It didn't come to a surprise to Pepin that his father had formally washed his hands of him. His father's feelings for him were rather obvious when he had a younger brother renamed Pepin. From the moment of his birth, when he’d killed his own mother as he was brought into the world, Charlemagne had shunned him. He was kept out of sight. To any and all, Pepin had been a stillborn. Of course, such a secret wasn't a perfectly kept one.
Charlemagne was soft hearted enough to let him live, at least. To let him stay in the palace, even if they rarely ever shared a room together. He was indulged when he sought to learn, granted tutors and texts. However, as his father had more children, the shadows he was hidden away in grew longer. Darker. His exile in all but name had been the end of it. Pepin never expected to set foot in Rome or see his father or any of his siblings again for the remainder of his life.
All of which held true.
What he didn't expect was to be made a fool.
Pepin looked down at the vibrant motley attire that was tailor made for him. One of several sets, all of which were inside of a trunk in the back of the carriage he rode inside of. He wasn't certain if that was thoughtful or if it just added an extra layer to his humiliation.
He had time to dwell on the unexpected turn in his life. When King Haldur departed Miklagard with his army, family, and retinue, Pepin found himself brought along. They crossed the pass that Miklagard was built at the mouth of before riding up a long road towards where he would likely spend the rest of his life. However short that might be. It was a quality road, one that looked to be of Roman make, just without a few hundred years of neglect.
It was easy on his back, at least. Leaving him with the only torment being his thoughts and company.
His gaze remained affixed out the slant of a window. They had passed through a number of villages on the road, which weaved around shores, tall hills, deep valleys… everything looked new to his eyes, in a very literal sense. The houses possessed a vibrancy free of century old wood that sagged under hundreds of layers of paint trying to make them look better than the half rotten piles they were. Houses were made of clay brick or stone, uniformly built. The people living in them were peasants, but they carried themselves lighter than the peasants of Rome or Britannia.
Probably because they thought they were being ruled over by a living god. Pepin did imagine that would improve their disposition when they were told to do something.
Their destination was in sight, and a hum of anxiety made his flesh itch. It wasn't Miklagard. Not even close. The city Siegfried was building was one of absolute absurdity. He'd call it impossible if he hadn't stayed in the city for a week to celebrate the ravishing of several petty kingdoms and a battle that would forever scar their collective memory. Even if Siegfried never stepped foot on Britannia again, a hundred years from now, a flea ridden peasant would use his name interchangeably with the Devil's.
The city of Stockholm was not the largest Pepin had seen, but given that some ten years ago there had been a fishing village in its place, it was quite remarkable. It boasted a population of some thirty thousand -- small in comparison to Miklagard, certainly, but a perfectly respectable city all the same.
It had tall walls made of stone and access to the sea, with a budding expansion growing around the gates leading into the seat of King Haldur's power. With the nature of the tall houses, the city was built up rather than wide while the land around it was cultivated as farmland, orchards, or anything else that would fit.
Pepin found himself frowning when they rode through the city in a triumph, similar to the one Siegfried subjected him to in the capital. That was to be expected. It was part of being a king. What irritated him was the palace itself. While it couldn't compare to the vast opulence of the Emperor’s, it was equal to anything Pepin had stayed in. Meaning it was equal to anything in what was Francia.
The capital being so grand, that Pepin could accept with little issue. The capital was meant to be the most glorious city as it served as the seat of the empire. Some random city that served as the seat of power for what amounted to a Duke with a crown? Even if he was the Emperor's brother, it left a foul taste in his mouth. Mercifully, he was largely forgotten once they arrived at the palace, but Pepin knew that was not a mercy which would last long.
His quarters were simple, but spacious. More befitting a prince than a fool. That was something of a relief, though it did place him in a strange predicament of not understanding where he stood with King Haldur. For the low born, being made a fool could be considered an honor. Even those of lower nobility. But to a prince, even a disinherited one? That was less an honor and more of an egregious insult.
“Allow me to unpack your things, milord,” a short blonde haired woman dressed as a maid quickly offered. Pepin accepted the offer with a nod -- bending over for long periods of times was as painful as repeatedly bending and straightening his back. Something that he had attempted to ignore as a younger man in a vain attempt to straighten his spine so he could be another regular boy.
Hobbling to a window, it was unbarred. Though also high enough that Pepin had little hope of survival should he try to jump. Climbing down was a possibility, however. Secure the blankets around an anchor, tie them together as a rope, and he could shimmy down the side of the palace. He wasn't sure what he would do from there, but escape was an enticing thought.
“Can I offer refreshments, milord? Wine? Ale?” The same maid spoke as she unpacked the uniform that was inflicted upon him.
“Water,” Pepin accepted. “And an explanation, if you have one.”
“Milord?” She asked, going still. The same stillness all servants did when something unexpected was asked of them or they weren't sure if they made a mistake or not.
“I am the king's fool, am I not?” Pepin asked, turning away from the window that was tempting to just throw himself out of and be done with it. “I am sad to say my education in my father's court didn't include what would be expected of me in such an… esteemed position.”
There was a flicker of nervousness in her eyes, “I cannot know King Haldur's mind, milord, but… it… would shame him to have… an ill-trained fool.” A logical answer. Perhaps he could expect a tutor on how to juggle. Or perhaps to breathe fire like a fire dancer. The prospect almost managed to sound exciting if it weren't for the fact he would be performing for an audience.
“I see,” Pepin acknowledged with a small nod of his head. “But if I am to be a fool, then why are you calling me milord?” Why the address? Why this room? Why was he not paraded on the streets like a trophy?
The maid seemed uncertain for a brief second, “Because you are still a prince, milord.” She bowed her head before retreating a half step, “I shall return with your water.” He almost felt bad given how she half fled the room, leaving his trunk empty and open. It was beneath him to do so, but Pepin moved to close it and shove it under the bed, only to pause when he saw the trunk wasn't entirely empty.
At the very bottom was a note written in Frankish.
‘You have more friends here than you know, Prince Pepin.’
His gaze lingered on the note for a long second, his mind churning through a number of possibilities. The first that came to mind was that it was a trap. The servants posed as friends and eventually co-conspirators when he decided to make a move -- whatever move that might be. He might ask for a key, or some rations, or a window of opportunity… Then, when he decided to act, he would step directly into the waiting ambush.
Or…
Or his father hadn't completely washed his hands of him. The network of spies his father built up across Scandinavia could be offering a helping hand. A potent unseen weapon that could make his stay in this land more… tolerable.
Pepin didn't know what the case was, and he doubted he would until he tested the loyalty of these so-called friends.
Plucking the note from the trunk, he brought it to his mouth and swallowed the slip of parchment to destroy any evidence of its existence. Hardly a pleasant taste, but one he had long gotten used to.
Just as he would grow used to his present occupation. From the prince of an empire to the advisor of a petty king and now, the fool of a barbarian. Few had managed to fall further than he in life…
But so long as he lived, there were chances to rise once more.
…
Winter came for my empire fast and hard with the weather turning for the worst mere days after the various armies departed my capital. The people were saying the gods held back winter for a few more days so I could return, but the truth of it was, we had cut it close with our return.
For so much of my life, I had hated winter. It reminded me all too much of listening to my older brother Ragnar's wet and weak coughs getting weaker by the day. Until one morning he was silent, and we all understood what it meant. I recalled the hard dirt that we had to bury his bones in. My father's furious silence. My mother's quiet weeping when she thought no one would overhear. When I thought of winter, that was what my mind turned to.
There were other memories that bubbled to the surface now, when my capital and empire was blanketed under a layer of fresh snow. Not all of them were good, such as the desecration of Verdun and the piles of corpses left in a macabre display. But, as of late, there were a few good memories to balance out the bad. My children playing in the snow. The rare few quiet moments I stole away with my wives with a warm drink and a pretty view.
I think I might even come to like winter, because it was the season where my responsibilities seemed to vanish like smoke in the wind. The number of courtiers demanding my attention dramatically reduced as most simply couldn't make the trip to ask for my time. The mad flurry of last minute talks and negotiations for the onset of winter were over as everyone made sure they had enough grain and foodstuffs to ensure their people wouldn't starve.
Given how much the population had grown because of migrations, it was a real concern even with the farming techniques and fishing fleets we had spread across the Baltic.
Leaving me with a winter morning with nothing to do but to spend time with my family.
“What does that rune mean, Hakon?” I asked the babe barely eight months old. He glanced over at the rune, a pair of carved blocks in his hands that he chewed in thought.
“Sun,” Hakon answered dutifully, immediately losing interest in the rune in favor of stacking the block in a pile of similar blocks he used to teeth on. His voice was accented with a clumsy tongue and the lack of teeth certainly didn’t help. Still, his answer was clear enough.
“If the child was born to any other, I would call it unnatural,” an elderly Alexios spoke to me. My tutor in Rome that turned into my family’s tutor was already an old man when he first arrived in my homeland. It had been a decade since. His mind was still as sharp as any I knew, but his body was failing him. “It's not just that he speaks. He retains the knowledge. Absorbs it like a sponge. The dullest of your children are at least quick. The brightest are fiercely intelligent. Little Hakon here… he is a true genius, Siegfried. Of the like I have never seen before.”
I was aware. I had enough of a hand in my children's education to know what normal development looked like. This was not that. It was almost unnerving how keen his mind was, even when he smashed his blocks together because he liked the noise.
“I've started him on mathematics -- simple addition and subtraction. While I can't be certain that he truly understands the work, at the very least he's memorized the answers.” At my sharp look, Alexios cleared his throat. “Prince Hakon. What is one and one?”
“Two,” Hakon answered, losing interest in the blocks. While Hakon pivoted, crawling towards me and my waiting hands, I saw Alexios’ pointed look over the child's head.
A clever son was a blessing. A genius was… worrying.
“I'm worried about the pressure,” I admitted, placing Hakon in my lap and he played with the loose fabric of my sleeves. “He has immense potential, but too much pressure for him to realize it will do more harm than good.”
To that, the old scholar let out a dismissive snort. “He is your son, Siegfried. That pressure will always be there.”
I could only sigh in response. He wasn't wrong. “Stay the course,” I instructed. “Teach him as fast as he can learn. Nurture his curiosity and interests. If he is to realize his potential, he needs to learn to love learning for the sake of it.”
“I'll do so to the best of my ability. But, I suspect you'll be repeating those instructions to my successor,” Alexios said with a graceful smile.
“Don't say that, old friend. You have more years in you yet,” I replied with a grim acceptance that it likely would be but a few years.
“I do,” Alexios agreed. “And I shall make the most of them by imparting all that I know with the time I have left into little Hakon. However, that means resigning from the university.”
My first instinct was to refuse his resignation from the position, foolish as that was. The university in Miklagard and the second in Gotland were in their infancy, as much as Hakon was. They were a very foreign idea to Scandinavia as we’d had nothing like a university before. It was gaining momentum as my people were sending their sons and daughters to it, treating university as a place to gain an apprenticeship that they otherwise wouldn't receive.
However, even with all of the texts and knowledge gathered in their halls, it wasn't yet a place of learning. Where discoveries were made and we learned answers to questions we had yet to ask. There was no one I trusted more to oversee the university's development.
Still, I swallowed down that initial reaction even if it felt like swallowing a stone. “I understand,” I admitted. If Alexios was a young man, then he'd do both. But his beard had long since grayed. His time was limited. “Have you chosen your successor?”
“A girl by the name Eivor. Married to the lad that made your crown,” Alexios informed. “Started out learning how to smith, but she took a mile when given an inch. On the young side, but that means she has the energy to herd that den of squabbling cats.”
“I will speak to her, but if she has your confidence, then it is a formality,” I replied. Standing up with Hakon tucked against me, I heard a suspiciously loud thump down the hall which told me my younger sons had found more trouble. Alexios smiled, inclining his head to me, knowing that I had better go before those boys set the palace on fire. However, I was delayed by a sudden cry from Hakon.
“Block,” Hakon requested, half lunging out of my arms for the pile.
“Which one?” I asked the boy, making him think on it for a long few seconds. Long enough that I wondered if he understood.
“Blue,” Hakon declared with the force of a revelation. Chuckling, I picked up a blue block and handed it to him so he could gnaw on it in peace. Stepping outside of the room, I glanced down the hall to see that the delay had given Radahn and Bjorn time to escape. With a sigh, I trailed after them, but not before lifting the display that they had knocked over.
The servants bowed as we passed while my royal guard dutifully followed in my shadow. Sometimes I was barely aware of them. I’d never expected to, but at some point, you grew deaf to the sound of rustling chain mail. While Radahn and Bjorn had managed to escape the consequences of their actions, for now, I instead stumbled upon Jill and Magnus in a solar.
Jill wore a serious expression when she caught sight of me while Magnus craned his head back, looking equally serious. I felt the tension shift immediately with my arrival, so I broke the silence that followed the conversation I had intruded on. “What has happened?”
Her expression tightened, “The messenger has not reached you yet?”
“If he had, I wouldn't be asking,” I replied, noting the weight in her tone and already knowing I wouldn't like what I was about to hear. And when she spoke, I was more right than I had about anything else in my life.
“There has been an attempt on Harun Al-Rashid’s life that might still take it,” Jill answered, making a stone form in my gut. “Hadi al-Gaib has been accused, and while Harun lies on his sickbed, Hadi has been declared a traitor to the Caliphate. Which stands on the precipice of a civil war.”
…So much for my peaceful winter.