Gisla went to church to pray and meditate. In the last few days, she'd made radical decisions that would affect her future and the future of Paris.
All the words she had uttered with anger and hatred, came back to her mind. Her refusal to marry Rollo, the insults she had sputtered against her husband and her father. And her solemn oath to do anything for Paris. Almost anything, even die, but never surrender her virtue, never surrender herself to that savage.
Months had passed. Rollo had never ceased to torment her with his presence. She had rejected him, in all possible ways, but he had never hurt her.
And now, she saw everything with a different eye.
He got rid of his warriors, changed his clothes, even cut his hair off. He learned her language to declare his refusal to the annulment. He said his place was with her. He said she was his destiny.
How could it be? Sweet words, so sweet courtship. She had never agreed to marry any man, because she knew that Paris needed her, and love was something distant, something that rarely came in licit manner.
Rollo's words sweetened her ears, and his touches conquered her body. And Gisla understood what pleasure meant. And that, maybe, it could mean love.
Perhaps, to save Paris, to fight for Paris, she needed to live. Live.
Instinctively, she stroked the bracelet given to her by her husband. She was full of hope. And full of something even more wonderful.