"An explanation?" Vig stooped to right the fallen golden candelabrum, his gaze drifting idly across the painted walls.
"In war, prisoners are always taken. Perhaps Ælud caught a few Vikings, tortured them, and learned where the ships were moored. Nothing more."
"You take me for a fool?" Erik's voice dripped with venom. "Someone coveted Northumbria's crown—so he betrayed the fleet's location, lured the enemy to burn it, and forced two thousand of us into a bloodbath. Spread that tale, and tell me—who would doubt it?"
From Gothenburg they had sailed with thirty-five hundred. After months of killing, barely two thousand remained. Erik knew—once the charge of treachery was loosed, most warriors would rally behind him.
"Ragnar Lodbrok, Ivar the Boneless, and you, 'God's Chosen' Vig. Yes, your names carry weight. But no name will save you."
He raised his hand, fingers shifting in mocking gestures. "How many will still follow you when they know the truth? A hundred? Two? Three?"
"More than that."
Vig pointed toward the encampment. "You forget the 2,700 prisoners. I've already placed Nils' men over the stores, ready to arm them at a word. The captives don't care who betrayed the fleet. They only know you sought their deaths, while Ragnar protected them. If blades are drawn, whose side do you think they'll take?"
Erik stared as though facing a madman.
"Good. Very good. So it was all premeditated. Perhaps you were meant to be an Angle all along—scheming and deceitful."
"Premeditated? And you, Erik—so innocent? Tell me, when your brother took Oslo's throne, did some demon truly whisper him off the cliff? Or was that tale of sorcery merely a younger brother's excuse?"
"Vig, enough." Ragnar stepped in, laying an arm about Erik's shoulders. "We are family. Sola is your beloved sister—my dearest wife. Imagine her grief, should she hear her husband and brother turned upon each other."
He pressed further, voice low and persuasive: "Let us cooperate. You return to Oslo as king of Norway. I remain here as king of Northumbria. Together, we rule. The choice is yours—partnership or blood feud."
Night fell. Under the wary stares of their men, Ragnar and Erik left York Minster shoulder to shoulder, smiles wide, as though they were brothers reborn.
"To Ragnar," Erik cried, lifting his hand, "greatest of Viking heroes! None but he deserves to be king of Northumbria!"
Ragnar answered in kind: "To Erik, sole master of Norway! May Odin bless his line forever!"
Behind them, in the cathedral's shadows, Vig watched in silence, his eyes deep and unreadable.
The true test lay ahead—the division of spoils. He had gambled everything in this bloody game. Now he waited to see his share.
That night, the palace—its stones still stained with blood—hosted a grand feast. The Viking lords devoured roasted meats, but kept their hands from wine and mead. None dared cloud their wits with drink; all awaited the council to come.
Candlelight flickered across the hall. Shadows stretched long and twisted, dancing like demons upon the walls.
Vig sat calm at the central table. Having overheard the kings' earlier quarrel, many leaned close, seeking whispers of the land's fate.
"I know nothing. Nor is it my place," he answered each, even to Ivar himself.
Then the hall doors opened. A thin, pale Anglo-Saxon noble stepped inside, clad in black linen. Ivar recognized him at once.
"Pascas?"
Feeling the weight of hostile eyes, Pascas adjusted the sapphire brooch on his chest and strode to the throne. He dropped to one knee, pledging fealty to Ragnar as king of Northumbria.
Ragnar himself lifted the man and presented him proudly. "Pascas, hereditary lord of Tees, well-versed in Northumbria's affairs. I intend to appoint him treasurer."
The words sent a ripple of unease through the gathering. Soon Ragnar, Erik, and Pascas withdrew into a chamber at the hall's right.
Left behind, the feasting nobles erupted in quarrel. Seven of them remained—shareholders in the raid, who had risked life and gold for its prize. And now, the kings chose to shut them out, while favoring a surrendered Angle.
"That pale little Angle?" Lennart slammed his cup against the table. "He couldn't best a shieldmaiden, yet he's made treasurer!"
"Right," Ulf snarled, gnawing a pig's foot. "And they let him keep his land in Tees! Where is Tees, anyway? Don't tell me it's in the fertile south?"
At the mention of land, greed lit every face. Lennart boasted first: "I brought 320 men, forty suits of mail, and seventy bows. I've earned Manchester, stone walls and all!"
One by one, they trumpeted their contributions—ten longships, five thousand arrows, levies of men—each claiming his right.
The hall grew hot with rivalry. The veneer of celebration was gone.
At Vig's side, Nils fidgeted. "What are they doing in there? Why bring Pascas, and not us?"
"What else?" Vig muttered, stroking his jaw. "Ragnar is a stranger here. He'll be prying out Northumbria's secrets. That will take time. Best we wait."
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