In early October, with all matters arranged, Vig set out southward with a caravan. Besides paying his tribute, he planned to purchase a batch of mail armor to properly equip the thirty new shield-bearers he had recruited.
Arriving at York, he found the city little changed from when he had left. The streets were sparsely populated, ruins still lay uncleared, and birds had made their nests among the rubble.
"Half a year gone… what has Ragnar been doing all this time?"
Along the way he noticed barely a third of the shops were open, with taverns being the most crowded. The stench of ale and the noise of drunken laughter choked whole streets.
"Beer, huh? Maybe I should open a brewery—put all that surplus grain to use before it rots in the granaries."
As the thought struck him, he filed it away in his mind and straightened his clothes before approaching the palace gates.
The guard captain was Nils. After exchanging a few words, he waved his men aside. "Go on in. Most of the lords are already here."
Inside the great hall, Vig heard an officer reading tribute tallies aloud:
"Lord Tiss—four horses, sixteen oxen, twenty sheep, five hundred bushels of wheat…"
By a rough reckoning, Pascas's tribute matched his own. After all, they both ruled in the north, and conditions there were little better for either of them.
Next came Ulf. His face was dark with shame, his tribute list crumpled in his hand. The slim clerk took it, smoothed it out, and read in a loud voice:
"Lord of Liverpool—ten oxen, ten sheep, five hundred bushels of grain, twenty barrels of…" He stopped, glanced up at Ulf, and struggled not to grin.
"…twenty barrels of dried eels." He finished, then looked toward Ragnar on the throne and Queen Sola at his side.
Ragnar, crowned with gold, kept a straight face, though it was clear he wanted to say something. But Halfdan could not contain himself. His laughter spread through the lords until the whole hall rang with mirth.
Through it all, only Vig, Sola, and Pascas kept stern faces, showing no weakness.
Clapping his hands, young Ubbe, perched on his mother's knee, shouted gleefully: "Earl Eel! Earl Eel!"
"Silence!" Ragnar barked, glaring at his third and fourth sons. Then, in a gentler tone, he asked Ulf, "What happened?"
Flushing with anger and shame, Ulf answered, "I had meant to pay in sheep. But bandits from Wales struck my flocks—three hundred gone!"
Ragnar stepped down from the throne, poured him a cup of wine. "Liverpool's soil is poor and its people few. I understand. Next year, deal with these bandits—bring me their heads."
"Thank you, Your Majesty." Ulf bowed and withdrew.
Now it was Vig's turn. He handed his list to the unfamiliar Anglo clerk, who gave him a polite smile. "I am Godwin, my lord."
When Godwin read the list aloud, Ragnar did a quick tally. A single bolt of woolen cloth was worth five shillings—twenty bolts came to five pounds. Add the livestock and grain, and the total was about ten pounds of silver.
"Not bad. Tynemouth's population is larger only than Derwent's and Liverpool's—third from the bottom. For you to gather this much shows your loyalty."
Vig bowed deeply. "I have always been your most faithful servant."
At last, it was over.
Joining the line of lords on the right, Vig asked Ulf quietly, "Who hasn't arrived yet?"
"Leonard and Ivar."
Just then Leonard strode into the hall with ten retainers, each carrying a great white swan.
Holding Manchester, second only to York in wealth, Leonard presented tribute worth forty pounds of silver—plus ten elegant swans, a gift to the queen.
"Thank you for your generosity," Sola said, her stern features softening at the sight of the flawless white birds.
"But they can fly. Will they not escape unless chained or caged?"
Leonard laughed and shook his head. "Each year at molting, we clip their feathers. They cannot fly. I've even brought a swan-keeper to tend them."
Having made his show, Leonard took his place at the very front of the line, flaunting his position as the mightiest vassal.
For the next half hour, Ragnar, Pascas, and Godwin discussed wine and wool.
Wine came from the Franks; wool was Northumbria's chief export. But with Britain's weak textile industry, much of the wool had to be sold raw to Flanders. There, in towns like Ypres, Bruges, Ghent, and Antwerp, merchants spun it into cloth and sold it across the Continent. Those towns prospered, growing into cities.
"Your Majesty," Pascas said, weary from the strain on the treasury, "war has bled the crown's coffers dry. I propose we levy tariffs on imported wine, and raise the price of exported wool."
Ragnar hesitated. Hosting Norse fleets that stopped at York was costly. By courtesy he always held feasts, once serving fine wine at every table, until Sola urged him to reserve it for nobles and kings, giving mead to common raiders. Even so, the treasury still dwindled. If no new revenues were found, bankruptcy loomed within the year.
He would not show weakness before his vassals. He waved a hand casually. "Do as you suggest."
Afterward, Ragnar settled two land disputes between squires, then ordered a smith to increase iron shipments. As noon drew near, just as he was about to call for the meal, Ivar at last appeared—swaggering in a black cloak.
"Well, all my lords are gathered?"
His sharp gaze fell on the stranger beside the throne. "And who is this skinny fellow?"
"This is Godwin," Ragnar replied. "My new clerk, assisting Pascas." He gestured for Ivar to hand over his tribute list.
But Ivar only spread his hands in mock despair.
"I ran into some trouble in Ireland. No grain, no livestock to bring."
Then he whistled. Four pale-skinned, slim-figured women entered the hall. "This year, these will have to do. Forgive me. Next year, I'll pay double."
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