In the days leading to the feast, Vigg summoned the local folk again and again, piecing together a picture of his new domain. Tynemouth encompassed nineteen manors and twenty-three villages, thinly peopled and largely abandoned. The war had driven nearly a quarter of the population to flee.
Let them go, Rurik thought. Better scattered than lingering to breed trouble within my borders.
By morning of the appointed day, representatives began to arrive. From all twenty-three villages came their reeves, clad in coarse linen and wool, their faces timid. The gentry, by contrast, rode in on horses, dressed with a touch of dignity.
At sunset the feast began. Nineteen gentry there should have been, yet only five came in person. Eight sent nephews or sons in their stead. Six scorned the summons outright, declaring that they would not bend knee to a heathen foreigner.
Rurik stood and spoke:
"I am Rurik. I have been to Constantinople. For my deeds at the battles of Mancunium and York, the king has granted me Tynemouth. From this day, I am your lord. Accept what is, and keep the peace. Pay your dues, and if marauders trouble you, call upon me."
By long custom, the gentry sat to the right-hand table, the villagers to the left. All turned their heads to study this man who claimed lordship.
He was taller and prouder than they had expected, with piercing eyes and a nose like the ridge of stone, his face hewn with the sharpness of a marble statue. His black hair was bound neatly in a tail. He did not at all resemble the unkempt barbarian they had imagined.
And astonishingly, though a Viking, he spoke their tongue. The accent was harsh, but clear enough.
The gentry whispered among themselves. This was no mere sea-wolf. This was a man who had come with intent.
At length an elder squire asked, "My lord, will you set down new laws, or continue the old?"
Rurik gave what he thought a kindly smile.
"Keep your old customs and faiths. I will not meddle, so long as you pay the tithe. If foes assail you, I shall defend you."
Foes? the gentry thought grimly. You are the foe.
Yet with a glance or two exchanged, they resigned themselves. The old dynasty was gone, the southern shires already bent to the new king. Why should the northern backwoods be the last to resist?
Relief showed in their faces. With a round man's forced joviality, one began to eat, and the others followed, giving themselves to the plain meal.
It was meagre fare: stewed river-fish, coarse bread, and a broth of turnip, carrot, and peas. Five pitchers of mead for a hall of men—barely enough for a single cup apiece.
Such stinginess, the gentry thought. His pastures hold cattle enough—yet not even one beast for slaughter?
Still, they smiled, and praised his "originality" in serving fish.
"Do not flatter me. I know well enough you look down on this meal."
Even as he spoke, Rurik dashed his cup to the ground. It shattered in glittering shards. The hall fell silent. In the same instant he drew Dragonbreath, and from either side of the hall armed Norsemen surged forth, grim and towering, steel bright in the firelight.
The guests froze. Their breath came sharp and shallow, like sheep trapped in the pen.
Rurik smiled again.
"Do not fear. This is not for you. You have come at my bidding, and for that I thank you. But others scorned my summons. They spat upon His Majesty the King, calling him a filthy heathen brute. Tell me—how should such treason be answered?"
He looked down at the Damascus blade. In the candle-glow its intricate pattern shone like molten fire, beautiful and deadly.
"This sword is called Dragonbreath. I won it in Constantinople, at the emperor's very court. These past months I have spent learning your tongue. It has been long since my hand has tasted blood."
Madman, the gentry thought. This man is a madman.
The elder squire swallowed hard. "You mean… to march against them?"
"Just so," Rurik said calmly.
"A lord must guard his fief and chastise rebellion. Tomorrow at dawn we ride. You, my good fathers, will serve as witnesses."
He meant his first campaign to be a thunderclap, one to fix his name in men's minds. Not even the Anglo peasants of his own domain were spared.
At sunrise, sixty-one villagers with pitchforks and grim faces gathered outside the gate. They looked like men already prepared to die.
To stiffen their courage, Rurik offered reward.
"It is nearly harvest. By all gods known to men, I swear: each manor we take, its wheat-fields shall be yours to reap. Take what you can carry."
At these words, their dull eyes brightened. They hurried home for sacks and baskets, their fear melting into hunger.
Thus Rurik's first campaign began. His force was made of twenty mailed shield-guards, two hundred and thirty Norse raiders (with fifty men left behind to guard the fort), sixty-one native peasants, and thirty-six witnesses drawn from the villages and manors.
Their baggage train counted twenty wagons, commandeered from the guests. They carried little food, but much timber, to be fashioned into rams and ladders on the spot.
To keep surprise, Rurik pressed the march. By noon the next day, they came to their first target.
"At last."
He drew rein atop a low rise. Before them lay the manor, fenced by a low hedge, its grounds broad as a kingdom. Nearly a thousand acres stretched within—a square of two kilometers to a side.
The demesne itself, with woodland, ponds, and orchard, covered one hundred and fifty acres. Several dozen more held varied crops. Four hundred acres were planted with winter wheat, almost ripe. The rest lay fallow.
Two-field farming: half the land cropped, half at rest, to restore the soil.
Rurik scanned the place. No ambush. He ordered the column forward.
The fieldworkers, seeing the host descend upon them, fled to the manor-house.
But this was no timber hall. At the centre rose a stone tower, four stories high and broad of base, ringed by a palisade. On its walls the farmers appeared, bearing arms, ready to stand their ground.