Beauty and the Beast

Chapter 1

Princess Gisla hated him from the moment she laid eyes upon him. Standing on the castle ramparts she saw him fighting, bare chested and splattered with Frankish blood, like a man possessed. Disgust and revulsion welled up inside her as she watched the pagan hack and slice his way up the stone edifice of the castle walls, performing feats no mortal being should be capable of, and yet he continued to defy the odds with a power and ferocity she'd never before seen rivalled.

Had he been a Parisian soldier and a civilised Christian, she might have admired his skill and boundless reserves of strength. But as a heathen and a savage who did not believe in the true divinity of God, and as a consequence had no soul, he had nothing but her disdain and loathing.

He and his kind would seek to pillage and plunder her beloved Paris, taking what was not theirs and killing all those who dared to stand in their path. And her father, spineless and weak, too afraid to stand up to their bullying, would rather sell her off in chains than fight like a man. Gisla realised that no matter how she begged and pleaded, he would not change his mind. He had offered her hand in marriage to the beast before her without so much as a consultation.

How she resented being born a woman. Had she been a man instead, she would gladly have done what her father could not. She would have wielded a sword with pride and stood at the front of the battle lines to defend her country and its people against these opportunists. But because he father was a feeble coward, she was being forced into Holy Matrimony with a savage so that her parent could, in turn, secure Frankia's safety against King Ragnar.

"Rollo. Welcome," her father said. He gestured towards her. "This is my daughter... Gisla."

She stood swiftly, anger and repulsion forcing her to speak. "Whatever my father says, I am not marrying this animal. I am a Princess of the blood, not a cheap whore. I would rather be burned alive than suffer this...thing, to so much as lay a hand on me. He is a filthy pagan, and therefore he has no soul. He is worse than the beasts of the field. I would rather my virginity and virtue to the vilest dog than to this piece of warm meat. He disgusts me. He makes me want to vomit."

Gisla felt a small measure of satisfaction as she stood before the pagan, telling him in no uncertain terms how she much she abhorred him. After all, one did not have to understand a language to know when you've been insulted. Scathing edict delivered, she sat back down and dared the Northman to retaliate, to show his true nature. Only, he didn't and as such her sense of vindication was short-lived.

Much to her dismay, he seemed amused, charmed even, by her audacity. The sight of his wide grin, preceded by a vulgar attempt at a greeting, infuriated her. How dare he stand there and feign courtesy and diplomacy? Loathing and hatred blurred into one as she watched him preening, clearly proud of himself.

On her feet once more she glared at her father. "I cannot endure this humiliation a moment longer," she declared. "You stay here and keep company with this band of savages, but I will not."

Gisla didn't wait for his answer. Head held high, she marched past her country's invaders and out of the throne room, ignoring the way the pagan warrior's eyes trailed after her the entire time.

A week later, Gisla, still furious with her father, was partaking in her morning repast in solitude when the Emperor strolled in. "A date had been set for the marriage ceremony," he said without preamble. "I suggest you ready yourself, my daughter."

She stared at him, impassive. Her fate had been sealed the moment the Northmen had invaded Paris. While she loved her father, she resented his weakness. They were descendants of Charlemagne, a great military tactician and leader, but one would never guess when looking at their present Emperor. He was an insipid old man, more in awe of the achievements of his ancestor than keen to emulate it.