Learning of the Crown Prince’s death and the crown’s loss, the Old King, holding fast in the Tamworth fortress, fell into despair.
He ordered his men to douse the castle with oil, then dismissed all servants and soldiers. Under countless watchful eyes, he silently walked to the top of the fortress and set fire to the building that represented the Mercian kingship.
After more than two months, the Viking army captured Tamworth, killing royal family members and successfully completing the first phase of their objective.
Subsequently, Ragnar announced a rest period. The troops, weary from months of campaigning in the harsh cold, were growing increasingly discontent. If forced to continue fighting, there was a high probability of mutiny.
The fortress was burned, and a large amount of precious records turned to ash. Most critically, the ledgers detailing the royal family’s income were lost. With no other option, Ragnar tasked Pascal with the count, and Vig, whose Latin was passable, was assigned to assist Pascal.
“This is a complete mess; we’ll have our work cut out for us.”
Sighing, Vig suggested searching for clerks and servants who had worked for the royal family and questioning them individually, recording each person’s information.
“Correct,” Pascal agreed with his suggestion, beginning this long and tedious statistical work.
In addition, the royal family owned vast forests, strictly prohibiting poaching. Every hunter had to register their information truthfully and pay taxes on the fur of their game regularly. Even for everyday woodcutting, villagers had to pay the corresponding tax.
Besides agricultural tax, the other two sources of income were trade and coinage:
The royal family had the right to set up tax stations within the territory to collect tolls and market taxes. Two small silver mines produced silver ingots annually, which were smelted into silver coins bearing the king’s likeness by the Royal Mint.
Finally, the Old King had issued five trade charters, allowing Flemish merchants to monopolize the export of wool and honey, bringing him a considerable income.
After ten days of hard work, the two unfortunate men still hadn’t tallied a specific number. Fortunately, Goodwin and a group of officials arrived from York as reinforcements. Vig happily passed this mess off to them, finding a quiet place to laze about and read.
In February, Ivar arrived late with four hundred troops. Ragnar did not rebuke his eldest son nor show excessive enthusiasm, merely hosting a simple welcoming banquet.
“There are too many nobles in Ireland. We overthrow one family, and another pops up to cause trouble. It’s an endless cycle of rebellion, and it’s kept me from resting all year.”
Ivar raised his goblet, his eyes showing a lingering weariness. To pacify the local people, even with his violent and fierce nature, he had to compromise. He married the daughter of a minor noble, reduced taxes, and governed the Dyfflin region using local customs.
Very drunk, he uttered a rare discouraging remark,
“I’m afraid that for the next few years, or even a decade, I’m destined to waste my energy in that bottomless quagmire. Some have suggested I recruit more Viking immigrants. Ah, we’ll just have to play it by ear.”
While listening to Ivar’s complaints, Vig remained mostly silent, silently considering the situation of his own territory. Suddenly, a rider in a thick wool cloak burst into the hall, saying that the garrison at Nottingham was willing to surrender.
Ragnar shook his head, trying to regain some composure. Indeed, this town near the border had yet to surrender, holding out for three months. To prevent them from attacking the supply lines, a thousand Viking warriors were stationed outside the town, occupying a fifth of the mobile troops.
“What are the conditions?”
The rider handed over a roll of parchment. Ragnar broke the wax seal and had Pascal translate it.
To show their status, the letter contained a long section of pleasantries. Ragnar patiently listened until the end, learning that Theodulf was unwilling to swear allegiance to him. He was willing to hand over Nottingham, on condition that he could lead his family, soldiers, and property to the Southern Region without being attacked by the Vikings en route.
“Mercians are nothing but trouble.”
Overcome by alcohol, Ragnar’s reason blurred, and unwilling to think further, he casually pointed to a noble and instructed him to settle the matter.
The next moment, Ragnar, unconscious, slumped onto the table, emitting a rhythmic, muffled snore.
On the right side of the long table, a bewildered Vig looked at Ivar, “Your Majesty, did you mean me or him?”
Ivar shook his head, “I don’t know.”
“Oh well, I’m a natural workhorse.” Vig went over to pick up the parchment, glanced at it briefly, returned to his room to pack his things, and set off north the next day.
In early February, Vig arrived at Nottingham with his troops.
Compared to last year, Nottingham hadn’t changed much. A thousand Vikings were insufficient to completely surround the town. Every night, the garrison secretly dispatched small squads to gather firewood and search for supplies in the surrounding countryside, thus holding out for three full months.
Reaching a distance of two hundred meters from the fortifications, Vig dismissed his shield-bearers and stood alone in the snow, waiting.
Soon, a crevice opened in the East Gate of Nottingham, and a richly dressed rider came forward to negotiate, “Who are you?”
The rider dismounted, offering a weary smile, “I am Theodulf, Lord of Nottingham.”
After a brief assessment of this thin young man in his twenties, Vig took out the parchment from his bosom, “His Majesty agrees to your terms. Tell me, when will you formally surrender?”
“Please give us a week to pack our belongings.”
“Three days at most. I don’t want to waste time in the wilderness. Surrender at dawn three days from now, or I will bring in the army to besiege you.”
After the negotiations, Vig led his men to an abandoned village. En route, Joren couldn’t help but ask, “Sir, why don’t we rest in the siege camp?”
“Do you want to live in that garbage heap?” Vig replied impatiently. He had just ridden through the camp, and the scene was shocking.
There were supposed to be a thousand Viking warriors, but hundreds of unrelated people had joined them. Merchants and prostitutes were moving freely through the barracks, making it look like a bustling, dirty open-air market. If Theodulf were to launch a surprise attack, his odds of victory would be at least 70%.
Fortunately, thanks to the effects of capturing Repton and Tamworth, the garrison at Nottingham dared not act up, hastily packing their belongings and handing over the town before the deadline.
“Sir, I hope you keep your promise.”
Theodulf led his soldiers, family, and willing commoners out of Nottingham, totaling seventeen hundred people. Vig and his men followed behind, taking five days to escort these slow-moving commoners to the South.