Viking Invasion-Chapter 101 – The Oath of Fealty

From the green-cloaked noble’s hesitant expression, Theowulf quickly guessed the truth—Halfdan’s left arm had been pierced by an arrow, and this man was likely the one who had loosed it.

"Set your mind at ease, my lord," Theowulf said awkwardly. "His Majesty has proclaimed pardon for all Welsh nobles willing to submit. Naturally, that includes you... I think."

Scratching his head, he grew less certain the more he spoke, and turned toward Oleg the White-Haired.

"Why are you looking at me?" Oleg protested. As the newly appointed commander of the royal guard—a man with shallow roots—he dared not offend Halfdan, and thus offered a vague reply:

"His Majesty ordered me to witness this oath ceremony and pardon all nobles present. I have done so. Everything else is beyond my charge. Lord Rurik led this campaign; ask him."

Damn it.

After months of fighting and negotiation, now even this petty nonsense was being dumped on him?

Rurik’s eyes narrowed. He looked Oleg up and down, as though measuring which part of the man’s body would best take a knife.

At that tense moment, two other minor nobles stepped forward. They, too, wanted to know how King Ragnar viewed those Welsh who had once defeated Halfdan and Æthelwulf.

Their questions rippled through the gathering like sparks through dry straw. The hall’s mood shifted—suspicion, unease, and the faint glint of hostility.

Sensing the instability, Rurik turned sharply on Oleg.

"His Majesty declared a pardon for those willing to submit. Was there any condition attached?"

"Er... I don’t think I heard any."

Rurik’s right hand fell to the hilt of Dragon’s Breath as he stepped closer.

"Didn’t hear—or wasn’t there? You’re the king’s envoy—how can you fail to convey so simple a message?"

The cold weight of threat pressed down on the hall.

Oleg blurted out, half in terror:

"His Majesty said: ’Rurik has fought well. If the Welsh wish to submit, Oleg, you shall accept their fealty on my behalf. Pardon all who yield, speak kindly—the kingdom cannot endure more war.’"

Rurik exhaled, then ordered the Welsh interpreter to repeat the words aloud, announcing that the green cloak and his companions were also covered by the royal pardon.

But the reassurance only deepened their anxiety.

"Will you guarantee," the green cloak pressed, "that Halfdan will never become Duke or Governor of Wales?"

Rurik stood still, his patience thinning.

"Gentlemen, as Lord of Thainburg, I have no authority to decide who shall rule Wales."

He turned once more to Oleg.

"What is His Majesty’s attitude? Are there any whispers at court? Speak plainly."

The color drained from Oleg’s face.

"Some maids gossip that Halfdan might be named Duke of Wales. But according to the guards, it’s... unlikely."

Theowulf, listening nearby, pressed his hand to his forehead in despair.

What should have been a solemn ceremony of fealty had turned into a farce.

Time dragged on. The air grew heavy with tension. At last, Rhodri offered a solution.

"The Shrike"—he nodded toward the man in the green cloak—"and the other two chieftains fear future vengeance from the new duke. Why not move north instead? You may not trust Halfdan, but surely you trust Lord Rurik’s word."

In truth, Rhodri had ulterior motives. The three chieftains’ lands lay southeast of Mathrafal—conveniently close to his own domain.

If the Shrike gains protection, I gain his land, and Rurik gains loyal followers... three sides profiting at once. Ha! Truly, I am a genius, he thought smugly.

The Shrike and his companions conferred for a few minutes.

"From what we’ve seen these months," the Shrike said, "the Serpent of the North possesses rare virtues among the Norse—restraint and wisdom. A most uncommon lord. What say you?"

"I agree."

"As do I."

When the three declared their wish to swear fealty, every gaze in the hall turned to Rurik.

If he refused even this act of trust, the entire assembly might unravel.

Rurik sighed deeply.

"You’ve made my life miserable—utterly miserable."

He raised Dragon’s Breath, the blade gleaming in the torchlight, and motioned for the three to kneel.

"I, Rurik of Thainburg, before the witness of Heaven, accept your oaths of fealty. I pledge you my protection and grant each of you an estate suitable to your station."

Twenty miles northwest of Thainburg stretched vast ranges of hills and uplands—ample space for herding, hunting, and tilling.

After some thought, Rurik resolved to exempt the three tribes from taxes for two years. Thereafter they would pay only a small tribute of furs, but in wartime must take up arms—forming a corps of mountain infantry, skilled in scouting and ambush.

"How many people do you command?"

"My tribe has two thousand," replied the Shrike. "Theirs, about fourteen hundred each."

Fewer than five thousand in all—barely a thousand of fighting age. Halfdan and Æthelwulf lost to this rabble?

Rurik concluded that Æthelwulf had deliberately thrown that battle. Poor Halfdan, fooled to the end, had even tried to defend him.

"Go and ready your people. You will depart in two weeks. According to long custom, new settlers owe no tax for two years. You need not fear for your livelihood."

"As you command," said the Shrike and his comrades.

Thus, at last, the chaotic ceremony of fealty came to its end.

Five days later, Rurik departed for Londinium to deliver his report.

The Royal Hall

Since ascending as High King of Britain, Ragnar’s court had grown far more splendid. A gilded throne stood atop five marble steps. Upon it sat the king himself—crowned in gold, robed in crimson velvet embroidered with golden patterns of intricate design.

Two lesser thrones occupied the fourth tier. To Ragnar’s right sat Queen Sola, her beauty sharp and cold; to his left, his second consort Aslaug. Along the stairs stood ranks of royal guards, watching the nobles and ministers arrayed on either side of the hall.

For ten minutes Ragnar leafed through reports—battle records, lists of surrendered chiefs—until at last he sighed.

"Your terms were far too lenient. It will take a century to recover the cost of this war. Bah! Those rebels got off cheaply."

Though reluctant, Ragnar could not deny that Rurik had achieved at least a nominal victory, restoring the crown’s authority and cowing the Angles. After much brooding, he yielded to practicality.

"Very well," he said at last. "What reward do you seek?"

At this, Queen Sola’s eyes narrowed.

Ivar was still mired in the Irish uprisings; Bjorn, sunk in sloth upon some barren northern isle; Halfdan, disgraced and aimless after defeat. By all rights, the lands of Wales should go to her own son—Ubbe, the fourth.

She cleared her throat, ready to oppose whatever claim Rurik might make upon Wales. But before she could speak, Rurik answered calmly:

"To serve my sovereign is my duty as a vassal. If Your Majesty insists upon a reward, then... perhaps this: I intend to march on the North. Should you be willing to fund that campaign, it would be reward enough."