Rollo raised his hand slowly to Gisla’s face, but she took a backward step away. But she was the Princess of France, and she would not let them see her cry, would not take her pride, even if this Rollo took her modesty. His brow scowled at the insult, thinking of the many women he had mated in his life; with or without their consent; with or without his effort to impose pleasure on their bodies. Her eyes flitted wildly in the direction of his hand, seeing instantly that the blade had split the seam of her dress at her shoulder. Gisla had at first struggled to maintain her composure as she was jostled and punted from person to person, surrounded by these evil murders and rapists – even then women who looked just as ragged and cursed as the males joined in her harrasment. He disgusts me. “In there, hairy beast,” Gisla tried hard to take some control of the situation. Sinric trailed behind the married couple through the streets of Paris, presuming he may be needed to help translate for the newlyweds. She would rather be given to the vilest of dogs, than to him?
