By noon the next day, the company left the plains behind. To the east stretched a vast marsh, rich in peat; to the west rose an expanse of rolling hills.
Pascas had explained that this road was a remnant of Roman days, linking northern Northumbria with the central and southern lands. Wayfarers were often waylaid here. Kings had sent patrols to scour the hills, but with little effect.
"Stay sharp," Vig ordered from atop a light-gray mare. "This stretch is notorious for bandits. Shields ready at the wagons—be prepared for a fight."
The road ahead lay deserted. On the left, dense woods clung to the slopes; on the right, a veil of mist hovered over the marsh, broken now and then by eerie, unearthly sounds.
That night they camped on an open rise. Vig set a three-shift watch—one hundred men awake at all times to hold the line in case of an ambush.
He slept with his Dragon's Breath sword across his chest, waking to the dawn sun on his face. Breakfast done, they pressed on. Yet the danger never came. They marched through the whole stretch unchallenged.
"Strange," Vig muttered. "Was Pascas exaggerating?"
Jorunn, his old neighbor, pondered aloud. "Even if there are Anglo bandits, lord, they would not dare assail three hundred men—least of all with your banner flying."
Vig gazed at the black standard ahead, emblazoned with a golden dragon. A thought struck him: he was no longer the small-time Karlami of old. A lord now, he could—and must—show his strength.
By the third evening they stopped in a village on Pascas's land. The River Tees wound eastward nearby, and at its mouth stood the wooden fortress his family had long held.
Another day brought them to a crossroads marked "Durham." Beyond lay the lands of Tynemouth, Vig's new fief.
He dismounted, scooped a handful of soil, and examined it. Far richer than the thin earth of Gothenburg.
"This is the land you've promised us?" the settlers asked, smiling at last. They had chosen the right man to follow.
"Nearly there," Vig said. "I'll settle you near Tynemouth itself."
On the fifth morning, they reached the River Tyne. By fortune, two local fishermen guided them to an old bridge upstream. Crossing to the north bank, they at last saw their destination: Tynemouth.
"So this is my new home? What a wretched sight…"
The wooden fort stood on a low hill by the riverbank, surrounded by a four-meter palisade of oak, roughly square, two hundred meters to a side. The gate stood ajar. The air stank. Mangy dogs slunk through the filthy lanes. The place looked less like a stronghold than an abandoned slum.
The fishermen stammered out the tale. The former lord had marched south with his heir last year and never returned. When word came that Northumbria had fallen, his lady fled with the remaining guard and all the treasures, into Pictish lands.
With the family gone, villagers stripped the place bare—grain, bedding, livestock, then pots and pans. Even tables, chairs, and brooms had vanished.
"Well," Vig sighed, "at least it spared us a siege."
Flanked by his shieldmen, he inspected the walls. Between the double palisade ran a packed-earth path wide enough for two men abreast. A tower in the southeast corner gaped with a hole, stagnant water reeking inside.
South of the hill, heaps of stone lined the riverbank. Their purpose was unclear. To the east, north, and west stretched mostly abandoned fields. Only a handful of peasants labored there. This year's harvest was lost.
"Raise the banner," Vig ordered. "And find a stout pole for it."
"Yes, lord."
He went to the hall in the southwest of the fort. Dust and mildew assailed him as he pushed open the doors. Two black ravens croaked from the rafters, then flapped away into the sky.
"Start cooking. Pick your quarters and stow your gear. And send word to the villagers—I have things to say to them. Mind your manners. Don't frighten them."
He had no wish to squeeze these folk. Instead, he wanted them to spread word:
"Tell every settlement in Tynemouth," he declared in halting Old English, "that their new lord will hold a feast on the fifteenth of April. All reeves and village headmen are invited. I expect their presence."
Sixty men nodded quickly, then huddled together, dividing the task among them.
When they had gone, Jorunn frowned. "Lord, such a feast will need much meat and drink. Do you mean to slaughter your oxen? Or seize the peasants' sheep?"
"Neither," Vig said. "We'll net some trout and carp from the river."
"Fish? At a feast?" Jorunn was aghast. "Without proper meat, people will scorn you."
"Scorn me?" Vig's gaze sharpened. "What good name do you think a Viking holds among these folk? This is settled. No more talk of it."
After lunch, before expectant eyes, Vig led the settlers east, to a fallow tract half a kilometer away. There he parceled out the promised land.
"Thirty acres per household," he proclaimed. "That makes sixty-three plots. By local custom, a tithe and a half—fifteen percent—of all produce belongs to me. For the first two years, no tax. Each year, you will give two weeks of unpaid labor service. Any objections?"
"None," the crowd muttered, eager only to sow seed before it was too late.
Winter wheat was Britain's staple, sown in autumn, harvested in early summer. But it was April now. They would have to sow barley instead.
Vig watched their distracted faces and felt, absurdly, like a twenty-first century teacher addressing students desperate for dismissal. He let them go.
Soon after, the raiders approached, asking when they would ride.
"No rush," Vig told them. "After the feast. Someone will surely refuse the invitation. That will give me cause to strike."
Over the next week he set them to the forests, felling timber for rams and ladders, and fifty great square shields like door panels. Only on the day of the feast did he bother to have nets cast for fish—to serve as his banquet's fare.
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