At the feast, Vig sat quietly at the far end of the long table, studying the flickers of expression across every guest's face.
He had come to know Ragnar well. The man was no idle lordling content with drink and comfort. Beneath the genial, boisterous mask lay ambition as deep and unfathomable as the abyss.
By candlelight, a bard in green robe plucked harp and reed-pipe, singing of Beowulf's banquet after slaying the monster Grendel:
King Hrothgar bestowed golden torcs upon warriors and lords—
tokens of valor to live on in song and memory forever.
Wine cups clashed. Firelight swayed. Vig bided his time until the hall emptied, its revelers sprawled drunken over tables. Then he caught Ragnar's glance—a subtle signal.
So. He has other designs.
Vig followed him outside, wary eyes searching for hidden axemen. None revealed themselves.
"What are you looking for?" Ragnar asked.
"Too much wine. My head spins," Vig muttered, choosing not to voice his suspicion.
They slipped into a narrow, dim tent. Soon Ivar, Bjorn, Gunnar, and other close men gathered.
The reckoning was plain: the Viking host had withered to 2,600. Over half would soon sail home with Erik. Those who stayed longed to raid easier prey in East Anglia or Kent, not bleed against Northumbria's levies.
"All because Erik's a coward," Ivar spat. "We forged engines, we stand at York's gates—and he dreams of going home to rut with his wives!"
Vig spoke lightly, almost offhand:
"After Mancunium, Ælla's guard was shattered. The two thousand levies he drags now are poor farmers. But our will is divided. Unless Erik has no escape, he'll never fight."
"Then we strip away every escape," Ivar hissed. "We hold prisoners, do we not? Let them run. Let them tell Ælla where the treasure fleet lies. He'll hurl everything to seize it. His coffers are broken by war and burnt fields—he cannot allow our spoils to sail away."
Faces hardened, wavered. Ragnar paced the small space, torn.
Sensing hesitation, Vig pressed:
"Erik defies you because he fears you. He dreams of kingship over Norway itself. When that day comes, will you bow—or fight? Why not claim your own crown now? Take York. Rule Northumbria. From here you can strike south or sail home as sovereign, not raider."
Vig's own heart recoiled at endless plunder. Battles aged men swiftly. He would rather win land to govern, building patiently in obscurity. But Ragnar was another matter—he could wear the crown while Vig tended the roots.
"King of Northumbria…" Ragnar muttered, the firelight carving half his face into shadow, half into grimace.
At length he exhaled, heavy. "The risk is great. If Ælla burns our fleet and steals the hoard, we are stranded."
Vig nearly cursed aloud. This is no marketplace bargain! No throne is won without risk.
Others joined the push—Bjorn, Nils, Gunnar.
"Father, you were a poor farmer once, and dared the sea. Have you forgotten that courage?"
"Uncle, the seers foretold a crown for you. Would you spurn the gods' decree?"
Pressed from all sides, Ragnar's eyes blazed. At last he chose the greatest gamble of his life.
When the council ended, Vig and Nils staggered toward the prisoner pens, wine in hand, playing drunk.
"By Thor, we've lined our pockets well," Nils slurred loudly. "Once the hoard's back in Norway, no more raids for years."
Vig called out, "I can't count—how much in all?"
"Three thousand pounds of silver, a hundred of gold, iron, wool, grain piled higher than the ships can bear."
He noted several captives stiffen—their ears catching the Norse tongue. Vig leaned into the ruse.
"Where again? The hoard and ships?"
"North bank of the Humber," Nils obliged, "near the fork where the ruined abbey stands, with a mill to the east. Easy to find."
He repeated the markers, again and again, until they walked away—dropping a key behind them.
No guard stood watch; Ivar had lured them off with drink. The captives slipped their locks, crawled through a gap in the palisade like foxes, and vanished into night.
By dawn, Ragnar learned thirty prisoners had fled. He lashed the guards bloody with twenty strokes each. Then, with feigned good cheer, he called another feast—summoning Erik and the jarls once more to drink.
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