“Building fortifications, amassing private armies, openly defying their lord. These are no mere insolent commoners,” Wig declared, his voice cutting through the morning chill. “Follow me to attack.”

Two hundred meters from the defensive wall, Wig gave the order to assemble the siege ram and scaling ladders, showing no inclination to offer terms of surrender.

Simultaneously, fifty archers each retrieved a wide, plank-like shield from their wagons and advanced one hundred and fifty meters, holding them high. Once within range, they propped their shields with sturdy wooden poles, creating a defensive barrier, and began a steady exchange of arrows with the defenders on the wall.

Outnumbered, the twenty Anglo-Saxon archers on the wall found themselves pinned down, unable to return fire despite their lord's furious shouts. Ultimately, they were farmers by trade, largely untrained in combat, and had rarely witnessed bloodshed, much less dared to risk their lives in an arrow duel with Vikings.

With the siege ram assembled, thirty Vikings began to push it slowly forward, the massive wooden beast lumbering with the ponderous grace of a colossal tortoise.

Upon seeing this, the defenders, throwing caution to the wind, resumed their volley. Most of their arrows merely thudded against the siege ram's sturdy roof, yielding minimal results. Only one Viking suffered a minor arm wound.

Once at the gate, those sheltered beneath the ram's roof began to chant in unison, "Heave! Thrust! Break it! Heave! Thrust! Break it!"

In less than half a minute, with a resounding crash, the relatively flimsy oak gate shattered inward, spraying splinters. Twenty burly men in iron armor, their round shields held high, surged into the breach.

At the sight, Wig drew his longsword and led the trailing troops swiftly through the splintered gate, their iron armor clanking, boots crunching on the scattered wood. He surveyed the scene: his forces held an overwhelming advantage, with only a small cluster of defenders still putting up a futile resistance in a corner.

"The manor lord has chainmail?" Wig grunted, a flicker of surprise in his eyes.

Wig cursed softly, then charged. Before the chainmail-clad man could even cry out, Wig's sword tip slit his sword-holding wrist. To his left, a helmeted guard swung an axe. Wig raised his shield, deflecting the blow, the axe blade biting into the rim. He then thrust his sword upward from below, and the guard gurgled, collapsing to the ground.

Next, two men on his right lunged. One screamed as Wig's horizontal sword sweep eviscerated him, his entrails spilling onto the mud. The other spun to flee but was kicked bodily into a nearby haystack, his upper half disappearing into the straw, leaving only his legs flailing wildly in the air—a truly grotesque but comical sight.

"Surrender and live!"

The roar resounded like thunder, and the courtyard fell silent. A young tenant farmer instinctively dropped his pitchfork, and, following his lead, the rest of the villagers likewise laid down their weapons.

"No! Kill these savages!" the chainmail-clad man shrieked, clutching his bleeding right wrist, still urging his tenant farmers to fight to the last.

Irritated by the man's incessant cries, Wig demanded his identity. Upon learning he was the manor lord, Wig sighed. "In the name of King Ragnar, I declare you guilty of rebellion. Joren, hang him."

Soon, under the watchful eyes of over one hundred and fifty local residents, Joren and his men fashioned a noose from hemp rope and, finding a sturdy oak tree nearby, hanged the manor lord.

After the execution, Wig announced that the manor lord's family properties would be sequestered, and his dependants taken to Teyne Castle for detention. Ordinary tenant farmers and serfs were permitted to stay and continue their lives. Furthermore, any who chose to follow their lord into the next phase of battle would receive an additional plot of land, enough to sustain themselves.

"Who among you is willing to join?"

Silence lingered for a moment before a young man hesitantly spoke up, "How much land would we get?"

"Fifteen acres," Wig declared, and with that, he secured ten militiamen of rather dubious loyalty.

Over the next half-day, the troops enumerated the manor lord's family assets. The plunderers acquired gold and silver, while the farmers received grain and a share of the livestock. The Earl of Teyne's personal gains were roughly as follows:

An ancient chainmail hauberk, two iron swords, two horses, four oxen, twenty-one sheep, and an Anglo-Saxon who possessed a knack for numbers.

This man was Mitcham, tall and gaunt, with thinning hair. He had once been a small landowner in the vicinity, but a land dispute had seen him imprisoned by the manor lord in the dungeon beneath the main house. After hearing of Mitcham's plight, Wig casually posed two simple arithmetic problems. Satisfied by the answers, he promptly appointed him as his tax collector.

Before the assembled gentry and village representatives, Wig formally introduced him: "From now on, Mitcham will be responsible for collecting taxes. I ask for your cooperation. If you suspect him of any impropriety, you are welcome to report him to me at Teyne Castle." "My lord, you needn't worry. I swear I will treat this work with diligence," Mitcham said, picking up a dirty leather cap to cover his head. His gaze was sinister, sending a chilling ripple through the onlookers.

Wig nodded inwardly, reflecting that such vehement determination was precisely what he needed. Still, he mused, he hoped the man wouldn't overstep his bounds, for if he did, Wig would have no choice but to offer him as a sacrifice to quell public outrage.

Having introduced his new tax collector, Wig then offered an incentive to placate the gentry: "Whoever wishes to purchase this manor, the highest bidder wins."

His words were like a spark to dry tinder; the crowd ignited, and the gentry vied eagerly, hands shooting up.

"I'll offer two pounds of silver!"

"Three pounds, and two milk cows besides!"

Soon, the price soared to fifteen pounds of silver. What's more, the portly gentryman named Harry made an irresistible offer.

"My lord," Harry began, "there is a blacksmith at my manor. His two sons have both come of age; one has inherited the family trade, while the other is keen to venture out. I would be honored to introduce this young man, Kadel, to serve you."

"A blacksmith?"

Wig's expression turned serious. As a source of crucial skilled labor in the Middle Ages, a blacksmith's status was revered, far surpassing that of common professions like tailors, carpenters, farmers, or shepherds. There was a common saying in Viking society at the time: "A blacksmith always has a place at the lord's table."

"As you wish."

He had Mitcham draft a land deed, granting Harry this manor in the name of the Lord of Teyne Castle, on the condition that he pay fifteen pounds of silver. This was a fair value, especially considering the manor's main residence was a rare four-story stone watchtower, its defenses far superior to ordinary wooden buildings.

"Uh, my lord, would it be possible to pay half the sum in gold?"

"Yes," Wig replied. Both gold and silver were hard currency, and he readily accepted.

"Come to think of it," Wig mused, "a stone watchtower is indeed a fine thing. However, gentry in the southern regions typically only possess wooden forts, and the North is supposedly less prosperous. How did you manage to build this?"

To his question, Harry provided an unexpected answer:

"A long time ago, the Romans left behind Hadrian's Wall, a formidable barrier stretching between the east and west coasts," Harry explained. "In the past twenty years, Viking raids have grown increasingly frequent. So, one of the gentry dismantled portions of the ancient fortification and transported the stones back to his manor to build houses. The results were excellent. The previous lord intended to follow suit; five years ago, he specifically hired a stonemason to draw up designs, planning to construct a grand and mighty castle. Unfortunately, his family owed an enormous debt to the Bishop of York, and two generations had spent thirty years trying to repay it, so construction never even began."

"I see," Wig murmured.

No wonder the riverbanks near Teyne Castle were piled high with moss-laden stones.

Since there was no shortage of stone, Wig resolved to begin construction once he had amassed sufficient funds. He would start by repairing the main keep, then move on to the outer walls. One day, it would all be completed.