Author's Note: This is where the story begins to get more intense, so I would like to warn everyone again that I do not portray the vikings as particularly nice and friendly people in this story.
Chapter 2
Gisla stood with her hands bound in a line of about twenty other Frankish women. She had spent hours trying to escape the small room the Northman had trapped her in. Whatever he had placed in front of the door was far too heavy for her to move. For hours on end banged on the door trying to break free. All the while praying to God that he would smite the heathens who had invaded her city. No answer came to her prayers or to the door.
After hours of waiting, when her knock had become nothing more than a faint tapping, she finally heard someone in the outer room. Their voices were muffled, but she could tell that they were men. She realized that they had to be part of the city guard here to inspect the damage after driving the invaders back.
She began to pound on the door with urgency, "Let me out! Let me out!"
A heavy object scraped against the stone floor and she let out a sigh of relief. She would soon be free.
The door swung open, but instead of Roland and his men, she was greeted by three giant Northman. They pulled her out of the room and laughed when she commanded them to release her.
One of them snatched the crown from around her head. He twirled it idly around in his hands and then brought it up to his mouth to bite the edge. He then proudly showed it to his friend so that he could see the purity of the gold.
Gisla was dragged away from Paris to where they had made their encampment. There she was reunited with some of her women. They flocked around her like sheep to a shepherd and she knew she must do what she could to comfort them.
"Do not be afraid. Hold your heads high. The men of Paris will overcome these savages. Do not be afraid God is on our side."
One of the men who had taken her roughly grabbed her hands and forced them together. She realized he was going to bind her hands and join her ties to those that held the rest of the women.
She refused to stop speaking or show fear as this happened to her. She knew she needed to be strong for her people.
"Dry your tears and be brave as our men must be brave. We will be rescued soon. It is only a matter of time. Soon we will watch these evil-doers wiped from the earth. Their blood will wet the earth. We will be vic–"
A sharp pain cut her words short and her cheek stung from where a hand had struck her face. Through watering eyes she looked up to see a man she had not seen before. He had a squashed, red face, slanted eyes, and long matted blond hair.
He laughed at her in glee as if abusing her was some sort of joke for all to enjoy.
"How dare you," she whispered
He cocked his head to the side and mimicked some of her Frankish words in a sing-song voice. He took a step towards her and began to speak so close to her face that she could feel the spit he was spraying on her face with every word.
At the slight brush to her breast, she jerked away and screamed, "Don't touch me!"
The man laughed and she could smell the stench of alcohol on his breath. His hand then latched onto her breast and began to grope her.
The world seemed to go hazy around her and a numbness came over her body. She knew that she should be outraged and scream again. She was a princess. He could not do this to her. But she could not seem to find her voice and her limbs seemed limp and lifeless. To her shame she began to feel her hands quake and her knees knock together as she began to remember what happened to women who were taken as war prizes.
Suddenly the vile man was shoved away and for the briefest moment Gisla hoped it was a Frankish soldier coming to save her and the women. That there was a secret battalion she had forgotten about that would kill the heathens and make things right.
She received none of the things she had hoped for. Instead, she looked up to find the Northman who had dragged her away from the bridge. The one they called The Bear. The one she had seen all those months ago on the wall and had hoped had perished in the water.
He began to yell at the man and jab him in the chest as he made his points, he then dragged the man closer to him so he could hiss some foul phrase in his face and shoved him away.
The bear-man turned back to her and Gisla closed her eyes in fright. This man was far worse than the other. He was angrier and stronger. He would hurt her worse than the first man.
She felt him grab her bound hands and heard a blade scrape against a scabbard. She forced her eyes open. Was he going to kill her where she stood? Use his knife to soak the ground with her blood?
She felt frozen in fear, unable to move anything but her eyes as she watched the knife. He moved his blade to the cord that bound her to the rest of the slave-line and in one smooth motion cut the rope in two, separating her from the rest of the women. He grabbed the little tail of rope that was left and began to wrap it around his hand. He was going to lead her away.
"Princess," Adelaide called as she and the other women moved in unison to try and keep her with them.
The great hulking man jerked on the rope, ripping her from their tentative grasp. Gisla stumbled from the sudden motion, but before she could fall the man caught her by the arm and steadied her. As soon as she regained her balance he started moving forward again.
Gisla tried to turn back, but the man was too strong for her. As she looked over her shoulder she realized that the horrible man was still near the women. This would not do. He was not safe for them to be around. The cold realization of what being a captive meant set in and her stomach turned and she felt as if she might retch.
He led her through the camp. And everywhere Gisla looked she was greeted with what she could only define as the rivalrous horrors of hell. Men covered in blood past flasks of wine to their comrades. A Frankish soldier groped along the ground in search for a way to escape his tormentors; they had blinded him and soon they would kill him. And through all of the camp the screams of women filled the air.
The man brought her to a tent and drew the flap back to lead her inside and Gisla said a silent prayer that this would not be the place she would die.
She saw a pile of furs gathered together to form some sort of make-shift bed and realized that prayer may not be enough to save her. She knew why those women screamed out.
Filled with fear she jerked back on her bonds and her captor dropped the rope in shock. He had not been expecting the sudden motion. She turned and began to run, internally cursing the silly shoes and extravagant clothing she wore, they did nothing to aid her.
She made it seven strides before she felt his hands on her. He lifted her off the ground as if she weighed no more than a bird. He turned her and threw her over his shoulder like a sack of flour and began to walk back to the tent. She beat her hands against his back, but it did nothing to stop him. He did not even seem to notice.
He walked through the tent flap and as it snapped closed behind them she felt like someone was closing the lid on her crypt, and that she would not rise again like the heathen Ragnar.
She flailed and kicked with all her might as he began to set her down on the furs. Her attack did little to stop and the largest result from this was tangling herself in her own clothes. He moved his hands to her elbows and she was afraid that he was going to push her down so that she was lying against the furs. She tried to wiggle free, but his grip was like iron.
"Don't touch me you monster," she screamed and then spat in his face.
This time her actions worked and he drew back and wiped his hand across his face and went very still as if considering something.
Gisla began to try and work her hands free from the bonds again and taunted him with curses that had never before crossed her lips.
The man cocked his head to the side as she hissed her words at him and then lunged forward. Gisla threw herself back against the furs and waited to feel his weight upon her or his hand striking her. She felt nothing and instead listened to the sound of his laugh filling the tent.
His hand grabbed her bound hands a dragged her up into a sitting position. He said two short phrases in his barbaric tongue. The first stern and cold, and the second with a levity that caused him to laugh again.
He took the piece of rope that dangled from between her bound hands and tied it to a post that supported the tent. He tied the end of the knot with such strength Gisla knew she would not be able to loosen them.
The man then turned his attention back to Gisla, or rather, her bound hands. He lifted her hands up by her forearm and looked all around at how her hands were tied. He then placed a finger between her wrists and the moved it back and forth slightly. He then nodded to himself and walked to the entrance of the tent.
Rollo looked out from his tent filled with the immense satisfaction of victory. Everywhere he looked he saw his people celebrating. After months of siege on Paris they had finally been able to raid it. It was a good day to be a warrior. A victor. A conqueror.
The priest had not deceived his brother. Paris was not only large it was full of the most unimaginable riches. This was not like Wessex where so many of the people were poor farmers. Their homes mostly filled with things so worthless that they were not even worth weighing the boat down with taking them back with them. No in Paris each home held its own little treasure: fine linens, casks of wine, small trinkets made of gold or silver. The people who raided here would return as some of the richest people in all of the Northlands.
"Rollo! Rollo," a familiar voice called. He looked up to see his friend Eirick sauntering towards him. "Come join us! These Franks must drink more wine than Odin and I wish to taste all of it."
By the way Eirick walking Rollo began to suspect that he had already gone to great troubles to fulfill his wish.
"Is that so?"
"Yes! The mead in Ragnar's longhouse will taste like ash mixed with water after you have tried this. Come there is enough for all."
"Perhaps later."
The smile fell off his friend's face and a quizzical look filled his eye. "Later? For as long as I have known you, you have never refused a drink to victory. Come and join us."
"I am not against drinking to victory. Bring your wine here and I will show you."
"Why can't you come with me," Eirick asked tilting his head to the side.
"Ahh, let me show you," Rollo said and then pulled back the flap of the tent.
Eirick peered into the darkness, "I don't see–"
A shrill shriek broke forth from inside the tent as the princess began to scream insults again.
Eirick's eyebrows shot up and he looked to his friend in amusement. "Oh, I see now. Who is she?"
"The princess," Rollo said with a note of pride in his voice.
"Frankia has a princess?"
Rollo gave a slow blink in surprise, "Yes, didn't you know? She stood on the wall they day we used Floki's towers. She brought a banner with her and rallied the Frankish men to victory."
"Hm, I had not noticed," Eirick said while still peering into the tent. "She is very beautiful. Can I try her after you?"
Rollo shot him a glare so intense Eirick took a half-step back.
"After you are done with her, of course. You found her first. I will not spoil her for you. I just wish to know if there is something special about her since she is a princess. That is why people say Ragnar left Lagertha, because she could no longer satisfy him once he had been with Aslaug."
Rollo gave no response and Eirick tried again. "You do not have to decide right now. Just remember I asked when you have grown tired of her."
His eyes focused on a far-off point in the camp and he gave an unconvincing nod, "Perhaps."
Eirick's hand clapped his shoulder, "Good, good. Now come drink with us."
Rollo glanced back into the tent. "I don't know."
"She is a woman not a calf. You can leave her tied without fear."
Rollo looked at him blankly, unconvinced by his joke.
"What do you not trust the strength of your knots?"
He took one last look inside of the tent, "You are probably right. Come, show me where this wine is."
Eirick had not exaggerated the quality of the wine. It was some of the finest Rollo had ever tasted, far superior from what he could get at home. It did not hold the same bite as the kind that was made with wild berries, the fruit of the vine made better wine.
As much as he tried to focus on the tales of valor his friends were sharing his mind kept drifting back to the princess in his tent. It all felt like it might be a trick from Loki; something that could be undone in the blink of an eye. He was not a lucky man and the god's never seemed to favor him.
The sound of hoof beats tore him from his thoughts. They were on the edge of the camp. Some of the men drinking with him were even supposed to be lookouts.
"Everyone on your feet," he called, and moved his dane axe so that it was at the ready.
Over the crest of the hill four horses appeared carrying Frankish riders. Running behind them at a frantic, stumbling pace was the strange man who seemed to be gifted with all the tongues of earth, Sinric.
In a voice as smooth as whale oil Rollo told the men, "Stay calm. If they get too close without warning hamstring the horses and kill the men. I do not want them invading us from within using a small force like we did to them today."
Over the sound of thundering hooves Sinric's thin voice could be heard calling, "Peace! Peace! We come in peace!"
"Conceal your weapons, but keep your guard up."
The leader of the Franks pulled his horse to a stop and his companions followed in unison. Sinric's footing faltered as he came to a stop. His screams for peace were replaced by his heavy, labored breathing. He did not speak again until a Frankish soldier nudged him with his foot.
"We have…come…to talk of…peace," Sinric said between pants.
The men looked between each other in confusion.
"No one is still fighting inside the city," Eirick told the man.
Sinric translated and then relayed another message, "They are aware of that, but they wish to know the price they must pay for you to leave their land?"
Eirick began to answer, but one of the Frankish men made a sound cutting him off and then said something to Sinric.
"He does not wish to speak to you," Sinric said, "He wants to hear from a man of some authority. He wishes to speak to the man as strong as a bear."
The men glanced between each other unsure of what this meant. Sinric noticed their confusion and clarified, "He wishes to speak to you," he said and pointed to Rollo.
A chorus of laughter echoed through the group.
"Very well, Rollo Bearstrength can answer your question," Eirick said.
"What is the price you require to leave this land," Sinric said again.
Rollo stroked his chin in thought, "I don't know. Why don't you bring us more gold and we will see if it is enough."
The Franks did not seem happy when they heard what his words meant.
"They wish to know if you have any intentions of leaving at all."
Rollo shrugged, "Many of us do, but some of us do not. You may speak to them when we are gone."
After hearing Sinric's translation one of the Franks directed his horse to turn. He seemed to think that they did not need any more information.
A finely dressed man called out to him to stop, and then told Sinric one more thing.
"The Emperor's daughter was taken from the chapel this morning and has not been seen since the fighting. They wish to know if you know what became of her."
Eirick began to speak, but Rollo held up a hand to stop him.
"She is dead. I killed her myself."
Gisla had been trying to break free of her bonds for hours. She was certain that her skin where the rope was tied had been rubbed raw from all her struggling. She did not care. If she escaped her skin would heal and this would become nothing more than an unpleasant memory.
The knots were strong, and tied skillfully, and no matter which way she tugged and twisted them they did not seem to loosen. It was a hopeless, thankless task and soon she could not move her hands anymore because the pain had become too great.
She hung her head and prayed to God for deliverance. Only He could save her now.
Some time later the Northman returned and she began to try and break free again. No longer feeling the pain so much as fear filled her.
He seemed not to notice her fear and moved over to the post that she was tied to. He began to undo the knot and Gisla felt hope fill her again. Perhaps he was setting her free. Maybe she had been set aside because they realized she was someone of importance and her father had paid a ransom for her.
Her hope was short lived and she watched as the man took the loose end and began to wrap it around one of his wrists. With deft hands he formed a firm knot and tugged it tight. They were now bound together.
He leaned over her and pushed her down so that she was lying against the furs. He then flopped down so that he was lying beside her.
Her blood ran cold from fear and she rolled away from the furs in an effort to get away from him.
"You are very stubborn. But so am I. You will see once we are in Kattegat," he said as he watched her try and escape the bed.
A series of hissing sounds escaped her lips and her eyes burned with anger.
A deep laugh rumbled through his chest. "Don't worry. I like spirited women."
He half dragged, half carried her back to where the furs covered the ground. She tossed and turned like a wild animal, panicked by even the smallest touch. When she was lying against the furs again he pinned her shoulders to the ground and waited for her arms and legs to stop flailing.
Her mouth began to fill with her strange and foreign words and she began to move with a renewed strength and determination. Then as suddenly as her anger rose up it seemed to fade away and was replaced by a gentle sobbing. Her angry words traded for soft whimpering.
There was a joke in this situation somewhere. Something about a woman's heart being an ever changing wheel. Yet, somehow he did not think this was funny.
"No need to be afraid," he said to her. He didn't like it when she looked up at him with fear in her eyes. He didn't want her for an enemy.
Her eyes fluttered rapidly and she went quiet as if she understood him perfectly. Then she turned her face away from him and began to weep more bitterly.
Rollo shook his head. This was hopeless.
"Sleep well," he said as he tossed his bear coat away from the other furs. He had no intentions of fighting with her all night. It had been a long day and he wished to sleep.
He crawled onto his coat and collapsed from exhaustion. He remembered to stretch out his arm that tied her to him so that she could move freely in the night.
His eyelids felt heavy and his bones were weary he was more than ready to sleep, but the princess was not.
She rolled over to face him, her eyes two burning coals. Her passion and fearlessness had returned again. She began to spew what he could only assume where some of Frankia's worst curses then she lifted up her hands. At first he thought she might try and escape again, but she only gestured to the rope that tied them. She seemed to be saying that if she were not bound she would fight him. Then she rolled away so that she was no longer facing him.
A smile tugged at his lips. The Franks thought he was as strong as a bear, but did they know that their princess was as fearless as one. He shook his head in resignation.
What was he going to do with her?
His thoughts changed from levity to seriousness. He didn't have a plan when he took her from the bridge, he didn't even have a plan now, but he needed one.
He thought back with disgust of Bjarke's hand being on her. By Thor, he hated that man. He could be the chief among cowards the way he always was the last to the fighting, the first to slink away after the fray. He would not even be surprised to find out that Bjarke never entered Paris at all. He just lingered back at the camp to wait for the treasures to be brought back so that he could have the first pick.
A man like that did not deserve a woman like the princess.
And then there was Eirick, asking to sleep with her after him. Eirick was a good friend and a brave companion, but he didn't wish to share her. Eirick was talking about her as if she were only a slave.
He supposed she could be a slave. The rest of the Frankish women would become thralls it was what happened to conquered people after raids. If they did not wish to become slaves they should have fought harder.
Was this princess a slave now? He had tied her up like he owned her.
He shook his head, that did not suit his needs.
He wanted her to be his wife, but that could not be if she was a slave first.
Slaves were not meant for marrying. They were meant for hard work and serving their master's needs. He thought back to the slave women he lived around. The ones that seemed to always be shaking from long workdays and fear. The ones that jumped at sudden sounds and never smiled. Their faces hollow from hunger and their boney hands rough from work. He did not want this for her.
He thought back to the day when he had first seen her standing fearlessly on the wall. In that moment she was not just a free-woman she was a valkyrie screaming for the blood of her enemies. She was braver than many of her own men. Braver than many of his own companions.
To break such a spirit seemed to be almost a crime against the gods. Like breaking a war horse's back by making it plow a field. Who would wish to do a thing like that?
He gave a firm nod to himself and made up his mind that for as much as it was up to him she would never be a thrall.
She felt the hand of the Northman on her shoulder in the early morning before daybreak. She tried to suppress shiver that ran through her at his touch. She did not want him to know that she was afraid.
He shook on her shoulder as if to wake her from sleeping, when in truth she had spent the night praying for deliverance and listening for the sound of Frankish hoof-beats.
Gisla rolled over to face him. He said a few short phrases in his own tongue each one holding no meaning to her. She blinked in confusion, too exhausted to offer any other kind of reaction.
At her lack of response, he became more animated and began to move his hands and arms in large exaggerated motions. And spoke one slow word with every move he made. She still did not know what he was trying to say to her and wondered if he was mad.
His mood shifted like a summer storm. His voice dropped to a lower, more irritated, tone. He took her hands and tugged her to her feet.
A small, mouse-like, sound escaped her at his rough motion. Her arms were stiff from hours of not moving them.
His eyes snapped up to her face at the sound and he studied her face carefully as if looking for something. She stiffened her features. She did not want his concern.
"I hate you," she said.
He words were meaningless to him. No more bothersome to him than a fly; brushed away and forgotten in the blink of an eye.
He fetched the small waterskin inside the room and took a long drink from it. She watched him with envy as a dry, scratchy feeling filled her mouth and throat. She had not had anything to drink since yesterday.
The Northman finished drinking and offered the waterskin to her. She did her best to take the leather pouch with her bound hands, but the opening flopped to the side and the water began to pour out. He moved to take it from her before all the water was gone, and then said a small word in his language and then moved towards her.
He pressed the opening to her mouth and she tried to have as little of her lips touch it as possible, his lips had been there first. He tilted it up and water began to pour from around her mouth down the front of her dress.
She recoiled back. "You idiot," she said looking at him with disgust.
His loud laugh filled the tent and rage filled her.
He tried to bring the waterskin up to her lips again, but she turned her face away. She wanted him to know how much he displeased her.
He gave a taunting laugh and said something in a sing-song voice and began to put the water away.
"Wait," she said in panic. She didn't think she could bear any more time without water.
"Oh," he said as if he understood her.
"Wait, I wish to try again."
A smile stretched across his face and he nodded slowly. He then began to talk quickly in his own language with many motions. He traced the edge of his lips while talking and then demonstrated that she had to put more of the waterskin in her mouth.
She nodded to show him that she understood.
He nodded back and then brought it up to her lips again.
She tried not to gag as she placed it in her mouth and allowed him to help her drink. She felt relief as water began to enter her dry mouth. To her chagrin he was better at this than she would have thought and did not pour the water faster than she could drink it.
Her cheeks flushed with disgust and humiliation and she loathed him even more for being kind to her. She would not be in this situation if his people had not taken her.
He let her drink until the skin was dry and then took it away from her mouth.
He laughed at her again and said a short word or two in his language. She knew he was taunting her.
"You disgust me."
He gave a half-motion that may have been a shrug and began to move about the tent gathering some of the few possessions scattered about the tent. Where ever he went Gisla was towed behind him by her bonds.
He shoved a few remaining objects into his coat pocket and turned to leave the tent without so much as glancing back at her.
Outside of the tent nothing was as she remembered it. Half the tents had been taken down and the revelry she had seen yesterday was replaced with steady, meticulous work. The Northman looked neither to the right nor the left as he led her through the camp.
In the midst of all her fear Gisla felt a spark of hope. After months on end of these savage people swarming at the edge of her city they were getting ready to leave. They would be gone soon. The fasting inside the city would come to an end. In a strange way their prayers had been answered.
Their presence was only going to be temporary after all. A brief plague to test their obedience to God. They would be free of them soon. Life would go on as it did before.
Another thought came that smothered the hope she had briefly felt. Her captor was not walking in the direction of Paris. He was walking the other way.
None of the people around her were her protectors or allies, but she did not like the idea of being in a secluded place with him. The attack was over. His people were leaving. He should be taking her back to Paris. They had what they wanted now. Why wasn't he letting her go home? She had duties to attend to.
As they came to the top of a hill Gisla saw the women she had been parted with yesterday. They were being forced and dragged onto boats by the Northmen. They would not be letting them go free. They were taking them away.
She pulled back against her bonds, hoping to break free again like she did the day before. She had forgotten though that the other end of the rope was tied around the man's wrist. His arm jerked back with her movement, but she could not escape.
He turned back to look at her in surprise and a steady stream of words left his mouth.
He used the rope to reel her closer to him.
Gisla began to scream, "No! No, I am not going with you! You cannot take me!"
Her screams caused him to pull on the rope harder and she stumbled towards him. He caught her before she fell to the ground. And as she was near to him he whispered a set of fierce words in her ear. She did not have to know his language to know that what he said was a threat.
He held her firmly by her elbow and marched her into the shallow water. He was going to force her onto a boat. Gisla felt her blood turn to ice as she realized that he was taking her away.
Cultural Note: You cannot leave a calf tied up and by itself, because there is too much of a risk that it will accidently hang itself. That is what Eirick is refering to.
Reviews are greatly appreciated.