Svein had proven more capable than Duncan and his advisors had first thought.
The Lion of Alba was sent fleeing, where he could only lick his wounds while his enemy consolidated gains.
Though Svein’s victory was far from overwhelming.
In fact one might even consider it Pyrrhic.
Svein was not an educated man, at least not in the classical sense like Vetrulfr was.
However, if he could recall the annals of history, he would likely be quoting Pyrrhus of Epirus right now.
"One more such victory and we are undone".
Instead Svein gazed upon his losses with abject horror.
His strategy was a bold one, Conrad burned his lands in Jutland, and Duncan had usurped his birthright in England.
He could only quell one fire at a time though, and because of this he had elected to fight against Duncan on England’s soil.
Put a quick and bitter end to the Scottish King who dared wear his father’s crown.
And yet, Svein knew better than any that allowing Conrad to march his army into his lands unopposed was feckless strategy. Check latest chapters at novel-fire.ɴet
Hence why at this very moment he was drafting a letter beneath candlelight in his camp, a letter meant for his half brother.
No doubt Harthacnut was already eying their father’s throne in Denmark. And perhaps had even claimed it in all but name.
However the man’s character was more like a Jackal than a Lion.
If he could submit to Conrad and gain something greater than he already possessed from it, he surely would.
Unless of course the spoils of defending his homeland were worth the risk.
With a heavy sigh, Svein ceased his writing, the smell of ink heavy within his tent as the black substance dried into permanence.
The words lingered in his heart and mind even know as he stared at them.
"Take up arms and defend our father’s legacy. Do this, and I will name you my son and heir until the day I am wed and a son is born to me. Should you succeed in keeping Conrad’s armies at bay, the rewards will be far greater than simply what I have promised.
With love, your brother, Svein Knutsson."
Svein said nothing as he folded the letter, only after ensuring with a gentle stroke of his fingertip that the ink was truly dry, before placing it in an envelop.
He then reached for the nearby candle, dripping wax across its folds, where he finalized its seal by stamping his signet ring into its center.
The letter was handed off to deft hands in the dead of night, a silent whisper shared between king and messenger.
"Ensure this ends up in the hands of my brother, and only my brother. If he refuses to heed my wisdom, then I fear he will be judged harshly by saint Peter...."
Nothing more needed to be said, the messenger merely nodded his head, before pulling up his hood, and climbing atop his steed. He would ride to the harbor which they had built on the Shores of Kent.
There he would take a ship and sail for Copenhagen where the boy Harthacnut was no doubt waiting while Conrad burned his southern lands.
Svein lingered after the messenger’s departure, the silence of the camp pressing in.
Beyond the canvas walls came the sounds of carpenters repairing shattered shields, of priests muttering prayers over the dead, of horses stamping restlessly in the dark.
Victory’s spoils, he thought bitterly, ash, blood, and silence.
For a moment his hand drifted to the circlet on his brow, his father’s crown battered from travel and war.
Father would never have been so cornered, he thought. Father would never have begged the jackal’s aid.
But Svein’s jaw tightened. "If the boy can win his keep, let him,"
he muttered to the darkness. "If he cannot, I will have no heir to name. Either way, Denmark will bleed."
The rider came into Copenhagen before dawn, his horse frothing and half-dead beneath him.
The guards at the gate were on edge, every soul in Denmark knew Conrad’s banners were moving north, but when the messenger thrust forward a wax seal stamped with Svein Knutsson’s mark, they wasted no time.
He was led straight through the dark streets, past shuttered houses and silent hearths, into the great hall where the boy sat.
And there upon it lounged Harthacnut, barely fourteen, but carrying himself like a man twice his age.
No crown weighed his brow, yet he wore the expression of one who needed no metal to prove his right.
His boots sprawled wide across the dais, one hand gripping the carved wolf-head of the armrest, as if daring anyone to call him less than his father’s son.
His mother was at his side.
Emma of Normandy, veiled in deep blue, silver glinting at her temples.
She did not look like a widow.
She looked like a queen still scheming.
The kind that would smile even at a funeral, because she already had the next crown in her sights.
The letter was read aloud, Svein’s words carrying through the smoke-thick rafters: the plea for arms, the promise of inheritance, the brotherly oath. "I will name you my son and heir until the day I am wed and a son is born to me."
Emma’s lips curled the moment those words fell.
"A fine bargain," she purred, just loud enough for all to hear. "He makes you heir only until some other womb delivers a rival. That is not a promise, my son. It is a leash."
Harthacnut said nothing at first. His fingers tapped slow and deliberate against the wood, the sound echoing through the hall.
He watched the messenger kneel, sweating, waiting for judgment.
Then, with deliberate weight, the boy rose. His cloak slid from his shoulders, the wolfskin catching the torchlight.
"Denmark is not my brother’s to offer," he said, his voice steady, loud, and cruel. "It is mine by right of birth, mine by our father’s blood. Svein may chase crowns in England, but he abandoned this one. And I will not give it back."
The hall rumbled with low assent. Emma’s hand brushed her son’s arm, her smile dagger-sharp.
"Well spoken. Let Conrad see a king upon this throne, not a boy. And let Svein learn when he comes crawling home that Denmark was never his to begin with."
The messenger bowed his head lower, the wax seal still warm in his hands. He dared not speak.
The letter had been answered without a word, and Denmark’s throne, like the kingdom itself, stood already divided, just waiting for the eagle’s claws to close.