When word ca that the prince was dead and the crown lost, the old king of rcia fell into despair within the fortress of Tamworth.
He ordered fire-oil poured through every chamber, dismissed servants and guards alike, and then—under countless gazes—ascended to the battlents. There he set afla the stronghold that had long embodied rcian kingship.
After more than two months, the Norse host had taken Tamworth, slain the royal heir, and fulfilled the first stage of their campaign.
Ragnar then declared a halt for rest. The n had endured freezing marches and weeks of toil in the wild. If pressed further now, mutiny was more likely than victory.
The burning of the fortress destroyed countless records, most crucially the ledgers of royal revenue. With nothing left, Ragnar set Pascas to reconstructing accounts. Vig, whose Latin was passable, was ordered to assist.
"This is a hopeless tangle," Vig muttered. "We'll be buried in this for months."
Sighing, he proposed a thod: hunt down forr scribes and servants of the crown, question each individually, and compile what they knew.
"A sensible idea," Pascas agreed, and thus began the long, dreary task.
rcia's wealth rested chiefly on land. Peasants bound to royal estates owed rents in kind—grain, honey—and two weeks' unpaid labor each year.
The crown also possessed vast forests, where poaching was forbidden. Hunters had to register and submit furs, and even peasants cutting firewood paid levy.
Beyond agriculture, two further streams of inco flowed:
Trade and tolls: royal authority licensed tollgates and market taxes.
Coinage: silver from two small mines was slted into coins bearing the king's face.
Lastly, the old king had issued five monopoly charters, granting Flemish rchants exclusive rights over wool and honey exports, yielding him handso returns.
After ten fruitless days, the two exhausted n had no figures to show. Relief ca when Godwin and a band of clerks arrived from York. Vig gladly shoved the ledgers into their hands and retreated to read in peace.
In February, Ivar at last arrived with four hundred n. Ragnar neither scolded his eldest nor offered effusive welco, holding only a modest feast.
"There are too many Irish lords," Ivar said over his cup. "Crush one, another rises. Endless rebellion. I've scarcely rested a whole year."
Even his fierce temper had yielded. To pacify the land, he had wed a petty noble's daughter, lightened taxes, and governed Dublin in local fashion.
Drunk, he sighed a rare confession:
"Perhaps for years, even decades, I'll be mired in that bottomless swamp. So advise to bring in Norse settlers… but we'll see. One step at a ti."
Vig listened in silence, weighing his own estate.
Suddenly, a rider burst into the hall, cloak white with snow. "The garrison of Nottingham offers to surrender!"
"Nottingham?" Ragnar blinked, shaking off the wine haze. Indeed, the border town had held out three full months. To block their raids, a thousand Norsen had been tied down outside its walls—a fifth of all mobile strength.
"What terms?"
The rider handed him a sealed parchnt. Ragnar broke the wax, and Pascas read aloud.
In flowery style, Theowulf, lord of Nottingham, declared he would not submit as vassal. He would yield the town only if he, his household, soldiers, and wealth were allowed to march south unhard.
"rcian stubbornness," Ragnar muttered. The wine dulled his judgnt. He waved vaguely toward the nobles. "One of you… settle it."
Monts later he slumped forward, snoring into the table.
On the right, Vig turned to Ivar in puzzlent. "Did he an you—or ?"
Ivar shrugged. "No idea."
"Bah, I was born for drudgery." Vig scooped up the parchnt, sighed, and went to pack. At dawn he set out north.
In early February, Vig's company reached Nottingham.
The siege camp was squalid. A thousand Norse were ant to hold the blockade, yet the place sward with rchants and harlots, resembling a filthy fairground. If Theowulf struck by night, odds of success would be seven in ten.
Vig refused to stay inside. Riding ahead alone, he waited in the snow two hundred paces from the gate.
Soon the eastern gate creaked open. A richly dressed rider approached and dismounted.
"I am Theowulf, lord of Nottingham. And you?"
"Vig, lord of Tynemouth," ca the reply.
Vig held up the parchnt. "The king agrees to your terms. Speak—when will you yield?"
"Grant us one week to prepare."
"Three days," Vig cut him short. "No more. At dawn on the third, the gates open—or I'll summon the host and storm your walls."
Theowulf bowed wearily. Terms struck, he returned within.
Three days later, the gates opened. Theowulf led out soldiers, kin, and willing townsfolk—seventeen hundred souls in all.
"Lord, may you keep your word," he said quietly.
Vig gave a curt nod, then shadowed the long column south for five weary days, until every last marcher had quit rcian soil.
~~--------------------------
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