Weeks passed. The court mocked his caution, calling him Eadric the Careful. He spent long hours with the captain of the guard, Osric, redrawing defense plans and stockpiling grain.
"Too much talk of doom for a young prince," Osric said one evening as they walked the walls.
"I've seen what happens to men who wait," Eadric replied. "We must be ready."
The first refugees arrived soon after—fishermen from the coast, bearing news of burning villages and black-sailed ships on the horizon.
Eadric stood before the council. "They are here. The Great Heathen Army. We must call our levies now."
King Edmund sighed. "You chase ghosts, son. We've seen raiders before."
"This is no raid!"
The king's hand slammed the armrest. "Enough! You are not king."
Eadric fell silent. He saw Ælfwine's smirk, his mother's satisfied glance.
That night, alone in his chamber, he stared into the fire. He had the knowledge of a strategist, but no command. If they won't act, he thought, then I will.
He sent Osric south to warn Wessex and rode east himself to rally villages. Yet by the time he returned, smoke already smudged the horizon.
The Norse had come to Thetford