War raged across the North, and more and more Viking migrants poured into Tynemouth. In April alone, six hundred farmers chose to settle.
Vig handled them as before: each received land, two years' tax exemption, and the mandate to practice the three-field system.
But not all wished to farm. Many clamored for raids.
"In that case," Vig said dryly, "I'll send you to Ireland. Ivar is desperate for men—he'll welcome warriors with restless blood."
Glad to rid himself of troublemakers, he dispatched two shield-bearers to lead the men west to Derwent, thence by ship across the sea to Dyflin.
"Finally." From the western watchtower, Vig exhaled as their backs vanished down the road.
Then Heligif came running, pale with panic. "The beacons—they're lit! Someone is attacking!"
Vig spun around. To the east, a black column of smoke stabbed the sky. Before long, the Norse temple bell in Tynetown tolled furiously. Panic swept the market. A salt merchant overturned his scales; a fisherman dropped his net and fled. The whole town quivered with the dread of doomsday.
"Sound the horn. Assemble the men."
Within minutes, forty-five shield-bearers ran from the barracks, forming ranks in the square.
"Steady yourselves! One column of smoke means fewer than a hundred foes."
Vig's voice cut like iron, scolding the youngest who trembled. Then he marched them through the east gate. Townsfolk lined the streets, eyes wide as the warriors passed.
Tynn now held two hundred households, over eight hundred souls. By custom, every able-bodied man must defend his town in time of peril. Vig mustered three hundred forty armed townsmen.
To be safe, he stationed a hundred at the gap in the east wall, with the rest along the other sides. His forty-five shield-bearers he kept in reserve.
From the tower, eight meters high, he scanned the eastern river. No ships yet. He sent out five horsemen to scout. Half an hour later, they returned: the raiders, seventy at most, were pillaging a village downstream.
"Outrageous! So few dare trespass on my lands?"
At the docks, Vig boarded his longship. Along with his shield-bearers, he hired fifty townsmen as crossbowmen. They could not fight hand-to-hand, but their bolts would bite.
Three longships slipped out with the current, the west wind at their backs. Fifteen kilometers passed swiftly. From the prow, Vig watched the columns of smoke rising ahead, and scanned the thick brush along the banks for ambush.
"My lord, there!"
A sharp-eyed guard pointed. On a stony shore, two longships lay moored. Ragged men were hauling sacks of grain.
"Row hard! Drive them against the bank!"
The oars bit deep, closing the trap.
"Crossbows—draw! Wait for my mark."
One man stepped forth, tall, bald, and gaunt. He claimed to be lord of Vasa, offering all his plunder in exchange for mercy.
"Vasa?" Vig asked his men.
"Somewhere in Finland, perhaps," one murmured.
Finland?
Vig rifled his memory. A nobody, then. He raised his voice. "I am Vig, lord of Tynemouth, enfeoffed by Ragnar himself. Lay down your arms, or be slain to the last!"
The bald man faltered, sensing the edge in Vig's words. "Come now, chosen of the gods—will you spill blood over a few Saxon peasants?"
"You know my name, and still you dare raid my land? These people are under my protection! You think me a petty chief?"
Vig's arm dropped.
The sky filled with bolts. Dozens fell screaming. The bald chief's rusty scale armor crumpled under a storm of quarrels; he died where he stood.
Those who survived huddled tight in a shield-wall, afraid to flee lest they be cut down.
By then, Vig's warriors had leapt ashore, circling to block their rear. At last, forty-three men and women surrendered.
On the blood-soaked stones, Vig sighed. "Jorund—return the grain and livestock to the villagers. Tell them this: if they wish safety, I will grant them land south of Tynemouth."
"As you command, lord."
Vig glanced at the broken captives. A grim realization pressed upon him—worse days were coming.
King Erik's wars in Norway had already driven countless from their homes. Where would they go but to Britain, with its mild climate and fertile soil? And every ship from Norway that steered south would pass the eastern coast of Tynemouth.
"From the west coast of Norway, they sail past Shetland and Orkney, strike the barren northeast of Scotland, then rich Edinburgh, and further south—Tynemouth, Tees. As long as war burns, the tide of migrants will not cease. And trouble will come with them."
The plunder returned, his fleet sailed home. On the way, Jorund asked what to do with the captives. Vig answered lazily: "Put them to work. The wall needs hands, and there's no end of labor waiting. Waste not, want not."
So it proved. By mid-May, Tynemouth had already endured three more raids, each less than a hundred strong. Two bands were crushed, swelling the labor force to one hundred sixty. A third, more cunning, fled at once, abandoning their loot—enraging Vig, who cursed them to the waves.
Yet the tide was not wholly ill. Migrants poured in. Vikings now numbered over three thousand in his lands; the Anglo-Saxons, near ten thousand. Tynetown's population swelled past a thousand, alive with new bustle.
Still, Vig remembered: in medieval Europe, towns rarely held more than 5–15% of the populace. If the town swelled unchecked, no harvest from field or manor could feed them.
So he moved to check the flood. He spread the word: last year's grants were revoked. No more free land—save for smiths, masons, and those with rare crafts the realm sorely needed.
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