Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 212: Palace Steward

Over the following two weeks, southern Britain fell into a bizarre stalemate. Ivar was stationed in Oxford, and Ethelbald was stationed in Reading. Both armies had nothing to do. Only the Frankish army suffered outside the city, enduring the tormenting rain while exhausting themselves chopping down trees to build siege equipment.

As of now, Gunnar's forces had suffered an attrition of seven hundred men. Very few had fallen in battle; the vast majority were deserters or the sick and injured. Two hundred warhorses had fallen ill, and a massive amount of grain had molded and spoiled due to poor storage.

The condition of the city's defenders remained relatively good. They had tacitly accepted Ivar as the new king, and their sole mission was to hold the walls and wait for reinforcements to arrive.

Currently, Aslaug's jurisdiction was reduced to a single city. Having shed a heavy burden, she spent her days strolling through the garden and feeding the birds, entrusting the city's defense entirely to "White Hair" Oleg. As far as she was concerned, the war of succession was over.

One day, the Palace Steward sought her out to report the latest intelligence he had gathered.

"Your Majesty, the situation is dire. Someone from Oxford revealed that Ivar intends to thoroughly investigate last year's incident. We must make preparations immediately."

Sitting on the lawn, Aslaug completely ignored Paffis's words.

The steward grew increasingly anxious. "Although there is no concrete evidence, Ivar has grown suspicious. He will not allow you to remain in the royal court much longer. You will most likely be sent to some temple and placed under house arrest for the rest of your life!"

Desperate to persuade her, the steward used the power struggles of the Eastern Roman court as an example. "Your Majesty, once this kind of conflict begins, the participants have no way out. If you wash your hands of this now, Ivar will have countless ways to deal with you. Lifelong house arrest would actually be the best possible outcome.

"Compared to Ivar, I believe you should consider Gunnar. He lacks legitimacy and desperately needs your prestige and administrative abilities. Once Princess Enya marries Robert, you will still be able to remain in the royal court and wield your influence in the future."Gazing at the slowly drifting clouds in the sky, Aslaug offered a cold response.

She lived a life of leisure now, occasionally changing into commoner's clothing to wander outside. Having done so several times, the vast majority of what she heard were negative remarks.

"There is no need. The populace's complaints are entirely justified. I am not fit to govern a country, and perhaps I never should have conspired with you in the first place."

Realizing his bitter pleas were futile, the Palace Steward walked away with a hunched posture. His disappointment morphed into despair, which then bred a venomous resentment.

'I risked my life to serve you, and this is what I get in return? No, I escaped Constantinople once before. I cannot run away again!'

The following evening, he invited five familiar military officers from the Royal Guard to dinner. During the meal, he brought up a piece of news.

"Have you heard? Ubbe was assassinated. More than half of his left hand was severed, and he took several arrows to the back. Fortunately, he was wearing chainmail under his coat and barely managed to survive."

The officers' expressions shifted unpredictably. This rumor had been circulating since yesterday. According to merchants, the people who assassinated Ubbe were from the Royal Guard. After the plot failed, the assassins even claimed they were acting under Aslaug's orders.

Paffis picked up a silver pitcher and poured wine for his guests one by one, his tone low and grim. "Aslaug murdered Sola without any basis, and now she has dispatched assassins to kill Ubbe. Sigurd is on the verge of dying from his illness. Once Ivar ascends the throne, how do you think the new king will deal with her?"

Whenever it came to internal disputes within the royal family, the five officers' first instinct was to distance themselves. "Matters within the royal family have nothing to do with us."

Paffis raised his head. "You might think you are uninvolved, but the outside world does not see it that way. In the eyes of the powerful nobles, both I and all of you are nothing but Aslaug's lapdogs. The populace also despises the Royal Guard, believing you helped Aslaug collect taxes, which forced countless commoners to flee their homes with their families, with some even selling themselves into slavery.

"When Ivar ascends the throne, what will his choice be? Will he protect us? Or will he publicly put us on trial to win the support of the nobles and the populace?" These five officers had no relationship with Ivar. Swayed by the Palace Steward's persuasion, they instinctively began to fear for their future. One of them raised his cup, dropping his voice to a mere whisper, "My lord, do you intend to betray Ivar?"

Paffis bared his heart. "No. I have never sworn loyalty to Ivar, so I owe him no obligations. Now that the King is critically ill and the Queen Mother has lost all will to fight, we can only look out for ourselves. Gunnar lacks a foundation in Britain, making him the best choice for all of us."

The officers did not agree immediately, but neither did they object. Half a minute later, someone voiced his concern. "I heard the Frankish army is mercilessly pillaging Viking villages and destroying temples. I worry about the future..."

Paffis cut him off. "If that is the case, you might as well convert to Roman Catholicism. Gunnar changed his faith years ago, yet he is still alive and kicking. He has never suffered punishment from the gods, so what are you afraid of?"

These five officers were carefully selected by Paffis. They had absolutely no ties to Ivar, and their faith in the gods was purely superficial, making them the most likely candidates to defect to the Frankish army.

While the situation remained at a standstill, Paffis called in a Frank, having him present a handwritten letter from Gunnar. "Once we successfully capture Londinium and take Aslaug and her son prisoner, Gunnar will grant us the title of Earl. The opportunity is right in front of you. Why hesitate?"

The five officers were tempted and began discussing the detailed steps of a mutiny. Their biggest obstacle was "White Hair" Oleg. The commander-in-chief was fiercely loyal to the royal family, meaning the chances of roping him in were incredibly slim.

Someone spoke up, "Hypothetically, if he were granted the title of Duke, would Oleg agree?"

The person beside him scoffed. "Duke? Where would we find a fief to settle him? We and the Lord Steward require six earldoms, and Gunnar's subordinates also need vast amounts of land. Factor in the territory that must be ceded to Ethelbald, and there are simply no more fiefdoms left to accommodate a new Duke."

Another person suggested, "Why not grant the Tynemouth family's territory to Oleg?"

Staring at the flickering candlelight on the table, Paffis could not suppress a cold sneer. He finally understood; once tainted by power, there was absolutely no difference between Vikings, Angles, and Greeks.

After a wait of over ten minutes, a Viking man dressed as a commoner walked through the door, bending down to lean close to Paffis's ear.

"Speak up," Paffis said, lifting his wine cup. "Everyone seated here is my closest brother. There is no need to be guarded around them."

"Understood." The man raised his voice. "The assassination plan was a success. With the help of the servants, we infiltrated the estate and assassinated Oleg and his eldest son with crossbow bolts. Here is the proof."

With that said, the man reached into his coat and produced Oleg's ring, along with the bloodstained short sword that symbolized the military authority of the Royal Guard.

The officers passed the ring and short sword around, their breathing unknowingly turning ragged and their faces entirely drained of color.

After a long time, the leading deputy commander spoke with a sheepish smile. "The Lord Steward's methods are truly brilliant. You learned genuine skills in Constantinople; dealing with country bumpkins like us requires no effort at all."