Be brave for grandfather, I told myself. Be brave and you'll get to go home.
Across a rugged and stained oak table a Breton commander looked at me with little intent, his bored gaze barely lifting off the paperwork in front of him to give me a brief once over. Then he looked up at the guard that had brought me here. He spoke in Breton, a language that was as foreign to me as the Norsemen who often raided the warm fields of France.
Only there weren't any more warm fields. Or warm beds. France was cold now. Nearly dead - like grandfather.
The guard shifted his weight, putting a hand on my shoulder. The man behind the desk raised his voice, shouting over the guard and silencing him. He stood up, pointing to the shackles around my wrists. He threw down his quill and continued shouting until a trumpet outside blared and both men quickly turned to the door leading into this small office at the top of the castle barracks.
A single man entered, his armor dull and beat to hell and back. His hair was red and his skin tanned from months out on campaign. I recognized him - Nicolas the Grey, King of Brittany. His nickname was a pun, his father had been Nicolas the Black known far and wide as a ruthless warrior and a learned mystic. His mother was Anastasia the White, the most beautiful of the Roman Emperor's many daughters. All of their children were called the 'Greylings' among the rest of Europe's nobility, though I didn't think speaking that name would better my position.
The guard, the man at the desk, and the newly arrived King all began to speak back and forth. It stopped when the King pointed out the door and the others left with little hesitation.
The King walked around me, looking me over. He lifted one of my arms, trying to see if he could wrap his thumb and middle finger around it.
His face drooped when he could.
"I'm sorry, m'lord. I was a reader – training to become a priest not a fighter."
"You'll be a fighter soon," he said in Frankish.
"I don't know what good it'll do."
"It's about time France helped man the wall. Even if it's just a boy."
"Sorry, m'lord."
"A single, sorry, little boy. What's your name boy?"
"Austregisel, son of..."
"I know who your father was."
I swallowed.
"I'm not stupid," the King said. "But your grandfather continues to take me for a fool. I asked for a worthy son. He sends me Austregisel – a monk in training." The King dropped into the chair behind the desk heavily and then leaned back, watching me over the peak of my fingers. "Did they teach you Breton?"
"N-n-no..." I swallowed again, holding back my sobs. He waited while I tried to recompose myself. "No, m'lord."
"For fuck's sake. I should march back to Par— heh." A smirk grew across his face. Paris wasn't the capital of France anymore. It wasn't even French territory.
That's why I was here.
Grandfather had retreated into the southern territories stuck between Brittany and Aquitaine. It was only a matter of time before he died, either to the furious nobles or to the envious Basques.
"You know why you're here, yeah?" the King asked in a rare moment of half-pity.
"To die?"
"Don't be stupid - I'd've killed you in Paris. I don't kill children. I don't kill women, either. I only kill Christian men in battle. Pagan men?" He chuckled as he ran his finger across his throat. "You'll soon be acquainted with what we do to pagan men on the shores Brittany. There are truth to the rumors in Paris."
He watched me some more, drumming the top of the desk and shaking his head. "Wish they had sent me a soldier. At least someone who speaks Breton."
"None of us know Breton, m'lord."
"Your grandfather did. Before he grew old and stupid. Before he betrayed our treaties and insulted my father. Before I made sure he didn't walk out of Paris on his under his own power ever again."
Memories of grandfather being dragged back to us in pieces floated to the top of my mind. Both his legs, gone. I couldn't help it anymore. The first tears trickled down my face and the King, younger than my father had been, stopped his history lesson to take a deep breath, calming himself as I, too, tried to bring myself under control.
"How old are you, boy?" he asked with a friendlier tune.
"Th-thirteen."
He nodded. "My eldest is sixteen. He's based in Rouen. I'm assigning you to his unit and we'll ship you off. Alan. ALAN!" he shouted toward the door.
The guard entered back in, his hand on the hilt of his sword. The two conversed in Breton and the guard came over quickly, removing the heavy iron shackles from my wrists. The skin beneath them was chaffed and cut to the point of bleeding, but getting them off was a relief.
When they were done, Alan and I walked past the man from behind the desk who didn't bother either of us, and out into a cloudy May afternoon.
"Do you speak Frankish, Alan?"
Alan only perked up at hearing his name, so I repeated my question. "No," he said with a shake of his head.
"Oh," I replied to no one in particular. "I guess it's going to be another long, quiet ride."
"No," he repeated as he helped me up onto a horse. He hoisted himself on the one next to it and spurred it forward, beckoning with his hand that I do the same.
A group of guards followed behind as we started on the road to Rouen.
That's my wife.
