"Building a fortified hall, hoarding weapons, and setting himself against his lawful lord—this is no mere unruly peasant. Follow me; we attack."
Two hundred meters from the palisade, Rurik gave his command. The men set about assembling a ram and tall scaling ladders, showing not the slightest intent to parley.
Meanwhile, fifty bowmen drew broad wooden mantlets from the wagons—doors ripped from farmsteads, stoutly braced. Raising them high, the archers advanced to within one hundred and fifty meters. Once in range, they planted stout poles in the earth to prop the shields, making a crude but serviceable barricade, and loosed arrows upward at the defenders.
On the wall stood no more than twenty Anglo-Saxon archers. They were farmers first, soldiers never, and they quickly discovered themselves outmatched. The storm of shafts kept them crouched low, unable to return fire despite their master’s frantic curses. Few had ever stood in battle before, fewer still had taken life with their own hand; now the sight of Norse arrows hissing past made their bowstrings fall silent.
The ram was ready. Thirty Vikings took hold of its beams and pressed forward, shielded by its roof of timber and rawhide. It lumbered toward the gate like some vast tortoise, deliberate and unstoppable.
The defenders panicked, sending arrows down in a ragged volley. Most buried themselves uselessly in the ram’s canopy. One Viking caught a shaft in his arm, but the rest pressed on, bellowing their rhythm:
"Pull—push—strike! Pull—push—strike!"
Half a minute later came a thunderous crash. The oak gate shuddered, splintered, and burst apart. Shards flew wide, and in stormed twenty iron-clad Norsemen with round shields high.
"Forward!" Rurik cried, sword bared. He led the surge across the wreckage, iron mail clinking, boots crunching over scattered wood. Within the courtyard the fight was all but decided. A handful of defenders yet clung to arms in the corners.
"Mail?" Rurik muttered, seeing the manor-lord himself armed in chain. He spat, then charged straight at the man. The lord barely raised his blade before Rurik’s point pierced his wrist. An axe came whistling from the left—Rurik caught it on his shield, the edge biting deep into the rim. With a twist and thrust upward, he drove his sword beneath, finding the guard’s throat. The man fell gurgling.
Two more came at once. Rurik swung wide, his blade ripping open one belly so that entrails spilled slick upon the earth. The other turned to flee. Rurik booted him into a hayrick; half his body vanished into the straw, legs kicking absurdly in the air.
"Yield and live!" Rurik roared. His voice cracked across the yard like thunder. Silence fell. A tenant youth dropped his pitchfork; others, seeing it, followed suit.
But the manor-lord, clutching his bleeding arm, shrieked, "No! Kill the heathen to the last man!"
Rurik sighed, wearied by the folly. He asked who the man was, learned he was indeed the lord of the place, and pronounced sentence:
"In the name of King Ragnar, I judge you guilty of treason. Jorund—hang him."
Before a gathering of one hundred and fifty villagers, the Norsemen twisted hemp into a noose and strung the lord from a stout oak. His feet twitched, then stilled.
When it was done, Rurik decreed the manor’s wealth forfeit. The family’s goods were seized, the women and children to be taken to Tynborg for confinement. The tenants and serfs would remain in their fields; those who followed the army in the next campaign would be rewarded with new plots of land.
"Who will join us?" he asked.
Silence held until one young man spoke, hesitant: "How much land?"
"Fifteen acres," Rurik replied. That promise won him ten recruits—loyalty uncertain, but useful nonetheless.
Through the afternoon the Norse tallied their prize. Raiders pocketed silver and gold; the villagers were granted grain and some beasts. To Tynborg’s earl fell the richest share:
An aged suit of mail
Two iron swords
Two horses
Four oxen
Twenty-one sheep
And—most curious of all—a man.
He was called Mitcham: tall, lean, balding. Once a petty landowner, he had been cast into the dungeon after a quarrel over fields. Rurik questioned him with a few sums, found him quick at figures, and at once named him tax-collector.
Before assembled gentry and villagers Rurik announced:
"From this day, Mitcham will oversee levies. Aid him. And if you suspect dishonesty, come to Tynborg and lay your charge before me."
Mitcham bowed low, tugging a filthy leather cap over his head. His eyes gleamed darkly. "My lord, I swear I shall serve well."
Rurik marked that look, and thought: A hard man, but I need such hardness. Yet if he oversteps, he must be offered up to appease the people.
Business done, he sweetened matters with another offer:
"Who will buy this manor? Highest price shall take it."
The crowd erupted, voices clamoring.
"Two pounds of silver!"
"Three, and two milk cows besides!"
The bids climbed swiftly. At last a portly squire, Harry by name, promised fifteen pounds of silver—and something more besides:
"My lord, I have a smith in my service. His two sons are grown. One inherits, but the other, Caddell, seeks a master. I would place him with you."
A smith? Rurik’s brows rose. In the Middle Ages such men ranked far above mere carpenters or shepherds; iron was the lifeblood of war, and smiths were honored guests at a lord’s table.
"As you wish," he said gravely.
Mitcham drafted the charter: the manor was granted to Harry in return for fifteen pounds, half of it in gold. A fair bargain, Rurik thought, especially as the manor boasted a rare stone tower, four storeys high, a fortress unmatched by common timber halls.
"Stone, here in the north?" Rurik mused aloud. "Most gentry in the south are content with timber keeps. How did you manage this?"
Harry gave a surprising answer:
"Long ago the Romans built Hadrian’s Wall across this land. Of late, with Viking raids ever fiercer, some gentry have stripped the wall for stone. The last lord of this place planned a grand castle. He even hired a mason to draw plans, but debts to the Archbishop of York ruined him. Two generations toiled thirty years to repay, yet never began the work."
So that was it. No wonder the riverbanks near Tynborg were littered with moss-grown blocks.
Rurik looked to the stone tower with new resolve. One day, when wealth allows, I too shall build. First the keep, then the outer wall. Someday it shall stand complete.