At noon, the nobles returned to the palace to attend a lavish royal banquet.
Gunnar, long accustomed to luxury, showed little interest in the dishes laid before him.
Four troubles weighed heavily on his mind.
The first problem was his cautious strategy during the war, which had drawn dissatisfaction from Charles the Bald and many nobles.
A few men—such as Chancellor Lambert and Count William of Orléans—agreed with his decisions, but for various political reasons they remained silent, allowing criticism to fall squarely on him.
One noble sneered from across the table:
"Your Grace commands three thousand cavalry. Why did you not dare face Vig in decisive battle? If it were me, a single charge would crush the Viking line and capture or kill that wicked pagan king."
Gunnar turned his head and looked at him coldly.
"In that case, when we meet Vig again in battle someday, I will gladly recommend you as commander."
The noble lifted his wine cup and drank, carefully changing the subject.
Gunnar said nothing. He continued eating his fish soup absentmindedly. From time to time, his gaze drifted toward two laughing young people nearby, and his expression darkened further.
They were his eldest son, Robert, and Robert's fiancée, Enya.
After the British civil war, the pair had been sent to Paris and raised in the royal court. Six years had passed since then.
Gunnar's wife, Vivian, was the king's niece. In a sense, Robert counted as part of the royal family. He enjoyed privileges far beyond those of ordinary noble heirs.
That privilege had produced a disastrous consequence:
He had grown addicted to courtly luxury, losing the toughness and discipline of his forebears.
He was, in Gunnar's eyes, nearly ruined.
Robert possessed a delicate, handsome face—but one lacking vitality. Years of indoor living had left his skin unnaturally pale. His eyes wandered without focus or sharpness.
He was taller than most boys his age, thanks to his father's bloodline, but lacked physical training. His body was thin, his arms slender—nothing about him suggested the makings of a warrior.
This was Gunnar's second problem:
an heir consumed by comfort.
After the banquet, Gunnar summoned Robert and Enya.
The three stood facing one another. Gunnar felt a surge of helplessness.
"How long do you train in arms each day?"
"Two hours," Robert answered quickly—then faltered under his father's sharp gaze.
"One hour. Well… recently I've been studying Latin, so I haven't had time to practice swordsmanship."
Without warning, Gunnar began speaking in rapid Latin and asked him a question.
Robert stammered.
He struggled for words.
None came.
"So this is the result of your studies?"
Gunnar instinctively clenched his fist. Yet he feared the boy's fragile body might not withstand a blow, so he forced himself to remain calm and began quietly questioning the household servants.
From them he learned the truth:
Robert spent his days
playing chess
gambling with dice
practicing the lute
He had no interest in hunting or martial training—activities that required physical effort. He considered them beneath his dignity.
Gunnar felt despair settle in.
It's over. Completely over.
He returned to Robert and Enya and spoke sternly:
"Why did the king grant me the Duchy of Normandy? Because I can fight. Because I am useful.
When I die, what will you offer the crown? On what basis do you expect to keep this title?
Very well—even if the king allows you to inherit out of distant kinship. Do you truly believe you can defend this land against Vig? Can you hold Normandy?
Learn something useful. One day, you will need it."
After a long lecture, Gunnar mounted his horse and departed, eager to return to Normandy to handle urgent matters.
The third problem facing him was the British fleet's seizure of the Channel Islands.
Back at his castle, Gunnar convened his trusted advisors.
Normandy's coastline was long; it could not be defended everywhere. He planned to strengthen key ports such as Cherbourg, installing more trebuchets and building a network of signal beacons to transmit warnings rapidly.
"My lord, the cost will be enormous," the financial steward said cautiously. "I worry—"
Gunnar ignored him.
If necessary, he would impose a temporary tax.
Security came first.
After the meeting, Gunnar rode fifteen miles to a nearby village.
Beneath an old oak tree at the village entrance, a group of boys were playing loudly. Their leader appeared about fourteen years old, with smooth blond hair.
His name was Henry.
Gunnar's illegitimate son.
And this was his fourth problem.
Henry's mother had been the wife of a local miller. Two years earlier, she fell gravely ill and confessed the truth to Gunnar, believing her death near.
When the duchess learned of the boy, her relationship with Gunnar collapsed.
Yet Gunnar did not abandon Henry. He entrusted the child to a loyal Norman knight.
The knight treated him well. Henry never lacked food or clothing. He grew up healthy and strong—like a wild plant thriving untended by the roadside.
Most days he played with boys his own age:
running and shouting
wrestling
fencing with sticks
catching fish in the river
Day after day, Henry seemed tireless—like a young bull bursting with energy.
Occasionally the knight taught him basic swordsmanship. Henry learned quickly, but he preferred heavier weapons: axes and war hammers.
As he grew taller, he even begged the knight to give him a Viking-style two-handed axe.
"A rough boy," Gunnar thought as he watched from horseback.
"A true warrior in the making."
He felt as though he were looking at his younger self.
Gradually, the other children were called home to work, leaving Henry alone beneath the oak tree.
Gunnar approached and removed a two-handed axe from his saddle.
"This was my weapon when I was young," he said.
"It sat unused for years and rusted. I had a smith clean the blade and replace the handle. It still handles well. I give it to you."
"Thank you, Your Grace."
Henry accepted the axe and sat back down.
Gunnar sat beside him. Together they watched farmers working in the distant fields.
After a moment, Henry spoke about the recent war in Denmark. Rumors among common people claimed the duke had been cowardly and allowed the Viking army to escape.
Henry refused to believe those rumors.
He had fought several boys over the matter.
"Don't fight over such things," Gunnar said with a faint smile.
"They are your friends."
He picked up a stone from the ground and began sketching in the dirt, explaining Vig's battle formation outside Hamburg.
"At that time, Vig had ten thousand soldiers, all wearing standardized iron armor. Look closely—here are his seven spear formations…"
He described:
the enemy's formations
troop numbers
tactical methods
Seeing the boy's confusion, Gunnar shifted to stories of his own youth:
battles of a hundred men
the campaign of 843
the conquest of Mercia and Wessex
the first Viking–West Frankish war
"Remember this," he concluded.
"In small battles, a commander's courage matters most—it inspires the men around him.
But in battles of thousands—or tens of thousands—the most important thing is formation.
Once formation breaks, morale collapses. And collapse spreads like disease."
The opportunity felt rare.
Gunnar spoke for over three hours, recounting every battle he could remember, mixing in lessons drawn from experience.
Before that day, father and son had met only five times. Their total conversation had never exceeded ten minutes.
Today, they talked until sunset.
At last, Gunnar rose to leave.
He patted the boy's broad, sturdy shoulder and pressed a small, crudely written booklet into his hand.
"You are still young. You have time to think.
Farewell, Henry. I hope that one day, what is written in this book will help you."
"Farewell, Your Grace."
Gunnar mounted his horse.
Knights gathered around him, escorting him away.
Beneath the old oak tree, Henry watched his father's figure recede into the distance.
Silently, he whispered:
"Farewell… Father."
—------------------------------
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