By noon the next day, the company had left the plain behind. To the east lay a vast fen, rich with peat; to the west, a broad belt of rolling hills.
According to Paschal, the road they followed was the work of the Romans, linking Northumbria's northern marches with the central and southern districts. Wayfarers were often set upon by brigands here. Successive kings had sent patrols into the hills to scour them out, but to little avail.
"Stay alert. We may meet robbers along this stretch."
Rurik, riding a pale grey mare, ordered the men to take their round shields from the wagons and keep them ready.
The way ahead was empty. To the left, the woodland rose and fell with the hills. To the right, a faint mist drifted above the fen, from which now and then came strange, unplaceable noises that set the nerves on edge.
That night they camped on an open rise with a wide view. Rurik set three watches, so that at any hour a hundred warriors would be awake to meet a night attack.
He slept soundly, Dragonbreath at his side, and woke with the dawn in his eyes. They breakfasted and marched on. No raiders appeared.
"Strange… was Paschal exaggerating?" Rurik muttered.
His neighbor Jorund considered.
"My lord, even if there are Anglo brigands, they would never assail a train three hundred strong—least of all when it marches under a noble's banner."
Rurik glanced at the black flag ahead, with its golden dragon flying. A sudden realization struck him.
He was no longer the obscure Karami of old. A lord now, he could afford to show his strength.
On the third evening they halted at a village under Paschal's domain, near a small river called the Tees, where Paschal's ancestral timber-fort stood at the mouth.
The next day brought them to a crossroads marked with a weathered sign: Durham. Beyond lay the lands of the lord of Tynemouth, stretching north to the border.
Rurik dismounted, took a pinch of soil, and rubbed it between his fingers. The earth here was far richer than the stony fields of Gothenburg.
"Is this the land you promised us?" the Norse farmers asked with hopeful smiles. For once, they felt they had chosen the right man to follow.
"Nearly so," Rurik replied. "A little farther on I will settle you near Tynemouth itself."
On the fifth morning they reached the north bank of the River Tyne. By good fortune they met two local fishermen, who guided them upstream to an ancient timber bridge. Crossing there, they marched a short way before the fortress came into sight.
"So this is my new home? Gods, what a miserable place."
Tynemouth stood on a low rise above the river, ringed by an oak palisade four meters high, enclosing a square two hundred meters on a side. The gate stood open. Filth fouled the air. Mangy dogs slunk through the muddy lanes like phantoms of a deserted slum.
From the fishermen's halting account, Rurik pieced together the tale of its ruin.
The former lord and his heir had marched south last year to serve the king and never returned. When news came of Northumbria's fall, the lady of the house fled north into Pictland with her treasure and the last of her guards.
Once the gentry were gone, the villagers stripped the fortress bare—grain, bedding, cattle, pots, pans, chairs, even brooms. Nothing remained.
"Well, perhaps it is for the best. At least we need not fight to take it."
Shielded by his guards, Rurik inspected the defences. The timber wall was double-layered, packed with earth broad enough for two men to walk abreast. The south-east tower had a gaping hole in its roof, where rainwater had pooled and stank.
On the southern slope by the river lay a heap of stone, its purpose unclear. To east, north, and west stretched fallow fields, only a few bent figures still at work. There would be no harvest worth the name this year.
"Raise the banner. Choose a stout pole for it."
"Yes, my lord."
Rurik strode to the lord's hall on the south-west side. The doors groaned open, and a reek of dust and mould came forth. Two black ravens croaked from the beams and flapped away.
"Set the pots to boiling. Find rooms for your belongings. And send word to the villagers—I would speak with them. But mind your manners: do not frighten them."
He had no wish to squeeze the peasants dry, but he would make use of them as messengers.
"Tell every settlement in Tynemouth," he instructed. "On April fifteenth, the new lord bids all village elders and landed men to a feast. See they come."
His Old English was clumsy, but sixty or so villagers nodded anxiously. After murmuring among themselves, they divided the tasks and set off.
When they were gone, Jorund frowned.
"My lord, such a feast will need much meat and ale. Do you mean to slaughter oxen? Or take sheep from the villagers?"
"Neither. The river holds trout and carp enough. That will serve."
"Fish, my lord? A true feast must have proper meat, or men will mock your name."
"Name?" Rurik's disappointment was plain.
"As a Viking, what good name do you think I have among them already? Say no more—I have my plan."
After the meal, he led the settlers to the eastern fields, half a kilometre distant, and divided the land.
As promised, each household received thirty acres—sixty-three in all.
"By local custom," he explained, "a tithe and a half of your yield comes to me—fifteen percent. For two years, I take no other tax. You must also give two weeks' service each year. Any questions?"
"None."
The reply was listless. Their only thought was to sow quickly, lest the season be lost.
Britain's staple was winter wheat, sown in autumn and harvested in early summer. But now, in April, they could only put in barley as a stopgap.
Watching their distracted faces, Rurik felt a sudden, absurd illusion: he was a twenty-first century teacher, lecturing to restless pupils impatient for the bell.
So he dismissed them to their plots. Soon after, the raiders came to him, asking when they might march.
"No hurry. On the fifteenth we hold our feast. Some will surely stay away. Then I shall have cause to march against them."
Through the week that followed, he set the raiders to felling timber in the north-western woods and fashioning siege-gear—battering rams, long ladders, and fifty great rectangular shields like door-boards.
Only on the morning of the feast did he trouble to have nets cast in the river, to provide the fish with which he would make his show.