After the oath-taking ceremony ended, Astrid hosted a lavish banquet for the guests. As she sipped fine wine, she felt no joy at all—her thoughts were consumed by one question: where to find money.
After the inheritance crisis two months earlier, Astrid no longer dared to provoke the great nobles. Instead, she turned her attention to the common people, once again raising taxes in the royal demesne.
The original agricultural tax had been 15%. It was later raised to 20%, and now increased again to 25%. Combined with the heavy wool export tax, royal annual revenue was expected to exceed ten thousand pounds.
Once fiscal matters were settled, Astrid quietly spread word that she intended to ennoble Paphis as Earl of Cambridge—the reward she had promised in advance. This proposal immediately met fierce opposition, including from Prime Minister Godwin and the lethargic Theowulf.
"A eunuch, without any merit—what right does he have to join the ranks of the great nobility?"
Godwin chose his words carefully, trying to spare the Dowager Queen's feelings. Others were far less restrained, forcing Astrid to withdraw the ill-considered decree.
After weighing her options, Astrid privately met with Paphis and suggested postponement. By then, Paphis had resigned himself to reality and proposed that his adopted son be appointed a royal knight for now, to be promoted to baron once the storm had passed.
Astrid wiped at the corner of her eye.
"Lord Steward, the King and I deeply appreciate your loyalty, but the resistance to granting an earldom is too great. The Prime Minister himself opposes it. As a widowed mother and a child ruler, we truly lack the strength to force this through."
Paphis wept as well.
"I have overstepped myself. As a eunuch, I should never have harbored such ambitions. By the gods, from this day forward I seek only to serve you and my young master."
The two covered their faces and cried, performing a flawless display of mutual devotion.
As the only audience, King Sigurd tried hard to widen his eyes—but his acting was inadequate. He simply sat on the throne, stunned and silent.
After a few minutes, Astrid decided it was enough. She wiped away her tears and turned to business, asking about replacements for the Commander of the Royal Guard and the Prefect of Londinium.
"Om's sons—one dead, one crippled—have left him despondent. He submitted his resignation yesterday. Horst is greedy by nature and unfit to be Prefect. Both positions will soon be vacant. Do you have suitable candidates?"
Paphis offered two names: 'White-Haired' Oleg and Young Pascal.
Oleg had once nearly ruined the Welsh surrender ceremony due to inexperience—so enraging Vig that he nearly drew his sword. Later promoted to Deputy Commander of the Guard, Oleg publicly humiliated Gunnar at court. During the Nordic campaign, he openly clashed with Niels, writing to the King to accuse him, severing their relationship.
Over the years, Oleg had offended Vig, Gunnar, and Niels alike, maintained only a cold relationship with Ivar, and posed no risk of colluding with powerful magnates. His command ability was adequate, his seniority sufficient—making him an ideal choice for Guard Commander and Minister of War.
Young Pascal was the heir of former Prime Minister Pascal. The elder Pascal enjoyed immense prestige among the populace. Appointing his son as Prefect would be well received.
Astrid hesitated.
"Wait—he's not even nineteen. I've met him a few times. Thin, timid, doesn't seem very bright."
Then she reconsidered.
Such a man would be easy to control, unlikely to defy her will. Astrid nodded.
After Paphis departed, Astrid began instructing Sigurd on statecraft. Whatever others thought, the Dowager Queen believed her decade at court had given her valuable experience—aside from one weakness: military command.
"Once Oleg takes office, I'll have him teach you warfare. You're gifted. Study patiently for a few years, and you'll surpass Ivar, Vig, Gunnar, and Niels alike. When you come of age, you can deal with them one by one."
Half a month passed quickly. Astrid grew accustomed to ruling alone—handling affairs in the mornings, receiving noblewomen in the afternoons, indulging in their flattery, and occasionally supervising Sigurd's studies.
Her only irritation was that Sola and Ubbe still lingered in the palace, claiming poor sea conditions and postponing their departure to Denmark until March.
"All excuses. Oleg has already left Vejle in central Denmark and is sailing here to assume office. What right do they have to delay? Are they still coveting the throne?"
She complained quietly to her maid, drank some wine, and retired to bed—when hurried footsteps sounded outside her door.
The next moment, disaster struck.
The King—less than a month on the throne—had suddenly developed a high fever, his breathing faint, his condition critical.
Astrid rushed into the adjoining room and pressed her hand to her son's forehead. It burned fiercely. Sigurd was delirious, unable to respond to her calls.
Soon, four shamans arrived. Chanting strange incantations, they threw back the covers and examined the King, yet found no cause.
"Useless trash."
Astrid ordered servants to summon priests from the city's monasteries. Hearing this, the shamans panicked and claimed it was not illness—but a curse.
Half an hour later, a priest and two nuns arrived at the chaotic palace. Servants were frantic, guards rushed about with murderous expressions, and the three clerics were visibly shaken.
"Never any benefit for me—and now I'm dragged into this," the priest muttered as he hurried along.
After examining the King and questioning his recent meals and routines, the priest swallowed hard under the Dowager Queen's gaze.
"This is not a common illness. It may be poisoning… or the use of black magic."
Curse. Poison. Black magic.
Hearing this, Astrid staggered, clutching her maid's shoulder to keep from falling. She returned to her chamber, pulled a slightly rusted suit of armor from the wardrobe, and snarled:
"Summon all guards. I'll kill that bitch and her bastard myself."
Armor ill-fitting, shield-axe in hand, Astrid stormed toward Sola's chambers—only to find them empty. The bedding was still warm.
"Trying to run?"
She ordered the palace gates sealed and personally headed to Ubbe's room.
There, Sola, dressed only in nightclothes, blocked the door and begged her rival:
"Sigurd's illness has nothing to do with us. I swear by every god I know."
"Gods?" Astrid snarled.
"They couldn't even protect my son. Why should I trust them now?"
Before marrying Ragnar, Astrid had spent years as a shieldmaiden, raiding and killing. Now, murder surged back into her veins.
She swung her axe—
It struck Sola's neck.
Sola collapsed. Hot crimson blood gushed forth, yet she still reached out, clutching Astrid's skirt.
"If I had planned this… I would've fled long ago. Why would I still be here, waiting for your vengeance? Please—spare Ubbe. He poses no threat to you…"
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