After hearing the vassal's words, Sola and Astrid exchanged glances, momentarily suspecting they had misheard him.
Not only was this man refusing to pay the inheritance tax—he was actually demanding money from them?
Outrageous!
Sola's voice turned icy. "My lord, are you deliberately provoking the Crown?"
As soon as she finished speaking, the palace guards stepped forward in unison, their right hands resting on the hilts of their swords.
Æthelbald, twenty-five years old and hot-tempered, waved the slip of parchment and bellowed in the hall, "The prime minister borrowed money on behalf of the Crown—why shouldn't it be repaid?"
Astrid replied calmly, "We acknowledge the debt. However, it was agreed last year—with the unanimous consent of the nobles—that such debts would be frozen temporarily and repaid in installments starting three years from now. My lord, if you wish to inherit the title of Duke of Wessex, you must submit silver, or goods and land of equivalent value."
"Where would I get the money?" Æthelbald roared, his voice still thunderous. "Over the past two years, the Crown raised the wool export tax—my family's income has plummeted. My father served on the council as Minister of the Sea and didn't earn a single penny in wages, yet you forcibly 'borrowed' a thousand pounds from us. There's no money left—none at all!"
His face flushed crimson, veins bulging at his neck, fury written all over him.
The two queens exchanged looks once more. This time, Sola spoke.
"My lord, rules are rules. Pay the tax, or the Crown cannot recognize your authority over Wessex."
At this point, Æthelbald suddenly calmed down.
"Fine. Then let it be so," he said evenly. "I'll wait for you to send troops to take over Winchester. Let's see how the nobles across the realm react."
With that threat delivered, Æthelbald turned and strode out.
Outside the palace gates, a retainer leaned in and whispered advice—only to be shoved aside violently.
"I'm not paying! Not silver, not goods—not even a single hair!"
With the king unconscious, royal authority badly diminished, and the royal guard reduced to barely over a thousand battered survivors, Æthelbald felt no fear at all.
Of course, the queens could invoke their regency to summon the lords and launch a joint campaign—but the question remained: would the great nobles actually send troops?
Back in Winchester, Æthelbald formally began governing as duke, ignoring all royal denunciations.
By November, the queens felt their dignity had been thoroughly trampled and resolved to eliminate this rebellious vassal. They convened the council to discuss plans for an expedition against Wessex.
Suddenly, Orm, Minister of War and commander of the Royal Guard, spoke up.
"Your Majesties, I have personal matters to attend to and must leave for some time."
Not long ago, Orm had received news that his eldest son had died of illness in a West Frankish prison camp. His second son had been wounded in the arm at the Battle of Auxerre and was in equally poor condition—unlikely to survive much longer in captivity.
Since negotiations between the two crowns had stalled, Orm decided to raise funds on his own to ransom his son.
He sent a priest to Calais to inquire. Lambert agreed to help, setting the price at five hundred pounds, reasoning that the boy was the family's sole remaining male heir.
Clearly, Orm could not produce such a sum. He urgently needed to return to Sussex to inventory his assets and write to fellow nobles to borrow money, hoping to rescue his son as quickly as possible.
With the commander of the Royal Guard on leave, the queens tentatively wrote to Ivar, Vig, Niels, and others—only to receive evasive replies or outright refusals.
Aside from Ivar, who was drowning in debt, the Crown owed money to every major noble. This year's overdue military wages hadn't been paid either, nearly triggering mutiny among the rank and file.
Everyone harbored resentment—they simply hadn't voiced it yet. Today it was Wessex; tomorrow, it could be any one of them.
In December, the conflict devolved into farce. Citizens of Londinium treated it as a betting game, enthusiastically debating which side would bow first.
Thanks to Prime Minister Godwin's mediation, both sides took a step back. Æthelbald agreed to pay one hundred and fifty pounds in silver in exchange for royal recognition.
To outside observers, the Crown had clearly lost. For such a trivial sum, it had nearly broken with a major vassal—then exposed its own weakness and indecision. Nobles and merchants alike began entertaining new ideas.
Early 857 AD
Snow fell from the heavens at dawn, while great flocks of black ravens circled above the royal palace.
Annoyed by their incessant cawing, Sola distracted herself by playing with her small, snow-white pet dog.
"Good girl—fetch."
Seated on the edge of her bed, the queen repeatedly tossed a small embroidered ball, letting the dog retrieve it. After some time, Prince Ubbe, the fourth prince, burst into the room.
"Mother, give me money."
"What do you want to buy now?" Sola motioned for a maid to take the dog away and frowned at her son, who was nearing fifteen.
"I met some new friends. I want to treat them to drinks."
Among Vikings, social life was inseparable from alcohol. Common folk drank beer and ale; as a prince, Ubbe naturally intended to treat his companions to mead and wine.
With his fifteenth birthday approaching, adulthood loomed—and with it, responsibilities. He needed to build connections and avoid repeating Halfdan's mistakes.
Sola unlocked the bottom drawer of her dressing table with a brass key and took out a small stack of gold coins.
"The treasury is tight. Spend sparingly."
She handed over the coins with her left hand, while her right unconsciously reached out to touch her son's hair.
Uncomfortable with the gesture, Ubbe snatched the money and bolted from the room. His hoarse voice echoed down the corridor.
"I won't be coming back to sleep for a few days! Tell the guards not to bother me!"
After her son left, Sola sighed softly. Wrapped in her cloak, she wandered through the snowy courtyard. In the distance, she saw Sigurd, Enya, and a group of children engaged in a snowball fight.
A wave of inexplicable melancholy washed over her, and she found herself longing for the days when Ubbe was still a child.
At noon, she forced herself to eat some beef stewed in red wine, then slept for a couple of hours. Later, she chatted idly with visiting noblewomen, passing the time.
Before she knew it, the sky outside darkened. The ladies departed one by one, and the tedious day finally came to an end.
After dinner, Sola read Norse-language novels by candlelight.
These books came from Tyne Town, covering all sorts of fantastical themes—dragon-blooded heroes, assassins, monster hunters. Some nobles in Londinium were utterly obsessed with them; a few even treated the stories as real, commissioning blacksmiths to forge bizarre weapons based on the novels.
After a long while, Sola closed the book and rubbed her aching eyes.
"What a shameless philanderer… just how many lovers does he need?"
At that moment, the ravens above the palace grew even noisier. Muttering curses under her breath, Sola ordered a small pot of mulled wine with cinnamon.
After drinking it, she fell into a deep sleep.
Before dawn the next morning, the queen was shaken awake by her personal maid, whose face was pale with terror.
"Your Majesty—the king has awakened. The shamans request your immediate presence."
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