That night, King Æthelwulf held a lavish banquet to honor his knights. The hall glowed with candlelight and the clinking of goblets, but beneath the revelry stirred a grave purpose. Having witnessed the terrifying power of the Frankish cavalry earlier that day, the old king could no longer ignore what he had seen. Their charge had shattered shields and men alike — a storm of iron and muscle unlike anything in the Saxon way of war.
Between toasts, he turned to the foreign emissary seated at his right, a man called Lamberto, whose polished manners and measured words bore the unmistakable stamp of the Continent.
"Sir Lamberto," Æthelwulf said, leaning closer so that his words would not carry beyond the high table, "I wish to speak of your horses. Tell me — could your realm provide us with such steeds as those your knights ride?"
