Haldur hadn't stopped laughing since I broke the seal, read the letter penned by my eldest son, then started pacing. His curiosity had gotten the better of him and with a dismissive gesture, I let him read it. A mistake on my part because my brother had tears in his eyes and he was wheezing, entirely too amused with himself.
I had expected some difficulties navigating the diplomatic waters of Alba. While I wasn't too familiar with them in any meaningful degree, experience had taught me what to expect from the quarrelsome clans. Old feuds and infighting between different clans and inside of each of them, all trying to tear each other down -- not to rise higher, but because they would rather see their enemies in the mud with them than see them rise above them.
It was going to be a challenge for my boys, but I had confidence that they'd get the job done. And even if they failed, it would be a good experience for them. I thought I had prepared myself for every possibility -- success, failure, anything from Alba becoming steadfast allies to outright enemies. But the letter contained a possibility that I hadn't imagined and for the life of me, I couldn't tell if that was a good thing or not.
“Would you quit laughing already? You're my advisor. Advise.” I grumbled at the red in the face Haldur who had tears in his eyes that he had to wipe away while stifling his giggles.
“Sorry, sorry -- it's just that, the boy was so mild-mannered. Between you and Astrid, I always thought he'd be a bit more brash,” Haldur nearly started laughing again. “Then he goes and pulls a stunt like this! Now you know how the rest of us felt when we heard about your exploits. Mother's heart about went still in her chest when she heard what you got up to in Saxony.”
I had to look away from my brother to hide the faint grin tugging at my lips but based on how he wheezed, he saw it all the same. “Shut it,” I commanded him, having no expectation that the order would be obeyed. Picking up the letter, I read the contents again in the vague hope that I had misread the runes. No such luck there.
It was impossible for me to mistake Ragnar's handwriting, so I knew it came from him. It even read like his letters -- direct, including important details about the series of events around him, and then offering a few thoughts and his reasoning for his course of action. That action being a bid to become king and marry what amounted to a princess of the Picts.
A girl, who as Magnus described in his own letter -- ‘As dangerous as she is fair, and she is the fairest girl in the kingdom.’
Which muddled things a bit for me. Ove's letter made it clear that the offer was genuine and had great potential within the kingdom, if for a price that could only be paid in blood. But Ragnar and Magnus weren't boys anymore. They were of the age where lust started to weigh heavily on the scales of their thinking, usually at the expense of common sense.
“The biggest issue I see with it would be his age,” Haldur got himself under control so they could now discuss the practicality of such an arrangement. “He must have conducted himself well if the possibility is being entertained at all, but the fact is that he's too young to be king.”
“They intend to make him a puppet,” I voiced, a low growl in the back of his throat. Alba and the clans would bend the knee, but they intended to take my son's teeth from him. They intended to make him dependent on their support within the kingdom and entrench their own influence in the time it took for Ragnar to grow into himself.
“Aye,” Haldur agreed. “But their attempts would help ease the transition. If we go in and openly put his butt on a throne, then it's a blatant power grab on our part. However, if one of them pushes him forward and acts as a form of regent, the whole thing will go over much smoother.”
“The king was assassinated and it's a succession crisis. It's going to be rough no matter what,” I pointed out, walking around the room as I reread the letter again. “With a strong enough force, we can circumvent those strings they're trying to put on my boy.”
“At the cost of turning this into a conflict that couldn't be settled before our departure,” Haldur pointed out, and I raised an eyebrow in his direction. He considered the point before nodding, “Aye, it's not likely to. Doesn't matter how much they like us, we'd still be putting foreign blood on their throne. And I don't think they like us that much to begin with.”
“It's worth the risk,” I voiced my thoughts.
“A kingdom served up on a silver platter? Of course it is,” Haldur agreed. “But are you really going to let your boy stay on this island for years on end? Alone?” He asked a question, but his tone made it clear he knew what the answer would be.
“Absolutely not,” I confirmed. Ragnar was too young. Far too young. He had his arm ring, but he wasn't a man yet. He wasn't ready for the burdens of being a king, especially in a kingdom so unsteady. “His mother would kill me.”
Haldur snorted, “She's likely to do so anyways. You take the boy on his first raid and he comes back married.”
He meant it as a jest, but the idea inspired a thought. “We go through with the marriage. Secure the alliance against the anglo-saxons. Then we depart as planned, but we leave a garrison force to uphold our interests until Ragnar is ready to assume the throne.”
Haldur frowned, having his doubts. “I imagine the situation is going to be very different five years from now. King Causantín isn't even dead yet and they're squabbling over who succeeds him. Five years from now, I imagine they would have settled on someone.”
“I doubt that,” I replied. “The kings of this land have been dropping like flies this season. I don't think that will change after our departure.” A plan was starting to put itself together in the back of my mind. It wasn't a possibility that I expected to drop into our laps, but Ragnar was right to attempt to seize control over it.
“I hope that isn't a declaration of intent?” Haldur raised an eyebrow at me, and I chuckled.
“Not of mine. Ecbert’s,” I voiced, setting Ragnar's letter aside before I took a seat near a balcony. Our forces were slowly combing the northern lands of Britannia towards Alba. Northumbria hadn't managed to offer any true resistance to slow us down.
“You honestly think he's behind it all?” Haldur questioned, and I shrugged.
Our progress with the raid had been steady. Faster now that word of us had well and truly spread. The situation in Northumbria was a farce. King Osbald, who took the crown after King Æthelred of Northumbria had been assassinated, lasted all of three weeks before being deposed by the now King Eardwulf. Something King Osbald took issue with and he was now rallying the nobility and other forces within the petty kingdom in a bid to reclaim his crown.
By all accounts, his bid to become king again wasn't going great. Actually, it was going quite poorly. But the situation was such an obscene mess that the nobles who didn't flee their estates or holdings with as much wealth they could carry simply threw open the doors for their raiding parties in the hopes that the rumors of our merciful nature were true. The nobles who fled of course flocked to Ecbert and Wessex, as the weak flocked to those that were strong.
Out of all of the monarchs on Britannia, Ecbert was the only one who could be called strong. And, day by day, his strength was growing. The nobles who fled took as much of a town's treasury as they could, alongside their own personal wealth. All that wealth was being served up to Ecbert on a silver platter, alongside worthwhile courtiers entering his court because, even if they might be cowards, they were smart enough to know that there was no hope of reinforcements, much less victory.
“His intentions become clearer,” I replied with a nod. “He has the means to offer a proper battle, and he knows it. Yet, he does little more than nip at our heels and offer the occasional skirmish. Despite there being calls to attack and some even labeling him a coward for not being more aggressive.”
Haldur tilted his head, “You think its all just a ploy then? Smoke and mirrors?”
“Not entirely,” I replied. “If he senses the possibility of victory, then I imagine that he will pounce on it. I don't believe that he intends to offer a proper battle. I think he's preparing to usurp Mercia and even Northumbria from their kings. He gets the wealth and his pick of nobles from their courts, and when we depart, he will be in a perfect situation to usurp their crowns.”
It was exceedingly pragmatic. Ruthlessly so. Ecbert was turning himself into the face of resistance against us all while undermining it. And I suspected that I wasn't the only one who had figured that out. Otherwise, there were far more effective places to send two Paladins than Alba. I had known Astolfo hailed from Mercia, and there he would have been a strong rallying figure. But in Alba? As a representative from Rome and a petty kingdom that Alba had quarreled with since the Roman Empire fell?
That was a move that could only be explained by Charlemagne losing faith in his pawn. That was a move determined to prevent me from gaining further advantage on Britannia.
“And us having a strong ally on the islands wouldn't be helpful to that goal,” Haldur followed my line of thought. “That's no promise that he will interfere, however.”
“He will if he has good reason to,” I refuted, making Haldur tilt his head. “As it stands, Alba is a far-off threat for Ecbert. However, if it were to encroach on what he intends to make his new borders…”
Haldur understood instantly. “You wish to divide Northumbria,” he guessed and I confirmed it with a nod. In terms of landmass Northumbria was the greatest of the petty kingdoms, though Mercia boasted a larger population. Well, it did. I was uncertain if that was still true. “That would certainly help soothe the bitter taste of swallowing their pride.”
It wasn’t a perfect balance, but it was enough to satisfy our goals. Walking over to a nearby table, I pushed back a few papers to reveal the map that I had been building little by little. Our scouts and raiding parties were filling in the great blank that my Map had been when we first arrived, revealing mineral deposits and soil fertility. While it was still incomplete, it was enough to reveal that Britannia was a rich land for farming.
Expanding Alba significantly would overstretch it, especially with an unruly populace. That would make it unsteady and prevent the solidification of power in the crucial years. Then, upon our return, should Ragnar truly wish it, he would be in the perfect position to become king. Likewise, Ecbert wouldn’t be able to consolidate his own power on the island by the time we returned with the intent of conquest.
Yet, to the Picts and Alba as a whole, it would be seen as a most generous gift. An expansion of their borders beyond what they had ever managed in their history.
A true poisoned chalice.
“When shall the Picts receive their gift?” Haldur questioned and I offered a thin smile.
“When they offer my son a bride.”
…
It took three days for King Causantín to die. For most of that time he was delirious with a fever, and when he wasn’t, he was slumbering like he was already dead. Ragnar hadn’t been permitted to offer his respects to the ailing king in person, but from the rumors that swirled, the king didn’t die a good death, nor a gentle one before his body failed him.
Three days felt like a long time. Longer still to die. But, in the grand scheme of things, it was hardly any time at all. Enough time for a letter to be sent to Father about the marriage offer but not enough time to receive a reply. Meanwhile, things in Alba were… unstable.
“Are you stupid?” Magnus asked his favorite question over the past few days once more.
“Probably. I mean, at least a little bit,” he replied, giving his brother a flat glare. One that Magnus had grown immune to since they were boys. “Any particular reason why you’re asking again, or is it still about Maeve?”
“It’s absolutely about Maeve,” Magnus replied with a disappointed shake of his head. “You met the girl once, and you’re tripping over yourself to marry her.”
“Be fair, Magnus.” Harald said with absolutely no intention to help, “the offer came with a kingdom attached to it.”
“Another thing,” Magnus continued, seated at the top of a hill to watch Perth from afar. The city was in a frenzy, not unlike an anthill getting kicked open. “Are you really planning to live here? Away from Denmark? It won’t be for another five years before Father conquers these islands. You’d be alone in hostile territory. Were you even thinking at all?”
“Oh, he was. Just with his-” Harald started to quip and Ragnar waved them both off.
“Enough of that,” he protested, giving them both a mild glare. “The match… It’s a fine one. I’ll leave the details for Father to hammer out.” Meave had left the storeroom very pleased, but he hadn’t seen her since. Yet, the movements of such a marriage were set into motion. Ove was discussing what such a union might bring to Alba and the Scandinavian Empire.
It hadn’t yet reached a point that it couldn’t be called off, but without ample reason to oppose it the marriage would go ahead. Meaning, quite soon, he would be a married man. It didn’t feel real yet. He expected to be plagued with doubts and uncertainty after giving his consent to such a match, because Magnus wasn't wrong. Maeve wasn't someone he knew well, but she did feel like someone that he understood.
“There's no way that he'd leave you behind when it comes time to return. Your mother would actually kill him,” Magnus continued all the same. “So, at the very least, you'll be coming back with us.”
“Which means I'll probably be married soon,” Ragnar reasoned. He wasn't sure what the future held, but he had a feeling that it involved a scolding. He didn't mind the thought. It felt… kind of good, to make a decision like this, regardless of what the circumstances were. It was the feeling of taking control of his own fate with his own hands.
However, before the pair could fuss over details, Ragnar caught sight of something interesting. A party was gathering up at the entrance of Perth -- at first, Ragnar assumed it was another clan that intended to return home to prepare for the succession crisis, but that thought was proven wrong when he saw familiar plate armor. It was the Romans. They were leaving, with Bradamante and Astolfo at their head.
“Seems like they know that they've lost,” Harald remarked.
“I'm more surprised that they're being allowed to leave,” Magnus added. “As it stands, they're the ones that suspicion is falling on for the king's assassination.”
“More like the Picts realize that they couldn't keep them here even if they tried,” Harald replied. He had the right of it, more or less. With the king dead, the clans of Alba weren't ready to make their stance between Scandinavia or Rome clear. So, it was simply easier to let them go.
The Romans, for their part, realized that if they lingered too long that opinion would change and they would become a natural scapegoat.
Still, it seemed like a shame. Enough so that Ragnar began to move forward before his mind really began to register what he was doing. It was just such a shame, he felt. The Romans weren't exactly stealing away in the dead of night, but they weren’t receiving a proper send off that they were due either. And that was simply unacceptable.
Ragnar made his way down the ridge and towards the city -- his approach was hardly stealthy, so the Romans saw his approach long in advance. They weren't greeted with any warmth. Just frosty glares that bordered contempt, which made Astolfo's easy going smile that much of a contrast.
“Oh! Prince Rags is here to see us off? What an honor,” Astolfo said, and in another, Ragnar might take that as sarcasm. But, Astolfo wore an honest smile.
“I thought someone should,” he admitted. Astolfo smiled in a way that told Ragnar that he knew that wasn't all that he came down here for. There was a question that he wanted to ask, but wasn't sure if he really wanted the answer.
He had been caught off guard by the Romans’ presence. He had been so focused on what their arrival meant for the negotiations that he’d never stopped to think about why they were there in the first place. After all… why send two Paladins to a place like Alba at all? One would have surely sufficed, but not sending any would have worked just as well.
There was no gentle way to phrase the question. “Were you sent here to kill me?”
Astolfo didn't tense at the question. He didn't look surprised either. “Ah… well, not in so many words, but more or less, yeah,” he admitted with an almost casual ease.
That was the only thing that made sense. The Romans had to know that any alliance with the Picts would be short-lived. It simply wasn't practical to maintain and the leadership of Alba would realize that as well eventually.
“Then why didn't you?” He asked, his gaze sliding to Bradamante, whose expression was impassive. They’d had the means. They’d had the opportunity. And they most certainly had the motivation. Yet, he was still alive, and unless they struck him down now, that would continue. Meaning that they had accomplished nothing on this trip and they would return as failures to their Emperor.
It was Bradamante who answered, “My Emperor laments that he did not slay your father when he had the chance.” She started, not exactly disproving his point. “He came to him, a boy your age, as a spy. One whose presence had been betrayed by an ally in his own camp. Your father was alone, surrounded, and not yet the warrior that he would grow into.”
Then something in her eyes softened ever so slightly. “Emperor Charlemagne laments this opportunity, but I believe that even should God allow him to go back in time, he would make the same choice. For my Emperor is not a man who would carelessly order the death of a child who had not yet done him any wrong.”
“You take after your old man a little too much, Rags,” Astolfo remarked before he saddled his horse. “I think you have it in you to be a great Allvaldr one day. And whatever happens between our nations… we can hardly call ourselves respectable adults if we go making that your problem before you’re old enough, can we?”
Bradamante mounted her horse and the Roman delegation began to move forward while Ragnar struggled to muster a response. What could he say to that? A mere thank you seemed so underwhelming. “I…” He started, only to falter as he looked between the two.
“Take care, Rags!” Astolfo said, urging his horse forward and giving an enthusiastic wave goodbye. Bradamante offered a slight inclination of her head before she followed her senior Paladin, leaving Ragnar to watch them go.
Leaving so much unsaid. And, as he watched them go, he truly hoped that he never saw either of them again…
Because Astolfo’s warning from before rang with a fatal truth -- that the next time they met, it would be on the battlefield, and they wouldn’t part as friends.