When it came to raising revenue, Vig's first thought was new industry. Tynemouth sat on the north bank of a river—perfect for a water-powered mill and sawmill.
He spent half a day sketching a design, then summoned the blacksmith Caddell and two farmers handy with carpentry.
"I intend to build a watermill," Vig said. "Figure out how to make it work. There will be a reward when it's done."
"A mill?"
Caddell, the blacksmith's second son, had arrived only two days before with a sack of tools. Seventeen, short and stocky, sharp-eyed. He studied the drawing, then brightened.
"I've seen one before. When I was a boy, I followed my father to work at a monastery. They had wells, gardens, vineyards, a watermill, even a fulling mill. They say monasteries are always built near rivers, to use the water's strength."
"Excellent," Vig nodded. "If you need labor or materials, come to me."
Task in hand, Caddell led the two part-time carpenters to the riverbank. He recalled what he'd seen in the monastery: water driving a wheel, a vertical shaft turning a millstone.
But the lord's sketch was far more complex—four gears in all, with several parts marked for metal fittings.
"Is all this really necessary?"
Scratching his head, Caddell brought the question to Vig. The reply was cool:
"This is the design I learned from the Eastern Romans. More efficient than the old mills. If you're unsure, build a small wooden model first. Master the principle, then attempt the real thing."
Orders were orders. For the next month and a half, Caddell labored ceaselessly, even asking Vig to teach him basic mechanics—levers, pulleys. At last, through sweat and stubbornness, he produced a half-man-high model that spun true.
"Haha! I did it!"
Kneeling by the Tyne, he shouted with joy. Birds scattered from the reeds.
Then four Viking longships swept downstream, packed with two hundred men.
"Raiders!"
Caddell abandoned his model and bolted. Behind him, farmers dropped tools, herded families and livestock, and fled to Tynemouth.
Half were Vikings themselves, but none were foolish enough to trust strangers. In the North, raiders thought nothing of plundering their own kin when greed called.
From the southeast tower, Vig scowled at the chaos below.
"Clear those ox-carts from the gate! Get the people inside. Arm every man fit to fight. Send the women and children to the hall, and keep them off the streets!"
The refugees brought everything—cows, chickens, even one family dragging a table and chairs. Vig could only shake his head.
On the river he fixed his gaze, fingers on his chin.
"Who in the devil thinks it worth raiding me? There's nothing here worth the trouble."
Six dozen Anglo farmers, six dozen Norse, barely four hundred seventy souls in all. The prize? His hoard of forty-one pounds of silver, two mail shirts, twenty lamellar vests, and the Dragon's Breath sword at his hip.
"Fortunately I had trenches dug outside the walls. With the palisade, we can hold against two hundred."
The longships landed. Two hundred men leapt ashore, forming a shieldwall and advancing on the east wall.
At seventy meters, Vig loosed a feathered arrow into the empty ground and called out:
"I am Vig Hakonarson, lord of Tynemouth, appointed by King Ragnar. This land is poor. Better you seek your plunder further south."
From the ranks stepped a giant of a man.
"You are the 'God-chosen' Vig? A misunderstanding. We've no wish to raid you. We go south to join King Ragnar. We… lost our way."
Lost your way? Vig nearly spat. Had he not spoken fast, they'd have "lost their way" right into his granary.
He calmed himself, then gave directions: follow the coast south, past the River Tees to a great marsh, then onward to the Humber.
"The Humber's lord can guide you further."
The giant grinned sheepishly. "We're from eastern Sweden. First time in Britain. But at least our shaman had reason—we were told to seek you."
From behind the shields stepped a black-robed figure. Vig narrowed his eyes. The Crow-Speaker. They had crossed paths before.
"Truly, the gods' prophecy comes to pass," the shaman cried. "You shall conquer Northumbria, achieve what no forebear ever did!"
He tore back his hood, pale face shining with fervor, praising Ragnar, Ivar, and Vig in turn. The host roared his words, like some wild congregation.
"God-chosen!"
"Serpent of the North!" —mistaking Vig's dragon sigil for a monstrous snake.
"Chosen of the Æsir!"
Battle was no longer likely. Vig ordered gifts: an ox, two pigs, six sheep, bread and mead aplenty.
With bellies full and spirits stirred, a quarter of the strangers chose to remain and settle. The rest, hearing Vig had no campaigns in the offing, pushed south for other ventures.
Next morning, laden with supplies, singing loud, the four ships drifted downstream.
"Eat like wolves. Let Ragnar fret over them," Vig muttered, rubbing the dark circles beneath sleepless eyes.
He checked his stores. The wine cellar lay bare, the last honeymead drained. Grain was halved—nowhere near enough to last until autumn dues. He'd have to borrow from the squires.
Weary, he mounted his horse and rode east of Tynemouth, to grant land to the fifty new Norse settlers. Some were lone men, others full families—twenty-five households in all, seven hundred fifty acres between them.
"Two years tax-free. No brawling, no thieving, no killing."
With those words and a nod, he departed under guard. The storm had passed with little blood spilled. Still, for safety, Vig resolved to raise beacon towers downstream—to give warning before the next fleet came.
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