"It’s not my fault that London was lost!"

Guthrum looked at his son and heir, Erik, without expression. "I have not blamed you for this loss, Erik." Guthrum said. "I am only seeking explanation. How did this happen? What went on while I was campaigning with Hastein?"

"Alfred broke the peace." Erik said.

"Yes, I am certain." Guthrum said. "As I am certain we broke the peace ourselves many times. Erik, we have raided across the border against Alfred since the first treaty, as he has raided against us. A little raiding between neighbors can be a good thing – but this? The attack on London was no raid, Erik. How is it that we could not defend the town? What made Alfred so bold?"

"Father, you took the best of our warriors with you across the water to join Hastein."

Guthrum stared at his son for a long time, then laughed at his son’s honesty. "By the gods, Erik, you are right. I did take our best and an army of them as well, didn’t I? Ah, Erik you should have been with me. We joined forces with Hastein who brought an army from the Homeland. Guthfrith came, as did others, each bringing many warriors. We fought against the Frankish King, Louis the Fat, the one the Pope in Rome has named Emperor. We drove him from his capital at Aachen and stabled our horses for the winter in his palace. We sailed up the Seine and laid seige to Paris. Do you know they had to pay off Guthfrith by granting him fiefs in Frisia? Hastein is still raging across the Frankish lands with only a third of an army, and I would still be there with him were it not for this!"

Guthrum wiped a hand across his face. "What of the Jarls? Could we get no help?"

Erik frowned. "The five in Mercia are your brethren and my kin, but they did not lift a finger to help, though they owe fealty to you."

Guthrum sighed, and knew his son spoke the truth. With Guthrum away, it was likely his brethren in Mercia would be wary to enter the fray. He would have to attend to his vassal brothers in Mercia soon and remind them of their oaths.

"Were there no warriors to be raised in the countryside?" Guthrum asked, though he knew the answer even as the question escaped his lips.

"Father, it was harvest."

Guthrum walked towards the fire pit in the middle of the longhouse and chuckled. "You are correct again, Erik. We are the greatest fighters on the face of the Earth, unmatched in war. United, no one can stand against us – no King, no people. If the Great Army had not divided from the Summer Armies, and if the Summer Armies had not divided in quarters itself, Alfred would have been sent to his Christian Heaven or Hell years ago."

"Yet every single one of our warriors seems to be a farmer under the skin, and as the years pass, I am convinced that the farmer is the more powerful calling." Guthrum continued as he warmed his hands.

"It’s this land, Erik. So rich, so fertile, so easy -- Our Homeland yields its fruits only with great toil. Here, the land is as generous as an old crone eager to be taken. This land is our fortune … and our curse, for in time, we grow as fat as the land itself."

Guthrum turned to face Erik, warming his backside in the process. "A full stomach and a good harvest make a reluctant warrior, my son." he said. "The fault is mine. Had I wanted to keep London, I should have been here to defend it."

"But now you have returned with the army." Erik said. "We can regain it."

"No, Erik. Let Alfred keep his town." Guthrum said.

"Father…" Erik protested.

"It is but one town. The realm is vast. I have concluded another treaty with Alfred. War, we are very good at. We must learn to master peace in this land. London is a small price to pay. Indeed, I have a mind to cleave to Alfred further. I wish to make a marriage to unite our Houses."

Erik became sullen.

Guthrum laughed. "Don’t misunderstand me, Erik. I have no doubt we shall clash from time to time with the Seaxa, to keep Alfred on his toes and our steel sharp. But peace must be married to war, as the House of Guthrum must be married to the House of Alfred. It is just as well, for I am becoming old, Erik, and despite my best efforts, the gods conspire to prevent me from dying the death of a man, in battle and with sword in hand. I am cursed to die a King in a hall, like some common slave or a woman. It is well we have adopted Alfred’s god, as there is no place for me at the feasting table in Valhalla. As the gods decree, then. I shall go across the water no more, shall no longer go viking. Leave that for the younger ones."

Guthrum lapsed into a long silence, staring off into a future suddenly too clear. Erik said nothing to disturb his father and King. After a few moments, Einarr, one of Guthrum’s lieutenants, approached.

"Ragnar’s ship has been spotted in the harbor. He returns with the tide." Einarr reported.

"Ragnar?" Guthrum’s face split into a wide grin. "Come, Erik. Let us greet Ragnar at the water’s edge."