After reading the parchment full of raid reports, the Pictish envoy still refused to yield. His face pale, he argued with Vig for nearly an hour before finally resorting to threats.
"My lord, the Gaels, the Picts, and even the Anglo settlers who fled north have united. Are you certain you wish to face such a vast coalition?"
Vig's reply was a faint, mocking smile.
"Yes. And I doubt your numbers exceed those of the Franks. You must have heard of the battle by the Seine? I crushed an army ten thousand strong. Do you really think this patchwork of tribes will fare any better?"
At that, the envoy abandoned any hope of peace and silently departed Tyne Town.
Outside, on the training grounds, soldiers drilled in the cold air. The envoy stopped to watch, and his heart sank.
"The Norse prepare for war with all their might," he murmured. "And our alliance is still mired in petty feuds. At this rate, we'll be crushed completely."
By the spring of A.D. 849, the chill was lifting, and Vig turned his full attention to military preparations.
Before the Frankish campaign, he had commanded 2,000 men. After the wars in Francia and Wales, only 600 veterans remained willing to serve. These hardened soldiers became the core of a new army, bolstered by 1,400 Viking levies drawn from his lands. The three Welsh clans contributed another 500 mountain troops.
From the south, knights began arriving in steady streams. By mid-April, just before the army's departure, Vig counted 200 mounted knights—their appearance fees alone cost 600 pounds of silver.
He tallied the totals:
2,000 pike-and-spear infantry
500 Welsh bowmen and skirmishers
200 knights
Over 2,000 Norse raiders still arriving from overseas
Five thousand men—more than enough to subdue the northern alliance.
Standing atop the keep, Vig gazed over the sprawling sea of tents beyond Tyne Town's walls.
"That will suffice," he said. "No more waiting."
Two days later, he summoned his captains and announced the northern campaign would begin immediately.
That evening, he rode north to the encampment to meet the newly arrived mercenaries and chieftains.
A knight in chainmail and a pointed nasal helm stepped forward, saluting sharply.
"My lord, I am Torga, once a knight under Gunnar. I fought beside him at the Seine."
Removing his helmet, he revealed short blond hair and introduced the twelve companions at his side.
"When Gunnar converted to the Roman faith, four hundred of us could not follow him. We returned to Londinium with the final ransom payment. Later, I joined His Majesty's new Heraldic Order to formally dissolve my oath to Gunnar. I had planned to serve in the royal guard—but…" he hesitated, "…I have old quarrels with Whitehair Oleg. So instead, I came north to fight under you."
Vig nodded, offering polite encouragement but no promises.
The next two days passed in feasting and revelry—fish, pork, and beer in endless supply. Morale soared.
April 20th, Year 849.
The army marched north along the coast, with supply ships shadowing them by sea. After three days, they reached the ruins of Lindisfarne Abbey—once holy, now long abandoned.
The island, accessible only at low tide by a natural causeway, was a haunt of birds and reeds. Its crumbling walls, overgrown with Eve, whispered of the first Viking raids a century past.
Further north flowed the River Tweed, the ancient border between Pictland and Northumbria. To cross it was to declare war.
At Vig's command, the transport fleet moved inland and began constructing a pontoon bridge.
The Vikings worked with practiced precision. Within hours, a dozen longships were aligned side by side, anchored by heavy chains and iron weights. Wooden planks laid across the decks formed a stable crossing.
By noon, Pictish scouts appeared on the opposite bank. Before they could approach, Vig's advance archers loosed a volley that sent them fleeing.
The next morning, the bridge was complete.
Vig, leading his gray stallion, crossed first. Midway over the rushing water, he paused, staring at the swirling current and drifting reeds, and murmured softly in Latin:
"Alea iacta est." — The die is cast.
Half an hour later, a scout galloped back with news.
"My lord, fifteen miles ahead—roughly three thousand Pictish troops assembled!"
"Quick response," Vig said calmly. "All right then."
When his lieutenant Jorlen advised caution, Vig waved him off.
"Wait? They're not fools. They won't stay to fight five thousand of us. Once they realize they're outnumbered, they'll retreat. We'll match their numbers to keep them from running."
He ordered a detachment of equal strength:
2,000 spear-and-pike infantry
500 Welsh bowmen
200 cavalry
300 raiders in loose formation
They marched north for two hours before the enemy appeared—spread across a broad, grassy plain under the midday sun.
The sight was almost pitiful.
The Pictish warriors wore ragged wool tunics, few with iron armor, wielding short swords and round shields in disordered ranks.
A noble on horseback tried to rally them with shouts and gestures, drawing scattered cheers.
Vig had no interest in speeches.
"Form line!" he ordered.
The pike formations spread into a wide front, advancing steadily.
At two hundred meters, Burlow's Welsh archers raised their longbows, firing high arcs of arrows. Moments later, the crossbowmen followed, bolts hissing through the air.
Wave after wave of arrows slammed into the Pictish ranks. Confusion rippled through them until they clustered together, shields up, and crept forward.
At forty meters, the Picts countered—hurling javelins with all their strength.
The front ranks of Vig's crossbowmen were torn apart. Shields splintered, armor pierced—the heavy bolts could not match the javelins' sheer impact.
Under the barrage, the crossbowmen's morale broke, and they fell back through the gaps left open for retreat.
The Battle of the Tweed had begun.
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