If she wondered why he sighed so heavily, the princess made no sign of it. Gone were the suspicious stains, she was clean. Clean, CLEAN! But the dress … the night dress was soiled beyond salvation. She had gasped when she had seen her husband coming back, with the sly smile… of an over-excited puppy? What had he done? What did he find to put his thick hands on and break? Trying with more or less success to cover up her naked body, she was readying for another confrontation when he pulled from behind his back, an over sheath ….
The type of dress one put over one's court dress. Not an underdress; not a night dress. The brute had taken… had chosen…. The dancing sheath she had worn for her first dance at her father's court!
Please, do not imagine anything risqué: princesses of the empire did not dance with men. They moved gracefully in even measured steps with other women of a same delicately nurtured background to the delight of the male part of the Aula Regia. Her first dance; her coming of age dance. Count Odo had stared at her like … like a man she could not bring herself to consider as a friend, much less as a lover. She had felt weighted, detailed like a slab of meat in the hands of a butcher. From then on, she had avoided the older man. He was … tainted. An old, tainted man… For the first time, she wondered how old this new husband of hers was. He looked old enough. But his hands were younger than the Count. With his bushy beard, he could be anything between his mid-thirties to the wrong side of forty!
Lost in reminiscing the happy days, she missed her husband looking at her like a wolf , getting nearer to his prey, hiding under the wind. Wondering what was making her get so deeply immersed in her thoughts; she could only caress the fabric…
Later, much later, she would have been properly wooed by a prince… A prince naturally vetted by Father and reluctantly approved of by her uncles. He would have been dashing, noble, handsome. Naturally, it would have been love at first sight and he would have served the empire like a loyal subject. Subject? No, he would have been the younger son of a far off kingdom. Maybe exiled from his native land by a cruel usurper and having to fight his way in this foreign and of Frankia. Importantly, he would never take her away from her beloved Paris. Her father he would serve with as much valour and courage as the noble Roland, paladin of Charlemagne. His word he would always keep and they would marry … and … and, and the prince would morph into a beast just like her real husband.
But she would forgive him because she would love him. Kisses given by a passionate husband could be nice. Except naturally when said husband was a North man. In her fantasy world, her husband would be... could be a lot of things but a Viking certainly not! And they would dance! Together! No more dance for maidens. The real thing. Papa would frown probably, raising his eyes up to the ceiling as if she would pay attention. Her husband would allow her to stand by his side. A man who would look at her, making her feel alive and… and it would never be…. In theory, it could be… she would be allowed to dance Caroles and whatnots. Dance face to face with a man; the two of them alone. Sharing together the pleasure to set tongues wagging. She stifled the smile dancing on her lips; dance now she could but it would be … with this… this bear!
Life was unfair. She could now dance but chained to this mockery of a man.
Grasping the silky sheath, she turned her back knowing… knowing he was watching. (Look at my back. This is all you will see, warm meat.)
If it was taking her longer than it should be to get the dress over her head to slide around her body, Rollo did not mind. He had had always a roving eye for pretty girls. He loved women, strong, bold, feisty women. And he loved this particular woman.
The colours suited her; he had to tell her. Somehow… somewhat, he had to tell her…
You… you… j...je…jolie!
The pretty girl did her best impression of a snarling she-wolf as she walked in front of him in a half dress, head up high, looking straight ahead like her bedroom was her father's hall full of courtiers. Imperial… a goddess among mortals.
The goddess shrieked at the view of the chest, lid open, and clothes thrown carelessly on the floor.
You… you… Is there anything which is able to withstand your desire to destroy? How am I going to fold them again properly? Do you know, not that you care what hard work it is to clean this not to mention iron it? We need to call my maids… you are just as destructive with clothes as you are with people! Spoiling, desecrating, ruining… your people are just violent barbarians without one hint of respect for beauty and culture…
She would have carried on but her husband was probably tired wanting to go back to bed as he unceremoniously took her in his arms unimpressed by the fight she was putting on. Arms and legs flayed in every direction until, he sat her on the edge of the nuptial bed. Near him; very much near him. A knot in the stomach started to paralyze her.
I have decided about us. About …je, vous … tu?.. tu, elle, ne…nous! About nous!
The man-beast was counting on his fingers like he was trying to remember without any joke how to call them, her and him. Us, nous. There was no mockery, no lewd innuendo. Just a man trying to speak the foreign language of his wife. Full of sincere endeavour; no hidden plan. Just a man doing his best to get his message through.
It slowly, slowly dawned on Gisla that aside the disastrous mating, he had been kind to her. Kind or at least not cruel, not unpleasant. Rather in your face when he was taking for granted his marital rights; which was expected as both had solemnly promised to Christ he to protect their household, their family to be… and her to be a good wife, a diligent and obeying wife to her lord and master. But a good spouse; trying to help her wife manage her first marital ablutions. A kind man, trying to get her a night dress. A man with unsuspected gentleness…
We… nous… we are married. It is not going to be easy. For either of us; but we will make it. We shall be happy. You and me…. We can be happy. Just … just try. We can try, can't we?
Sitting on the edge of the bed, feeling the fresh air as the braziers standing in their room had died out, she felt ridiculously self-conscious near the vital animalism of her husband. Not that he was encroaching on her personal space, but he was too close, too physical. Too much alive and not enough dressed. She bent her head looking down, rigid, to the floor furs. Noticing he had nicely shaped feet. Feet for once not covered by this horrible blue ink. Why a good looking man should… a good-looking man… a man who has been granted by Christ Our Lord broad shoulders, hazel eyes, way too many inches and a winning grin should think he needs to draw barbaric designs on his body was beyond her comprehension. Placed at her left, he was emitting sounds which had no meaning though from his serious tone, they were significant. For him… for her...?
His hand took her left hand, rubbing lightly the gold signet symbol of her lifetime enslavement to the brute. Brushing it with an unbelievable consideration when she was thinking about it.
You and I belong to different worlds. You are a Christian and I worship… worshiped Odin. Eh… My people worship Odin, trust in the Gods and … and you don't. But it is not important: the Seer said it: the Gods are in our favour. So…
He took again her hand and this time putting it in its twin, covering it with his other hand. She was a prisoner!
SO…So…It does not matter whether you are from Paris and me from the North. The Gods have fated it and … and we shall be happy. Together!
What the brute was saying, once again was terra incognita for her though it was obvious it was something important he was rambling about while holding and caressing the imprisoned hand.
Know… how can I get it to you… know that I approve of the words your priest said during the ceremony in front of your… of our God. I am happy to find your people take marriage as seriously as my people do… I swear I shall be a good husband. A better husband than I have been in the past…
It was a good thing she did not understand; did not know, would never know about Siggy. The Lady of the North. A lady of the past, lost in the blue mist of a land where dwarves lived for real. A land of ice, snow, sharp rocks and fog. The very land he was abandoning for the sunny sky of a girl who would bring her God to smile benignly on him. On them two.
In Kattegat, it was considered normal that at one point in his life, a seasoned warrior would settle down. Would notice during a banquet a girl sitting on the bench reserved to maids. Later, he would come and discuss with her father the sordid details of dowry, morning gift. Comparing wealth between the future in-laws. A day would come when said older man would bring a treasure chest full of gold, silver and fineries. Her father would approve with a discreet nod and the warrior would hold her hand in front of the whole town. Aslaug would give her a flower headband smaller than the one worn at the wedding while the fiancé's shoulders would get many slaps of congratulations by each and every free man. Ragnar would comment it was about time this man got married…. Ragnar…
Well, Ragnar may disapprove of his bride but all in all, there was not much difference between the two lands. A seasoned warrior in his radiant summer had come under the notice of a rich father looking for a man to provide him with bouncy grandchildren. Preferably male. The girl had suited him and they were now married. The Gods had decided in their complicated wisdom that this girl would be a Frank. Floki would grumble that no sword had been exchanged, would oppose the fact nobody in his sane mind would kneel at a wedding… Ragnar, Floki, the way you chose to get married is your own choice. I make my bed as I choose it to be. In it, lays Gisla. She will be mine, I will be hers and the skalds will tell of our love to the generations to come.
Together, us, nous… nous.
The giant was looking exasperated, repeating what must be 'us'. Nous, except it was pronounced with a slight singing slant. Frowning, he was holding his hand, muttering something which sounded like … one … five… ten. One…
Nous… Nous, un…arrhh One…? … Te, te, te-aw, cat, cink
Deux! Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq.
Yes! That's right. Nous deux. Un … famille!
Une . Une famille. (A family. Was she actually discussing a family with the man who had morphed barely a few instants earlier into a beast like the biblical King Nebuchadnezzar?)
For once, for the first time, both were trying to understand each other, without fear. Without anger or suspicion. It was not trust; it was far from love; but it was something better than hate.
I am tired. It is late… We shall have this conversation tomorrow. (Tomorrow, I shall… I shall pray and pray until God gives me a sign. Frees me from you. And punishes Father for the great sorrow he has inflicted on me)
She nudged her head toward the great bed. He approved with his head. They both slipped their bodies under the bedcovers. At first, she felt fear when his huge arms took possession of her pushing her bosom against his bare chest, but it was her who fell asleep the first.
Rollo had not finished. She entered sleep as a child was cradled by his mother while singing a lullaby.
Un famille. A family. Our family. A son first. Not that I am set against a daughter. It is that an elder brother is better to protect his little sister than the other way around. Bjorn, my… our nephew was the eldest. Then there are Ubbe, Vitserk, Sigurd like his grandfather and the sickly child. Why my brother has had the cruelty to oblige this baby to live, Odin knows why! There was also Gydda… I loved her… I love her still. She would have been a great shield maiden. Like her mother. I have quite an extensive family… but no family of my own.
Until I met you. Now, yes. I have my family. And we shall have our own nursery…. Tomorrow, the palace matrons will check we have accomplished our duty to the crown. Everybody will be satisfied you were found a virgin and I was not impotent. Sleep well, my love… I have attended a wedding like ours many, many years ago. Earl Haraldson was marrying… marrying… Thyri. That's her name. Siggy killed him. I mean her son-in-law.
I doubt your father would have the courage to hold a knife; much less try and use it against me. I am sure it would give something to talk about to the gossips. Our wedding has been pretty formal; no scandal. My berserkers are barely drunk! A very formal, traditional wedding, come to think of it. Just like in Kattegat… Ouch?
What is this? Your knife! I shall keep it. Why would a delicate lady like you have need of a hunting dagger to cut the neck of a stag? What is this man thinking? Another mystery of your Southern people, I say.
There were so many things Gisla had to know… So many things of his past he had to put in order, trimming some details, cutting her, adding there… She was now fully asleep. He allowed himself a satisfied smile, waiting till dawn to give in to sleep enjoying her soft breath against his arm.
Yesterday had been a tiring day, but now, as slowly through the window overlooking to the Seine, tomorrow dawn was rising alighted by a sun which was going to shine for him. As for this first night, he did not care about it; there would be more nights, many more to come and hopefully this time worth remembering. They would come, all he had to do was to be patient and he was a very patient man.