At the royal hall, Vig was the first lord to arrive. He handed his list to Godwin, completed the formalities, and was soon asked by Ragnar:
"How fares Bjorn?"
Because the question touched on the royal household, Vig grew cautious. He spoke evenly, giving only plain details about the Icelandic settlement.
"For nearly twenty years there have been tales of lands far to the west. I never thought it would be Bjorn who found them."
To discover a sea route, to set foot on unknown shores—those were the highest honors a sailor could achieve. Ragnar swelled with pride at his son's accomplishment. But the queen, seated at his right, suddenly interjected:
"Lord of Tynemouth, according to you, Bjorn traded and returned to Iceland—without any thought of appearing before his king?"
Sensing the hostility hidden in her tone, Vig kept calm.
"Yes. The North Sea grows stormy in winter. The earlier he sailed, the safer his voyage."
"I know the sea is rough," Sola pressed, "but if he could not come himself, he should at least have sent tribute through you—"
Ragnar lifted his left hand, cutting her short.
"I never granted Bjorn his lordship. I have no right to demand his homage."
The matter ended there.
Two hours later, the other lords gathered, along with a messenger from Mercia. He named himself Theowulf, clad in a vivid woad-blue tunic fastened with gold brooch and arm-ring, a deep red cloak on his shoulders—a noble in full Anglo-Saxon finery.
"Hear me, filthy Norse barbarians! Prince Burgred commands you: quit Britain by next spring. Else he will march north with his army, bring justice with sword and fire, and raze every wicked Viking settlement to the ground!"
His words provoked a storm of outrage. After the shouting died down, Vig too spoke up:
"Burgred's cause is not justice. Three years ago, he did nothing as York fell to the Norse. And Prince Ælla refused to remain in Mercia, choosing exile in Frankia instead. Perhaps he saw through your designs."
"Well said!" Ragnar applauded first, and the hall roared in agreement.
Theowulf scoffed. "If you reject the prince's mercy, then we shall speak only on the battlefield."
When the envoy departed, the lords debated war. Ragnar leaned back upon his throne, brooding long before he raised his hand for silence.
"Three years past, when York fell, Vig warned me: masses fled into Mercia. In time that would strengthen them, but at first it would strain their grain stores, keeping them weak. Now three years are gone. Mercia has absorbed the refugees. They are stronger—and emboldened to fight us."
Mercia's strength was much the same as Northumbria's. Ragnar had no wish for a long war. His mind was set on a decisive blow.
"Strike! Strike now! Before they can rally, we march straight for their capital. If we wait for spring, they will summon thousands of levies, and the struggle will drag on. Winter here is mild compared to the North—our Norsemen can endure it. Lords, return at once. Summon your men. In fifteen days, meet me at Sheffield!"
The king's command left no room for delay. The nobles scattered, spurring horses, skipping even their midday meals as they rode for their estates.
Four days later, at Tynemouth's hall.
"War in winter? Ragnar is mad!" Helgyf came to her husband, one hand cradling her swollen belly, her face drawn with worry.
"The plan is risky, yes. But not without reason. The Angles cannot abide the cold. Their levies gather slowly in winter. If we strike swiftly and seize Tamworth, perhaps this war may end in weeks." Vig steadied her as she lowered herself back into her seat. "And another advantage—the North Sea is too wild for raiders this season. With me away, Tynemouth is safe from surprise. Rest now. I'll send for your mother and brother, so you'll not be alone."
After soothing his wife, Vig turned to the stores. A winter war meant every man must be clothed in heavy wool.
"Four hundred and fifty coats. Barely enough."
Tynemouth counted eighty shield-men. Vig would leave half to guard home and march with forty. To them he would add four hundred freemen, a hundred trained as archers.
Three days later, in the chill dawn, dragon banners cracked in the wind. Under the anxious gaze of their families, Vig's makeshift host marched south.
Compared to Scandinavia's winters, this cold was nothing. Spirits held firm. Many men spoke of Mercia's riches, eager for plunder and reward.
As king, Ragnar could levy nobles and freemen for forty days each year. Longer service meant wages from the crown and tax relief for the lords the next year.
Vig guessed Ragnar meant to finish the war before the summer harvest—lest cost and discontent dissolve the host.
The further south they marched, the more desolate the land became. Villages lay abandoned. Here and there corpses littered the roadside, and fat-bellied ravens gorged upon them.
Where soldiers pass, ruin follows.
Lords brought their men in haste, often plundering as they went. Some turned a blind eye, letting their warriors vent their rage on helpless folk.
By October 24th, Vig reached the low hills north of Sheffield. He counted the banners—only Ivar had yet to arrive.
He gave his name to the sentries and was admitted to the sprawling, filthy camp.
Like all medieval hosts, the Norse lacked organized supply. A swarm of camp followers filled the grounds: smiths hammering broken blades, tailors mending wool, merchants hawking wine and smoked meat, washerwomen, and countless whores.
"One day, when I command alone, I'll root out this chaos."
Muttering his vow, Vig dismounted, passed his reins to a groom, and strode toward the king's pavilion.
He pushed aside the curtain—only Pascas was inside, hunched over a long table, buried in accounts.
"Where is His Majesty?"
Pascas raised his weary head and pointed toward Sheffield town.
"As custom demands, the local lord must host the king. Ragnar and the nobles are feasting there even now. By the hour, the banquet should be starting."
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