798 A.D., Winchester, Royal Seat of King Ecbert
The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the courtyard as Judith stood beside Aethelwulf, her hand resting lightly on his arm. The weight of her embroidered sleeve felt heavier than usual in the stillness before the gates opened.
Her gown was a deep blue wool, the color of twilight, with intricate golden thread worked along the cuffs and neckline in patterns of intertwining vines.
The fabric was heavy, proper for the future queen of Wessex, and it made her stand straighter than she might have otherwise.
She could hear the guards' leather boots scraping against stone, the creak of iron hinges, and then the dull thud of hooves on packed earth.
The riders came through in formation, their banners snapping in the wind; orange and red, the colors of Mercia. A powerful and rich Kingdom in it's own.
Judith counted perhaps thirty men, all armed, their mail shirts glinting beneath travel-stained cloaks. They wore helmets, simple iron caps that shadowed their faces.
At the front rode a woman on a white horse that seemed too clean for the muddy roads they must have traveled. She wore a gown of deep crimson, nearly the color of fresh blood, with a golden girdle slung low on her hips.
Like Judith, her hair was slightly covered, by a linen veil, the rest of her hair was uncovered, falling in waves past her shoulders in a style that would have scandalized the Archbishop. Her sleeves were long and fitted, ending in points that covered half her hands.
Even from this distance, Judith could see the deliberate way she sat, spine straight, chin lifted. Her skin caught the light.
The horses stopped before the raised platform. Judith glanced sideways at the assembled nobles; she'd been introduced to most of them when she first arrived in Wessex, but their names had become a blur of similar syllables. She recognized the Archbishop by his red robes. The rest were simply faces in various shades of wool and linen, their best clothing.
She noticed the woman's gaze first. It wasn't looking at her, or at her husband, or at the assembled court. It fixed on Ecbert with an intensity that made Judith's stomach tighten.
Ecbert stepped forward, raised his hands in welcome, his purple tunic rustling, his voice carrying across the courtyard. "Welcome, Princess Kwentrith. Welcome to Wessex."
Kwentrith's lips parted slightly, her tongue touching her upper lip as she looked at Ecbert. She smiled as though they were alone, as though the dozens of people watching didn't exist at all. A pendant hung at her throat, a large ruby that drew the eye down.
Judith felt Aethelwulf's face change into a smile. She wanted to say something, to break whatever was happening, but her throat felt tight. Instead, she stood there, watching this woman look at her father-in-law like he was something to be consumed.
-x-X-x-
The great hall smelled of roasted meat and burning tallow. Rushes covered the floor, fresh ones mixed with dried lavender that released its scent when crushed underfoot. Tapestries hung on the walls; hunting scenes, battles, religious imagery, their colors muted in the flickering light of torches and candles.
Judith sat to Aethelwulf's right, while Kwentrith had been seated in the place of honor between Ecbert and his heir, Aethelwulf. The arrangement forced Judith to lean back slightly whenever she wanted to see past her husband to the center of the table. She'd changed for the feast, as was expected, into a gown of soft gray linen with silver embroidery at the hem and sleeves.
Kwentrith had not changed. She still wore the crimson gown, though she'd added rings to her fingers—gold bands set with colored stones that flashed when she moved her hands. Her dark hair was now partially braided, pulled back from her face but still loose down her back in a way that seemed almost defiant.
The Archbishop sat to Ecbert's right. He'd barely touched his food.
A servant approached Kwentrith with a platter of boar meat, the fat still glistening, a small dish of honeyed figs arranged beside it.
"No." Kwentrith held up one hand without looking at the servant. "No meat for me."
The servant hesitated, the platter wavering slightly.
"I don't eat it," Kwentrith continued, finally glancing at the confused man. "It kills you. Rots you from the inside."
A few uncomfortable laughs rippled through the hall. Someone further down the table—one of Ecbert's thegns—turned the laugh into a cough. The servant backed away, nodding too many times.
Judith picked up her cup and drank. The wine was watered, as it always was at these formal occasions, weak enough that she could drink all night and never lose her composure. She wished, suddenly, for something stronger.
"I was truly struck by the news of your brother's passing," Ecbert said, his voice measured. He cut a piece of meat with his eating knife, the blade catching the light. "He was so young. A tragedy of timing. Death is always breathing against our necks, yet we are always so offended when it finally visits us."
He leaned back, his eyes drifting toward the vaulted ceiling as if watching ghosts in the shadows. "I remember when my own father, Ealhmund of Kent, was cut down. I was a boy then, arrogant enough to believe the sun would refuse to rise the next morning. But the sun rose. The birds sang. The world kept turning, utterly indifferent to the blood soaking into the mud."
"We were all children once, and we all lost our innocence eventually," Kwentrith picked at the vegetables on her plate, her long fingers separating a piece of carrot from a slice of turnip. But my brother did not fall to the indifference of the world, King Ecbert. He fell to the Northmen. Their treachery is the only reason he is in the ground."
She smiled faintly, though it didn't reach her eyes. "But that is the way of men, isn't it? One hand offers peace, the other hides a blade."
Judith had heard this story before, from Aethelwulf and from his father, from visiting nobles who traded gossip like merchants traded silver. The young king Kenelm, they called him now, the King for a Year, had paid the Northmen their tribute and watched their ships sail away from Mercian shores.
The official word from the pulpits was that he had choked at his victory feast, a sign, the bishops claimed, of God's sudden and terrifying wrath. But in the shadowed corners of the court, the word was always poison. Pagan poison, brewed in the dark and left behind like a parting curse.
Judith hadn't been satisfied with the easy answer. She had waited until late one night, when the fire had burned low and the wine had finally softened Aethelwulf's guarded edges.
"How does a man die of a Northman's poison when their sails were already over the horizon?" she had asked, her voice a quiet needle in the dark. "If they had their silver, why bother with the boy's life?"
Aethelwulf hadn't looked at her. He had simply stared into the dying embers.
"The source of the rot is irrelevant, Judith," he'd muttered. "The boy is in the dirt, and a throne is empty. That is the only truth that matters now."
"At least the Church has recognized his virtue," Kwentrith said, and there was something sharp in her voice now, something that cut through the formal politeness. "Did you hear? The Pope has made him a saint. Saint Kenelm." She laughed, a short sound. "Apparently, the boy lived a life of such exemplary holiness that God simply couldn't wait another day to have him."
Ecbert's expression didn't change, but Judith saw his hand still on the table. "Do you mean to say he wasn't altogether virtuous?"
The hall seemed to quiet, though no one had stopped eating or drinking. They pretended not to listen while hanging on every word.
"Why, he raped me when I was twelve years old."
Judith's hand jerked, wine sloshing in her cup. She set it down quickly, too hard, the base clinking against the wood. Her ears were ringing slightly, or maybe it was just the blood rushing through her head.
Kwentrith said it in a casual way, as if commenting on the weather, and already moved past it. She was still picking at her vegetables.
The Archbishop made a strangled sound into his napkin. Ecbert's face had gone very still in the way that meant his mind was working.
"So you must make up your mind about his sainthood," Kwentrith finished. She ate a piece of turnip.
No one spoke. Judith could hear someone chewing at the far end of the table, the sound obscenely loud. She stared at her plate, at the untouched meat, and tried to understand how someone could say that, could carry that, and still sit here eating vegetables as though nothing was wrong.
The silence stretched. Judith counted her own heartbeats. She noticed a loose thread on her sleeve, silver coming undone from the embroidery.
"Princess Judith."
Her head snapped up. Kwentrith was looking at her now, that same intense focus she'd given Ecbert, and Judith felt pinned by it. The ruby at Kwentrith's throat gleamed like a drop of blood.
"Yes?" The word came out rough. She coughed, pressing her fingers briefly to her throat, feeling the small garnets of her necklace under her fingertips. "Yes," she repeated, her voice finally finding its footing.
"I heard you were caught in their nets." Kwentrith leaned forward slightly, interested, her golden girdle shifting. "That you lived among them, like a bird in a cage of wolves. I find myself wondering what that was like."
Judith felt Aethelwulf shift beside her. She didn't need to look to know he was forcing his face into something neutral.
"I was a hostage for a single day," Judith said carefully, as if she were walking across thin ice. "I did not live among them."
"Yes. No one expected them to be quite so... impudent,," Kwenthrith said, leaning forward, her eyes glinting. "To enter Eoforwic in disguise and snatch away a princess, a prince... even the Archbishop. It's almost romantic, isn't it?"
She paused, letting her words sink in, her fingers brushing the edge of the table. "But you saw them. Up close." Her gaze sharpened, a dangerous curiosity lighting her eyes. "Tell me, Judith. Is it true what the monks whisper in their dark corners? That they... cut the hearts from the living and feast upon the meat?"
Something cold settled in Judith's chest. It wasn't the question that unnerved her, but Kwentrith's delivery. The Mercian princess wasn't looking for a reason to fear the Northmen; she was looking for a reason to admire them.
"As I said, I barely spent a day with them," Judith said, her voice tight, the edge betraying the unease she tried to hide. She avoided Kwenthrith's piercing gaze, fingers twisting the edge of her sleeve. "I barely spent a day in their company. I did not study their table manners, nor did I see them feast on anything other than bread and ale."
She swallowed, the memory of the Northman's silvery blue eyes flickering in her mind. "A day is not a lifetime, Kwentrith. You hear stories meant to terrify children. I saw nothing of the sort. I saw... only men."
Her hands clenched briefly on her lap before she forced them to rest again, careful not to show fear.
"How boring you are," Kwentrith said, turning away as dismissively as if Judith had ceased to exist.
Judith picked up her wine again. Her hand was steady. That was something.
Kwentrith shifted her attention back to Ecbert. "Is it true what I heard? That you defeated a group of them last year, before winter season? That the Northmen came upon your lands, and yet… none left alive?"
"Our prayers were answered," Ecbert said. His humility sounded genuine, though Judith knew better. "In our darkest hour, God provided the path, and our men were merely the instruments of His divine will."
"Yes, Indeed," the Archbishop added, his thin fingers rising to make the sign of the cross, eyes lowered in reverence. "Our repentance was accepted. The Lord watches over those who remain faithful, and delivers them from the wickedness of their enemies."
Aethelwulf cleared his throat. Judith recognized the tone—he was about to explain something he was proud of. "But we were not without strategy. My father understood how they fight. The Northmen only attack villages, and especially coastal monasteries. They know the treasure is there. They never wander far from their ships, never stay long on land."
He paused, making sure Kwentrith was listening. "So we placed men in the big monasteries, hidden. When the pagans attacked, our men slipped away and burned their ships."
"After that, we hunted them down," Ecbert added. "Some are still in our prisons."
Judith remembered the aftermath, the Northmen brought back in chains, exhausted and starving. Some of them had been younger than she'd expected, barely older than her. She'd watched from a window as they'd been led past, and one of them had looked up at her with eyes that held no rage, only a kind of acceptance.
"I've sent for monks who speak different tongues," Ecbert continued, adjusting his purple tunic. "To see if we can communicate with the prisoners. So far we've found only two words our tongues share." He glanced at Aethelwulf.
"Ship and man," Aethelwulf supplied.
Kwentrith frowned, the first time she'd looked genuinely puzzled. "They don't know our tongue at all? But how did they negotiate with my brother? And with the King of Northumbria? I've heard talk of their leaders making agreements."
"Only two of them speak our tongue, according to King Aelle," Ecbert said. "One calls himself Bjorn. The other is Ragnar Lothbrok, his father."
Judith kept her face carefully blank, as if any flicker of emotion might betray her thoughts. She did not want to remember the young man with the bald head.
Whenever she closed her eyes, he appeared, and she was whisked back to that day of terror, the fear sharp and unrelenting. This time, though, the thought that made her stomach twist: if it happened again, her father would not be able to pay for her safety. She could almost feel the weight of that helplessness pressing down.
"I can't wait to meet them," Kwentrith said, her voice warming with something like anticipation. "To see if they live up to their reputation. It seems no one can talk about anything else these days."
They ate in relative quiet for a while. Judith managed a few bites of bread, some cheese. The meat on her plate had gone cold, the fat congealing into white pools.
Kwentrith set down her cup with a soft click. "King Ecbert, I think we both know why you invited me here. My family are fighting each other, and you want to influence the destiny of Mercia."
Ecbert didn't deny it. "What I want is for you to succeed as queen. Wessex, Mercia, and Northumbria, all of us united against the Northmen. That's what I want."
He paused, and a slight smile touched his lips. "And I want to be on the side of the winner."
Kwentrith didn't smile back. She looked at him with perfect seriousness, her voice steady. "Then I assure you, my allies and I will prevail. You're making the right choice."
Ecbert stood, his chair scraping back against the stone floor. The hall quieted immediately. He raised his cup high. "To Kwentrith, Queen of Mercia."
"To Kwentrith, Queen of Mercia," the hall echoed back.
Judith lifted her cup with everyone else. She watched Kwentrith's face as the title hung in the air, watched the way the woman's expression didn't change at all, as though she'd expected nothing less, as though she'd already been queen in her own mind long before anyone else said the words aloud.
When Judith lowered her cup, the wine tasted bitter on her tongue.
-x-X-x-
Bjorn took the cloth from the monk's trembling hands. The man was on his knees, his brown robe stained with dirt and ash, his tonsured head gleaming with sweat despite the morning chill. Bjorn wiped his sword carefully, the blood coming away in dark streaks on the white linen.
He didn't even need to test the edge with his thumb to see if it's still sharp. His sword was different. His 'Soft Death.' He slid it back into its scabbard.
Around him, Quentovic burned enough that smoke rose in black columns from several parts of the town, and the smell of burning wood mixed with the salt air from the coast.
The church bells had been ringing since dawn, their frantic clanging still echoing across the settlement even though it had been more than an hour since they'd breached the palisade. Someone was still pulling that rope, still calling for help that wouldn't come.
People ran through the streets, their screams high and desperate. Most were heading toward the river. Some had barricaded themselves in their homes. Those doors were being broken down now, one by one.
Bjorn scanned the town. Long timber sheds lined the main thoroughfare—warehouses for a trading settlement. Stone-reinforced wooden buildings clustered near what looked like the town center, probably where the wealthier merchants lived.
Beyond those, hundreds of timber houses spread out in a rough grid, their thatched roofs dry as kindling. He estimated at least two thousand people lived here, maybe more. It was larger than Kattegat, for sure.
His men moved through the chaos in tight formations. They were easy to spot—they moved with purpose while everyone else scattered. Each warrior wore a helmet.
Their shields were painted, most bearing the marks of their respective warbands. They stayed in groups of five or six, searching the warehouses methodically, securing the mint house, guarding the growing pile of plunder near the dock.
Ragnar led one group, his growing hair visible even at this distance as he directed men to surround a large stone building.
Rollo commanded another warband on the opposite side of town, his bulk unmistakable as he kicked in a warehouse door. Thorstein and Arne had taken their men toward the church—that's where the bell sound was coming from. Each warband leader knew his job and did it without needing further orders from Bjorn.
Then there were the others.
The Jarls from the inland kingdoms had brought their own men, and those men were everywhere, shouting and chasing fleeing townspeople like this was some kind of hunt.
Their weapons were worse—axes that had seen too many seasons, swords with notched edges, shields that were barely more than planks strapped together. They had no formation, no discipline.
They ran in small groups or alone, kicking in doors at random, more interested in finding something to steal than in controlling the town.
Bjorn watched one of them corner a woman against a house wall. Another was fighting with someone—probably another raider—over a wooden chest.
"Like flies on shit," Bjorn muttered.
The only exception was Floki. Bjorn could see him now, dancing between burning buildings with that unsettling laugh of his, his long limbs making him look like some kind of strange bird.
Floki enjoyed the chaos. He always had. He'd turn down a proper warband position every time Bjorn offered, preferring to do whatever caught his interest in the moment.
Bjorn shook his head. Floki gave him headaches. Always had, probably always would. The man was brilliant with ships—one of only three shipmasters Bjorn had, and the best of them—but he refused to write anything down.
Not plans, not measurements, nothing. He kept it all in his head and expected everyone else to just watch and learn. It told you everything you needed to know about his character.
They'd sailed from Kattegat three weeks ago with sixteen ships and four hundred men. The Jarls had needed time to gather their warriors, to contribute resources for the ships, to bring their craftsmen to help with the work.
Bjorn had three shipmasters including himself—four if you counted Floki.
It took more than a decade of training to become one, to learn how to read the wood, to understand the curves and stresses that made a ship fast and stable instead of a floating coffin.
Bjorn had started training twenty men in the craft back in 793. Five years had passed, and they were still years away from being true shipmasters. But at least Bjorn could produce three ships a year now.
He'd stopped building the standard longships, though.
His current project was something different—a design that could carry eighty men instead of the usual twenty-five.
He'd left two of his shipmasters back in Kattegat working on it while he came on this raid.
All eleven Jarls from the six kingdoms were here with him now, somewhere in this burning town.
The Irish monks had told him about Quentovic. They'd called it Centwic, or Cwentawic, depending on which monk you asked. A trading town, they'd said. Rich. Protected by walls. When Bjorn had sailed down the coast and seen the river they'd described, he'd known this was the place.
They'd anchored the ships at dawn, a short distance from the town, leaving guards with the vessels. The approach had been simple—wait for the sky to lighten just enough to see, then march overland under the gray pre-dawn light.
The palisade had been roughly two meters high, wooden stakes sharpened to points. Bjorn had counted approximately thirty defenders on the walls when they'd approached, which meant this wasn't a garrisoned town.
His men had formed a shield wall and advanced slowly. When the defenders shot arrows, Bjorn and his archers had returned fire. Bjorn himself had put down at least six men—his accuracy with a bow was unmatched, and it showed.
The defenders had broken quickly after that, most of them running once they realized they were facing trained warriors. Disciplined attackers always scare the defenders more.
They'd burned a section of the palisade where it was oldest and driest, then pushed through the gap once the flames died down enough. After that, it had been a matter of spreading through the town and securing the valuable areas before anyone could hide their wealth or escape with it.
Bjorn heard footsteps behind him—heavy, purposeful. He turned and saw Styrkar approaching.
The man was enormous. Bjorn stood at 190 centimeters, tall enough that he looked down at most men. Styrkar was taller, probably matching Floki's height(193cm), but where Floki was lean and perpetually hunched, Styrkar stood straight as a ship's mast. His shoulders were broad, his arms thick with muscle. They called him Styrkar the Long, and the name fit.
He had been a king once, ruler of one of the inland kingdoms. Not anymore. Bjorn had given him the title of High Jarl instead—an honorary position that kept him above the other Jarls in status while making it clear that there was only one king now.
Styrkar had surprised Bjorn at the time when he accepted. Most kings didn't give up their Kingship willingly.
"King Bjorn." Styrkar's voice was deep, respectful. But there was disappointment in his eyes, in the set of his jaw.
Bjorn nodded, acknowledging him. "From your face, I'm guessing you didn't find anyone worth fighting."
"No." Styrkar said it simply, without elaboration. He looked at Bjorn for a long moment, his expression difficult to read. Then his gaze dropped to the monk still kneeling near Bjorn's feet. The monk had his eyes closed now, his lips moving in silent prayer.
Styrkar sighed—a heavy sound—and turned away, walking toward where several men were loading a cart with silver coins from the mint house. His broad back disappeared into the smoke.
Bjorn watched him go, understanding exactly what that look had meant. Styrkar wanted to fight him again. Wanted to test himself, to see if the outcome would be different this time. But he'd remembered their last fight, remembered how quickly Bjorn had put him down, and decided against asking.
It was probably wise. Bjorn enjoyed as well fighting men he respected, and he did respect Styrkar. The man was possibly the best fighter Bjorn had ever faced, nearly on the same level as Rollo. When they'd fought during the period of testing, when all the Jarls had wanted to see if Bjorn's reputation was earned.
Bjorn had ended the fight with a sword to Styrkar's throat, and the big man had yielded without hesitation, his broken weapon on the ground. Bjorn then gave him a better weapon as a gift.
The inland kingdoms had been an interesting acquisition. Each had its own character, its own ruler. Styrkar ruled through what Bjorn thought of as iron will—he gave orders and expected them to be followed, and they were, because his men knew he was stronger than any of them.
Then there was Jarl Runi of Hedmark, who played the part of a drunk and a lecher, always with a woman on his arm and a cup in his hand. But Bjorn had seen the intelligence in his eyes, had noticed how the man never actually drank as much as he pretended to. Everyone wore masks. These men were no different.
Bjorn didn't know their full stories yet. But he would. Eventually, he will learn everything about the men who served him. It was how you stayed alive and how you kept power. You learned who was loyal, who was ambitious, who would break under pressure, and who would stand firm.
The sun was climbing higher now, burning off the morning mist. The screaming had died down. Most of the townspeople who hadn't escaped were either captured or hiding.
Bjorn's men had learned not to waste time hunting down every single person—you took the valuable ones, the ones who could be ransomed, and let the rest flee. They'd tell stories about what happened here, and those stories would make the next raid easier.
Ragnar appeared from between two buildings, his face smudged with soot. He carried a leather satchel that clinked with coins. "Mint house is secured. The master is still alive—we have him with the other prisoners."
"Good." Bjorn looked toward the dock. "The ships?"
"Thorstein's men are loading them now. Found three knarrs we can take. They're good cargo vessels, barely used."
Bjorn nodded. Knarrs were slower than longships but could carry five times the cargo. They'd be useful for the grain and wool, for the heavier items.
It took another hour before Rollo returned with his count. Then Arne. Then Thorstein. The Jarls straggled in after that, some looking satisfied, others frustrated that there hadn't been more fighting. Styrkar came last, his face impassive as always.
They gathered near the dock while the final loading was completed. Bjorn listened to each report, keeping a mental tally of everything they'd taken. When the last man finished, Bjorn calculated the total haul:
Two thousand pounds of silver, mostly in Frankish coins, some in hacksilver—cut pieces of jewelry and plate that could be weighed and traded.
More than two hundred pieces of jewelry and luxury items. Gold rings, some with colored stones. Brooches in the Frankish style, heavy and elaborate. Glass beads, amber pieces.
Fifty casks of wine from a merchant's warehouse. Good wine, too, based on the seals.
Food from the warehouses—dried fish, wheels of cheese, enough to feed four hundred people for two weeks at least. Fifty sacks of wheat and barley. More grain would always be valuable. He could maybe just give it to the poor. Make their lives easier.
Twenty warhorses. Bjorn was very happy when he found them.
One hundred and twenty prisoners. Merchants mostly, a few scribes, some clergy. People who could read and write, who would be ransomed by their families or by the Church. The mint master was the most valuable—King Lothar would pay well to get him back. Bjorn was sure of that.
Fifty bales of wool, carefully bundled. The wool could be used for sails, for clothing, for trade. Along with that, leather hides that could be worked into armor, shoes, belts.
One hundred weapons—spears, swords, shields. Good quality, taken from the town guards and a storage building.
The three captured knarrs, which by themselves made this raid worthwhile.
Seventy pots and pieces of glassware, thirty bundles of furs and additional leather. Items that would sell well in markets across the Norse lands.
For all of that, they'd lost fewer than four men. All of them were warriors from the inland Jarls' warbands, men who'd wandered off alone and been ambushed by townspeople defending their homes.
Bjorn had seen the bodies—one killed by a pitchfork through the gut, another with his skull caved in by a cooking pot. Stupid deaths. Deaths that could have been avoided if they'd stayed in formation.
Bjorn didn't spend much time thinking about it. He'd warned the Jarls that discipline mattered. If their men chose not to listen, that was their problem, for now.
"Load the prisoners on the knarrs," Bjorn ordered. "Split the cargo between all the ships. I want to be gone before midday."
The men moved quickly, knowing that the longer they stayed, the more likely it was that Frankish soldiers would arrive. Bjorn walked to his own ship, running his hand along the carved prow. Sixteen ships had come. Nineteen would leave.
They pushed off from the dock as the sun reached its peak. Behind them, Quentovic still burned, black smoke rising into the clear spring sky. Bjorn didn't look back. He was already thinking about the next step—finding a place to anchor, to wait. The raid would be reported to King Charles. After that, negotiations would begin.