25- A regent's Oath.

The people of Kattegat came out of their longhouses and smaller dwellings into the grey morning. A damp mist from the fjord made the ground soft and quieted their footsteps as they walked toward the Thing-circle. They came as individuals, each with their own thoughts.

Erik Wood-Carver, a free farmer whose hands were hard from a lifetime of work, walked with his wife, Inga. He was not here to cheer for any man, but to ensure the laws that protected his land and family remained in place.

Inga walked beside him, her thoughts on the coming winter and the loyalties that were now dangerously shifting. They were joined by fishermen who carried the smell of the sea, blacksmiths with powerful arms, and traders who worried about their routes.

They gathered at the circle of sacred stones, the place for law and judgment. As custom demanded, they came unarmed. Men leaned their axes, family heirlooms and tools of war, against the weathered granite stones. They placed their painted shields on the wooden benches, the images of ravens and wolves facing down. Even the young warriors, eager for a fight, carefully set aside their long knives. The dull sounds of wood hitting stone and metal against wood were the only sounds for a time.

Gradually, a hush fell over the crowd. The quiet talking stopped, and even the children grew silent, sensing the seriousness of the adults. More than two hundred people stood together, their eyes fixed on the raised platform at the center of the circle.

Jorund Rekk, the Lawspeaker, emerged and walked slowly to the platform. He was an old man, and his shoulders were stooped with age. His face was covered in deep lines, and he leaned on a staff of carved ash bound with iron rings. When he lifted it, the crowd became completely still. His voice, though not loud, was clear and carried across the circle.

"By Thor's Day at mid-summer, the assembly calls you," he said, speaking the ancient words. "Lay down your arms. Speak truthfully. Let no blow be struck today, lest the gods themselves turn their faces from us."

These were the old words, the foundation of their law. They bound everyone there to a temporary peace.

All eyes went to Ragnar Lothbrok. He stood near the altar stone but not in the high, carved seat of the Earl. The Earl’s seat was empty, a clear reminder of the violence that had brought them to this day. Ragnar wore a cloak of simple grey homespun. His beard was neatly trimmed. He stood perfectly still, his eyes moving over the crowd, noting who stood with whom, who looked defiant, and who looked afraid.

His trusted companions stood behind him. His wife, Lagertha, wore a fine dress of deep blue wool, her hair held in place by silver wire. Her hand repeatedly went to her hip, to the empty space where her sword normally hung. It was a warrior’s habit she could not break. Her expression was calm, but her eyes were sharp and alert. She was watching for any sign of trouble, paying close attention to the wives and families of the men who had been loyal to the dead Earl.

Rollo stood nearby. His eyes would dart to his left arm, and sighing with relief every time he saw no wound. He was here, showing everyone that he stood with Ragnar.

Floki, the boat-builder, was with them, his body never entirely still. His strange eyes darted everywhere, from the crowd to the sky, to the stones. He muttered words only he could understand, seemingly lost in his own world.

The crowd’s attention was split. They watched Ragnar, but they also kept looking toward the Earl’s longhouse behind him. They all knew that inside, Ragnar's son, Bjorn, lay unconscious, guarded by six warriors. The leader of the guards, Hrafn who is back in duty, stood at the entrance with his men. The fight of them were not Haraldson’s men. They had sworn a personal oath to protect the boy, and their faces were hard with that duty.

In the very center of the circle, stuck in the damp earth, was the sword that had wounded Bjorn. Its polished steel reflected the grey light. People whispered about it.

Some said it was cursed by the gods for harming the boy. Others said the stain of his blood could never be washed from the metal.

A murmur went through the crowd as Ragnar stepped forward. He raised a hand, and they fell silent.

"We stand here in peace because the gods have spared young Bjorn," he said, his voice steady. "He lives, but he cannot yet speak his own claim. Until the day he can stand before you himself, I will act as Regent in his place. I will hold his claim in trust."

Some people in the crowd nodded in agreement. Others exchanged uncertain looks, their doubts visible on their faces.

The lawgiver, Jorund, turned to the crowd. "Let those who challenge this stand forth."

The silence was heavy. No one spoke. No one moved.

"So it is done," Jorund announced. "Ragnar Lothbrok holds the trust until the son awakens."

Ragnar spoke again, his voice firm. "All laws remain in force. All customs will be followed, as they were by our fathers."

At this, the farmer, Erik Wood-Carver, stepped forward slightly. "What of the blessed sword?" he asked, his voice direct.

Everyone looked from the sword to Ragnar, waiting for his answer. Ragnar met the farmer's gaze.

"It is guarded day and night by oath-sworn men," Ragnar replied calmly. "No one will touch it anymore until Bjorn wakes and takes it with his own hands."

His answer seemed to satisfy the farmer, who gave a slow nod.

Ragnar’s eyes then found Siggy, Earl Haraldson’s widow. She stood straight and proud, despite her new, powerless position. Her daughter was at her side, firmly holding her hand as an anchor.

Ragnar addressed her so that those nearby could hear. "Times are changing," he said. "We should all stand together, for the sake of everyone." It was not a question. Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she gave a single, small nod, a public sign of her acceptance.

No one cheered. The Thing had made its decision in silence.

As people began to murmur among themselves, Ragnar raised his voice one last time. "You have my word. When Bjorn wakes, we sail west again." He looked over the faces before him. "There is gold waiting, and land untouched by any axe. Glory for those who take it, and riches for those who dare. The gods have shown us the way. We will not waste it."

This got a response.

A man near the front said the word, "West."

Another repeated it. Soon, a low murmur of "West" spread through much of the crowd. Men began to nod, their hands tightening with ambition.

But not all of them. But not all. On the fringes stood the quiet ones. Those who had prospered under Earl Haraldson, who had seen the rise of Ragnar's family, and now wondered how far he might climb. They did not speak. They only watched.

They remembered the blood that had been spilled. They would be polite to Ragnar’s face, but they were waiting for him to fail.

Ragnar saw them. He saw their silence and knew what it meant. He gave a slight nod in their direction, acknowledging them.

The assembly began to break up. People formed small groups, their conversations now urgent and excited, full of talk of ships, supplies, and the sea. The mist finally began to burn away as the sun broke through the clouds, casting light on the Thing-circle, and on the sword still waiting in the earth. The will of the gods was still unknown.

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The silence that followed the Thing was thin and easily broken. In the longhouses of families who had long served Earl Haraldson, the acceptance of Ragnar’s regency was a performance for the public. Behind closed doors, it was a different story.

Svein sat across a fire from Torvald. They were not in a grand hall, but in the smoky back room of a storehouse, the air thick with the smell of dried fish and resentment.

“A regent,” Svein spat into the fire. “He is a farmer playing Earl, and he holds the seat in the name of a boy who may never wake up. How long before he decides the regency is permanent?”

“The landholders are quiet,” Torvald said, his voice a low rumble. “The Ulfssons, the Sigrunssons… they value their hides more than their honor. All they see is Ragnar’s ambition and mistake it for strength.”

“Then we must remind them what true strength is,” Svein replied. “We need Eldar Ulfsson. He is the oldest, the most respected. If he speaks against Ragnar, the others will listen.”

The next day, they approached Eldar Ulfsson. Ulfsson was a broad, weathered man whose face showed little. He was a quiet and observant man. He listened patiently as Svein and Torvald spoke of the old ways, of Haraldson’s steady hand, and of the danger of following a man like Ragnar to a foreign land.

“He promises riches from the west,” Svein argued, keeping his voice low. “But what of Kattegat? He will empty our shores of warriors for his own glory, leaving us vulnerable. And all for a boy who lies sleeping, and just yesterday, was drinking from his mother's tits. We need proven leadership, Eldar. A council of the strongest families, as it should be.”

Ulfsson stroked his grey-streaked beard, his eyes on the fjord. “I hear you. You speak of stability,” he said slowly. “Truth to be said, Haraldson was predictable. Ragnar is not. These are valid concerns.” He gave a slow nod. “Let me consider what you’ve said. The other families will want to know my thoughts. We will speak again.”

Svein and Torvald left, confident they had planted a seed. They were wrong. Ulfsson waited until they were gone, then walked directly to Ragnar’s longhouse.

Lagertha met him at the door. Ragnar was inside, mending a leather strap for his arm guard. Ulfsson gave a respectful nod and wasted no time.

“Svein and Torvald are gathering support against you,” he stated plainly. “They approached me today. They want a council to rule in Bjorn’s place. And they believe you are a danger to Kattegat.”

Ragnar stopped his work, his hands still. He looked up at Ulfsson, his blue eyes sharp and analytical. “And what did you tell them?”

“I told them I would consider it,” Ulfsson said. “They are fools, but they are not the only ones who think this way. Their whispers could become a shout if you are not careful.”

“Let them whisper,” Ragnar said, a cold calm in his voice. He looked at Lagertha. “They need to feel confident and speak to others. We need to know everyone who would stand with them.”

“It’s a risk,” Lagertha warned. “Allowing a snake to gather its brood.”

“A snake in the grass is a danger,” Ragnar agreed. “A nest of them, out in the open, is just a target.” He turned back to Ulfsson. “Thank you for your loyalty. When they speak to you again, agree with them. Find out who else they trust.”

For another day, Ragnar did nothing. The whispers grew louder. Svein was seen speaking with other former loyalists to Haraldson. Finally, Ulfsson returned with three more names. That was enough.

The next day, as Svein and Torvald were drinking ale in the main gathering hall, Rollo entered with ten of Ragnar’s most trusted men, men from the west raid. There was no argument. Rollo simply walked to their table.

“The Lawspeaker has questions for you,” he said, his voice flat. Svein started to protest, but a look from Rollo silenced him. They were taken, publicly, to the Thing-circle.

The people of Kattegat gathered once more. Jorund Rekk, the Lawspeaker, stood on the platform, his face grim. Svein and Torvald were forced to their knees.

“Svein, son of Torgi, and Torvald, son of Ketil,” Jorund’s voice rang out. “You are accused of sedition. You have conspired to undermine the regent, chosen by this Thing, and have plotted to seize power against the will of the people and the law. Eldar Ulfsson has testified against you. Three others have confessed your words. What say you?”

Svein looked around wildly, but saw no friendly faces. He saw only the cold eyes of Ragnar and the unyielding faces of the crowd. They had no defense.

“The law is clear,” Jorund declared. “The punishment for treason against the Thing is death.”

There was no ceremony. Two of Ragnar’s warriors stepped forward. A sword flashed twice in the cold light. It was over quickly. The act was not done with anger, but with a swift, brutal finality. It was a public warning that the new order was fragile since Bjorn is not awake yet, and any threat to it would be cut out at the root.

A tense calm returned to Kattegat.

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Two days after the executions, the mood in Kattegat shifted from tension to ceremony. It was time to bury Earl Haraldson. In the harbor, a small longboat, stripped of its mast, rested on a bier of timbers and pine boughs at the water's edge, ready for its final voyage.

Word had spread quickly: the funeral would be at high tide.

Ragnar Lothbrok stood near the pyre-boat. He wore no finery, just dark wool fastened with a simple iron brooch. His expression was impossible to read as he watched the preparations. Lagertha was at his side, her posture strong, though her eyes were red from a lack of sleep since Bjorn did not wake up yet.

Floki crouched by a log nearby, chewing on a bitter root and staring at the clouds. “It will rain,” he muttered to no one in particular.

Rollo stood a little farther off, his arms crossed over his chest. His gaze was fixed on the boat with an unsettled intensity. He was a warrior watching the final ritual for another warrior, even if old now, and his thoughts were his own.

The people of Kattegat came. Landholders and farmers, smiths and fishermen. The heads of the families, Ulfsson, Sigrunsson, Hrafnisson, and Egilsson—stood together near the front, their faces sober. Their warriors stood behind them, unarmed as tradition required. In a quiet, whispered exchange, Ulfsson leaned toward Sveidi Sigrunsson.

“He cleaned his house first. Now he buries his enemy. He understands the order of things.” Sigrunsson just grunted in agreement, his eyes on Ragnar.

The Lawspeaker, Jorund Rekk, struck the earth three times with his iron-ringed staff.

“Kattegat,” he began. “We gather to honor one of our own. Earl Haraldson. Husband. Father. Ruler.”

A low murmur passed through the crowd. Some faces were respectful. Others were stiff. Haraldson had ruled for a long time, and not always with a gentle hand.

Siggy, his widow, walked toward the pyre. She wore a dark blue cloak lined with fox fur, her hair in mourning braids. She did not cry. Her face was a mask of pride. A thrall followed her, carrying a silver bowl of herbs, which Siggy sprinkled over her husband's body. She placed a chain of his gilded tokens at his feet, then leaned down and whispered something into his ear that no one else could hear. A final secret between them.

Jorund continued. “Let the dead cross the sea. Let him find the gates of Valhalla open.”

Then came the sacrifices. Two of Haraldson's best horses were led forward. The Lawspeaker cut their throats, and they were placed in the boat with their master. Then, one of Haraldson’s personal thralls, an old woman with grey hair who had requested to follow him, was given a cup of henbane and ale. She drank it without hesitation. When she collapsed, she was gently laid beside him.

The only sound was the tide rising, lapping against the shore.

A tall warrior named Eirik, once loyal to Haraldson, approached with a lit torch. Ragnar held up a hand, stopping him. “Wait.”

Ragnar turned to the people. “He ruled here for many winters,” he said, his voice clear and steady. “However you remember him, he was our Earl. Today, we bury not just the man, but the time of his rule.” He paused, looking over the crowd. “He will not be forgotten.”

Then he stepped back and nodded to Eirik.

Athelstan, standing close by with his cloak drawn tight against the sea wind, leaned toward Ragnar. His voice was low, cautious., "Why have you agreed to grant Earl Haraldson such a big funeral. Was he not your enemy?"

Ragnar kept his eyes on the flames waiting to be lit., "He was also a great man and an honorable warrior. He earned his renown in this life, and now, in death, he deserves such a funeral. And he died by the sword, like a true Norseman. That is enough."

A pause hung between them.

Athelstan looked down for a moment, then glanced toward the longhouse where Bjorn still rested. “I still can’t believe Bjorn survived... a sword through the chest.” His fingers instinctively made the sign of the cross. “It feels like a miracle. I wish I’d seen it with my own eyes.”

Ragnar’s gaze drifted briefly to the distance, his voice softer now, almost reverent. “So do I.”

He said nothing more, but in his eyes, once sharp with fire, there was something else now. A glint of awe.

The warrior touched the flame to the kindling. Fire caught quickly, licking up the stern and crawling over the pine boughs. Thick, fragrant smoke rose into the air. As the rising tide lifted the boat, men pushed it out into the fjord. When the water met the fire, it hissed loudly, sending a shower of sparks into the grey sky.

A keening cry rose, not from Siggy, but from one of the older women in the crowd. Others joined in, a low, mournful sound that echoed across the water. Lagertha flinched at the sound, and Ragnar reached out and briefly touched her hand, a small, grounding gesture.

As the boat burned, a soft rain began to fall. Floki lifted his face to it, a strange smile on his lips. “Told you,” he said.

When only smoke and embers remained on the water, the people began to leave. Ragnar remained, and so did Siggy. They stood yards apart, two poles of power, watching the last of her husband disappear. After a long moment, she turned without a word and walked away.

And so ended Earl Haraldson’s time. Not with glory, but with ash, and rain, and the waiting sword still buried in the earth of the Thing-circle.

And then, the sword’s master opened his eyes at last.