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The Kingdom of Northumbria 9th Century AD Princess Emeline“And alas, his skills are once again absent. Shall I intercede, mayhap?”
“Hold your tongue, child, before your father, the Lord King, hears such blasphemy.” Sister Ethelyn softly shushes me, but she knows I won’t be silenced.
“And if he does? He’ll be able to see that his son, Aethelred, is nothing but a horse’s arse.”
The arse in question proves my point when Lord Robert, my father, King Eanred’s most trusted knight, knocks Aethelred to the ground. Just like they do every day, Lord Robert attempts to better my brother’s swordsmanship, and just like every other day, Aethelred embarrasses the family with his gaucherie.
“I cry your mercy!” Sister Ethelyn exclaims, crossing herself while I giggle. “You will ask for God’s forgiveness in prayer this afternoon for speaking that way.”
Ever since I can remember, Sister Ethelyn has tried to curb my rebellious ways, but her horror only encourages me further. I may only be twelve years old, but I understand the reason I’m to sit silent and act proper is because I’m a girl.
It matters not that I’m far smarter and far braver than my brother. He is the firstborn son of King Eanred, and once my father dies, my brother will be crowned king. The duty of a princess is to remain virtuous while her father negotiates with the highest bidder and then sells her off like livestock.
It matters not whether the princess agrees to this transaction or, in fact, if she even likes her suitor. It’s her duty to obey.
I, however, will not obey any man just because of the prick they wield between their legs.
“I want to practice with real swords,” Aethelred whines, picking up his wooden one with a twisted scowl. “I want to feel the weight in my hand. Such imitation is what hinders me.”
Snorting under my breath, Sister Ethelyn gently nudges me to remain quiet, but Aethelred’s furious gaze lands my way.
“Don’t you have needlework to do?” he says with bite, reminding me that regardless of his inadequacy, I could never pick up a sword and engage in battle.
“What would you like me to stitch, dear brother, your failed attempts at being a warrior?”
He storms forward, teeth bared like a rat, but Lord Robert grasps his arm to stop him. I don’t cower. I simply sit on the bench seat in the gardens, daring him to advance.
“I cannot learn with her here. We will resume tomorrow,” he orders, shrugging from Lord Robert’s grip and tossing his sword to the ground.
He storms off in a huff while I can’t hide my smile.
Lord Robert looks at me, attempting to conceal his own amusement, but I see the humor hidden beneath his armor. He is one of the only men in my father’s service who doesn’t treat me as some inept little girl.
The rustling of fine silk can be heard, which can only mean one thing—Queen Eleanor, my mother.
Jumping up from the bench seat, I turn and run toward her. “Good morrow, Mother,” I happily say, giving her a tight hug.
Her three ladies stand behind her, ready and waiting for her every command. But my mother is kind. She doesn’t rule with terror like my father. She is respected for her compassion and clemency.
“How fare ye, my sweeting?” she says, kissing the top of my head. “I just saw your brother in a rage. I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that?”
Pulling out of her embrace, I smile sweetly. “Me? I wouldn’t do anything of the sort.”
She arches a dark brow, smirking. “You were the best of friends when you were smaller. I wonder what happened.”
“He grew up to be a giant ars—”
Mother clears her throat, indicating a princess isn’t to speak that way—no matter the truth. No husband wants a wife with the tongue of the devil.
“You are full of spirit, Emeline. Be careful who sees it,” Mother warns as she cups my cheek tenderly. “We have a duty to uphold. Never forget who your father is and the power he holds.”
Nodding, I remain silent because I know she means well. She was forced to marry my father when she was twelve. She has often told me the story of how she grew to love my father over time, but from the many mistresses he has, I don’t think the feeling is reciprocated.
My mother has only been able to produce two living heirs, which angers my father. He calls her incompetent with a barren womb. It matters not that six out of their eight children that she birthed are buried in the royal cemetery.
It was her fault they died. Apparently, she is cursed. This excuses my father’s philandering.
I don’t know why he’d stray. My mother is the comeliest woman in all of the kingdom. With long brown hair that is softer than silk and large green eyes, she is the envy of many—men and women. Her porcelain white skin is flawless, and one cannot help but covet her full ruby lips and scarlet cheeks.
She looks and acts how a queen should—regal, elegant, and refined. She is never without a veil or her decorative gold crucifix.
Many have said I am the spitting image of her, but I don’t see it. I could never be as sophisticated as she. Besides, I have many freckles across my nose and cheeks, something which Aethelred teases me about daily. He says I’ll never be a queen because, who would want an imperfect wife?
Aethelred is five years older than me, and he ensures I know it, which is why occasions like today give me great pleasure. He belittles me daily and expects me to say nothing all because I am younger. And of course, because I’m a girl.
The church bell sounds, alerting the kingdom that my father is home, interrupting my thoughts.
Mother clutches at the large gold crucifix around her throat. “I thank thee, God.”
We are of a strong Christian faith. God has aided my father in battle many times, he’s said. God is good, Sister Ethelyn says often. So, I pray to Him every day in hopes that my future will change and Father will change his mind to whom I’m betrothed to.
Before I was born, I was promised to Prince Aethelwulf, the son of King Egbert of Wessex. It didn’t matter that he was already a young man. My father has made clear that the moment I become a woman, I will be wed.
This is why I pray every day. I pray that I won’t be sold to a man when I’m only a girl.
Deep down in my heart of hearts, I know that no matter how hard I pray, it won’t make a difference because the palace is rife with rumors. This union between Aethelwulf and me is to strengthen ties between Northumbria and Wessex because my father’s kingdom is losing power.
He needs this union to safeguard the future of Northumbria. He needs this union to ensure he remains king. Therefore, I know, regardless of how hard I pray, I will be Aethelwulf’s wife.
“Come hither, let us greet your father. Beatrice, fetch Aethelred.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Beatrice curtseys before quickly going in search of my brother.
The two remaining ladies scurry behind Mother as she takes my arm and leads the way. She’s always in a hurry when my father is involved.
The lavish hallways are a flurry of excitement as the king and his finest knights have arrived home from battle. Stonehill Castle is my home, the kingdom my father rules. I’ve often heard my father boast that our home is impenetrable because being on top of a vast volcanic crag overlooking the North Sea gives us an advantage.
However, if that were true, then why has Father left Lord Robert here with us instead of taking him into battle? I know it’s because he fears them.
The attack on the Lindisfarne Monastery changed my father. The stories I overheard him sharing about what they did to the monks gave me nightmares for a week. For this reason, my father, the king, has made it his mission to fight the unholy heathens.
The Northmen. Or, as some call them, Vikings.
He wants to protect his kingdom against the ruthless men and women who have continued to raid England, looting for treasure and other goods, as well as capturing good Saxon people as slaves. They care not for our religion as monasteries have been destroyed. They seek precious silver and gold relics, disrespecting our God, as they don’t believe in one Holy Father.
They believe there are gods.
Odin and Thor are names I’ve heard men speak of in secret. I do not know who they are…but I want to know. Those who are feared by all; I want to know why. I want to know them because I do not fear them.
I know I should. I know they are pagans who some claim have no soul, but I want to know if they feel, bleed, and love like we do. I’ve only ever heard of their ruthless acts because I’ve never seen one before, but if God has created all, then what purpose do the Northmen serve?
People fear what they don’t understand, but I will not allow that fear to control me. Fear makes us blind to the truth, and I refuse to cower.
We rush down the stairs and into the bailey, where our sturdy horses await us. Once we’re ready, we ride into the village, where everyone has gathered to greet Father and his men. Guards escort us, and when they deem it’s safe, we dismount our horses.
The crowd bow and is in awe of our presence, but they know better than to approach us. Commoners don’t interact with royalty—a fact which seems rather unfair.
Mother waits by the stairs of the church while I climb up onto the fountain to get a better view, and the moment I see my father proudly leading his knights, I realize why he went into battle.
A long line of prisoners follows him, shackled and stumbling on their feet. My father has paraded them like his latest hunt. The sight turns my stomach, and I look away.
However, when I hear the stunned gasps of bystanders, my disgust turns to interest.
Returning my attention to the display, I wonder why an echo of whispers begins to pass between the crowd.
“That’s him. I swear it,” a villager in front of me murmurs behind her hand to a woman close by. “Look at the marking on the side of his head.”
“Who? Who is he?” the woman replies, standing taller to get a better view.
“It’s Skarth Gundersen…son of Gunder Bloodaxe.”
“What say you?”
“That’s the Viking, Skarth the Godless. It’s been heard his father raided Lindisfarne Monastery with Ragnar of Lodbrok.”
“Marie, I shall pray for your soul for listening to such gossip.”
But Marie’s friend needs to pray for both their souls because, with mouths agape, they fixate on the tall, muscled prisoner who is last in line. It seems no one else can take their eyes off the man who, unlike his fellow prisoners, doesn’t stumble or cower. He stands proud.
I’ve never seen someone so big before. Nor have I ever seen such an interesting marking printed on the side of one’s head. I wonder what the pattern of lines and half circles means.
His dirty blond hair is as long as mine but is cut at the sides. He wears it tied back, which allows us to examine his mud-smeared face. Underneath the filth, piercing blue eyes dare anyone brave enough to meet his stare.
No one dares to.
In fact, the moment he walks past them, they instantly avert their gazes, too afraid of the repercussions they would face.
He is bare-chested, which is sacrilegious for exposing so much flesh, but it allows one to see the scars on his body as well as the many colorful images on his skin. I also see a silver relic tied with black leather around his neck. I wonder what it means.
My father comes to a halt in front of my mother, where she curtseys. “Lord King. I see you were most successful on the battlefield.”
My father removes his silver helmet, revealing a bloody, sullied face. I wonder how many men were slain.
The king is a short, plump man with nothing unique about him. He makes up for his dullness by inciting fear from those around him. “Of course we were. My men don’t fail!”
The crowd erupts into a frenzy, cheering and clapping wildly at their king’s words.
“Where is my son? Does he not greet his father?”
Mother peers around nervously, straightening her red gown. “He comes, Lord King. Your daughter awaits you, however.”
My father scans the crowd, and when he sees me, he nods, clearly annoyed I’m not Aethelred.
I jump down from the fountain and make my way through the crowd to greet my father. I curtsey and bow. “How fare ye?”
“Do you like what your king has delivered?” he asks, gesturing toward the prisoners.
The men groan and smell hideous, but I nod. “Yes, Lord King. I do. You are fearless and so brave.”
My response is dripping with mockery, but it appeases him, and he smirks. “As are you, sweet child, and because of that, I give you this opportunity to pick one prisoner.”
I tongue my cheek, unsure what he means.
“One prisoner to save,” he clarifies while a horrified gasp leaves my mother.
“Lord King, the princess is expected at church with Sister Ethelyn.”
But my father has spoken, and his word goes.
His chest heaves as he waits for me to reply. He hates waiting, so I do as he says. I commence walking down the line of prisoners, wondering what their fate holds. I wonder what they did to end up here.
“Please, Princess, I just wanted to feed my family,” one man begs, interlacing his shackled hands.
One of my father’s knights strikes him in the back of the head for speaking out of turn.
My heart beats wildly, but I don’t let it show. If I want Father to respect me, then I have to control my fear. No one else speaks, as they don’t desire the same punishment as their friend. Everyone simply watches me as I slowly take my time examining each man, obeying the king’s wishes.
The closer I get to him, the faster my heart beats. The villager said he is Skarth the Godless. I wonder why he chose that name. To be without God is a dire circumstance, which is why I stop when I reach his side.
He is taller than I thought. Much taller than anyone I have ever met before. He is also a lot younger than the men he is shackled with. No older than eighteen, I’d guess, but his persona is developed. He seems…worldly.
He has another marking in ink on his left shoulder that appears to be a raven. And a twisted silver bracelet on his right wrist that seems to hold some importance. He also has two small hoops pierced in his nostril, something I’ve not seen before.
He intrigues me, and when his blue eyes lock on mine, that intrigue feeds the interest in me, and I point my finger. “This man.”
Horrified gasps fill the courtyard as the bystanders cross themselves, fearful my choice will pollute their faith.
Skarth the Godless c***s his head to the side, observing me closely. He watches for any signs of deceit, but there are none.
“A mistake is made,” my father says, eyeing the man I chose with malice. “Choose again.”
But I will not. I won’t allow him to ridicule me in front of the kingdom. I won’t allow him to treat me as if I’m some stupid little girl.
“No, Lord King, I make no mistake. I choose this man to be saved.”
I never break eye contact with Skarth the Godless. Nor does he with me.
“Princess Emeline,” Lord Edward says in his nasal voice. “Your eyes must deceive you. That is a Northman you choose to spare.”
Lord Edward is my father’s adviser, an ealdorman. I’d like to blame him for the cruel decisions my father has made, but sadly, my father doesn’t need any encouragement. He was born cruel, and that’s proven when he jumps down from his horse and marches to where I stand.
The crowd steps back, bowing to their king, but he doesn’t appreciate their admiration as I’ve dishonored him in front of his people. I don’t cower, though. I made a choice, and I refuse to take it back, just how he refuses to rescind my marriage to Aethelwulf.
“I know who he is, Lord Edward. My eyesight is quite fine. I fear yours may be failing you, however. Mayhap you should step away from my father’s shadow once in a while to gain some light.”
More gasps and Lord’s Prayers are recited as I’ve just told Edward in a nice way to get his head out of my father’s arse, but when what looks like a twitch touches Skarth the Godless’s lips, I revel in the disorder.
I know what this means, but I dare my father to punish me in front of his legion of adoring fans. He won’t, though. He won’t want them to see him for the monster he truly is.
“Emeline, is this the man you choose?” he questions, curling his lip in disgust as he looks at Skarth the Godless.
The Northman merely smirks in response.
My mother shakes her head, begging I don’t defy him. But I am not her. I never will be.
“Yes, I choose this man. The Northman.”
The veins in my father’s neck pop as he attempts to control his temper. Once composed, he gestures with his head toward Skarth the Godless. One of my father’s men unshackles him, and as I sigh in relief, the guard uses the blunt end of his sword to wind him as he drives it into his belly.
Skarth the Godless flinches but does not fall.
“No!” I cry, tears filling my eyes. “You cannot do that. You cannot go back on your word.”
When the guard punches Skarth the Godless in the face, I attempt to help him, but my father grips my chin between his fingers, squeezing hard.
“I am the king. Therefore, I can do what I please. Guards, taketh him to the dungeons.”
“No! You cannot!” I continue to fight until my father slaps my cheek so hard my teeth rattle in my mouth.
The bloodshed should disgust these vultures, but it only excites them further.
“Let this be a lesson to you all,” my father exclaims. “No mercy toward any Northman, and that includes my daughter, who will be locked away until she can obey orders.”
This was his plan all along.
My father knows me too well. He knew my thirst for knowledge would have me choosing the Northman. Therefore, he could make an example out of me. If he can treat his own daughter this way, then let this be a warning to anyone who would dare sympathize with a heathen.
Two of my father’s guards take hold of me, but I fight wildly against their restraints. “Let me go! A plague upon thee!”
They pay no heed to my outburst, and I lock eyes with Skarth the Godless for one last time. “I’m sorry,” I cry, insulting my father further by apologizing to a pagan.
Skarth the Godless opens his mouth, and when he speaks with an accent I’ve not heard before, a calm overcomes me. “It’s all right, hugrekki.”
Gripping the small gold crucifix around my neck, I pray that he is right. But deep down inside, I know that life as I know it has changed forevermore.
- ผู้เขียน
