"Still want to go to the Ottoman Empire?" Hvitserk asked outside the city gates of Muenster. The air still reeked of decay mingled with smoke, and the faintest smell of cooking meat. The jangling of the cages from the church steeple was deep and hollow, like a wind chime from the pits of hell. The same breeze which rattled the cages bent the grass towards the West like invisible horses stampeding towards the setting red sun.

"The Ottoman Empire won't fall for nearly 400 more years." Danika scrunched up her mouth, before opening it to take several deep breaths through her mouth and only through her mouth.

"The Ottoman Empire can wait," Hvitserk declared, coming to stand beside her, both their gazes following the Wind and the bending grass to the West.

"Over the horizon again then?"

"How about you pick this time? My choices seem to keep getting us in trouble."

"I can't be the responsible one all the time, Hvitserk."

1547 England

Hvitserk itched at his collar. A hideous ruffled thing which protruded out from his neck and had a million folds which caused it defy gravity. He felt like he was wearing a dinner plate around his neck. He craned his neck to peek at Dani to his right whose twitchy head motions revealed she was facing a similar problem. Beneath the stupid white collars they were in all black, along with the rest of the citizens who lined the streets.

"Remind me why we are here," he muttered under his breath.

"Because it's a royal funeral and it's mandatory unless you're on death's door."

"Then stab me. And don't miss on purpose. Just do it. Put me out of my misery."

Her resulting stifled laugh drew disapproving looks. She coughed and looked down, as best as she could anyway with that darn ruff on, before smacking his hand.

"Why do you always make me laugh at the most inappropriate times?" she chided. Still struggling to contain the smile which Hvitserk invariably dragged out of her. He was about to say something about what 'inappropriate times' really meant when the dull sound of hoofbeats on the street forced silence to ripple across the assembled people. Four large black horses, taller than Hvitserk at the ears, walked with a black adorned carriage behind them. The, let's say generous, personage of the sovereign lay within, ashen-faced and sunken though well dressed and made up to minimize the effects of the illness which had plagued him in his final months.

"Forgive me if I don't feel particular grief towards yet another king who tried to romance my wife." Hvitserk's brow was furrowed, his eyes per usual unfocused and fixated on some unknowable point in the distance. Danika slipped her hand into his and began to wear circles over the same familiar calluses.

"In 1200 years it was going to happen a few times. Besides if I got revenge against every tavern maid who made eyes at you, there would be no one left to pour ale in this country or any other for that matter."

"But twice in 20 years örlög mín? Now that's just annoy- what do you mean tavern maids?" He broke off his staring contest with the clouds and turned to see her jaw hanging slightly open in an almost comedic display of disbelief.

"Don't tell me you don't notice when these girls throw themselves at you. That's not the Hvitserk I know…not the Hvitserk who can flirt paint off a wall...or a spirit off a mountain."

He shifted on his feet and averted his eyes only for his chin to collide with his ruff and make a painfully audible crunchy sound. Once again Danika found herself trying to hold off laughter. He loved that sweet sound but he had to defend himself anyway.

"Well that was a long time ago! I'm an old married man now with only eyes for his wife." He itched his neck again.

Danika scoffed playfully, "You, my love, have a great eye for pretty things. And you're wed not dead as they say."

"Ale, handsome?"

"Yes, please." Hvitserk accepted the mug, his eyes looking past the woman, to the door. But…she kept moving to block his vision. Eventually he was forced to look up at her bright smiling face and her overflowing…enthusiasm.

"Anything else I can get for you sir?"

He smiled that goofy grin and wrapped his hand around the mug of ale, sitting taller so his head was more level with hers. He shook his head and simply said, "Not right now, no. And if there is don't worry I'll tell you so." It took a split second too long as her brain absorbed what he'd said, but then she bobbled off to fetch ale for other screaming patrons, and he looked again towards the door.

"Anything else, haaaaaandsome!" a more melodic voice cooed over his shoulder. The shoulder farthest from the door.

"Stop it…" He rolled his eyes as Danika laughed and popped up onto the stool next to him, having naturally snuck through the tavern when he wasn't looking.

"I told her to go away! It was one time!" he whisper-shouted his face turning beet red, although whether that was from the memory or that darn, frickin' collar was unsure. The funeral procession had passed by now, and the people were dispersing into the streets to follow the procession to the service and interment at St. George's Chapel.

"It must have been a long time. You've forgotten the effect that your voice has on us women."

"If that's the case how come you never listen to me, eh?" The two of them made their way into the mass of bodies in black, the river of people buffeting them along.

"I can easily enjoy your voice without understanding a single word." She smirked. He pulled her close. It could have been interpreted as a sweet gesture of closeness. Or it could be more accurately interpreted as Hvitserk shoving Danika's face into his ruff, muffling her sass.

"What was that for?" she pouted.

"That was me, being the responsible one, örlög mín. And besides, you forget the power your voice has on men. It makes us do irrational things."

"Like go and ask a Swedish king to overthrow your brother?"

"And have the audacity to ask you to be a mistress while on wife number four. Truly Henry could've outperformed Bjorn in the art of marriage given more time."

"I can give you land, jewels, happiness, anything you ask. All for a kiss!" The man at this time was nowhere near as stout as he would be on that funeral carriage. This man was broad of chest with deep dark ginger hair. A king in his prime.

"We both know you want more than a kiss, your Majesty." Danika had been cornered in the kitchens. This truly was an unfortunate twist of fate. She didn't even work in the Palace…specifically for this reason. She had just snuck in because Hvitserk's birthday, near as he could figure, was in a few days and she wanted to make apple cake. And she had wanted to add cinnamon. Cinnamon was expensive, from the East, and as such could only obtained by the vastly wealthy or the royal. Like King Henry VIII.

"You would deny your king?" he smiled playfully, not unlike Hvitserk. After all he was a sporting sort.

Danika let out a nearly indignant breath and a saccharine smile. "It wouldn't be the first time, your Majesty."

"Well the other king must have been a horrid lover. In that quarter I'm sure my reputation precedes me."

Danika wanted to gag. It may have been the reputation which preceded him but THAT was not the legacy that would follow him. Divorced...Beheaded...Died...Divorced...Beheaded...Survived...

"I'm married."

"So am I. Hasn't stopped me yet." Heck.

"I'm barren."

"That's convenient. I have a wife for that. And no jealous husband will come screaming about bastards."

"I'm…Catholic?" she lied next.

"So was I once, to be honest religion is just another field of politics. You see what matters is that you are beautiful and intriguing and fresh, like a spring flower." Fresh? Really? He makes me sound like a scented candle.

All the while Danika had been edging towards the door to servants' hallways. But ever the hunter he cleverly blocked her way. But no hunter can beat the unexpected scare in the wild. The kitchen was suddenly filled with a hundred servants restocking on materials needed around the castle. He had to let her go with the rest of the flock.

"I did love that cake. I still dream about it sometimes."

"I'll make it again for you once I can get my hands on cinnamon again. Wait until spices are more easily found, I am going to change your world."

"Believe me I can't wait- wait don't distract me by talking about food." They were nearing the Chapel now, but like most of the horde they weren't going to fit inside and instead would have to wait around outside until the ceremonies were finished. It was early February but like penguins the collected huddle of bodies seemed to stave off the chill. Though Hvitserk, a head taller than the rest, could feel his ears going numb.

"Are you sure you don't want to keep talking about food?"

His expression was answer enough.

"Well," Danika mused, "if it's any consolation Henry VIII had nothing on my favorite prince and the new king isn't much competition."

"He better not be," Hvitserk soundly stated. "He's nine."

Paris, France 23. August 1572

Danika kept her feet firmly planted where they stood. Behind her a young family with their infant child cowered in the shadow of a stone wall. In front of her, torches and pitchforks with a few added swords and muskets.

"Move."

"No."

"They're Huguenots. They're planning on overthrowing the crown." The torchlight gleamed in the eyes of the attackers, their swords and musket barrels reflecting the orange shimmer. All around, the sound of carnage echoed. The cutting cracks of musket fire shattered the drone of swords in a way Danika hadn't heard since watching old war movies with her dad.

"It's two eighteen year olds and a baby. They aren't overthrowing anything."

Behind her she could hear a deep pounding on the stone wall. She was surrounded and someone was trying to break through the wall from behind. The family clutched their child closer. The man, barely older than a boy stepped forward. His voice shook but he resolutely took a place beside Danika.

"Leave my family alone, at least let my son go. He's young he doesn't kn-" A man with a sword stepped forward but Danika put herself once again between the man and the mob. The father's pleas feel silent. Behind the pounding the continued. The wall wouldn't hold up much longer against such strength.

"There's two of you and six of us, Protestant pigs."

Danika smirked. "Actually there's one of me and six of you. It hardly seems fair. And I don't need to beat you-"

The pounding on the stone wall became and shrill TING sound and a long arm reached through the hole which suddenly appeared in the wall.

-"I just need to stall you."

Hvitserk, armed with a pick axe, which she had no clue where he found it, tore through the stone wall until there was a hole large enough for a person to fit through. Danika launched herself at the nearest assailant, disarmed him of his pitchfork, and took him down with a swift hit to his head. She was swarmed by the rest but the long reach of the pitchfork kept them at bay as did her elbows knees and any other part which could reach them. One man brought his sword down hard on the shaft of the pitchfork, splitting the tool in two. She kept the blunt end and continued to deal blow after blow to heads and chests. A splitting crack filled the air and before she'd even registered the sound she registered an immense pain in her left shoulder followed by the hard knock the cobble stone street on her back. Her shoulder felt like it had been hit by a batter aiming for a home run and it burned. Uggghhhhh guns, she complained before reflexively rolling to her right to avoid the sharp end of the pitchfork about to come down in her head. By this time Hvitserk had gotten the family through the hole he'd made in the stone wall. In an attempt to stop the fleeing Huguenots, panicked terror-stricken Catholics had chained off side streets and the municipal soldiers had barred the gates. The Parisian Protestants were now fish in a barrel. Hvitserk's hole was only through a thin interior wall but word was one gate had been overrun and was still open. Grabbing a rock from the rubble he launched it through the hole and it caved in the head of one of the remaining assailants. He reached his arm as far as he could through the hole in the wall and grabbed Danika around the waist. She snaked through the hole and once she was through he slammed the pick into the wall again. Once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth hit the rest of the wall came tumbling down.

"How's your arm" he asked, as they sprinted through the streets, leaving the shouts somewhere behind.

"I got shot how do you think it's doing?!"

"Is it anything like an arrow shot?"

"If an arrow is like getting run over by one horse, a musket ball is like getting trampled by three. Thankfully at this distance it was a through and through otherwise you'd have to go in and pry it out."

"A charming prospect."

"I should be fine in three hours or so and at least functional in two. I don't think anyone will notice anything with all the smoke flying around. Where on earth did you find a pick axe?!"

"Someone tried to sink it in my head. Turns out he didn't need it anymore."

Somewhere nearby a woman screamed and the cries of an infant suddenly were silent. They rounded a corner only to be met by another chained off street. On the other side people pressed against the chains begging to be let through as other rampaging Parisians pulled them off one by one and slaughtered them. It reminded Hvitserk of the 2nd Battle of York when the Viking men had appeared from below, surrounding and trapping the English in their own city. Except most of the people in that instance had been soldiers, never innocent people. As for the 1st Battle of York, or more accurately the Sacking of York…

"Hvitserk help me get these chains down!" Danika yelled over the shrieks. "Hvitserk!"

The bodies were pressed up against the walls of the little church. But there was no escaping the endless sea of Northmen which flooded the city and the church. Hvitserk could still hear himself laughing as he dragged a nun by her foot down from the little pulpit and across the floor, the white of her robes picking up the red of blood which was splattered all over the floors. Her screams. Her begging. Her tears. Her silence. At the end of it all the cries of a young child sitting next to the bodies of his slaughtered parents.

"Hvitserk, please!" Danika was trying to climb up to the metal hooks a few meters above which held the chains in place but her shoes were slick with blood and anything she could use to climb higher had been strewn about the street in the chaos.

She took a running start this time but suddenly Hvitserk was underneath her, pushing her up. She slipped the chains free of their hook and then Hvitserk brought her down and squeezed her between her and the wall, his back between her and the rush of people scrambling past the now open street. Then he felt a knife dig into his back as the raging Catholics now pursued the Protestants through the gap.

"It's like the Purge out here," Danika mumbled into his shirt.

"Well since the Catholic crown seems to be afraid of a Protestant coup, I'd say that-gr- accurate," he agreed, as Danika prodded the knife in his midback.

"Do you mind not doing that?" He whined.

"Just checking it. It hit a kidney for sure. It'll be more efficient to leave it in for now. If I yank it out you'll lose consciousness before we get too far."

"Great."

They continued their run in an attempt to find a way out but every turn was marked by either dead ends or pursuers. York came to Hvitserk's mind again. But this time it was more useful.

"Didn't you mention that Paris had tunnels underneath?"

"The old mining shafts weren't converted to catacombs until the 1770s. We are still about 200 years too early."

"Maybe but people have been mining under and around Paris since Rollo was here. Remember all the Rock dust that came in on the carts from the provinces?"

"You're right...and I remember your unit being called to seal off a cave in on a street one day. Wasn't there a tunnel behind it?"

"My thoughts exactly."

"Here's to hoping the street layout hasn't changed significantly in 800 years. Do you still have that pick axe?"

As it turns out the city layout has. But a few key landmarks and some arguing about being lost later, they jogged down a dark side street to find themselves face to face with the same wall Hvitserk had patched those years ago.

"I'm surprised it's held up so well."

Hvitserk raised his pick axe only for a shout to stay his hand. He turned around to see a line up of four men. All of them armed with muskets and pointed right at the two of them.

"Shit."

…

Hvitserk blinked his eyes open and was greeted once again by the smell of dead people. The world swayed and moved and it took him a minute to realize it wasn't the after effects of revival. He was on a cart bringing bodies out of the city. He sat up and looked around. The noise made the cart driver turn around and the unfortunate man's face went white as the corpses he was carrying. Dani choosing that moment to sit up next to home sent the poor sop screaming. Hvitserk and Dani shared a look before Hvitserk grabbed the man's arms and torso in a vice grip and Dani wrapped her arms around his neck until he fell sound asleep.

"Why is it that every time we leave Paris it's in a pile of dead bodies?" Danika looked at her clothes soaked in blood and goodness knows what else in displeasure.

History Time!

Ruffs in English fashion were a status symbol due to their frivolity, however they did serve a purpose. Since they were separate from any other piece of clothing they could be easily removed and replaced if they got dirty thus protecting other clothes. Since weaving and sewing were so time consuming, textiles and clothing would continue to be one of the most valuable goods in the world until the invention of the machine loom a few hundred years later.

King Henry VIIIs decline in health and large figure may have been a result of an injury he acquired which resulted in a hormone imbalance. His massive size and infirmity stopped him from going out and sporting as he was so fond of, which likely didn't help his ailing health.

As for Paris...the event described here is the St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre. A failed assassination of a Protestant political leader indirectly led to a group of protestants assembling outside the city, although it is unknown whether this was a militaristic assembly. Either way the Catholics in the city got jumpy and before long it was open season Protestants. Some accounts say the crown tried to stop the violence although not very hard. Other claimed it was a sanctioned mass murder and that soldiers armed citizens. After three days of brutality the death toll was somewhere in the thousands with some estimates going up to the tens of thousands if including the continued killings both in Paris and the surrounding provinces in the days after. To this day no one know exactly how it go so out of hand, whether the crown condoned it or not, who ordered the assassination of the Protestant leader in the first place. Despite surviving the first assassination attempt, Gaspard de Coligny would be killed by French servants nobleman de Guise (from whose house he had initially been shot) and thrown out the window to de Guise who cut off his head. Apparently he took it like a champ.