollo as your wedded husband?
All she could do was to focus as strong as she could on the cross standing on the altar. The moment had come for the lamb to be sacrificed.
- Oui.
The momentum turned to her now husband. All had turned to the horrible, horrible creature next to her. From now on, she was a wife. Well, the North man had won a wife; he was far from having gained a consenting bed fellow.
The rest of the day dragged leaving a feeling of Eternity for the newlyweds. All Rollo wanted was some time with his weeping wife to try and build some sort of bridge with her; all the emperor wanted was to introduce him with the sneering envoys of his feuding brothers. From what Sinric translated, Gisla's uncles had like Charles more than their share of troubles with the North Men. When it was not ambassadors from Lotharingia or Italy, it was envoys from Constantinople and wedding gifts to greet with a broad smile by exotic dark-skinned envoys.
If Rollo hated his wedding day, it was nothing compared to the princess positive hatred of the proceedings. The day was dragging way too long for the Viking; the day was woefully moving forward way too fast for the girl from Frankia.
Yet, there is a time for everything and everything comes to an end eventually. The male guests had led the groom to an anteroom while making lewd jokes at it was the custom proving to Rollo Franks were not that different than his people in Kattegat; the ladies accompanied by nuns had united in the bedroom while Gisla was slowly been undressed from her golden cloak over a golden dress and more golden under dress. An elderly countess had whispered to her horrified ears the facts of life while an abbess had held her hand soothing her princely charge that nobody would be able to pull her out of her convent should she enter it. Not eve the emperor for no man is more powerful than God and God protected his daughters.
By now, the princess knew she was going to be raped by a monster or that her future was to bury herself alive before the deed in a nunnery. She was punished, cruelly punished. Poor Odo; kind, gentle, worthy Odo. She had rejected his loving heart and now she was cast to the bear for him to rip her apart.
A knock on the door was answered by the entrance in the room by Charles Followed by Rollo, followed by a male audience. A bishop proceeded to bless the matrimonial bed, bless the happy couple who had sit each on his and her side of the bed and just like the sea washed off the traces of one' feet in the sand, emperor, priest and guests had left taking with them laughter, music and sound.
Dressed now in a long virginal night dress of Byzantine silk, Gisla had run out of tears. Now was the moment and the moment was slicing through her chest. After three generations of happily married couples, this was a marriage blessed by Satan. The princess was thinking unthinkable things entertaining unacceptable thoughts. Everything seeming better than this torture she was going through. Lost to the world, she did not hear what her husband was attempting to tell her in broken Frank.
- Well, finally together. I was wondering when you and I would be able to speak without the presence of Sinric.
With a sigh, Rollo started to undress until a gasp startled him. The look of utter disgust on Gisla's face was not missed by him. But he would succeed. He would tame her gently, step by step. He would not break her; he would win her trust then her love. This was a real princess. Not that Aslaug was not a princess… or a queen by her own right. This was a princess from a different land, a different world. A world under a Southern sun which basked him. A world where Ragnar was not ruling. Ragnar, one day would threatened his world, that much he knew. Ragnar would try but the Dane king would not succeed. This world was not Kattegat; this world was not ready for Ragnar. This world was open to Rollo because the berserker was ready to play by the rules of these Southerners.
- My people… they get … colours (no, not colours) bl…blue ink (yes, ink. Lets hope it's ink) like… tattoos (I have no clue of the damned word). We like it. OI mean we do not… not overlook ( no, not this) not think Franks are wimps for not being … coloured (this will do).
He sat on his side of the bed.
- I am exhausted. Let us sleep a little then when we are less (what? I am not tired, I am just facing a terrified colt) Good night, Gisla, (Dear, my dear dear love)
And slept he did. Down to snore. The good will gesture was totally missed by the princess. She had fared way too far into the realm of utter despair…. And she had planned an exit.
Under her pillow, she slowly pulled out a dagger. A fancy hunting dagger, a gift from the King of Asturias. A good omen since the Hispanic royal was fighting against odds with mitigated success the Moorish invaders of his kingdom. Fight, she would. She slowly raised the blade over the sleeping man, ready to strike.
She was going to … when he turned toward her side.
It is one thing to slay a man by backstabbing him; it takes more than strike him when he looks at you direct in the eyes. Or as she was experiencing when said man sleeps peacefully by you. When he trusts you with his defenceless sleep. The arm was still raised but the arm was not going to strike.
She was … she was just as a weakling as her father, she was unworthy of the noble blood of her dynasty. A failure, an abject failure. Unworthy. Death was better than this, once dead.. she would be free,. Mother, sweet mother would plead for her. Suicide was not approved of, but surely everybody had seen she was coerced. And… and she had not killed an unarmed man. surely this would count in her favour. The arm rose again, steady, calm. its blade facing the white fabric covering her maidenly bosom. It rose. in a few seconds, she would be free. The arm stroke…
Not fast enough for the iron wrist which had seized it in a vice grip.
- Are you mad, woman?
