Ignoring Sola's dying plea, Astrid ordered the guards to break down the door.
To her surprise, Ubbe had already escaped through the window. Perhaps Sola had deliberately blocked the doorway to buy her son a little more time to flee.
"Notify the city guard. Seal the city. Find Ubbe—kill him!"
At this point, whether Sola and Ubbe had truly harmed Sigurd no longer mattered. Astrid had no choice but to eliminate Ubbe while she still could, lest he seek revenge in the future.
After issuing her orders, the Dowager Queen returned to her son's chamber, still spattered with blood. Sigurd remained unconscious. Two groups of clergy stood on either side of the bed, pale and trembling, fearful that this madwoman might slaughter them to vent her rage.
Having killed again after so many years, Astrid felt no fear at all. Instead, a long-lost vitality surged within her, as though she had returned to her youth—an era of danger and exhilaration. She tore off her hair ribbon, letting her fiery red hair spill loose, like a demon from the underworld, and stared coldly at the unlucky men.
"Well? Have you thought of something?"
The priest suggested administering herbs and holy water.
The shamans proposed holding a ritual to beseech the gods' favor.
Astrid paced back and forth with her bloodstained axe, ordering them to do whatever they could.
Hands shaking, the priest took two herbs from the medical box carried by the nuns, crushed them with tools, then pulled a small silver flask from his robe and poured out a little holy water. He simmered the mixture slowly over a low flame.
On the other side, the shamans brought in a brazier. One burned specially prepared dried grass; another sat cross-legged with eyes closed, seemingly communing with the gods; the remaining two circled the fire chanting prayers. In their panic, they mispronounced several passages—fortunately for them, the Dowager Queen didn't understand their rites, or they might have lost their lives on the spot.
When the treatment ended, Astrid touched her son's forehead. The temperature had dropped slightly. She exhaled deeply and ordered the attendants to arrange lodging for both groups of clergy within the palace.
"All of you, leave."
Once alone, Astrid collapsed weakly onto the edge of the bed, gazing at Sigurd's pale, fragile face. If she had any choice, she would rather the poison—or illness—had struck her instead.
Time passed. The candles on both sides of the room burned out, plunging the chamber into darkness. At last, she covered her face with both hands, releasing sobs so tightly suppressed they seemed to tear from her chest.
Outside the palace, the streets echoed with shouts:
"The King has been attacked! The city is sealed!"
Horst, the former Prefect, was well informed. Sensing disaster, he fled immediately. Ubbe, cloaked and panicked, darted through the streets. Finding his uncle's house already sealed by palace guards, he slipped into narrow alleys, searching for help among his street companions.
"Ron—save me!"
Ubbe found a brown-haired youth nicknamed "Rotten Tooth" Ron in a courtyard. Ron had already heard rumors of the assassination attempt and eyed the prince carefully.
"Well done. Really made a name for yourself," Ron sneered.
"I thought you were just a simple-minded fool. Never expected this level of boldness. Guess I misjudged you."
Ron accepted the request readily. He had briefly considered turning Ubbe in for a reward, but it went against his code—on the streets, reputation was everything. Betray a friend, and you'd never survive as a thug again.
After a moment's thought, Ron led Ubbe to a hidden place.
"When Vig of Tynemouth was Prime Minister, he had the long-blocked sewers cleared. After he stepped down, your idiot uncle halted the project. Ha! Turned out perfect for us—hideouts, smuggling storage. Never thought it'd save your life one day."
With utmost speed, Ron hid Ubbe in a private storage chamber underground, then went out to gather information.
For the first two days, the atmosphere was tense. Most citizens stayed indoors, peering through cracks in their doors as soldiers marched past in formation.
By the third day, however, guard patrols noticeably decreased. Ron sat in a tavern nursing a weak beer for an entire afternoon, picking up two crucial bits of information from the soldiers' complaints.
First: after a new king's accession, a generous reward was customary—but none had been issued. The Royal Guard was deeply dissatisfied.
Second: after chaotic treatment by clergy, Sigurd's fever had subsided. Though still weak, he was conscious again. It now seemed likely he had never been poisoned at all—only struck by sudden illness, which had ignited long-suppressed tensions between the two queens.
As emotions cooled, the guards' zeal faded. They had sworn loyalty to King Ragnar, not Astrid. With the new king alive and Ubbe's guilt unproven, there was no justification for killing Ragnar's fourth son.
That night, Ron returned to the sewers with a jug of weak beer and a slab of dried salted mutton. He shared the news with Ubbe.
"I'll ask you one more time—was the King's illness caused by you and your mother?"
"Of course not," Ubbe replied firmly.
"Astrid began reshuffling palace staff the day after Sigurd's coronation. Most people inside are hers now. We never had the chance."
Ron scratched his short brown hair.
"Forget that for now. What are you planning to do?"
Chewing on the dried meat, Ubbe answered vaguely,
"Denmark. The will named me Duke of Denmark. Get me there, and I'll choose a fief for you."
Ron declined. He was a Londinium-born street thug—part-time smuggler, part-time thief—with poor combat skills, no knowledge of Norse, and no hope of being accepted by Danes.
"I'll pass. Everyone has their own fate. I belong in Londinium. Street life suits me better than crowns."
A week later, the streets returned to normal. At Ubbe's request, Ron found a knarr preparing to sail north.
On the night before departure, they snuck into the hold. Ron pried open an oak barrel, dumped most of the grain into the water, then helped Ubbe climb inside. He tossed in a large water skin, two pieces of black bread, and an iron axe.
"This will only last until the ship sets sail. You've thought about what to say to the captain and crew?"
Ubbe nodded heavily.
"I'm Ragnar's son—Duke of Denmark, heir to a kingdom. I have more than enough leverage to buy them over. Farewell, brother. Come find me in Denmark someday—or when I return to Londinium at the head of an army, I'll make you Prime Minister."
Ron had no interest. He replaced the lid and sealed the barrel, then whispered softly:
"I'm going."
Back on deck, the night watchman was dozing in the square sterncastle. Ron slipped away without alerting anyone, leaving the docks behind and ending this dangerous adventure.
Regrettably, he couldn't boast about it in the tavern—at least not until Astrid fell from power.
"Doing something big and not being able to brag about it… damn, that's frustrating."
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