In early February, several explosive pieces of news reached the north. At that time, the Duke of Tynemouth was inspecting the Five Northern Shires. Buffeted by biting cold winds, Vig sat atop his jolting horse, deep in thought.
Suddenly, he ordered the gray horse to halt and had his attendants bring over a stretcher, upon which he lay down without hesitation.
"My lord?" Utgard was baffled, unable to tell what new scheme the duke was playing.
"Spread the word," Vig said calmly.
"During his inspection tour, Vig of Tynemouth was ambushed by rebels and struck by five arrows. He is currently recuperating in Stirlingshire. All administrative duties are temporarily transferred to Herligev of Tynemouth."
With the situation murky and dangerous, Vig had no intention of traveling south to Londinium to pay homage to the new king. No one knew what that madwoman Astrid might do—being detained there would be disastrous.
As he spoke, the old gray horse lowered its head and licked Vig's face with its wet tongue, prompting a grumble.
"Graywind, stop messing with me."
The horse snorted indignantly, blowing a cloud of white mist into the air as if mocking human theatrics. After a brief delay, the party resumed its journey toward nearby Stirlingshire.
Vig claimed to have been struck by five arrows. The other great nobles came up with excuses just as creative:
Some said they had fallen from their horses while hunting; others complained of dizziness and an inability to endure long travel. The most outrageous was Æthelbald, who sent a messenger to Londinium in his stead, citing that the duke had suffered heatstroke!
More than half a month later, a ship from Norway docked at Edinburgh. Braving the savage conditions of the North Sea, it carried rare medicines specifically effective against snake venom, intended to treat the comatose King Ragnar.
"The king has passed away. Sigurd now reigns."
Hearing the dockside rumors, the envoy froze in shock. Learning that Vig was recuperating in Stirlingshire, he rushed there at once.
"My lord, what do you think? Are you truly willing to bow to a frail child and allow Astrid to rule the realm?"
Vig sat on his bed reading, replying indifferently,
"This situation won't last long. Let's wait and see."
He had received word that Astrid had tightened palace security and—following the advice of shamans and priests alike—was micromanaging her son's diet and daily routine. The two schools' methods clashed completely. Rather than helping, it amounted to tormenting the young king. If this continued, he doubted the boy would last very long.
With no better options, the envoy accepted Vig's advice to return home.
"Astrid killed Sola—your king's own aunt—and issued arrest warrants for Horst and Ubbe. The two realms are completely at odds now. Leave early. Don't throw away your life and your crew's."
In the end, the battered knarr remained in Edinburgh long enough to sell its furs and amber, purchase cloth, beer, and pig iron ingots, then sailed back to Norway along the same route.
March — Londinium
After Sigurd recovered, Astrid's mental state fluctuated wildly. She abandoned fine dresses and received ministers and visitors in full armor. As the newly appointed Prefect of Londinium, young Paschal more than once found himself threatened by the dowager queen, who would draw her hand axe mid-conversation. Fearing for his life, Paschal devised an escape plan at his aides' urging.
"You wish to escort Ragnar's coffin to Gothenburg?" Astrid asked.
In an unusually good mood, she sat upright on the throne, frowned for half a minute, then approved the request.
Paschal could hardly believe his luck as he left the palace. From servants' gossip, he learned the reason for Astrid's improved spirits: a massive new rebellion had erupted in western Ireland, tying down Ivar and preventing him from contesting the throne of Londinium anytime soon.
"Thank the gods. Thank Ivar. Thank the Irish rebels," Paschal muttered.
"I can't stand this hellhole another day."
He packed his belongings, had the foul-smelling coffin placed in the knarr's hold, and fled Londinium without looking back.
After burying the late king, he planned to sail to Norway, then cross to northern Britain, claiming trauma during travel and submitting his resignation to the dowager queen.
"Tyneside is far from Londinium. Astrid won't mobilize the Royal Guard against me. By the gods—I'll stay quietly in my domain from now on. I'd rather borrow money to hire stonemasons and build a tall, solid castle than remain entangled in this filthy, endless struggle for power."
Riding the sea winds, the fleet reached Dover. The harbor was crowded with twenty Frankish warships flying the fleur-de-lis. Emaciated, hollow-eyed prisoners stumbled ashore. Many fell to their knees, clutching handfuls of earth and weeping aloud.
After half a year of delay, mounting pressure from prisoners' families on both sides forced a compromise between Goodwin and Lamberto:
The two kingdoms exchanged prisoners. Britannia paid 1,500 pounds of silver to cover the disparity in ransom values. Additionally, Britannia pledged continued protection of monasteries and allowed peasants to voluntarily pay the tithe.
With the treaty signed, the Second Viking–West Frankish War officially ended. Charles the Bald—defeated at first, victorious in the end—had also suffered heavy losses and lacked the strength to launch a cross-channel invasion.
For now, Charles turned his attention to Brittany. After the summer harvest, he planned another campaign to eradicate the rebellious noble families and fully subdue the region.
"The Franks can't attack us for now, yet we're tearing ourselves apart," Ulf muttered as he went out to greet Paschal, gazing at the pitiful prisoners as usual.
Inviting his guest to dinner at Candlekeep, Ulf took the opportunity to probe for news from Londinium.
"I heard Astrid threw a hand axe last week and chopped down a nagging country gentleman. True?"
Paschal's spirits sank.
"I was standing right there. Blood splashed all over me. In over ten years of King Ragnar's reign, he never killed anyone in the great hall. Now, under the dowager's regency, such taboos are broken again and again. Londinium is unlivable."
After some thought, Ulf grasped the reason Astrid had assigned Paschal to oversee the funeral:
Ragnar commanded immense prestige in Viking society. Presiding over his burial meant inheriting a portion of that influence.
But Paschal was an Anglo-Saxon and a devout Roman Catholic—unable to convert that prestige into standing among the Vikings. Astrid would rather waste that influence than allow another noble to grow powerful enough to threaten Sigurd's rule.
After hearing this analysis, Paschal nodded repeatedly. Ulf smiled faintly—Paschal lacked ability, but he was honest. Perhaps he would prove useful someday.
As comrades who had survived the western Frankish campaign together, Ulf decided to help him once more.
"When the king's funeral is over," he advised,
"change your route. Return to Britain via the northern passage, then stay holed up in your own lands. Astrid doesn't have the energy to come after you."
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