Now today I know that all the land is at peace, for Alfred is
victor, and Guthrum is Athelstan the Christian king of Eastern
England; and I for one will own him unasked, for he has governed
well, and English is our overlord.
But Hubba is dead in far-off Devon, slain as he landed as Halfden
had landed, to hem Wessex in between Guthrum and himself, and his
dream of taking the Wessex kingdom is over. And the Raven banner
that my Osritha made flaps its magic wings no more, for it hangs in
Alfred's peaceful hall, a trophy of Saxon valour.
Thormod, my comrade, lies in his mound in wild Strathclyde, slain
fighting beside Halfden my brother, the king of Northumbria. Him I
have seen once or twice, and ever does he look for peace that he
may sail to Reedham and bide with us for a while. Well loved is
Halfden, and he is English in every thought.
Many of our old viking crew are here with me, for they would fain
find land in our country, and I gave them the deserted coast lands
that lie to our northward, round the great broads. Good lands they
are, and in giving them I harmed none. Filby and Ormesby and
Rollesby they have called their new homesteads, giving them Danish
names.
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