Being in the wrong place at the wrong time was all it took for Adelasia's whole life to turn upside down. After being captured by the heathens raiding her city and taken all the way to the cold North, the youngest Ragnarsson takes an interest in her...
The command was hardly given when the gates were thrown open, two Saxon warriors pushing one halve each as a procession of ten horses and a cart galloped into the small town in Wessex, kicking up enough dirt to leave the warriors in dust. Just as quickly as the gates had been opened, they closed as well, everybody on edge for the possible arrival of the heathens.
"What is the meaning of this?" Prince Aethelwulf demanded, striding out of his father's castle. His dark eyes glanced over the body being dragged from the cart, the Northumbrian bishop barely recognizable with his puffy red face and laboured breathing. Prince Aethelwulf frowned, hastily crossing himself. "Dear God."
"His Grace certainly is closer to God than you, Prince Aethelwulf," another boy said in a dire tone as he jumped from the cart as well. His eyes followed the plank on which the bishop's body was transported inside the castle, both the page and the Prince hurrying after them.
Just as the bishop was put down on the ground, his throat covered in stained linen and his eyes shifting all over the room in a frenzy, Prince Aethelwulf knelt down next to him. "Who did this to you?" he asked, using a tone one would usually never use against a man with the status of bishop. The Prince reached out, as if he wanted to place his hand over the bishop's heart, but seemed to think the better of it. Instead, he continued his fierce monologue. "Was it the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok? Their army, how big is their army? How many warriors?"
The bishop's milky eyes finally seemed to focus on the prince and he took a haggard breath. "How many blades of grass are there in a field? How many stars in heaven?"
"What does that mean, damn you?" Prince Aethelwulf spat, clearly losing his patience, but the bishop was in no state to answer a question ever again, his face going completely slack. Looking like he could bring the bishop back alive just to strangle him to death again for wasting his last words on riddles instead of concrete answers, the Prince made a sloppy cross over the bishop's body. "May he rest in peace," he muttered, before storming away.
It was King Ecbert who knelt down after a while, closing the bishop's eyes in a gesture of respect his son had so impatiently lacked. He rose again, his old eyes plastered on the blonde page, still awkwardly standing in the corner of the room. "I take it king Aelle has died?"
"In the foulest and most grievous manner, Sire," the page replied, his voice uncertain like most people in the presence of someone of higher status. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, his gaze moving nervously about. "There is more, Sire, but I do not know if it is of importance."
