The Count's Feud: Chapter 1
Title: The Count's Feud
Author:Writingincolor
Disclaimer: My property entirely
Synopsis: In the 16th century, Martin Luther's reformation has torn Europe apart, pitting father against son, brother against brother. When the political unrest spreads to Denmark, a young noblewoman must decide where her alliances lie.
Denmark, 1533
I've married a monster, and there's naught anyone can do about it.
They say that he was a devilishly handsome man once, least till the fire devoured most of his flesh. Now what little skin remains sags with heavy wrinkles and pus filled boils, a testament to all the years he's spent on this earth, thirty-five more than I have lived. I pinched Birgitte when she told me some months ago that many women were in love with him for a time, but she swore up and down that it was God's own truth. Since there is nothing else to do on this miserable journey but contemplate my future, and that being a sorry, grim one not worth giving much thought, I've been taking quick, hasty glances at him and hoping that maybe, somehow, she's right. If he was a fine looking man, then maybe my children will be fine looking and---oh, I can't think about that, I won't. If I do, that sick feeling in my stomach will start coming back, like I'm going to spill out the little I've eaten right here on the carriage floor and on my pretty new shoes that were made especially for the wedding, and then I'll be crying again before I know it. It's bad enough that I'm married to him, worse that he's old and foul, but to leave my home and be carried off to the other side of the country? Not even Zealand, mind you, but the other side of Denmark? My hands start trembling just at the thought, so I clasp the folds of my gown quickly and shut my eyes tight before he can take note. He won't see me cry, not again if I have any say in it. I just need to take a deep breath or two, that's all. I'll get through this---I got through Mother's death and the manor being sold, didn't I? Stop being such child and look at him properly.
My eyes open and I take a hard look at him, this stranger I am bound to. What's left of his nose looks long and straight, and he has the same thick, curling hair of the King, charcoal black and peppered with gray. He's so tall he can peer down on all but a few of his men, seasoned fighters, and most are frightened and terrified enough of him as it is. Those are his fine features, both of them, and maybe if there was some kindness in his furrowed brow, things might be different between us. Before the wedding, I imagined that I might learn to overlook his disfigurement and perhaps even love him one day, but the past two days have remedied that foolish bit of thinking. When he opens his mouth, it is to announce a complaint or bark a command. He finds fault in everyone, save his wolfhounds and the occasional small child, and God help the careless guardsman that tarries too long in his duty. His narrow eyes are sharp with greed, his skin a damaged wasteland, and his belly strains against the confinement of his burgundy brocade, bouncing and jiggling with every bump along the King's Road. If half the women in court were mad with love for him, presumably they were blind with fortune too. Would that they had married him instead of me.
Not that it matters; not anymore. The bargain has been struck, the wedding vows spoken, and ugly or not, cruel or kind, I am shackled to him now. He will have my youth and beauty, or at least whatever small claim my hooked nose and strange looks have to comeliness---and in return, I will be his wife. The wife of Duke Claus Bille, cousin to the King, fifth in line to the throne and one of the most powerful peers in all of Denmark.
He glances up from his lap and catches my bold stare. Cursing my carelessness, I look away quickly, but not soon enough. His thin lips curl into a smile.
“Every inch your father’s daughter, aren’t you?” He murmurs, leaning forward to trace my palm with fingers thick as sausages. “Sweet enough when it suits your purposes, but not so warm when it’s time to uphold your end of the bargain, hm?”
It wasn’t my bargain, I’d like to spit into his face; maybe that would wipe that foul, toothless grin away. It never was. But a slave doesn't strike her master, does she? I know I should learn to accept his attentions placidly, without comment, as a good wife would. But it's too much, and I can't bear it, not today of all days.
I yank my hands out of his grip, recoiling as far as our cramped carriage will allow. "Don't touch me."
I regret the words the moment they leave my mouth. Time and again, I forget that I cannot speak my mind as I once did. He controls everything now, my letters and allowance and life.
But the Duke chuckles loudly, throwing his head back and slapping at his knee, jowls quivering, as if he has just been privy to some spectacular joke instead of rejection from his own wife. I tighten my jaw and raise my chin to cover my uncertainty. It is a poor facade at best; I have never been a good liar, and when I am frightened, it never fails to show in my eyes.
“Ah-ho! Are all women of court so bold with their husbands in these days?" He shakes his head and studies me with bemused curiosity, in the same frank matter a warrior looks at a war horse he has purchased sight unseen; a horse he has deemed wild and must be broken before it can suit his needs.
I say nothing. I don't even look at him. Maybe I'm headstrong enough to pull away from his caresses, but I'm not such a fool I'll fall into his trap.
"No, no, I don’t believe so; this is hardly England,” he continues, snorting with mild contempt. "You’re used to having your own way, following your own whim instead of bending."
Not the first time I've heard those words, and I daresay it won't be the last, either. But I've always known my place and purpose. Just as my brother Anders knew he would one day inherit my father's lands and Edvard would enter the Church, I have been raised with the expectation of making an advantageous marriage for the family. Didn't dare expect a handsome man, of course, those being far and few among suitably powerful lords, but I had thought...I had hoped...
"Your father let you run wild when you were young and neglected to think what might happen when you were of marriageable age. A smart woman might have suited me better, or at least one with a grain of sense in her head.
My cheeks grow hot at his taunts. “My father had the best tutors in all of----.”
He roars with laughter. “The best? Oh, but of course! He thought he was doing you a service, didn’t he, letting you sit in on your brother’s schooling? Go on, don’t let me stop you; tell me your accomplishments. Tell me how you speak Latin and French and German with fluency, how you’ve studied all the philosophies and works of the ages.”
His eyes gleam with amusement; but some of the carelessness has disappeared, replaced by the calculation of a cat watching a bird. He leans forward and grasps my hands again, this time with a firmness that warns off any attempts to wrench away. My body stiffens, but I swallow the scalding retort hot on my tongue. His mood changes with the wind, from merry to ruthless, and I cannot afford to make him my enemy. There will be harder, more important battles than this one to fight, and I must be ready for those. I must learn to curb my temper with him.
“Oh, you’ve changed your mind? Good girl.” He chuckles again and drops my hand at last, settling his girth back against the cushion. “You may follow your whims, min elskede, so long as they coincide with mine."
The carriage lurches to a sudden halt. I tumble forward, throwing out my arms to avoid falling against him. Outside, the horses screech in protest, followed by shouting and a hum of noise. A shadow of fear crosses the Duke's face. My pulse begins to race. An obstacle in the road, or something worse? Surely no bandit would be foolish enough to attack our carriage with such a large guard, but these parts of Funen are half wild, and there is no telling what the peasants might do when suitably roused. I have spent half the trip hoping we might encounter an interruption of this nature and be forced to turn around and ride back to Copenhagen, but now that it is here...
The door jerks open, pouring light into the dark carriage. I flinch and pull back, but it’s only one of the footmen, and a nervous, scraggly looking one at that. He sweeps a low bow and directs his attention to the Duke.
"Your Grace, the street is too crowded for us to continue..." He wets his lips. "We have to stop."
The noise nearly drowns out his words. I peer over his broad shoulders. It is hard to see much, but there's a press of people all over the road. There must be hundreds; their heckling cries, murmurs, and shouts meld together in one great clap of noise that even the thick carriage can't muffle. But it isn't the bustle of a market place. The few dirty faced peasants I can see remain still, watching something intently in the distance. Something is happening.
"I can damn well deduce that for myself, boy," the Duke spews, the color returning to his lips now that the threat of danger is put to rest, and raises his considerable girth. "Move aside."
The man all but leaps out of his way. I watch wordlessly as he steps out, bellowing demands, and slams the door shut behind him. A restless moment passes, then another. I've not been or seen the outside in two days, save for a few quick steps from the carriage into the inn. This is the first time I've been alone, too, save for the occasional use of the chamber pot.
I wait in silence. Time passes and wicked thoughts start creeping into my head, each more hopeful than the last. Let a revolt be the cause of this disturbance and may some ill witted farmer strike my husband down dead. We could turn around then, right now, and go home. This marriage, this nightmare of an arrangement, would be nothing worse than a bad dream. We could ride back through the city gates in two days, and I could marry the man I was meant to marry...
A sudden roar sweeps through the crowd, a cacophony filled with jeering and hoots and whistles. The carriage jostles back and forth, and I bite back a scream. What in God's name is going on? Well, I won't wait in here a minute longer, no matter what he'll think. He didn't expressly forbid me to come out, and I shan't sit here like a sparrow in a cage. I reach for the door latch and push it open. It swings free with ease. I gather my skirts and step out into the world, into the sunshine.
The stench of sweat hits me first. Hundreds of dirty men, women, children are packed tightly on this narrow road and the putrid smell is worse than akin to the contents of a thousand chamber pots. They aren't like our servants at home, or even our peasants. Filth and grime stains their clothing, their skin is tanned from labor, and they hoot, holler, jeer and push, calling out debts and obscenities at the top of their lungs. I stare at them all, their ragged lips and dirty cheeks. None of them have bathed in months. What my husband thinks of this, I cannot tell; he is nowhere in sight, swallowed somewhere in this unruly sea of people. As for the guards, they seem more irritated than worried. They look back, beyond the carriage, following the gaze of the peasants. I rise on my toes and peer off in the same direction, towards the small, moving clearing in the crowd. I cannot make out what it is.
One of his guards sees me suddenly and wheels on his horse. He's one of the bigger ones, with ruddy hair covering half his thick face, but his name escapes me. It matters not; they're all the same, my husband's men, faithful dogs that terrify and pillage on his command, and round me up like a lost sheep when he is not there to do it himself.
"Your Grace, you must get back in the carriage."
Your Grace. The words are still strange to hear. " What's happening?"
He grimaces, either from my question or my refusal to get back inside. That same moment, the crowd parts, and I see at last the source of the heckling crowd.
The two condemned men are yanked along, their wrists bound in tight ropes. Dirtier and scrawnier than the rest, their eyes are swollen with abject terror. As they come closer, I realize suddenly that they are not men at all; they are boys, eleven and twelve at best, with snot and blood running out of their snub noses. I turn wildly and spy the scaffold, mounted high in the center of the town. This is why we cannot continue our path. The entire town has turned out for the hanging, and nothing will move till the villagers have had their sport.
"Quickly, Your Grace." The guard's firm voice is in my ear, but I shrug him off and move forward. The townsmen leading the prisoners are passing now, not more than a few hands-width away.
"Thieves!" A toothless hag screams.
"Bastards!"
"Papists! Papists!"
The chant rises in the crowd, screamed and spewed like the worst of curses. The taste of bile creeps into my throat. Papist. Abruptly my curiosity dies. I want to be in the carriage again, I have seen enough, my head is beginning to spin.
One of the boys sees me suddenly, and his desperate eyes take in the resplendence of my blue gown, the ornate carriage. It is enough for him to take a chance.
"Mercy, my lady!" He wrenches out of the path and throws himself at my feet. "Have mercy---."
His lips briefly touch the hem of my gown. I have enough time to flinch before beefy hands yank me back, away from the boy. A guard, one of my guards, lunges forward.
"No!" I scream, but it is too late; the boy's body jerks back as the guard's foot smashes into his face. A crack rings through the air as his neck twists at an unnatural angle. His eyes, nose, mouth all blossom with blood. The other boy recoils, but the hangman and the townspeople roar their approval, pleased at the unexpected twist on their afternoon entertainment. Blood pools at my feet.
The bile rises again, tickling my tongue, stronger this time. But I must hold it back, I cannot shame myself. The second boy is pulled along, away from his fallen companion and towards the scaffold. My knees buckle. Someone catches me as I fall, presumably the same person who jerked me away from the boy, and then there is shouting as my husband's guards cluster around me, shoving away any too curious peasants. My head starts spinning again. I can still see the dead boy's eyes, the mangled remains of his face, smashed in and destroyed.
Have mercy...
The little food in my stomach comes spilling out, splattering on the cobblestones. In front of fifteen men, I heave, and heave, until my stomach is worn thin and everything is gone. I would have given him mercy, if I had the chance. My body slackens, collapsing against the cobblestones. As strong arms swoop down and lift me into the carriage, heedless of my stained, repulsive gown, my head stops spinning long enough for me to realize something else. The killing was not the only reason my stomach churned as it did. Oh, God, no, there is another reason.
I am with child.
~~~
A/N: A very short chapter to start out with, but more will soon be on the way.
Author:Writingincolor
Disclaimer: My property entirely
Synopsis: In the 16th century, Martin Luther's reformation has torn Europe apart, pitting father against son, brother against brother. When the political unrest spreads to Denmark, a young noblewoman must decide where her alliances lie.
Denmark, 1533
I've married a monster, and there's naught anyone can do about it.
They say that he was a devilishly handsome man once, least till the fire devoured most of his flesh. Now what little skin remains sags with heavy wrinkles and pus filled boils, a testament to all the years he's spent on this earth, thirty-five more than I have lived. I pinched Birgitte when she told me some months ago that many women were in love with him for a time, but she swore up and down that it was God's own truth. Since there is nothing else to do on this miserable journey but contemplate my future, and that being a sorry, grim one not worth giving much thought, I've been taking quick, hasty glances at him and hoping that maybe, somehow, she's right. If he was a fine looking man, then maybe my children will be fine looking and---oh, I can't think about that, I won't. If I do, that sick feeling in my stomach will start coming back, like I'm going to spill out the little I've eaten right here on the carriage floor and on my pretty new shoes that were made especially for the wedding, and then I'll be crying again before I know it. It's bad enough that I'm married to him, worse that he's old and foul, but to leave my home and be carried off to the other side of the country? Not even Zealand, mind you, but the other side of Denmark? My hands start trembling just at the thought, so I clasp the folds of my gown quickly and shut my eyes tight before he can take note. He won't see me cry, not again if I have any say in it. I just need to take a deep breath or two, that's all. I'll get through this---I got through Mother's death and the manor being sold, didn't I? Stop being such child and look at him properly.
My eyes open and I take a hard look at him, this stranger I am bound to. What's left of his nose looks long and straight, and he has the same thick, curling hair of the King, charcoal black and peppered with gray. He's so tall he can peer down on all but a few of his men, seasoned fighters, and most are frightened and terrified enough of him as it is. Those are his fine features, both of them, and maybe if there was some kindness in his furrowed brow, things might be different between us. Before the wedding, I imagined that I might learn to overlook his disfigurement and perhaps even love him one day, but the past two days have remedied that foolish bit of thinking. When he opens his mouth, it is to announce a complaint or bark a command. He finds fault in everyone, save his wolfhounds and the occasional small child, and God help the careless guardsman that tarries too long in his duty. His narrow eyes are sharp with greed, his skin a damaged wasteland, and his belly strains against the confinement of his burgundy brocade, bouncing and jiggling with every bump along the King's Road. If half the women in court were mad with love for him, presumably they were blind with fortune too. Would that they had married him instead of me.
Not that it matters; not anymore. The bargain has been struck, the wedding vows spoken, and ugly or not, cruel or kind, I am shackled to him now. He will have my youth and beauty, or at least whatever small claim my hooked nose and strange looks have to comeliness---and in return, I will be his wife. The wife of Duke Claus Bille, cousin to the King, fifth in line to the throne and one of the most powerful peers in all of Denmark.
He glances up from his lap and catches my bold stare. Cursing my carelessness, I look away quickly, but not soon enough. His thin lips curl into a smile.
“Every inch your father’s daughter, aren’t you?” He murmurs, leaning forward to trace my palm with fingers thick as sausages. “Sweet enough when it suits your purposes, but not so warm when it’s time to uphold your end of the bargain, hm?”
It wasn’t my bargain, I’d like to spit into his face; maybe that would wipe that foul, toothless grin away. It never was. But a slave doesn't strike her master, does she? I know I should learn to accept his attentions placidly, without comment, as a good wife would. But it's too much, and I can't bear it, not today of all days.
I yank my hands out of his grip, recoiling as far as our cramped carriage will allow. "Don't touch me."
I regret the words the moment they leave my mouth. Time and again, I forget that I cannot speak my mind as I once did. He controls everything now, my letters and allowance and life.
But the Duke chuckles loudly, throwing his head back and slapping at his knee, jowls quivering, as if he has just been privy to some spectacular joke instead of rejection from his own wife. I tighten my jaw and raise my chin to cover my uncertainty. It is a poor facade at best; I have never been a good liar, and when I am frightened, it never fails to show in my eyes.
“Ah-ho! Are all women of court so bold with their husbands in these days?" He shakes his head and studies me with bemused curiosity, in the same frank matter a warrior looks at a war horse he has purchased sight unseen; a horse he has deemed wild and must be broken before it can suit his needs.
I say nothing. I don't even look at him. Maybe I'm headstrong enough to pull away from his caresses, but I'm not such a fool I'll fall into his trap.
"No, no, I don’t believe so; this is hardly England,” he continues, snorting with mild contempt. "You’re used to having your own way, following your own whim instead of bending."
Not the first time I've heard those words, and I daresay it won't be the last, either. But I've always known my place and purpose. Just as my brother Anders knew he would one day inherit my father's lands and Edvard would enter the Church, I have been raised with the expectation of making an advantageous marriage for the family. Didn't dare expect a handsome man, of course, those being far and few among suitably powerful lords, but I had thought...I had hoped...
"Your father let you run wild when you were young and neglected to think what might happen when you were of marriageable age. A smart woman might have suited me better, or at least one with a grain of sense in her head.
My cheeks grow hot at his taunts. “My father had the best tutors in all of----.”
He roars with laughter. “The best? Oh, but of course! He thought he was doing you a service, didn’t he, letting you sit in on your brother’s schooling? Go on, don’t let me stop you; tell me your accomplishments. Tell me how you speak Latin and French and German with fluency, how you’ve studied all the philosophies and works of the ages.”
His eyes gleam with amusement; but some of the carelessness has disappeared, replaced by the calculation of a cat watching a bird. He leans forward and grasps my hands again, this time with a firmness that warns off any attempts to wrench away. My body stiffens, but I swallow the scalding retort hot on my tongue. His mood changes with the wind, from merry to ruthless, and I cannot afford to make him my enemy. There will be harder, more important battles than this one to fight, and I must be ready for those. I must learn to curb my temper with him.
“Oh, you’ve changed your mind? Good girl.” He chuckles again and drops my hand at last, settling his girth back against the cushion. “You may follow your whims, min elskede, so long as they coincide with mine."
The carriage lurches to a sudden halt. I tumble forward, throwing out my arms to avoid falling against him. Outside, the horses screech in protest, followed by shouting and a hum of noise. A shadow of fear crosses the Duke's face. My pulse begins to race. An obstacle in the road, or something worse? Surely no bandit would be foolish enough to attack our carriage with such a large guard, but these parts of Funen are half wild, and there is no telling what the peasants might do when suitably roused. I have spent half the trip hoping we might encounter an interruption of this nature and be forced to turn around and ride back to Copenhagen, but now that it is here...
The door jerks open, pouring light into the dark carriage. I flinch and pull back, but it’s only one of the footmen, and a nervous, scraggly looking one at that. He sweeps a low bow and directs his attention to the Duke.
"Your Grace, the street is too crowded for us to continue..." He wets his lips. "We have to stop."
The noise nearly drowns out his words. I peer over his broad shoulders. It is hard to see much, but there's a press of people all over the road. There must be hundreds; their heckling cries, murmurs, and shouts meld together in one great clap of noise that even the thick carriage can't muffle. But it isn't the bustle of a market place. The few dirty faced peasants I can see remain still, watching something intently in the distance. Something is happening.
"I can damn well deduce that for myself, boy," the Duke spews, the color returning to his lips now that the threat of danger is put to rest, and raises his considerable girth. "Move aside."
The man all but leaps out of his way. I watch wordlessly as he steps out, bellowing demands, and slams the door shut behind him. A restless moment passes, then another. I've not been or seen the outside in two days, save for a few quick steps from the carriage into the inn. This is the first time I've been alone, too, save for the occasional use of the chamber pot.
I wait in silence. Time passes and wicked thoughts start creeping into my head, each more hopeful than the last. Let a revolt be the cause of this disturbance and may some ill witted farmer strike my husband down dead. We could turn around then, right now, and go home. This marriage, this nightmare of an arrangement, would be nothing worse than a bad dream. We could ride back through the city gates in two days, and I could marry the man I was meant to marry...
A sudden roar sweeps through the crowd, a cacophony filled with jeering and hoots and whistles. The carriage jostles back and forth, and I bite back a scream. What in God's name is going on? Well, I won't wait in here a minute longer, no matter what he'll think. He didn't expressly forbid me to come out, and I shan't sit here like a sparrow in a cage. I reach for the door latch and push it open. It swings free with ease. I gather my skirts and step out into the world, into the sunshine.
The stench of sweat hits me first. Hundreds of dirty men, women, children are packed tightly on this narrow road and the putrid smell is worse than akin to the contents of a thousand chamber pots. They aren't like our servants at home, or even our peasants. Filth and grime stains their clothing, their skin is tanned from labor, and they hoot, holler, jeer and push, calling out debts and obscenities at the top of their lungs. I stare at them all, their ragged lips and dirty cheeks. None of them have bathed in months. What my husband thinks of this, I cannot tell; he is nowhere in sight, swallowed somewhere in this unruly sea of people. As for the guards, they seem more irritated than worried. They look back, beyond the carriage, following the gaze of the peasants. I rise on my toes and peer off in the same direction, towards the small, moving clearing in the crowd. I cannot make out what it is.
One of his guards sees me suddenly and wheels on his horse. He's one of the bigger ones, with ruddy hair covering half his thick face, but his name escapes me. It matters not; they're all the same, my husband's men, faithful dogs that terrify and pillage on his command, and round me up like a lost sheep when he is not there to do it himself.
"Your Grace, you must get back in the carriage."
Your Grace. The words are still strange to hear. " What's happening?"
He grimaces, either from my question or my refusal to get back inside. That same moment, the crowd parts, and I see at last the source of the heckling crowd.
The two condemned men are yanked along, their wrists bound in tight ropes. Dirtier and scrawnier than the rest, their eyes are swollen with abject terror. As they come closer, I realize suddenly that they are not men at all; they are boys, eleven and twelve at best, with snot and blood running out of their snub noses. I turn wildly and spy the scaffold, mounted high in the center of the town. This is why we cannot continue our path. The entire town has turned out for the hanging, and nothing will move till the villagers have had their sport.
"Quickly, Your Grace." The guard's firm voice is in my ear, but I shrug him off and move forward. The townsmen leading the prisoners are passing now, not more than a few hands-width away.
"Thieves!" A toothless hag screams.
"Bastards!"
"Papists! Papists!"
The chant rises in the crowd, screamed and spewed like the worst of curses. The taste of bile creeps into my throat. Papist. Abruptly my curiosity dies. I want to be in the carriage again, I have seen enough, my head is beginning to spin.
One of the boys sees me suddenly, and his desperate eyes take in the resplendence of my blue gown, the ornate carriage. It is enough for him to take a chance.
"Mercy, my lady!" He wrenches out of the path and throws himself at my feet. "Have mercy---."
His lips briefly touch the hem of my gown. I have enough time to flinch before beefy hands yank me back, away from the boy. A guard, one of my guards, lunges forward.
"No!" I scream, but it is too late; the boy's body jerks back as the guard's foot smashes into his face. A crack rings through the air as his neck twists at an unnatural angle. His eyes, nose, mouth all blossom with blood. The other boy recoils, but the hangman and the townspeople roar their approval, pleased at the unexpected twist on their afternoon entertainment. Blood pools at my feet.
The bile rises again, tickling my tongue, stronger this time. But I must hold it back, I cannot shame myself. The second boy is pulled along, away from his fallen companion and towards the scaffold. My knees buckle. Someone catches me as I fall, presumably the same person who jerked me away from the boy, and then there is shouting as my husband's guards cluster around me, shoving away any too curious peasants. My head starts spinning again. I can still see the dead boy's eyes, the mangled remains of his face, smashed in and destroyed.
Have mercy...
The little food in my stomach comes spilling out, splattering on the cobblestones. In front of fifteen men, I heave, and heave, until my stomach is worn thin and everything is gone. I would have given him mercy, if I had the chance. My body slackens, collapsing against the cobblestones. As strong arms swoop down and lift me into the carriage, heedless of my stained, repulsive gown, my head stops spinning long enough for me to realize something else. The killing was not the only reason my stomach churned as it did. Oh, God, no, there is another reason.
I am with child.
~~~
A/N: A very short chapter to start out with, but more will soon be on the way.