Vig's tactfulness pleased Queen Sola, who, for the first time in weeks, allowed herself a faint smile. She spoke before Ragnar could open his mouth.
"Of course. A loyal servant like you deserves a generous reward."
On the opposite side, Queen Aslaug—hoping to secure lands for her own son, Sigurd—immediately echoed the sentiment. Since Vig had withdrawn from the struggle over Wales, she had no reason to oppose him.
"Your Majesty, Lord Vig's achievements are extraordinary. He certainly merits a rich gift."
The agreement between the two queens startled everyone present. Even the maids and attendants exchanged glances; such harmony between Sola and Aslaug was unprecedented.
Ragnar, hearing that Vig only wanted funding instead of titles, agreed without hesitation.
"Four hundred pounds of silver," he said. "Take it for your campaign expenses."
Experience told him that Vig would defeat the Picts without much trouble—the question was whether he could hold what he conquered. Ragnar's expectations were pragmatic: the Northlands were rugged and wild; Vig, like Ivar in Ireland, would likely be tied down by endless rebellions, too busy to interfere elsewhere.
Let the two new dukes wear themselves out, Ragnar thought wearily. I've more pressing matters at home.
"Do well, and bring me good news."
"Your Majesty's generosity humbles me." Vig bowed deeply.
He did a quick tally in his head. From the previous Mercia–Wessex campaign, he'd earned two hundred pounds of silver; from the Frankish war, six hundred; and now, with Ragnar's new grant of four hundred, a total of twelve hundred pounds. Coupled with Tyne Town's flourishing three-field system and stocked granaries, he had more than enough resources to invade the Northlands.
He was still considering how to allocate his new fortune when Halfdan—standing at the lower steps of the throne—suddenly spoke.
"My lord duke," Halfdan said, voice edged with ice, "I hear the list of those pardoned includes Shrike, Adder, and Brecon. Is that true?"
"It is," Vig answered without flinching. "At Mathrafal, Envoy Oleg proclaimed the royal pardon in His Majesty's name. Naturally, that included those three. Later, fearing you would become Duke of Wales and take revenge, they begged to migrate north. I agreed."
Oleg, knowing he couldn't escape responsibility, quickly stepped forward to explain.
"After I read the royal decree, Shrike brought up the issue of the Welsh duchy, afraid Prince Halfdan would retaliate if appointed. The atmosphere was tense, someone suggested letting them take refuge in Tyne Town, and Lord Vig consented."
Halfdan's face reddened.
"You agreed to that? After what they did? Because of them, my—"
"Enough!" Ragnar's voice cracked through the hall. He fixed his son with a tired glare. "A king cannot go back on his word. To retract the pardon would plunge Wales into rebellion again. Vig acted rightly."
After his disastrous campaign and worsening behavior, Halfdan was no longer fit to govern Wales. As compensation—and punishment—Ragnar granted him Gothenburg, a declining Norse settlement in Scandinavia, ordering him to restore it and relearn the old Viking ways.
"Father… Gothenburg?"
The name struck him like a blow. That barren outpost had been drained of people for years, its annual tax revenue barely ten pounds of silver—less than what a Flemish wool merchant might earn in a month. Maintaining his current lifestyle there would be impossible.
"You're exiling me for losing one battle?"
"You were born in the North," Ragnar replied coldly. "You'll live there as its lord. Tell me, what part of that sounds like exile?"
"That miserable place barely feeds itself! If it's so fine, why not give it to Ubbe—or to Sigurd?"
The argument escalated into shouting. In the end, Ragnar's temper snapped; he thundered at his son until the younger man's defiance gave way to sullen rage.
"You have one week," the king finished, "to sail north and assume your duties."
Halfdan's fists clenched.
"One day, Father, you'll realize what a terrible mistake this is."
He swept a venomous glance around the hall, then stormed out—brushing shoulders with Æthelwulf, who was just entering.
"Prince Halfdan, are you—?"
"Call me Halfdan, lord duke. And mind yourself—there aren't many good people in there."
Æthelwulf blinked in confusion as the prince vanished down the corridor. He composed himself, entered the hall, and bowed before the throne.
"Your Majesty, last month you ordered me to investigate possible Frankish spies. I have completed the inquiry. Two suspects were arrested; five fled abroad, abandoning their estates; one resisted and was executed. Here are the reports and confessions."
A servant took the bound parchments and carried them up to Ragnar, who—unable to read Latin—handed them to Queen Sola to read aloud.
As she did, Ragnar's mind churned.
Spies, he says?
You're the biggest spy among them, Æthelwulf.
Leaking the blueprints for the trebuchets and the army's movements—those alone should have had you hanged.
But without evidence, Ragnar could do nothing. Executing Æthelwulf without proof would risk plunging the fragile kingdom into civil war.
"Viking nobles, Anglo-Saxon nobles, the newly subdued Welsh, the Irish to the west…" he thought grimly. "By Odin, if war breaks out, how many would truly stand with me?"
When Æthelwulf finished reading, Ragnar feigned casual curiosity.
"We've recently conquered Wales. In your opinion, how should I manage the region? Should I appoint an outsider—or let the Welsh choose their own ruler?"
"Wales is mountainous and poor," Æthelwulf replied smoothly. "It yields little profit. You should rule it directly, but allow them to elect a council of seven nobles to settle disputes. Even if some harbor resentment, a council would serve as a buffer."
A council, he said. Ragnar frowned. It sounded reasonable—but was Æthelwulf offering sound advice, or planting a seed of future trouble?
He turned to Pascas, the aging chancellor, and then to Vig, who was half-lost in thought. Neither could offer a firm opinion.
After a long silence, Ragnar waved a weary hand.
"Enough. We'll decide later."
He set the matter aside and instead mentioned Æthelwulf's family.
"I hear your wife is expecting. May the gods grant you a strong and clever son."
He gestured for a maid to bring a gold arm-ring.
"A gift for the mother."
Æthelwulf bowed low.
"Thank you, Your Majesty. I have a feeling it will be a boy. Lately, a name keeps echoing in my mind—'Alfred.' It seems fitting."
"Alfred… Alfred…" Ragnar repeated, rolling the foreign name on his tongue. It meant wise, nothing more—but the sound lingered strangely in his ears.
A wave of fatigue overtook him. He dismissed the court, and the nobles filed out.
Outside the palace, Vig went to the treasury to collect his four hundred pounds of silver. After signing the receipts, the clerk stopped him.
"My lord, one more thing—King Charles the Bald has sent another shipment of silver and horses. The ships are unloading at the docks. Would you care to take a look?"
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