A Beast in Exile: A Historical Retelling of Beauty and the Beast

By Faith Northmen

England, AD 617. At the edge of the known world, kingdoms devour kingdoms, and being a warrior is neither optional nor extraordinary; it is what is necessary to survive. Out of the chaotic clash of warlords, kingdoms, and religions, a creature will emerge that legend will never forget.
England, AD 1743. Surrounded by the bright lights and fashion of London in a vastly growing empire, Isabella Wentworth gambles the lives of those closest to her, in the hopes of securing her fated destiny.
Somewhere between the centuries, they will meet, imprisoned together in Nastrandir, a Norse hell-hall.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Oct 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781449767303

Faith Northmen

Northmen received her MA in English after graduating cum laude from UCI, where she studied medieval literature. Falling in love with Sigurd, Beowulf, Lancelot, and Aragorn, she avidly studied the Dark Ages, enthralled by legends both dark and nerdy. She lives in Anaheim, California, with her husband and their beagle. Northmen encourages readers with feedback to comment or write her at http://www.facebook.com/FaithNorthmen.

Book preview

Copyright © 2012 Faith Northmen

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 Biblica. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

The NIV and New International Version trademarks are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica. Use of either trademark requires the permission of Biblica.

Cover art by Matt Van Andel

WestBow Press books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

1-[phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4497-6731-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-6732-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-6730-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012917552

WestBow Press rev. date: 10/24/2012

Contents

The Beast Manuscript

Name Places

List of Abbreviations

Glossary

Part One Sunniva

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Part Two Isabella

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Acknowledgements & Notes

Bibliography

About the Author

Endnotes

To Professor Georgianna,

who made me fall in love with Medievalism,

To Susan and Chris who kept me writing,

To Nicole and Matt who repeatedly dropped me through the roof to touch Jesus

To my mom and dad for their love and sacrifices,

To John, for keeping my heart beating.

33148.jpg

The Beast Manuscript

Satisfactorily explaining the controversy pertaining to the Beast Manuscript is at best, extremely difficult. Part of the complexity lies in the extraordinary circumstances recorded therein, juxtaposed with the presence of very real people, places, and events. If this were the only difficulty, we might be able to affectionately place the manuscript on the shelf besides Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain. Not entirely fiction, but not entirely truth.

The question then becomes, was the document intended to be an actual historical record, or was it planted as a hoax? What is the ratio of truth to fabricated event? If it is a hoax, what would be the purpose of such a hoax? If it was meant to be a hoax, why does the narrator use grossly impossible dates when this would only convince us it is indeed fabricated? In depth study of the text provides no clear answers to date.

Pinning down the origin of any fairytale becomes more intricate and complex the further one searches. After following the written trail of the fairytale, one becomes a Grimm Brother, gathering up folktales from the oral tradition, which poses its own challenges.

One of the earliest printed versions of the Beauty and the Beast story was published in 1740, in La Jeune Américaine, et les contes marins by the salonnière/précieuse Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot Gallon de Villeneuve (1695-1755). While this poses no problem for the seventh century setting of Part One, it is implausible for Part Two, which does not begin until 1743, three years after the story had been published. The contradiction in dates is ironic when juxtaposed with the care the scribe took to incorporate authentic, contextualized historical figures: Sir Robert Walpole, Sir Horace Walpole, Sir Paul Methuen, Lady Montagu, and others.

The precaution the first scribe took to curse the material (see opening pages) and thus ensure authenticity is also a curiosity. Not merely a formality, curses held significant weight in later Anglo-Saxon England, c. AD 800-1066. The only viable scribe for Part One would be Father Timothy, an obviously unlikely candidate for profane forgery. Historical inaccuracies likewise give us no indication as to the authenticity of the narratives. While a student of history may examine events in a textbook, polished, cross-examined, and researched, the observer living history has only what is in front of their own eyes, especially depending on the literary and intellectual climate of the culture. Add to that the slow travel of news and a genuine person may record inaccurate dates, deaths, and so on.

The Beast Manuscript is a compilation of letters, journals and records dating from two radically different periods in England’s history. Here, I have assimilated the narratives into one of two volumes, volume one containing Part One and Part Two. The first period, the 7th century, is before England had become England and was comprised of many smaller kingdoms warring against each other while the larger kingdoms, (Northumbria, Mercia, Kent, for example) were beginning to consolidate and centralize power. The second period is the mid 18th century as England is forging her way to become an imperial power.

Even with pristine records, a reconstruction cohesively joining both periods is challenging to say the least. Piecing together a chronicle of the 18th century is an easier task than the 7th century due to the fact that the literate classes of the former period kept copious notes on life experiences through journals, diaries, and memoirs. Furthermore, although the full meaning of the text may not be easily accessible (we may understand the Capulet servants are talking about taking the wall or biting their thumbs without fully realizing what they are saying), other challenges might be spelling inconsistencies, local dialects and the random capitalization of subjects important to the writer. We find more challenges with the 7th century, when literacy was not even available to the majority of people on the island.

Due to this challenge, we have—relatively speaking—little historical record to reconstruct the early Old English period outside of charters and histories such as The History of the Kings of Britain by Geoffrey of Monmouth (which is a dilemma unto itself), Bede’s The Ecclesiastical History of the English People, The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, and Gildas’ De Excidio et Conquestu Britanniae.

Because the manuscript is composed of fragments, another challenge was deciding how much to interfere with the lacunae, gaps and missing pieces in and between narratives. As a general rule, where the original chronicle goes silent, I have only glossed the gaps where either common sense clearly indicated the events, or the surrounding action provided a dotted line (or perhaps I should say bread crumbs) to follow.

Relentless exposition is unfortunately a necessary evil with the reconstruction of historical events. In general narratives are written with the assumption that the reader already understands the contemporary period. I have embedded the text with historical support but I have also provided a bibliography for when commentary could not be seamless. The world then was certainly not the world most of us know today.

-Professor G

2012

Name Places

Albion

Poetic or literary reference to England

Augusta

4th century Roman name for London

Boudicca

Also, Boadicea, Iceni/Celtic queen who invaded Londinium A.D. 60.

Cantwaraburg

Old English name for Canterbury

Frakkland

Icelandic name for France

Haethfeld

Old English name for Hatfield

Hibernia

Roman name for Ireland

Londinium

Roman name for London

Ludenwic

Old English name for London

33184.jpg

List of Abbreviations

ME: Modern English (referring to contemporary use, not origin of word)

OE: Old English

ON: Old Norse

OI: Old Irish

33186.jpg

Glossary

Æthelingas (OE)

Elite, noble, warriors; princes, kindred of the king.

Artless (ME)

Sincere, without the art for deception or ability to mislead.

Bean Sídhe (OI)

Woman of the hills; a feminine, fey creature who warned of deaths by wailing from the woods.

Beot (OE)

Boast; a heroic promise of action.

Berserkir (ON)

Bear-shirts; Elite soldiers who fought savagely, often without armor besides a bearskin, in a frenzied state, uninhibited by pain. Also known as úlfheðnar, or ‘wolf-coats’, for the same reasons.

Blackamoor (ME)

A pejorative term for someone of dark skin.

Brytenwealda (OE)

‘Wielder of Britain’, chief king or overlord of the southern kingdoms.

Ceorlingas (OE)

Free men

Cothraige (OI)

Saint Patrick

Cuirass (ME)

Armor piece, generally leather or plate, designed to protect the upper torso.

Cyrtel (OE)

Kirtle; tunic, garment; woman’s dress, form fitting with a full skirt, high neckline and long sleeves.

Discthegn (OE)

The steward of a household.

Eorlingas (OE)

Nobles and noble warriors

Ēostre (OE)

Anglo-Saxon goddess, associated with the dawn.

Frith-borh(OE)

A group of individuals responsible for each other’s welfare and behavior.

Frovurs (ON)

Noble ladies/attendants of the queen.

Gaol (ME)

Jail

Gauntlet (ME)

An armored glove with a cuff extending above the wrist.

Gebura(OE)

Peasant

Geisa (ON)

Rage

Greaves (ME)

Armor designed to protect lower torso and legs.

Hauberk(ME)

One piece armor, generally scale or chain, designed to protect either shoulder to mid-thigh or shoulder to mid-calf.

Hearth-troop (OE heorthwerod)

Noble warriors closest to the king through either blood or friendship.

Heimild (ON)

A guardian’s right to arrange a kinswoman’s marriage in the absence of parents.

Hide (OE hid)

A unit of land able to support one family; a measurable unit for taxation and tribute.

Morning-gift (OE morgen gifu)

A gift from a husband to his bride after their marriage is consummated.

Mundr (OE)

Bride price; referring to either wealth from a woman’s kinsmen, given toward her marriage, or wealth from a groom to his bride’s kinsmen, establishing the groom’s right to the bride.

Nemeton(ME)

A clearing in a forest thought to be sacred, a celestial doorway, associated with Druids.

Ond (ON)

Soul

Pannier (ME)

18th century panel of varying lengths extending from a woman’s hips beneath her skirts to give her gown a fuller shape.

Pauldrons (ME)

Armor piece designed to protect shoulders and upper arm, generally fastened to either cuirass or hauberk.

Peace-Cup Ceremony

The act of the queen or hostess offering the peace-cup first to the king, then to his nobles to symbolize the nature of brotherhood among warriors; to bind the warriors in peace with one another.

Queue (ME)

A pigtail down the back of the neck.

Salonnière (French)

The feminine version of the coffee house, begun in the 17th century; a gathering of woman (though later it also included men) who met in the private sphere to discuss politics, philosophy, literature, and such.

Sćir-ge-réfa(OE)

An officer, bailiff.

Sigwif (OE)

‘Battle maiden’; valkyrie; feminine spirits who aided in battle and helped decide the victor.

Sól (ON)

Sun

Skald (ON)/Scop (OE)

Poet/singer that provided entertainment in the hall for the lord and his thegns, accompanied by a harp. He generally relayed legends of epic battle, famous stories of actual battle, and elegies.

Stomacher (ME)

A stiff, V-shaped article of clothing worn by women, fitted tightly across the chest and down the stomach, typically richly ornamented.

Thegn (OE)

A man of noble status

Tuatha dé Danaan(OI)

Benevolent Celtic deities, people of the goddess Dana.

Ubi sunt(Latin)

Elegiac theme in Old English poetry looking back on a heroic past.

Vambraces

Armor piece, generally plate or leather, designed to protect the forearm.

Wergild (OE)

‘Man-price’; payment to the kin of a murdered person from the kin of the murderer, meant to resolve further conflict without vengeance/bloodshed.

Witan, witenagemot (OE)

‘The assembly of the wise’; the king’s advisers.

Your authority has been taken from you. You will be driven away from people and will live with the wild animals; you will eat grass like cattle. Seven times will pass by for you until you acknowledge that the Most High is sovereign over the kingdoms of men and gives them to anyone he wishes. Immediately what had been said about Nebuchadnezzar was fulfilled. He was driven away from people and ate grass like cattle. His body was drenched with the dew of heaven until his hair grew like the feathers of an eagle and his nails were like the claws of a bird.

Daniel 4:31b-33

33195.jpg

Volume 1

Part One

Sunniva

And whoever alters this, may God turn His face from him on the Day of Judgment. If anyone puffed up with the pride of arrogance shall try to destroy or infringe this little document of my agreement and confirmation, let him know that on the last and fearful Day of Assembly when the trumpet of the archangel is clanging the call and bodies are leaving the foul graveyards, he will burn with Judas, the committer of impious treachery.

Inscription from the Beast Manuscript

Between the end of the Roman government in Britain and the emergence of the earliest English kingdoms there stretches a long period of which the history cannot be written. The men who played their parts in this obscurity are forgotten, or are little more than names with which the imagination of later centuries has dealt at will. The course of events may be indicated, but is certainly not revealed… by writers of this or the following age.

Anglo-Saxon England, Frank Stenton

33198.jpg

Chapter One

Lacking a term for marriage as an institution, Germanic languages were limited to the word that identified the . . . ceremony. The origin and meaning…remains under debate, but a likely interpretation conjures the image of a young woman in flight. The constitutive elements, brúðr (bride) and (h)laup (leap or run), suggest violence at the origin of matrimony.

Women in Old Norse Society, Jenny Jochens

In the year of our Lord 617

Thursley [Between Surrey and Wey Valley, England]

Sunniva flew. The forest came at her as though the trees were racing to entangle her rather than her willingly sprinting to their safety. There were places, deep within, where night and day were indiscernible from the thick shade the trees provided. Panic widened her eyes unnaturally, mouth gaping open for breath as her golden hair streamed behind her in her quick stride. She was gifted by the gods with long legs and a faster sprint than many of the unfortunate women in her village, flitting from hiding place to hiding place until reaching the forest to break into a halting run. They should have known better than to change their worship.

Now, there was no question. If Christians were indeed images of their one God—which she hoped for the God’s sake they weren’t—she wanted nothing to do with either them or Him.

The realization of the invasion brought the bitter taste of bile to her tongue and she unconsciously shook her head as she ran. There were stories of raiders that came from the coast, pilfered and raped villages, leaving nothing left, but the myths and legends were a far cry from the happening. Her village had always seemed safe, so far inland. If any attack came, it should have been from neighbors they already knew.

The sound of the horn was a tide of victory, a rush of hooves from divine steeds, but this was a wave of terror. She prayed Branya was safe, but did not hope. Strangely, it was easier to pray for Branya’s safety than others she loved more.

In stories, for the most part, this kind of thing didn’t happen to heroes. Or, it only happened to enemies. There weren’t enough gods in the universe to protect her from capture. Even the promises from the golden cross at her throat had failed. With every urgent footfall, she knew she was without help.

Instead of divine blessing, now the forest turned against her, low hanging branches slapping her in the face, her legs heavy with fear and fatigue. She dropped to all fours, crouching awkwardly in the thick glade, her speed greatly hindered.

The heavy smell of burning thatch mingled with the putrid scent of blood and entrails. That was in both stories and history, from the blood of Ymir to Loki’s poison. Sunniva could hear behind her the terrified wails of men and women—other women who had not run fast enough or far enough. Ashes carried on the winds sprinkled into her eyes and she wiped at them fiercely as her vision blurred.

The world suddenly tilted as she tripped on her chemise and careened agilely to keep her balance. She snarled as she spun, long white fingers clawing until she stood straight again. She wildly swung her arms while she ran, ripping her way through the space in front of her. Her steps were slowing, as much as she struggled. Her tongue touched the roof of her mouth and found it dry and broken. Each breath painfully raked across her throat. Suddenly, all she could hear and feel was the leaden pounding in her heart. The forest came in and out of focus as though she were enveloped in a swarm of horse flies. Pressing her hands to her chest, she came slowly to a stop, wavering uncertainly. Her body was breaking; it was no longer possible to run at such a pace. For a brief moment, her mastered terror won over her determination and she realized she was laughing hysterically. Her fingertips lightly touched her pink cheeks before she brought them down in hard fists against her thighs. Sunniva twisted her fingers painfully. The pain would help her master herself. When the feeling returned, she could feel the cracking blood that was stuck to her hands.

Go.

One direction clear…

Another direction, two clear.

As Sunniva leaned to turn around, she felt the life drain from her arms and legs. For a second, she realized something was wrong where she stood. Something was still coming. It was a rumbling through the earth. She gave one frantic shake as the earth gave out beneath her.

A demon in black and gray charged into her and she hit the ground hard on her chin, biting her tongue. Warm, metallic tasting fluid seeped over and underneath her tongue as she was flipped onto her back and shoved hard against the earth. An arm in leather and mail swung down across her windpipe, knocking the breath out of her and pinning her down. Branches and rocks dug into the skin of her back. In her eyes, the demon had no face as she struggled, but she did not let that deter her from spitting her blood up in the right direction.

Neither of us will enjoy this. Her nails clawed at the demon but the demon was flesh and blood, heavy and strong flesh and blood. Clothed in leather that reeked of the sea. Her eyes and nose were soaked in the strong odor of brine. He seemed to be everywhere, the stretch of his arms and legs cutting off every chance of disentangling herself. She scratched, reaching toward his eyes until she thought she felt his own blood beneath her fingernails, but she couldn’t find the eyes he did not seem to have.

Her dress was being ripped from seam to seam, her knees pinned hard enough to stop the blood from reaching her feet. Metal links ground against the already torn flesh on her knees. Sunniva’s panic turned to sheer hysteria. She could hear herself pleading mindlessly.

I am the daughter of a Ring-Lord.

She began to scream but the breath caught in her throat from her own hiccupping. It was as though someone had nailed her dry tongue to the roof of her mouth. She tried again but her voice became an unintelligible screech as she writhed in the dirt, struggling against the demon.

Daughter of the Ring-Lord… Daughter of a King… No one would pay the man-price for a woman, but perhaps they would for the daughter of the king.The word burst from her lungs but he was covering her face with her skirt sleeves. She could be ransomed. If he would only hear her first, before ruining her.

Wergild! But he did not stop. She jerked her knee inward and balled her fists tight before elbowing the side of his head. The flesh and blood was housed in stone, her weary hope breaking down with every movement, shrieking in pain.

Wergild! Her voice was muffled and her hair fell into her mouth and eyes, shutting out the light. Sunniva gagged on her golden waves and she felt the heave of a wretch that she ironically hoped would come.

It didn’t. Something scraped against her neck. She threw her chin up in her last attempt to break free. The golden cross hanging from her gold chain hit her in the mouth. She shook her head to throw it off.

Mother Ēostre! Her cry was muffled but in her heart she knew the goddess could hear her.

He did not want ransom.

Mother Ēostre, please!

What was there to ransom when a village was razed?

Her cry dried up. Sunniva mouthed the words before they faded from her mind.

Return to me. Mother Ēostre. Return to me. I will not fail you again. I will give my life to you. I swear it.

The demons did not ask for what they could take and they did not give back what they had taken. Gold was the symbol of a conquest, of a man’s battle prowess. The strength of the treasure hoard determined kingship in those days. The Romans subdued the Britons. The Saxons drove out the Romans and conquered the Britons. Now, someone else had come to claim kingship in the barbarian wilds at the edge of the earth. The land of Britannia was in chaos. It was never enough; they wanted more. With each raid the gold changed hands. Just like the women. It was a reality of the isles. Like other demons he had wanted more than gold. Like other demons, he took treasures that couldn’t be traded, that she could never get back.

Night was falling earlier and it was the latter part of evening when Sunniva was slung over a tall shoulder and carried back to the clearing.

Who still alived? In stories told, the war band would first loot valuables from the dead to be given to their king, who would distribute them back among the warriors. Although she did not see it, Sunniva could visualize the warriors taking broaches, rings and armor from the still warm bodies. The absence of screams and kissing metal was more horrible than the screams themselves. A silence had settled, muting the sounds of swords rending flesh, death rattles, and raiders laughing and yelling, still high on bloodlust.

Late summer winds shook up dust, dirt, and thatch, sent shivers through risen banners of conquest and fed cooking fires being built. The villages’ livestock, now the property of a new lord, was sorted and slaughtered for their meal. Sunniva heard the banners above them all. Then, also according to custom, they released the newly made orphans and widows onto the fields to collect and mourn their dead. It was a strange courtesy for the conquerors to allow their new chattel.

Sunniva was carried to a provisional camp where the ground rose up in a hill overlooking the southeastern edges of the villages. The warrior carrying her was incredibly tall. He handed her over to a man she blindly judged also to be taller than most men. They exchanged words Sunniva did not understand as she was lowered to the wild grasses, eyes closed and body limp. If they thought she was dead, they would leave her behind. She knew of women driven to death, but after many partners, not just one. It was a small chance.

She listened intently as the warrior turned and returned to the battlefield. Devon. The man remaining with her was named Devon.

The soft knees of a woman touched down beside her, stroking her hair and readjusting her skirts. She brokenly accused the man near Sunniva of treachery and offense to the gods and then began to sob in heartfelt keening, murmuring, Sweet lady, dear child.

Branya. Sunniva recognized the midwife from her village. She waited for the man to strike the woman or kick her away. Whatever he was thinking, Devon remained silent as the woman wept.

Voices rose from further away, angry, clipped.

A sharp taste came to Sunniva’s tongue and her heart began to beat more rapidly. She fought her lungs as they painfully tried to take quicker breaths, causing her chest to rise and fall. Rage warmly flooded into her arms and legs, helpless to stop the woman from drawing more attention to herself. She prayed silently they would simply believe the woman’s mourning and move on.

Heavy footsteps approached. The midwife was reduced to sobs and Sunniva felt her hands begin to shake. Another voice called out to the group of men and they guffawed in reply. Sunniva repressed a shiver at the tone; she did know what it meant.

Another set of footsteps approached with a different sound. Sunniva recognized the sounds of chainmail and fine leather, a deep voice from a broad chest. The warrior beside her stood and made some sort of salute.

The warlord. She pressed her eyes tight, begging the old gods and the Mother to let him pass in silence or quickly execute her. More footsteps, more men approaching, each saluting their ring-lord.

Please, please kill me. Don’t make me live through that again.

Metal fiercely struck metal and Sunniva winced. Laughter underscored the heavy slap of leather arms clasped, the soft pull of swords sheathed and unsheathed.

Sunniva strained to understand their strange way of speaking through the midwife’s cries. As she listened, the words gradually disentangled from their accents and though some of the words were still indistinguishable, others began to make sense.

The light steps and voice of a younger man approached the old woman and kicked at her.

Begone woman! I would take you myself if I would not prefer a sheep. My Lord Devon, have you claimed this—bleating cow? He growled as the men bellowed and likewise ordered her to leave. Instead, the midwife bowed her body protectively over Sunniva, who felt her skin run cold. Branya’s tears fell on her face and she gently wiped the dirt from Sunniva’s still visage.

Please, please let me give her a sacred ceremony, so she may rejoin the gods.

Sunniva’s heart broke even as she wanted to push her away and scream at her to run. In spite of herself, she broke out into a cold sweat and fought a wave of nausea. A somewhat nasally voice answered the man, the voice of Devon.

Kella, Wilfrid has bastards enough, find a better place for her.

I do not have that many bastards! I do not have any at all!

Perhaps none that you know of.

Or none he has claimed.

The midwife was suddenly jerked off from Sunniva with a choked shriek, her arms and legs kicking wildly.

It broke her.

Sunniva opened her eyes and tried to hang on to the midwife’s clothes, but she was gone. The sight of her legs as she was dragged away from her and the sound of rising weeping made Sunniva cover her face, somewhere between despair and rage. She balled her hand into a fist and bit her thumb hard not to cry, but tears were already streaming down her face. She bit harder; she had lost any advantage she might have had.

The three remaining figures were staring down at her intently. Sunniva gazed back at them, going still as a doe. Two of the men wore dirtied ring hauberks under boiled leather cuirasses that spoke more of a thousand adventures than the dreaded longboats. Their pauldrons and greaves were likewise of leather and ring-mail, soiled with ashes, blood, and torn up earth.

The other man wore a scale hauberk that in places still shone under his iron-plated cuirass. His high cheek bones were covered with raging boars that rushed out from his helm. A fur mantle covered his pauldrons but she was sure they were also fine plate or scale. The mantle was adorned with a golden broach and chain. At the center of the broach was an emerald boar with ruby eyes, snout pulled back to reveal sharp canines that did not belong on such a creature.

The man was a head taller than the rest, with long golden-red hair and a disheveled beard. His build was unyielding from a life of war. He was probably born wearing scale and with a spear in his hand. He stared back at her, curiously and intently, with bright emerald eyes.

The king. She was without doubt. Only the chieftains wore helms this fine; often, warriors went into battle with no helm at all. Realization struck her as she looked from the clawing scratches on his face to the skin beneath her fingernails. They could have come from any woman who had the luxury of long nails. He saw her glance with an amused expression and faintly nodded as though she had asked a question. The other warriors had fallen silent during their wordless exchange.

The youngest, Wilfrid, had dark blond hair, like it was perpetually stained. His blue eyes were the bright color of sapphires, not unlike Finlay’s eyes. He stared down at her in unabashed hunger, but did not touch her. Sunniva’s eyes shifted to the raven-headed man at the king’s elbow. Although covered in blood and dirt like the rest, he looked entirely too well-kept for the carnage he had exacted. His hair was brushed back away from his face and still in neat pleats, instead of the oily tumbles of curls worn by the other warriors. In contrast to the robust figure of the king, his figure was more slender. Sunniva felt the slightest chill. A man of his mien would have to be dangerous to be feared rather than mocked. He had earned his place among his brothers.

This is a day that will be sung of for generations. He spoke low, almost hoarse and more to himself than anyone around him.

The king tilted his head to the effeminate warrior.

"Devon, I want my hearth-troop seated at council immediately.