They spent the night in an unnamed hamlet—a place too small to mark on any map—then set out again at dawn. By noon of the following day, the Viking host reached the northern outskirts of Repton.
The march was long and bone-shaking. Ragnar rode at the head of the column, his cloak dark with frost, listening absently as Paschal recounted the deeds of the long-dead King Offa.
"By your account," Ragnar mused, his breath a pale cloud in the chill air, "King Offa reigned near forty years—A.D. 757 to 796. Under him, Mercia stood at her height. The other six kingdoms bowed to his power, and even Charlemagne treated him as an equal. Yes…" He smiled faintly, his eyes narrowing with thought. "A mighty king indeed."
Then, almost idly, he turned to Paschal with a sharper look. "But tell me this—why did Mercia crumble so swiftly after his death? His heirs were crushed by Wessex and now pay tribute to those they once ruled."
