Ch 33: River Fish Banquet

During this time, Vig frequently summoned local villagers, learning that within Tyne, nineteen manors and twenty-three villages were under its jurisdiction. The population was sparse, with the vast majority of the land lying abandoned, especially after the recent war, with nearly a quarter of the population choosing to flee.

“Let them run, so they don’t stay and cause me trouble,” Vig thought to himself.

From morning, he successively met representatives arriving from various places. The village heads from all twenty-three villages were present, generally wearing coarse linen clothes and appearing apprehensive. In contrast, the gentry class had horses for transport, and their clothing and appearance were far more refined.

In the evening, the banquet officially commenced. Five of the nineteen gentlemen attended personally; eight gentlemen claimed illness and sent their sons or nephews in their stead. The remaining six gentlemen refused to acknowledge Vig, stating that they disdained allegiance to a pagan.

“I am Vig. I have been to Constantinople, and based on the merits I earned in the battles of Mancunium and York, I have been appointed Lord of Tyne by the King. From now on, I hope you will accept reality and abide by the new order.”

According to custom, the gentry class sat at the long table on the right, while the village representatives sat on the left. They all turned their heads, silently observing this man who claimed to be the Lord of Tyne.

This man was tall and well-built, with sharp eyes, a high nose bridge, and a face like a finely carved marble sculpture, angular and distinct. His smooth black hair was tied in a ponytail, a stark contrast to the slovenly image everyone expected.

Furthermore, being a Viking, he could actually speak Anglo-Saxon, although his pronunciation wasn’t perfect, it was sufficient for daily communication.

The gentlemen on the right whispered among themselves, believing the new lord was no ordinary Viking barbarian and that his arrival boded ill.

An elderly gentleman spoke first, “Do you intend to issue new decrees, or continue with the old rules?”

Vig offered what he considered a kind smile. “Various places will continue with their previous traditions and faith; I will not interfere with you, just pay your taxes on time. If you are pillaged by outsiders, feel free to seek my assistance.”

Outsiders? You are the outsider.

Exchanging glances, they tacitly accepted the new lord’s rule. With the old royal family overthrown, various places in the South had submitted to the new king. As long as the new lord didn’t overstep, these northern countrymen didn’t need to continue resisting.

The worry that had been building for more than half a year dissipated. At the instigation of a fat gentleman, everyone began to enjoy the unremarkable banquet.

There were only three dishes: stew, bread, and a stew made of turnips, radishes, and peas. There were only five jugs of honey wine; everyone barely managed a goblet each, not even enough to clear their throats.

The Viking barbarians were too frugal. Clearly, there was no shortage of livestock in the eastern fields; they didn’t even bother to slaughter an ox to entertain their guests.

Many gentlemen complained inwardly, but outwardly showed no disrespect, saying that this river fish banquet was unique, and the Lord was truly creative.

“Don’t say that, I know you don’t appreciate this dinner.”

As soon as he finished speaking, Vig smashed his goblet on the floor, sending shards flying everywhere, silencing the guests. The next moment, Vig rose and drew his longsword; a group of tall, ferocious-looking Viking soldiers emerged from both sides of the hall, clearly prepared in advance.

Gazing at the sharp weapons so close at hand, the guests breathed rapidly, their chests heaving, like a flock of sheep struck dumb with fear.

“Don’t worry, this isn’t directed at you.”

Vig smiled again. “I appreciate your willingness to attend the banquet. But some people don’t feel the same way. Not only did they refuse my invitation, but they also insulted His Majesty the King, calling him a dirty, lowly pagan barbarian. How do you think I should deal with this?”

He stared blankly at Dragon’s Breath Sword; under the dim candlelight, the intricate patterns on the blade reflected a beautiful and deadly gleam.

“This sword is called Dragon’s Breath. I won this Damascus steel sword in a royal duel in Constantinople. Roughly speaking, I’ve spent the last half-year learning Anglo-Saxon, and I haven’t used it for a long time.”

Madman! This man is crazy!

The elderly gentleman swallowed with difficulty, his voice hoarse as he asked, “Do you intend to attack them?”

“Yes, to govern a region and suppress rebellion is the duty of a lord. We depart tomorrow morning; I ask you all to bear witness.”

To make a name for himself in his first battle, Vig intended to give it his all, not even sparing the Anglo-Saxon farmers surrounding Tyne.

As the morning sun rose, sixty-one local farmers, each armed with a pitchfork, gathered outside Tyne, their expressions mournful, as if resigned to never returning.

To boost morale, Vig had to incentivize them with rewards.

“By my reckoning, the winter wheat in various places is nearly ripe. I swear by all the gods I know, for every manor we conquer, you will be allowed to harvest the wheat there; how much you take depends on your ability.”

After hearing this, the dullness in the villagers’ eyes gradually brightened; they went home to fetch several intact sacks, their previous fear completely gone.

And so, Vig’s first expedition began. The troops comprised twenty shield-bearers in iron armor, two hundred and thirty Vikings, fifty farmers remaining to guard the home, sixty-one local farmers, and thirty-six representatives from various places who were there to observe.

In terms of supplies, the army had twenty wagons and temporarily requisitioned the guests’ horses. They did not carry much grain but transported many wooden parts to assemble battering rams and long ladders at the designated location.

To ensure the element of surprise, Vig urged the troops to quicken their pace, aiming to reach their first target before noon the following day.

“We’re finally here.”

He rode his grey horse to a low hill offering a clear view. At a glance, the outermost perimeter of the manor was a low fence; it covered about 1000 acres, resembling a square with sides of two kilometers.

The area of the manor house, woodland, pond, and orchard totaled about 150 acres; dozens of acres were planted with other crops; 400 acres were planted with wheat that looked ready for harvest; and finally, another 400 acres were fallow.

Two-field system.

This was the standard agricultural practice in early medieval Britain; half the land was planted with winter wheat, and half was left fallow to allow the soil to slowly regain fertility.

After observing for a few minutes, Vig determined there were no ambushes and ordered the troops to advance toward the center of the manor.

Upon discovering the arrival of this unidentified army, the farmers who were working immediately fled to the manor house for shelter.

Unlike the expected wooden structure, the manor house was a four-story brick watchtower covering two hundred square meters. A wooden wall surrounded the watchtower; as time passed, more and more armed farmers appeared on top of the wall, seemingly prepared for battle.

Thank you to book friend Qiong Zhu for the reward.