Ch 32: Tyne

The next day at noon, the troops left the plains. To the east of the road was a large swamp covering a wide area, rich in peat reserves; to the west was an equally vast expanse of hills.

According to Pascal, this road was a relic from the Roman Period, connecting Northumbria’s Northern Border to its central and southern regions. Travelers frequently suffered pillaging along this route, so the kings of past generations would dispatch royal guards to search the mountains and purge bandits, though to little effect.

“Increase your vigilance. We may encounter bandits on the next stretch of road.”

Vig, mounted on a light grey mare, signaled for the troops to take round shields from the supply wagons, preparing for battle at any moment.

Looking around, the road ahead was empty. To the left were dense forests rising and falling with the mountains; to the right, a faint mist shrouded the nearby swamp, occasionally emitting a few incomprehensible sounds that sent chills down one’s spine.

That night, the troops camped in an open space with good visibility. Vig assigned everyone to three night watch shifts, ensuring that if bandits launched a night raid, one hundred alert warriors would be ready to block them.

After a night’s rest, Vig, who had been sleeping soundly with the Dragon’s Breath Sword, was awakened by the morning sun. After breakfast, he continued on his way until he left the dangerous area without being attacked at all.

“Strange. Was Pascal trying to deceive me?”

Hearing his lord’s confusion, Joren mused, “Master, even if there are Anglo-Saxon bandits, they wouldn’t dare to attack a caravan of three hundred people, especially when the banner at the front of the column bears a noble crest.”

“That’s right,” Vig said, looking at the black dragon banner with golden trim waving in the distance, suddenly gaining insight.

Having received his fiefdom, he was no longer the little Karami he once was. He could now show a stronger attitude.

On the third day’s evening, the troops rested in a village under Pascal’s jurisdiction. A small river called Tees meandered eastward. Pascal’s ancestral wooden fort stood near the river mouth.

Another day passed, and Vig found a road sign at a fork in the road—Durham. From there to the Northern Border of Northumbria, the route fell entirely within the fiefdom of the Lord of Tyne.

Vig dismounted and picked up a pinch of soil to observe it carefully. The soil quality was far superior to the farmland in the countryside near Gothenburg.

“Is this the land you promised us?” A group of Viking peasants smiled contentedly. They had followed the right man.

“Almost. Go a little further, and I will settle you near Tyne.”

On the morning of the fifth day, Vig arrived at the South Bank of the River Tyne and luckily encountered two local fishermen. Under their guidance, the caravan went upstream to an ancient wooden bridge. After crossing to the North Bank and traveling a short distance, they finally reached their destination for this journey—Tyne.

“Is this my new home? What a shabby place.”

The wooden fort was situated on a low hill on the North Bank of the River Tyne. It had a four-meter-high oak wall, roughly a square with sides of two hundred meters. The gate stood open, a foul odor hung in the air, and several emaciated wild dogs roamed the filthy streets, like an abandoned slum.

From the fishermen’s stammering account, Vig learned the reason for the fort’s abandonment.

Last year, the former lord and his heir led troops south to show loyalty to the king, never to return. Upon learning of the destruction of the Kingdom of Northumbria, the Lady fled with all her wealth and remaining guards to the territory of the Picts.

With the lord’s family either dead or in flight, the nearby villagers quickly emptied Tyne of grain, bedding, and livestock, then pots and pans, and finally even tables, chairs, and brooms.

“Well, that’s good. At least it avoided a siege.”

Surrounded by shield-bearers, Vig first inspected the most important oak wall. The rammed earth path between the double wooden walls was wide enough for two people to walk side by side. A large hole had been punched in the top of the watchtower in the Southeast Corner, and stagnant water within emitted a foul odor.

He surveyed the area. A large pile of stones lay along the riverbank to the south of the low hill, their purpose unknown. Most of the farmland to the east, north, and west was abandoned; only a few figures were working the land. This year’s harvest was utterly hopeless.

“Raise the banner. Remember to find a thick flagpole.”

“Yes, Master.”

Vig went to the Lord’s Hall on the southwest side of the wooden fort. He pushed open the door, and a wave of dust and mildew rushed out. Two black ravens were squawking on the rafters before flapping their wings and flying away.

“Cook. Find your own rooms to settle your belongings. Also, call the surrounding villagers. I have something to say to them. Be polite, don’t frighten them.”

In fact, Vig did not intend to exploit these peasants. Instead, he asked them to help deliver a message: “Inform every settlement in Tyne that the new lord will hold a banquet for the gentlemen and village heads on April 15th. Please attend.”

After hearing this rough Anglo-Saxon, more than sixty male villagers quickly nodded, whispered among themselves for a moment, and each selected a task to deliver the message.

After they dispersed, the shield-bearer Joren felt puzzled. “Master, preparing a banquet requires a lot of meat and wine. Do you plan to slaughter oxen? Or forcibly requisition the sheep raised by the villagers?”

“Neither. We’ll just catch some trout and carp in the river to make do.”

“Use fish to entertain guests?” Joren’s doubt deepened. “A proper banquet should have some decent meat dishes. Otherwise, it will tarnish your reputation.”

“Reputation? As a Viking, what kind of good reputation do you think I have in their minds?” Vig was disappointed by his subordinate’s dullness. “There’s no need to discuss this further. I have my own plan.”

After lunch, under the expectant gazes of many, he went to the wasteland more than five hundred meters to the east and announced the allocation of farmland to the Viking peasants.

As promised, each household was granted thirty acres of farmland—a total of sixty-three households.

“According to local custom, one and a half percent of the farmland’s output belongs to me. There will be no taxes for two years. In addition, two weeks of unpaid corvée are required annually. Any other questions?”

“No.”

The crowd responded weakly, only wanting to sow seeds quickly so as not to delay the farming season.

Britain is suitable for planting winter wheat, sown in autumn and harvested in early summer of the following year. It was now April, so they could only plant some barley to tide them over.

Looking at their listless appearance, Vig had a momentary illusion that he was a 21st-century teacher, and these were students eager to be dismissed from class.

Seeing this, he gave up his further speech and let the peasants go to their respective lands to work. Afterwards, the raiders came and inquired when they would set out.

“No rush. The banquet is on April 15th. Someone will surely deliberately not come, and then I will have an excuse to attack.”

Over the next week, Vig sent the raiders to the northwest forest to fell timber for building battering rams and long ladders, as well as fifty giant square shields resembling door panels. Only on the day of the banquet did he have people casually cast a net to catch some river fish, making do with what little he had.