The aftermath of the failed assault was grim. Three hundred lives had been spent for nothing. Erik's prestige collapsed; more than half his men drifted away to Ragnar's banner.
No one now dared speak of storming York again. The long, joyless season of blockade began.
Since the Ouse flowed beside the city, the river had to be cut as well. To choke the western bank, Erik volunteered to build a camp there. Within days, his command dwindled to a thousand. Any longer, and more would desert to Ragnar.
Thus the Vikings split in two: Ragnar's eastern camp, laboring at ditches, timbering, and siegeworks; Erik's western camp, raiding farms and villages for quick plunder.
By mid-June, enemy scouts began to appear. Vig knew what it meant: reinforcements were gathering. He began tallying Northumbria's strength.
He recalled the Domesday Book of 1066, compiled when William of Normandy conquered England. It listed one and a half million souls, nine of ten tilling fields. By back-calculation, the ninth-century kingdoms could boast far fewer.
"If the Heptarchy has but 1.2 million," Vig mused, quill scratching papyrus, "Wessex holds perhaps three hundred thousand, Mercia and Northumbria two hundred fifty each, the other four but a hundred thousand apiece."
He penciled out armies next. With poor medieval logistics, no realm could raise more than three percent of its people. That gave Northumbria six to seven thousand levy spearmen.
He hissed through his teeth. "That will be… troublesome."
Carrying his charts, Vig entered Ragnar's tent. Inside, Ivar and Lennart argued over targets.
Erik, it turned out, had grown rich plundering villages and boasted of marching south to Sheffield. Ivar fretted, "If we don't act, our men will run back to him for spoils."
Vig steadied his breath. He proposed a strategy of encirclement and interception—ignore towns, bleed the Angles in the field, whittle their strength until half a year's campaigning left Northumbria shattered.
Ragnar laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "You see far, Vig. But the men care only for food, drink, and women. Sometimes a leader must bend to their hunger. One day, when you lead, you'll understand."
So Vig's plan was set aside. Raiding parties grew instead, two hundred swelling to five hundred each. Yet hunger never ended. Rumors spread: Ragnar wanted York not for plunder, but to seize a crown.
He thundered against the slander, swearing all was for the host. But discontent ran deep. By mid-July, two-thirds of both camps were scattered on raids, their jarls powerless to recall them.
July 15.
The dead king Ælla returned from the grave. With two thousand levies he marched to the Ouse, and the red-and-gold royal banner flew again. York's walls rang with bells and cries; the people hailed their savior.
"Warriors! Cleanse our city of these pagan dogs!" Ælla shouted, pointing his blade across the river. His shieldwall advanced.
But Erik was gone south with his plunder host, hammering at Sheffield. The western camp held barely a hundred drunkards and a pen of filthy sheep.
Vig watched in despair as the Anglian line crashed through. The Vikings fled like startled ducks, splashing into the shallows of the Ouse. Thirty fell to arrows before the rest swam to Ragnar's side, carrying panic into the whole army.
Two days later, Erik returned. He saw his camp in ashes and shrugged. Sheffield had yielded iron and fine wool beyond counting. He had what he wanted.
In Ragnar's war council, Erik urged retreat.
"Fortune never favors one man forever. We have filled our purses. Do not cling to Britain's false splendor. Our roots lie in the North."
Ivar tested him: "But Vig's engines are finished. After two months, should we not strike once, lest the men call us cowards?"
Erik upended a wineskin, honey-mead dripping down his beard. "Let them say what they please. I came for treasure, not to break myself on Northumbria's levies."
Others murmured assent. Even Ragnar's own jarls wavered. Seeing the tide, Ragnar bowed to it, announcing a feast of victory.
The tables groaned with fare Britain offered richer than the North:
whole pigs crisped to crackling, mutton stewed with leeks, geese stuffed with mince and hazelnuts, cockle chowder, lamprey fried in butter, and rare Frankish wine.
The deep red sweetness enchanted every jarl. Mead was forgotten, cups refilled again and again.
Ragnar poured freely, praising Erik and his peers, swearing their glory would be sung by skalds until the world's ending.
~~--------------------------
Patreon Advanced Chapters:
patreon.com/YonkoSlayer