Les Longpré

Table of Contents – Part One

Part One

Prologue

Aveline stepped out of her parents’ home in Longpré, a village which began at the edge of a marsh and river that separated the villagers from the town of Long. The trees didn’t allow her to see the castle at the edge of a chalk cliff on the opposite side of the Samara River. It was the first day of spring. Turning and smiling at her mother standing by the doorway, getting a warm smile in return, Aveline hurried to follow the path that led to the crude bridge that crossed the river. She wasn’t the only young woman on the path.

There was a mist still clinging to the river and the marsh. It wouldn’t be long before the mosquitoes would appear and menace passersby. Less than an hour later she approached a house, sturdier than the wood and peat house of her parents. The house was halfway up the slope that was crowned by Richemunde Castle. Unlike her town of Longpré, Long had only one road with the houses built on both sides. Her cousin Gisla stood waiting, her impatience showing as she shifted on her feet as though waiting for permission to run.

Seeing Aveline, Gisla ran to meet her cousin and give her a hug and kisses on both cheeks.

“Hurry, Ave! I saw too many others ahead of us. I don’t want to be late.”

Aveline laughed as she embraced her cousin, her best friend. Together, they followed the packed dirt trail to pass by the castle. The path continued down a gentle slope to reach a forest. They saw four other girls ahead of them and turned to glance at those who were behind them. There were no young men who were heading to the sacred meadow. The first day of spring belonged to these young women.

An hour later, they emerged into a meadow. At the centre stood a stone taller than a man. Aveline’s mother had told her about the stone and told her that an old woman would be waiting there for her and the other young women.

“Gigi,” she whispered. “It’s just like Maman told me.”

Gisla nodded, her words now absent, a rare thing as she always filled the air with her words.

The old woman was squatting at the side of the imposing stone, stirring the contents of a clay pot that was perched above a small collection of red coals. The gathering of young women sat in a semi-circle in front of the elder. Other than a hushed whisper, there was silence.

Moments later, the grey-haired woman walked past the girls, pausing to give each a taste of the brew which was now ready. The girls tracked her passage and return to her softly glowing coals. It was then that they saw an old man standing on the opposite side of the stone. No one had seen him enter the meadow or stand next to the stone.

The old man looked up at the sky. Seeing the sun reach midday, he spoke. The words were simple. Yet somehow they reached inside each of the young women and settled any anxiety that they had brought with them. As he spoke, Aveline thought she saw two figures behind the stone, bathed in the noon sunshine. It was as if their hair caught the light and shimmered and created a corona of golden light. She had no words to speak to have Gisela look.

When she looked again, they were gone.

Part One – The Danish Connection

Chapter 1

Kettil’s youngest son, Hrólfr, had just turned thirteen and was already as big as most of his men. Kettil’s older son, Gurim, was old enough to captain his own longboat. It was time for Gurim to lead men since he was going to become the next King of the Western Isles. The past winter at Islay, like every other northern winter, was long. The weapons and boats were ready, and the men were more than ready. The thirst for treasures was secondary to the need to go viking. The tension of waiting had subdued the community.

Kettil had watched Hrólfr grow without going through an awkward stage as the boy trained with weapons, practiced teamwork with oars. Kettil looked at Hrólfr who needed to be blooded if he was to become a captain of his own longboat like his half-brother, Gurim. Hrólfr’s mother was a Dane from Heiðabýr, Danmǫrk. Hrólfr took after his mother’s family in size and stature while Gurim was obviously Kettil’s son in appearance and temperament. Gurim’s mother had died young.

“Tomorrow, you sail with me,” Kettil told Hrólfr as the men made preparations for the beginning of viking season.

Hrólfr looked at his father with surprise. Boys his age rarely went viking. He was quick to respond, standing as tall as possible trying to sound more like a man than his voice wanted.

“Yes, Faðir. I won’t disappoint you.”

With the excitement of knowing he would be going viking with the men, he rushed off to tell his mother and friends. Since they would be leaving with the tide the next day, the evening was going to be a feast and celebration. That thought stopped Hrólfr short. He remembered the night before of the past few years. There was no celebration, no boasting or roaring with fantastical tales. Unlike feasts, the evening would be subdued. The community knew that not all of their men would return home.

The next day, with the assistance of the tide, they left the Isle of Islay

~

The flotilla of longboats entered the mouth of the River Ugie. Seeing their approach, some of the villagers disappeared into the peat bogs carrying their most prized possessions, their children. It had been years since the last raid which had seen several young women taken as captives. Gurim had been blooded in that last raid.

Thórólfr, Kettil’s second in command listened to Kettil’s instructions.

“Thórólfr, I want you to have my son’s back. He is young and impetuous as you well know. Just make sure he doesn’t go to Valhalla before he has a chance to taste life.”

“As you wish my friend and liege. I will be his shadow.”

No other words were needed.

~

As the men rushed to the shore, Hrólfr held back, waiting to see the bigger scene. He saw a villager disappear down a back lane, away from the charge. Hrólfr waited a few moments to see the warriors commit to their targets, then he turned to follow the villager. His intuition told him the man was rushing off to protect or hide a treasure.

Despite his father’s demand that he remain with the main body of men, he followed the villager down a twisting path where he stopped at a rough-looking shed. Unseen, Thórólfr kept to the shadows as he followed. He watched the villager grab a sharpened pitchfork which leaned against the shed. The man turned and grinned at Hrólfr whom he saw was still a boy despite his size. The youth had no facial hair.

“You should have stayed with the others, boy,” he warned.

With those words spoken, two other men appeared from behind the building. They glared at Hrólfr as though daring him to make a stupid move. With a burst of unexpected speed, turning to avoid the pitchfork, Hrólfr struck with his sword. The villager was left holding his stomach as his entrails began to escape the wound inflicted.

Not stopping to finish off the villager, Hrólfr felled the most dangerous of the two remaining men, with a mighty swing which removed the arm holding a staff with a knotted club. The third man took off at a run. It was just then that Thórólfr emerged from behind a wagon. He had watched the scene unfold, ready to save the youth if needed.

“You risked yourself needlessly, Hrólfr,” he said with a seriousness that surprised Hrólfr. “You know full well that we fight together, protecting each other.”

Hrólfr stopped smiling at his easy victory. Thórólfr had spoken truth. There was a code for the warriors. It was his first turn at viking, and he had already broken that code.

~

Children and elders were left alone, while many men were slain defending their homes. Once victory had been claimed with the looting of the church, some of Kettil’s men took their pleasure with the surviving women. With so many of the village men felled, some of the women were claimed by the Norsemen. Life with a man was hard enough. Some of the women felt relief in being claimed, women who were now widowed, women with children. Others were lost in grief and rebelled at the touch of a strange man.

Survival forced women to make choices. Being claimed by a Norseman was a chance to survive. Those not claimed were left to live in the village when the warriors left.

Kettil didn’t engage in the celebratory activities nor did Thórólfr who brought Hrólfr to his father. Gurim was with the rest of the men.

“Kettil, your son has something to tell you.”

Kettil had seen Hrólfr leave the group. He had also seen Thórólfr follow the lad into the village. He had watched as Thórólfr moved silently like a wolf tracking prey. Hrólfr was too intent on his own prey to sense being followed.

“Faðir, I took a needless risk in leaving the other men. I was curious about a villager who appeared to be going to his own small treasures to perhaps hide them.”

“And?”

“He was met by two other men who were armed. When the man I was following turned to attack me, I gutted him. Then as one of the other two moved to strike me with a long-shafted club, I cleaved off his arm. The third man fled.”

“What about the treasure? You said you followed him in search of more treasure.”

“I … I didn’t think of treasure at that point. When Thórólfr appeared, I realised that I had not followed your instructions. I have shamed you and myself.”

Chapter 2

A week later, Kettil led a contingent of six longboats up the Samara River past a place called Abbéville. The river further upstream continued to be slow moving allowing the longboats easier passage. Kettil knew about this river from tales told in the longhouse of his youth. Despite its calm waters, it had a turbulent history, a place where cultures clashed and many died in ferocious combat. The old tales told of the Ambiani as warriors just as fierce as the Picti across the sea he had just traversed.

The river valley was rich and coveted because of its wealth. The tranquil water fed bogs that provided peat, just like the lands of in Danmǫrk. His Kingdom of the Western Isles was extremely rich in peat bog, but it couldn’t compare with the forests, bogs, and temperate climate of the river valley. 

“Thórólfr, this is the land I have long dreamed of,” Kettil said with his eyes refusing to leave the land that edged the river. “This land is so peaceful. Look,” he spoke as he pointed out a few thatched homes on one of the promontories of land bordering a nearby bog, “their homes are evidence that this is a peaceful land.”

“I agree, Kettil. I haven’t seen any fortified villages or churches since we left Abbéville. But if you think about it, that likely means there will be slim pickings here.”  

Thórólfr was a warrior and was only happy when he was heading out for viking. Pillaging, claiming the women and children of vanquished communities, as well as the wealth of a headman and the local church, that was Thórólfr ‘s definition of a good life.

Further along the edges of the river, small plots of land were covered with yellow-flowered cabbage-like plants, a plant called Woad.

“There, see those plants, Thórólfr? That’s the source of the blue dye used by the Picti.”

“The bloody Picti are devils, naked devils in battle. It was the best thing you have done to make those people your allies in the Western Isles. Better to have them as allies than as enemies. They’re savages, naked savages. They’ll never be tamed or civilised.”

Kettil raised his eyebrows in response to Thórólfr’s words.

“No, not savages, Thórólfr. Different, yes. But savages? They’re just fierce protectors of their land and people.”

Thórólfr kept his mouth closed in response. Kettil was a great leader, a famed warrior, but he also had a soft spot that was growing with the passing years. Unlike Kettil, Thórólfr had no desire to settle down. His only ambition was to one day die in battle, an honourable death that would immediately allow him to go to Valhalla.

“Don’t let the peaceful scenes here fool you, Thórólfr. Something tells me these people along the river are just as fierce as the Picti. The old Ambiani peoples are still here, hiding in plain sight as farmers and hunters.”

Hrólfr knew that as the second son, he could not become the next king of the Western Isles. That crown was destined to go to Gurim. What Hrólfr didn’t know was that Kettil was looking for new lands, with the hopes of giving Hrólfr a kingdom of his own. Kettil saw much about this river valley land that could make for just such a kingdom.  

At the northern edges of the river, with extensive bogs to the south, Kettil finally saw what he was looking for, a more prosperous looking village. There was a small wooden church which suggested that there would be little in it for treasure. Many of the houses in the village were wooden like the houses in Abbéville. But along the edges of the forest and the bogs, thatched rooves indicated a different culture. Kettil surmised that they were the homes of the Ambiani, at least the Ambiani who were slower to adopt Frankish culture.

“There!” said Kettil pointing out the village to Thórólfr and Hrólfr, “Are you ready to see a bit more action? Just one thing. Only the church and the plank-roofed building, likely the headman’s place, are to be pillaged. Keep the killing to a minimum. I want as many of the villagers left alive as can be accomplished while still ensuring victory. Once the village has been taken, I will make decisions which will be honoured. In addition, leave the thatched rooved houses untouched. I don’t want to make enemies with the Ambiani, who are the likely residents of those homes. Importantly, don’t kill the priest. I don’t want to have an army of Christians to confront when we head back downstream to the sea.”

* * *

The raid didn’t meet with a lot of resistance. For some strange reason, many of the houses were empty. As they began to ascend past the building which he had determined belong to the headman who had died defending his home, Thórólfr stopped and pointed. An old fortress rose above the trees.  

“Shields!” Kettil called out. “Advance slowly.”

The silence was heavy with the sounds of heavy breathing, footsteps, and weapons all that could be heard. They moved together as though one. No enemy appeared.

“Hold,” Kettil commanded. “I want four men to go ahead and sound the alarm when the enemy shows their faces.”

Thórólfr selected three others. There was no way he was going to miss out on whatever surprise waited further up the hill on a path that disappeared to the left as it led uphill.

“As I expected Thórólfr. Just a warning, be quiet and only call out when the enemy is spotted. I don’t like the silence. I smell a trap.”

Thórólfr led the way with the three others trailing in single file. The path turned and the fortress became more visible. There was no path leading to the fortress. He led the way forward only to find that the path began to descend away from the silent keep beginning to disappear behind a wall of trees.

He back tracked to reach the summit of the path. He sought out a faint path between the trees which stood between the road and the fortress. Frustrated at finding nothing, he ordered his men to return to where Kettil waited.

“Nothing! It looks abandoned,” Thórólfr reported.

~

When Kettil’s men had secured what was a victory, he had some of the Franks they had encountered executed. The priest was spared. He was surprised that it had all been so easy. As expected, the church had almost nothing for treasure. The shops were pillaged. As he watched, Thórólfr wordlessly drew Kettil’s attention to the shadows at the edge of the forest. There were men and women, armed and looking formidable. They outnumbered Kettil’s men and could have caused a bloodbath, killing many of his men.

“They are the Ambiani,” Kettil said as he turned to face the shadows. He put his axe down and slowly approached and then stopped when he had covered half of the distance.

A grey-haired woman stepped forward and spoke for those behind her. “You have spared my people’s homes. However, you have also put my people at risk. The soldiers of the Church and the count of Amiens will exact compensation from us once you leave. They will assume that we did nothing to protect the Franks.”

Kettil stared at her and instantly knew she was telling the truth. He had just put the Ambiani in the village at risk.

“What do you suggest?” Kettil asked with a tone of respect for this grey-haired woman.

“Leave some of your men here to replace the Franks they have killed. Mercy on your part will make it easier to keep our village safe from the Church and the Count of Amiens. Let one of your people become the headman of the village. Otherwise, a village with only Ambiani left in the village would raise too many suspicions. It is also a good thing you have not killed the old priest.”

“Wise counsel,” Kettil admitted. He paused before saying more as though he was weighing his words.

“My name is Kettil the Flatnose, King of the Western Isles. This is my second-in-command, Thórólfr. This young man is my son Gurim who is my heir, and this youth on the cusp of manhood is my second son, Hrólfr. Whatever we decide today will be honoured by my people. You have a king’s word.”

“I am Aveline. My people will honour your word.”

“Aveline, I will do as you suggest. However, I ask one other thing. Let us unite your people and mine through a marriage. My son Hrólfr is not yet betrothed. Choose a young woman from your people to be his wife. This will have us, Danes and Ambiani united as family.”

Aveline turned to whisper to Gisla, her confidante over the past fifty years. Gisla disappeared on the mission she was given.

Hrólfr was surprised that he had been offered as a prize to the Ambiani. He was curious about who would be his bride. Would she even be pleasant to look at? Like other young men his age, he was well aware of what marriage meant. He had never expected it to happen for at least two more years, though he knew it would be to a woman picked by his father.

The old woman smiled as she turned and nodded to several others in her group who had gathered. Aveline had been told about this union of Dane and Ambiani years earlier as a prophecy from the keepers of the old religion. These keepers of the old way were men and women who still met within a secret grove surrounded by oak trees less than a half-day’s travel from the village, where a simple stone stood, a reminder of the old religion. It was there that prophecies about the future were revealed.

After a short discussion between the assembled Ambiani, the old woman again spoke, “It shall be as you say, Kettil, the Flatnose. There is just one more thing needed. Hrólfr must have a name which will raise less suspicion. He will be called Rollo, a name that is not Norse and can pass as Frankish.”

A few moments later, a young woman named Derelie was presented as the intended bride. She was the same age as Hrólfr. He looked at the short, dark-haired young woman and felt a stirring of desire. He was not a virgin. Like most Danish and Norse youth, both male and female, he was no stranger to sexual intercourse. Among his own people, intercourse was only by mutual consent. Rape was punishable by death, an ignoble death wherein Valhalla would be denied.

However, the rape of foreigners was seen as plunder. Not known to either Kettil or Hrólfr was that Derelie was Aveline’s granddaughter.

~

Rollo married Derelie according to the Danish customs, as well as by the customs of the Ambiani. The marriage was consummated frequently over the next two weeks. Between feasts, Derelie walked with Rollo to show him the extent of community including a special trip crossing the river to reach another village, the village of Longpré where her parents lived.

“This is where I live, Rollo. These are my parents, Hugues and Leanora. My grandmother Aveline lived here when she was young, before she became the leader of our people.”

Rollo had a bit of trouble adjusting to his new name used by Derelie. On occasion, she had to poke him to get his attention when he failed to respond when she called him Rollo.

“I apologize, Derelie. I have been Hrólfr my whole life. No one among my people would know me as Rollo. I know it is necessary to be Rollo here along the River Samara. However, when among my people, I must remain as Hrólfr.”

~

Kettil decided against leaving one of the longboats for the men who remained. The presence of a longboat would create suspicion. The men who remain behind took wives among the widowed French women who were given the option of being slaves to be taken to the Western Isles. There were also a few willing Ambiani women who chose Norse husbands.

The men left behind were older, seasoned men who were familiar with the French language, men who would more easily pretend to be Christians and Franks. Without needing to be told, the men adopted the appearance of Franks. The priest willingly baptised the heathen Danes and married them according to the Church’s rites. He counted himself lucky that he hadn’t been martyred. To the outside world, it would appear as though nothing had changed in the village of Long.

Though baptised, the men were still Norsemen, sworn warriors to Kettil, They were Norse and did not forgo their own religious beliefs. Baptism as Christians was a political act and had nothing to do with their private beliefs.

And so, it came to be in 868 that Hrólfr became Rollo, the husband of Derelie, He was the nominal headman of the village of Long and would be called Rollo du Long when he returned to the River Samara.

He was still too young to become the acting headman of the village, and he had too much yet to learn to remain in the village. Kettil appointed one of his men to rule in Rollo’s name, a man who had married the French woman who had been the wife of the village headman before he was executed by Kettil.

Chapter 3

The next year, Hrólfr, along with his brother Gurim and their father, Kettil, like other years, had embarked on another season of viking. Once again, they stopped at the village of Long. The village had prospered under the Danes working with the Ambiani. And, to Hrólfr’s surprise, his teen-aged wife, Derelie had given birth to a girl child named Apadeva.

“Our tribes have truly been united,” Aveline stated when the baby had been presented to Kettil and Hrólfr. “Our blood has been mixed, not only in this child, but in the children yet to be born to your men and our women who chose mates. Our river valley is your home, and your kingdom is ours by association.”

“My lady,” Kettil responded as Hrólfr had eyes only for his daughter and his wife. “My men are your army, your protection. The seed has been planted and will continue to bear fruit. A new people will emerge, our people.”

~

The stop in Long had been brief. Kettil had brought thirty-five longboats down river after having met little resistance at Abbéville. Their objective was an assault on the growing city of Amiens. Hrólfr was given his own longboat to command for the assault. It took less than half a day for them to reach Amiens from Long. Using the element of surprise, the fifteen hundred Norsemen met little resistance. There was plunder enough for all who survived the clash of French forces led by the Count of Amiens.

Once the battle was done and the treasures were loaded onto the longboats, Kettil had Thórólfr and Gurim take most of the men and the treasure back to their island kingdom in Scotland. Keeping four longboats, including the longboat that had been commanded by Hrólfr, he made a second stop in the village of Long.  Hrólfr road in his father’s longboat as Kettil had things that needed to be said to his son.

“Hrólfr, it’s my dream that someday you will build your own kingdom here in Francia. Francia is getting weak as the Dukes and Counts carve out parts of the kingdom for themselves.”

Hrólfr already knew what his father’s intentions despite never having openly talked about it. Being appointed Jarl of Long and married to Derelie was a foothold to a different kingdom, his future kingdom.

“Francia is falling apart while Flanders and Frisia grow stronger. Now is the time for us to claim a piece of Francia for our own. This land along the river would make a better home for our people. This land is richer than the thin soil in the Western Isles, even better than in Danmǫrk.”

Though Rollo had seen very little of Danmǫrk, he had seen enough to know the truth of his father’s words. He would become a king in his own right, with his own kingdom along this river.

They stopped at Long. Aveline and the Ambiani council met with Kettil and his most trusted men, including Hrólfr. The setting for the meeting was in a forest glen with what looked like a sacred stone in the centre. Aveline commanded silence simply by standing up to address Kettil and his son.

“Kettil and Rollo. You must now take Derelie and Apadeva with you to your own kingdom. She is to stay among your people for two years to better learn your customs. Then, in the late spring of the third year, she will be returned to us with her children, Apadeva and a boy who will be named Lugos.”

Kettil stared at Aveline with surprise. He knew that he had just been told a prophecy, one that would come to pass whether he willed it or not. How that prophecy would unfold was unknown and would not be told by this old woman.

~

“Bye Maman,” Derelie said as tears coursed down her cheeks. “I will return home, I promise. Grandmaman has spoken and I must obey. When I return, I will be bringing you a grandson whose name will be Lugos.”

Leanora hugged her daughter close while Hugues looked on worried about his wife who would not see their daughter and grandchild for two years. His eyes gave Rollo a command to take care of his only child and grandchild.

“Bring her home or I will search the world to claim her or avenge her. You have my word on this.”

Those words were spoken with a tone that told Rollo that his father-in-law would keep his word.

“Sir, I will not fail. Derelie will be protected along with the baby. I swear on my life.”

~

And so it came to be that Rollo took Derelie to the Kingdom of the Western Isles.

Chapter 4

Two and a half years later, Hrólfr sat beside his older brother Gurim, pulling on the same oar, while their father Kettil manned the rudder. Both half-brothers had crossed over to their father’s longboat for the last day of travel to the Western Isles. The long ship had entered the mouth of the river at the end of a long narrow bay. A small fishing village along the north shore of the river was ignored as they moved further west to reach a larger settlement, a Pict settlement.

It was at this settlement that Kettil had his great hall as king. Kettil’s longboat was the first of more than twenty such boats that would make up the bulk of his next viking expedition. Another eleven longboats would be arriving the next day. Kettil had installed a trusted Pict named Brest as the village headman, a necessity with so much of Kettil’s time spent away, either for viking or for travels to Norway and Danmǫrk. Hrólfr had reverted to his real name. Derelie used his new name, Rollo, when they were alone together.

Kettil noticed a pair of longboats docked next to five smaller sea vessels that belonged to the Pict settlement. The two boats displayed the banner of Eric Haraldsson.

“When did Haraldsson arrive?” Kettil asked Brest, the man he had assigned as his village headman.

“Haraldsson isn’t here. He sent his son, Alfred. He arrived with the morning tide, my Lord.”

Kettil nodded and spoke to his youngest son, “Be careful, Hrólfr and Gurim. Alfred Ericsson is a jealous young man. He’s as treacherous as his father.”

“Yes, father. we will be careful,” the brothers replied in unison.

This was the second time Hrólfr had been able to return to the village in the Western Isles of Scotland since he had brought Derelie there. Most of his time was spent in Danmǫrk when he wasn’t out viking with Kettil and Gurim. Danmǫrk was his mother’s homeland.

The last time Hrólfr had been to see Derelie and his two children, had been the previous autumn. It was then that he had first met his son Lugos, a baby who had his mother’s dark hair. Though he now had a son, he had no attachment to the baby boy. There was no time or room in his life for either a wife or children. The return to the village was only to last for a few days, as Kettil had promised his men a full season of viking along the Frisian and Frankish coast. Forgotten was the promise to return Derelie and the children to the village of Long.

Walking beside his father and brother, Hrólfr already stood taller than them though he had only just turned seventeen. A group of children ran ahead of them, shrieking with excitement. The older boys were using sticks as swords while pretending they were fighting the Irish and the Saxons.

The headman’s stone house was perched on a small hill surrounded by a palisade of wooden logs which had been sharpened at the tops. Inside the palisade, a collection of crofts and sheds were teeming with both human and animal activity. The smell was rank after the clean smell of the sea. As with all such villages, the stench was most noticeable closest to the palisade.

~

The headman, Brest, son of Ferath, was a very minor noble in the Pictish realm of King Constantine I, nephew of Donald I. The village was near the southwestern edge of the Pictish kingdom. The lands of the Angles and Saxons were on the mainland, and the Irish were constant invaders contesting ownership of the islands. Like most Picts, Brest had a dark complexion. The Picts were an anomaly in the northern countries with their black hair and dark olive complexions. They preferred to be called Keltis rather than Picts, a derogatory term given by the Romans who named them as wild, blue-painted savages.

The Kingdom of the Western Isles was predominantly settled by these Picts in a distant past. Kettil had brought other Norse and Danes to the scattered settlements. His warriors who had relocated, did so because of constant civil wars in their homelands. Added to their numbers were the women and children who had been taken as bounty during viking raids. The children were adopted into the Norse, Dane, and Pict families. The women either found new mates or were kept as slaves. Already, Kettil’s kingdom was becoming a melting pot of cultures.

The only exception for his kingdom was the exclusion of Christians. The Pict and the Nordic religions were able to peacefully co-exist without the need to force beliefs on each other. Kettil was a Norseman who had carved out a kingdom of sorts out of these Western Islands. Kettil and his men stood between the Irish who wanted the islands and the highlands on the mainland of Scotland for themselves. The Kingdom of the Picts was also being encroached by the Saxons from the south.

~

Several young men stood beside Brest, all but one of them were his sons. Like their father, they wore intricate designs tattooed on their faces and bodies. Though it was early spring, they wore only half skirts, a mixture of hide and wool. Their appearance left no doubt that they were Brest’s sons. 

Standing off to the side, behind Brest was Hrólfr’s young bride, Derelie. She held her infant son, Lugos, in her arms while her daughter, Apadeva, stood fiercely beside her. Like the Picts, she wore blue tattoos on her arms. She had different designs which reflected her Ambiani parentage and culture. And like Brest’s sons she was a warrior. Few women in the village weren’t warriors.

Standing near the welcoming party, was a young man a few years older than Hrólfr, named Alfred Ericsson, the son of Eric Haraldsson. Alfred was Rollo’s distant cousin, a Norseman. Alfred’s father had stolen Kettil’s sister in a raid just over twenty years earlier. Though he was kin, there was no familial bond.

Hrólfr gave Derelie an appreciative smile before turning to listen to Brest and his father.

“Brest, good to see you again, old friend,” Kettil began. “All is well?”

“As good as can be expected, Kettil,” Brest answered with a grin.

“I see that the village is prosperous.”

“It’s doing well, Kettil thanks to my council and my eldest son. I have a boon to request of you. With your permission, I would like to move some of my people across the sea to our ancestral lands along the Somme River. Our cousins, the Ambiani could use our help there. That’s the reason for the five boats at the dock. As well, I’m getting too old for constant warfare here against the Irish and the Saxons. I’ll leave my eldest son to serve as Jarl, with your permission of course,” Brest added with a deferring nod to Kettil.

“Do you think it will be any more peaceful in Picardy?” Kettil asked with a hint of amusement twinkling in his eyes.

“With your help, I have no doubt about it becoming more peaceful. Together we could build a more peaceful sanctuary for some of our grandchildren.”

“Let me think on this, my friend. For now, let’s eat and drink. I hope you still have some of that excellent ale your wife makes.”

~

It wasn’t long before most of the company sat at long tables set in the main house. Brest and his council of both Pict and Norse elders had Kettil and his sons, along with two other Norsemen arranged themselves around two long tables in the hall. Kettil sat at the centre of the table. Brest sat at Kettil’s left and Gurim sat at his right side. Women sat at the table as well. Derelie had taken her rightful place beside her husband, Hrólfr. Alfred sat on the other side of Derelie, casting a look of defiance at Hrólfr.

For the rest of the community, and for the warriors who had joined Kettil for the season of viking to come, tables were set up in nearby buildings. 

After more than a few mugs of ale, Hrólfr pulled his young wife onto his lap. Derelie smiled at him, a real smile. She had plans for later in the evening, plans that would hopefully leave her with child once again.

She leaned close and spoke softly, “Rollo, I’m hungry for you to be in my bed. It’s been too long. You will not be disappointed, I promise you,” she added with a wink.

Her smile caused him to look more carefully at her. Seeing the glint in her eyes, he grinned in anticipation of pleasure to follow.

Alfred spoke out just as Hrólfr prepared to take Derelie to her bedchamber.

“Rollo? Did you give up a man’s name? Are you so soft as to give up your real name?” Not satisfied with the insult, he added, “As for your presumed nobility, your father stole this land from my father. You are the son of a common man, not a king at all.”

“What in the name of the gods are you talking about?” roared Hrólfr as he turned to confront his cousin. “You dare slander my father, the true King of the Western Isles?”

“True king? Seriously? You don’t become a king by declaring yourself a king. The Western Isles still belong to my father.”

Alfred’s words shocked both Brest and Kettil whose attention had been drawn to the clash of words further down the table. Before either of them could say a word, Alfred stood and challenged Hrólfr.

“You might be taller, boy, but you are still a child, cousin. You don’t deserve such a fine woman. If she’d only known better, she’d have refused to have you in her bed. She deserves a better man, a real man, a man like me.”

Hearing those words, Hrólfr lost his temper. Moments later, Alfred lay on the dirt, stunned that he had been so easily knocked down. Getting up, still rubbing his jaw, he swore an oath, “You will pay for that, Hrólfr.” Then turning to face the rest at the table, he added, “You will all pay for this insult,” before he left the table.

Kettil gave Brest an angry look.

“Why is Alfred here anyway? You know that his father and I are mortal enemies. What are you up to, Brest?”

“I swear, Kettil, I am not up to anything. He arrived here several days ago. He told me that he had a message to give to you from his father. At the time, it sounded to me as if the message was to sue for peace.”

“So, he didn’t tell you the message?”

“No, Kettil, not yet. Perhaps we have both just received that message.”

~

Hrólfr had never liked his cousin whose father was the legitimate heir to the crown of Norway. Haraldsson claimed Danmǫrk and the lesser Danish kingdoms as part of his kingdom including Kettil’s minor kingdom of the Western Isles.

Although he had drunk too much ale at the feast, Hrólfr’s focus returned as he left his wife’s room. Dawn was still hours away. He opened the door quietly, not wanting to disturb Derelie in her sleep. As he had expected, his father and Brest were still at the table quietly sipping warm beer while sharing occasional words. Others at the table had long ago fallen asleep. Gurim was snoring on a bench along the north wall. Hrólfr joined his father and Brest.

“I will have to kill him, father.”

“I know. The insult to you, to me, and to your wife must be avenged. It is a matter of honour.”

“I will accept his challenge in the morning. This is something that cannot wait,” he added as he fumed.

“Yes, tomorrow morning. But for now, we have to talk.”

Kettil advised Hrólfr of a change in their plans. Kettil and Gurim would take two thirds of the boats back to Danmǫrk to gather a much larger flotilla which would then sail to Møre, Norway to deal with Haraldsson. Rollo was to take the rest of the longboats, including the two boats flying Eric Haraldsson’s banner, to Picardy.

“Why Picardy? There’s not much viking to be done along the river,” Hrólfr protested.

“You aren’t going viking, at least not yet. You are going to take Derelie, your son and daughter, and as many others from this village as you can cram into the boats I am assigning to you. Remember, this was promised when we brought Derelie here. Brest will be your navigator. Once you arrive at the village of Long, you will return Derelie and the children to her mother’s family,” Kettil explained.

“But father … “

“Don’t argue, Hrólfr. I am the king and I have given my word. When you return here, then and only then, you will take your men for a shortened season of viking. I am thinking that there are a few Irish settlements that need pillaging. I will see you in the early winter when Gurim and I return to the Western Isles.”

“Why not send Gurim to take care of this? I should be the one to go with you. I should be the one who presents Alfred’s head.”

“No, Hrólfr. You are the one who must do this. The people in Long and Longpré are now your people, not Gurim’s people. Their safety falls upon you. Don’t worry, there will be more than a few battles yet to come against Haraldsson’s men. Now, go and get some sleep. The last thing we need is for you to lose against Alfred because you were too slow due to fatigue. I want Alfred’s head, not yours.”

Chapter 5

The next morning, Hrólfr didn’t have to worry about finding Alfred and returning the challenge. Alfred stormed into the main room while Hrólfr was breaking his fast with Derelie seated next to him. Gurim still hadn’t recovered from his excesses of the night before. He was still snoring on the bench. Brest was also at the table with his wife and two of her sisters.

“Hrólfr,” Alfred spoke with fierce determination. “I demand satisfaction for your unprovoked physical assault against my person. Be prepared to die. I look forward to sending you headless into the underworld. Valhalla will not be your reward for your death at my hand.”

Hrólfr looked up at the man who was almost four years his senior, and grinned. “In a few moments, Alfred. Don’t be in such a hurry to die. I wish to finish my meal with my wife. I will meet you shortly.”

Then with those words spoken, he turned away from Alfred. A warning look from Derelie had him turn just in time to block a sword strike with his own sword which had been in his lap.

“So, you’re in a hurry to die, cousin? So be it.”

Getting up, Hrólfr moved to a clearing in the room, away from the tables and the benches. Alfred wasted no time in charging, his sword cutting at the air only a fraction from Hrólfr’s cheek. Hrólfr quickly dropped his devil-may-care attitude and transformed into a focused warrior, a dangerous man. As he parried Alfred’s blows, he soon discovered the patterns which Alfred favoured. Ready to end the challenge, Hrólfr slipped in close to Alfred and punched him in the head with the hilt of his sword. Alfred dropped, stunned. Another blow to the head knocked him unconscious.

Dragging his unconscious cousin outside of the main hall, into the yard, Hrólfr tied Alfred to a post with his back exposed. With Alfred coming to, Hrólfr delayed the taking of his life. He waited until word of his victory over Alfred drew more people to witness the end. Gurim had appeared along with Kettil. Then, satisfied that enough were present, including some of Alfred’s own men, Hrólfr turned to those who had come to witness the final blow that would end Alfred’s life.

“Alfred has dishonoured my wife. He has dishonoured the name of my father. He has slandered both Danes and Picts. I claim his head as payment for the dishonour.”

The crowd nodded their agreement. A few of the Norsemen were noticeably upset to see their leader tied to a post. They accepted the fate of their leader as justified, but the scene before them boded ill. Hrólfr walked up to his cousin and sliced open his back down the centre. Then, he broke Alfred’s ribs, eliciting a scream from Alfred. Peeling back the ribs, Hrólfr pulled out the lungs which lay like wings on the ribs. By this time, Alfred had become silent, deathly silent. Then, with one mighty swing, Alfred’s head rolled off to land in the dirt. Hrólfr gave the head a gentle kick so that it rolled to stop at Gurim’s feet.

“A present for you, brother. See to it that Alfred’s father learns how his son died at the hand of Hrólfr Kettilsson.”

Alfred’s men were given the option of joining Kettil’s band or returning to their overlord, King Haraldsson. To a man, they chose to stay with Kettil. They knew King Haraldsson would have them all killed for allowing his son to be executed. Still, Kettil didn’t trust any of these men, and was certain more than a few of them would willingly die in the attempt to kill Hrólfr who had executed their leader using the Blood Eagle.

~

“Hrólfr, you will be leaving at the next high tide,” Kettil instructed his youngest son. “The other twelve longboats will be here, the gods willing, later this afternoon. You’ll prepare eleven of our boats, along with the five Pictish boats, for the journey across the water to Picardy. These eleven boats are now yours to command. I will take the remaining boats with me, back to Danmǫrk tomorrow.”

“Are they really going to be mine, father?” Hrólfr asked in surprise. “The boats and the men?”

“Yes, Hrólfr, they are now yours. Just remember to whom you owe allegiance. I am still your king and your father. If I ever have need of you, your men, and your boats; you will answer my call.”

Hrólfr stood tall with a young man’s pride. “Yes, father. I will always give you, my allegiance.”

“Good. Now go, you have much to do before sailing. Oh, and I am assigning Halfdan as your second in command. With him beside you, there will be no question that you are in charge.”

For the rest of the morning, Hrólfr’s men packed the longboats with as many tools and implements, water and food needed for the crossing and for use in Picardy. The Picts who were to go with Hrólfr were divided up between the sixteen boats, rather than have them grouped together. Not all of the Picts were going to go to Picardy. More than half of them would remain in the village with the Norse who were too old or too young for viking. 

Derelie and the children, along with Brest and his wife, were to ride in Hrólfr’s longboat. The livestock and poultry were assigned to the five Pict boats along with their keepers. A core crew for each of these five boats was drawn from the crews of the eleven longboats now under Hrólfr’s command, with a Norseman appointed as captain for each of those longboats.

High tide came in a hurry. Kettil and his remaining men, with Gurim standing beside him, saw Hrólfr’s small flotilla sail off, with the long oars hastening their departure. The other eleven longboats had arrived with the tide and were waiting for their chance to dock and take on supplies.

~

After a period of four days of constant rowing and a week of favourable winds giving the men a rest from the oars, Hrólfr finally reached the mouth of the River Samara, and the tiny community of Saint Valery. They had stopped along the way at a few coastal ports to refresh food and water supplies. Unknown to Hrólfr and his men, Haraldsson had already set sail for the Western Isles in an attempt to claim the islands as an extension of his own kingdom in Norway. A different story was slowly beginning to unfold, one that would change Hrólfr’s destiny forever.

As the longboats entered the River Samara, the pace of travelling began to slow down. Brest stood beside Hrólfr as the boat was rowed against the current. A mild breeze made the rowing less strenuous. Brest watched for the signs which indicated which channel of the river needed to be taken. Every so often, a few scattered dwellings indicated a hamlet. The going was slow as they pushed upriver. The rowers’ pace slowed as they navigated through the maze of lagoons. Finally, Brest pointed out a pair of docks on the northern shore.

“We’re here,” Brest said as he clapped Hrólfr on the shoulder. “Derelie, you are home.”

Hrólfr had planned on a two-day stay before travelling. But first, there was the obligation of reestablishing his position with the Ambiani within the village of Long, and taking his wife and children to Longpré where Derelie’s parents lived.

Leanora and Hugues rushed to greet their daughter and scoop up their grandchildren. Hrólfr didn’t mind for a moment that they hadn’t first greeted him. Hugues, with Apadeva held in the crook of his left arm, greeted Hrólfr. “Thank you, Rollo, for bringing our family back together.”

Hrólfr remembered that here along the River Samara, he was known as Rollo, not Hrólfr. “I am hoping that you will allow Derelie and the children to stay with you while I prepare a home for them.”

“But of course. With your permission my liege, I will show you the proposed location tomorrow morning. If it meets your approval, our men will assist you in constructing the buildings.”

“Tomorrow morning is good,” Hrólfr replied. “The sooner we get started, the sooner all those who have travelled to establish new homes will get to work building.”

Chapter 6

Surprisingly, by the end of August, a sturdy hall had been built with an attached living quarters for Brest’s family, an improvement from the more hastily built community hall that would be at the centre of the village. The assumption was that Rollo and Derelie would eventually take up residence in these lodgings in the future. Derelie and her children were to remain in Long, to live a less conspicuous life with her extended family. Aveline, the village elder of Long, was adamant that Derelie and her children should remain in Long rather than at her parent’s place in Longpré.

Hrólfr had ceased using his birth name and was now comfortable being called Rollo. He walked through the village. Halfdan and Brest walked beside him as he nodded with some satisfaction at the progress being made. The priest in Long had spoken to the Abbot about establishing a church to replace the chapel in the enlarged community. It had been only a matter of weeks before a young priest, Father Philippe was dispatched to ensure that the village of Longpré got the church it needed.

“Are you pleased with what we have done?” Brest asked Rollo.

“I am, but more importantly, my trusted friend, does it please you? After all, this whole village reconstruction was your idea.”

Brest nodded with evident satisfaction.

“I am. Your idea to include Franks, especially tradespeople, will ensure that the village will be prosperous. The location is perfect here.”

Rollo, on the advice of Hugues, Derelie’s father, had spoken to Father Philippe about finding willing French people to build within the growing village, people who would willingly be the tradespeople that every town needs to survive. As well as tradespeople, those willing to farm were also welcome.  The plan was to have this village become more prominent, leaving the village of Long less exposed. The more French people they could get to settle in Longpré, the sooner this plan could come to fruition.

Several of the French families from Long had willingly agreed to relocate when given a plot of prime agricultural land along the river. The village was being built near relatively flat meadows which were not so easily found in Long. Their exodus from Long was quietly appreciated by the Ambiani as they were replaced by a mixture of Pict and Danish families. The French trades people remained in Long along with those who were too established and comfortable to take advantage of a new life and opportunities in Longpré.

Returning to the headman’s hall, Rollo turned to Brest, “Brest, this place is now yours. You are to be the headman. One of your sons will inherit this village as its headman when it is his turn. I do hope that you will serve as headman in my name.”

Brest grinned and replied, “I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ll rule in your name until you decide to claim the role. And I’ll make sure my sons agree to this.”

Rollo clasped Brest’s hand in his in appreciation.

~

The autumn equinox was ending, and the weather became cooler as rain showers became more frequent. Rollo was surprised at the number of people who appeared in the hamlet. More than a hundred others who hadn’t sailed with Rollo, nor were residents of Longpré, appeared and joined in the seasonal celebrations. Most of the village residents were a mixture of Picts, Danes, and Franks. A few Flemish people were also visible.

Like the Picts, many of the local people were clothed in as little as possible despite the weather. The exception were those Franks who were tradesmen and landowners who used their clothing to distinguish themselves from the others whom they viewed as socially, and even racially inferior.

Rollo could now see differences between the Ambiani and the Picts, though the differences were minor. There was no doubt that the two peoples shared a common ancestry. He was in Picardy, the land of the Ambiani. And now, a small part of that land was his and would remain his through his son Lugos, and grandsons, who would be half Norse and half Ambiani.

Three days after the feast that had accompanied the blessing of the village, the consecration of the new church, and the installation of Brest as its headman, by the Abbot of Abbéville, Rollo left the village of Long to return downstream to the sea. There were battles to wage. It would be several years before he would be able to return to the village, his village, more years than even he would have ever guessed.

Chapter 7

“Rollo,” Halfdan spoke as the lead boat carrying the two men, “I hope we do a bit of viking along the way. The men need reminding that they are warriors first and foremost.”

“Agreed,” Hrólfr replied before adding, “It’s Hrólfr not Rollo. Rollo is Frank, not Danish.”

Leading his flotilla along the coast of Frisia, Hrólfr made sure to stop periodically. His men needed the chance to let loose, to engage in viking adventures. The months spent on land enlarging the settlement of Longpré hadn’t been easy for him or his men. They were warriors, not farmers.

There wasn’t much treasure to be won on their way back to the Western Isles, as most of the settlements they passed had been sacked too often. The coast had suffered too many Danish and Norse invasions over the past fifty years.

For Hrólfr, though, there wasn’t any expectation of treasure. He saw each of these sorties as opportunities to have his men stay positive and hungry for more as they made their way towards his father’s kingdom. Hrólfr was wise enough to know that the men had followed him because they were loyal to his father, Kettil. Hrólfr’s task was to have them become loyal to him despite his youth. It was rare that a seventeen-year-old became a leader of a viking expedition.

Crossing the sea to reach Scotland, he stopped at a river town called Aberdeen. The town had been a frequent and favourite stopping point for travel both to and from his father’s kingdom. As they approached the docks, Halfdan noticed something amiss. The usual bustle of the port town was missing.

“We need to find out what is going on here before we allow the men to leave the boats,” Halfdan suggested. “I don’t like what I am seeing here.”

“We need to take the fleet upriver a league or two and wait for darkness to fall before we enter the town,” Hrólfr added. “We will more easily be able to discover what is going on.”

“It should be a small force, say about five men,” Halfdan suggested.

Hrólfr agreed that a very small group of men would have a better chance of mingling in the town to find out what was going on.

As dusk began to deepen into night, Hrólfr, Halfdan, and three other men entered the village on foot wearing inconspicuous clothing, including hooded cloaks. They followed along the river road past closed buildings searching for the Inn of the Flying Dragon, an Inn that had been their main meeting place alongside the river in the past though better inns were to be found further from the river’s edge.

At the Inn, they edged in as unobtrusively as possible while a few drunks wobbled out the door to take a piss on the bank of the river. Hrólfr’s size was noticed. However, that interest soon faded as the call to urinate took precedence. The five men sat at a table at the edge of the serving room, a small table that was tucked into a corner. Halfdan nodded his approval of the location. He ordered mugs of ale by holding up one hand showing his thumb and fingers. There was no need to speak to get service in the noisy tavern.

Hrólfr gave a start when he spotted Thórólfr sitting at a large table with at least eight others. Thórólfr nodded to Hrólfr in recognition. Seeing him, Hrólfr let his gaze quickly go over the rest of the patrons at the Inn, searching for his father and brother. He was surprised that they weren’t at Thórólfr’s table, and even more surprised not to see them anywhere within the inn.

Within moments, Thórólfr approached Hrólfr’s table dragging a stool with him.

“He’s not here, Hrólfr.”

“Where is he? I can’t remember the last time I ever saw you without him being at your side,” Hrólfr said, with concern in his voice.

“Haraldsson has murdered both your father and your brother. Not satisfied, he has declared you as a murderer as punishment for the use of a Blood Eagle execution.”

“How did that happen? When did that happen?” Hrólfr blurted out in surprise.

“Three weeks ago, in Danmǫrk. Before that, Haraldsson had seized the Western Isles during our absence.”

“What about my father’s men and longboats? Is everything lost?”

“No, not everything. I have scattered our remaining boats and men along the coast to the south. Haraldsson controls the north and all the islands. He dares not to come further south. He fears the Saxons.”

“How did you survive and escape?”

“Fate and the gods are my only guesses,” Thórólfr stated with a shrug. “I have managed to gather about twenty-five longboats and more than eight hundred men. Everyone is waiting for you to replace your father. All of us want revenge.”

Chapter 8

It took two weeks for Thórólfr to gather the boats and men. Finally, with a flotilla of thirty-six longboats, they made their way across the sea to Rotta. From there, Hrólfr headed south. With these numbers of men and boats, he had visions of launching a surprise attack on Paris though it was late in the season. Typically, such attacks were made at the beginning of the viking season, in late spring and early summer.

Though the men would have rather attacked Haraldsson, Hrólfr knew that they would never survive such an undertaking. Haraldsson would be waiting and expecting just such an attack. These men who had just committed to following him as their leader needed something to celebrate, something to give them some measure of pride. And a viking victory was something to celebrate, a victory to ease the sting of their losses of friends, family, and home.

The plan was to travel to Harfleur, then to follow the Seine River to Paris. The stories of Ragnar Lothbrok’s success twenty years earlier, had created a hunger in many Norsemen to match, if not surpass the successes of the legendary Ragnar Lothbrok.

Having lost his father and brother, and the Kingdom of the Western Isles, Hrólfr wanted more than plunder, silver, and gold. His objective was to carve out a part of Francia to make a new homeland for his followers. He knew that a few villages along the River Samara wouldn’t ever give him that homeland.

So it was, in the autumn of 876, that Hrólfr reached the mouth of the Seine River with a party of thirty-six warships. Each longboat carried forty fearless fighting Danes. The winds were favourable as they sailed for the mouth of the Seine River.

Once the warships entered the river itself, their first stop was Harfleur, a thriving port. A treaty of sorts had been in place with the headman of the settlement. The port was too valuable as a supply depot for longer voyages to risk its destruction in raids. All Norsemen honoured the unwritten treaty. Hrólfr had given his men leave to visit the inns and brothels, warning them to avoid bloodshed.

“Drink your fill and enjoy the wenches which are always a treat in Harfleur,” he ordered. “Just remember that rape and pillage and murder will be punished with death, not an honourable death in combat, but a death that will deny you entrance to Valhalla.”

Halfdan was ordered to keep an eye on the men and to intervene should things get out of hand. Thórólfr went with Hrólfr to spend the evening with the Jarl, the headman of the port town.

“Ah, young Hrólfr,” greeted the Jarl, Isaac le Breton, “where is your father and brother? Isn’t it late in the season to be out viking?”

Hrólfr turned to Thórólfr who answered, “Both are dead, murdered by King Haraldsson. Hrólfr is now commander of what remains of his father’s boats and men.”  

“This is dire news, indeed. I never could stand that man. He’s an arrogant prick who thinks his shit doesn’t stink,” Isaac stated with a sneer. “I suppose that means the Western Isles are no longer in your control, Sire?”

Hrólfr arched his eyebrows with being addressed at the honorific of “Sire.” With all that had happened, the truth of that statement, though flattering, was also a heavy burden.

The rest of the evening passed pleasurably with both Thórólfr and Hrólfr given the choice of which woman would warm their bed for the night.

* * *

The second stop was in a quiet and large bay along the river, where they lay at anchor the next night. The next stop before Rouen came at Jumièges, after a hard day of interspersed use of the sails and oars. The village of Jumièges appeared to be abandoned. Hrólfr went ashore with just the men from his longboat. The remaining boats held their position close to the shore. The land in front of the palisade had been cleared for pasture and farmland, along a small bay of the river, making for easy access to the front gates. The sounds of chickens and a few cows on the other side of the palisade told the truth about the presence of people behind the walls. Hrólfr could almost smell their fear.

“Halt,” he ordered.

His men obeyed and instinctively arranged themselves for defense.

“Halfdan, hold my shield and axe.”

Hrólfr walked closer, another ten paces. Holding only an enormous hammer as a weapon, he called out, “Open your doors and I promise you your village will not be sacked and burnt to the ground. If not, your walls will fall, and we’ll erase the fact that you and your village have ever existed.”

The threat hung in the air for a long moment before a voice replied, “I take you at your word, the doors will be opened.”

Hrólfr motioned for Halfdan and Thórólfr to advance with him, while the rest formed a threatening presence in the background. The doors opened and the man who had spoken, stood framed at the entrance. Hrólfr strode forward to speak with the man, who he had assumed was the village’s headman.

“Who is the one man who threatens your leadership in this community?” he demanded catching the headman by surprise. “Every leader has enemies. I have enemies, you have enemies. And there is always one enemy who is the most dangerous of all our enemies.”

The headman was surprised with the question. “Why my lord? I don’t understand.”

“Your real enemy is not facing you right now, headman. Your enemy is already inside your village. Who is he?” Hrólfr gave the man the fiercest glower which had the headman shrink back in fear.

“My lord, it is Blaise, my brother. He is my half-brother.”

Hrólfr studied the man in front of him briefly before calling out, “Blaise! Come forward or be forever known as a coward!”

A man who showed little in the way of fear, came forward from the front rank of men who had gathered behind their headman. “I am Blaise, Lord. I am no coward. The coward is my brother, Jean.”

Jean looked at Blaise with hatred before turning to face Hrólfr, fawning as he spoke, “My Lord, as you say, every rightful leader has enemies. Blaise has no respect for authority and deals in falsehoods. He is a man not to be trusted.”

Hrólfr gave the headman a frown which sent a wave of fear coursing through Jean’s body. The fear was evident in a slight tremble in the man’s hands that he nervously wrung.

“Both of you, on your knees while I consider what you have told me. One of you will never rise.”

Jean began to protest as he hastened to his knees. Blaise stared defiantly at Hrólfr, refusing to bend his knee. Noticing a growing puddle under the headman, Hrólfr had made his choice. With a mighty swing of his hammer, Jean’s skull was crushed, with his brains and flecks of blood spraying Blaise, who stood in shock.

“Blaise, you are now the headman of this village.” Looking past Blaise, Hrólfr addressed his next words to the men just inside the entrance. “Is there any man present who protests my decision? Blaise is now your headman, and he has my protection.”

Not a single voice rose in opposition to the giant of a man who had just killed their leader with one blow of his hammer.

“Good, then it is settled. Blaise, you are the headman of this village. Serve me well or you will join your half-brother in Hel.”

~

A few hours later, while sitting around a fire near the shore of the river, Halfdan asked about the strange scene that he had witnessed earlier.

“Think, Halfdan. We will have to return this way on our way back. I don’t want needless enemies. I am thinking of a larger prize for us in the future. I want to take Paris and make it pay us more than it did to Ragnar Lothbrok.”

“So? What does today have to do with that?”

“Making our enemies our allies will allow us to face less opposition, lose less men. Blaise and his town will have a vested interest in having our back. It’ll work, believe me, Halfdan.”

Thórólfr nodded his approval of Hrólfr’s words. “Your father was right. He predicted that you would become the most successful of all Danes.”

Hrólfr looked at Thórólfr with surprise. “Did he really say that?”

“That and more. He predicted that your name would become engraved in history, that your bloodline will be that of kings down the generations to come.”

Chapter 9

As their longboats approached the settlement of Rouen the next morning, it was obvious that many people were trying to escape the settlement. With so many longboats filling the river on the approach to Rouen, the fear in the city was palpable.

“Look at them flee,” snorted Halfdan in disgust.

“Just remember, before we pillage the city, we first kill the men and then loot the buildings. Remember as well, that the women and children will be our greatest treasure here. Don’t kill any women or children. Raping will be allowed in good time, but only when the battle is won, not until then. Do you understand? I will kill any man who defies my commands.”

~

The men approached the town’s wooden gates, killing those men who had been caught outside of the gates before the gates were closed against the approaching Norsemen. No warrior stopped to engage in senseless slaughter of women and children, or those too old to be a threat. Still, screams of fear soon filled the air. Fear was doing the work of causing those behind the walls to panic. They believed that the same fate would soon befall them. It had been more than a decade since the last Nordic invaders had terrorized the town.

Blood sprayed as axes and swords carved a path towards the front gates of Rouen. Hrólfr’s men didn’t slow their march though they were sorely tempted. They followed Hrólfr ‘s instructions and strode purposely forward, with the mass of their fourteen hundred warriors arrayed in deep ranks.

While Halfdan threatened from the front, Hrólfr and Thórólfr led a small contingent of men away from the gates, circling to the left, just inside the tree line so that they couldn’t be easily seen. Hrólfr was certain that all eyes would be directed at the large invading army at the front gates. He knew that the town’s defences would be strongest facing the river. He was equally as certain that the weakest point would be on the opposite wall with the forest just behind it.

Hrólfr spotted a small gate and knew this would be the best way into the town. Too late, with the first hammer blows shattering the gate, the defenders realised that their enemy would be coming through their back door. The hammers worked to destroy the gate and a sizable portion of the wall. The screams of fear filled the air within the walls as more than a hundred Norsemen rushed through the opening.

The defenders were caught in a bind. Should they rush to defend against the smaller force that had broken in through the back gate, the main force before the main gate would then batter down that gate. That indecision was all that it took for Hrólfr and his smaller band to rush through the dirt lanes towards the main gates, killing as they went.

Less than two hours later, Hrólfr’s men had killed most of the able-bodied defenders, though a few did escape, including the military commander of the town who had gone to seek help from the military leader of the Breton March, Hugh the Abbot.

“Why’d you let them escape?” asked Halfdan. “We could have caught them.”

“Think, Halfdan. They will bring more men back with them. Then, we’ll kill them too. Well, almost all of them. And then, it’ll be time for me to bargain with whomever is left alive.”

“Why bargain at all?”

“Why for the land itself. I have explained this to you before. We’ begin to carve out our new home right here. It all begins here in Rouen. We will control more land and will be bigger and richer than my father’s Kingdom of the Western Isles.”

~

The final battle had been waged and as he had predicted, Hrólfr stood victorious. Surprisingly, the loss of Norsemen had been far less than expected. And, that fact had been celebrated by his men who now had treasure. As with all major battles between the forces of the Norse and the Franks, the victor would claim spoils. Hrólfr met with Hugh the Abbot in one of the churches, which had been spared.

“The King will pay handsomely for your retreat from Rouen,” Hugh said, as the post-battle negotiations began.

“I know that King Charles is an honourable man. However, I don’t seek to leave this table with thousands of pounds of silver and gold. I have a different kind of reward in mind.”

“Pray tell,” Hugh uttered in surprise. “Not gold and silver?”

“Of course, gold and silver, at least some gold and silver. After all, my men need to be given some spoils of war. I only want enough coinage to satisfy their immediate hunger. Rather than gold and silver for my share, I want land, this land and this city. In return, I will prevent other Norsemen from attacking Francia through the lands the King will cede to me.”

Hugh paled hearing the demands given by Hrólfr. He knew that King Charles needed these latest incursions into Francia to be stopped. The King didn’t have the forces to compel the Vikings to cease raiding and despoiling his country. Hugh sent a trusted messenger, with a protective company of soldiers, to the King with Hrólfr’s demands. 

“And now, Lord Hrólfr, we will wait to hear back from the King. And, as promised, your men will stand down.”

“Of course, Lord Hugh. After all, if things go as they should, we will soon be neighbours.”

Chapter 10

Eric Haraldsson had failed to kill the man who had executed his son. Hearing that Hrólfr had gone south, into Francia, King Haraldsson knew his enemy was out of reach. However, he had heard that Hrólfr had a son of his own. Not satisfied that he had exacted revenge with killing Kettil and Gurim, the king needed more. Until he had the chance to kill Hrólfr himself, he would kill all of Hrólfr’s children and his wife.

While Hrólfr sailed down the Seine River towards Rouen, King Haraldsson sailed down the Somme River. He stopped at Abbéville to speak with the Abbot.

Abbot LeCurt met with the leader of the Viking horde in main hall. He couldn’t tell one Viking from another, but he did know that this man was more dangerous than any other Viking he had ever met. Not to meet with him was an invitation to having Abbéville wiped off the map.

“I am looking for Hrólfr, the Dane.”

“He passed here weeks ago, Lord,” the Abbot replied. “He was heading west.”

“Yes, I know. I should have said I am looking for his family. I have business to conclude with the family.”

The Abbot wondered what kind of business Vikings had with each other. He was relieved that this Viking wasn’t demanding anything from him. Perhaps he was like Hrólfr, the man he had met at the consecration of the new church in Longpré.

With a sigh of relief, the Abbot spoke up. “The family is in a tiny hamlet called Longpré. At least I think that is where they are. The headman, Brest the Pict, could tell you more.”

“Thank you, Abbot. You have spared your abbey and the town. Of course, I do expect recompense for the promise to keep my men from pillaging your town.”

The Abbot blanched. This man was nothing like Hrólfr. Seeing the hate now evident in the King’s eyes, the Abbot realised that he had just given Hrólfr’s family a death sentence with the disclosure of their location. Without thinking, he quickly made the sign of the cross, an action which Haraldsson took as a sign of the Abbot’s relief at being spared.

“As you deserve, my Lord. Please wait while I gather coins of gold and silver for you.”

“Have them delivered to me, later this afternoon. I intend on leaving your town once you have done so. Delay and my men will get bored and take it out on your people.”

~

“Lord, the word on the street is that Hrólfr’s wife is in Long, the village before Longpré. She is with her parents and her children there. Brest is in Longpré as the Abbot told you,” explained Cnut Thorvaldsson, Haraldsson’s second in command.

“I will stop at Long with ten longboats. You go on to Longpré with the rest. I want Brest’s head. You can kill his family and pillage the town. I will meet you there when I am done in Long.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Cnut spoke with a fist firmly planted on his chest in salute.

~

Most of Aveline’s extended family had disappeared into the forests, long before Haraldsson and his men had arrived at the village of Long. Other than the French inhabitants and a scattering of English and Flemish, as well as a few older Danes, there were only a few Ambiani left. Aveline had foreseen the coming storm. There was no escaping the hate and revenge that was coming. Word had already been sent to the Ambiani in the villages of Longuet and Longpré.

It was unlikely that any young mother with children remaining in the villages would survive. It was Aveline’s responsibility to ensure that none of the women and children killed would be Ambiani.

~

“My Lord, it has been done as you have said,” reported Arnst, a veteran of many campaigns. Killing in battle was an honourable act, however this killing of women and children and old people who had no way of defending themselves had left a bitter taste in his mouth. Arnst kept his thoughts to himself as he knew that Haraldsson would swiftly execute him, denying him the chance of going to Valhalla. A warrior needed to die in battle to win Valhalla.

“Are you sure that you have killed them all?”

“Yes, all my Lord. Women, children, and everyone else that was to be found in the village of Longpré.”

“Good. Now, burn the damn place to the ground. This village of Long will suffer the same fate.”

Eric Haraldsson was still seething with rage. The sacrifice of a complete village didn’t bring him any relief. His son was never coming back. At least Hrólfr’s children would never reach Valhalla either.

~

Hugues stood beside his wife Leanora as Aveline wept at the needless slaughter of innocents. The Ambiani had been hunted in the past, suffering untold numbers of deaths. Their tribe did not number very many in comparison to the past days when they were the owners of the river valley. There were too many people, too many who coveted the river valley. Their tribe had dwindled. Survival was paramount.

Lifting her head, Aveline continued to let her tears course down her shrunken cheeks. “Derelie, you must take your children deep into the forests. You will need a new name. The world will only know that Derelie and her children were massacred by King Haraldsson, a vengeance killing. Already, that message has been sent to Abbéville and Amiens. Haraldsson must believe he has succeeded. Derelie, your children Apadeva, and Lug are no more.”

Derelie nodded her response. It would be as her grandmother had instructed.

Chapter 11

Hrólfr did win concessions of land from the King of Francia, not as much land as he had asked for, but a good beginning none-the-less. The victory was bittersweet as it hadn’t been long before he heard of the massacres in Long and Longpré. Derelie and his son and daughter had perished at the hands of Haraldsson and his men.

The news hardened him. He knew that he didn’t have the men to mount an attack on Haraldsson in Norway. There was little he could do, at least until he had consolidated his hold on this new land in Francia. He needed to gather all the enemies of Haraldsson to him and secure the support of the French King for that confrontation.

Hrólfr spent the next two years solidifying his new holdings in Francia, a task that involved battles between those currently holding the towns along the Atlantic coast between Harfleur and Saint Valery en Caux. With each port secured, he opened the door to Francia a little wider for his countrymen and other Norsemen from Iceland and Greenland, who had been targeted by the Norwegian King. The Norse and Danes began to settle in the communities along the coast and along the rivers flowing inland.

In 885 Hrólfr left his fortress at Rouen, his capital, to attack Paris. Like the Vikings before him, he wanted a rich payoff. Unlike the past raids, this time the city fortifications of Paris weren’t breached. Despite what looked like an impending defeat with the arrival of King Charles, Hrólfr was encouraged to sail further up the Seine River and attack Burgundy. King Charles also gave Hrólfr a sizable fortune and the promise of more land in Normandy as payment for taking care of the problems with Burgundy.

In 889, Hrólfr led a strong force of men to Bayeux in the southwest, not too distant from the Atlantic coast. Hrólfr approached Bayeux overland, a strategy that caught the Count of Rennes who had control of the city, by surprise.

The campaign was meant to enrich Hrólfr’s coffers. The battle was fierce with loss of many men on both sides of the battle. And, as with all Hrólfr’s campaigns, women and children were spared. However, the town itself was, for the most part, demolished. Once inside the Count’s castle in Bayeux, he saw the daughter of the Count de Rennes, who was nine years old, a girl named Poppa.

Seeing the girl surrounded by a bevy of older girls and women, as well as another girl near her own age, Hrólfr knew that this was the Count’s daughter. He studied her closely and saw a surprising level of determined resistance in the girl, unlike the cowering women who stood huddled just behind the girl who stood firm, though quivering in fear.

“And who are you who would dare to confront me?” Hrólfr bellowed with pretended ferocity which had the effect of having the women retreat even further behind the girl. Only her agemate stood nearby though visibly afraid and shaking.

“I am Poppa, my father is the ruler of Bayeux. And who are you, barbarian?” she demanded with a voice that was used to being obeyed.

“I am your new master, Rollo. I am no barbarian, child. Your father’s city has been laid to waste, your father is dead, and the blood of your army lies thick in the lanes. There is no one left in Bayeux to save you.”

“And I suppose like all heathens, you are going to rape all of us and then kill us. Pigs! Pagans! I’d rather die right now than lie with a monster such as you.”

Despite her words, Poppa was as terrified as the other women. Rollo was huge. She had never seen such a big man. However, he wasn’t as fierce as his voice suggested. She could see it in his eyes which betrayed his intelligence and even a bit of humour.

“Don’t think for a moment that I would rape a child like you. All you would be good for is to be one of my lesser servants, since it is obvious you don’t know how to work. As for killing women and children, it’s not going to happen. Consider all of you now as trophies. You will be taken to my fortress in Rouen. As for raping? Well, that doesn’t extend to children. However, for the ladies? Well, you know the expression, men will be men, especially after a victory.”

With those words spoken the women began to scream in fear.

“Don’t worry my ladies, it won’t happen today. Once we have returned to Rouen, you will be divvied up among my men.”

Rollo took Poppa back to his fortress in Rouen. Three years later, Rollo married her following Danish traditions. A son was born to them in 893 in Rouen. He was named Guillaume.

Rollo couldn’t relax in Rouen as there were enemies on all sides, enemies including the Norsemen under King Haraldsson who wanted what Rollo had claimed as his. The same Norsemen were constantly attacking the Franks outside of Rollo’s territory, as well as the Bretons to the southwest.

In 911, King Charles III signed a formal document granting Rollo the territory of Normandy based on two conditions. The first condition was that Rollo would actively assist King Charles III in the defence of Francia. The second condition was that Rollo, and his children would be baptised. It was the beginning of a new era.

In 912, Rollo was christened Robert, the first Count of Normandy. His son was christened Guillaume.

Chapter 12

Guillaume continued to learn the old ways of viking, the art of Norse and Danish warfare from his father, as well as the adaptations to European warfare. To Guillaume’s advantage, he also learned the French ways from his mother, Poppa. Guillaume was determined to be a new type of leader, bound to not just one heritage. After all, he was half French.

When not learning the art of warfare at his father’s side, Guillaume made many trips with his father, Rollo, travelling down the Seine, Bresle, Arques, and Somme Rivers where many of the Norse had settled. Rollo explained that some of the settlements along the Somme dated back to Guillaume’s grandfather’s early voyages. Guillaume loved hearing the stories of his grandfather, Kettil the Flatnose.

The Somme valley was the only region they visited which was not under Rollo’s command. The Somme River valley was a land that seemed to always be in turmoil with competing forces such as the Franks, the Saxons, the Norse, and the Flemish alternately claiming ownership. Wisely, Rollo ensured that he had the support of the Church whenever he entered the Somme River valley. The Christian Church was the true ruler of the Somme.

In 925, Rollo travelled up the Somme River with four longboats, a number that would not be seen as threatening. The rest of his customary twenty longboats were left near the mouth of the river. As expected, Rollo contributed to the coffers of the various prelates along the river system. With the tolls paid, the priests offered prayers for their safe passage. Rollo still had no use for the Church despite having been baptised fourteen years earlier. Being a Christian in name was the price he paid for the backing of the Christian King of Francia.

“Guy, look at this valley. I first saw it when I was thirteen. It was then when I first was called Rollo.”

“I didn’t know that, Papa. Why?”

Rollo considered just how much he should tell his son. It then dawned on him that the truth was the best answer, especially since Derelie and their two children were dead.

“My father, your grandfather Kettil, made an arrangement with the Ambiani who lived in the valley for peace which had me marry one of them. We had two children. I had to have a French name, so I was given the name of Rollo. When King Haraldsson killed my family and so many others, I returned to using my Danish name. When I met your mother, I realised that I had chosen France as my homeland.”

~

“Papa?” Guillaume asked, once they had secured the longboat to a piling, beside the thriving market town of Longpré, “There seem to be a lot of villages with the word ‘Long’ here along the river. Why is that?”

“Well, the village on the hill we passed earlier was called Long when I first came. This place was called Longum Pratum which translates to Longpré in French. That’s the real story. There is a different story told before both towns were burnt to the ground.”

Curious, Guillaume probed. “What is that story?”

“Well, when I returned with my wife and two children, and had the town enlarged to be a home for my family and the Danes and Norse who came to the valley with me, the people here remarked that it was hard to keep up with me when I walked as my steps were so long. They soon began to nickname me Rollo de long pas, and that got shortened to Rollo du Long.”

“Of course, it was all fiction. But you did see how the people in Long saw me as their true leader despite the fact that I have never actually led them.”

“Now, I can see why we’re always made welcome in these villages,” Guillaume spoke with understanding.

~

Guillaume had taken advantage of the warm welcome that had been given to them in both Longuet and Long, their last two stops.

As they left their boat at Longpré, Rollo knew that his son had an appetite for women, so he reaffirmed his instructions given at all their other stops. “Just a reminder, Guy, make sure no one can make a claim on you. You don’t want a bunch of bastards running around who will grow up thinking they should be the next Count of Normandy.”

Chapter 13

“My that’s a long sword that you carry, Guillaume,” a beautiful young woman with dark hair remarked. As Rollo had mentioned, the women of Longpré were indeed willing to spread their legs for Guillaume.

“Which sword are you referring to,” Guillaume laughed in return. He had just bedded the granddaughter of the inn’s owner.

“Does it matter,” laughed Acelynn. “Both are ridiculously long. I shall call you Guillaume de Longue-Épée, Long Sword.”

For the next few days, Guillaume spent his nights with Acelynn and his days with his father. On the third day, his father took him to meet with a group of Ambiani. It was a strange journey which had taken them away from the river into the oak forests.

“What you are going to see, Guillaume, must be kept secret. Our family has a compact with the Ambiani, a compact set in place by your grandfather.”

Guillaume noticed how his father had used his full name, a sign that this was serious.

“Yes, father,” he answered.

“You will be required to re-affirm the oath my father swore and which I swore when I married into the Ambiani clan. This is not an option.”

“I will do as you command, father.”

~

Rollo and Guillaume completed the tour of the Somme River and hurried back to the estate in Rouen. Another battle was brewing. It would be another thirteen years before Guillaume would find himself once again back in the village of Longpré.

With their departure from the village, a different story was unfolding.

“Are you sure he impregnated you?” demanded Lana, Acelynn’s grandmother. “It is critical. That man’s seed will ensure that our family, the Ambiani will survive.”

“Yes Seammhair, yes Grandmother,” Acelynn laughed. “He spurted his seed into me several times. And, he had a lot of seed, believe me.”

Lana, Aveline’s daughter, gave her head a shake. “You didn’t have to enjoy it so much. What would your mother think? Well, if you are right, we’ll have to find you a husband, and soon, so the baby won’t be called a bastard.”

“What makes you think I enjoyed it, Grandmother. As for finding a husband, I’d rather not. I’ve been thinking about that. Since the idea is to eventually have Guillaume acknowledge this son-to-be as his own son, another man in the picture will work against that purpose. However, if I am a single mother, then it would be much easier to accomplish. Besides, as you well know, I don’t like men as bed partners. I don’t want to have more babies. Give me the uncomplicated love of a woman any day, discretely of course.”

~

In the early winter of 926, a baby was born to Acelynn. And as predicted, the baby was a boy. She named him after his father, Guillaume de Longue-Épée.

~

As planned, Guillaume succeeded his father as ruler of Normandy. That succession didn’t come without others trying to wrest land and control away from Guillaume. Francia was a kingdom in almost constant turmoil. Guillaume took a Breton captive named Sprota, as his concubine. Because of the constant warfare, he sent her to a safe location. In 932, she gave birth to a boy, they named Richard, a boy who would one day become the third Count of Normandy.

There was a brief window of opportunity for Guillaume to revisit the Somme River valley in the spring of 938. It was the first time back in the valley since he had become the Count of Normandy. He found himself again in the village of Longpré. Acelynn was now the owner of the inn in which he had stayed in the past. She was still as he remembered her. However, she had a son. When Guillaume laid eyes on the boy, he was shocked. The youth looked like him. Already at the age of twelve the boy was showing signs that he would be a tall and strong man like his father.

Looking at the boy with surprise, he turned to Acelynn with a question in his eyes, a question he didn’t want to voice. She nodded in affirmation. This was his son. Guillaume knew that his life as ruler of Normandy wouldn’t allow him to claim the boy and raise him as his son and become the next ruler of Normandy. He had a son called Richard that was his heir. Yet, he couldn’t just dismiss the boy. His son deserved better.

“Acelynn, what did you name him?”

“Why Guillaume of course, after his father. You were my first and only love, Guillaume. I have not taken another man into my bed, nor married. Thanks to my grandmother, I have this inn with which to make our living.”

“You know I can’t claim him as my son, Acelynn. If I do, he’d likely be assassinated. I don’t know what I can do for him.”

“I have an idea,” Acelynn began. “You can use your influence and power behind the scenes to have him become a knight. As such, he can support you and your future heir. With time, he could even become a Lord, perhaps the first Lord of Longpré. Our two separate families would thrive, and no one would ever be the wiser. It’s all about blood supporting blood.”

Guillaume acknowledged that she was right. His son deserved to be a knight, a noble in his own right. With a promise to make it all happen, he once again took Acelynn to bed wondering if he would father another child with her.

Chapter 14

With Guillaume’s departure, Acelynn took their son on a journey to the north, leaving the inn in the hands of a trusted couple, who, like her, were descendants of the Ambiani. Their destination was a clearing in the forest that could only be discovered with a guide. Acelynn had relayed a message to meet the guide just outside of the village of Long, at the edge of the forest. The travel to Long was by a horse-drawn wagon.

“Guy,” Acelynn spoke as they neared the tiny village, “We will be staying the night with your uncle Raoul and aunt Brigitte. Tomorrow, we will go to another place with Uncle Raoul and another person. We are going to visit a place where my grandmother lived when she was your age. We have many family relations there. I want you to listen and learn from them.”

“That sounds like fun,” smiled Guillaume Jr. “None of my friends ever get to go anywhere.”

“Ah, but this journey is to be our secret. You can tell your friends about visiting your cousins in Long, but not about any of the rest of our adventure. You’ll learn why when it is time. And yes, it will be fun,” Acelynn promised with a smile as she hugged her son who was already taller than she was.

~

Before going to Raoul’s house, Acelynn took young Guillaume to the headman’s house. Hugues du Long was the son Rollo thought was dead. Hugues was already a grandfather. He had been renamed many years earlier as a baby.

His eldest daughter had married a local Frenchman, and they had a brood of several children already, none of whom he could or would name as his heir as they were all girls. Hugues’ youngest daughter had married a local Celt who had a thriving business as a carpenter in the village of Long. They had recently become parents to a set of identical twins, girls. Hugues had hopes that perhaps their next child would be a boy who could then become his heir. Hugues had been told that there would be a male from the family who would become his heir.

“Ah, young Acelynn. It is good to see you again.” Turning to look at the boy standing by her side, Hugues smiled as he included Guillaume in his welcome.

“Good to see you again, Sir Hugues. I have paid our rents to your bailiff and hope that all is well with you,” Acelynn said.

“Other than worries about who will inherit the role of headman, my life is good. Did you hear about the twins? They look like their mother,” he said with a smile.

“Girls are good,” she grinned. “Believe me. Now, I am making the journey to see our family in the forest. Do you have any words for me to deliver to the council?”

“I’ll have my bailiff prepare a package for the elders. As for a message, nothing at this time. Please reassure them that they are, and will remain, protected and honoured.”

Turning to Guillaume, he added, “Could you wait here while I discuss something important with your mother?”

Guillaume nodded, still in awe of the old man whom he had not met before, an important man.

“Walk with me, Acelynn.”

Once out of earshot, Hugues spoke in a low voice so as to not be heard. “He looks like his father.  If only I could claim him as my rightful heir, my worries about the future would be considerably eased.”

“You can’t have him appear as your nephew. You know that, Hugues. I was there when the council spoke about this following Guillaume’s birth. His future has yet to be told to us. Perhaps this trip will tell me more about Guillaume.”

“Perhaps there will be another way to have him become my heir,” suggested Hugues.

~

Acelynn returned to her sister’s home at the edge of the village. The next morning, at first light, her brother-in-law, Raoul took Acelynn and Guillaume into the forest to a small natural pasture where a woman emerged from the trees. Young Guillaume was surprised to see the woman appear as if out of nowhere. She was taller than his mother, though she had the same dark hair. He was surprised mostly because the woman wore only a skirt and carried a long spear. Her face and arms were marked with tattoos that swirled. But it was her breasts that caught and held his attention.

“Anilid,” Raoul spoke as he clasped her upper arm in greeting, which she matched as she clasped his arm in return. “You remember Acelynn.”

Acelynn smiled at the warrior in front of her, a smile that was shared. “Anilid, this is my son, Guillaume. Will you take us to the circle, so he can meet his family and learn his fate?” Turning to look at Guillaume, she saw that he was still staring at Anilid’s breasts. She wasted little time in giving him a cuff on the side of his head.

“He looks like his father,” Anilid remarked with a hint of a smile that caught the edges of her eyes. “And it appears that isn’t the only thing he has inherited from his father,” she added with a laugh. “The elders are waiting. Let’s hasten to meet them.”

Two hours later, the four entered a small meadow surrounded by an extensive oak forest. At the northern edge of the meadow was an ancient oak tree. In the centre of the meadow stood a ring of stones that appeared to be older than the majestic oak tree. Within the circle of stones, stood an altar, not unlike that which could be found in any church with the exception that it was bare. Guillaume took all this in while he followed Raoul and Anilid.

Anilid stopped just outside of the circle and waited. Acelynn held her finger to her lips signalling that Guillaume needed to remain silent. He could sense the presence of others, though he couldn’t see anyone, as he peered into the shadows of the oak forest. As if in response to his sensing, figures began to emerge from the shadows. One moment there were only shadows, and the next, the shadows had become humans. One couple, both showing signs of gray in their long hair, approached the group of four.

“Welcome home, Acelynn! It has been a long time,” greeted the old woman, the sister of Acelynn’s grandmother, Corentine.

“As I promised, I have brought my son. He is ready. His father has promised to have him enter into the Frankish world of nobility. He is to be made a knight.”

The aged Corentine and her brother, Alan, studied the youth that Acelynn had brought to them. They saw the image of the youth’s father written in his facial features, with the exception of his eyes. Guillaume had his mother’s eyes. Yet, the also saw something more beneath the surface. Though he appeared to be a Norseman, this youth’s inner spirit was Celtic, Ambiani.

Over the next three days, young Guillaume learned of his Celtic heritage and about his duty to that heritage. Nothing was said about his Danish heritage though young Guillaume was eager to learn more about his father and his father’s people.

“When the time comes, Guillaume, you will be called to return here to learn what you must do. It is then that you will learn who is to be your wife and how you will ensure the safety of our people who live here in among the great oaks,” Alan informed the youth.

Guillaume nodded his understanding. He had never expected to have a choice when it would come time to have a wife. That was always a decision made by one’s parents.

“You will never speak of our people’s existence to others, nor may you speak of what you have learned here. You are required to give a blood oath. Do you agree to making such an oath?”

Unknown to young Guillaume, his life would have been forfeited if he hadn’t willing made such an oath. He nodded his agreement.

“You must acknowledge your agreement in words,” smiled Alan.

“I agree to making such an oath,” spoke Guillaume, as he stood tall, with a determination to make his mother proud of him.

“So be it.”

Chapter 15

Guillaume, Count of Normandy, had finally achieved a measure of peace in his battles against the Count of Flanders, before the onset of winter in 942. The Count of Amiens, along with the young King Louis and his advisors, had arranged to have a peace settlement gathering near Amiens, at Picquigny, a village along the Somme River. There was a fortified castle on the island near the village where the negotiations for peace were to be ratified with a hoped-for lasting peace treaty.

It had been a few years since he had found himself not engaged in some sort of military action. Not anticipating any further battles before the arrival of the spring of 943, he had made the decision to take his heir, Richard, along with him to the gathering of nobles and dignitaries that would be present at the peace conference. It would be the perfect time for ten-year-old Richard to meet most of the men of importance, the who’s who of western Europe. Of most importance in Guillaume’s mind was the opportunity for young Richard to be recognised as Guillaume’s heir.

Guillaume and his escort arrived at the Count of Amiens’ castle at the beginning of December. Guillaume had another motive for bringing Richard with him. He wanted Richard to meet his half-brother, Guy. The Count of Normandy had a gut feeling that settling any claim that his older bastard son might make on claiming the title of Count for himself in the future, was critical.

It was on the second day of his stay with the Count of Amiens that an opportunity presented itself for the meeting between father and his bastard son.

“Richard, I want you to go to those two young knights over there, standing by the well. Tell the tallest one that he is to meet you and me by the well after the evening meal.”

“Why, Papa?”

“You will find out when he meets with us.”

“Do I tell him who I am? Who you are?”

“Of course. Just don’t tell anyone else about this meeting. No one. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Papa.”

Richard crossed the yard which was busy with many boys practicing with wooden swords. Stopping by the two young men by the well, he was surprised to see that the tall one looked a lot like his father.

“Good sir,” he spoke with a sure voice despite his youth, “my father would like to meet with you here after the evening meal.”

Guillaume smiled at the youth. “And just who is your father, may I ask?”

“He is the Count of Normandy, and I am Richard. Father calls me Richard the Fearless.”

Acelynn’s son immediately cast his eyes over the yard and saw the man he knew as his father, standing in the shadows near the entrance to the training grounds. Seeing him gave the young knight a start. He hadn’t expected to ever have the opportunity to meet his father again.

“Tell your father that I will be here as he has requested.” Looking at Richard again, he saw a brother. “I hope I will see you here then as well.”

“Oh yes,” Richard replied. “I will be with him.”

As the youth walked away, Pierre gave Guillaume a quizzical look.

“What was that all about? Why would the Count of Normandy want to see you?”

“I got to meet him before, about a year before you and I came here to train as knights. He knows my mother. You know, almost everyone knows her as the owner of the Inn.”

“But why would he want to see you? What aren’t you telling me, Guy?”

“What I can’t tell you, even though you are my best friend.”

“Well, I am going to be here this evening with you, just in case you need someone to guard your back.”

Guillaume laughed. “I don’t think that if I am at risk, you could save me. Remember who he is? The Count of Normandy. He could take on at least six of us at once and not get a scratch.”

“Still, I will go with you and there is no way you can stop me, Guy.”

“I know. You’ll just have to stay hidden nearby. I have this feeling he would not be pleased to see a witness to our meeting.”

“Guy, this sounds way too ominous. Are you sure?”

“Yes, Pierre. I am certain. It is you that I worry about, not me. Someday I will tell you more about it, okay?”

“Okay.”

The rest of the day passed while Guy and Pierre supervised the younger knights-in-training. Their usual instructors were hanging out with the recently arrived knights, catching up on the latest adventures. Finally, it was time to head to the main hall for the evening meal. It had only been in the past eight months that they had finally been allowed to eat with the older knights. The younger ones ate at long benches in the stables.

Guy and Pierre had taken up their usual places at the table nearest the door, the furthest away from the head table. Guy saw that his father was seated beside the Count of Amiens with Richard seated on the other side. The count had provided a few entertainments for the host of knights in attendance. A juggler displayed his skill with balls and then knives before juggling three pieces of fruit while attempting to stack wooden bowls upon his head. When the growing crown of bowls finally fell, the crowd cheered his efforts, with Guy and Pierre adding whistles and whoops to the din.

When the meal was ending, with the mugs of ale filled for the last time, a minstrel appeared with a lute. He played a soft melody that soon picked up its tempo. Having outlined the music that would play backdrop for his words, the man began a tale of love and betrayal. With the last words of the sad tale ending, Guy and Pierre knew it was time to leave. Guy had spotted the Duke slip away from the table.

“We have to get there before him,” Guy whispered, as he hastened out the door. “He can’t know that you are watching and listening, Pierre. He did say to come alone.”

Pierre wasted no time in hiding behind a banner near the fortress walls, within hearing distance. He had hardly settled in when the Duke and his son, Richard came into view. Pierre had assumed that he was well hidden and made sure he didn’t make any sounds that would draw attention. He was surprised when a hand reached from the other side of the pennant and pulled him out of his hiding space.

“Guillaume! I said you were to come alone.”

“Yes, Sire. But there was no way that Pierre was going to let me be here alone. We are sworn brothers-in-arms.”

“Pierre, is it? It is better to stand valiantly visible than skulk in the shadows. Only assassins hide in the shadows. Come here and stand proud like a man beside your sworn brother.”

“Yes, Sire,” Pierre stuttered, as he scrambled to stand beside Guy. There was no mistaking that the young man was worried about what punishment might await him. As he finally dared to look up at the Count, he was shocked by what he saw up close.

“Ah, so you see the truth, Master Pierre. You must never speak of that truth to anyone if you value the life of your sworn brother, and your life.”

“What truth, Papa?” Richard asked.

“Richard, look at Guy carefully and closely. Really look. What do you see, or should I say, who do you see?”

Richard stared at the young knight in front of him to no avail. He turned to his father then he saw the resemblance between Guy and his father. His eyes betrayed his surprise.

“Richard, this is your older brother, Guillaume, your half-brother.”

Turning to face Guy, the Duke spoke, “Guillaume, if you value honour, the honour to father, I need you to swear allegiance to your younger brother, Richard, who is to be my heir. Your allegiance to my heirs is to be passed on to your sons, and their sons until there are no more sons. Yet, no one else must ever know the nature of this allegiance. Neither you nor your heirs must ever appear at my court and cause my lawful heirs to have their positions contested. Will you take this vow?”

“Of course, my Lord,” Guy said as he knelt in front of his father. “It will be my honour to come to Richard’s aid should he ever call on my support. The same will be true for my sons, and their sons.”

Guillaume de Longue-Épée smiled in relief before turning to Pierre. “Remember, your silence is vital to make sure that no one knows this truth. I have enemies that would surely kill Guillaume in an attempt to get to me. Again, swear your oath of silence and allegiance.”

Pierre, like his best friend, took a knee before the Duke, swearing upon his own life, and the lives of his unborn children, to forever be silent about the matter.

With the matter settled, the Count turned away, calling Richard to follow him. Together, the two re-entered the castle where a suite was set aside for them.

The two young men remained outside the walls of the castle. Though there were entertainments yet to come within the great hall, they both resisted the temptation to return.

“No wonder you’re so skilled as a warrior, Guy.”

“Hush, Pierre,” Guy whispered as he quickly scanned the area to see if anyone had come within hearing distance. “Don’t even talk about it with me.”

Chapter 16

Two days after the meeting with his father, both Guy and Pierre were called to meet with the Captain of the Count’s guard.

“The two of you are to accompany the Duke’s son to Picquigny. You will represent the Count with extreme dignity. Be prepared to ride tomorrow morning. You will wear the uniform of the guard for this occasion only. Don’t think for one moment that this is my idea or that I approve. You are much too young to wear that uniform. Remember, one mistake will result in the rest of your miserable lives being a living hell, courtesy of me. Dismissed.”

The two youths could hardly contain their excitement. The original plan had been for them to remain at the Count’s estate to work with the younger boys who were training to become knights. To be in the company of Lords, Counts, and Dukes seemed to be too good to be true. And to be wearing the official uniform of the Count’s guards, was beyond either of their expectations.

They rushed off to the guard supply room to get their new uniforms which would be worn over their plain armour. To their surprise, the Captain had ordered the quartermaster to provide new armour as well, The quartermaster threatened them that any damage to the uniforms or armour would have to be paid for with interest which would include physical pain.

No sooner had they reached their quarters, when a messenger arrived. Their presence was requested by the Duke’s Captain. They were to present themselves to the captain as soon as they were presentable, in the courtyard to meet the Duke’s son.

* * *

Richard got along well with his stepbrother even though he could never reveal their relationship. Three other young men had joined Guy and Pierre as a sort of honour guard for the Duke’s heir. Wisely, when riding, Guy and Pierre brought up the rear of the three pairs on the road. Richard rode at the head of the group along with the Count’s son, Armand. Their group was positioned behind the nobility which was led by the Duke and the Count. The main body of knights rode behind the youths.

It was late afternoon when they reached the main camp on the south side of the river at Picquigny. Only the nobility would cross to the island where the peace conference was to be signed between the Count of Flanders, the Duke of Normandy, and the Count of Amiens.

Richard, as a noble, was expected to be present, along with the young King of the Franks. Richard was allowed to bring his honour guard with him, allowing Pierre and Guy to be stationed on the grounds outside of the castle on the island. Richard was to stay within the castle with his father. However, he somehow persuaded the Duke to let him share a tent with his five new friends.

The arrival of the Count of Flanders and his entourage of nobles and military guard later that afternoon, was received with a significant level of tension. The young King Louis, along with his advisors, received the antagonistic Count. There was no question that the presence of the King was necessary to have the peace talks not break down resulting in the resumption of armed conflict.

The act of signing the peace treaty, which had already been negotiated, was to occur the following afternoon outside of the castle gates. A raised platform had been erected so that the signatories would be seen by all assembled on the island. Because they would not be placed very close to the platform, the six young men decided to inspect the area before the evening meal, when Richard would be required to join his father within the castle’s great hall. They each took a role to act out what they thought would be the scene to be witnessed the next day, with Richard naturally standing in the role for his father, Pierre as the Count of Amiens, and Guy as the king’s advisor. Though they knew it was to be a serious event filled with rigid protocol, they laughed at each other’s attempts to be statesmen. Little did they know how the events to happen the next day would forever change the world as they knew it.

*  *  *

Guy stood beside Pierre, well back from the mass of hundreds of knights. Behind him, the tents filled up what remained of the open areas of the island in front of the castle. This was the only unoccupied spot they could find which gave them a decent view at a distance. There were other trees scattered between the tents and the main body of knights, but they had already been claimed by others.

The procession of dignitaries who would be on the stage had already begun. As a measure of trust, none of the dignitaries had worn military armour. Rather, they were cloaked in their robes of office. Guy saw Richard emerge from the gates at the same time as his father. He was to sit at the table with the others while his father signed the peace treaty. Richard was to go up the steps before his father and take his place, with his father following him. The Count of Flanders, along with the Count of Amiens, had already taken their places at the table. Only the King and his advisor were yet to ascend to take their assigned spots for the ceremony.

Richard was nervous as he climbed the stairs. He could feel the weight of his father’s steps sway the temporary staircase. Not wanting to slip and fall, he focused hard on keeping his eyes focused on each step. The last thing he wanted to do was embarrass his father. As he reached the final step, he gave a sigh of relief. At the same time, he heard a roar and felt the staircase sway below. He turned to see his father who had just fallen off, laying in the dirt, an arrow protruding from his back. Without thinking, Richard rushed back down the stairs to his father.

Guy and Pierre left their spot beside the tree and rushed, as best they could, to try and reach Richard. Guy saw a furtive movement by one of the trees closer to the back of the assembled soldiers. The man attempted to slip away unnoticed. His dress didn’t indicate any affiliation with one of the gathered troops. Guy was certain that the man was the shooter as he still held a bow as he retreated.

It was hopeless, there was no way they could reach young Richard as quickly as they wanted. Before they could reach the front, the Duke’s knights formed a protective barrier around Richard and the Duke who was being attended to by one of the physicians. A wail from Richard told both Pierre and Guy that the Duke, Guillaume de Longa, who had lived with the name de Longue-Épée, had just died. Richard was now the third Duke of Normandy.

~

Guy remained with the Count of Amiens for another five years before he was granted the status of nobility as a full-fledged knight of the realm. He was now Guillaume de Longpré. He returned to the village of Longpré to see his mother and to take on his new role as headman of the village.

Hugues de Long saw an opportunity present itself. He required both Guillaume and Acelynn to meet with him in Long.

“Congratulations, Guillaume. You are now my equal. Your mother and I have talked frequently about who will succeed me as Lord of Long. I had long hoped that you would be my heir. Will you accept this responsibility?”

Guillaume was speechless. He had just been declared the Lord of Longpré.

“Of course he will,” Acelynn spoke to fill the silence. Our last visit to the elders told you and me of this prophecy.”

“But Guillaume wasn’t there, Acelynn. He does have a say.”

Guillaume looked from one to the other. They spoke the truth. There was no way he would refuse the role and the heavy responsibility that came with it, not just for the village, but for the elders in the forest.

“Yes, I will do what is required.”

“Good. You will travel to the elders with me to confirm the oath as protector. We leave tomorrow morning. When we return, I will introduce you to the men who will guide you into the role.”

~

Pierre had returned to his home in Fontaine two years earlier at the behest of his ailing father, who soon died. It wasn’t long before Guy travelled a bit further downriver to ask for the hand of Pierre de Fontaine’s sister, Marie-Anne.

For the majority of the years that remained to these two best friends who had become family, they found themselves frequently fighting in wars for King Louis and the Duke of Normandy. Neither of them ever spoke of Guy being Duke Richard’s half-brother. Guy did tell his eldest son when the boy became a man ready to take over the role as the Lord of Longpré and Long.