Legends Never Die: Long Live The King (ch. 151) (Patreon)

The duel with Bradamante had the intended effect on the Picts. Ragnar might have lost, but that mattered little because of how well he fought. A fact that was further established with the following duels where Pict warriors sought to best Bradamante, only to be defeated with the same ease as his guard regardless of their own skills in battle. Of course, it bolstered the reputation of the Paladins as well. They were swiftly being seen as peerless warriors, but the further their reputation rose, the further they dragged Ragnar's reputation up with them. 

And that mattered more. The Paladins were exceptional warriors, but that's all they were. They had no lands, no formal titles -- they were an order of warriors beholden to the Emperor. Ragnar, however, was a Prince. Son of the Allvaldr, and heir apparent to his father's empire, whose army was sweeping over the south like a farmer's scythe through wheat. The Paladins represented the Emperor, but one day Ragnar could become the Allvaldr, and few things were respected more than the ability to fight.

So, excuses were made for his defeat for him. ‘He was too young.’ ‘He isn't a grown man yet.’ ‘If they fought again in a few years, surely he'd win.’ Ragnar was sure that Ove had his hand in fanning the rumors like one would a flame, but it worked. The days following, the caution that the Picts regarded them with had faded a touch. There were stirrings amongst the clans in light of new information, but those discussions were kept far from prying ears. 

While the alliances between the clans shifted underfoot, they couldn't approach to discuss finer details of any kind of alliance with them. His party, and that of the Paladins, were being closely watched. All the more so now that Ragnar had begun to tip the precarious balance of power within Alba. He had little doubt that King Causantín had spies reporting every time Ragnar breathed or ate, just on the off chance that he or anyone else in his party could be communicating with his detractors. 

However, the game of politics wasn't so easily stifled. Instead, it was channeled and allowed to manifest in some ways to allow the king to exert a degree of control over the situation, and to force the bickering of politics to step into the light of day instead of lurking in the shadows. There were many ways to do it, but the most popular of them was a hunting trip. 

“I hate hunting,” Magnus remarked to him once they were seated on horseback, joining a large hunting party headed towards the royal forest. “Fishing is more honest.” 

“We aren't going to hunt anything. It's just an excuse,” Harald pointed out. “We break into smaller parties to hunt game, and the King will watch from afar to see who approaches who. And every attendant will report every word that we say.” 

Ragnar agreed whole heartedly, which was also why he hated hunting trips like this. Worse, it wasn’t a true hunt either. Dogs would flush out game, cornering it and then it would be bound so some lord could feel important shooting a stationary animal or skewering it with a spear. 

“Father took us hunting once,” Ragnar remarked as they trotted along with the royal party. “Real hunting. Just us, and him -- no servants. We had to track everything ourselves, kill our prey or go hungry.” 

Magnus nodded, “Cleaning and dressing it… cooking it too. Father can do a lot, but he can't cook.” Ragnar shared a grin with his brother, the memory a fond one. Father didn't bring them to the old family home often, but each time he did, it was a welcome break from the capital. 

Harald just shook his head. “My father's different," he admitted with a shrug. “He says that we've climbed too high to be caught doing the work of servants.” That was a fair attitude to have about it. Many of the old blood in terms of nobility, few that they were, whispered amongst themselves that it was shameful to have princes and the Allvaldr hunting and preparing their own food. They said it was because Father was once a peasant and such callings come to those with lowborn blood. 

They never said as much to his face, much less to Father's, but the whispers still reached his ears all the same. 

The conversation lapsed as they continued down a well trodden dirt path towards the royal forest, which wasn't too far away from the city. When they arrived less than half a day riding, Ragnar saw that the camp was already erected and, from the size of the camp, one would assume that they took everyone in the city with them. Their own tents were swiftly brought up, and Ragnar noticed that theirs were far finer than those of the Picts. Thick dyed cloth that was further embroidered with elaborate patterns -- it was a tent worthy of being made into clothes that would in turn be worthy of nobility, and they noticed. 

Regardless, it was then that the real purpose of the hunt made itself known as the party was broken up into three -- one spearheaded by the king, one by the Paladins, and one by them. As one would expect, the King's party was the largest, but there was also a disparity between his party and the Paladins. 

Ragnar thought that things would honestly be much closer. Far closer. Both Astolfo and Bradamante were incredible fighters, and the Picts stood to gain much if they chose to ally with the Romans. But while some of the lesser clans did join their party, it was less than half the number that joined his, which was two thirds as large as the king's. 

King Causantín undoubtedly noticed, but he said nothing of it as their hunting parties each entered the forest at three separate points. Ahead of them, scouting parties and dogs ran ahead, allowing the nobles to talk amongst themselves as they waited for game to be found and captured for them. Which was how Ragnar found himself in familiar company. 

“When news of your father's arrival came, all of Alba held its breath,” Lucas, the man who had welcomed them into the kingdom, began. They trotted along a well walked path, completely aimless and the hunting part of the trip completely forgotten. “Even here, we have heard tales of him. How he once stood before an army's archers with his hands spread wide, and the gods refused to let an arrow touch him.” 

“That story is true, according to him,” Ragnar replied, his tone polite. “Though, the stories leave out the fact that most of the Frankish archers were already dead by that point.” 

Lucas laughed a little too hard to be natural. It was a very good, well practiced laugh. Ragnar imagined most would be deceived by it, but he had grown up around men that laughed like that. “I imagine that helped quite a bit, true. But had the gods wished him to die that day, it only would have taken one.” 

The purpose of the conversation wasn't to flatter his father or convey what respect Lucas had for him. It was about the gods. As in plural. A subtle way to make it clear that while they might not worship the same gods, Lucas and his faction weren't Christians. 

“It's a frustrating story to hear, at times,” Ragnar returned, pretending that he didn't notice. “My father speaks often about not tempting the Norns to cut your life thread short with recklessness, but his entire youth was spent recklessly.” 

“Such is the draw of destiny,” Lucas replied, his tone perfectly amicable. “My sister likens destiny to a path in the forest -- you can walk the path that was laid for you, or you can attempt to brave the wilderness around it… but one way or the other, you'll end up in the same destination.” He was deliberately mentioning his sister. 

Maeve. “She sounds wise,” Ragnar admitted, still not sure what to make of the girl. He hadn't seen her since that conversation and he didn't know if that was a good thing or not. 

“Wiser than most,” Lucas said, and at least there did seem to be an honest pride in his voice. “And it is the destiny of Alba that has her fretting these days. In particular, the vast army your father is sweeping over the lowlands with.” And now the conversation approached the real topic that Lucas wanted to discuss. “By the day, it marches closer, picking through Northumbria like a swarm of locusts. King Ecbert is nipping at his heels, but neither seem willing to choose a battlefield.” 

Hm. While it could merely be a turn of phrase that he learned, Ragnar knew that locusts didn't dwell in Britannia. They were very prominent in the Bible, however. It wasn't definitive proof of anything, at least not yet, but it did mean that Ragnar would keep an ear out for any slips. While it didn't truly matter if Lucas was a Christian or not, if he was willing to lie about his religion that, at the very least, meant that he was a liar. 

“The might of King Ecbert's army may be impressive by some standards,” Ragnar said without missing a beat, “But it consists of half starved levies. Those in my father's army are veterans of the Mediterranean or the Great Conquest.” An exaggeration, admittedly. But not an important one. “My father hasn't seen them off solely because he awaits your king's decision.” 

King Ecbert had amassed a considerable army over the days and weeks since they'd arrived. People displaced by the Great Raid and pockets of resistance that retreated rather than face Father's host both flocked to his banner. At the rate things were going, the king would manage to amass an army a hundred thousand strong by the end of the year. It was an army large enough that Britannia likely hadn't seen one so large since the days of Caesar's invasion. 

But the fact that King Ecbert hadn't pressed the attack in favor of slowly building up his strength and letting Father ravage his historical enemies told Ragnar that Ecbert was exactly the kind of man Father thought he was.

“You speak as if our participation in the battle won't affect the outcome,” Lucas remarked, a touch of a rebuke in his tone. “If not, what could your father possibly need us for?”  

Ragnar hesitated to answer that question, uncertain if he should answer it with the truth, with lies, or avoid it entirely. But he decided to speak a half truth instead, “The isle of Britannia is a land that is easy to take but hard to hold. My Father has plans for these islands, but the shape of those plans are dependent on other people's reactions. Such as King Causantín, or Emperor Charlemagne.” 

Lucas didn't seem surprised by the admission, simply cocking his head to invite further elaboration. Ragnar indulged him, “As it stands, Father intends to ravage the South and take its wealth, before departing back home.” Lucas’ eyes narrowed ever so slightly, realizing that this invasion wasn't one of conquest. Yet, at least. “Once we withdraw the South will be destabilized, with its economy and nobility gutted. It would be beneficial for us to have an ally on the islands upon our departure, but it could be more beneficial to leave a garrison at a stronghold.” 

“Dependent on what, exactly?” Lucas questioned, and Ragnar saw he was somewhat unnerved. Tense. He felt like Lucas was catching a glimpse of the scope of the plans that some had for his kingdom. 

“What Charlemagne does,” Ragnar answered easily. “He's made a substantial investment in the South to fortify it against us. His overtures to your King and Alba as a whole are an indication that he has long term plans for Britannia as well. At the end of the Great Raid, Charlemagne could do one of two things -- he could cut his losses, or he could invest more into the islands.” 

What shape that investment took varied wildly. Charlemagne could continue to use Ecbert as a pawn to conquer the South, creating a unified England. He could conquer England with his own armies and claiming it as his direct domain. He could limit it to monetary support to help alleviate the following disasters that the Raid would leave in its wake. It could even be a mixture of all three. 

“If it's the latter, then we would like to maintain a strong presence on Britannia, along with gathering support of stout allies. If it's the former?” Ragnar continued before offering a small shrug of his shoulders, “Such long term plans become unnecessary, but in the chaos to come, there are those we would prefer to see rise above it.” 

Lucas rode in silence for a long few seconds, gathering his wits and when he did speak, he spoke slowly. “And what opinion would the Allvaldr have about Alba becoming more than an ally?” 

Ragnar kept his surprise off his face, but his eyebrows desperately wanted to rise high. To ensure that he didn't misunderstand, he tilted his head the same way Lucas had to invite elaboration. 

“King Causantín is a weak king,” Lucas spoke bluntly. “His rule is tolerated because of the betrothal he struck with my clan but no more than that. He is right about one thing, however -- your father and Charlemagne will both fight over Alba like two dogs over a mutton chop. And if this is to be so, is there not wisdom in choosing a master, before such a bloody affair can ravage our lands?” 

So he was right. Lucas spoke of vassalage in the same vein as how Father brought Ragnar's grandfather into the empire. That was… surprising. And ambitious.

The point of the diplomatic mission was to gain an alliance. And Ragnar knew his father's plans for the future -- total conquest. Bringing one of the major kingdoms on the island would be a substantial boon towards that goal, and it would make maintaining a presence on Britannia far easier leading up to the conquest. 

However, it was simply too good to be true. Ragnar wasn't certain if it was a trap exactly, but such submission would not be so freely given. 

“I imagine so, when one values their people and kingdom more than their pride,” Ragnar replied, resisting the urge to shift in the saddle. This felt like a conversation that he'd much rather Ove to handle. An alliance was just an alliance, not something they particularly needed one way or the other, but voluntary vassalage? That would have a significant impact on Father's future plans. “But one cannot help but wonder what price would be paid for one to swallow their pride in such a way.” 

“Your father is renowned for his repayment of loyal service,” Lucas began and Ragnar felt a deliberate shift in the air. “King Causantín has his crown as the result of a compromise. Few truly desire him to be king, he was merely chosen because he was the least offensive to all of the Clans.” Ragnar got the impression that Lucas was more than a little biased, but he ignored that in favor of zeroing in on what he was building up to. 

‘How easily he speaks of loyalty when he plots treason.’ Ragnar wasn't surprised. And he knew Father would find such a thing viscerally offensive, but Ragnar had grown up surrounded by such people. Father filtered them out as much as he was able to, but the truth of it was that he was used to people looking at him and not seeing him, but an opportunity to get close to his father. 

“Something I imagine would change with proper support," Ragnar replied evenly. The shape of the conversation had revealed itself. Lucas was making a bid to become king of Alba. In exchange, he would submit to Father's rule. 

“Things have changed already,” Lucas neither confirmed nor denied. “It is only a question of how great of a change there shall be and how much King Causantín struggles to keep a crown adorned upon his brow.” 

“A lot, I imagine. I've met quite a few kings in my time, and all treat their crowns as a part of themselves more dear than their own hearts,” Ragnar said, earning a thin grim smile from Lucas. “However, if such a fight is to be had, it would be by their supporters.” 

Lucas inclined his head to Ragnar as they trotted along the path. “If such an event were to occur, then my clan would be counted upon. Others within King Causantín's camp are wavering in their support as well. I cannot say such a thing would be bloodless, but if handled decisively, most would think better of raising their blades for a fallen king.” That was a rather optimistic view of things, but not entirely wrong. It fed into the same reasons why his father didn't simply have Charlemagne killed. 

One part of it was Father's heartfelt respect for the Emperor as a rival. The other part was that the easiest way to ensure legitimacy was to vanquish the enemies of your predecessor. Which Father would undoubtedly be considered the greatest of by Charlemagne’s successors. It was a rallying effect, and one that Ragnar expected would play out in Alba to restore the deposed king. Against Lucas, who many would point to and claim that he tossed away the pride of the kingdom for a crown. 

There would be resistance, and it wasn't the kind that could be honestly settled with a battle. As much as Grandfather claimed credit for it, everyone knew that his unification of Norway was because of Father's initial conquest. Alba was an established kingdom with a history stretching back to before the fall of the Roman Empire, who they stoutly resisted until the Romans finally built a wall to keep them out of the south. 

‘A garrison would be necessary. Both to keep him honest, and to keep him on the throne.’ Ragnar was putting the pieces together in the back of his mind, crafting the letter that he would send to his father with all haste. It would complicate things more than Father would care for, but if handled correctly, this was a substantial opportunity. 

“And, of course, for such a thing to manifest, there would need to be… guarantees to ensure both sides uphold their obligations,” Lucas continued. 

Not unexpected, still he couldn't deny a shifting in his guts at that. 

Marriage. 

“That is understandable,” Ragnar acknowledged with a nod. “However, I cannot speak for myself in such matters. The decision belongs to my father.” 

“I would expect nothing else-” Lucas began, only to be cut off by the sound of a horn blowing. He frowned in the direction of it, “That is… unusual. They'll scare away the game.” 

“An ambush?” Ragnar questioned as his bodyguards mustered and got into place, searching the trees for any sign of it. If there was an ambush, they had lost the element of surprise. But in the long silence that followed, Ragnar could hear the shouts of panic echoing through the forest. 

“If it is, then it is not for us,” Lucas remarked. 

After a moment of thought, Ragnar urged his horse forward and they slowly approached the source of the commotion. Evidently, they weren't that far away from the king's party because it didn't take them that long to see traces of them in the form of an outrider. 

Lucas called out for the rider to stop before they exchanged a handful of words, and based on the sound of it, it wasn't good news for Lucas because he went bloodless. Slowly, he turned to Ragnar, and he could see the Pict debate the merits of lying or not before he spoke. “Someone tried to assassinate the king.” 

“... What?” Ragnar blurted, caught flat footed. 

“King Causantín has been wounded -- an arrow in his shoulder. It… seems as if he has been poisoned. He will likely die.” 

Well… that certainly complicated things, didn't it?