After arriving at the palace gates, Eamon requested an audience with the Crown Prince.
After waiting several minutes, he followed a royal guard into the great hall.
The throne atop the steps stood empty.
Frode and Heligif sat separately to the left and right, receiving the duke's formal audience.
After exchanging the usual ceremonial pleasantries, Eamon reported the size and composition of his forces.
The Crown Prince accepted the roster and skimmed through it before once again praising the duke's loyalty and inviting him to that evening's banquet.
Leaving the palace, Eamon headed toward his own manor residence.
Though he spent little time in Londinium, he had still invested heavily here to maintain the dignity expected of a duke.
After settling his luggage, Eamon took five guards with him for a stroll through the city.
Londinium's population had now surpassed thirty thousand.
Its prosperity and wealth possessed an almost irresistible attraction to visiting nobles.
"These, these, and this one too—I'll take them all."
Before he realized it, Eamon had bought a huge pile of seemingly useful goods.
Then suddenly, a strong fishy smell drew his attention.
The group arrived at the docks.
Two cogs were moored there, their decks stacked with barrels filled with salted herring.
At that moment, workers were loading the barrels into cargo nets before using treadwheel cranes to transfer them into rail wagons.
Curious, Eamon approached a laborer.
The man scratched his messy hair and casually explained:
"The king issued orders before.
"During training periods, every soldier is supposed to receive half a pound of meat each day.
"The cabinet didn't choose beef, mutton, or smoked sausages. They picked the cheapest option—fish.
"The cabinet placed orders with the fishermen. Every day they purchase herring or cod, then transport it to the northern camps by rail wagon."
Half a pound of fish per soldier every day?
Eamon thought the cabinet's decision was extremely sensible.
If they had supplied other meats instead, the treasury would probably already be bankrupt.
"According to the fishermen, the cabinet spends a thousand pounds of silver every month just buying fish.
"And that's not even counting grain, alcohol, and all the other consumed supplies.
"How much money is this war costing?"
He was stunned by the immense financial power of the royal household.
Back in his grandfather Ragnar's day, such extravagance would have been unimaginable.
Remembering the past darkened Eamon's mood.
He returned to his residence and slept for more than an hour before leaving again at dusk to attend the banquet.
The royal banquet was held to the highest standards.
Yet Eamon paid little attention to the food and drink.
Instead, he focused on speaking with the other nobles, trying to gather more information.
Leaning toward Lennard seated beside him, he quietly asked:
"Why are some people missing? Where are the Crown Prince, the Prime Minister, and Torlgar?"
Lennard's face was flushed red.
He let out a loud drunken burp before replying:
"They're busy. So busy they barely have time to breathe.
"They miss royal banquets all the time—not like useless idlers like us."
Through their conversation, Eamon learned the rough structure of the field army:
Shrike, Utgard, and Viper would each command one of the three field divisions, while Torlgar would command the heavy cavalry division.
Because of the severe officer shortage, students from the Army Academy had graduated early.
Even sixty percent of the students from Londinium University had enlisted, serving as junior officers, clerks, signalmen, and similar roles.
Eamon held no resentment toward the king's personnel arrangements.
He understood perfectly well that his own talents were mediocre.
Without the education provided by the Army Academy, he was completely unsuited to modern warfare.
During previous long marches, he had made several serious mistakes.
In the end, he had no choice but to delegate authority to five young noble scions—graduates of the military academy—allowing them to coordinate operations while he himself served mostly as a nominal commander.
At that moment, Count Rikard joined the conversation.
"With His Majesty mobilizing fifty thousand troops, what do you think his true objective is?"
Lennard replied immediately:
"His Majesty isn't like Ragnar.
"He values land, not mere plunder.
"I think his goal is West Frankish territory itself—at minimum Paris, Orléans, and those fertile central lands."
He smacked his lips dreamily.
"Hopefully after the war, His Majesty grants me a great estate in Burgundy. The wine there is absolutely magnificent.
"When the day comes, I'll eat beef stewed in red wine every single day.
"Have you tried that new dish yet? It needs red wine, beef, olive oil, onions, pepper…"
To help realize that wonderful dream, Lennard had not only raised troops for the campaign but had also purchased five hundred pounds worth of war bonds.
Over the years, he had become thoroughly accustomed to Vig's victories.
He simply could not imagine the king losing—especially with nearly forty thousand suits of armor at his disposal.
After chatting for a while, Minister of Justice Orm staggered over carrying a jug of rum.
He grabbed a roasted lamb chop, stuffed it into his mouth, and spoke while chewing:
"I don't care about land.
"I just want to personally kill that damned traitor."
Gunnar.
Eleven years earlier, during the Battle of Auxerre, Gunnar had crushed Ragnar's forces.
Orm's two sons had both been captured.
The elder died of illness in a prison camp.
The younger took an arrow through his right arm.
Because he received poor treatment afterward, the wound healed badly, permanently weakening the arm and ending his ability to fight with a sword.
At nine in the evening, Frode finally concluded his military meetings and joined the banquet alongside the Prime Minister and others.
Unlike many nobles, Frode did not loudly socialize.
Instead, he sat quietly in his seat, carefully observing everyone's expressions and conversation partners, trying to infer their relationships and alliances.
The banquet finally ended late into the night.
Drunken nobles were helped into carriages and sent back to their residences.
Exhausted, Frode returned to his chambers and recorded some personal observations in a notebook.
The next morning, Frode attended the cabinet meeting on schedule.
Lacking administrative experience, he could contribute little to most discussions and could only maintain a composed expression while listening to the ministers debate.
Afterward, he handed the meeting summary to the intelligence bureau, where it was converted into coded cipher text.
The encrypted message would be carried by horse to Plymouth, then sent by ship to the Breton front.
Likewise, Vig's letters from the front were also encoded before transmission.
Even if a courier vessel were wrecked in Frankish territory, the enemy would still be unable to decipher the contents.
By noon, after finishing lunch, Frode suddenly received news that another batch of Pecheneg riders had arrived at the docks.
In the six months since the end of the Bulgarian War, the price of Eastern European mercenaries had steadily fallen.
Britain had ordered Rurik to greatly expand recruitment, intending to hire over a thousand this year alone.
Frode observed the newcomers carefully.
Some wore cold, ruthless expressions, their eyes carrying unmistakable traces of brutality.
They had clearly seen heavy fighting in Bulgaria.
"Their horsemanship and combat ability meet the standards," Frode judged.
"The problem is discipline.
"Father created the ranger cavalry primarily for reconnaissance.
"But these men are too wild.
"While carrying out missions, there's a strong chance they'll abandon their duties and prioritize looting nearby civilians instead."
Under the Crown Prince's watchful gaze, the three hundred mercenaries marched toward the eastern training camps for thirty days of accelerated training.
The war situation was urgent.
There simply wasn't more time to spare.
—------------------------------
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