When word came that the prince was dead and the crown lost, the old king of Mercia fell into despair within the fortress of Tamworth.
He ordered fire-oil poured through every chamber, dismissed servants and guards alike, and then—under countless gazes—ascended to the battlements. There he set aflame the stronghold that had long embodied Mercian kingship.
After more than two months, the Norse host had taken Tamworth, slain the royal heir, and fulfilled the first stage of their campaign.
Ragnar then declared a halt for rest. The men had endured freezing marches and weeks of toil in the wild. If pressed further now, mutiny was more likely than victory.
The burning of the fortress destroyed countless records, most crucially the ledgers of royal revenue. With nothing left, Ragnar set Pascas to reconstructing accounts. Vig, whose Latin was passable, was ordered to assist.
"This is a hopeless tangle," Vig muttered. "We'll be buried in this for months."
Sighing, he proposed a method: hunt down former scribes and servants of the crown, question each individually, and compile what they knew.
"A sensible idea," Pascas agreed, and thus began the long, dreary task.
Mercia's wealth rested chiefly on land. Peasants bound to royal estates owed rents in kind—grain, honey—and two weeks' unpaid labor each year.
The crown also possessed vast forests, where poaching was forbidden. Hunters had to register and submit furs, and even peasants cutting firewood paid levy.
Beyond agriculture, two further streams of income flowed:
Trade and tolls: royal authority licensed tollgates and market taxes.
Coinage: silver from two small mines was smelted into coins bearing the king's face.
Lastly, the old king had issued five monopoly charters, granting Flemish merchants exclusive rights over wool and honey exports, yielding him handsome returns.
After ten fruitless days, the two exhausted men had no figures to show. Relief came when Godwin and a band of clerks arrived from York. Vig gladly shoved the ledgers into their hands and retreated to read in peace.
In February, Ivar at last arrived with four hundred men. Ragnar neither scolded his eldest nor offered effusive welcome, holding only a modest feast.
"There are too many Irish lords," Ivar said over his cup. "Crush one, another rises. Endless rebellion. I've scarcely rested a whole year."
Even his fierce temper had yielded. To pacify the land, he had wed a petty noble's daughter, lightened taxes, and governed Dublin in local fashion.
Drunk, he sighed a rare confession:
"Perhaps for years, even decades, I'll be mired in that bottomless swamp. Some advise me to bring in Norse settlers… but we'll see. One step at a time."
Vig listened in silence, weighing his own estate.
Suddenly, a rider burst into the hall, cloak white with snow. "The garrison of Nottingham offers to surrender!"
"Nottingham?" Ragnar blinked, shaking off the wine haze. Indeed, the border town had held out three full months. To block their raids, a thousand Norsemen had been tied down outside its walls—a fifth of all mobile strength.
"What terms?"
The rider handed him a sealed parchment. Ragnar broke the wax, and Pascas read aloud.
In flowery style, Theowulf, lord of Nottingham, declared he would not submit as vassal. He would yield the town only if he, his household, soldiers, and wealth were allowed to march south unharmed.
"Mercian stubbornness," Ragnar muttered. The wine dulled his judgment. He waved vaguely toward the nobles. "One of you… settle it."
Moments later he slumped forward, snoring into the table.
On the right, Vig turned to Ivar in puzzlement. "Did he mean you—or me?"
Ivar shrugged. "No idea."
"Bah, I was born for drudgery." Vig scooped up the parchment, sighed, and went to pack. At dawn he set out north.
In early February, Vig's company reached Nottingham.
The siege camp was squalid. A thousand Norse were meant to hold the blockade, yet the place swarmed with merchants and harlots, resembling a filthy fairground. If Theowulf struck by night, odds of success would be seven in ten.
Vig refused to stay inside. Riding ahead alone, he waited in the snow two hundred paces from the gate.
Soon the eastern gate creaked open. A richly dressed rider approached and dismounted.
"I am Theowulf, lord of Nottingham. And you?"
"Vig, lord of Tynemouth," came the reply.
Vig held up the parchment. "The king agrees to your terms. Speak—when will you yield?"
"Grant us one week to prepare."
"Three days," Vig cut him short. "No more. At dawn on the third, the gates open—or I'll summon the host and storm your walls."
Theowulf bowed wearily. Terms struck, he returned within.
Three days later, the gates opened. Theowulf led out soldiers, kin, and willing townsfolk—seventeen hundred souls in all.
"Lord, may you keep your word," he said quietly.
Vig gave a curt nod, then shadowed the long column south for five weary days, until every last marcher had quit Mercian soil.
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