When his tirade was finished, King Æthelwulf gestured for the soldiers to execute the three Norse envoys.
Steel flashed cold before their throats. Yet Gunnar showed no fear.
"Strike me down, and the noblemen and priests you hold captive will die as well. Three lives for a hundred—my forefathers would call that a bargain!"
At that moment, a reeve leaned close and whispered:
"Your Majesty, you must keep those prisoners alive. Once the Norse are defeated, their submission will strengthen your claim. Summon a council of wise men, let them proclaim you King of Mercia."
Æthelwulf slapped his thigh. Yes! By blood, one of his ancestors had indeed been a Mercian princess. With the royal line extinguished, he possessed a rightful claim.
He raised his hand, halting the execution. Thoughts raced:
Lead the army, defeat the heathens—my renown will soar. With Mercia's throne secured, uniting the other kingdoms will no longer be a dream.
Thus the king dismissed the envoys alive, and instead took up pen and parchment to write to Rome.
In his long letter, he painted Britain's plight in somber strokes:
Northumbria and Mercia in heathen hands, the other realms feeble and divided—only Wessex still strong enough to bear the burden.
Then he listed his ancestors, tracing back to the Mercian princess who had wed into his line. With Mercia's bloodline extinguished, he declared his right to inherit its crown once the land was reclaimed.
At the close, Æthelwulf begged the Pope to send a legate to attend his coronation. In return, he swore to enforce the tithe with severity, punishing peasants who shirked their due.
Weary, his hand aching, he asked his reeves to review the wording. Several flaws were found, forcing him to rewrite the entire missive before sealing it with wax.
"See that it reaches Rome with utmost haste. No delay!"
"By your command, sire!" the messenger cried.
Over a month passed. The snows melted, yet no reply came from the Holy See. Instead, an unexpected host arrived.
As the Wessex courier traveled through Paris, news of Tamworth's fall alarmed Charles the Bald of West Francia. For decades the Franks had suffered Norse raids. If the Northmen secured Britain, their fleets would only grow bolder.
For the sake of his own coasts, Charles dispatched aid: a thousand men—six hundred levied footmen, sixty knights, and three hundred mounted squires.
When the envoys arrived, Æthelwulf eyed them warily.
"No demand of land? No price in silver?"
The emissary bowed. "None, sire. King Charles desires only that these heathens be slaughtered, lest they forever raid our northern shores."
"Then I thank King Charles for his goodwill."
Yet Æthelwulf frowned. The thought of so many horses troubled him. A warhorse consumed oats, peas, and salt enough to feed six or eight foot soldiers. Four hundred mounts equaled two thousand men in rations.
"Too many riders. I would rather have more heavy infantry," he muttered.
The envoy blinked. Among Franks, cavalry was the master of battle—footmen were but chaff. Was this old king jesting?
Then realization struck. The Angles ride without stirrups!
"Your Majesty," he pressed, "without stirrups, no man is truly a knight. When our riders arrive, let them demonstrate the charge—you will see that cavalry outweighs every other arm."
Yielding to the emissary's plea, Æthelwulf ordered a tiltyard fenced with stakes, and chose ten of his best riders to compete against the Franks.
Dawn broke over the reek of horse dung, rusted iron, and spilled ale. Squires draped caparisoned cloth over steeds, bright with family sigils, while iron bits rang in the morning chill.
Ten young Frankish knights gathered, most barely twenty, their blunted practice swords hanging at their belts.
"I miss my father's cellar," one sighed. "Even our worst vintages outshine this Saxon swill."
"Not only the drink," another added. "Their food is tasteless. That venison at last night's feast—chewing bark would be no worse. Only the eels pleased me."
"This land is wretchedly poor," scoffed a third. "Peasants till with wooden tools, no water-mills to be found. Their nobles are coarse as wool merchants."
By now, the tiltyard thronged with townsfolk. Priests clutched crucifixes in murmured prayer. Children scrambled up trees for a view, while vendors hawked smoked meat and ale.
At eight bells, Æthelwulf and his lords took their seats in the stands. His eyes widened. By God, these Frankish chargers are vast—half again the size of our own stock.
"This bodes ill," he whispered. "Our riders will be crushed."
The first horn blared. Two opponents mounted, took shield and blunted sword, and spurred forward. The clash was brief—the Saxon tumbled headlong, rolling across the dirt in a spray of dust.
His squires bore him away on planks.
"Enough!" Æthelwulf raised his hand. "This is no measure of skill, only of the horses. The contest is finished."
Boos erupted. The waiting Franks stormed to the stands, faces flushed. They shouted, demanding a trial on foot.
The crowd roared approval, and the rules were changed. With blunt swords and oaken shields, they fought man to man until one fell.
Nine bouts later, the Franks had claimed seven victories. Saxon pride stung, and many pressed to prolong the matches.
The duels grew harsher, bloodier. By dusk, one knight named Maurice had felled ten opponents, the clear champion.
When night fell, the grim, chaotic tourney was done. Few realized its weight—that this blood-soaked spectacle would be remembered as the first of the knightly tournaments.
In the years to come, these "games of war" would sweep across Europe, fierce and resplendent.
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