Reactions to Ivar's tribute were mixed. Some nobles whistled; one even seized the chance to pinch a slave-girl's pale cheek, guffawing as he cried:
"Ivar, you've the right idea! Next year I'll send the king a bedful of beauties too!"
"Silence!" Queen Sola's voice cut across the laughter, her gaze sweeping the hall until it came to rest, cold and hard, on her notorious stepson. "Lord of Derwent—what exactly do you think you are doing? This is not a slave market, nor a brothel."
Ivar met her stare without flinching.
"Most noble queen, I am paying my tribute. If they displease you, you may dispose of them as you will."
The chamber froze. Household quarrels were dangerous ground, and Ragnar was swift to change the subject.
"What befell you in Ireland, Ivar? Do you need the palace guard sent to your aid?"
"Carelessness," Ivar shrugged. "I was outmaneuvered. No need for your hand in it. Come spring, I'll take Rurik with me and gather a few bands of raiders. Between us, we'll scour them clean from the land."
What? Rurik, silent as stone at the end of the line, lifted his head in shock. He bit back the retort on his tongue, choosing instead to bide his time and seek a private word.
That evening, at the feast, Rurik chose a place beside Ivar and pressed him on his venture.
Ivar tore a quail in half, stuffed it into his mouth, and spoke around the bones.
"In April I marched to my fief. Took me half a month to storm the castle there—the last lord had built in stone, not timber, a devil of a fortress. By June, I'd raised four hundred raiders in York, added them to my men until we were eight hundred strong, and began to build ships."
"Eight hundred Vikings? You did not call up your own levy?"
"No. The Angles are cowards, better left to till their fields." Ivar drained his wine and continued.
From the mouth of the Derwent he sailed west to Man, where two local nobles were quickly subdued. Reprovisioned, he steered toward his true prize—the mouth of the Liffey in Ireland.
There he planned a stronghold: to push inland along the river, sweeping away petty lords until he might crown himself a king.
But even the first step miscarried.
"By Odin, we were too late—the Liffey was already taken!"
Ivar spat the words.
"A timber fort stood there, ruled by a Norwegian called Sweyn, styling himself king. We fought three times. His warships were larger, and we were mauled. By the time we limped back to Man in September, I had scarcely five hundred men left."
("Dyfflin"—the Norse name for "black pool"—lay near what would one day be Dublin.)
From captives he learned that Sweyn hailed from northern Norway, and years before had settled with his fleet at the Liffey's mouth. A town had grown—three thousand souls, with a thousand warriors to call upon.
"A thousand men, and large warships besides," Rurik muttered gravely. "You speak of a sea battle first, then a siege. That will be no easy task. Better to ask the king for aid—perhaps the palace guard."
Ivar gave him a sidelong glance, then flicked his eyes toward Sola at Ragnar's side.
"You think I've not thought of that? That woman despises me. If the guard joins in, she'll see half the spoils stripped from us. No—I tell you, Sweyn is no great terror. You and I together are enough."
When the feast was done, Rurik sought Gunnar the armorer. He chose thirty suits of iron scale, with helms besides—sixty pounds of silver in all.
Short of coin, he asked if the debt might be paid later in wheat.
To his surprise, Gunnar smiled. "Easily done. The king has already spoken with me. Next spring, when you and Ivar strike at Sweyn, you will need good iron."
He pointed to two racks in the corner. "There are thirty swords besides. Take them as my gift. Do you need aught else?"
"Give me tools and iron nails, for shipbuilding."
So armed, Rurik returned to his lodging—and found young Halfdan waiting in the courtyard, white cloak about his shoulders.
"You and Ivar march on Dyfflin. Will you take me with you?"
Rurik studied the boy. He shook his head.
"You are too young for war. And Ivar is your elder brother—why not ask him? Did he already refuse you?"
He motioned his men to try on the new armor, for size must be checked and exchanged if need be. But Halfdan lingered, importunate.
"Come now, don't cast me off. Bjorn sailed in March and has not returned. Next year you and Ivar will be gone, Gunnar, Nils, and Aum will each be leading men into the mountains against the bandits. Am I to rot in York alone, left to that old witch's mercy?"
At once Rurik understood—the "old witch" was Sola. His body stiffened.
"Then try again with Ivar. Go not as a prince, but as an ordinary warrior."
Halfdan's eyes lit like flame. He ran off at once, all eagerness.
Rurik sighed, relieved to be rid of him. He sold honey and wool at the market, then went to Ragnar to take his leave.
"Not staying to amuse yourself a few days longer?" the king teased. "Or are you rushing home to your bride?"
Rurik answered gravely. He had in mind a new kind of ship, and was eager to return to Tynnborg to test his design.
"A new ship?" Ragnar clapped his hands in delight. "You always contrive some novelty. May Odin bless your work!" He gave Rurik a flask of fine wine as a parting gift.
But Rurik's haste was born less of invention than of prudence.
Since the death of Lagertha by poisoned cup, Ragnar had married Sola, sister to King Erik, for politics' sake. Lagertha's sons bore the match no love. And when Sola's child Ubbe came of age, the strife would only deepen.
After days of watchful silence, Rurik was sure: Sola was no mere queen, but a serpent, cunning and ruthless. Best to steer clear of that whirlpool of peril.