"Your balls are so small even Loki wouldn't bother stealing them."
Laughter resounded through the morning camp, rolling across the clearing. Above, the sun shone brightly as if it itself awaited payment from a certain young and arrogant and inexperienced King.
Around them lay defensive stakes driven deep into the earth, and beyond those, the endless wall of Mercian forest of oak and ash stretching in every direction. The wind rustled softly through the leaves, like they were whispering secrets.
The Viking encampment sprawled across a meadow beside a lazy river, its waters still cold with spring melt. Every man had his tent, though more often you could see groups of warriors sharing shelters, their shields propped outside like colorful flowers; red, yellow, blue and different symbols.
Smoke rose from cooking fires where salt pork and stolen chickens roasted on spits. The smell of woodsmoke mingled with the sweeter scent of trampled grass.
Bjorn sat in a rough circle near the largest fire pit with Ragnar, Thorstein, Arne, Rollo, Floki, and a handful of other warriors who were closer to Bjorn and could be considered friends. Their weapons lay within easy reach, as they always did. A man might laugh and drink, but only a fool forgot he was in enemy lands.
"I won't lie, Bjorn," Thorstein said, stretching his arms above his head until his shoulders popped. "Raiding is good. It warms your blood after the winter, gets the rust out of your weapon arm. But it's moments like this of sitting on foreign dirt and waiting for some Christ-sworn king to crawl to us with his silver and gold that you miss that 'Hall of Fire' of yours."
Bjorn groaned and shook his head, though a smile tugged at his young face, where threads of his silver hair rested now. His hair had grown very fast since 'Operation Holy Scalp' last year in Northumbria. "Hall of Drinking, not Hall of Fire. How many times do I need to say it?"
It wasn't the first time this had happened. Somehow the name had twisted in the telling, the way stories always did. What had started as a 'Hall of drinking' in his settlement had become legend in the mouths of men; a place of warmth and excess, where the fires burned hot and the mead flowed hotter. The real name, the one he'd carved above the door, seemed to matter less with each passing season.
"Yes, yes, I somehow keep forgetting that," Thorstein responded with a grin, spreading his calloused palms wide in defensive apology. "But whatever you call it, I really miss the smell of burning oak, the laughter bouncing off the rafters, the sound of the harp when that cross-eyed bastard Snorri gets drunk enough to play."
Arne with his single eye, nodded his agreement. "There were even some boys coming to drink this winter, thinking once they had their first horn of ale in front of adults, they'd finally become men." He laughed, a dry sound. "They had their first drink, and their first fight, and their first song, usually in that order. Even when we threw them outside for bloodying each other's noses, they left happy. Laughing in the snow like madmen."
Bjorn looked surprised, turning this over in his mind over and over. He hadn't taken into consideration this effect of the tavern on people, not really. When he'd built it, his thoughts had been about creating work for his people and bringing in silver from travelers and traders.
He hadn't imagined it as a place where boys became men. The Hall of Drinking—or Fire, or whatever men called it—had become something more than timber and thatch. It had become the heart of something.
"It's sooner than i thought, but maybe we should build another when we get back," Bjorn said thoughtfully, scratching at his face.
"In Borre?" Rollo asked, speaking for the first time in a while. He'd been sharpening his axe, the steady rasp of whetstone on iron a counterpoint to their conversation.
Bjorn sighed but shook his head. Rollo was a lover for drinking, like all men. But there were things men wanted more than the others. Drinking for Rollo and Kingdom Expansion for Bjorn.
They continued talking as the sun climbed higher, swapping tales of home—of children growing, of fields they plowed faster this year, of wives and lovers, of feuds and friendships, of all the small and large things that made up the life they'd left behind when they'd loaded their longships and pointed them toward England's coast.
Around them, the camp went about its business. Men checked weapons, told lies about their prowess in battle. The horses they'd captured stamped and snorted in their makeshift pen. Sentries walked the perimeter with bored efficiency, watching the forest for any sign of treachery.
It was Floki who noticed them first. He'd been lying on his back, staring at the clouds as if reading prophecies in their shapes, when he suddenly sat bolt upright. "Birds," he said, pointing. "They're flying away from something."
A moment later, a shout went up from the eastern pickets. The scouts were returning, and they weren't alone.
Bjorn rose smoothly to his feet, his hand falling naturally to the sword at his belt. Around him, the other warriors did the same. But not panicked or hurried, simply alert and ready.
Two of his scouts jogged into the camp, breathing hard. Behind them, still distant but approaching, was the unmistakable shape of a retinue on the move. Horses, wagons, the glint of mail and spear-points catching the sun.
"How many? More than us?" Bjorn asked.
The lead scout nodded. "More than us for sure, all armed and marching, but some are riding. They've got wagons with them; two of them, heavy-laden by the look."
"Heavy with silver, if the gods are kind," Arne muttered.
Floki stood, rolling his shoulders. "Well then. Let's go see what the good Christian king values more, his gold or his priests." He said, mockery in his voice.
The camp erupted into controlled motion. Men moved to their positions, not for battle but for the theater of negotiation. They would show strength without threat, confidence without aggression. Let the Mercians see a disciplined force of warriors, well-fed and well-armed, men who could wait here forever if necessary.
Bjorn ordered his men to take position behind the stakes. Cavalry could punch through disordered warriors like a fist through wet cloth, and he wasn't about to give these Mercians the satisfaction. Each man grabbed his shield, his helmet, and his weapon—sword or axe or spear.
The sub-leaders moved without needing orders. Ragnar took the left flank, Rollo the right, Thorstein positioned himself with the center guard, and Arne with the archers. They filtered to the rear, protected behind the shieldwall but with clear lines of sight. The spearmen pressed forward to the first rank where their reach would matter most.
Bjorn heard them before he saw them clearly. The thud of hooves on earth, the snorting of horses and the trudge of men on foot. It wasn't a disciplined march; each man walked to his own rhythm, no parade ground drilling here.
Less than half of these were levies mostly, farmers and craftsmen called up to follow their king,
Their numbers weren't much bigger than his own. three hundred maximum.
The Mercian column stopped about a hundred paces out, leaving a wide strip of empty ground between the two forces.
Nobody spoke. The tension sat heavy on both sides. Bjorn caught grins on some of his men's faces—they wanted this to go wrong, wanted an excuse to wet their blades. Fighting was simpler than talking.
Bjorn selected a handful of warriors to accompany him and mounted the horses they'd taken from a nearby village. Across the gap, the Mercian side did the same. A young man in good mail rode forward with his own escort, leaving their main force behind the wagons.
Hooves on grass, that was the only sound for a while as the two groups closed the distance. Close enough to talk without shouting, and close enough that Bjorn could make out details of the King he met already; smooth brown hair, brown eyes, a youthful face. But still older than Bjorn though.
"You certainly took your time, King of Mercia," Bjorn said. "I thought you were dead for a while there."
He'd genuinely wondered about that. This was Kwenthrith's brother—he'd had to dig the name out of his memory after weeks of raiding refreshed it through hostage interrogation. Kwenthrith will soon kill this brother of hers and later her other brother.
"I see no reason to speak with the likes of you," the king said. His voice was tight, as if forced through clenched teeth. "A sea-pagan has nothing I wish to hear. Let us end this… whatever this is."
Weakness. Bjorn heard it immediately, tasted it like blood in water. When you saw weakness, you pressed it.
"This, King Kenelm, is the result of your big and useless pride that can't match your small thinking. But I agree, let's end this. I'm getting bored of raiding your poor kingdom."
He meant it, too. They'd hit Repton less than two days ago—a royal monastery, they'd said, very important—and what had they found? One gold arm-reliquary, about four kilograms. Two silver chalices, maybe two kilos between them. An ivory gospel cover worth a kilo. Five hundred pennies with some king's ugly face stamped on them. King Offa, the hostages had told him. This boy's father.
For a royal monastery, it was pathetic. Either the Mercians were poorer than he'd thought, or someone had already looted the place before they arrived.
King Kenelm's jaw tightened. His hands clenched on his reins hard enough that Bjorn saw the knuckles go white. 'Probably imagining my head on a spike', Bjorn thought. 'Good luck with that.'
"Where is Abbot Cynefrith and Brother Wulfgar?" the king demanded.
Someone close to the King whispered something in his ear.
"And the nuns." The King added.
They brought the hostages out from behind the stakes, a shuffling line of nuns and monks in their robes. Most of them were trembling, eyes down, lips moving in silent prayer. At the front, Abbot Cynefrith was being dragged by one leg, still unconscious. His head bumped over the grass and his arms trailed limply.
'Had he really hit the man that hard?' Bjorn thought.
"Damn you." The king's voice shook with fury. "Did you harm the Abbot?"
His hand went to his sword hilt. For a second, Bjorn thought the young man might actually be stupid enough to draw it, to try settling this with steel right here in front of both armies. That would be a quick way to die.
"Only unconscious. He'll wake up soon."
The abbot had been out for a full day now, actually, and Bjorn saw the doubt flicker across the king's face. The man could see the same thing Bjorn saw; the abbot's slack features, the way his head lolled when they'd dumped him on the ground.
Bjorn shrugged. "You can send one of your men to check, if it matters that much."
The king gestured, and one of his warriors—an older man with a scar across his cheek—dismounted and walked forward slowly, hands away from his weapons. He knelt beside the abbot, pressed fingers to his throat, lifted an eyelid. After a moment, he looked back at the king and nodded once.
"The abbot lives. For what it's worth."
Negotiations moved faster after that. The king wanted his abbot back—needed him back, probably for political reasons Bjorn didn't care about—and was willing to pay for it. They settled on a price: twelve pounds of silver for Cynefrith, another ten for the other monks and the nuns combined. Brother Wulfgar turned out to be the young one who'd pissed himself when they broke down the monastery doors.
Then came the real payment. The king opened his purse—metaphorically speaking, since the actual silver was in those wagons—and paid Bjorn to not attack Mercian lands. Some eighty pounds of silver, ten pounds of Gold and some good quality swords that pushed the silver payement to a hundred. There were twenty good swords. Each is worth more than a pound of silver.
-x-X-x-
The men of Mercia were ordered to establish camp in a forest along the route to the King's villa and fortified town. They erected their tents methodically, and the King retired to his own quarters to await the evening meal his servants would prepare.
His thoughts turned to recent events. His father's death—King Offa, whose passing had cleared his path to the throne—should have marked a triumph. Instead, his reign had begun with crisis. The Norse raiders, those sea-faring pagans, had landed on his shores, and now they demanded tribute to spare his lands from their fury.
When they had attacked one of his villages, he had refused their terms. He believed fortune might favor him, that God would grant victory over the heathens. He had no desire to follow the path of King Aelle of Northumbria, who now bore whispered names like "the coward" and "the kneeling King" at every court and gathering. And yet now...
The sound of footsteps entering his tent pulled him from his thoughts. His servants arrived carrying steaming bowls of freshly cooked food. They placed the meal on the small portable table he traveled with, then withdrew. He lifted his spoon, ready to eat, when his mind drifted to his sister Kwenthrith.
She had been acting strangely in recent days, distant and cold. Every attempt he made to repair their relationship failed. And he knew why. His uncle Brihtwulf had poisoned everything between them. The memory returned unbidden: his sister at twelve years old, and his uncle's voice in his ear.
"Take her. You are the future King. All belongs to you. You must enjoy the pleasure and warmth of a child."
Those words never left him. They remained embedded in his conscience, an indelible stain. What he had done could not be undone. Yet a voice in the back of his mind offered its familiar excuse: "You were young. You understood nothing then." It provided little comfort.
He exhaled slowly and looked down at his bowl. He took his first bite. The food was well-prepared. He chewed thoroughly, then swallowed.
His thoughts shifted again to his recent defeat. That boy who called himself Bjorn, with his silver hair and insufferable confidence. "I will kill—"
The words caught in his throat. He coughed once, then again, then couldn't stop. His hands flew to his neck as searing pain spread through his throat. Within moments, breathing became impossible. Air would not come. He tried to stand, pressing his hand against the table for support, but his strength failed. He collapsed, his hand striking the bowl and sending it crashing to the ground. Food spilled across the dirt.
He tried to cry out, but only wet, choking sounds emerged. His face struck the earth, and foam began streaming from his mouth. Somewhere above him, guards were shouting something about poison, but their voices grew distant. His vision darkened. Memories flickered past: fragments of his life, moments of guilt, choices he could never unmake. Then nothing.
-x-X-x-
In early to mid-June, Bjorn sailed next with his eight ships toward the shores of Scotland and Ireland rather than directly to Norway. This time, he refrained from attacking any villages, deliberately demonstrating that payment of tribute would ensure peace. His holds remained well-stocked with supplies plundered from the villages he had raided and burned in Mercia, so he could afford to be patient.
He met with the same kings and lords who had paid him the previous year. Each delivered the agreed tribute: approximately one hundred pounds of silver and gold.
However, Bjorn recognized that next year would likely prove more complicated. During his voyage, he had encountered at least two other raiding parties—one consisting of three ships, the other with two. Neither group had attempted communication or proposed an alliance. Each kept to their own course and business.
Their presence indicated something significant: Bjorn's successful extraction of 3,200 pounds of silver had already inspired imitation. A wave of Norse raiders was now following his example, and Bjorn could not yet predict how chaotic the coming years would become.
The chaos would serve a purpose, though.
It would weaken the western kingdoms considerably. Whether it would ultimately strengthen or weaken the Norse kingdoms themselves remained to be seen.