"I can't believe I forgot this tradition."
Vig slapped his forehead, then reported his contribution:
"Forty shield-men, one hundred archers, and three hundred warriors. As for supplies—aside from their own rations, I've brought twenty thousand arrows."
After his numbers were recorded, Vig left the pavilion. He ordered his men to choose a clean site for their camp, then rode with a few retainers into the town.
As the forward base of this campaign, Sheffield was already suffering under its own army. Shops were shuttered, townsfolk hurried by with heads down, deliberately giving soldiers wide berth, as if avoiding plague.
Feeling the cold eyes of the locals, Vig spurred his gray horse toward the tallest building at the town's center.
"The townspeople are harassed, the villages plundered by roaming bands. Worst of all, the local lord must entertain the army's leaders, and after such a ruin, his years of toil are wasted. Hah—thank the gods I never chose a southern fief."
At the lord's hall, Vig gave his name and was led inside by slaves. There, Ragnar sat upon the high seat, raging at a warrior.
"Ivar still hasn't settled that mess? What in Hel is he doing in Ireland? Enough—we won't wait for him. By now Mercia's king surely knows our host has gathered. Delay will only bring trouble."
With a wave, he dismissed the messenger and turned to Vig.
"How many did you bring this time?"
"Four hundred and forty."
Ragnar's fury cooled. He motioned Vig to sit. Counting Tynemouth's strength, the host now numbered 5,300. For the first time in his life Ragnar commanded more than five thousand men. His heart surged with pride. Rising from his seat, he raised his cup.
"They say in King Offa's day, Mercia was the mightiest realm of Britain. He traded letters with Charlemagne himself. Such a king must have amassed great treasure. When we take Tamworth, I'll claim only the crown. The rest of the riches are yours to divide!"
His generosity ignited the hall. Nobles dreamed of Offa's hidden wealth, while lesser captains schemed for new estates. Amid the roar of voices, the feast began.
First came a whole stag, roasted golden, its hide lacquered with honey, pepper, cinnamon, and thyme. Two brawny servants bore it in skewered on a spear.
Thanks to the spices Bjorn had brought from the Mediterranean, the flavor far outshone any past roast. Vig could not resist taking a second helping.
Next came a swan, baked whole and laid on a great silver platter. Its taste was plain, but its value lay in display rather than flavor.
Then roast pig, beef stew with turnips, smoked salmon, eel pies, and at the end, apples steeped in honey.
"Since Ragnar arrived, Sheffield has hosted feasts for a week straight. How much must this cost?"
Vig's eyes swept the table, then flicked toward the lord and lady of Sheffield. Their strained smiles told him all he needed—at least ten pounds of silver had been squandered.
"And beyond the feasts, the army lives off the land. That means peasants' grain, their flocks, their winter clothes… hidden costs no one reckons."
At that moment, a royal guardsman burst into the hall, breaking the merriment.
"Your Majesty—over a hundred men are brawling! The camp is near to chaos."
Ragnar: "For what reason?"
"A quarrel over a whore, my lord. Lord Vig's men and Lord Ulf's men came to blows. A crowd gathered. It turned into a riot."
My men?
Vig set down his half-eaten venison, face dark, and strode from the hall. He mounted, riding with Ulf at his side.
Through the biting wind, Ulf grumbled on horseback.
"Damn pups! Because of them, we'll go hungry tonight."
"They've grown too unruly. Barely half a day camped, and already they've energy to stir trouble. Perhaps I've been too indulgent."
On the strength of old friendship, the two quickly agreed on a course. At camp, ringleaders were flogged by shield-men, and the woman at the heart of the fight was cast out.
With order restored, the lords rode back. On the way, Ulf asked, "I hear you're building a stone keep. How much does it cost?"
Vig: "For the inner walls and the donjon, over three hundred pounds of silver. Luckily, there are Roman ruins nearby. With their stone, I've cut it down to about one hundred fifty."
"So dear?" Ulf's voice boomed across the cold night. "That's equal to three years' income from Liverpool. No—I can't endure that wretched place. When this war is won, I'll demand a better fief."
"You think the king will agree?" Vig asked.
Ulf's face hardened.
"When we conquer Mercia, Ragnar must rely on us nobles to rule. He can't hold every land himself. I'll win glory in battle, gift the queen her due, and pay whatever price it takes. But I will have a new estate."
Vig blinked. History told him Liverpool would one day rival London itself. How could Ulf paint it so poorly?
"Eh, what's that look for? The place is nothing but marsh, far from the trade roads. To save coin, I've lived near on eels alone! I even tried to build trade. I drew merchants and craftsmen to settle, but Mancunium crushed me."
Not just a brute after all—Ulf had tried commerce, only to be outmatched.
"Worse," he snarled, "they buy wool and timber from Liverpool, weave it into cloth and tools, then sell it back for profit—mocking me as a fool all the while."
Driven by rage, he had built warships, demanding tolls from ships on the Mersey. But Leonard of Mancunium carried the grievance to York, and under the queen's counsel, Ragnar struck down the tax as unlawful.
So ended Ulf's venture. Defeated, he returned to herding and fishing.
Vig sighed.
"I see your plight. The west can only sustain one true town. Against Leonard's Mancunium, you cannot compete. It's not your fault. You truly should seek another fief."
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