treat as an equal.

Neither of the pagan kings is inclined at this time to settle in Mercia;
so, casting about what to do with it, they light on "a certain foolish
man," a king's thane, one Ceolwulf, and set him up as a sort of King
Popinjay. From this Ceolwulf they take hostages for the payment of
yearly tribute--to be wrung out of these poor Mercians on pain of
dethronement--and for the surrender of the kingdom to them on whatever
day they would have it back again. Foolish king's thanes, turned into
King Popinjays by pagans, and left to play at government on such terms,
are not pleasant or profitable objects in such times as these of one
thousand years since--or indeed in any times, for the matter of that. So
let us finish with Ceolwulf, just noting that a year or two later his
pagan lords seem to have found much of the spoil of monasteries, and the
pickings of earl and churl, of folkland and bookland, sticking to his
fingers, instead of finding its way to their coffers. This was far from
their meaning in setting him up in the high places of Mercia. So they
strip him and thrust him out, and he dies in beggary.

This, then, is the winter's work of the great pagan army at Repton,
Alfred watching them and their work doubtless with keen eye--not without
misgivings too at their numbers, swollen again to terrible proportions
since they sailed away down Thames after Wilton fight. It will take
years yet before the gaps in the fighting strength of Wessex, left by
those nine pitched battles, and other smaller fights, will be filled by
the crop of youths passing from childhood to manhood. An anxious
thought, that, for a young king.

The pagans, however, are not yet ready for another throw for Wessex; and
so when Mercia is sucked dry for the present, and will no longer