At that moment, Lambert remained perfectly calm.
"You misunderstand, my lord. His Majesty admires the two decades you've spent fighting alongside Ragnar. He would never seek to destroy such a bond. He merely wishes you to govern the northern coast—and, incidentally, to suppress the rebellions in Aquitaine and Brittany."
Through the small window of the hut, Gunnar gazed eastward over the rolling fields and meadows. The salt tang of the sea mixed with the rich scent of fertile earth—an intoxicating contrast to the cold, lean soil of the North.
He thought of all the lands he had seen: the black soil of the Dnieper, the fertile plains of West Francia, the modest fields of Britain, and the barren rock of Scandinavia.
If only…
No. There was no if.
"I am Earl of Cambridge, vassal of Britain," he said at last. "I am not fit to rule here."
Sensing hesitation, Lambert chuckled.
"Come now, my lord. Nobles holding lands in separate realms are hardly rare. Take your own kinsmen, Lennard or Ulf—they possess estates in both Britain and Sweden.
To claim Normandy by right of valor and fame would be perfectly natural. The Earl of Cambridge in Britain, the Count of Normandy in West Francia—there's no conflict there.
But if you truly refuse, I can always offer the post to someone else. Perhaps Nils, or Orm"
Gunnar snorted.
"Those two? Hah. To keep the northern raiders in line, only three men have the strength—Vig, Ivar, and me."
He sneered, then fell silent, lost in thought. After a long pause, he laid out his conditions—so audacious they bordered on absurd.
He would accept marriage to King Charles's cousin, Lady Vivienne, and become a Frankish vassal—but only on three terms:
He would be granted a title higher than a count: a hereditary dux—Duke of Normandy.
He would rule his lands under Norse customs, not Frankish law.
If war ever broke out between Francia and Britain, he would remain strictly neutral.
To his astonishment, Lambert agreed to everything—save one condition of his own.
"His Majesty asks only that you, your knights, and your soldiers embrace the faith of Holy Rome."
"Give me time," Gunnar said after a moment. "I'll try to persuade them."
Lambert smiled thinly.
"Then it's settled, Your Grace. I look forward to your friendship."
Word spread quickly. When the troops heard their lord intended to convert, nearly half abandoned him, sailing back to Britain with their ransom pay. One-quarter agreed to convert on the spot; the rest wavered, waiting to see which way the wind would blow.
Uneasy but resolute, Gunnar led his four hundred remaining men to the Île de la Cité in Paris.
At the docks, King Charles, his queen, and the court gathered in welcome. Among them stood a pale, dark-haired young woman whose eyes were rimmed with red—Princess Vivienne, granddaughter of Charlemagne, Gunnar's intended bride.
He stared at her for half a minute—long enough to make her burst into tears—then shrugged and turned to the king.
"When do we hold the ceremony?"
Charles's smile was mild, but his tone left no room for negotiation.
"First the baptism. Then the coronation."
"As you wish."
To the chant of priests and the murmur of Latin prayers, Gunnar waded into the shallows with half his men. The cold river rose to his knees as he was sprinkled with sanctified water, declared a son of the Church.
When he strode back onto dry land, he shook his wet mane like a hound, showering everyone nearby with water. The courtiers recoiled, muttering, but he only laughed.
Ignoring the scandalized faces, Charles drew a sword from his belt and raised it high.
"By my authority as King of the Franks, I name thee Gunnar, Duke of Normandy."
The crowd erupted in applause.
Afterward, the procession moved to the royal palace on the island, where the wedding feast had been prepared—a spectacle of gold and velvet far grander than any banquet Gunnar had seen in Britain.
He dropped heavily onto a bench at the long table, seized a slab of roast venison, and tore into it with his hands.
"Not bad. What spice is this?" he asked, his mouth full.
"Thyme, pepper, and truffles from northern Italy," Lambert supplied smoothly.
"Ha! No wonder. You Franks may be soft, but you cook well. The Anglo-Saxons could learn from you."
As the night deepened, the hall filled with laughter and music. At a signal from the king, a guard emerged from the side corridor, bearing a sheathed sword on a crimson cushion.
Charles rose, lifting his goblet.
"My lord Duke. I hear you broke two blades in battle half a year ago. A man of your rank should carry a weapon worthy of him."
He motioned for the sword to be presented. Gunnar took it, unsheathed it, and drew a breath of awe.
The longsword was exquisitely crafted—its crossguard elegantly curved, the blade long and slender, etched with flowing Latin script. A single diamond gleamed in the pommel, scattering light across the hall.
He gave the air a few experimental cuts. The weapon was perfectly balanced, the swing fluid, effortless.
"What do these words mean?" he asked, pointing to the inscription.
Lambert leaned close.
"Per aspera ad astra—'Through hardship to the stars.' What name will you give it?"
Gunnar scratched his golden hair, then placed the sword before his new bride.
"You choose."
Vivienne gazed at the gem-studded hilt. For a moment, her fear and sadness melted into wonder. Her fingers brushed the diamond as she whispered,
"Dawnbringer."
Three days later, their wedding and coronation behind them, Gunnar departed Paris with his wife, soldiers, and household, journeying west to his new seat at Caen.
The castle there, rebuilt from a Roman stone fortress, stood ten meters high and sprawled across wide ground—far grander than the cramped timber keep of Cambridge.
After settling his wife and attendants, Gunnar took to the sea again with his men. Guided by local fishermen, they sailed along the coast for a full day until a shape emerged through the mist.
"That's Jersey Island, in the Channel Isles?"
The translator relayed the question. The fisherman nodded, trembling.
"Yes, my lord. In July, a man named Little Erik led raids along the coast. Before returning to Norway, he left a detachment here—to repair the docks and barracks, to make this their base for future raids on West Francia."
Hearing the name, Gunnar spat over the side.
"That fool dares raid my coast?"
He ordered the ships to anchor in a hidden cove for the night. At dawn, wrapped in dense sea fog, the fleet slipped silently onto Jersey's southwestern beach.
The pirates had occupied the island only recently. No walls, no defenses. Gunnar's four hundred warriors swarmed through the camp and seized it before a single man could cry out.
"Those who surrender will live!"
More than two hundred stunned Norsemen stumbled from their huts, disarmed and defeated. As they squatted in the muddy square awaiting judgment, one of them finally recognized the towering figure before them—and confusion rippled through the ranks.
Why was Gunnar, a Norse hero and one of Ragnar's own captains, attacking his own people?
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