The Briton and the Dane: Concordia

by Mary Ann Bernal

  Concordia wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand on the unusually warm day. She glanced upon the cloudless sky while hoping for a breeze, but the air was still as the heat of midday lingered. She stared at the dusty road, remembering the moments she and Brantson shared when she had been but a child, and the time spent together once she came of age.

  “Brantson, I was young still when you went to serve in the King’s army,” Concordia whispered to herself.

  “Aye, but you were no longer a child when he sought your company whenever he was called to court,” replied her conscience. “And you did encourage his visits.”

  Tears swelled when Concordia remembered how she had grieved when word reached the citadel that Brantson had been slain in battle. She wiped away her tears, smiling brightly when she recalled learning that the rumors were unfounded and that he had not been mortally wounded. Concordia envisioned those long-ago days when she never left Brantson’s sickbed while he recovered from his injuries. She had wiped his brow when he was fevered, and had fed him broth to keep up his strength, and had read to him to alleviate the boredom as he mended.

  “Surely you noticed that he was in love with you when you ministered to his needs,” said her conscience. “And did you not experience similar feelings?”

  Concordia searched her heart, seeking answers, but visions of Thayer clouded her judgment, obscuring the truth as she languished over a dream that had faded with the passage of time. If she did not understand her feelings, could not her father indulge her yet again, and delay her betrothal? She loved Brantson as a brother, but that was all. Or was it?

  Concordia was deep in thought when the bells pealed, calling the Lord’s faithful to Vespers. She leaned over the wall, her eyes squinting at a cloud of dust that appeared suddenly at the forest’s edge. She waited impatiently while the guards that patrolled the wall-walk shouted to the warriors stationed in the gate tower of an approaching convoy. Warriors stood at the ready at the open gate as Lord Stephen and Brantson rode into the outer courtyard amidst an armed guard, with the bound prisoners walking behind Brantson’s horse.

  Concordia ran down the stairs and approached the main gate hurriedly while King Alfred’s subjects were already lining the streets. Children tossed rotten vegetables at the defiant Norsemen, but most missed their mark, leaving the prisoners unscathed. Young maidens cheered while waving at the warriors, and laughed excitedly when the soldiers nodded in their direction.

  “Father!” Concordia screamed as she pushed her way through the thickening crowd, but Lord Stephen did not hear her cries because of the deafening cheers.

  Brantson smiled and waved to the people while Lord Stephen kept his eyes straight ahead, ill at ease because of his mutilated hand. However, Brantson did hear the familiar voice, reining in his horse while waiting for Concordia as she ran towards him. She accepted Brantson’s outstretched hand as he pulled her upon his stallion, embracing her dearest friend enthusiastically as they rode towards the king’s private quarters.

  “Father, you have been sorely missed,” Concordia said truthfully as she touched her father’s arm. “I am pleased you are here.”

  Lord Stephen’s solemn demeanor changed when he glanced lovingly upon his daughter. Even though his eyes sparkled, his sorrow could not be veiled since Concordia was truly her mother’s daughter, resembling Arista not only in looks but also in temperament, and Arista’s death was a wound that had yet to heal with the passage of time.

  Concordia rested her head against Brantson’s shoulder as he guided his horse into King Alfred’s private courtyard where the king and queen greeted their expected visitors. She beamed with pride when she noticed Emidus standing beside Prince Edward, and wondered if their father was pleased with Emidus’ new position at court, but she blushed when she noticed her brother’s knowing look.

  Brantson dismounted quickly, helping Concordia down, and picked her up while embracing her warmly before speaking.

  “You are more beautiful than I remember,” Brantson whispered. “I am pleased you are well.”

  King Alfred and his queen were upon them before Concordia could reply. She bowed before her king and ran into her father’s arms while Emidus remained with Prince Edward. Lord Stephen kissed his daughter on the top of her head just as King Alfred spoke.

  “Your early arrival is most pleasing...I trust your trip was uneventful.”

  “Aye, my lord,” Lord Stephen replied. “But I fear my age is upon me...riding is tiring.”

  “That it is,” King Alfred guffawed as he led his guests into his private quarters while the first officer escorted the Norsemen to the prisoner quarters.

  “Father, it is I, Concordia...may I enter?”

  “Come,” Lord Stephen shouted from the inner bedchamber.

  Concordia pushed open the door and ran towards her father, holding back pent-up tears when they embraced, but she became unsettled when she noticed how much he had aged since they last met. Deep lines etched his rugged face, his dark hair was turning gray, and the sadness his eyes depicted left her at a loss for words.

  “You have grown since we last met, but are you wiser?”

  “Father, you are most wicked...have you not received reports from my tutors?”

  “Yes, little one,” Lord Stephen grinned while beckoning her to sit. “You are well-versed in the classroom, but you lack knowledge of the world.”

  “How can I know the world if I am not permitted to see its wonders for myself?” Concordia asked exasperatedly. “Were you not in Rome with our king when you both were children still? Did you not travel through the many kingdoms to reach the Papal City? Why cannot I visit the cities and seek knowledge from the ancient ruins before I am forced into a life of servitude?”

  “I trust you are referring to your betrothal?” Lord Stephen asked his defiant daughter.

  “Perhaps servitude is too strong a word for my plight...I do not deny my responsibility, but I pray my counsel will be sought before I am betrothed. You know once I am wed I must bear children, which is why I must travel now, before my fate is sealed.”

  “I have given this journey much thought, and have discussed your request with the king, and with Brantson. When I received your letter, my first thought was to deny your request, especially since the Norsemen are again threatening our shores. However, Brantson reminded me that our shores have been threatened since our king was but a boy, and our shores will most likely be threatened again, but these threats are quickly thwarted. Your wise champion also reminded me that pilgrims continue to journey to not only Rome but to the Holy Land, and that scholars and students continue to flock to Winchester and to other cities where universities have been founded. While it is true that pirates prey upon innocent travelers, these attacks are not as frequent as the gossipmongers would have us believe. Laws are enforced and outlaws are brought to justice, and roads are relatively safe for travel.”

  Concordia listened hopefully while her father walked about the room, but she noticed that he failed to look at her, keeping his eyes lowered as spoke of her betrothal, which had the king’s blessing.

  “It is the wish of your future husband to travel with you to the lands you seek to visit, and I have given my approval...and King Alfred is also agreeable.”

  Concordia stared at her father in disbelief. Once again her life was planned for her, once again she would have to submit to her father’s wishes or suffer his displeasure. She took a deep breath as she wanted to think first the words she wished to speak. She rubbed her sweaty palms on her dress, glancing at her father through misty eyes as she walked towards him.

  “Will Brantson no longer have a command in the king’s army then?” Concordia whispered as she lovingly grasped her father’s mutilated hand.

  “Brantson has earned a respite from the battlefield, and King Alfred is in agreement. I am pleased you are willing...”

  “What choice do I have?” Concordia interrupted.

  “Brantson is a good man and will
treat you well...and his love is not feigned.”

  “If wedding Brantson is the only way to have my plans sanctioned, then I agree, but the Athenian students return soon to Greece. I would travel with them...with my husband.”

  “Have you forgotten that the banns must be posted, and much preparation is needed? Your mother will be...”

  “Elizabeth is not my mother!” Concordia screamed, releasing her built-up tears.

  “Why do you hate Elizabeth so? She has always loved you.”

  “Because Elizabeth lives in my mother’s stead!”

  Lord Stephen embraced his daughter firmly, hoping his loving arms would provide some comfort since he remained silent. He could not share his feelings because he could not bear to hurt Elizabeth should she discover the truth, not trusting Concordia to hold her tongue. His life was complicated because he had lost his memory when he had been wounded in battle such a long time ago. Arista had saved his life and called him Aurelius because he did not remember his name. Aurelius took Arista for his wife, and she bore him twin children, Emidus and Concordia, but their happiness was short-lived since Arista died when their secluded valley was attacked. Lord Stephen was grateful that God had decided Arista’s fate since he would have taken the cowl rather than cause either woman pain, but his self-reproach had not lessened with the passing years.

  “Your mother lives in our hearts, and she will never be forgotten,” Lord Stephen whispered.

  “I know, father,” Concordia said kindly. “I would have Uncle Sidonius present at the nuptials, but I fear his arrival would not be timely. You and Emidus are the only witnesses I seek...you have the king’s ear...and banns can be dispensed if the Bishop deems it so. Please father, I beg you.”

  “You would deny yourself a nuptial feast befitting your station to satisfy a wanderlust?”

  Concordia nodded.

  “What of Brantson? Would you deny him his right?”

  “Brantson is besotted and only wishes to please me...besides he cares little for pageantry.”

  “I would hope you are also besotted, but I fear...”

  “I meant no offense, father,” Concordia interrupted. “Since Brantson sanctioned my request, I do believe he will be in agreement, and we can have a celebratory feast upon our return...and Elizabeth can make the necessary preparations...would that please you and the king?”

  “I would ask you to write Elizabeth...and Brantson’s relations before you depart.”

  Concordia held her father’s mutilated hand against her face while joyful tears flowed rapidly, her moist eyes glowing in the candlelight as she made peace with her father.

  “I shall write this very night,” Concordia told him, “and if upon our return we repeat our vows before our God with Elizabeth and Uncle Sidonius to bear witness, would I be forgiven then?”

  “I will explain to your mother...Elizabeth upon my return.”

  “Tell mother I am most fortunate to have had her love these many years, and that I am truly grateful.”

  “Your words are most welcome,” Lord Stephen said softly. “I could not bear...”

  “Hush, father, I spoke because I was displeased, that is all, and I beg your forgiveness.”

  “There is nothing to forgive, dear daughter...never forget that you are much loved.”

  Chapter Six

  Arn and Gunnar were kept in separate chambers while awaiting their fate. They were chained to the wall in their darkened windowless rooms that were uncomfortably hot during the day and insufferably cold at night. Guards were posted outside their locked doors while soldiers stood at the ready in the enclosed courtyard, their armed presence a deterrent against unnecessary bloodshed.

  Arn and Gunnar behaved similarly each time the door was opened. They held their heads high, their gaze focused upon the opposite wall whenever a soldier left bread and water. They remained silent, just as their jailers were silent, both men alone, in the dark, with only their own thoughts to sustain them during the endless solitude.

  Children hid in the shadows, hoping to catch a glimpse of the feared heathen whenever the door was opened, but they soon became disheartened as the day wore on, being disappointed when they had to leave to finish their chores lest they incurred their fathers’ wrath and felt the sting of the birch.

  Wagers were also being taken as to which day the king would pronounce judgment, and if his humble subjects would be permitted to watch the heathens being put to death.

  The imprisoned Norsemen had no misgivings about the Saxon king’s ruling; they would die at the end of rope. They cursed the gods for their misfortune, knowing if they did not die with sword in hand, they would never enter Valhalla; instead their ghostly forms would roam the earth throughout eternity; they had not only been dishonored in life, they would also be dishonored in death.

  Arn was young still and had not taken a wife. He regretted not having anyone to mourn his passing, yet he wondered if any of his scattered seed had ever bore fruit and if, indeed, he had sired a son. However, he did not regret having sailed across the North Sea, nor did he regret attacking Britannia’s shores. He grinned when he remembered the fearful faces of the men he killed and the women he ravaged. Arn’s coffers would have been filled not only with plunder but with coins from the slave traders once their human cargo was sold. His warrior prowess had been proven these many days, and he had been favored by Odin, but he had been denied a warrior’s death because the Saxon had given quarter. He envisioned his final fight, over and over again while wondering how he had been defeated. Should he have stepped backward instead of forward? Should he have deflected a thrust instead of advancing? Should he have swung left instead of right? And because his opponent was twice his years, he should have been easily vanquished, but Arn had underestimated his enemy, and his arrogance would cost him his life!

  While Arn was brooding, Gunnar was reflecting upon a life he had chosen willingly. He was a warrior, as his father before him, and he had no regrets. He had been on many campaigns, surviving the battles unscathed. His adventures were still being recounted on the mead bench, and his many sons boasted of their lineage while several chieftains sought his daughters for wives. His offspring would erect a memorial stone in his honor and would offer sacrifices to appease Odin while prayers were said for his wandering soul. Gunnar’s eyes were moist when his thoughts turned to his wife on the night she died while birthing their last child. His eight children were fit, and flourished. His ninth child was deformed, and mercifully stillborn, but the babe was turned and had to be taken from its mother. He could still hear his wife’s screams when the knife sliced her belly, and he could still see her pain when she gazed into his eyes. He never sought another woman to wed, nor did he sire anymore children. He took his wife’s sister into his household, and she cared for his offspring while he went raiding across the sea. Gunnar had lived a fruitful life and he did not fear death.

  Concordia watched from atop the Keep as the Norsemen stepped into the sunny street. While their hands were bound, their feet were not chained, but the walk to the king’s quarters would be timely because of stiffened limbs. Even from a distance she could see their discomfiture as their eyes adjusted to the brightness, but their bold defiance as they shuffled behind the armed guards antagonized the waiting crowd whose shouts and raised arms flaying angrily in the air terrified the younger children.

  The heathens’ courage was admirable as they were paraded through the streets amidst the taunts and thrown pebbles that found their mark frequently. A steady wind whipped through their matted hair, billowing their soiled clothing as wind gusts thrust the men forward, which caused them to stumble more than once along the dusty road.

  Concordia hurried down the stairs and headed towards the king’s quarters, choosing to run along the deserted streets to save time. She was out of breath by the time she reached the massive building where King Alfred chose to govern his kingdom. She nodded to the guard before opening the door quietly, stepping unobtrusively into a room filled wit
h not only members of the king’s council but also with his personal advisors and members of the privileged class. She beamed with pride when she noticed Emidus at Prince Edward’s side, but was surprised to notice that her father and Brantson were seated amongst the councilmen. Notably absent, however, was the queen.

  Concordia held her breath as she made her way quietly towards the hidden stairwell, tiptoeing up the stairs while praying her presence was not noticed and breathing a sigh of relief when she found herself in the gallery and safely hidden within its shadows, but it was eerily quiet while everyone waited patiently for the prisoners to arrive.

  King Alfred sat majestically upon his throne in the governing chambers, his stoicism reflecting his somber mood, since a sentence of death was not made lightly. He was of the Christian faith, a true follower of Christ Jesus whose mercy knew no bounds. While the king’s benevolence was well known throughout his kingdom, his mercy must not be construed as a weakness lest his throne was lost. His rulings were fair and wise, and a sentence of death was enforced when warranted.

  Concordia suspected she knew the ruling because the queen never attended judgments whenever a prisoner was to be condemned to death. She sensed the men in attendance also presumed the heathens would die since they appeared emotionally distant.

  Suddenly, the door was thrust opened forcibly and the Norsemen followed the armed guards into the room, their dragging feet echoing loudly as they approached the king. The warriors stepped aside while the prisoners were pushed to their knees. But instead of keeping their eyes lowered, Arn and Gunnar glared at King Alfred who noticed that their faces were contorted by the burning hatred that festered malevolently within their souls.

  King Alfred remained seated while the charges against the prisoners were read loudly so that the severity of the crime was made known publicly, for the official record, before judgment was passed. The law of the land served everyone in the kingdom, laws established and enforced by King Alfred so that his subjects might live in peace. The law was the law, which favored no one, and the penalties were the same not only for the nobility and the enslaved, but also for those who followed Christian and heathen beliefs.