"Building a motte-and-bailey, hoarding arms, defying their rightful lord—these are no mere peasants. Forward, attack!"
Two hundred meters from the palisade, Vig ordered the siege engines assembled. He had no thought of parley.
Fifty bowmen advanced first. From the wagons they drew heavy door-sized shields, set them upright with stout poles, and crouched behind them at one hundred fifty meters. From there, arrows flew.
On the walls, only twenty Anglo archers loosed back, and poorly at that. They were farmers, not soldiers. Under the hail, they dared not lift their heads, though their master's curses rained down upon them.
Meanwhile thirty Vikings rolled forward the ram, a lumbering tortoise of timber and hide.
The defenders shot in panic, but most shafts thudded useless into the ram's roof. One man took a cut to the arm; the rest pressed on.
At the gate, the chant began: "Pull! Push! Strike!"
With a resounding crack the oak doors burst, splinters flying. Twenty mailed warriors surged through, shields high.
Vig drew his sword and charged behind them. Steel rang, boots crunched over wreckage. The defenders, outnumbered and untrained, faltered.
The manor lord himself appeared—clad in mail. Vig spat, then lunged. His blade pierced the man's wrist before he could raise his weapon.
An axe came from the left. Vig caught it on his shield, twisted, and rammed his sword up beneath the rim into the man's throat. He fell gargling.
Two more closed. Vig's slash split one belly open, entrails spilling onto the dirt. The other turned to flee—Vig kicked him headfirst into a haystack, his legs flailing comically from the straw.
"Yield, and live!" Vig roared. His voice cracked like thunder. Silence fell.
A youth dropped his pitchfork. One by one the others followed.
"No! Fight, you dogs! Kill the heathens!" the wounded lord screamed, clutching his ruined wrist.
Vig's patience snapped. "Name him."
"The master of this manor," came the answer.
Vig sighed. "Then in the name of King Ragnar, I judge you guilty of treason. Jorund—hang him."
Before a hundred and fifty witnesses, the lord was hauled beneath an oak and strangled with a hempen noose.
When it was done, Vig declared the manor's wealth forfeit. The lord's family would be taken to Tynemouth in chains. Tenants and serfs might remain—indeed, if they joined the next campaign, they would earn plots of their own.
"Who among you will fight?"
Long silence. At last a young man asked, "How much land?"
"Fifteen acres."
That won ten volunteers, though their loyalty was thin.
The victors spent half a day cataloging spoils. The raiders seized silver and goods; peasants carried off grain and stock. Vig's personal share:
One old mail shirt
Two iron swords
Two horses
Four oxen
Twenty-one sheep
And one peculiar man
The last was a gaunt, balding fellow named Mitcham. Once a minor landholder, he had been imprisoned over a dispute. Vig quizzed him with a few sums and found his wit sharp enough.
"In future," Vig announced before all, "Mitcham will collect taxes. If you suspect him of cheating, bring your complaint to me."
"My lord, you need not fear. I will honor the charge," Mitcham said, tugging a filthy leather cap low. His eyes glittered with a cold malice.
Vig nodded. Good. I need such zeal. But if he goes too far, I can always cast him to the mob.
Next came appeasement. "Who wishes to purchase this manor? Highest bidder takes it."
The words fell like oil on fire. Hands shot up, offers flying.
"Two pounds of silver!"
"Three, and two cows!"
The price climbed to fifteen pounds. The winner, a corpulent squire named Harry, sweetened the deal:
"My lord, my manor has a smith. His sons are grown—one takes the forge, the other seeks fortune. I would present this Caddell to your service."
A smith?
Vig's face hardened. In these lands, smiths ranked far above carpenters or herdsmen. Among the Norse there was a saying: a blacksmith always has a seat at the lord's table.
"As you wish."
Mitcham wrote the charter, granting Harry the manor for fifteen pounds of silver, with the rare stone tower included.
Harry scratched his neck. "Might I pay half in gold?"
"Accepted." Gold or silver, both were good coin.
Vig frowned thoughtfully. "A stone tower is rare in these parts. In the south, wooden forts abound. How did you manage this, when the north is poorer?"
Harry gave a surprising answer.
"Long ago the Romans built a wall from sea to sea—Hadrian's Wall. In these last decades of Viking raids, a squire tore it down and carted stone for his hall. The last lord wished to build a castle, even hired a mason to draw plans. But his family owed the bishop of York a crushing debt. Thirty years they tried and failed to repay, so no castle rose."
So that explains it.
No wonder the riverbanks lay strewn with moss-covered Roman stone.
If stone was near at hand, Vig resolved to gather wealth enough. He would raise his own stronghold: first the keep, then the outer wall. One day, it would stand complete.
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