The war in West Francia had ended, but Charles the Bald did not pay the indemnity all at once. Instead, he sent it in installnts over several months. Each delivery was counted and registered in Londinium before being distributed among the nobles.
At the southern docks, nurous Frankish ships were unloading their cargo. A weary line of warhorses, gaunt from the sea voyage, trudged toward the stables under the herdsn’s whips. The journey had been harsh; fifteen horses had already perished.
"Wait," said a Viking quartermaster, pointing toward the last five animals lagging behind the herd. "These five won’t live much longer either. Strike them from the list."
"On what grounds?" snapped the Frankish envoy. "Among the prisoners you returned to us, quite a few were ill—should we erase them from our list as well?"
Ignoring their bickering, Rurik turned his gaze toward the center of the river, where a construction site bustled with noise and labor.
As early as the year 50 AD, the Romans had built a bridge across the Thas, linking northern Londinium with the marshlands on the southern bank.
Now, only a few forlorn piers remained, jutting out of the river like broken teeth.
As High King, Ragnar had decreed the bridge be rebuilt—to earn goodwill among the people, and, incidentally, to collect a modest toll.
The project was still in its earliest phase: the laying of the foundation piles.
Workers wove great wicker mattresses, filled them with stones, and sank them to the riverbed as the base for each pier. Heavy oak piles, soaked in tar for longevity, were then driven vertically into the mud with giant mallets. Once the water between them was pumped away, masons filled the gaps with sand and stone, raising solid stone piers upon the bed.
"How many piers will it take to span three hundred ters?" Rurik asked one of the master masons. "What’s the cost, the tifra?"
No one could give a precise answer.
"My lord," said the mason, "it’s our first ti attempting such a massive undertaking. Much must be learned by trial. His Majesty has not set a deadline—only a cost limit of fifteen hundred pounds of silver."
How much?
Fifteen hundred pounds of silver!
Rurik was speechless. He had once dread of building a similar bridge over the River Tyne. Now, he realized how absurd that plan was.
"The Tyne is more than a hundred ters across," he murmured. "To build a stone bridge of this scale would cost over five hundred pounds of silver—and require vast conscription of labor. Forget it. Such a spectacle wastes wealth and n’s lives. Better to cross by ferry."
Setting aside that fantasy, Rurik asked the quartermaster near the docks about the latest shipnt. He learned it was the second-to-last paynt of the Frankish ransom.
A few days earlier, Gunnar had personally sailed across the Channel to hand over the last of the prisoners, intending to return with the final paynt.
"Is that so?" said Rurik quietly. "Let’s hope his journey goes well."
anwhile, Gunnar landed at Dover. To ensure Charles the Bald kept his word, he had held back a hundred captured knights, to be released only after the final exchange.
The sea wind was damp and cold as he disembarked and strode toward Lambert, who waited not far from shore. The two n had t many tis before; Gunnar saw no need for ceremony. He tossed a register at Lambert and gestured toward the ships behind him.
"Five died of sickness. The remaining ninety-five are on board."
Lambert nodded and handed over a list of his own, signaling for servants to bring forth a large chest. "This," he said, "is the final paynt."
After confirming the contents, Gunnar stretched his arms and exhaled. "At last—it’s done."
While their subordinates busied themselves checking the cargo, Lambert led Gunnar to a nearby fisherman’s hut. He had, it seed, a private matter to discuss.
"My lord," said Lambert, lowering his voice, "I heard your wife passed away earlier this year, leaving no heir. By chance, His Majesty has a niece who’s just co of age—her looks and manner are pleasing. As for dowry, the King is prepared to grant you the northern coastal territories. What say you?"
For decades, the northern coasts of Francia had suffered raids by Norman marauders. Recently, so had even settled upon the Channel Islands—a small archipelago of only 194 square kiloters, scarcely ten nautical miles from the French shore—using them as bases for plunder.
Now that all seven Anglo-Saxon kingdoms had bent the knee to Ragnar, no Northman dared attack him. Instead, waves of pirates turned westward—toward Francia.
Anticipating this storm, Charles the Bald convened his council. Lambert, now serving as foreign minister, opposed any military response. Instead, he proposed to enfeoff one Norman chieftain as a nobleman, tasking him with defending and governing the northern coast.
As Lambert explained this, Gunnar ran a hand through his golden hair, visibly irritated.
"Why ?" he said. "Cambridge is already a nest of trouble. I’ve no ti for your gas."
"Because," Lambert replied smoothly, "His Majesty reveres true heroes. He often says that among all the Northn alive, none stand above Ragnar the High King—but beneath him, three n are worthy of the na."
He raised one finger. "Rurik—master of intrigue, a serpent of a thousand guises."
A second. "Ivar—the savage wolf of the ice fields, commander of the heavy foot."
And then a third. "But the one true hero—upright and unmatched—is you, Gunnar. Mighty in battle, steadfast in bearing, trainer of the finest Norman cavalry in the world. You are the brown bear of the wilderness—the sovereign of all beasts."
"As for the rest," Lambert sneered, "King Erik of Norway is a dull old boar wallowing in his sty. Nils and Orm—competent hounds at best. The likes of young Erik, Leonard, Ulf, Halfdan, or Oleg the White—hardly worth ntioning."
Praise from one’s enemy, Gunnar thought, always rings sweeter than flattery from friends.
He burst into laughter, pounding Lambert’s shoulder hard enough to make the man wince.
"Ha! Well said, little Frank! You’ve an eye for greatness. If you and Charles ever fall into my hands again, I promise you’ll eat and drink well."
Enduring the blond giant’s crushing camaraderie, Lambert shifted the subject to strike where he knew it hurt most.
"It’s a pity," he said softly, "that your talents were buried so long. Only last year did you finally receive your title—re Earl of Cambridge. His Majesty often remarks on the injustice of it. Why should Rurik or Ivar, those upstarts, be raised above you?
"And the greatest irony of all—Halfdan, arrogant and untested, granted command of the Welsh campaign simply because he’s Ragnar’s son. Should fortune smile on him, he’ll soon be Duke of Wales!"
The words pierced deep. Gunnar’s face darkened; he roared and smashed the furniture around him. Then, breathing hard, he turned back to Lambert with a crooked smile.
"So," he said slowly, "your King would have betray Ragnar?"
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