Viking Invasion-Chapter 69 – Respite

News of the prince’s death and the loss of the royal crown spread swiftly through the smoldering ruins of Tamworth. The old king, broken by despair, realized that his realm had already fallen. No hope remained in the battered stones of his fortress.

He gave quiet orders for the remaining barrels of oil to be poured across every floor of the keep, dismissing his servants and soldiers alike. Then, before the eyes of those few who dared linger, the frail monarch ascended to the highest parapet and, without a word, set fire to the seat of Mercian kings. Flames consumed the tower that had for generations stood as the emblem of royal power. The conflagration rose against the wintry sky like a funeral pyre for the kingdom itself.

After two months of unrelenting campaign, the Viking host had achieved its first grand objective: the conquest of Tamworth, the death of the royal heir, and the breaking of Mercia’s political heart.

Ragnar declared a halt to all further operations. The men had marched and fought through frost and rain, their strength near exhaustion. To press them onward would risk mutiny. The army, flush with victory yet worn thin by hardship, needed rest.

The burning of the fortress had destroyed not only its treasures but also its records—the ledgers detailing royal revenues and the accounts of Mercia’s sprawling estates. Lacking those, Ragnar appointed Pascale to reconstruct the kingdom’s finances from scratch, with Rurik assisting him for his modest grasp of Latin.

"This," sighed Rurik, flipping through a pile of half-charred parchments, "is a tangle fit for a madman. We’ll be at it for months."

He proposed that they locate any surviving clerks or stewards who had served the Mercian court and interrogate each in turn, recording their recollections.

Pascale nodded. "A sound plan. Let’s begin."

Thus began their dreary labor, day after day among ashes and half-ruined scrolls. They learned that the greater portion of royal income came from land: peasants tied to crown estates owed grain, honey, and two weeks each year of unpaid service.

The forests, vast and jealously guarded, were another source of wealth. No one might hunt there without royal license; each hunter paid in pelts, and even those who gathered firewood owed tax.

Beyond agriculture, there were two lesser but vital streams: trade and coinage. Customs duties were levied at river crossings and markets. Two small silver mines supplied ingots to the royal mint, where they were struck into coins bearing the king’s profile.

Finally, they discovered mention of five royal charters—exclusive trade rights granted to Flemish merchants for wool and honey exports—each a lucrative arrangement for the late king.

Ten days of toil brought them no closer to a full accounting. Relief arrived at last when Gudwin and several administrators from York joined them. Rurik, with undisguised gratitude, surrendered the burden to these new officials and withdrew to a quiet chamber to read.

By February, Ivar had arrived with four hundred men, late and travel-worn. Ragnar neither chastised nor embraced his eldest son. A modest banquet was held, the tone more weary than triumphant.

"The Irish nobles breed like weeds," Ivar complained over his cup. "Crush one, and another sprouts. A year gone in endless skirmishes—and little rest to show for it."

To pacify the island’s fractious lords, he had done what once seemed unthinkable: taken a local wife, the daughter of a petty noble, and adopted Irish customs of governance. "Even my temper cannot bend that swamp to my will," he muttered. "Some say I should bring more Norse settlers, but I fear I’ll be drained there for decades yet."

Rurik listened in silence. His thoughts strayed to his own lands and the unending work they demanded.

The hall’s doors burst open as a rider cloaked in thick wool entered, breath steaming. "My lords," he cried, "the garrison at Nottingham wishes to surrender!"

Ragnar blinked through the haze of wine. Nottingham—still holding out after three months—had harried their supply lines and tied down a thousand of his men.

"What terms do they offer?" he asked.

The messenger handed over a sealed parchment. Ragnar broke the wax, passing the letter to Pascale for translation.

The message, couched in elaborate courtesies, bore the name of Theowulf, lord of Nottingham. He offered the town in exchange for safe passage south with his family, soldiers, and possessions.

"Mercian fools," Ragnar growled. "They never yield without a tangle of words."

The wine was clouding his mind. Rather than deliberate, he waved a hand vaguely toward his gathered nobles. "One of you—see it done."

Moments later his head sank onto the table, and the king of the Northmen slept, snoring over his empty goblet.

At the long table’s right side, Rurik turned to Ivar. "Was that order meant for you—or for me?"

Ivar shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."

Rurik sighed. "Then it falls to me, as usual." He bent to pick up the parchment from the rush-strewn floor, skimmed its contents, and went off to prepare for the journey north.

Within days he was riding toward Nottingham with his household guard.

The town looked much as it had the year before—its timber walls battered but still standing. The thousand Vikings besieging it had never managed a full encirclement; each night, small Mercian foraging parties slipped out to gather wood and grain from the countryside, defying hunger and frost for three long months.

Rurik dismissed his escort and stood alone in the snow-bright field two hundred paces from the gate.

After a time, the eastern door opened a cautious slit, and a rider emerged. "Your name, sir?" the man asked.

"Rurik of Thane’s Hold."

"I am Theowulf of Nottingham," the other replied, dismounting. He was a slender man in his late twenties, elegant even in fatigue.

Rurik handed him the parchment. "The king accepts your terms. When will you yield?"

"Allow us a week to gather our belongings."

"Three days," said Rurik curtly. "Not a day more. Delay, and I’ll bring the siege engines to bear myself."

Theowulf bowed his head, defeated.

When the parley ended, Rurik rode back toward a nearby abandoned hamlet to make camp. His lieutenant, Jorlen, eyed him curiously. "My lord, why not stay in the siege camp for comfort’s sake?"

"Comfort?" Rurik snorted. "You call that dung-heap comfort?"

He had ridden through the encampment earlier and found it more brothel than barracks—merchants and harlots wandering freely, tents thick with smoke and laughter. "If Theowulf had any courage, he could storm that cesspit tonight and carry the whole army in their sleep."

Fortunately, the Mercian had no such thought. Three days later, under gray winter light, Nottingham’s gates opened.

"My lord," said Theowulf, pale and trembling, "I trust you will honor your word."

Behind him streamed soldiers, servants, and townsfolk—some weeping, some numb with exhaustion—nearly seventeen hundred souls in all.

Rurik kept his oath. He marched behind them at a measured distance, escorting the long, trudging column for five days until they reached the southern border, where he dismissed them to their uncertain exile.

Thus ended the campaign for Nottingham—a surrender not won by sword, but by the slow, inevitable gravity of conquest.