[The British Isles, Northumbria, York, April of 793]
[couple of minutes before meeting Ealdorman Beornwulf]
"You sold me?" asked William, confused.
Wulfgar chuckled lightly. "It sounds rather crude when you put it like that, doesn't it? I simply aligned our interests."
He paused, letting the carriage rattle over another set of ruts. "Simply put: Beornwulf wants someone powerful to stop the Picts from crossing into his lands. In exchange for your service, you will become a thegn with ten hides of land and a noble title."
Wulfgar spread his hands in a gesture of simple business. "I have merely collected a finder's fee for introducing you two to each other. It is a perfect alignment of interests."
"How much did he pay you?" William asked. If he was truly getting land to rule, he might be the first player to own property. There was no way he would say no to that.
"In addition to two hundred and fifty silver pennies and introducing you to him, I will provide men to help you restore order. You should be happy; not only are you getting land to rule, but you will also get many opportunities to kill people legally. Your kin like that so I guessed you would as well."
[Back to the present]
"Is this him?" said Beornwulf as he moved to inspect the giant clad in ornate armor, "craning his neck to look at the man before him.
He moved closer, inspecting William. The armor was unlike any Saxon make he had ever seen, masterfully crafted, intricate, and daunting. The massive, heavy hammer resting against William's leg was just as imposing, a true war weapon.
"Greetings, sir, the name is Gwyndolin Blackfyre at your service," William said, simply nodding his head in acknowledgment.
Beornwulf frowned instinctively. Wulfgar had warned him that these peculiar new retainers had little regard for Saxon ranks and possessed an overwhelming pride, but this conspicuous lack of deference went too far.
He suppressed his irritation; alas, his lands were in ruin. Taming this simple-minded beast of war would have to wait until stability was restored.
Beornwulf shook off his annoyance and turned to Wulfgar, nodding curtly.
"I am satisfied with the arrangement, Ealdorman Wulfgar. This man is clearly a formidable warrior, precisely what Bernicia requires. I will take his oath of fealty now."
Wulfgar simply inclined his head in response. He knew the type of men he was dealing with. The two he currently employed. Jonathon and Amy had utterly refused the kneeling or the traditional swearing of oaths back in Dunholm; he'd had to settle for a simple handshake and a verbal agreement.
He had hoped William might be more reasonable, more respectful of local customs, but judging by the stiff posture, William was proving to be just as stubborn as his kin.
Wulfgar gave William a brief, meaningful look, a silent plea to observe the formalities, but William stood his ground, maintaining his imposing, armored height.
Beornwulf, desperate and weary, sighed internally and began the formal oath-taking process, skipping the traditional prostration. The two powerful, proud men stared at each other as the Ealdorman of Bernicia administered the sacred vows.
"Do you, Gwyndolin Blackfyre, swear fidelity and truth to me, Beornwulf, your lord, and to King Æthelred above us? Will you be my man, to love all that I love and shun all that I shun, according to God's law and the world's principles? Will you hold your land faithfully and perform all that we have agreed, defending my people against all enemies, never by will nor by force, by word nor by work, doing aught that is loathful to me?"
William simply nodded once, his eyes level with Beornwulf's, gripping the massive hammer at his side.
"I swear it, sir. The Picts will not cross your borders while I draw breath."
It wasn't a kneel nor the proper placement of hands, but it was an oath. Beornwulf accepted the concession. It would have to suffice.
"It is sworn," Beornwulf said, stepping back slightly, visibly relieved that the difficult exchange was over, the giant's unconventional manners notwithstanding.
He clapped Wulfgar on the shoulder, his anxiety quickly morphing into decisive action. He no longer looked like a man about to crumble; he looked like a general with new reinforcements.
"Then we depart at once," Beornwulf commanded, gesturing sharply toward the door. "There is no time to waste. Wulfgar, have your men and... Gwyndolin... prepare your gear. We ride for Bernicia by dusk."
[The British Isles, Northumbria, Dunbar, April of 793]
Miles to the north, far from the relative safety of Eoforwic's stone walls, the frontier was a place of fire and chaos. The sun was setting over Dunbar, a small fortress town that served as Bernicia's desperate shield wall against the untamed lands of the Picts.
The air was thick with the scent of burning thatch and blood.
A Pictish raid was in full, brutal swing. Shrill war cries echoed off the timber palisades as warriors poured over the breached eastern wall. They were clothed in belted wool tunics and simple trousers, equipped practically for the harsh northern climate and battle.
Many bore elaborate, swirling blue woad tattoos upon their exposed arms and faces, a fierce cultural display that added to their fearsome reputation.
Saxon householders fought desperate rearguard actions while women and children were screamed at to flee toward the central tower. Horses panicked in their stables.
One Pictish warrior, a broad-shouldered man wielding a heavy axe, dragged a screaming woman by her hair toward the newly opened gate, where a score of his kin were already in a line of terrified captives.
The frontier had fallen into anarchy. Beornwulf's absence in the south had left a power vacuum that the Picts were only too eager to fill with blood and fire.
The thegn left in charge here was dead, his head impaled above the burning gatehouse, as the last vestiges of daylight faded.