In early October, when all was set in order, Rurik gathered his wagons and rode south. The tribute must be paid; and while in York he intended also to purchase iron harnesses, enough to arm the thirty new shieldmen he had lately taken into service.
The city had changed little since his departure. The streets were sparsely populated; many ruins still stood uncleared, their crumbled walls serving as roosts for crows and sparrows.
"Half a year gone," Rurik muttered, "and what has Ragnar done in all that time?"
Along the road, scarcely a third of the shops had reopened. Taverns alone flourished, their rowdy laughter and sour stench of ale filling whole quarters with smoke and din.
"Drink?" Rurik thought, frowning. "Perhaps I should build a brewery myself. Better the surplus grain be turned to profit than left to rot in the barns."
Near the palace gates he set the notion aside, smoothed his cloak, and presented himself. The captain of the guard was none other than Nils, who after a brief exchange of greetings waved him through.
"Go on in—most of the lords are already assembled."
In the great hall Rurik heard a clerk reciting tallies.
"Lord Tis: four horses, sixteen oxen, twenty sheep, and five hundred bushels of wheat."
By Rurik's estimate, Pascal's offering was near to his own. The Northlands were all alike in hardship.
Then came Ulf. His face was a picture of misery, the parchment in his hand crumpled and damp with sweat. The thin-framed clerk smoothed it out and began to read.
"Lord of Liverpool: ten oxen, ten sheep, five hundred bushels of grain, and twenty barrels of—" He paused, glanced up at Ulf with an odd look, then forced himself to continue. "—twenty barrels of dried eel."
A ripple of amusement ran through the chamber. On the throne, Ragnar's expression remained stone, though his jaw twitched as if to speak. But beside him young Halfdan could not contain his mirth; laughter broke from his lips, and with it the hall itself dissolved into uproar.
Only three faces remained unmoved—Rurik's, Pascal's, and that of Queen Sola, who sat stiff and silent at Ragnar's side.
At last Ubb, the youngest, clapped his hands and shouted gleefully:
"Earl of Eels! Earl of Eels!"
"Silence!" Ragnar thundered, glaring at his sons. Then he turned to Ulf, his voice softened. "Tell me, what befell you?"
Scarlet with shame, Ulf stammered, "I had meant to render sheep, lord. But raiders from the Welsh hills fell upon my flocks—three hundred beasts lost!"
Ragnar rose, took a goblet of wine, and pressed it into the man's hands.
"Liverpool's soil is poor and its people few. I know your plight. Next year, hunt down those brigands, and bring me their heads instead."
"Your grace is boundless." Ulf bowed and slunk back to his place.
Then came Rurik's turn. He passed his list to the new clerk—an Anglo-Saxon who gave a courteous bow.
"My name is Godwin, my lord."
When the reading was done, Ragnar made a swift reckoning. A bolt of wool was worth five shillings; twenty such bolts, five pounds. With livestock and grain besides, the total stood near ten pounds of silver.
"Well done. Tynnborg is but a small fief, larger only than Derwent and Liverpool, yet you have gathered a fitting gift. That speaks well of your care."
Rurik bowed low. "I am ever your faithful servant, lord."
It was over. Relief settled on him like a cloak removed. He slipped to the end of the line and leaned toward Ulf.
"Who is still absent?"
"Leonard, and Ivar."
As if conjured, Leonard entered at once, striding with pomp. Ten attendants followed, each bearing a great white swan in his arms.
The lord of Mancunium, seated on lands second only to York itself, had outdone them all. His tribute was worth forty pounds of silver, and the swans—ten in number—he presented to the queen.
For the first time that morning Sola's lips curved into a smile. The snowy birds entranced her.
"But they have wings," she mused aloud. "Will they not simply fly away?"
Leonard chuckled. "At molting we clip their feathers. They will never rise. I have even brought a swan-keeper to tend them."
He took his place at the very head of the line, ostentatious in his pride, as if daring any man to deny his rank among Ragnar's vassals.
The tributes complete, Ragnar sat with Pascal and Godwin to discuss the kingdom's greater ills.
Wine came from the Franks, wool from Northumbria. But the weaving looms of Britain were meager, leaving bales of fleece unsold. Merchants of Flanders—of Ypres, Bruges, Ghent, and Antwerp—grew fat on the trade, spinning English wool into cloth, then selling it back to the Continent at high profit.
"Majesty," Pascal urged, "the treasury is bare. I advise an import duty on wine, and a higher price for wool sent abroad."
It was a sore truth. Since the wars, the king's coffers had dwindled. Every time a fleet from the North came to York, Ragnar, out of courtesy, gave them feast and wine. Once the tables had groaned with rare vintages; only Sola's sharp rebukes had curbed the extravagance. Now mead was given to common seafarers, and only lords and kings tasted grapes. Yet still the silver bled away.
Ragnar brooded. He would not show want before his vassals. With a careless wave he said, "So be it. Let it be done."
More business followed: two landowners disputing fields, a smith summoned to increase his supply of iron. By noon, Ragnar was ready to dismiss the assembly to dine.
But just then the doors opened, and Ivar strode in, cloak of black about his shoulders.
"Well, well. All the lords are here." His eyes swept the chamber. He stopped at the clerk. "And who is this pale fellow?"
"This is Godwin," Ragnar answered. "He aids Pascal in the royal accounts. Now, your tribute, Ivar."
Ivar spread his hands with mock regret. "Alas, in Ireland I met with misfortune. No grain, no cattle to bring."
He whistled. At his call four women entered—slim, fair-skinned, comely as maidens from a bard's tale. He gestured grandly.
"This year's tribute is these. Accept them, lord. Next year, when my fortunes rise again, I shall repay you with interest."
And the hall, for a moment, hung silent at his insolence.