The summer sun lay broad across Hedeby’s harbor, where merchants came and went with the tide.
Among them were men claiming to bear the Reich’s seal, their wagons stacked with bolts of cloth, casks of wine, and chests stamped with the eagle.
To all eyes, they were imperial envoys sent by Conrad to "bind Denmark in friendship."
At night, though, in the smoky corners of taverns and halls, they whispered different words.
To Jarl Skarde, broad-bellied and hungry for land:
"The queen binds the king’s hand. Conrad himself knows this. Remove her, and you will be rewarded with estates in Holstein. The Reich favors those who serve."
To Leofric, Saxon exile with a grudge against the emperor:
"The boy cannot march south while his mother whispers of Rome. Conrad has promised you return to your lands. Help us, and he will make you more than what you were."
To Ásbjǫrn, captain of the watch and debtor to gamblers:
"The emperor’s purse is deep. Your debts will vanish. Your children will never know hunger. All that is required is silence, and obedience when the moment comes."
The silver was shown, gleaming in torchlight, heavy with promise.
Imperial eagles stamped each bar.
To refuse was to invite suspicion; to accept was to gain wealth, favor, and protection from the greatest throne in Christendom.
Skarde grinned with mead-wet lips, his mind already on fattened estates.
Leofric nodded, seeing vengeance at last.
Ásbjǫrn’s hand shook as he took the coin, clutching it like driftwood in a storm.
The merchants promised more: lands, spoils, freedom from the Norman woman’s leash.
They asked only for patience, and silence, until the moment was ripe.
So the summer passed, golden above, dark below.
Emma of Normandy walked the halls in certainty, never knowing the ground shifted beneath her.
She counseled her son to bind Denmark to Rome, to spurn pagan whispers, to keep clear of Conrad’s wars. Despite the Empire’s brief invasion not long prior.
Harthacnut obeyed dutifully, but uneasily.
He heard the mutters of his jarls, saw the weight of his mother’s shadow stretching long across his crown.
The merchants fanned that unease.
Rumors spread like fire in dry grass.
That Conrad mocked Harthacnut as a child, that Saxon lords called him his mother’s puppet, that the Reich laughed at Denmark’s silence.
Each tale was seeded in drink and sharpened with silver, carried by tongues eager for gain.
Soon the boy-king paced his chambers, restless, his crown heavy with doubt.
Then, in late summer, came the feast of St. Olaf’s Day.
The great hall at Roskilde was hung with banners, torches flaring against carved beams.
Meat roasted on spits, horns of mead flowed, and laughter filled the air.
Emma sat in the high seat beside her son, regal in her Norman silks, her hand resting lightly on his arm as she urged him toward patience, toward Rome. The source of this content ɪs NoveI★Fire.net
The merchants were not present, but their silver was.
Ásbjǫrn moved quietly among his men, face set like stone.
At his belt hung no dagger tonight.
His weapon was subtler. From a flask sealed in wax, pressed into his palm weeks before, he poured dark drops into the queen’s cup.
Wine dulled the bitterness; laughter drowned the moment. None noticed the act.
When Emma rose to toast the gathering, the hall fell silent.
She lifted her cup, the gold gleaming in the firelight.
For a heartbeat, nothing.
Then her hand trembled, the cup slipping from her grasp.
She gasped, a thin sound, and staggered.
Harthacnut caught her as her knees buckled, her face pale, lips flecked with foam.
The court surged to its feet. Some rushed to aid, others shouted for the watch.
Emma convulsed once, twice, and lay still in her son’s arms.
The boy-king’s voice cracked, calling for healers, but none could answer the poison now coursing through her veins.
The captain of the watch fell to his knees, wailing as if in grief.
"The emperor!" he cried, his voice breaking.
"Conrad has done this! He invades our lands, mocks our King, and now kills the queen regent? Their silver, their wine, it carried his will!"
He flung the flask to the ground, the Reich’s seal plain upon the wax.
Eyes turned to it with horror, then to the merchants’ wagons outside the hall, heavy with coin stamped with eagles.
Fury rose like a storm.
Jarls cursed Conrad’s name, some tearing their cloaks in rage, others swearing blood-oaths on their swords.
Leofric shouted loudest of all: "The Reich has murdered our queen! Will you sit idle while the eagle spits on Denmark?"
By dawn, the court seethed with grief and fury.
Harthacnut’s eyes were red from weeping, but the boy was no longer a boy.
He swore vengeance before the gathered jarls, his voice hoarse but fierce.
"Conrad has slain my mother. He shall reap war for it. Denmark will march!"
Riders sped across Jutland, summoning ships and spears.
Horns sounded in the villages, and longships were dragged to the shore.
Spears were raised, swords were forged. And the smiths worked overtime to produce the amount of iron needed for the Danes and their vengeance.
And far to the north, when the merchants’ knarrs slipped quietly back into Ullrsfjörðr, their holds empty of silver, Vetrulfr listened in silence.
When the tale was told, he only nodded once.
"The boy will march," he said. "The Reich will bleed from two wounds. Let Conrad choke on his own empire."
The wolves of Ullrsfjörðr howled in the night, their cries mingling with the surf, while the fire in Vetrulfr’s pale eyes burned with patient, merciless light.
Conrad had tried to save the burning eastern flank of his Empire by abandoning his invasion of Denmark.
A wise move, but one made without realizing just who his true enemy was.
Now... Now he was being blamed for the death of Denmark’s Queen Regent, and the Danes would march south.
And in doing so, reigniting the second front he tried so desperately to avoid.