"An explanation?"
Rurik picked up the fallen candlestick of solid gold, its weight dragging faint grooves across the flagstones. He cast an idle glance at the wall frescoes, their colors still radiant despite centuries of candle smoke, before replying with studied indifference:
"In war, men are captured. Captives talk. Perhaps Ælla seized a few of our own, wrung from them the whereabouts of the fleet, and struck. Nothing more."
"You take me for a fool?" Eric’s voice was harsh, edged with venom. "Someone coveted the crown of Northumbria. To gain it, he betrayed the fleet’s position, lured the enemy to burn our ships, and forced more than two thousand of our men to bleed for survival. Once that tale spreads, tell me—how many will believe your excuse?"
When the host had set sail from Gothenburg, there were three thousand five hundred Vikings. After months of grinding battle, little more than two thousand remained. Eric knew his strength: if the lie were torn open, the survivors would rage, and the majority would rally to him.
"Ragnar Lodbrok. Ivar the Boneless. And you, Rurik the Chosen. You have great renown, I grant. But renown will not save you."
His hands shifted through a series of gestures, as if counting the loyalties yet to be weighed.
"When the truth is known, how many will remain at your side? A hundred? Two? Three?"
"More than that."
Rurik lifted his chin toward the dark outline of the encampment beyond the ruined gates. "You forget the two thousand seven hundred captives. I’ve already set Nils’s men to the storehouses, ready to arm them at a moment’s notice. Do you think they care who betrayed a fleet? No. They know only this—that you sought their slaughter, while Ragnar spared them. If blood is drawn among us, whose banner do you think they will follow?"
Madness.
For an instant even Eric faltered, staring as though the youth before him were some lunatic prophet. To summon the defeated Angles as allies against his own kin? It was treachery beyond imagining.
"Well. Well! So it was plotted all along. You and yours—better suited to be Angles yourselves, sly and treacherous."
"Plotted?" Rurik let the word hang, voice cool as frost. "And you? Are your hands so clean? In this world, it is always one man scheming against another. When your brother inherited Oslo’s throne, the sagas tell us he was driven by demons to leap from a cliff. Strange demons—ones that wear a younger brother’s face."
"Enough, Rurik." Ragnar moved quickly, slipping an arm around Eric’s shoulders before fury broke into violence.
"Brother," he said, voice heavy with warmth. "We are of one blood. Sola is your beloved sister—and she is my cherished wife. If word spreads that her husband and her brother drew swords upon each other, think what sorrow it will bring her."
With that tether of family, Ragnar pressed his case: let them work together still. Eric would return to Oslo and claim the crown of Norway. Ragnar would reign here, in York, as king of Northumbria. Side by side, they might carve for themselves a future vast and bright.
"Together—or in ruin. The choice is yours."
Night fell.
Before the watchful eyes of their warriors, the two men emerged from York’s shattered cathedral with arms thrown around each other’s shoulders, laughter booming, their smiles the very image of fraternal devotion.
"To Ragnar," Eric cried, seizing his hand and raising it aloft, "the great hero of the North! None but he deserves the crown of Northumbria!"
"And to Eric," Ragnar shouted in turn, "sovereign of Norway, true lord of his house! May Odin bless his line!"
From the shadows of the nave, Rurik lingered unseen, watching the scene unfold. His gaze was steady, unblinking. This was only the opening act. Next would come the division of spoils—the true heart of this perilous gamble.
The palace still stank of blood. But in its grand hall, beneath the flaring torches, the Viking lords feasted. They tore meat with their teeth, but the wine and mead remained largely untouched; no man wished his wits dulled when the reckoning came.
The candlelight danced. Shadows loomed vast upon the painted walls, twisted and grasping like demons summoned from Hel.
Rurik sat calm at the center of the right-hand table. Because he had listened at the cathedral doors, all eyes turned toward him, fishing for whispers of what had passed between the two kings.
"I know nothing," he told them flatly. "And it is not mine to decide." Even Ivar, closest of his allies, could not pry a word more from him.
At that moment a figure entered—a gaunt noble of the Angles, pale-faced, clad in a robe of black linen. At once Ivar spat his name: "Pascal?"
The newcomer straightened the sapphire clasp at his breast and advanced, kneeling before Ragnar’s throne.
"I, Pascal of Tees, hereditary lord of that land, pledge my service to Ragnar, rightful king of Northumbria."
Ragnar stooped to raise him and, with a flourish, declared, "Pascal shall serve as my chancellor of the realm, for he knows this land and its burdens."
Together with Eric, he drew Pascal into a side chamber. The doors closed.
At once, the feast-hall turned sour.
The seven surviving jarls of the expedition, men who had wagered life and fortune upon this conquest, now sat seething. They had shed blood, spent coin, risked their houses—and yet in the moment of decision the kings withdrew into secret counsel, taking with them not kinsmen but a newly-subdued Angle.
"Look at him," snarled Leonard, smashing his cup upon the board. "That pale wretch could scarcely best a shield-maiden in single combat! Why is he raised above us?"
"And he keeps his land—Tees, is it? Likely in the South." Ulf gnashed meat from a bone. "The South is rich. Fertile. Not the barren crags of the North."
At once the jarls’ envy burned bright. Manchester, Leeds, Sheffield, the mouth of the Humber—all rich prizes. Leonard, puffing his chest, claimed merit enough to seize Manchester, with its stout Roman walls.
"My men numbered three hundred and twenty when we set forth," he boasted. "Forty in mail, seventy archers besides."
So the clamor rose. Another claimed his ten ships. Another, five thousand arrows. Each proclaimed his share, none yielding an inch. The hall rang with voices sharp as drawn steel, the air thick with grievance.
Those left without claims grew restless, fear gnawing their bellies. Nils, perched at Rurik’s side, whispered incessant questions: what were the kings plotting behind closed doors?
"What else?" Rurik murmured, fingers stroking his jaw in thought. "Ragnar is an outsider. He needs a map of this land. That is all. And it will take time. So we wait."