Chapter II: He Who Is Free
Palma de Mallorca, August 1118...
Valencia, September 1118...
His lips pressed tightly together, the King's eyes flickered as brightly as the crisp blue water of the fjords in summer. At the one side, his wife, all long flowing locks the color of chestnuts and burnt skin like a Moor. Ah, María. Only her proud bearing and piercing green eyes truly betrayed the Visigothic pedigree she spoke so frequently of. On the other side the young King, his brother Olaf, no longer the child who had set sail in search of glory, but still a scrawny stripling innocent to the ways of the world. With him his German bride, the Emperor's fat bastard girl, plump and rosy. Arrayed behind them stood Sigurd's hirdmen and then Olaf's - countrymen, save for the odd excellent Dane or Norman chosen to represent his fellows.
It was these men who had silenced the Bishop's protests and brought Sigurd his crozier (the pastoral staff) and signet ring. The people had cheered, delighted that their great King should also shepherd them spiritually from now on, as was his prerogative and their desire.
Sigurd turned to see the throng assembling itself behind him. The trustworthy faces of his countrymen, Arabs and Normans beyond count, selected pockets of Frankish and Englishmen, Gascons and Lombards too. Loudest of all their women, of every hue and tribe, weeping as they had done all day since sunrise. Such affection had surprised him, despite the warnings he had received - he did not think even half of these women had been here at the time, fewer still would have laid eyes upon her.
Her.
In the new royal mythology Sigurd was devising, there was no overlap between his marriages. Maximilla had been his legitimate and beloved Queen, as Maria now was. His first wife, an Irish princess he had wed in youth, was obliterated from history altogether. Maximilla's piety and chastity were notorious; her martyrdom the outward sign of a preexisting sainthood. In truth, he had liked her well enough. No great romance, but good enough sex and the loyalty of some most useful Normans. Now she rose to the heavens as patron and protectress of the community.
The women, he realized, did not weep for her: they wept for themselves, and the sons they would lose if their saintly patroness did not come through for them.
A sway of the pastoral staff sufficed to silence the rabble. Even the copious tears of the womenfolk ceased immediately.
In silence the Kings poured libations in the ground, followed by their queens and hirdsmen. Incensed filled the air as the Kings lead two horses and slit their throats, letting the blood fall on the newly planted saplings. In time these would form a grove surrounding the late Queen's place of death and final resting place. Her remains - so claimed the locals, Sigurd could not tell - had been salvaged and interred where the Saracens had cut her down. Every year since the women gathered there, weeping and praying, while the men watched in silence. Upon his return to the island Sigurd had attempted to ignore, and then suppress, the practice. On this point alone the people would not heed their King. His men returned with captured Moors, Italians, even African dames purchased or wrested from the hands of Moorish sheiks and merchants. And sure enough they were there, the following year, crying for a Queen they had never seen and barely heard of.
So now a grove and a church of stone to house her body.
On the King's signal the abbatocomes let the women through. The only one of the men to join in their chanting, he lead them in prayer. This marked the end of their mourning and made way for the afternoon's festivities - a joyous Mass celebrated in open-air, the womenfolk and youth dancing about a maypole somewhat resembling a cross. This they did in joy for the resurrection of the Christ and the assured resurrection, salvation and future victory of the Queen Maximilla and all his/her people.
---It was these men who had silenced the Bishop's protests and brought Sigurd his crozier (the pastoral staff) and signet ring. The people had cheered, delighted that their great King should also shepherd them spiritually from now on, as was his prerogative and their desire.
Sigurd turned to see the throng assembling itself behind him. The trustworthy faces of his countrymen, Arabs and Normans beyond count, selected pockets of Frankish and Englishmen, Gascons and Lombards too. Loudest of all their women, of every hue and tribe, weeping as they had done all day since sunrise. Such affection had surprised him, despite the warnings he had received - he did not think even half of these women had been here at the time, fewer still would have laid eyes upon her.
Her.
In the new royal mythology Sigurd was devising, there was no overlap between his marriages. Maximilla had been his legitimate and beloved Queen, as Maria now was. His first wife, an Irish princess he had wed in youth, was obliterated from history altogether. Maximilla's piety and chastity were notorious; her martyrdom the outward sign of a preexisting sainthood. In truth, he had liked her well enough. No great romance, but good enough sex and the loyalty of some most useful Normans. Now she rose to the heavens as patron and protectress of the community.
The women, he realized, did not weep for her: they wept for themselves, and the sons they would lose if their saintly patroness did not come through for them.
A sway of the pastoral staff sufficed to silence the rabble. Even the copious tears of the womenfolk ceased immediately.
In silence the Kings poured libations in the ground, followed by their queens and hirdsmen. Incensed filled the air as the Kings lead two horses and slit their throats, letting the blood fall on the newly planted saplings. In time these would form a grove surrounding the late Queen's place of death and final resting place. Her remains - so claimed the locals, Sigurd could not tell - had been salvaged and interred where the Saracens had cut her down. Every year since the women gathered there, weeping and praying, while the men watched in silence. Upon his return to the island Sigurd had attempted to ignore, and then suppress, the practice. On this point alone the people would not heed their King. His men returned with captured Moors, Italians, even African dames purchased or wrested from the hands of Moorish sheiks and merchants. And sure enough they were there, the following year, crying for a Queen they had never seen and barely heard of.
So now a grove and a church of stone to house her body.
On the King's signal the abbatocomes let the women through. The only one of the men to join in their chanting, he lead them in prayer. This marked the end of their mourning and made way for the afternoon's festivities - a joyous Mass celebrated in open-air, the womenfolk and youth dancing about a maypole somewhat resembling a cross. This they did in joy for the resurrection of the Christ and the assured resurrection, salvation and future victory of the Queen Maximilla and all his/her people.
Valencia, September 1118...
"Not these!"
The King beckoned to the man, both of them breathless and covered in blood. One of his mother's people, a towering Icelandic chieftain by the name of Sæmundsson, Sigurd regarded him as a brother and kinsman. Sigurd's sole sister of the full blood had married the man's brother -in such distant lands, enough to make a man a brother. The King knew he would get no reply beside that angry (and somewhat startled) grunt. The Icelander was prone to forget his Christianity, and his Latin letters and all the learning his father had passed onto him, in the immediate aftermath of a successful raid. He and his men made free use of the defeated men and women. The Kings' men had been all too eager to emulate what was, after all, traditional Viking behavior - the collection of booty and the final, complete assertion of the Vikings' dominance. Babies fairer than their mothers soon followed, testifying to the profligacy of this policy.
These men, however, were javelin throwers, captured as they attempted to reassemble or flee. The King stomped over, limping somewhat. His warriors lined the men up, making them all kneel before the King, who pressed the cold bloodstained blade against the skin of the quivering man's throat.
A choice: slavery or baptism.
"From now on any who will forego his heresy and be baptized in the holy name of the Christ will serve in our fighting bands and enjoy freedom from all molestation. Those who cling to the Devil's way are solely to blame for their end, rejecting the bounty of God and King for the life of an animal, to be run through or sold at will."
The King's men nodded in half-agreement. Only two of the javelin throwers dared deny the King's mercy. The sight of their disfigured, flayed remains was deterrent enough for the rest. Henceforth assigned to Sæmundsson's service, they would fight the Lord's battles and in time come to own their own thrall .
The King beckoned to the man, both of them breathless and covered in blood. One of his mother's people, a towering Icelandic chieftain by the name of Sæmundsson, Sigurd regarded him as a brother and kinsman. Sigurd's sole sister of the full blood had married the man's brother -in such distant lands, enough to make a man a brother. The King knew he would get no reply beside that angry (and somewhat startled) grunt. The Icelander was prone to forget his Christianity, and his Latin letters and all the learning his father had passed onto him, in the immediate aftermath of a successful raid. He and his men made free use of the defeated men and women. The Kings' men had been all too eager to emulate what was, after all, traditional Viking behavior - the collection of booty and the final, complete assertion of the Vikings' dominance. Babies fairer than their mothers soon followed, testifying to the profligacy of this policy.
These men, however, were javelin throwers, captured as they attempted to reassemble or flee. The King stomped over, limping somewhat. His warriors lined the men up, making them all kneel before the King, who pressed the cold bloodstained blade against the skin of the quivering man's throat.
A choice: slavery or baptism.
"From now on any who will forego his heresy and be baptized in the holy name of the Christ will serve in our fighting bands and enjoy freedom from all molestation. Those who cling to the Devil's way are solely to blame for their end, rejecting the bounty of God and King for the life of an animal, to be run through or sold at will."
The King's men nodded in half-agreement. Only two of the javelin throwers dared deny the King's mercy. The sight of their disfigured, flayed remains was deterrent enough for the rest. Henceforth assigned to Sæmundsson's service, they would fight the Lord's battles and in time come to own their own thrall .
