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- Nov 6, 2025
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The Wolf's Cub: A Novel of Normandy
Chapter 1: William (I)
"Cattle die, and kinsmen die,
The self must also die;
But glory never dies
For the man who can achieve it."
— Hávamál, stanza 76
The air in the great hall of Rouen was thick enough to chew. Woodsmoke, heavy and acrid from the central hearth, mingled with the smells of damp wool, sweat, and the faint ghost of the morning's meal. It clung to the soot-blackened beams and hazed the light from the few sputtering oil lamps, turning the vast timbered space into a cavern of shadows and shifting figures.
William, Count of Rouen, sat on his high seat—a carved chair of dark oak upon a low dais—and felt the familiar tension settle in his shoulders. It was a weight he had carried since his father, Rollo, had passed the burden of this half-tamed land to him.
Before him, Father Martin, a Frankish priest with a face as pale and soft as a grub, concluded his reading from a heavy, iron-bound book. His Latin flowed smoothly through the hall, a river of foreign sound to many of the men present. He made the sign of the cross, his voice echoing slightly in the sudden quiet.
That was when Hrolf, a jarl from the Risle valley with a beard like a grey thicket and eyes the color of a winter sea, hawked a thick gob of phlegm from the back of his throat. The wet sound broke the silence like a slap. He spat—not at the priest, but near enough to his worn leather shoes that the insult gleamed plainly on the packed earth.
The quiet that followed was a living thing, heavy and suffocating. Father Martin flinched as if struck, clutching the book to his chest like a shield. On the benches, William's own men—those who favored Frankish ways and wore their tunics long—shifted uneasily, caught between outrage and fear. But on the other side of the hall, among Hrolf's kin, there was no movement at all. They sat like stones, faces unreadable, their stillness a roar of approval. Even the servants froze in place, knowing they stood on the cracking ice of their lord's authority.
Here was the rot laid bare. The old ways against the new. The Northman against the Norman.
William let the silence stretch, wielding it like a blade. His own attire was a statement: a cotte of fine wool, dyed deep blue and trimmed in simple silk. It fell to his calves, a Frankish length that declared him a civilized lord, not a raider in a knee-length tunic. He was the son of a Viking, but he would not rule like one.
"Hrolf." William's voice was not loud, but it cut through the smoky air, cold and precise. "You soil my hall—and you dishonor a man of God beneath my roof."
The old jarl's lip curled. He stood flanked by others of his ilk, a sea of homespun cloth and leather. Among them towered Riouf of Évreux, his face a mask of stone but his eyes bright with satisfaction. William saw the spark there. This was Riouf's doing—a test, not an accident.
"Your hall, my lord?" Hrolf's voice was a gravelly rumble. "My father's blood darkened this soil. He did not fight so a priest might drone his spells over us."
A ripple of assent moved through the benches of the old guard.
"Your father fought for me, as you do," William said, his tone dropping lower, his words slow as falling iron. "And you will show respect to my guests. Or you will find my hospitality dearly bought. You'll give the priest a silver mark for the insult."
Hrolf's hand twitched white on the hilt of his seax. It was not yet a duel—but it could be. Behind him, Riouf's gaze sharpened, his eyes cold, daring. Do it, that look said. Prove his power is only a Frank's whisper.
William stayed seated, his hands resting on the chair's arms. To rise would be to fight on their terms. He must rule by command, not by fury. The moment stretched, thin and sharp as a blade. Hrolf's men leaned forward, ready to spring.
Then, with a grunt thick with contempt, Hrolf let go of the knife. He turned his back on William and stalked from the hall, his followers moving after him. The silver went unpaid.
The defiance was a victory for him; the avoidance of slaughter, one for William. Neither would call it that aloud.
When the last of the Northmen had gone, a shadow stirred near the wall. Raoul Taisson appeared at William's elbow, his movements quiet as a cat's. The young squires called him the Old Badger—spymaster, whisperer, clawed thing in the dark. But William knew what the name truly meant. Raoul had earned it in his father's wars: a man who could burrow into an enemy line and rip its heart from within. His claws had not dulled; they had only changed their shape.
"They grow bold, my lord," Raoul murmured, his voice a dry rustle like leaves on parchment.
"They grow old," William answered, eyes fixed on the doorway where Riouf had vanished. "They fear the world is leaving them behind."
"They fear you're leaving them behind," Raoul said, voice sharpening. "This was no insult—it was a test. Hrolf just proved your shield wall can be touched without a drop of blood spilled. Riouf wants more than to survive the new world. He wants to lead it."
William's jaw tightened. "Then let the tide break on the walls of Rouen."
Raoul inclined his head, unreadable, and slipped back into the shadows.
William turned away, his strides carrying him from the public stage of the hall into the quiet of his private chambers.
He found Sprota by the narrow window, her hands resting on the swell of her belly. The air here was clean, scented with dried lavender and beeswax. She wore a simple linen gown, her dark hair braided in two long ropes. Breton by birth, taken long ago in war, she was bound to him not by a priest's Latin but by the old Norse way—more danico. To the Franks, she was a concubine. To William, she was his peace.
She turned as he entered, and worry was already in her eyes. He went to her, placing his hands over hers upon her belly. He felt the faint flutter of life within. His son. His heir.
"It is nothing," he said, though the lie tasted of ash.
Sprota studied him, reading the truth behind the hardness of his jaw. "It is Riouf," she said softly. "He will not rest until a true Northman sits that seat."
"I am a true Northman," William snapped. "I am Rollo's son."
"You are a Christian count who speaks the Frankish tongue," she answered gently, her thumb tracing the back of his hand. "They do not see your father in you, William. They see the priest."
He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against hers. The weight of it all—the treacherous lords, the hostile king to the south, the endless labor of turning conquest into peace—pressed down upon him. Here, in her arms, the burden lightened.
"I do this for him," he whispered, his hand over the child within. "So he will not have to."
A sudden shout shattered the stillness. The door burst open. One of William's huscarls stood there, pale and breathless. Behind him stumbled a mud-caked soldier, his cheek split open, his breath ragged.
"My lord!" the man gasped, falling to his knees. "Évreux has fallen. Riouf holds the city. His banners march for Rouen!"
The words struck like a hammer. Sprota's grip tightened on William's arm. The rebellion was no longer a whisper—it was a fire, and it was at his gate.
The softness in William's face vanished, burned away by a cold, sudden fury. The visionary was gone; the warlord returned.
He pulled free of Sprota's grasp and strode back toward the hall, his voice a thunderclap:
"To arms! Sound the alarm! Bar the gates!"
He stood framed in the archway, a silhouette against the flickering firelight as his men scrambled to obey. The son of Rollo was no longer a count in his hall—he was a wolf in his den.
And the hunt was coming for him.
Chapter 1: William (I)
"Cattle die, and kinsmen die,
The self must also die;
But glory never dies
For the man who can achieve it."
— Hávamál, stanza 76
The air in the great hall of Rouen was thick enough to chew. Woodsmoke, heavy and acrid from the central hearth, mingled with the smells of damp wool, sweat, and the faint ghost of the morning's meal. It clung to the soot-blackened beams and hazed the light from the few sputtering oil lamps, turning the vast timbered space into a cavern of shadows and shifting figures.
William, Count of Rouen, sat on his high seat—a carved chair of dark oak upon a low dais—and felt the familiar tension settle in his shoulders. It was a weight he had carried since his father, Rollo, had passed the burden of this half-tamed land to him.
Before him, Father Martin, a Frankish priest with a face as pale and soft as a grub, concluded his reading from a heavy, iron-bound book. His Latin flowed smoothly through the hall, a river of foreign sound to many of the men present. He made the sign of the cross, his voice echoing slightly in the sudden quiet.
That was when Hrolf, a jarl from the Risle valley with a beard like a grey thicket and eyes the color of a winter sea, hawked a thick gob of phlegm from the back of his throat. The wet sound broke the silence like a slap. He spat—not at the priest, but near enough to his worn leather shoes that the insult gleamed plainly on the packed earth.
The quiet that followed was a living thing, heavy and suffocating. Father Martin flinched as if struck, clutching the book to his chest like a shield. On the benches, William's own men—those who favored Frankish ways and wore their tunics long—shifted uneasily, caught between outrage and fear. But on the other side of the hall, among Hrolf's kin, there was no movement at all. They sat like stones, faces unreadable, their stillness a roar of approval. Even the servants froze in place, knowing they stood on the cracking ice of their lord's authority.
Here was the rot laid bare. The old ways against the new. The Northman against the Norman.
William let the silence stretch, wielding it like a blade. His own attire was a statement: a cotte of fine wool, dyed deep blue and trimmed in simple silk. It fell to his calves, a Frankish length that declared him a civilized lord, not a raider in a knee-length tunic. He was the son of a Viking, but he would not rule like one.
"Hrolf." William's voice was not loud, but it cut through the smoky air, cold and precise. "You soil my hall—and you dishonor a man of God beneath my roof."
The old jarl's lip curled. He stood flanked by others of his ilk, a sea of homespun cloth and leather. Among them towered Riouf of Évreux, his face a mask of stone but his eyes bright with satisfaction. William saw the spark there. This was Riouf's doing—a test, not an accident.
"Your hall, my lord?" Hrolf's voice was a gravelly rumble. "My father's blood darkened this soil. He did not fight so a priest might drone his spells over us."
A ripple of assent moved through the benches of the old guard.
"Your father fought for me, as you do," William said, his tone dropping lower, his words slow as falling iron. "And you will show respect to my guests. Or you will find my hospitality dearly bought. You'll give the priest a silver mark for the insult."
Hrolf's hand twitched white on the hilt of his seax. It was not yet a duel—but it could be. Behind him, Riouf's gaze sharpened, his eyes cold, daring. Do it, that look said. Prove his power is only a Frank's whisper.
William stayed seated, his hands resting on the chair's arms. To rise would be to fight on their terms. He must rule by command, not by fury. The moment stretched, thin and sharp as a blade. Hrolf's men leaned forward, ready to spring.
Then, with a grunt thick with contempt, Hrolf let go of the knife. He turned his back on William and stalked from the hall, his followers moving after him. The silver went unpaid.
The defiance was a victory for him; the avoidance of slaughter, one for William. Neither would call it that aloud.
When the last of the Northmen had gone, a shadow stirred near the wall. Raoul Taisson appeared at William's elbow, his movements quiet as a cat's. The young squires called him the Old Badger—spymaster, whisperer, clawed thing in the dark. But William knew what the name truly meant. Raoul had earned it in his father's wars: a man who could burrow into an enemy line and rip its heart from within. His claws had not dulled; they had only changed their shape.
"They grow bold, my lord," Raoul murmured, his voice a dry rustle like leaves on parchment.
"They grow old," William answered, eyes fixed on the doorway where Riouf had vanished. "They fear the world is leaving them behind."
"They fear you're leaving them behind," Raoul said, voice sharpening. "This was no insult—it was a test. Hrolf just proved your shield wall can be touched without a drop of blood spilled. Riouf wants more than to survive the new world. He wants to lead it."
William's jaw tightened. "Then let the tide break on the walls of Rouen."
Raoul inclined his head, unreadable, and slipped back into the shadows.
William turned away, his strides carrying him from the public stage of the hall into the quiet of his private chambers.
He found Sprota by the narrow window, her hands resting on the swell of her belly. The air here was clean, scented with dried lavender and beeswax. She wore a simple linen gown, her dark hair braided in two long ropes. Breton by birth, taken long ago in war, she was bound to him not by a priest's Latin but by the old Norse way—more danico. To the Franks, she was a concubine. To William, she was his peace.
She turned as he entered, and worry was already in her eyes. He went to her, placing his hands over hers upon her belly. He felt the faint flutter of life within. His son. His heir.
"It is nothing," he said, though the lie tasted of ash.
Sprota studied him, reading the truth behind the hardness of his jaw. "It is Riouf," she said softly. "He will not rest until a true Northman sits that seat."
"I am a true Northman," William snapped. "I am Rollo's son."
"You are a Christian count who speaks the Frankish tongue," she answered gently, her thumb tracing the back of his hand. "They do not see your father in you, William. They see the priest."
He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against hers. The weight of it all—the treacherous lords, the hostile king to the south, the endless labor of turning conquest into peace—pressed down upon him. Here, in her arms, the burden lightened.
"I do this for him," he whispered, his hand over the child within. "So he will not have to."
A sudden shout shattered the stillness. The door burst open. One of William's huscarls stood there, pale and breathless. Behind him stumbled a mud-caked soldier, his cheek split open, his breath ragged.
"My lord!" the man gasped, falling to his knees. "Évreux has fallen. Riouf holds the city. His banners march for Rouen!"
The words struck like a hammer. Sprota's grip tightened on William's arm. The rebellion was no longer a whisper—it was a fire, and it was at his gate.
The softness in William's face vanished, burned away by a cold, sudden fury. The visionary was gone; the warlord returned.
He pulled free of Sprota's grasp and strode back toward the hall, his voice a thunderclap:
"To arms! Sound the alarm! Bar the gates!"
He stood framed in the archway, a silhouette against the flickering firelight as his men scrambled to obey. The son of Rollo was no longer a count in his hall—he was a wolf in his den.
And the hunt was coming for him.
