The hall reacted in all sorts of ways to Ivar's tribute. Some nobles whistled, and one even pinched a slave girl's pale cheek, laughing boisterously:
"Ivar, you're a clever one! Next year I'll bring His Majesty a few beauties for his bed too!"
"Silence!" Queen Sola's face darkened as she swept her gaze across the room, finally settling on her notorious stepson. "Lord of Derwent, what exactly are you doing? This is not a slave market, nor a brothel."
"With all due respect, Your Majesty, I am paying tribute," Ivar said calmly, meeting her eyes without flinching. "If you don't want them, you may dispose of them as you please."
At once the air in the hall turned tense as iron. Ragnar, sensing family strife looming, hastily steered the conversation away.
"What happened in Ireland? Do you need me to send the royal guard?"
"I was caught off guard by the locals. No need for you to act. Next spring I'll take Vig with me, gather a few raiding bands, and sweep them off the map."
What? What's this got to do with me?
Vig, who had stood like a statue at the end of the line, lifted his head in surprise, staring at Ivar. But he held his tongue, deciding he would speak with him privately later.
At the banquet, Vig sat beside Ivar and asked about his exploits over the past half year.
Ivar tore a quail in half and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing noisily. "Back in April, I went to my fief. Took me half a month to storm the old lord's stronghold—stone walls, tougher than the usual timber forts. By June, I'd recruited four hundred raiders in York. With my shield-bearers, I had eight hundred men and began building ships."
"Eight hundred Vikings? You didn't levy any of the local militia?"
"No. Anglo peasants are cowards. Better to leave them at home tilling fields." Ivar gulped down wine and continued.
From the Derwent estuary, his fleet sailed west to the Isle of Man, where he quickly crushed two petty lords. Resupplying, he then struck for his true goal: the mouth of the River Liffey, eastern Ireland.
The plan had been to establish a base at the river mouth, expand upriver, and subdue the countryside—step by step becoming king in truth.
But the first step had already gone wrong.
"Damn it! We were too late—the Liffey was already taken!"
Ivar scowled at the memory. "A wooden fort was there—Dyfflin. Ruled by some Viking chief named Sweyn, calling himself king. We fought three times. His ships were much larger. We suffered heavy losses. By the time we fled back to Man in September, I had fewer than five hundred men left."
(Dyfflin, meaning 'Black Pool' in Old Norse, was near the site of modern Dublin.)
From prisoners, Ivar learned Sweyn was a noble from northern Norway who had led settlers years ago. By now Dyfflin held three thousand souls and could field a thousand warriors.
"A thousand men, plus big warships," Vig muttered gravely. "You'd need to win a sea battle first, then a siege. This won't be easy. I advise asking the king to send the royal guard."
"You think I didn't consider that?" Ivar shot a glance at Sola by Ragnar's side. "That woman hates me. If the royal guard steps in, they'll claim half the spoils. What would I be fighting for then? No, Sweyn isn't so fearsome. With you and me together, it'll be enough."
After the feast, Vig went to Gunnar to buy armor. To prepare for war, he chose thirty fine sets of scale mail, with helms, totaling sixty pounds of silver.
Short on coin, he asked to pay later in wheat.
To his surprise, Gunnar didn't hesitate. "It's fine. His Majesty already spoke to me. You and Ivar will need quality arms against Sweyn."
The burly smith pointed to two racks. "There—thirty iron swords. A gift. Do you need anything else?"
"Give me iron tools and nails—for shipbuilding."
Back at his lodgings, Vig found Halfdan waiting in the courtyard, clad in white.
"You and Ivar are marching on Dyfflin. Why not take me too?"
Vig eyed the boy, still childish in face, and refused flatly. "You're too young for war. Besides, Ivar is your elder brother. Why ask me? Did he already turn you down once?"
Then he waved for his new shield-bearers to collect their armor. If the sizes were wrong, they could exchange them with Gunnar.
But Halfdan trailed after him stubbornly.
"Come on! Björn's been gone raiding since March. Next year you and Ivar will be gone, and Gunnar, Nils, and Orm will be off hunting bandits in the hills. What, should I stay in York alone under that old witch's glare?"
In a flash Vig realized "old witch" meant Queen Sola. He froze. "Then ask Ivar again. Go as a common warrior, not as a prince."
"As a common warrior?" Halfdan's eyes lit up. He grinned, then ran out in excitement.
Relieved to be rid of him, Vig spent two days selling honey and cloth at the market. Then he sought Ragnar to take his leave.
"Not staying a few more days? Eager to run back to your bride?"
Vig explained he had devised a new type of ship and was impatient to test it at Tynemouth.
"A new ship? Ha! You always have some trick up your sleeve." Ragnar clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a jug of fine wine. "May Odin bless you."
The real reason Vig wanted out of York was to avoid being dragged into royal strife.
Since Lagertha's death by poison, Ragnar had, for politics, married King Erik's sister—Sola. Lagertha's three sons resented it. In time, when Sola's son Ubbe grew, the feud would only worsen.
From what Vig had seen these past days, Sola was ruthless to the core. For safety's sake, he would steer well clear of that whirlpool.
~~--------------------------
Patreon Advanced Chapters:
patreon.com/YonkoSlayer