The Consummation
Summary: The wedding night of Rollo and Gisla immediately after the clips shown just before Season 4 started. Warning: Spoilers for Season 4.
Note: My thanks to Swimmingfox for her editing and input on this story.
...
Twice she has tried to cut him and twice she has failed – not because he has stopped her, but because she couldn't. Why couldn't she? She is a princess of the blood, not the whore of a barbarian warlord. She steels herself again and raises the knife. And can't. She can't cut a man who does not harm her, however much she hates him.
She tosses the knife away, listens to it clatter across the floor. She is a failure. Some princess of the blood. She sinks down on a chair and sobs.
She spends the night there, drowsing, waking, weeping.
Praying.
...
An eternity later, it is starting to get light. She is startled by his voice. She doesn't understand him – of course she doesn't. He's a heathen.
But he commands her attention. Beckons her. She shakes her head. He sighs heavily, rises and comes over to her, taking her by the wrist and drawing her to her feet, pulling her to the bed. She sobs.
He sighs again. Says more that she doesn't understand. As he turns he steps on something. Leans down and picks up the knife. Gazes at it. Nods. Turns towards her.
He raises the knife in one hand, and at first she thinks he may attack her. But he brings the blade down against the underside of his opposite arm, slicing through the skin, drawing blood.
He steps towards her, knife in hand, and she pulls back. He makes some motion to her and she shakes her head. With a breath of exasperation he grasps her shoulder, turning her away from him. She gasps when he starts to pull up her chemise. But he only pulls it away from her body slightly and she realizes that he is wiping the blade of the knife on it. She shakes her head in confusion. Then mortification as she realizes what he is doing.
She turns in time to see him hovering over the center of the bed, letting his arm bleed onto the sheet. He smears it a bit with his hand, then puts his hand to the wound to stop the bleeding. He looks about the room, spies the table with the washbasin, goes to it to retrieve a linen. He wraps his arm. Gives her what seems to be a conspiratorial smile and walks back to the bed.
He looks at her again and beckons her. Points to the other side of the bed and gives her a hard look. Says something in a firm tone.
She sighs and does as he indicates. She settles into the bed as far from him as she can and tries to sleep. She feels the bed dip as he returns to it. He says something else in a quiet tone and she supposes it must be "good night." She says nothing. Whatever he has done, it is not a good night.
...
Noise and light. The sun is well up when she wakes to the tapping at the door. She glances over to see what he – her husband – is doing. He is awake, starting to sit up, and looks over at her. Smiles. She looks away. Calls to the women at the door.
A while later, she has bathed and dressed. Her new husband has been led away to his antechamber to do the same. The sheets and her chemise are inspected and the officials – including the bishop – come to ascertain that the marriage has been consummated. She cannot not look at the minister of the court when he asks her the all-important question; she just keeps her eyes on her hands and nods mutely. Fortunately, he accepts her response – attributes her reticence to her shyness and embarrassment over the procedure. Her husband has no such reticence. He nods and answers curtly in the affirmative. She breathes in relief when the officials leave. If she could, she would go back to sleep now. But they must have breakfast. Alone in the room. Together.
But her husband is saying something to the strange little interpreter. And now the man is speaking to her.
"Your highness, your husband would like to request that you walk in the garden together after breakfast. He would like to speak with you there at leisure."
She cannot refuse. He is her husband now. It has been formally pronounced. And they are to spend the day together doing whatever he wishes. She supposes she should be glad that he wants to be in the garden and not here in the room. Reluctantly, she nods.
Breakfast is a quiet, solemn affair since she has nothing to say to him. The little interpreter has stayed, but her husband does not insist on talking to her. The two men talk and eat, and Gisla picks at her food. She has a little bread and a little wine, and waits.
After breakfast they go down to the garden. They walk for a little while until they come to a bench and her husband indicates that she should sit. A little woozy from so little sleep, she does not resist.
Her husband stands before her and speaks, slowly, as if he has thought about this carefully. The interpreter waits until he has finished and conveys his words.
"This is not how I want my marriage to be. We should come to know each other."
Gisla does not look up. She replies in a monotone. "I do not want to know you. I do not want to be married to you."
He chuckles slightly. "I know. You have made that very clear. You and the knife." He waits while his man translates.
She says nothing.
He goes on. "But we are married, by your church, by your laws. And the officials accept that the marriage is consummated."
She turns her head away in embarrassment – and consternation. This should not be discussed before the interpreter. She nervously glances up at the little man.
He shakes his head gently and gives a slight smile. "Don't worry."
She purses her lips and hesitates. But she is angry. She turns to her husband. "You have made me a liar."
He shrugs. "You could have told them the truth. Why did you not? You would have preferred to consummate it the usual way? Let us go back now and do so."
She feels sick. She should be grateful that he falsified the consummation, has granted her a reprieve. She does not have to lie with him – yet. But she feels guilty that she has committed a sin of omission by not telling the officials.
The interpreter says something in a low voice to her husband, as if trying to convince him of something. Her husband nods and continues. "Why did you not cut me? I did not stop you after the first time."
She looks down at her hands, grimacing. "I was weak."
His voice is serious when he answers. She listens as he speaks, wonders what he is saying. And is surprised when the translation comes. "No, you are not weak. You are one of the strongest women I have seen – and brave. I saw you on the wall during the battle. You showed no fear. And I saw you again in the tunnel-bridge. Other women would have hidden safely in the city, but you were there, with your men, encouraging them, trying to protect your people. When they told me that you were the one I would marry, I was honored."
She swallowed hard. He actually seemed to want her, not just the lands and rule he was given. But it did not matter. She did not want him. Now he was speaking again.
"You did not cut me because you are not a killer. You want to preserve life. And you have. You have married me to save your city and its people. Have you not?"
She looks up at him now, wondering.
"I admire you for that; I honor you for that. For that, I wish us to know each other better before…" He cocks his head, smiling. "Before." He glances at the interpreter and waits.
She just stares at him.
"May I sit down? Shall we talk?"
"Have we not already been doing so?" She replies in a haughty tone.
He grins. "So we have." He dips his head to indicate that he'd like to sit on the bench beside her.
She glares up at him for a moment, but then sighs, and slides over to make room for both men. She tries not to flinch when her husband sits very close to her, his musky scent wafting over her.
It seems that their marriage has begun.
...