NARRATOR: In the 11th century,
Europe was a patchwork of feudal states,
extending from the Mediterranean to the North Sea.
Powerful dukes exerted life-and-death control...
over their primitive subjects.
One such, Duke William of Ghent, held a coastal area in Normandy.
To protect the marshes of a troubled corner of his domain,
the Duke sent warriors led by his most trusted knight,
Chrysagon de la Cruex.
This Norman warlord was charged to impose the Duke's will...
on his vassals and to protect their settlements...
from Frisian raiders, who crossed the waters...
to plunder and pillage.
MAN: Hey-oh! United tower.
From here to the sea and beyond, it's yours.
Mine.
SECOND MAN: From here to the sea.
We're pilgrims to nowhere, and we have arrived.
What's the matter, Draco? Your belly hurt?
- L, Milord? - What is it, Brother?
What did you expect?
Whatever you want. Your wish is mine.
For myself, I expect nothing.
[Birds squawking]
Queer, moody place.
Still, it's mine.
Given by the Duke himself.
A holding no man in all Christendom wanted.
I want it.
You have it, and you'll keep it, Brother,
as the Lord kept Israel.
This place has the dimensions of heresy.
[Horn sounds]
[Birds screeching]
[Horn sounds]
An alarm.
Raiders from the sea.
Frisian raiders!
They've sacked the village, taking women to the boats now!
RAIDER: Peasant pigs! Ha ha ha ha ha!
Charge!
Norman! Norman!
Father!
- De la Cruex! - You.
CHRYSAGON: Frisian butcher! I warn you...
Aah!
You are bloodied, Chrysagon.
I had him, Draco.
I had him in my fist, and I lost him.,
There's no one else worth ransom?
There's only one prince of the Frisians.
So, they bring their heathen brats along to show them murder.
Here's your lesson, boy.
Hold your hand, Bors. Let me have him.
Why?
I'll make a page of him, and being a page,
he'll make a lord of me.
He will sting you with this.
Where would such a scurvy ship's boy steal such a blade?
You the village elder?
My name Odins, and this is my son Marc.
You took that from a Frisian?
Aye, Lord. I fought.
Where are the men of the garrison?
- Gone, Lord. - What do you mean, gone? Killed?
- I mean gone. - And the warden? Dead?
Last night I saw him very much alive.
Methinks we've got a seigneur instead of a warden in a tower.
What difference?
- This'n saved thee. - This'n can also hang thee.
- So could Tava. - This'n has the right.
But he's a great knight.
20 years in the wars, the priest said.
Our lord he is.
Our lord, perhaps, but not our master.
Nor master of the stone, nor the tree.
- Milord? - Good father.
Sir Chrysagon de la Cruex?
Hugo de Bouillion, Milord.
Servant of God.
My, uh, my flock, Sire.
Your vassals.
A simple people, but pious in their fashion.
They were druids here before Caesar's day.
Mere children who revered, in all innocence,
the customs of their fathers before them.
Customs of the devil, sir priest.
Not so, good sire.
Not so? To think such faceless brutes could sway a priest.
Oh, they have faces.
The all look much alike to me.
CHRYSAGON: That doorway has no protection.
No protection at all.
It stinks.
CHRYSAGON: You could find it blindfolded.
PRIEST: The raiders...
CHRYSAGON: It stank before the raiders came.
My men marched 20 miles today.
Now they must sleep in this.
PRIEST: Milord, when the Duke's messenger told our warden of...
his removal, he grew somewhat lax.
CHRYSAGON: I knew him in court. He was somewhat lax then.
A little... disordered, I fear.
CHRYSAGON: Where is he now, your lax warden?
It is to be hoped in Heaven, but I doubt it.
Your quarters, Milord.
[Bird squawks]
He was always chasing some goose girl up a hayrick.
He was bewitched.
Carried off by devils, he was.
These people here have ancient customs...
in which he may unthinkingly have joined.
The tree and the stone?
Worshipping the devil?
PRIEST: No. He damned the devil's flesh,
but women's flesh he loved,
and devils dearly love to masquerade.
Priest...
are you saying she was a witch?
Witch?
White flowers. What is this?
PRIEST: Her bridal wreath.
Come, Sir Priest. Was she a witch or a bride?
A virgin bride.
The warden's?
A villager's.
God's grace.
Bee among the flowers. The mark of death.
[Screech]
There must be willing girls in this place enough for any man.
Why took he a virgin?
"Keep their good will," the Duke told me.
Him before me, this rapacious bastard.
Small loss when the Frisians killed him.
Milord, it was not rape.
They liked the warden well.
- Who liked him? - These people here.
In olden times, they sanctified a marriage...
by giving the bride on her wedding night...
Bors, burn that bed.
Devils... devils.
PRIEST: Yes, yes.
Our fens and marshes attract them in great quantity.
l, with these eyes, have seen them.
I speak of different devils.
The Frisians.
Oh, yes, yes, Lord.
Might I offer you some meager food and drink?
- They'll be back. - I daresay, Lord.
Their land lies North across the sea but two days distance.
- I cannot... - I know where their land lies.
PRIEST: And they do raid our coast this time of year.
I have a green cheese...
Next time I'll hold him fast...
Two fishes, a garlic soup...
as he held my father.
Father?
Taken in battle by Frisians, I've been told.
And stripped bare.
Most extortionate ransom. They are a harsh people.
He came home broken, and died so. A pauper knight.
It must be hard to lose your lands, I'm sure.
We lost all.
It was a long time ago.
A lifetime.
What were you saying?
- I said... - Tell me at table.
We'll gnaw bone tonight and hunt tomorrow.
Thank you, Milord. You'll enjoy our forest.
There's deer, wild fowl, and tusky boar.
[Woman screams]
Down, dogs! Down!
Down dogs! Get off! Get off!
Be still, woman. They won't hurt you. Get off!
She's all right.
Counts as a kill, though.
Come on, pig girl. It's never as bad as all that.
Pig girl? No eyes in your head, man?
WOMAN: Aah!
Here's the pelt, and there's the otter!
I told you I want no trouble with these people.
Handle them softly, I said.
Just what I was going to do, Milord.
You are out to hunt, dog. Get on with it!
All of you!
[Dogs barking]
Are you hurt?
Ah, nothing much.
Say your name.
Bronwyn, Milord.
From the village?
I own the village.
I know, Milord.
What house?
Odins, Milord. The elder.
- His foster child. - Speak up, girl!
May I dress myself, Milord?
Yes.
Are you going to watch me?
Yes.
- Are you cold? - No.
- You afraid? - Yes.
Why? I'm gentle with horses, hawks.
Come here.
[Bee buzzes]
- What is this? - A wedding garland.
And you're a virgin?
MAN: Bronwyn.
What happened to you?
He did nothing. A bee stung him.
He?
I fell in the water.
And he did nothing?
- They were hunting. - Who?
Lord Chrysagon.
And he did not touch you?
Am I hurting you by asking these questions?
Then why do you weep?
Marc, I love you.
I have since your father took me in.
Stay away from him.
Yes, Marc.
Stay away from him!
[Bird chirping]
[Laughter]
God's great fist, I can see him.
Milord and brother.
Planting himself in front of her and staring her down.
Giving her battle orders.
You go, wheel around.
Keep your flanks covered, pull up your breastplate.
Your rear echelon's exposed!
[Laughter stops]
BORS: You haven't removed your shirt.
That's why the wound frets you.
CHRYSAGON: Frets me?
You fret me like an old woman.
Told you it's a scratch, nothing more.
Fester, then, in flame.
DRACO: You have a fever, Brother?
Can't sleep.
Maybe you took it from that girl at the pond.
DRACO: What's she like?
Oh, I don't know.
A woman, tan hair, breasts, belly, legs.
A woman.
She has a calm face.
So has a cow. How was she?
I let her go.
You let her go?
Small wonder you can't sleep. Why?
There's a strangeness in this place.
I felt it since first we came here.
Nonetheless, I thought, mine.
Poor place.
Marsh, naked tower, the world's end, almost.
But to have it, to hold it...
If only...
What do you think of this land?
Dung heap.
You deserve better... much better.
What say you, Bors?
You are my lord.
This land serves you, I serve you.
But if it should be a land unholy?
Here.
Do you feel nothing, hear nothing, see nothing?
I feel bored. I hear the wind.
I see fever burning holes in your head.
Silence.
That speaks of spells.
BOORS: Ah... DRACO: Bors?
Sire, all men have heard how when the Lord Christ came,
the old Gods, demons, and spirits with snaky hair...
were cast down into hell.
Good riddance!
But some say they still linger,
prowling the dark corners and unblessed places of the earth,
changed to beggar men and goose girls.
Bors, you surprise me.
You've produced a thought.
BORS: God help the man who meets one.
The blood in his heart changes.
And what of that devil's dish he met today?
She's the cause of his fever, and that's the truth.
- How so? - Because you let her go.
DRACO: Bors... you know who she is?
Find out from Rainault, put her to work in the kitchen.
[Grumbles]
Why waste her charm on pigs when there's use for it here?
Oink! Ha ha!
[Man groans]
[Horse neighs]
BORS: Come here!
[Door squeaks shut]
BORS: Now, girl...
you will take his arms and hold him firm while I...
Lie flat, Milord.
Here!
You will hold him here and here.
He will plunge like a gelded colt.
I did.
Take him.
BORS: A trick I learned from a heathen Moor.
If a wench holds him, he doesn't kick.
Pride of manhood, I suppose.
Take 10 men to hold Milord... or one woman.
Sire, I shall count to five.
[Sizzling]
One...
two...
three...
four...
five.
[Door shuts]
[Bird squawking]
[Falcon chirps]
[Bird squawks]
DRACO: Volc, call him down here.
Damned falcon never knows what he wants.
VOLC: They're human that way.
DRACO: You know less about falcons than a flea.
To train a falcon, you need a larger brain than a falcon.
VOLC: Come down here or I'll wring your neck.
Damn me, but just look at Sir Flea bristle.
[Horse neighs]
[Volc laughing]
I'll kill him.
I'll kill them both!
I'll twist your nose with the slack in your belly.
I'm sorry.
CHRYSAGON: Draco, Draco...
Draco! Draco!
[Horse neighs]
Ya!
[Horse neighs]
[Horse grunts]
Don't run from me.
- Is that poppy? - Yes.
What do you want with this?
We call it hawk's eye.
We get chamomile from it for seasoning.
It also has the power to rob men's minds.
Like magic.
- And it can kill. - Oh, no magic.
My foster father heals with these herbs.
- Purple foxglove. - For lovesickness.
Three leaves or four can stop the heart.
- Witchery. - No, Milord.
Not witchery.
They all kill.
What's that?
Mistletoe, the golden bow that twines around the sacred oak.
Why is the oak sacred?
It's connected to the gods.
- You believe that? - Yes.
Before I came, they told me that...
marsh people had spotted bellies and webbed toes.
- You believe that? - Not since I saw you...
in the lake.
CHRYSAGON: We'll lie under that tree.
- No. - I feel good about you.
I've been fighting all year.
I haven't had time to lie under trees.
- Let me go. - I fought last year, too.
I haven't even seen a girl with tan hair.
I'm tired of fighting.
- Milord, l... - Shh. Don't talk, Witch.
Have pity.
[Birds squawk]
[Wings flapping]
This is not lawful.
DRACO: You want to serve in this troop? Ha! Ha!
I want to be Milord's man.
People of your tribe cannot bear arms.
Besides, you have no skill with weapons.
RAINAULT: I found poachers in the glen, sire.
PRIEST: They are not poachers, Milord.
DRACO: With a pair of stags, Rainault.
DRACO: You said two. RAINAULT: Yes, sire.
These stags were dead already, Milord,
Iocked together by the horns.
They needed the meat, surely.
The Frisians slaughtered most of the livestock.
That be truth. Frisians killed our pigs.
DRACO: And so they poach.
Woodlands belong to the lord.
They should carry the stump of the right hand in the left.
The woodland belongs to the duke.
We keep it for him.
We keep the peace here, too.
CHRYSAGON: We share Lord Draco's outrage.
To kill the duke's deer is a great crime.
- But there is no proof. - Proof?
- It is my opinion... - L, too, hold opinions!
- I am a knight! - I can write letters!
- The devil's tools! - Enough!
Beware, Milord.
Another time, your compassion might be mistaken for weakness.
There will not be another time.
You, Volc!
What are you doing with that boy?
Why, training him, sire.
It's the only way.
Keep to the tower now, boy.
BORS: Lord!
BORS: Milord has spent the morning on you.
Don't waste his time.
MAN: I speak for my son, Marc,
who humbly beseeches our lord's grace...
and consent to wed.
To this girl?
The foster daughter of my house, called Bronwyn.
When?
- Tomorrow, Milord. - So soon?
They've been promised since childhood.
It's time, Lord.
I give leave to your son to wed.
MAN: We thank thee.
Work on the moat goes well, but the drawbridge...
Blacksmith here says to tell you...
No more now! Get him out!
Ah!
[Thunder]
[Dogs whine and bark]
Bones of the saints!
What's wrong with you?
- Is it the wench? - Draco, enough!
I'm only saying, if you want her, take her.
- I told you... - It's not my business.
You don't eye a woman every day.
CHRYSAGON: She marries tomorrow.
Why not tonight?
She's not a she-goat, Draco.
I won't take a woman the night before her wedding.
You're right. It's wrong tonight.
I could bite my tongue.
What about tomorrow?
Get... what's his name, the priest.
DRACO: Sir pri-iest!
You have the right.
The wedding's tomorrow...
The right of the first night. Ask the priest.
Of the seven golden virtues, I swear,
the most peculiar is chastity.
Look, you're the lord of this place.
She belongs to this place.
Therefore, she's yours.
Ask him.
DRACO: Dear learned priest, we need your counsel.
PRIEST: Such as I have to give.
DRACO: Are you well-versed in church law, father?
Middling well, though my order runs not to law.
It seeks rather to make amends...
for the evils wrought by men through the absence of love.
Splendid. It is of love that I would ask you.
DRACO: Now...
this noble knight has need of innocent pleasure.
There is no such thing as innocent pleasure.
Priest, scholar, certainly you have heard...
of the right of the seigneur...
to take a virgin bride on her wedding night.
The church does not admit it.
- It is pagan law. - These are pagan lands.
Not of a Sunday morning, I assure you.
These are evening matters.
We found the warden with a bride in his arms.
Was she not freely given by her people?
The warden...
DRACO: What do they say in Rome?
Juste primi noctes.
That being the Roman for it.
You hear that? It's known in Rome.
And damned as heresy.
And yet...
- And yet... - Speak on, good father.
Well, now, fertility.
Some say it's pagan.
But who's not pagan in some matters?
True, true!
I love the speech of scholars.
Young folks think only of frolicking.
Desist, I tell them.
But they will go a-wantoning.
So, lest the devil take them,
I preach them a text from Holy Writ.
"Increase and multiply," I say,
"replenish the Earth."
And oh, how they obey me.
But how this touches on your problem...
Oh, clearly, clearly!
The pagan part may honor pagan law.
We ask no more. What hour's the wedding?
The wedding in church or t'other?
What other? We'll be at the church.
To claim that right? War lords, forebear!
In this weak hand lie lightnings, and I use them.
- Ah, no, no sacrilege. - Not in God's church.
I dare say, there's another wedding... their tribal way.
That wedding's theirs.
Feasting, drinking, clowning, dancing...
Oh, Lords, how they do caper.
Aar!
[Speaking foreign language]
[Revelry stops]
Hold the boy.
ODINS: You come to do us honor, Milord.
To claim my right.
[People mumbling]
- He has the right. - No!
BORS: Silence!
- No! - Let it be, my own son.
ODINS: He has the right.
Not by his law, but by ours.
Ours.
Long before the Norman came, with his church and his tower,
we worshipped at the stone and tree.
And in the fields, we plant holy seeds.
Then, as now, a virgin sacrifice...
was made for the fertility of our earth...
and the enrichment of our tribe.
To take her your way is rape.
It should be done our way... the old way.
You accept this?
With a ring of fire.
The sacred way of the Druids. You accept this?
I do.
Prepare then a high place.
I have a high place.
Make it ready... and your men wearing iron.
Wearing iron, Norman lord, and standing.
As the moon rises, the virgin bride...
shall be brought to you.
ODINS: But hold!
At the rising of the sun, I will reclaim her.
So be it.
[Whispers a prayer]
ODINS: I go to wait the rising of the sun.