Paris Palace is located in 2015 where the modern Palais de Justice is standing. In 845 AD, it was already 500 years old. Romans built buildings to last. Charles home had been the Imperial dwellings of Emperor Julian of the Constantine dynasty. Julian would have enjoyed the privacy of his own baths as emperors did! Aachen palace was one of the many palaces Charlemagne called his own: honesty obliges to admit that Charles simply took ownerships of previous palaces themselves built of Roman villas rehabilitated by the Merovingian dynasty.

In fact, Charles bloodline was nothing but dignified usurpers. Charles would probably beg to differ. Carolingian times were rough and cruel as Desideria, his Lombard ex-wife was soon to learn. Having visited Aachen and looking to visit another of his numerous people this summer, I am happy to confirm that Carolingians loved their mosaics just as much as Byzantines did.

For the Gods, the Gods of Rome, evangeliaries were decorated with vignettes of Apollo and Diana; references in daily language would refer to the old Gods. Gospels would be adorned with iconography pertaining to said Gods. Franks were Christian; the old Gods receded in the background of literature.

Charlemagne supposedly learned how to write at a late age. Which is quite surprising considering that the previous dynasty had dabbled in poetry, music, legal debates and certainly writing taking an interest in the alphabet to allow Latin to accommodate Frank Germanic words.

We must never forget a lot of people had reasons to darken the ages before Charlemagne to justify the very existence of the dynasty.

The princess was walking among the wounded. Bjorn's attack was been severe. The troops sent by Paris had saved the day but their arrival had been almost too late. Rouen had ever seen such a battle at the foot of its walls.

The old city was not as renowned as Paris; its siege not as long but unlike Paris the wrath of the North Men had been defeated by its good citizens. Helped by Charles's allies. Yes, it was true that the Normanni had entered Paris by treachery; equally, it was true some of the heathens had remained in Neustria trying to live off the countryside. The city dwellers of Frankia, the Frank farmers were agreeing with their king: worse was coming. More raids, more North Men. Waves after waves of long ships like an unending plague of locusts robbing gold. Gold of reliquaries, gold from torched monasteries… Rapping nuns, killing soldiers and any man standing to protect his family. It was feeling like the fall of the Old Empire; soon the Millennium would come. Was it the heralded End of Times?

Then something unbelievable had happened. The beleaguered Franks have heard of an unbelievable event. Something which raised more eyebrows in the realm that the death of the Great Emperor. Women wept and men groaned. It was like adding insult to injury. Charles, that was the emperor had married his last surviving child; his one and only daughter… oh, the shame, oh, the pain! King Charles, grand scion of Charles the Great… Charles, heir to Charles the Hammer had married his daughter … oh the grief, oh the sorrow! … Charles the weak, Charles had married the noble maid who had held the Oriflamme of Blessed Denis the Martyr on top of Paris city walls, rallying her people, saving the City by the Seine … oh weep Frankia, oh turn in your grave bloodline of Pippin … Princess Gisla, born to the purple…. Gisla, the most delicate… Gisla, the finest flower of Frankia … had been married off to a monster!

A man-beast! A heathen! A Normanni! A vile creature called Rollo.

The whole country was sick, violated in its deepest. Revelation that the Norse warrior had been one of the crazy invaders who tried battering Paris bare chested was vaguely baptized had made no difference in the thinly hidden hostility Rollo and his men read in the eyes of every Frank who come to cross theirs. They knew they were stronger; they also knew they were regarded as savages. Fear and hate were their constant companions. The princess was behaving like one expects a prisoner to be in chains. The only person to be actually sincerely happy of the situation was Charles the Fool.

Charles betrayed by his half-brothers had decided to bestow on Rollo and his berserkers a duchy, friendship and a duchess of royal extraction. The Eastern emperor had almost suffered a heart attack on news of his niece nuptials; as for his nephew the King of Italy, he had ordered the bells of his churches to ring the death toll. The king of Lotharingia on his inside had taken his own court into deep mourning.

While it was true Rollo did not speak fluently Frank as Sinric, he had taken to their language like Ragnar had taken to Athelstan's native tongue. Franks were unhappy, his wife was deeply wounded and Franks and her wife were not silent in their despair. To their discharge, they were not aware that Rollo understanding of Frank was a lot better than his thick accent trying to speak a language which united one spoken by priests, a patois blending an older Frankish made of Gaul and Roman Legions Latin and a city lingo combining Aristocratic Frank and urban slang!

Of his wife's despair, he was fully aware. Again and again, he had tried to bridge their differences to no avail. Paris had been raided through a trick but its walls had not surrendered. His wife's own walls were resisting his obstinate attempts to win her over. The Seer's words were his only hope: one day, he would be happy and he would be happy with her. All he had to do was to be patient. All he had to do was to wait.

Franks waited expecting a spring of nightmares; Rollo and his men waited Ragnar's return and his rage at their betrayal. Charles waited praying in his chapel that he had not sacrificed his daughter in the vain hope of saving Paris.

Franks and Normanni trained, each on their side. Odo rode back and forth trying to appeal to Charles's brothers. Their hate was as ever vigilant while their anger impotent as it was made it unbearable for them to accept Gisla's fate.

The only person who was unperturbed by the coming of spring was Gisla, There were so many tears one could shed that at one point, one just begged for death. Gisla was still alive but something seemed broken. A ghost was walking in the great halls of Paris; a shadow of a princess hoping Death would free her from her misery.

Rouen being his capital. Rollo moved to his own ducal mansion. Dragging along a reluctant wife. Training his people, Franks included. Franks had not taken to the way of the bear warriors, had raised shocked eyebrows to the wolf warriors. Vikings have smirked at the way Franks trained. Good but not good enough for North Men. Smirking until the North Men had remembered Paris….

Rouen stood by the Seine not surrounded by it. Rollo had ordered scouts to bring him back as much information they could gather about the particularities of the city surroundings: woods, creeks. Meadows, marshes. Each detail of the land counted.

Sir Roland, as captain of the princess's guards had been standing in front of the North man who was walking back and forth like a great feral beast in a cage.

They will not make the same mistakes again.

We shall use different weapons.

We shall have need of a lot more fire.

Fire?

The surprise Rollo could read on Roland's saturnine face was sincere. This was when Rollo had started to respect the Franks; battle to them was not limited to sheer physical strength. Battle was a game where intelligence could outwit a stronger enemy by inventing weapons said enemy had not thought of. Ragnar had met defeat under a rain of fire; Bjorn as it seemed it was his nephew who was the designated chieftain of the coming raid was to meet a rain of stones inflicted by ballistae.

Spring came. Frantic fleeing people from the coast told them of Bjorn's rage at learning his uncle betrayal. Soon he would reach Rouen. Soon. On the morning of the battle, Rollo was astonished to meet his reclusive wife. None the less, he knew his manners. Bowing deeply, he held her fingers close to his lips but refrained from kissing them. He knew better than to engage a lost battle against the court protocol. Had she loved him, he would have fought this dead weight over their shoulders. As it was, he could not care.

Wife?

Do your duty to my people; I shall abide by mine.

Upon which words, she had left. Leaving this ache of unacknowledged regrets behind her. Live without her love he could; live without her trust was unbearable. Not that she was a bad duchess. She cared for her people; she was fair to his. But she was like these mirages at sea, never to be grasped yet constantly reminding him of a thirst he could not satisfy.

The locusts hit Rouen. Bjorn's warriors, wave after wave, relentlessly attacked the city by the River Seine. The shadow of a bear was high above Rotomagus and a high tide rose ready to swallow it.

Rollo and his warriors fought like demons; Roland and his soldiers fought and prayed. In the little cathedral, a lonely princess prayed for her two people.

Traitor!

It would have been better for you to die in Paris!

You are betraying your own kin!

How could you abandon your own family?

The waves were asking, shouting again and again the same questions. To Rollo and his men. At one point Bjorn reached the point where his uncle was standing and the two warriors fought. This time, Bjorn did not spare his uncle and the great wolf felt the song of steel cut in his flesh. Though it would take a long time before the impudent cub would become dangerous, it was none the less humiliating. The Nordmanni were fighting the North men like devils yet the outcome was not clear. Carrions were not ready yet to assemble when the horns of fresh troops coming from inland were heard. Bjorn wisely decided to recoup and left; leaving behind him scattered about the bodies of his slain. The Franks would bury them in common graves. Unmarked while the Christian dead would get all their attention. This was the fate of Odin's children if they were unlucky to fall on Christian ground. As if Odin cared about where one died; if one died with honour in battle! Christians! Fools!

Rouen was free. For how long? In the solitude of his own rooms, Rollo was trying to stitch the deep cut in his right arm. Memories of Torstein were playing in his mind. He had to stitch, he had to clean. He had to prevent infection! Was Gangrene the fate the Gods had in mind for him? The Seer had promised happiness. Since he was unhappy, deeply unhappy… therefore his fate was not to die today or tomorrow. His attempt at stitching was not particularly successful: he was tired; he had bled more than he should. Sighing deeply, he tried to focus again on the needle and the gaping wound when he heard a noise behind his back.

Go away!

He growled like the angry wolf he was. His pack has fought well; his Franks had fought well. The women of his warriors, their Frank wives and concubines were nursing the wounds of their men. All in all, he was proud of his pack.

The noise came closer.

Leave now!

The people who had entered… had violated his seclusion, were not paying attention to his order. Baring his teeth, he turned around to face his wife and 3 of her servants carrying a chest.

Put it here, on the board. Near me. Thank you. Now, you may leave.

As if she had been dumb to his order, she sat… Gisla… the princess…. The woman who had stood up to Ragnar on Paris walls sat by her bemused husband. Opposite to him, on the same bench. Separated by his wounded arm.

This chest belonged to my mother. Every time Father went to war, Mother and her nursing chest would follow. Now, let me see this arm?

As if her life had been spent in an infirmary, Gisla – Frankia finest flower – assessed her husband wound like she had done this all her life.

What sort of thread are you using to stitch this?

Doe tendon. Lower hinds.

Gisla's eyes rolled back like Rollo had given a very stupid answer.

Let me guess? Ivory?

Walrus.

Shaking her head in disbelief, his wife rummaged in the stern looking chest. Smiling soon as she proffered to his inspection a yearn of silk and a needle in metal. Proceeding to inform Rollo that "It" has been brought to incandescence on St Gunthram's day, she quickly threaded the needle.

Blessed be my ancestor, your wound will heal shortly. But you will need rest. You have been bleeding like a pig! As for your scar, I will do my best but I do not promise this horrible tattoo will be straight. Whoever cut you, was very angry at you!