Six days had passed since Rodrigo and the others left Toulouse, and at last, by nightfall, they reached the city of Caen, in Normandy—where they would take a ship bound for Jutland.
The voyage by sea would take another seven days, at least.
The Vikings had long taken control of the northern territories of the fallen Carolingian Empire. Although the Norse who lived there had agreed to become a protectorate of the Western Frankish Kingdom—adopting, at least superficially, its customs and traditions—the truth was that they still behaved very much like Danes.
Proof of that could be seen everywhere: there were direct merchant routes to Denmark, and the people continued speaking Danish rather than French. Tania’s polyglot abilities, so useful elsewhere, were of little help here.
“I know a little Norwegian—it’s similar to Danish,” said Epona, stretching her arms after the long journey from Tours.
“It’s freezing out here!” Rodrigo complained, trying to warm himself by curling up inside his cloak.
Since Anpiel had departed, Rodrigo had taken on the role of coachman during the trip. Six days had passed with no word from the angel.
“Don’t worry, Rodrigo,” said Epona cheerfully. “They have excellent wine here! You’ll warm up in no time,” she added as she jumped down from the wagon.
Rodrigo looked around, taking in the new city.
Caen looked very different from the places they had visited before. The houses were quaint, two-story wooden buildings with sharply slanted V-shaped roofs. At the city’s highest point stood a peculiar castle of stone and timber. The streets weren’t paved, but the dirt paths were clearly marked by the constant passage of carts. The people, too, dressed differently—more ruggedly, with thick cloaks and coarse linen.
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This was his first real glimpse into Danish culture.
“We need to find a place to stay,” said Tania, hopping gracefully down from the wagon.
Just then, the sky rumbled—and rain began to fall.
“Yes, it rains constantly in this region,” said Ana as she stepped down, the droplets glistening on her dark hair. She didn’t seem to mind the cold at all.
After parking the wagon near the port, they found an inn close by. Epona tried to speak her “Norwegian,” but no one understood her. Thankfully, the innkeepers spoke some Occitan, and Tania managed to rent a room for the night.
“I thought you’d been here before, Epona. Didn’t you claim to have drunk your ‘exquisite wine’ in this region? What in the world was that gibberish you just spoke?” Ana asked, clearly irritated.
“It was ages ago! Stop picking on me! It wasn’t even called Normandy back then!” Epona snapped in frustration.
They finally entered their room. This time they had rented just one, so they could all talk and plan together.
“Still no word from Anpiel?” Ana asked darkly as she sat on one of the beds.
“None,” Tania replied. “I only hope he isn’t in danger.”
“Well,” Tania continued, “we have to board the ship to Jutland early tomorrow. Try to get some rest.”
They went out briefly to sell their wagon—since it would be useless on the sea voyage. To Tania’s surprise, many locals spoke Occitan and French, making communication easier than expected.
After dinner and a few cups of wine in the tavern below the inn, they went upstairs to sleep, exhausted from the long journey.
That night, they all slept in the same room—each sharing a bed. Rodrigo found himself lying beside Epona and grew terribly nervous.
Throughout the trip, the blonde goddess had seemed more and more beautiful to him. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. Even Ana had teased him, telling him to stop drooling over “the goddess of the stables.” But he couldn’t help it. And now—here she was, asleep right beside him.
Epona’s lips were slightly parted as she slept, her breathing soft and even. Rodrigo couldn’t stop thinking about how much he wanted to kiss those warm, glistening lips.
“A true gentleman would never do such a thing,” he thought.
With a sigh, he turned over and forced himself to sleep.
