Viking Invasion-Chapter 102 — The Duke (Part I)

Seeing how tactful Rurik was, Queen Sola’s expression softened into a rare smile. She spoke before Ragnar could respond.

"Of course. A loyal vassal such as yourself deserves a generous reward."

On the other side, Queen Aslaug also seized the chance to win favor for her son Sigurd. Since Rurik had withdrawn from the struggle over Wales, she saw no harm in supporting him.

"Your Majesty, Rurik’s achievements are extraordinary. He is indeed worthy of great reward."

For once, the two queens were in complete agreement. The maids and attendants exchanged curious glances — this was something they had never seen before.

Hearing that Rurik only requested funds, Ragnar agreed readily, granting him four hundred pounds of silver as war expenses.

From past campaigns, Ragnar had learned that Rurik was not only capable of conquest but of governance — a rare combination. Yet he also foresaw the difficulties ahead: the northern lands were rugged and fragmented; Rurik would find himself as mired in rebellion as Ivar was in Ireland, too occupied to aid future wars.

So be it, Ragnar thought. Let these new dukes exhaust themselves with their own ambitions. For now, my task lies in rebuilding within, not warring without.

"Do well," he said at last. "I await your good news."

"My deepest thanks, Your Majesty." Rurik bowed deeply.

He recalled his past spoils — two hundred pounds of silver from the Mercian–Wessex War, six hundred from the Frankish campaign, and now another four hundred in royal grant — a total of twelve hundred pounds. With Thainburg thriving under the new three-field system, its granaries were full; the resources at his command were more than enough to conquer the North.

Just as he was contemplating how best to spend this fortune, Halfdan spoke from his place beside the steps:

"My lord Duke, I heard the names of the surrendering chiefs include the Shrike, the Viper, and Brecan. Is that true?"

"It is," Rurik replied calmly, meeting his eyes.

"At the assembly in Maratfal, Oleg, acting under His Majesty’s orders, granted pardon to all — including those three. Later, fearing your appointment as Duke of Wales and possible vengeance, they petitioned to migrate north. I had no choice but to agree."

Knowing he was partly responsible, Oleg hurried to defend himself.

"I read out the royal decree as commanded. Then the Shrike suddenly asked about the new Duke of Wales and feared reprisal. The tension was unbearable. Someone proposed they seek refuge in Thainburg, and Rurik had to consent."

Halfdan’s face darkened. "How could you agree to such a thing? My left arm—"

"Enough!" Ragnar cut him off, exasperated. "A king cannot rescind his own word. To go back on it would reignite rebellion in Wales. Rurik acted rightly."

After so many blunders, Halfdan was no longer fit to govern Wales. As compensation, Ragnar granted him Gothenburg, the ancestral land in Scandinavia — a symbolic gesture as much as a punishment.

"Return there," Ragnar said sternly, "and learn something of our people’s traditions, instead of wasting your days with Anglo-Saxon maids in the palace."

"Gothenburg?" Halfdan looked stricken.

The settlement had long been in decline, its yearly taxes barely ten pounds of silver — not enough to sustain even a fraction of his current life.

"Father," he said bitterly, "for one defeat you would exile me?"

"Exile?" Ragnar’s gaze was cold. "It is the land of your birth. You shall live there as its lord. What exile is that?"

"That miserable place earns less than a Flemish wool merchant’s annual trade. If it is so fine a fief, why not give it to Ubbe or Sigurd?"

The argument flared into a shouting match. In the end, Ragnar’s patience broke. Halfdan was rebuked sharply and ordered to depart for the North within a week to assume his post.

"Father," Halfdan spat as he turned to leave, "one day you’ll see — this was a grave mistake."

His eyes swept across the hall before he strode out, brushing past Æthelwulf at the doorway.

"Prince, where are you—?" Æthelwulf began.

"Just call me Halfdan," he said with a hollow laugh. "And take care inside, my lord Duke. There are few honest men in that room."

Æthelwulf paused a moment, puzzled, before entering the hall and bowing before the throne.

"Your Majesty," he began, "last month you sent word commanding me to investigate the Frankish spies. The inquiry is complete — two have been captured, five fled into exile, and one resisted arrest and was executed. Here are the records and their confessions."

A servant took the ledgers and presented them to Ragnar. The king could not read Latin, so Queen Sola read the report aloud.

As she spoke, Ragnar thought grimly,

Spies? If anyone here is the true Frankish traitor, it is you — the one who leaked the trebuchet designs and the timing of our campaign. Those two crimes alone should have earned you the noose.

But thought was all he could allow himself. Without proof, he could not touch Æthelwulf; any rash move might plunge the realm into civil war.

"Viking nobles, Anglo-Saxons, newly subdued Welsh, and the Irish to the west..." he mused inwardly. By Odin, if war breaks out within, how many will still stand with me?

When the report ended, Ragnar caught no fault he could use. Instead, he set a subtle trap.

"I have recently conquered Wales," he said. "Tell me — how would you govern it? Would you appoint an outsider, or let the Welsh choose their own?"

Æthelwulf considered. "The land is rough and poor, Your Majesty. It yields little profit. It would be best to rule with leniency. Reign as its overlord, but allow them to elect seven nobles to form a council. Let that body settle disputes among them. Even if dissent remains, the council will serve as a buffer."

A council, Ragnar thought. The idea sounded plausible enough, yet he could not tell if Æthelwulf spoke in counsel or in cunning.

He turned to his recovering chancellor, Pascal, and to Rurik, who stood silently among the courtiers — neither could offer a decisive opinion.

After a long pause, Ragnar sighed, weariness flooding his limbs. "Enough. We’ll speak of it another time."

He brushed the matter aside and, perhaps out of guilt or mere habit, changed to a gentler subject.

"I hear your wife is with child," he said. He motioned to a maid, who brought forward a gold-forged arm-ring. "May she bear you a strong and wise son."

Æthelwulf bowed. "Your Majesty is most gracious. I have a feeling it will be a boy. Of late, a single name keeps coming to me — Alfred. It seems... fitting."

"Alfred," Ragnar murmured, tasting the word. "It means ’wise,’ does it not?"

He repeated it again, softly. Alfred.

The name lingered in his mind like the echo of an omen.

Fatigue pressed down upon him; the audience was dismissed. The courtiers dispersed, and the great hall fell silent once more.

Outside the palace, Rurik made his way to the royal treasury to collect the promised four hundred pounds of silver. When he signed the inventory ledger, the scribe stopped him.

"My lord," the man said, "Charles the Bald has sent a shipment of silver and horses. The ships are unloading at the docks. Would you care to take a look?"