After the war with West Francia, King Charles the Bald hadn't paid his indemnity in full. Instead, he sent it in small installments, each shipment inventoried at Lundenwic before being distributed among the Norse nobles.
At the city's southern docks, a row of Frankish ships was unloading cargo. A line of weary horses stumbled off the gangplanks, their legs trembling from weeks at sea. Several handlers led them toward the royal stables, muttering complaints—the voyage had cost fifteen horses already.
"Wait," said the Norse quartermaster, pointing to five more limping beasts at the end of the line. "Those five are half-dead. They don't count."
"What?" The Frankish envoy bristled. "Many of the prisoners you returned were sick as well. Should we erase them from the list too?"
Ignoring their bickering, Vig turned his gaze toward the middle of the Thames, where a new construction site rose from the river.
Back in AD 50, the Romans had built a bridge connecting Lundenwic's northern bank to the southern marshes. Now only a few weathered piers still stood, lonely and half-submerged.
Determined to restore the glory of Rome—and his own reputation—Ragnar had decreed that the bridge be rebuilt, both to win the people's Favel and to collect "a modest" toll for crossing.
At the moment, the project was still in its early phase: piling and foundation work.
Workmen were weaving wicker mattresses stuffed with stones—caissons to sink as bases for the piers. Then, using enormous wooden hammers, they drove oak piles vertically into the riverbed, each one soaked in tar to resist rot. Once the water between them was drained, the gaps would be filled with mortar and stone to form solid masonry piers.
"Three hundred meters across," Vig murmured. "How many piers will that take? The difficulty's insane."
He questioned the foreman, but no one could give a clear answer.
"My lord," said the stonemason, "this is our first time attempting something so grand. We'll have to learn as we go. His Majesty set no deadline, only a budget—fifteen hundred pounds of silver."
"How much?"
Fifteen hundred pounds of silver!
Vig nearly choked. He had been dreaming of building a similar bridge across the River Tyne—that dream died on the spot.
"The Tyne's a hundred meters wide," he muttered. "A stone bridge there would cost at least five hundred pounds and require half the county in labor. No, better to cross by ferry and keep my people fed."
Putting the fantasy aside, Vig asked the harbor clerk about the deliveries. This was, it turned out, the second-to-last shipment of ransom silver.
A few days earlier, Gunnar himself had sailed across the Channel to hand over the final group of Frankish prisoners, planning to return with the last payment.
"I see," Vig said. "Let's hope his voyage ends well."
Meanwhile, on the coast of Dover, Gunnar's ship anchored under gray skies. The wind blew cold and wet, cutting through his cloak. Determined not to be cheated, he held back one hundred captured knights until the final silver was counted.
He trudged ashore to meet Lambert, Charles's envoy. The two had dealt with each other often enough that polite courtesies were unnecessary. Gunnar simply tossed him a ledger and gestured toward the ships.
"Five died of sickness," he said. "Ninety-five remain. All yours."
Lambert handed him a parchment list and motioned for porters to bring forward a heavy chest.
"This," he said, "is the final payment."
Once both sides had verified the contents, Gunnar stretched his broad shoulders and let out a breath of relief.
"Finally done."
As their men busied themselves with the transfers, Lambert pulled Gunnar aside toward a nearby fisherman's hut. His tone turned conspiratorial.
"My lord, I've heard your wife passed away earlier this year, leaving you without heirs. Coincidentally, His Majesty has a niece of fine beauty and temperament. As dowry, he's willing to grant you a fief along our northern coast. What say you?"
For decades, Norse raiders—whom the Franks called Normans, "men of the north"—had plagued the French coastline. Lately, some had even settled on the Channel Islands, using them as raiding outposts.
(The Channel Islands, 194 square kilometers in total, lie barely a dozen nautical miles from France's northern shore.)
Now that Ragnar ruled all of Anglo-Saxon Britain, few dared cross his path. The displaced Norse turned their hunger toward West Francia, and raids multiplied.
Anticipating chaos, Charles had summoned his council. There, Lambert—now elevated to Foreign Minister—had argued against endless fighting.
"Rather than drive the sea-wolves away," he'd said, "let us crown one of them a count. Make him their master, not their enemy."
Now he was making good on that idea—and the "count" he wanted was standing right before him.
When Gunnar heard the proposal, he flicked his golden hair impatiently.
"Why me? Cambridge still needs rebuilding, and I've no time to play your games."
Lambert smiled diplomatically.
"Because His Majesty honors heroes above all. He often says that among all the Normans, Ragnar stands supreme—but beneath him, only three men deserve true respect.
Vig, the Serpent of the North, cunning and treacherous as a viper.
Ivar, fierce and cruel, commander of heavy infantry—a blood-drinking wolf of the frozen wastes.
And you, Gunnar—brave, steadfast, master of the mounted charge, a brown bear among men, the true king of beasts.
The rest? King Erik of Norway is a dull pig wallowing in his pen. Nils and Orm are decent hounds at best. As for young Erik, Lennard, Ulf, Halfdan, and that white-haired Oleg—they're barely fit to hold a spear."
Praise from an enemy struck deeper than a dozen compliments from allies. Gunnar's grin spread from ear to ear. He clapped Lambert's back so hard the diplomat nearly staggered.
"Ha! Well said! You Franks know a hero when you see one. If I ever capture you or your king, I'll see you both eat and drink well before I ransom you back."
Lambert endured the bear's rough affection, then smoothly shifted tone—his next words sliding like a dagger between Gunnar's ribs.
"It's a pity, though, that your talent has gone unrecognized so long. Only last year were you granted the small title of Earl of Cambridge—a meager reward. His Majesty often laments the injustice. Why should men like Vig and Ivar be dukes before you?
And as for Halfdan—what a farce. A reckless boy, handed command of the Welsh campaign simply for being Ragnar's son. Had fortune smiled on him, he'd be Duke of Wales by now."
The words struck home. Gunnar's jaw tightened; his massive hands curled into fists. Then, with a snarl, he overturned the hut's rickety table, splintering wood across the floor. When his rage subsided to a simmer, he stared at Lambert, a dangerous half-smile on his lips.
"Tell me," he growled, "does your king want me to betray Ragnar?"
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