Astrid was probably going to murder me once I returned home, but I had accepted such a fate at this point. There was no avoiding it. So, I endeavored to enjoy the time that I had left and watched from above the festivities surrounding my son's wedding.
The location of Glasgow was something of a compromise. Perth was the center of power in Alba, but the kingdom itself was far too destabilized at the moment with the assassination of their king. That, and it would be seen as weakness on my part to allow them to host the wedding. For similar reasons, they were reluctant to come to the stronghold of power that I’d established on the Isle of Mann. Glasgow was just close and unimportant enough that it served as a suitable compromise.
At least in theory, since the small town was completely unequipped to handle the thousands of people that camped outside of its newly erected walls, most of which were my warriors. Hjalmar and Ulfar's army of fifteen thousand men had settled in quickly, but there were still hundreds to thousands that trickled our way after they finished their raid on a town or village. Comparatively, the Picts sent a small party but in terms of wedding guests, it was a small army on their own.
The friction I expected began almost immediately. The Picts were a fractured bunch, but Ragnar was right that they could broadly be placed in two groups -- the Old Picts, which he was marrying into, and the New Clans. Which were Gaelic clans that came from the Eyrie or Wales, or even Northumbria, before the Romans had imposed their culture upon the defeated clans. The New Clans, though the name was a misnomer on account that they had held the lands for centuries by this point, had seized the lowlands of Alba as far back as when Rome made their attempt at conquering all of Britannia.
The Old Picts were all in on the marriage, celebrating it much like a lifeline tossed to a drowning man at sea. Something that I could watch as Ragnar went through the steps of a traditional dance with his bride, Maeve. I would have liked to know her better before consenting to such a union, but it had only taken one meeting to confirm what Magnus had to say about her -- she was like Morrigan.
Not entirely, of course. Maeve boasted no magics and had grown up a princess of the old clans rather than a half-starved child in the woods. Yet despite their differences, they carried themselves with the same aloofness while their eyes and ears drank in every detail. She had been all smiles for the meeting, every word careful and measured, enough so that she would have been right at home in the Roman court at Constantinople.
Watching her dance with my son, I couldn't help but worry just a bit. The girl was young, clever, and beautiful, but I had spent enough time with those that harbored ambitions to recognize the signs. Ragnar was sincerely convinced that she was honest with her desire to transform Alba from squabbling clans to a single united kingdom. However, I couldn't help but suspect that her motivations ran deeper than that.
“He's a lucky lad,” Haldur remarked to me, leaning by my side as we watched the festivities rather than indulge in them. Such was the price of a crown. “And he's a clever one. She's not likely to completely wrap your boy around her little finger.”
An amused huff escaped me despite my solemn thoughts, “He has more ambition than I thought he had in him.” Until he’d sent that letter informing me of his bid for the throne of Alba, I had always thought Ragnar to be more… passive. He was the type to sit back, observe, and react. There wasn't anything wrong with it. I vastly preferred it to rash stubbornness in fact.
He was like I had been when I was the his age. Before Horrik did what he did, forcing me into a more proactive role if I wanted my vengeance. So it really had come as a surprise when he made such a move, stepping well outside of the realm of responsibility that I had entrusted him with to make strides to incorporate another kingdom into the empire.
“Hardly a bad thing in an heir,” Haldur remarked, and it took the edge off my good mood. Things were better than they ever had been between us. For all of the warnings that my mother had given, and for all of his small power plays to gauge where we stood with each other… My relationship with Haldur had only been better when we were both young boys. Probably before I could speak in full sentences.
But then he would do that.
An idle remark that wasn't so idle. It was a test to see if my stance had changed in some way so he could use the information as some kind of leverage. The worst part was that I doubted Halur even realized it. It was just his nature. And while I couldn't blame a scorpion for being a scorpion, I could find it irritating when it stung me.
Still, it made me confront a decision I had been holding off on -- the decision of who my heir would be.
I watched the pair dance on, and despite their youth, neither were unaware of the danger of those watching on. Most of that danger stemmed from self-interest -- when things changed, it invited the opportunity for people to change their fortunes in turn, to climb higher on the social ladder, just as much as it presented a risk that could see them fall. Some, however, glowed a malevolent red to my eyes.
Maeve's betrothal to the late King Causantín's son and heir was broken with the very same breath that they announced her wedding with my son. That was the only reason why things didn't descend into outright factional warfare. As much as the clans may bluster and gripe, they knew quite well that they stood little chance in open battle against us, so they wouldn't try. And that was exactly my concern. Knives in the dark were far harder to defend against than an axe in a shield wall.
“Maybe,” I replied. Ragnar had proven himself with this gambit, but he had also stepped foot into a realm that he wasn't ready for. If the pair's initial plan was carried out, I had little doubt that both would perish the moment my ships left the shore. Still, it was a spark of ambition that I hadn't expected from my eldest. In five years, he'd be a man grown and far better prepared to handle the challenges of being a king. And those challenges would further prepare him for becoming the Allvaldr. “What about your boy? Have you settled on a match for him?”
My gaze found Harald speaking amongst a small group of Norsemen and Albish women. There was no mistaking their intent, and the girls didn't seem to mind it.
Now it was Haldur's turn to still, wondering if I was asking as his brother or as the Allvaldr. In the end, he offered a shallow nod. “Aye. It hasn't been announced yet, but we're in talks with King Ihala's daughter.”
The blocs were already starting to form, but they were forming along the lines that I’d expected. Haldur was the King of Sweden while King Ihala was King of Finland. Their kingdoms were neighbors, they shared similar economic interests as despite being located on the eastern border of my Empire, Finland was far from the economic heartland.
There was a sudden tension between us that was difficult to articulate. Haldur was bracing himself for my reaction -- either to accept the match or to reject it. My powers as the Allvaldr were yet to be defined, and interfering in such a marriage could be within their limits if I chose to.
But I didn't. Instead, I offered a shallow nod, “A fine match. She's a pretty girl. Clever too. I don't think my son will be the only one wrapped around his wife's finger.”
The tension bled out if Haldur, even if he did try to hide it with a chuckle that sounded more relieved than amused. “They got it from us, and we got it from Father.”
That earned a sad smile from me, my gaze lingering on my son and nephew for a moment longer before I looked over to Lucas. He was mingling with both Hjalmar and Ulfar, considering them both peers already. Peers that he would be dependent on to keep his crown long enough for my son to take it -- though, he wasn't yet aware of that.
Both men were reliable. Trustworthy. They had done everything that I had asked for and more. I would have preferred things to have gone differently back in the Mediterranean, but that was simply the way of things. Hoffer had attempted to do too much at once, and tried to win the battle instead of the war.
Hjalmar, I was inclined to make King of the Éire. It wasn't a rich land, but it was a vast one, and it could be quite powerful if properly harnessed. Ulfar, I intended to make king of the territories of lower Northumbria and upper Mercia. A middle kingdom that I didn't intend to ever feel like their footing was quite secure.
Britannia wasn't a territory that would be easy to hold. The small islands already boasted a population that was comparable to the entirety of my empire. The North Sea wasn't so easily crossed, and the channel between Wessex and the Roman Empire could only be safely traveled a few months of the year. In the end, taking them would be the easy part. Holding them would be quite different.
The easiest way to ensure that none of the kingdoms ever managed to gain enough strength was to ensure that they had evenly matched rivals and that they were trapped in a steady grinding conflict.
But those were thoughts of a more distant future. Today, my son was getting married… and there were battles yet to come before these islands fell into my grip.
…
“We cannot allow this!” A former lord of Northumbria shouted, red in the face with veins bulging in his neck. “These Northmen have swept across our kingdom like a pox, and now they have taken root with the barbarians of the north! Something must be done, King Ecbert! Something beyond words of caution!”
Pepin watched from the shadows as the assembly of lords and ladies gathered in a hall that had once been the throne room of Mercia. It was no accident that King Ecbert had chosen it as the venue for the mixture of lords in exile. Many from Northumbria and many from Mercia itself.
Ecbert was a master of perception. Pepin had already known as much. He’d spent years with the petty king by this point, but it was always a delight to see a master at work.
Ecbert was seated upon the throne of Mercia in full regalia -- a crown adorning his brow, a scepter in one hand, while the other was left resting on the arm of the throne with an open palm. The king of Wessex looked like the ideal king. An image that was further enhanced by two of his father's Paladins, who stood at the bottom step of the throne, presenting themselves as an impenetrable shield to the crowd of frustrated nobles.
Imagery was important, loath as Pepin was to acknowledge it. It was the very thing that kept his twisted form from the throne that should be his by rights, but he understood it. More than what you said, more than what you did, appearances mattered most for kings. And what the former Mercian nobles saw was the king of Wessex seated upon their throne as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Peace, Lord Osmær. Peace,” King Ecbert uttered, his tone placating. “I am not unaware of what the Northmen have done to our homes. Nor am I somehow unaware that fifteen thousand of the hardened warriors that maliciously sacked the capital of our shared faith have reinforced the Emperor of the Pagans.”
“Peace!” Osmær shouted, his tone incredulous, as if he couldn’t believe the word had just come from Ecbert’s mouth. A strange thing, because that was exactly what he had been saying for months now. “I’ve bloody well had enough of peace! War is what we want! War against those thieving godless bastards that are stealing our wealth, our women, and our homes!”
There was a general clamor of agreement. More forceful. Such meetings weren’t uncommon. By this point, they happened nearly every day. As the Northmen continued northward, all but stripping Northumbria of every ounce of silver and gold, and every peasant with a pretty face or strong back, the nobility of the kingdom continued to trickle to Ecbert.
They brought gifts and tribute to curry favor, trading away the last of the precious wealth they had managed to flee with in the hopes that Ecbert would restore their position. As he was the last king on Britannia who wasn’t insane, stupid, or dead. A bastion of strength in a long dark night, and Ecbert was keenly aware of it. It was an image that he’d deliberately cultivated, and why their march across Mercia and Northumbria was so excruciatingly slow.
Wessex had grown fat off the suffering of its neighbors. It gorged itself on the skilled craftsman who managed to escape the Northmen's grip. Its treasury overflowed from the offered wealth of desperate nobles. But, more importantly, it had the right family names with ties to the right lands and the right nobles who were just smart enough to see Ecbert’s true intentions and were wise enough to bow their heads all the same.
The mob before the king weren’t those chosen few. They were the ones who looked at Ecbert and bought the lie that he was selling them.
That he was in any way a savior.
“I understand your frustration, my lords,” King Ecbert offered placatingly, but the mob was not in the mood for platitudes.
“How could you? Wessex hasn’t been touched! Your lands and your people haven’t seen so much as a hair of the Northmen!” A voice amongst the crowd shouted out, emboldened by the general ire.
What Ecbert had been doing wasn’t without its risks, however. His armies marched slowly, swelling in size until they reached the point where they weren’t slow just because they were dragging their feet. Their numbers had swelled to the point that the sheer logistics of moving so many people down a single mile of road with any kind of efficiency was enough to bring grown men to tears. Merely setting up camp took the better part of the day.
It certainly didn’t help that the army was full of inflated egos, rash fools, and those thirsty for revenge. It was that easy, purely because King Ecbert was using it as a chamber pot for the nobles that he had no use for and his political rivals.
“This is true,” Ecbert acknowledged freely. It wasn’t an argument he could counter easily. “But have I not committed the full weight of Wessex to the cause of ridding ourselves of these Northmen? Am I not here, before you, far from home and declaring for all to hear that we will give battle, and we will win through strength of arms and the glory of God?”
He raised a hand to forestall a clever remark or frustrated retort. “What I offer is caution, my lords. Our enemy is one emboldened by the Devil himself, and like the Devil, he taunts and infuriates us all so that when the time comes, we will be blinded by our wrath and stray from the path that God has laid for us.”
Such words had a dwindling effect the more that they were used, and Ecbert recognized that he had wrung them for all of their worth.
So, he stood up, “We have been patient. We have mustered our strength and assembled an army the likes of which this land has never seen before. Across England, the devout have cried out and offered prayers to God Almighty towards a single purpose.” With each sentence, he descended a step, Pepin watched as a cautious hope ignited in the eyes of the frustrated nobles. “We must tread carefully in the days to come. We cannot rush forward. We must instead hold fast, take one step at a time, all to ensure that every damned Northmen in our home will be gathered up.”
His voice rose, “There will be no prisoners! No mercy! Not for these heathens, who have so savagely ravaged our lands and our very faith!” The mob truly was as smart as its dumbest member, and they were hearing what they wanted to hear. “The time is nigh, my lords. I promise you this. We are but days away from our promised battle, and you have my word that I shall fight beside you when that day comes!”
Lies, of course. King Ecbert was a man who had an extreme awareness of himself and his capabilities. At least, that was Pepin’s estimation of him. He was no warrior. No general. He might be on the battlefield, but it would be as a figurehead. His son, Æthelwulf, was cut from a very different cloth. He possessed a level head, sound reason, and an awareness of intrigue, but not a talent for it. He was a warrior, and it would be he who led Ecbert’s armies against the Northmen.
Osmær’s shoulders sagged, the fight bleeding out of him. “How much longer must we wait, my king?”
In response, King Ecbert smiled, reaching out with a hand and resting it lightly on his shoulder. “Prince Ragnar is getting married. Godless or not, such a union should be celebrated… and I believe that we have just the gift for them, do we not?”
Pepin watched it all from the shadows. How the mob was satisfied with a handful of false words and even falser promises. How his father’s paladins watched on, playing the part of the steadfast guards of the king, but in reality were blades pointed at his neck. And, despite himself, Pepin was genuinely impressed with the petty king of a land that by all rights shouldn’t matter.
Because he had set the stage masterfully, and now it was time to raise the curtain.