October, in Londinium. Lords from across the land gathered to pay tribute.
With the nobles of Cornwall—Britain's far southwest—submitting at last, Ragnar now nominally ruled the whole of Britain. The investiture and tribute ceremony was therefore grand in scale.
Under the fearful gaze of the spectators, a dense mass of nobles assembled on the plaza before the palace gates, each taking their place according to rank.
Naturally, Ivar, Vig, Æthelwulf, and Theowulf stood in the front row. But this year, one more stood among them—Gunnar.
It was Gunnar's first time back in Britain since he accepted a ducal title from West Francia three years ago. Gone was the unkempt brute of old; his smooth golden hair was tied into a neat ponytail, a faint beard framed his jaw, and he wore a purple embroidered robe beneath a black mantle threaded with gold. At his waist hung Dawnbreaker, a famous blade wet with Viking blood.
And most striking of all—he openly wore a silver cross, declaring his conversion to the Roman Church.
Vig greeted his old business partner warmly.
"I heard you've had a son. How's the little fellow?"
"Healthy—and loud. A cry strong enough to shake the rafters. Definitely my son."
Gunnar even allowed himself a rare gentle smile, then spoke of the tournament he'd held to celebrate the birth.
"The mounted and foot champions were both our old acquaintance, Maurice. His riding and swordsmanship are superb. No wonder that distinguished widow from Asturias set her eye on him. Pity I couldn't compete myself—it wouldn't be proper for the host."
After a short exchange, the massive palace doors slowly opened. The dukes walked in unhurriedly. Passing between the ranks of armored guards, Vig silently muttered:
"This looks almost like a Chinese imperial court. If only there were eunuchs, the resemblance would be perfect."
When Gunnar stepped forward, the path was suddenly blocked by Oleg "Whitehair," the deputy commander of the King's Guard.
"Please step back, my lord."
Gunnar froze—unable to believe anyone dared bar his way.
"When I was raiding with Ragnar, you still had baby fluff on your chin. You think you can talk to me like this? Do you even know what you are?"
Oleg took another deliberate step and stood squarely in his way.
"My lord, in what capacity have you come before His Majesty? If you come as Earl of Cambridge, your place is farther back. If you come as Duke of Normandy and a member of the Frankish royal family, you have no right to stand here at all. His Majesty will grant you a separate audience."
Gunnar stiffened, jaw tight, hand drifting toward Dawnbreaker. Seeing this, some guards hesitated—veterans who once served under Gunnar—but the younger ones stepped forward without fear, surrounding him.
The procession stalled. Gunnar and Oleg glared at each other at the center of the aisle until Ivar finally spoke:
"If no one can decide, then notify the king and let him judge whether Gunnar stands here by right. Counting the royal household knights, more than six hundred men are waiting to present tribute. Delay much longer and we'll miss the evening banquet."
Soon a messenger returned with Ragnar's decree: Gunnar was permitted to enter.
Oleg stepped aside with a slight bow.
"This is not personal, my lord. Please forgive the inconvenience."
Gunnar forced a thin smile.
"You've done well. I'll remember you."
Inside the grand hall, Gunnar knelt, bowed to the king and both queens, and handed over his tribute.
Vig followed smoothly through his own familiar steps, then moved to stand quietly in the right-hand line. He watched an endless flow of royal knights approach the throne—far more than the nobility, nearly nine in ten.
Because space was limited, these knights were not allowed to remain afterward. They withdrew under the calm scrutiny of the dukes and earls.
Vig's face remained calm, but his inner thoughts were not:
"Gods… this is going to be torture. These minor nobles hardly ever get the king's attention—of course they'll chatter endlessly, hoping to be remembered."
"Rumor has it Ragnar plans to formally establish the rank of baron. I wonder which of these royal knights will be promoted."
Occasionally someone raised a dispute—usually some ridiculous quarrel over an unnamed patch of woodland or a shallow bend of river—further slowing the proceedings.
By noon, more than three hundred royal knights still waited. They were given a quick meal and half an hour of rest before the audience resumed.
The king did not finish until just before sunset. Ragnar slumped heavily against his uncomfortable throne, eyes glazed with exhaustion.
"With Cornwall added, I can now enfeoff more knights… but if I let them keep filing lawsuits directly to me, by next year I won't even eat dinner."
He decided on a new rule:
Before petitioning the king, all knights must first submit evidence to the Minister of Justice.
Only unresolved disputes may be brought forth for royal judgment.
Ragnar instructed Pascal to draft the law, then announced the audience concluded and ordered the palace steward to prepare the banquet.
Vig and the other high nobles exhaled in collective relief.
They'd stood since dawn—besides a short break at noon, they had remained motionless like carved statues. The earls further back could at least whisper among themselves; the dukes, however, had to maintain rigid decorum.
Massaging his sore thighs, Vig muttered,
"Thank the gods this is only once a year… How did the civil officials of the Chinese dynasties endure their rigid, frequent morning courts?"
He recalled that in the Ming Dynasty, morning court began at 5 a.m.; officials had to assemble outside the gates at 3 a.m.—an ordeal of body and spirit, especially in winter.
Soon the banquet began.
Seated at the long table on the right, Vig ate slowly. His palate had long become too refined for ordinary dishes; instead of enjoying the food, he listened to conversations around him.
During the feast, Gunnar strode to Ragnar carrying a wine jug, inviting his old brother-in-arms of more than twenty years to drink.
"With pleasure."
Ragnar raised his cup, gulping the sweet red wine. Amid the warm, drunken noise, the banquet came to an end.
When it dispersed, Ragnar—supported by attendants—shuffled down the long corridor toward his chambers. The queen Sola whispered beside him:
"Gunnar is no longer trustworthy. Find an excuse to detain him."
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