By Pascal's measure of worth: York, Manchester, Leeds, and Sheffield counted as first-rate lands; Lancaster and the Humber estuary, second-tier; while Tynemouth, Derwent, and Tees were relegated to the lowest rank.
After long hours of wrangling—threats, bribes, and bitter quarrels—the seven jarls at last reached a settlement. Leonard came away the greatest victor, securing Manchester, the richest prize after York itself.
His old neighbor, Ulf, was the least fortunate. Outmatched by the rest, he was forced to accept the estuary of the Mersey as his fief—a poor domain, its largest hamlet scarcely three hundred souls, a place the locals called Liverpool.
On the map, the Mersey runs east to west into the sea: Manchester dominates the upper reaches, Liverpool the lower. Thus, after sailing all the way from Sweden to Britain, the two men found themselves, by cruel fate, neighbors once again.
Leonard, giddy with triumph, could not resist a jibe.
"I hear the Mersey teems with eels, Ulf. A feast for you! Ha! Forget farming—set your folk to fishing, and I'll buy all you can catch."
Already stung by his miserable allotment, Ulf needed no further goading. At the sight of Leonard's smirking face, his temper broke.
"Damn you!" he roared, and with a single blow knocked Leonard sprawling, then leapt upon him in a common brawl like drunken carters in the street.
The hall rang with laughter, and so the great banquet that had reshaped the fate of kingdoms ended in vulgar merriment.
Two days later, Ragnar summoned the conquered clerks to inventory the spoils, and ordered the smiths to forge eleven golden rings. When all was ready, he gathered the host before the palace, slaughtered a bull in sacrifice to the gods, and held the solemn rite of investiture.
Before the eyes of two thousand Vikings, he took from the tray the massive royal ring and slid it onto the fourth finger of his right hand. Its face was carved with the rune of lightning.
"Ivar," he called, summoning his eldest son. "In the battle of Manchester you seized the enemy's banner. Twice in the storming of York you were first upon the walls. With your own hand you slew King Ælaud and his queen. Your renown surpasses all the host. By Odin's name I make you Jarl of Derwent. Do you swear before the All-Father never to betray your king, and to devote your life to this realm?"
"I swear it."
Ivar bent to one knee, raised Ragnar's hand, and kissed the rune upon the ring. Ragnar then bestowed on him another ring, its face a wolf's head, a design Ivar himself had chosen—for he bore a strange and private fondness for wolves.
Next came Rurik. As custom required, he too knelt, swore his oath to Odin, and was invested as Jarl of Tynemouth.
For his ring he had chosen a dragon. Yet the Norse, knowing only wingless wyrms, insisted it was but a serpent. After many fruitless corrections, Rurik at last yielded with a wry smile.
The third to be invested was Pascal; only then came Leonard, Ulf, and the other jarls.
Plainly, Ragnar meant the order of ceremony to show his favor and disdain. Ever since the seven had joined ranks to bar Björn and others from noble title, Ragnar had taken the insult to heart and now repaid it with studied slight.
When the investiture was complete and the bonds of lord and liege made firm, Ragnar at last stood acknowledged as King of Northumbria. To the wild acclamations of the host he brought forth chests of treasure, distributing them according to merit.
To King Erik he gave the most—five hundred pounds of silver—to bind his goodwill. To Leonard, Ulf, and the other "shareholders," he allotted between thirty and a hundred pounds apiece.
When Rurik's turn came, Ragnar kept his promise: Rurik had staked all twenty pounds of his savings at the outset, and now received a matching dividend. Counting his share of the spoils, he left with sixty pounds of silver.
A jarl's title, sixty pounds of silver, a suit of chainmail, and a Damascus steel sword.
Such was the fruit of three years' perilous striving. Now the true work began: to gather men and march north to claim his fief.
For three days the host plunged into drunken revels. Rurik, sober, took the chance to win followers among the common warriors, urging them to join his service. Many, warmed by drink and his rising fame, promised their loyalty—but promises made in ale often vanished with the morning's hangover.
"A feckless, drifting lot," he muttered when they failed to appear.
Escaping the clamor, he walked alone upon the walls. It was autumn; across the river, farmers cast winter wheat into the furrows. At Ragnar's decree—shaped by Pascal's counsel—the peasantry were to be protected, for they had little left worth plundering.
On the north wall, smoke rose from the burning of the dead. The stench of charred flesh choked the air, and Rurik pressed a hand to his mouth as he hurried past. At a tower he found Ragnar and King Erik gazing out over the land.
"Rurik—come. I would have your thoughts."
Ragnar drew him close. "Ælaud and his queen lie dead. Only the prince remains, fled south. Can he raise an army to strike back?"
Rurik studied the oak-clad hills in the distance. After a pause he spoke.
"Lacking coin, lacking arms, Prince Æla cannot long survive in the south. Perhaps he will be slain; perhaps he will crawl to Mercia for shelter. As for Mercia, the flood of refugees may in time swell its strength—but only if they divert their granaries to feed them, and help them till new fields. That will take two years at least, before the newcomers can stand on their own."
"Two years will be enough," Ragnar said with satisfaction. "Well judged. Mercia's grain will bleed away in charity, and they cannot muster thousands for war. Meanwhile, I shall draw Northmen to settle here. There is good land, a fairer soil than our frozen north. We need not fear for lack of settlers."
Erik gave a grim smile. "Britain may be fertile, but settle too long and the Viking edge will be dulled. Better to keep the old ways."
Rurik shook his head. "If one must choose between raiding and settling, I choose the latter. For decades we have scoured the seas, bringing home silver and gold—yet neglecting the plough. Grain grew dear, famine spread, and so ever more men took to the oar. Fields withered, raids multiplied, the cycle feeding upon itself."
He ran his hand along the weathered stone, memory clouding his eyes.
"When I farmed in the countryside near Gothenburg, we suffered two raids in a single month. Most were no warriors, but starving peasants with nothing left but the sword. Better to break the cycle—better to begin anew, here."