When his tirade was finished, King Æthelwulf gestured for the soldiers to execute the three Norse envoys.
Steel flashed cold before their throats. Yet Gunnar showed no fear.
"Strike down, and the noblen and priests you hold captive will die as well. Three lives for a hundred—my forefathers would call that a bargain!"
At that mont, a reeve leaned close and whispered:
"Your Majesty, you must keep those prisoners alive. Once the Norse are defeated, their submission will strengthen your claim. Summon a council of wise n, let them proclaim you King of rcia."
Æthelwulf slapped his thigh. Yes! By blood, one of his ancestors had indeed been a rcian princess. With the royal line extinguished, he possessed a rightful claim.
He raised his hand, halting the execution. Thoughts raced:
Lead the army, defeat the heathens—my renown will soar. With rcia's throne secured, uniting the other kingdoms will no longer be a dream.
Thus the king dismissed the envoys alive, and instead took up pen and parchnt to write to Ro.
In his long letter, he painted Britain's plight in somber strokes:
Northumbria and rcia in heathen hands, the other realms feeble and divided—only Wessex still strong enough to bear the burden.
Then he listed his ancestors, tracing back to the rcian princess who had wed into his line. With rcia's bloodline extinguished, he declared his right to inherit its crown once the land was reclaid.
At the close, Æthelwulf begged the Pope to send a legate to attend his coronation. In return, he swore to enforce the tithe with severity, punishing peasants who shirked their due.
Weary, his hand aching, he asked his reeves to review the wording. Several flaws were found, forcing him to rewrite the entire missive before sealing it with wax.
"See that it reaches Ro with utmost haste. No delay!"
"By your command, sire!" the ssenger cried.
Over a month passed. The snows lted, yet no reply ca from the Holy See. Instead, an unexpected host arrived.
As the Wessex courier traveled through Paris, news of Tamworth's fall alard Charles the Bald of West Francia. For decades the Franks had suffered Norse raids. If the Northn secured Britain, their fleets would only grow bolder.
For the sake of his own coasts, Charles dispatched aid: a thousand n—six hundred levied footn, sixty knights, and three hundred mounted squires.
When the envoys arrived, Æthelwulf eyed them warily.
"No demand of land? No price in silver?"
The emissary bowed. "None, sire. King Charles desires only that these heathens be slaughtered, lest they forever raid our northern shores."
"Then I thank King Charles for his goodwill."
Yet Æthelwulf frowned. The thought of so many horses troubled him. A warhorse consud oats, peas, and salt enough to feed six or eight foot soldiers. Four hundred mounts equaled two thousand n in rations.
"Too many riders. I would rather have more heavy infantry," he muttered.
The envoy blinked. Among Franks, cavalry was the master of battle—footn were but chaff. Was this old king jesting?
Then realization struck. The Angles ride without stirrups!
"Your Majesty," he pressed, "without stirrups, no man is truly a knight. When our riders arrive, let them demonstrate the charge—you will see that cavalry outweighs every other arm."
Yielding to the emissary's plea, Æthelwulf ordered a tiltyard fenced with stakes, and chose ten of his best riders to compete against the Franks.
Dawn broke over the reek of horse dung, rusted iron, and spilled ale. Squires draped caparisoned cloth over steeds, bright with family sigils, while iron bits rang in the morning chill.
Ten young Frankish knights gathered, most barely twenty, their blunted practice swords hanging at their belts.
"I miss my father's cellar," one sighed. "Even our worst vintages outshine this Saxon swill."
"Not only the drink," another added. "Their food is tasteless. That venison at last night's feast—chewing bark would be no worse. Only the eels pleased ."
"This land is wretchedly poor," scoffed a third. "Peasants till with wooden tools, no water-mills to be found. Their nobles are coarse as wool rchants."
By now, the tiltyard thronged with townsfolk. Priests clutched crucifixes in murmured prayer. Children scrambled up trees for a view, while vendors hawked smoked at and ale.
At eight bells, Æthelwulf and his lords took their seats in the stands. His eyes widened. By God, these Frankish chargers are vast—half again the size of our own stock.
"This bodes ill," he whispered. "Our riders will be crushed."
The first horn blared. Two opponents mounted, took shield and blunted sword, and spurred forward. The clash was brief—the Saxon tumbled headlong, rolling across the dirt in a spray of dust.
His squires bore him away on planks.
"Enough!" Æthelwulf raised his hand. "This is no asure of skill, only of the horses. The contest is finished."
Boos erupted. The waiting Franks stord to the stands, faces flushed. They shouted, demanding a trial on foot.
The crowd roared approval, and the rules were changed. With blunt swords and oaken shields, they fought man to man until one fell.
Nine bouts later, the Franks had claid seven victories. Saxon pride stung, and many pressed to prolong the matches.
The duels grew harsher, bloodier. By dusk, one knight nad Maurice had felled ten opponents, the clear champion.
When night fell, the grim, chaotic tourney was done. Few realized its weight—that this blood-soaked spectacle would be rembered as the first of the knightly tournants.
In the years to co, these "gas of war" would sweep across Europe, fierce and resplendent.
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