Legends Never Die: Old Friends (ch. 149)

They withdrew from the hall upon the exchange of pleasantries, allowing them time to refresh themselves after a long journey. As well as time to gather their wits.

“Such a change in attitude could mean a number of things,” Ova voiced to them in Arabic, just in case the walls had ears. “It could be that the outreach was always at the prodding of the clans, and King Tiger never spoke in favor of it in the first place. Or something changed the opinions of his supporters. Regardless of what caused it, it happened recently. Likely within the time of our departure to our arrival. Something significant, but quiet. Not a marriage. Not a quarrel amongst the clans. Something else.” 

Ova was speaking to himself as much as he did them, up to his head in a tub. 

“Is he hostile or is the warmth of his words merely gone?” Ragnar asked, similarly submerged in a wood tub. He preferred the copper one back home, or the bathhouse. The soaked wood didn't retain the heat well enough. “If it's the latter, it could merely be a feint. They seek to lessen our advantage in negotiations by appearing less eager than they are.” 

Ova nodded, conceding that point. “However, if they are hostile, then they must have reason for their confidence to be so openly.” 

“What could explain that?” Ragnar prodded, making the seasoned diplomats brow furrow in thought. He was squinting at the wall like he saw something beyond it that might have an answer. 

“It could be a woman,” he mused, making Ragnar's eyebrows rise. At the expression, he chuckled. “In the coming years, my prince, you will learn what manner of fool you'll be willing to make of yourself for a pretty girl and her smile. And as you grow into a man, growing wiser with age, you will learn that never changes. It's just a question of how big of a fool.” That earned a huff of laughter before Ragnar scooped up a handful of water to scrub his face. 

“What would we know about the women in his life?” Ragnar asked and was answered by a disappointed sigh. 

“Exceptionally little. Lady Morrigan's reach does not yet extend so far. Our information is lacking as a result, which is most unfortunate. At this stage, we can only guess at what changed his intentions towards us. It is the next act that I suspect shall reveal the source,” Ova ventured. 

“And what stage shall that be?” Ragnar asked, feeling a knot of tension between his shoulders. A doubt started to creep into the back of his mind, wondering if his father would have sent them on this mission if he knew of the complication. Would he still expect them to accomplish it? What was his father willing to give to gain an ally on Britannia? 

The questions picked at his mind, nagging like a hangnail that caught on every other thought as they emerged from the baths and were dressed. The temptation to wear his finest clothing was there, but he had seen how the others were barbed in the hall. Perhaps the rich fabrics of silk or velvet wasn't unknown to the court of Alba, but Ragnar suspected they weren't widely available. While dressing so richly could in itself be a message that such luxuries could be wasted on still growing men, it would double as an insult. 

Few would care to be shown up in their own home, at their own hall. 

Likewise, such an appearance could earn scorn. A perception of softness, as if he needed the luxuries. Yet, possessing them was also a declaration of strength. 

The result was a middle ground of sorts. Plain clothing, though all finely made, lacked the usual embellished patterns stitched into the fabric. A simple tunic, trousers, and boots. Yet, he wore a gold embellished belt, clasping a cloak over his shoulder with a finely made silver raven studded with small jewels. Lastly, he wore a single gold ring with a large precious stone in the middle. 

An ideal outfit for the occasion. Fine enough without being too fine. Poor enough not to mock their lack of wealth, but with enough subtle touches to make it clear that there was a realm of difference between their amounts of it. 

Magnus and Harald both took after his cue to dress, and Ova had approved with a single curt nod. It was some hours later that Ragnar once again found himself in the hall, now ready to fight on the battlefield. 

The great hall of King Causantín, upon a second viewing, did not impress. Ragnar knew that he should not be so harsh in his condemnations. Father had gone at length about how things used to be in their homeland, and how it was an active struggle to keep them from reverting, but Ragnar struggled to see it sometimes. After all, if a palace had dirt floors, could it even be called a palace? 

While having such thoughts, Ragnar made sure to keep them to himself as they took seats of honor in the hall, seated alongside the king on one side, and Ragnar noticed that on the side across from him, the chairs were suspiciously empty even as the hall filled up. 

It gave him the time to watch the other Picts interact amongst themselves, many watching him like a stalking wolf in the wolves, looking for a sign of weakness. That much, at least, was very familiar as home was much the same. So, he watched them right back, his gaze bouncing between the clans that could so easily be identified by who they stuck together with. 

From his position, he could see the divide in the king's court. Roughly five factions, though he didn’t know what interests they represented. Two of them were the largest, almost on equal footing based on what he was seeing, a third was lagging behind, while the remaining two were quite small but comparable to each other. Ragnar made a note to himself to investigate that divide- or, rather, he would have Magnus do it since Ragnar was seated closer to the king. 

He and Harald would draw less attention moving around the lower tables than the supposed heir. An opportunity for both sides to probe each other for information that diplomats wouldn't give. 

Once the hall was full enough, King Causantín raised an empty mug and started banging it on the table, bringing attention to him. It took a few bangs for the general clamor to die down, but when it did, he stood up and began to speak. 

Not being able to understand his tongue was frustrating, even if he did have Ova to serve as a translator. “He welcomes us and all too his hall and speaks of the winds of change upon them. He commands your father for how he has tested the Britons, who lord over the south and look down upon them. He says that they take pride that their ancestors were never conquered by the Romans and that they were so feared as warriors that the Romans built a wall to hide behind.” 

Then he spoke in favor of the alliance? Ragnar didn't ask the question out loud, but he did wonder. 

Then Ova's brow furrowed as he continued to translate, “Now he speaks of the resurgent Rome and your father's empire. He compares them to dogs that fight over the same bone… so he has invited ambassadors from both dogs to learn which has the greater bite.” 

And there it was. 

On cue, two people stepped into the hall and, with a glance, Ragnar already knew exactly who they were. 

The Paladins of Charlemagne. 

The few warriors that could match his father in a duel, some of them nearly taking his life. Every thought came to a skidding halt the moment that Ragnar registered their presence, and in a single instant, he understood several things all at once. 

Ecbert was Charlemagne's main agent on Britannia, but that didn't make him the only one. The Roman Emperor sought to deny any ally to them on the island, making their future endeavors as complicated and costly as possible. More than that, their presence here meant that Charlemagne had foreseen his father's plan long in advance

That, in itself, was not unexpected. Father had warned him that Britannia was a trap, and it was only a question of what kind. And that was something that could only be revealed once it was sprung, since their treasury needed the injection of wealth from the island. The most likely possibility was to inflame religious tension -- take advantage of the outrage of the sack of Rome and the capture of the pope to turn the populace against them more than they already would so no Norseman could sleep easy without one eye open. Perhaps it was simply to bleed them. 

Or, as Father feared, the Raid itself was a step in a larger plan. 

That was a concern for the future, and there were several that required his immediate attention. The presence of Paladins changed the context of several interactions, but most worryingly the reaction of Lucas. The concern that he expressed about allowing five hundred men into his homeland rang less true and sounded more like a concern that a trap that had been laid would be more difficult because of their unexpected strength in numbers. 

The terse welcoming that King Causantín offered was the result of being placed between a rock and a hard place. He was a petty king pinned between two great empires, and he had to choose whose thumb to place himself under. The Paladins’ presence also meant that King Causantín heard their offer first, and that was a potential advantage in negotiations. What's more, there was the fact that King Causantín, and all of Alba, were largely Christians, even if they practiced it a touch differently that what would be found in the Roman Empire.

‘My father wants Alba as an ally… and failing that, removing them as a threat,’ Ragnar thought to himself, his heartbeat feeling like it had resumed. Negotiations would, of course, continue with King Causantín but Ragnar wasn't hopeful that he would be the ally that they wanted. Which meant that he would need to focus on the clans, particularly ones that still practiced ‘pagan’ faiths. They didn't need to worship the same gods as he and his father did, but so long as they weren't Christian, then that would be reason enough to support them. 

Support for those clans wouldn't go unnoticed, and it would inflame tensions. Just as they would support the pagan Clans, Charlemagne would support the Christians. Infighting would undoubtedly break out. Infighting that would consume resources and lives, but provided that their side won, they would have an ally in Alba. But that accounted for relationships that they didn't yet have-

“Eh? Eh?! You're little Ragnar?” The lead Paladin blurted, before dramatically pointing a finger in his direction. “You're not tiny at all anymore!" She accused, as if it were some kind of betrayal. “Bah… have I gotten old? The last time I saw you, you were about this big!” 

‘What?’ Ragnar was caught off guard by the familiarity of her tone, seeing how she held her hands out a few feet, so he would have been quite young. 

“You don't remember me?” She pouted before sighing, “I suppose that makes sense. You were just a baby. I used to play with you back when Sieg was hammering out sculptures or preparing for the-” 

“Paladin Astolfo?” Ragnar hazard a guess, knowing the events that she was talking about. How his father had been forced to host a Christian debate in Norland. He was too young to remember the time in any real detail, but there was a vague memory of tugging on strawberry pink hair and laughing while someone tried to unpry his his fingers. 

"That's me!” Astolfo confirmed, jabbing a thumb at his chest. “You got a good memory!” He praised, and it was an honest remark. The interaction was nothing like he expected. Far from it. And that feeling was shared by the rest of the hall, Ragnar could see when he expanded his gaze to the wider room rather than just focusing on the Paladin.

The clans that were gathered likely couldn't understand a word that was said, but they could recognize tone and body language. Father and his empire might not be at war, but it was common knowledge that they were at odds and open war was an inevitability. It just hadn't started yet. So, they expected tension. A frosty animosity. Barbed words and veiled insults. Only for Astolfo to completely flip their expectations on their head, and now they were reevaluating. 

Ragnar was as well. “It is an honor to meet you again, Paladin Astolfo. My father speaks quite highly of you,” he began, earning a pleased expression that was borderline smug. “And your companion?” He prompted, knowing how all eyes were on him. 

She was a woman. A beautiful one with blonde hair and bright blue eyes, standing a full head and shoulders taller than Astolfo. She, however, regarded him with what he would have expected of a Roman dignitary -- cold indifference that bordered contempt. 

“Ah, I should have finished the introductions! My bad! This is Bradamante, another Paladin,” Astolfo introduced with a casual air. That was less welcomed news, but he had prepared himself for it. One of Father's great accomplishments in the Saxon rebellion was slaying Rinaldo, one of the Paladins of Charlemagne, who was the elder brother of Bradamante. It was understandable that she bore a grudge. 

There was a clap from King Causantín that brought all attention back to him. His expression was set into a stern mask, and Ragnar realized he made a mistake. When Astolfo greeted him, he should have held his tongue as Astolfo had done so by interrupting the Pictish king. 

Ova leaned in as Astolfo approached the high table, taking the two seats across from him, and he continued to translate the king's words. “He claims that there are three paths forward for the kingdom, and that if they are to maintain their pride and dignity, then they must stand together. Otherwise, Alba will become the next bone that they chew and fight over.” 

It could be seen as a weakness to acknowledge that so openly, but Ragnar suspected it to be a strength in this case. King Causantín was rallying the clans around him, claiming that either side could be an existential threat. It, however, tipped his hand into revealing that King Causantín favored neither them nor the Romans in whom he would ally. At least publicly. 

King Causantín said some final words before he made a toast that was met with cheer and he settled back into his throne. With them, the celebrations began in earnest with plates heavy with food being brought out. All of which would have been tested by his food tasters, so Ragnar had little to fear there.

But he still had something to fear when Astolfo looked at the king and began speaking his language. King Causantín seemed pleasantly surprised and Ragnar fought a scowl off his face. Because of the seating arrangements, while he sat next to the king, Ragnar couldn't communicate with him without Ova, who sat further down the table. Astolfo being able to speak directly to the king, showing that they shared a tongue, would be a powerful advantage in the negotiations. 

‘I should have studied harder.’ But he had grown lax. He already spoke six languages with various fluency, and learning Gaelic hadn't been pressing. It felt like there were other priorities, other languages that would be more beneficial to practice. More the fool he was. 

But that didn't mean the opening day of negotiations was lost. There was still something that he could do. 

“Paladin Astolfo,” Ragnar began in their shared tongue when there was a lull following the customary exchange of pleasantries. “I understand that you hail from Mercia, do you not?” 

If Astolfo and the king shared a language, then that meant the best thing to do was monopolize Astolfo's attention. It wouldn't be perfect, of course. But conversations flowed with a give and take, and by stopping them from finding a rhythm, he could prevent them from finding common ground. 

Astolfo smiled, either headless to what he was doing or uncaring. Ragnar genuinely couldn’t tell which. “I am! From Chester,” Astolfo confirmed, and Ragnar stilled ever so slightly. That, he hadn't know and he immediately felt foolish. It must have shown because Astolfo laughed, but it didn't feel unkind. “You really are his kid. He looked the same when he learned I wasn't a woman! Haha!” Well, now he was just embarrassed. 

But Astolfo waved it off, “I don't bear a grudge or anything like that, Ragnar. Even setting aside, I haven't been there since I was younger than you…” Astolfo tilted his head, his brows furrowing ever so slightly. “It's war. Your dad does what he can to clean up how messy it is, and that makes him better than most, but it doesn't change that war is messy.” 

“It doesn't bother you?” He asked, a bit surprised. 

“I wouldn't say that either,” Astolfo shook his head. “I became a Paladin at sixteen, you know? And every year since, I've been at war. If it wasn't against the Saxons then it was against the Ummyads. And if it wasn't against them, then it was against Balkans or the Italians or rebels.” Astolfo sounded almost nostalgic, but that was probably the wrong for it. He felt like an old warrior that had finally stopped to glance over his shoulder and realized how far he had come. Some of his father's veterans were the same way. “And war is just messy. Villages get burnt, peasants are slaughtered -- sometimes because men are just animals that let a taste of power go straight to their heads. Sometimes because its ordered and the people living there are just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” 

Then Astolfo smiled, “So I don't take that kind of stuff personally. I know Sieg did what he could to make the raid as clean as he could have. More than anyone would expect in the age we live in. And I don't feel any city for my home because I know that they did the same to the Welsh, Irish, and Northumbrians without half as much mercy.” 

It was an unexpectedly reasonable attitude towards the whole ordeal that Ragnar found himself speechless. Yet, the words themselves made a knot of tension form in his chest. “My father… he still considers you a friend,” Ragnar confessed, but he wasn't sure it was wise to. Especially not here. 

Yet Astolfo didn't seem surprised. “Course he does. Being on opposite sides doesn't change that we are.” That's made the knot of tension tighten. 

“But…” Ragnar found the words he wanted to say sat heavily on his tongue. All the same, Astolfo seemed to hear them. 

He offered a wane smile, “Yeah… we're still friends. Even if the next time we see each other will be the final time.” 

Because the next time they saw each other, it could only be on a battlefield. 

And there was something about that which made Ragnar feel profoundly sad.