[Izulde]

December 27th 1066: County of Agder

The very next morning, Lodin was woken up by one of the five homely servants in his employ.

"Your Lordship, the messengers you sent out yesterday have already returned."

Though confused at this, the Count nodded and dressed after thanking the girl. Twenty minutes later, he was in his throne room, staring down at the man the couriers had brought to him.

"He says his name is Peter the Plaid, Sire, and that he can find you any type of woman you seek to be your bride", announced the lead messenger.

Peter the Plaid was a most curious looking fellow, as short and fat as a beer barrell. His skin was as dark as a Moor's, his beard was thick, red, and bushy, and his eyes were startling in their blue crystalline colouring. To make things even more puzzling, he wore the kilt trademarked to the Highlanders of Scotland.

"Aye, I be Peter the Plaid!" boomed the matchmaker. Yellow teeth beamed up at Lodin, a thick tongue washing over them in relish as Peter sized up the Count, "I be having contacts all over Europe, yer Lordship and if yer want a wife, I can get yer one."

Lodin raised a single eyebrow, cool and impassive as he sat, still eyeing the visitor of such boasts, "I see. And what, pray tell, allows you such broad access to the courts of Europe?"

Peter's belly shook with laughter, the sound as rumbling and jarring as a small earthquake. Fat hands rested on the shaking stomach as he grinned, "It's easy yer Lordship. I be a mutt. I be Irish, Saracen, Norwegian, Scottish, and a little bit o' French too. Me ancestors come from everywhere and I can speak ta everyone because o' it."

Inwardly, Lodin sneered. He had little use for mutts of no pedigree such as this, but it seems in this instance, the matter necessitated that he keep the man around, for time was of the essence that he find a bride. "Very well, I am looking for a woman under the age of thirty with exceptional talents. I would like her to be in the North, for I do not trust the weak blood of the Continentals."

"Yer gonna have a hard time o' that, yer Lordship. Most o' the women here in the North o' that description be already married", Peter pointed out, scratching at his remarkably clean fire-beard. "Tell ye what, I know of a good Frankish girl, just seventeen, who will bear you many fine children. She be quite the talented woman in every area. Her name be Adelais de Pontieu and she be residing in King Phillipe o' France's court."

The count grimaced. Already his plans were going awry as he would have to marry some French tart. Still, necessity must force us to ends we do not like sometimes, he reminded himself. At long last he nodded and rose, "Very well, Peter the Plaid. You will go to the court of the French King and ask for Adelais to wed me. I trust you will not fail."

"Of course not, yer Lordship! Peter the Plaid never fails!"

January 11th 1067

"You told me you never failed!"

"I'm sorry about that, yer Lordship, but it be not me fault."

Lodin clenched his hands into fists, resisting the urge to pummel Peter's bulby nose and break it, "And how, pray tell, is it not your fault?"

The chastisted matchmaker studied his impeccable nails, avoiding eye contact with the enraged noble, "It's simple yer Lordship. When we got there, Adelais had run off with one of the court musicians and she was nowhere to be found. So the King had no choice but to say nay. But don't yer Lordship be angry, because while I was there, me brain had an excellent idea and I recommended to King Phillipe that yer be married ta a Norman woman in his court, Cundo of Eu. She be nearly as talented as Adelais was and she be closer to yer Lordship in age ta boot, being twenty-one."

"And the King said?"

Peter looked up with a wide grin, "That he'd have to think on it. But don't worry, yer Lordship! I know me succeeded this time!"

Or so they both hoped.