The cold wind swept through the town square of Ribe, but it did nothing to cool the boiling blood of the Danish crowd.
The people of the port town found themselves feeling a new kind of angry.
It was one thing to see a foreign army march through their roads and set up a massive camp outside their walls...
It was a different thing to see a Frankish Marshal standing on their execution platform, holding the iron axe...
"This is wrong." Halfdan whispered, "Even if Torsten broke a law, the Frankish are the ones who will execute him? A Dane must be judged by a Danish Jarl, not a southern dog."
"They cannot just march in here and control the lands like they own it." Knud hissed back.
He looked around the tightly packed square, seeing the same fury reflected in the eyes of every single local fisherman, blacksmith, and merchant.
However, the panicked questions were whispering everywhere through the restless crowd.
