The slim wrist was twisting trying to escape its prison; while the nails of his companion hand were scratching the cheek of the Norse giant. Trying was the word as the thick beard was protecting his owner from the attack. By now the blessed couple was fighting and snarling at each other. Fighting was probably too great a word for an undignified tussle between a short-tempered husband and the most bitter flower of the imperial court. Another punishing grip got hold of Gisla free hand.
In a way, it was reminding him of the large forest wild cats of his own country. Hissing, trying to claw him, while never ceasing to eye him with a naked rage. If looks could kill, he was a dead man since his surviving skills had woken him by suggesting to his sleeping brain there was something odd in the way his wife was shuffling about…
Thor, his preferred God had protected him from the Frank woman. Soon, she would realize… realize what? Was he going to kill her; he could and easily. Twist the knife against her chest and get her to plunge the blade with her own hand… or get rid of the knife followed by a quick or slow strangulation like not so long ago, he had toyed with the idea about Siggy.
The memory of his drowned wife was not forgotten; he knew the price, a bitter one of having failed to tell her goodbye when he should have. Was it what the Gods had in mind for him: more nights in an empty bed, more mornings with a hand searching for a warm body to hold meeting a cold empty expanse?
The Gods had fated he would be happy, he would finally get the fame every Viking worth of this name was looking for. He would be recognized for his worth: a great man, a strong, powerful and lucky man. A man rejected no more but valued and loved. Yes respected, feared and loved. Since Odin had planned his destiny and this destiny included a growling vixen in his bed, said bitch would be tamed. Tamed by him and now. No more niceties; she would submit! Deep inside, a voice was trying to stop the situation from getting from bad to worse. By now, the warrior who had trained from a young age wearing the pelt of the bear was raging just as much as his wife. In letting the spirit of the beast enter his soul reaping apart what was making it human to leave just one thing : a very angry creature was about to give a lesson to the girl he had sworn but a few hours earlier to cherish and protect.
She needed to be tamed and tamed she would be soon. She would be the fitting retribution for the long wait till today's morning. Not that he would have tried and kissed her. Franks were just as high sticklers when it came to the accepted behaviour expected from a man toward his affianced wife. Never left alone together; not that he could get anywhere with the meagre Frank he has learned from Sinric. During these frustrating weeks, the princess disdain was his reward on a good day; most of the time all he was getting was pure revulsion… This was the past; he was not to be rejected from now on, she was his wife; she was his.
Gisla was struggling while knowing that she would never win. Her wrists were prisoners of wider, stronger, bigger hands. Soon her bones would snap. The dagger would fall and the wild man who has attacked her city walls without the protection of a good chain mail shirt would… would do what? Take his revenge!
A cold sweat ran through her; she knew what these men were doing to women. She knew now how repulsive was the physical aspect of mating. If the idea of Odo on top of her was making her queasy, how would it turn to be with… this mountain of warm meat? Furious warm meat as it was…The dagger fell; but she did not give in. Her grandmother had fought as a dowager for the rights of her son. Her female line was not made of weaklings … as opposite to the male line.
More she was fighting, more he was letting the berserker grow wild inside him. Gone was the voice begging him to keep a cool head; all he could see what a pretty girl who was now his own; this girl would learn soon enough he was the master of his own hall. She fought while he was just building up a blind rage looking for revenge after all these years of rejections. It was enough; no more humiliation. She would pay for them, for all of them. She was his. His wife. This was her fate; it was time the Christian woman learned about the wrath of a North man too many times scorned. He was a lone grey wolf and he had found the she-wolf he was longing for. Mating was what he needed.
Whatever plans Rollo had tried to conceive as to obtain a willing bride, as to share together physical pleasure went the very same way the towers built by Floki had gone when the Franks had poured fire on them. Destruction!
He would enjoy his bride. Now.
Suddenly, the grip was no more. Tomorrow, Gisla was fleetingly thinking; tomorrow she would have to choose a dress with very long sleeves to hide the bruises when she realized that the short struggle had put her in a vulnerable position. Not only she had lost her one weapon but he had topped above her and his eyes were looking at her in the most horrible way like they were evaluating something about… No!
No, not this. Not this way. Leering, he was leering at her. Giving the same looks her father's soldiers gave to some women her path had crossed. Women in gaudy dresses, with a vulgar make up. Shrill laughs matched by quickly whispered rendezvous, this was 'it' and 'It' stroke fear. It was not that somehow she had entertained the hope he would not make love to her. This duty was expected from a wife; she could not deny her body to her husband. She had to open her legs apart…
Was it a few days ago that she had refused soundly to be bedded by him, her now husband. Her virginity was not for him. Fool. Poor fool. Poor Gisla. She was going to… and nobody was going to raise the alarm; nobody was going to rescue her. She was now but legally owned chattel and her lord had the blessing of the church and the empire to enjoy her. Whether she wanted IT or not.
The silk dress was pushed above her waist; coarse uninvited hands ran above her body. A weight on her body, sweat. Hungry lips, a wet tongue… It was IT; no wonder the wedding matron had warned her: men were pigs, beasts; all of them monsters driven by lubricity. All of them, including Odo…. including father?
These things, these caresses … maybe these fondles … they were some sort of tradition among the North men. Franks… Franks were civilized. Yes, civilized. This was just a beast in the process of mating. A sweaty beast whose lips were kissing and whispering unintelligible words. His mouth was hungrily tasting her skin, taking her neck, her breasts as his right; her body was just a territory now submitted to the will of a demonic creature. A demon worshiping demons. False idols and… and she was … Genovefa protecting Paris. Like the saint, she was facing a barbarian horde. Never ever she would allow this Hun inside her beloved city walls.
The eyes, she had closed from the moment she has accepted that her husband (husband…he was not; he would never be) was rutting (how degrading…), opened again looking straight into his eyes. He was above her, looking at her while something unseen but hard (?) was rubbing against her thighs. She was going to give him a piece of her mind. She was going to tell him off for once and for good!
- Go away, Attila. Barbarian, priest murderer, killer of good men. I order you; go off me, Swine, beast…
The large hand hit hard her cheek. This was enough; the bear was not doing to be frustrated any longer from his prey. He was to take her now. The next thing which happened surprised her; he had got her to turn on her stomach her to face the mattress, nose inside the pillows. Her dress was again pushed up, the strange hard thing started again its rubbing but this time it felt that before it had been weirdly gentle and this was no more a game.
The hand touched things which had never been touched but by her, something went… Her eyes went open; closed, open… The thing went pressing against… more pressing. It became frightfully painful; not really painful but really unpleasant and she felt sick. It was inside her, it was grunting, moaning. Repeatedly pushing…; no, it was ramming. Like the attack on the bridge; but she was defenceless. Her walls had fallen, the bridge attacked had been ransacked and now she was left with being dragged outside of her Paris by a monster that had killed good bishop Gozlin. The thing was a dagger against her neck and he would enslave her and … and it was over. The weight on her shoulders went limp, the thing went out. The beast had rolled on his side of the bed, panting yet silent. What was his next plan for her humiliation; her abject defeat?
Sick, he was sick. How could he… Gods, how could he…. This time, there was no mushroom, no beer to blame. No cheating wife. Just him who left at his own device had done this thing. It was like he was living again a moment in a previous life. Like when frustrated by Lagertha's rejection (again and again), he had used and abused of Floki's slave. After, he had cursed himself and offered a thankful sacrifice to Freyr that the woman had not become pregnant. Today… tonight, it was his wedding night. And he had just raped the woman he loved above all things.
If the Gods had wanted to shame him, they had succeeded far beyond their wildest dreams…. Pulling back quickly his breeches, he turned to his poor love.
Like him, she had turned on her back; the similarity stopped here. Body shaking incoherently, she was staring at the ceiling, yet not seeing it. Eyes full of tears. Breathing hard. There was no vixen, just a young doe which has just been ravaged by an angry wolf. And this beast was none but him. If he could have, he would have howled at the desolation of this situation. A gentle, sweet ewe which should have been protected by the shepherd's faithful hound…
Without noticing what he was doing, his arm curled around her, bringing Gisla in. There inside the cradle of his arms, he started whispering soothing words. This was useless yet he had to try and make amends. It was bad enough he had, he had… he had! Never in his life, had he felt so sick. And he was wrong and he was a beast… A nasty wolf, a brutish bear. A criminal… an unforgivable crime committed by a chastised husband who was trying to push away into the realms of nightmares this act of evil. And of all these words, she could not make sense of a single one. She would never know how sorry he was.
Shaking. She could not stop shaking. This was it. This was sex. Well, if this was sex; she was surprised at the fortitude of her suffering sisters in matrimony. Sex was disgusting, sick. Humiliating. Men were animals; females should never be left alone near them. No wonder so many women ran to nunneries preferring the retired solitude to the company of males. Girls should be warned of the atrocity. If humanity died in consequence of the absence of a new generation: so much the better.
… How often did husbands subject their wives to the sinister ritual? Were the soothing noises he was making a way to express his … enjoyment? Did he want… more? She did not want more. She did not want any form of sex; no male companionship. What she wanted was to remain chaste until her last day. Her breathing went calmer; it was over. Ordeal done, he seemed satisfied though for some reason, he was looking … sad? Did he really expect her to enjoy the process? Tomorrow, the stained sheet would be examined by matrons, nuns. Any child born later would be deemed a true son of Rollo. Only a virgin could give this ring of legitimacy just like pure snow can only show but the steps of who walks on it.
Why should she like the… when the realization of the why struck her. A contended wife was more fertile. The matron had said it. The duty of a good wife was to make her husband satisfied and to provide him with hale heirs! Pregnant, she could be pregnant. Now! From this man!
How did she it, she would never know. She jerked from his embrace, putting a hand to cover her mouth. If she had to vomit, she would do it in the small recess by her bed room. Pregnant, she could be pregnant! She had to do something now. She had to clean herself, remove from her whatever fluid he had left in her. This was getting from bad to worse. To the dark infernos ruled by Beelzebub. She could not allow this seed to be firmly planted in her womb.
All he could know what that, once again and this time so well deserved, his wife had run out from him, from his arms. Run to the recess where ablutions were performed discreetly far from eyes.
Run away. Deserved. He should be put down like a rabid dog. He deserved it. To be killed… killed! … No! Stupid girl, do not go kill your-self. Gods, please; please Gods. Please, do spear me. Do spear us. Do not kill… do not die?
Rollo ran to the little room, but a few steps behind Gisla.