Vig kept his expression unreadable as he sipped the mutton broth. Memories stirred—back in the countryside of Gothenburg, he had tasted such broth no more than a handful of times. Even now, it moved him in ways he could not quite name.
"Another bowl."
Since Stein clearly had no wish for his company, Vig did not bother to intrude further. In the entire longhouse, besides his own shield-bearers, there were only two suits of proper armor: Helgi's new mail and Stein's battered scale shirt. With equipment so poor, their talk of storming Glasgow was little more than a joke.
Better that they exclude me, he thought. If the alliance suffers defeat, my reputation will remain untouched.
And reputation mattered. More and more Norse farmers were crossing from Scandinavia to join him, not only for the promise of thirty acres of free land but also because of his name—the God-Chosen, the Serpent of the North. That banner alone drew men like moths to flame.
Indeed, if Vig spread word of an expedition against the Picts, he could likely summon a thousand raiders. They would demand no pay, only loot. Their morale would be high, their zeal unmatched. In truth, there was no cheaper, deadlier force than a host of Vikings hungry for plunder.
Soon, Helgi sailed off with forty men in a single longship. Vig watched the sail vanish over the horizon, unease written on his brow.
Brita, leaving her children with a slave, asked softly, "Do you think they'll fail?"
"Yes. War is a grave business. One must gather intelligence, prepare arms, and set a clear objective. The wars in Northumbria and Dublin are perfect opposites."
He sighed, recalling them both.
"In Northumbria, the host was a headless swarm of flies. Confused commanders, no vision. First ambushed at Manchester, then dawdling before York—giving the enemy time to recover. We were a hair's breadth from total ruin.
In Dublin, it was different. Ivar and I began preparing the winter before—building ships, forging arms, drawing nobles from Manchester and Lancaster to our banner. The goal was clear: seize Dublin outright. Decisions rested with us alone, without quarrel or confusion. Two months, and the city was ours."
Brita's face paled. Vig softened his voice.
"Do not fear. Helgi has mail now. Common arrows and blades cannot pierce it. He will not come to great harm."
The next days took Vig to St Kilda. He had hoped to find rich guano deposits, but the island yielded little. The journey was wasted.
When he returned to Skye, only half of Helgi's company had come back. Helgi himself was alive, but the tale he told was dismal.
Four hundred men had sailed. They lost themselves in the fjords, wandering two days before finding the Clyde's mouth.
By the time they reached Glasgow, the Gaels had raised a thousand militia. Shield walls clashed—and the Norse were crushed by sheer numbers. The Isles Alliance's very first campaign ended in disaster.
Vig listened in silence. These men were such pitiful bunglers he could not even summon the energy to mock them. He decided to depart at once.
Before leaving, he urged his sister: "Come to Tynemouth. Living among these island gnats is wasting your lives. My lands are fertile, good for farming. Far better than suffering here."
Helgi spoke first, bristling: "It was only a setback. Not so dire as you make it."
So be it. If his brother-in-law could not part with this barren isle, Vig would not force him. He returned home to Tynemouth, turning his mind back to his own domain.
The spoils of Dublin had been rich—two hundred and forty pounds of silver, the equivalent of three years' taxes for his estate. With coffers flush, Vig resolved to invest in a town, to nurture trade and crafts.
He gathered Heligif, Mitcham, Jorund, and the other core retainers in his study. Spreading a sheet of papyrus, he marked a half-square-kilometer tract east of Tynemouth.
"Tynemouth's walls are too tight to hold many workshops. Here, outside, we'll raise a wooden palisade. This will be Tynetown."
Agriculture brought little profit. Commerce and crafts would be the future.
Mitcham agreed in principle but raised concern.
"As lord, you may demand two weeks' corvée from your peasants each year. But this wall will require far more labor."
"No matter," Vig replied. "We'll pay what we must."
South of the Tyne, nearly two thousand refugees had settled. Vig planned to hire a work force among them.
He crossed the river. The refugees were busy hacking at their allotted thirty acres apiece.
In this age, turning wilderness into farmland was a long and grueling task. Trees must be felled and burned, stones hauled away to make dikes or houses. Roots had to be dug out lest they sprout again and choke the crops.
By agreement, the local gentry were to provide the refugees' food and tools during these two years.
But unwilling to lose face before their lord, they cheated—sending bread mixed with sawdust and sand, tools broken or useless, oxen too old to pull a plow. The refugees cursed in despair.
"My lord, these loaves are harder than clubs!"
"The tools are worthless! The oxen too feeble to work!"
"They want us all to starve!"
The crowd swelled, voices rising in anger. Jorund signaled the shield-bearers, who closed protectively around Vig.
Vig raised his voice: "Listen! I will hire you myself to build the wall. You and your families shall eat, and none will want."
The offer, generous and fair, cut through the fury. Four hundred able-bodied men enlisted at once.
With their labor, Tynetown's wall began to rise. From the watchtower, Vig surveyed the work and felt a sudden realization.
Hiring refugees for great works, feeding their families by their wages—this is relief through labor. 'Work for food,' you might call it.
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