With their ships reduced to ashes, a broken and despairing Erik dragged himself back to the Viking camp outside York.
The news spread like wildfire. Ragnar and his sworn men erupted in fury, howling for the blood of every Northumbrian royal.
"Brothers, the retreat is cut off. Only one path remains—fight to the death!"
Rather than lash out in blame, Ragnar addressed the host. His words, sharpened by oratory skill, turned despair into vengeance. By the end, the remaining 2,100 Vikings roared as one, their spirits rekindled with murderous zeal.
In the crowd, Vig grinned faintly. The first stage of his plan was complete. Now came the next step—conquest.
To him, Viking warbands were wolves: feed them too much and they grew sluggish, but keep them half-starved and their fangs were sharpest.
Meanwhile, York thrummed with celebration. Over a thousand soldiers escorted wagon after wagon of plunder to the River Ouse, ferried across to the city.
At their head rode Prince Ælla, clad in chainmail upon a white horse. The citizens thronged the streets, chanting his name. Girls leaned from windows, showering petals upon him. Some landed in his hand; he lifted them to his nose, breathing in a fragrance he had never known.
So this was the taste of victory?
At the palace, he found his father, King Ælud, gathered with nine earls, reviewing tax reports.
By Roman custom, the island's kingdoms minted silver coinage. A penny weighed about 1.46 grams, stamped with the monarch's likeness. A pound of silver—349.9 grams—yielded 240 pennies (1 pound = 20 shillings = 240 pence).
Last year had been bountiful. With good harvests, the crown's income reached 1,300 pounds of silver—the richest year of Ælud's reign. But fate had turned. Viking raids gutted the realm. Leeds, Sheffield, and the fertile south lay wasted. This year's revenue might not reach 500 pounds—if the raiders were crushed quickly.
"Father. My lords."
The earls rose to greet the young prince. Ælud asked at once how much treasure the raid had yielded. Rumor had promised three thousand pounds of silver.
"One thousand and thirty pounds of silver. Fifty-seven pounds of gold. The rest—iron, woolens, and grain," Ælla replied. He admitted some longships had slipped away with loot, and much had sunk with burning hulls into the riverbed.
"Not enough. Far from enough." Ælud rubbed his eyes. He had hoped the Vikings would scatter after their fleet's destruction. Instead, they still camped stubbornly before York.
The war would drag on. The treasure would not suffice. But where could he find more?
War devoured coin without mercy. To re-equip his palace guard—three hundred men in mail, helms, shields, swords, tunics, boots, and yellow surcoats—would cost three pounds of silver per man. After the battle of Mancunium, only a quarter remained. Rebuilding the guard meant 700 pounds in arms alone, over a thousand with wages and training—four-fifths of annual income.
"Has it come to this?" Ælla murmured.
Taxation was his first thought. But the south was ruined. Press too hard and peasants would flee to Mercia.
If not tax, then loans. He turned to his father and suggested borrowing from the Church.
"Let me think," Ælud muttered.
The monasteries were rich, free of royal taxes, funded by tithes of a tenth of all produce. The king had borrowed before—five times. Never had he repaid in full. Always, land was ceded in place of coin. Each grant weakened the crown, strengthened the Church. If it continued, who would rule Northumbria?
One earl urged a compromise: "Borrow now, defeat the Northmen, then levy a special tax through the Witan to repay."
But Earl Pascas offered a bolder thought. "If the war cannot be won, why not parley? Let the Vikings plunder Mercia. We have little left to lose."
"You dare say such madness?" Ælla sprang to his feet. "We burned their fleet! Shall we let them walk free? Next you'll pay them tribute!"
No English kingdom had yet stooped to pay the Northmen. To do so would invite scorn from all Christendom.
Yet none in that hall could guess that, a century and a half later in 991, mighty Wessex would buy peace with 10,000 pounds of silver, then again with 16,000—setting a ruinous precedent.
After much wrangling, Ælud accepted Pascas' proposal. The earl would ride to the Viking camp, posing as a negotiator, but in truth to probe their intent.
Pale with dread, Pascas left the gates. At the camp he waited for hours, sweltering in fear, until at last he was led eastward.
Vikings jeered as he passed, shoving him, shrieking to startle him as if he were some rare beast.
At a clearing, he froze. Before him loomed a massive machine. With a thunderous crack, it hurled a stone the size of a barrel. The missile whistled through the air and smashed into the forest, splintering trees like twigs.
Birds shrieked skyward.
"My God… They mean to smash down our walls!" Pascas whispered, horror filling his veins.
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