It took them less than an hour to seize Repton. Ragnar's spirits were radiant. From the walls he gazed out across the endless plain beyond the river meadows, listening to Pascale recount the deeds of Mercia's ancient kings—a droning lecture that lulled the gathered Norse nobles into a half-doze beneath the pale noon sun.
Their drowsiness was broken by a swelling commotion from within the town. Ragnar's head turned toward the direction of Saint Wystan's Church, that proud stone spire that had once marked the heart of the Mercian realm. Shouts echoed, rough and urgent, and soon a knot of towering warriors came striding up the street, their gait reckless, their faces flushed with excitement.
"Your Majesty," one of them bellowed, "you are king, aye, and none dispute your right to claim the richest share—but not to hoard all the treasure for yourself!"
