After Godwin and Horst departed one after the other, the servant followed them on horseback from a distance, wary that Horst—driven by desperation—might resort to murder. Only after they entered Londinium did the servant finally relax. He ordered the Danish raiders to return to the courtyard in the northern outskirts.
"You've all worked hard," he said. "There's mead and smoked meat in the cellar. Rest well tonight—I'll need your help again tomorrow."
"No problem. Serving the Queen and the Lord Steward is the greatest honor of my life," Svarin replied. After seeing the servant off, he ordered his men to light bonfires and indulge freely in the cellar's food and drink.
Perhaps the mead had been stored too long—its taste carried a strange bitterness. The men cursed loudly, complaining that the palace steward had treated them with inferior goods.
Meanwhile, in the royal palace.
Godwin carried the wooden box into Ragnar's bedchamber and asked the palace steward, "Where's the key?"
While Paphis searched frantically, the anxious Horst drew his sword and smashed the copper lock. With trembling hands, he took out the edict.
The document was brief:
The eldest son Ivar, second son Bjorn, and third son Halfdan would continue governing their respective territories.
The fourth son Ubbe was to go to northern Denmark and serve as Duke of Denmark.
The youngest son Sigurd would inherit the throne, with Astrid acting as regent.
Ragnar's coffin was to be returned to Gothenburg, to be buried alongside Lagertha.
After everyone read the edict in turn, Godwin spoke gravely:
"His Majesty did mention this to me. He said that after his death, he wished to be buried in the countryside near Gothenburg. In that case, the edict should be genuine."
"Indeed," Paphis echoed. "His Majesty said the same to me."
At that moment, Godwin suddenly raised his voice and announced to the palace guards and servants outside:
"By His Majesty's decree, Sigurd inherits the crown of the Kingdom of Britannia. Pay homage to your new king!"
With that, the prime minister knelt on one knee. Theowulf and Paphis followed. Then came the young attendants like Alfred, and finally the guards and servants outside also knelt.
Only Sola and Horst remained standing, frozen in place.
Amid the rising cries, Horst realized resistance was futile. Slowly, he dropped to one knee, silently contemplating his future.
With Sigurd crowned king and Astrid as regent, they would never tolerate an outsider controlling Londinium. Should he follow Ubbe to northern Denmark and endure a harsh, uncertain life?
"Long live the King!"
"May the gods bless the new king!"
To be safe, Godwin decided to hold the coronation ceremony the next morning. He reminded the palace steward, "The treasury is empty—keep it modest."
"Understood," Paphis replied with a bow, then walked out of the late king's chamber.
Once he confirmed no one was following him, his pace quickened. He stopped before an inconspicuous door and knocked three times.
From inside came a familiar voice. "My lord, I'm here."
Paphis entered and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Is everything taken care of?"
The servant nodded. "Those raiders are drinking heavily. The drug should have taken effect—no need to worry about leaks."
Paphis felt no pity for men used for dirty work. That was a lesson he had learned from the Eastern Roman court: once involved in such affairs, one must be prepared to pay the price.
He extended his thick right hand. "Give me the original edict."
Unexpectedly, the servant replied calmly, "I burned it. I feared it might bring disaster. Better to destroy it early."
Burned?
Paphis stared at him for a long moment, then suddenly broke into a broad smile and slapped his shoulder.
"Parker, you're a clever one. Staying in Londinium is a waste. Have you considered going to Constantinople? You'd have much greater prospects there."
Parker smiled just as warmly. "No need, my lord. I only wish to live a stable, prosperous life."
"Of course," Paphis said lightly. "After such meritorious service, a bit of silver is nothing."
Leaving the room, Paphis immediately dropped the smile. Parker's refusal to hand over the original edict meant he feared ending up like Svarin.
"That boy likely gave the edict to a trusted friend—someone who would deliver it to Queen Sola the moment Parker dies. A smart survival tactic. Until I find that mysterious friend, Parker can live a little longer."
The next day, nobles and wealthy citizens from across Londinium gathered at the palace for the coronation.
Eight-year-old Sigurd wore the crown, a heavy red cloak draped over his shoulders. Under the watchful eyes of the crowd, he walked to the throne, sat upright, and began accepting oaths of fealty.
To Sigurd's left sat his birth mother—Dowager Queen Astrid—who occasionally leaned over to whisper the names of nobles to her son.
The seat to the right of the throne, once reserved for Queen Sola, had been removed. That morning, Astrid had sent a maid to "suggest" that Sola move out of Londinium as soon as possible.
We've fought for years, Astrid thought, but we're all civilized people. As long as she gets out of my palace, the past can be written off.
With that in mind, Astrid glanced at Queen Sola and Prince Ubbe among the crowd. Sola's expression was icy, as if none of this concerned her. Ubbe looked dazed, still unable to accept reality.
"A simple-minded fool," Astrid thought. "Drinking with street trash, even missing his father's final moments. Nothing to worry about."
The edict made Ubbe Duke of Denmark in name, supposedly ruling the entire region—but how could he suppress Niels, the ambitious lord of Schleswig?
Astrid recalled the situation in Denmark. Rumor had it that Niels had taken another wife—a large-bodied woman from the most powerful Slavic tribe in Pomerania, the chieftain's sole heir.
Abandoning the beautiful Princess Yvette to marry such a coarse provincial woman—how humiliating.
Thinking of this, Astrid grew increasingly wary of Niels, ranking him fifth in threat—after Ivar, Gunnar, Vig, and Æthelbald.
"Your Majesty, I am willing to give everything for you."
"May the gods bless your reign, King Sigurd."
Listening to the nobles' pledges, Astrid felt a deep unease. She could hear the perfunctory tone beneath their words. Lifting her chin, she scanned the great hall—yet could not find a single man truly loyal to her.
Prime Minister Godwin didn't care whether Sigurd or Ubbe sat on the throne—only his own power mattered.
The palace steward Paphis had joined the conspiracy out of greed. That accursed eunuch wanted land—his eyes set on the vacant Earldom of Cambridge.
Theowulf remained indifferent. He had never wanted the position of Minister of the Sea in the first place and had left his home only out of fear of Ragnar. Now that the old king was dead, he would soon resign and return to Oxford to live in comfort.
"As Duke of Mercia, his command ability is abysmal, and his popularity among the people is extremely low. His threat is far less than the other dukes—barely worth worrying about. Even Niels is more dangerous. Forget him."
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