After a night's rest, Vig left thirty Viking farmers to haul the wounded and supplies back to Tynemouth. The rest pressed on.
By midday they reached a vast, grass-choked ruin. Harry pointed ahead.
"My lord, there—it is the Roman wall. It runs all the way to the western sea."
Hadrian's Wall?
Vig spurred his gray forward. Memory stirred.
In the year 122, Emperor Hadrian had toured Britain. To ward off the northern tribes—the Picts, whom Rome called Caledonii—he ordered a grand defense: a wall from the River Tyne to the Solway Firth, more than a hundred kilometers long, four and a half meters high, three meters thick.
Climbing a surviving stair, Vig startled a flock of sparrows from the stones. Feathers drifted down. At the top, he laid a hand on weathered battlements, gazing out over the empty moors. His lips moved, murmuring lines from Ozymandias:
I am Ozymandias, King of Kings.
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.
Nothing beside remains.
Round the decay of that colossal wreck,
boundless and bare,
the lone and level sands stretch far away.
"A fine verse, my lord, a fine verse," cried Mitcham and Harry, though neither understood the tongue. Their noisy flattery broke the moment, and Vig turned away, leading the march onward.
Three hours later they struck their next target. The ram smashed the gates easily enough, but the manor lord and his men had holed up in a stone tower, ready to die.
"Do not storm it. Fall back!" Vig commanded.
Instead they stacked brushwood inside the lower level. Smoke billowed, choking the defenders until they surrendered before nightfall.
This manor, smaller than the first, brought only ten pounds of silver at auction, with meager grain and livestock besides. Yet the wine cellar was full of ale, enough to leave the army drunk and sprawling by morning.
With no choice, Vig declared an extra day's rest.
That delay gave the remaining four lords their chance. They met in secret and forged a desperate plan.
Two days later, four figures in fine garb appeared on the road ahead. Vig expected battle.
"Good. One strike to end it, then no more chasing strays," he muttered.
Even if each manor emptied its men, they could muster no more than two hundred farmers. Hardly worth concern.
"Form the shieldwall. Ready for combat."
From horseback he scanned the fields for ambush. None. Not in the northeast thickets, where gaudy pheasants pecked seeds in peace. No two hundred men could hide there.
Still the four figures advanced, slowly. Jorund squinted.
"My lord… they look as though they mean to yield."
Yield?
It defied belief. Vig had expected either pitched battle or a raid against Tynemouth itself. But surrender?
Minutes later the four squires knelt, faces ashen.
"My lord, we never meant treason. We missed your banquet only for urgent matters."
To buy forgiveness, each offered two pounds of silver, a horse, two oxen, two pigs, and six sheep.
Vig stroked his beard, weighing the matter. He turned to the village elders and squires trailing his host. Their verdict: accept. Better end the campaign here than drive matters to ruin.
"Very well. Learn your lesson," Vig said at last.
One by one, the four bent to kiss the gold ring on his finger. Then they signaled a hilltop. From behind it twelve peasants drove forward livestock as ransom.
"Mitcham. Count the dues."
"At once, my lord."
When all was tallied, Vig led his men back to Tynemouth. There he dismissed the ninety-five raiders still under hire. As recompense he paid each five silver coins—four hundred seventy-five in all, nearly two pounds of silver.
The raiders, bound south, promised to spread word once home: Tynemouth sought Viking settlers, offering thirty acres free and two years tax-exempt.
"Who knows," one laughed, "when I am too old for war, perhaps I'll come to live there myself."
When they had gone, Vig counted his own gains: thirty-one pounds of silver, a mail shirt, and some beasts besides.
"Stable the horses, pigs, and sheep. Set men to pasture them on the fallow fields. As for the oxen—one pair can plow fifteen acres. Each household will need two."
After thought, he decreed: the oxen would be sold to settlers on credit, repayable within three years. None might slaughter a draught beast; to do so meant harsh punishment. Even with permission, the hide must be surrendered to the lord.
Armor was costly, but with leather and iron plates he could at least fashion crude brigandines for common troops.
He sighed. "I'd hoped to raise more shield-bearers. That must wait."
From bitter experience he knew the worth of such men—trained guards whose steel far outmatched peasant levies. But they required coin, arms, and generous food.
To keep twenty shield-bearers loyal, he ordered villagers to supply twenty river fish and twenty eggs daily, with ale served often enough to remind them of their place of honor.
He remembered, grimly, another lesson of history.
In Tang times, every soldier on campaign received wine, beef, rice, and bread as standard ration. But Emperor Dezong once broke with tradition, granting only coarse fare. The Jingyuan mutiny followed, and Dezong fled Chang'an—the third emperor driven from his capital.
"No," Vig muttered. "On rations I cannot be stingy. I'll find other ways to raise coin."
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