Five days later, at Tynemouth.
"According to Ivar's account, Sweyn commands a fleet of more than fifty ships, many of them fitted with light crossbows. In a missile exchange, he has absolute superiority. Looking back… I've never fought a single naval battle. This could be trouble."
Naval combat was an entirely foreign art, and a head-on clash seemed hopeless. To counter the enemy's advantage in ranged fire, Vig's first idea was to mount catapults.
Over a month of work, the carpenters of Tynemouth produced a massive warship, thirty meters long, with a light catapult mounted fore and aft.
In testing, the machines hurled ten-kilogram clay jars over two hundred meters. The range was adequate, but accuracy was dismal—the hit rate barely five percent.
Watching logs drift past as makeshift targets, Vig sighed. The catapult ship might batter large vessels, but it was useless against nimble longships.
"To buy the catapults time to fire, I'll need other ships to block the enemy. But Sweyn's sailors carry crossbows. In close range, our archers can't match them."
At that, Heligif, his wife, made an offhand remark: "Then line the rails with shields, to block their bolts."
"Shields…?"
The casual words struck him like lightning. Vig recalled a special ship from history—the turtle ship.
During the Imjin War, the Koreans had built great covered vessels, thirty meters long, to resist Japanese guns and arrows. Their roofs were sheathed in wood like a turtle's shell—hence the name.
By chance, he had seen "turtle ships" before—in a strategy game. Quickly, he sketched a plan and ordered work to begin.
The craftsmen protested. Such a design, they said, would handle poorly in open seas. But bound by their lord's will, they labored to build one strange turtle-like ship.
Its prow bore an iron ram for striking enemy hulls. The vessel had two decks; the upper gave archers height for plunging fire. Vig added two pumps to draw seawater up to the roof, dousing flaming arrows before they could set the shell ablaze.
"Offense and defense both covered. The only flaw—unsuited for long voyages."
After thought, Vig had the "shell" built as a detachable structure: removed at sea for stability, reassembled in coastal waters before battle.
Satisfied, he set out with a team of shipwrights. Following Hadrian's Wall west, he reached the Derwent estuary by the third afternoon.
The land looked bleak compared to his own. Few signs of farming. Snow-crushed farmsteads lay abandoned, and on the southern heights a lone stone fortress brooded over the river.
Announcing himself, Vig was led to a field beside the castle, where he found Ivar sparring with Halfdan.
"Too slow! Too slow! You waste your days in York drinking and chasing women—you'll never learn swordsmanship that way!"
Spotting Vig, Ivar tossed his blunt blade aside. "Why aren't you wintering at Tynemouth? What brings you here?"
"Shipbuilding. If I build on the east coast, we'd need to sail around the whole island. Better to work here, close to the estuary."
"No need. I already have ships enough—enough for two thousand men."
Leading Vig north of the fortress, Ivar showed him fifty longships moored in the river bend. Crude huts lined the shore, sheltering over five hundred raiders.
"I'm not talking about longships. I've designed two new types of warships to deal with Sweyn."
Vig set down two models from his cart and explained: one, the catapult ship for long-range bombardment; the other, the turtle ship for close combat.
"With these—well handled—we'll send Sweyn's fleet to the bottom."
Ivar studied the models closely, then nodded. "Very well. I'll put my raiders to work. One of each to test the design—if they hold up, we'll build more."
Soon the Derwent estuary rang with the sound of axes and saws. Timber was bought in bulk from Lancaster and Mancunian merchants. Once all was set, Vig returned to Tynemouth to winter, drilling four hundred men—half Norse, half Anglo.
It quickly became clear the Anglo peasants were weak and fearful. Resigned, he assigned them to the rowing benches.
"If they fear the sword, let them pull the oars below deck. At least they'll be useful in the turtle ships."
Thus his force stood: four hundred militia, and twenty mailed shield-bearers.
By mid-March, 845, as departure neared, he cautioned Heligif: "Viking ships may still come. If they come to farm, grant them land as custom. If raiders, do not resist, whatever they burn—even the river workshops can be sacrificed."
When he returned to Ivar's fortress, the meadows were thick with tents, noisy with men. Alongside Ivar's wolf banner flew the twin-axe of Lancaster and the black goat of Mancunian.
Passing through the filthy, stinking camp, Vig frowned. Squalid quarters meant disease, and disease could fell more men than swords.
At least the Norse were fond of bathing.
In the hall, Ivar poured him mead and boasted of his work. "From your designs, I've built five catapult ships and ten turtle ships. Provisions, arrows, fire oil—all stocked. This time, I swear I'll take Sweyn's head and drink from his skull!"
With the expedition ready, Ivar feasted the host. Cattle were slaughtered, peasants stripped of oxen and swine. Vig warned against alienating the locals, but Ivar only sneered. "Why should I curry favor with peasants? Their hatred means nothing."
For two days they reveled. Then, with a rare east wind at their backs, the fleet put out to sea, reaching the Isle of Man by afternoon.
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