Bjorn launched another raid in 796 A.D, timing his departure for mid-July with the clear intention of extracting as much wealth as possible before returning home for the harvest season.
He made a deliberate decision to avoid Wessex entirely. His reasoning was sound: King Ecbert was no fool, and by now would have certainly moved all valuable treasures from the vulnerable monasteries to fortified locations—burhs with stone walls and trained defenders.
More importantly, Bjorn knows that taking his son hostage would be pointless. The king simply wouldn't care about his son's life, instead he would welcome the opportunity to eliminate a potential rival while simultaneously rallying his lords against a common Norse threat. In either case, Bjorn would merely be doing Ecbert's work for him.
'He was and is a smart man, Ecbert.' Bjorn thought.
Ireland presented itself as an ideal target for raiding. Bjorn had learned through careful interrogation of captured slaves and monks that Ireland was not a unified state but rather a patchwork of over one hundred small kingdoms called túatha, each ruled by its own king or rí.
These minor kingdoms were loosely organized into larger over-kingdoms: the Uí Néill dominated the north, the Eóganachta held the south, and the Connachta controlled the western territories.
From the slaves he had taken, Bjorn heard repeated mentions of the Uí Néill's growing prominence, and one name in particular kept appearing in their accounts: Donnchad Midi, who seemed to be the dominant figure in the northern territories.
This information was valuable for knowing who held power meant knowing who could be negotiated with.
Bjorn's initial strategy was straightforward. He began by raiding two islands called Skye and Rathlin. After securing these locations, he made camp on the shore and waited, essentially offering the local rulers an opportunity to negotiate rather than face continued destruction.
It was a calculated move designed to test whether the Irish kings were willing to pay tribute to avoid devastation.
The response was disappointing. No delegation arrived. No deals were offered. The Irish rulers either didn't understand the opportunity being presented or believed they could wait out the Norse presence.
So Bjorn returned to what he knew best; he raided and burned two monasteries to the ground.
However, these monasteries proved to be poor. They had little silver and less gold.
But they were rich in a different sense: they possessed substantial wealth in livestock—cattle, sheep, and pigs—as well as stores of crops like barley and oats.
For a raider thinking beyond the immediate haul of precious metals, this represented a different kind of value.
Livestock could be transported back to Norway, where it would continue to produce wealth for years. Grain is always welcome.
Bjorn did not engage in any major battles during this campaign. He lost two men, mostly overconfident warriors who were too accustomed unconsciously to seeking personal glory rather than fighting as part of a coordinated unit, but nothing that significantly weakened his force.
This was by design.
Bjorn had avoided large pitched battles. Battles were unpredictable and costly, even in victory.
What Bjorn particularly appreciated about Ireland was its political fragmentation. Since the Irish kingdoms were so divided and unable to coordinate their responses, he realized he could potentially establish a permanent camp on the Irish coast if he ever wanted to.
The local rulers simply couldn't unite quickly enough to pose a serious threat to a well-fortified Norse position supplied by sea. This was a realization he filed away for future consideration.
The Irish also had no navy to speak of, and no coastal fortifications that could seriously challenge a Norse fleet. The monks, as usual, reacted predictably: they either ran screaming for their lives or stayed to pray, with some dying in the belief that this Norse invasion was divine punishment for their sins.
After a week of killing, burning, and pillaging, Bjorn finally succeeded in forcing the local king to the negotiating table. His opening demand was audacious: three hundred pounds of silver.
Bjorn knew perfectly well the king wouldn't—likely couldn't—pay this amount. But that was the point. Negotiations always worked better when you started with an unreasonable demand and allowed the other party to feel they had won concessions by bargaining you down to your actual target price.
The negotiations took place on the shores, with messengers riding back and forth between Bjorn's camp and the king's.. Eventually, they reached an agreement: one hundred fifty pounds of silver; a collection of chalices and plates, and a stonemason.
The Irish kings, unfortunately, had no metalworkers skilled in coin minting to offer, which was a disappointment but not a deal-breaker.
From Ireland, Bjorn sailed to Scotland, where he employed essentially the same strategy: avoid major battles, make camp in one location, wait for the king to appear with his forces, then leave and attack a different location entirely.
He specifically targeted Iona, which he had successfully raided the previous year in 795 A.D. Iona was the largest and most important monastery in Scotland, famous for its wealth and its master craftsmen, particularly its stonemasons. The quality of Scottish stonework had impressed Bjorn during his previous raid.
His demand to the Scottish king was the same as in Ireland: three hundred pounds of silver.
After negotiations, the price was reduced to one hundred twenty-five pounds of silver, plus one stonemason and crucially, one metalworker. Finally, Bjorn had secured a craftsman who could mint coins, a key component of his long-term economic plans.
The king agreed to these terms. However, when he arrived to deliver the tribute with his household guards, he made a catastrophically stupid decision: he ordered his men to launch a surprise attack and kidnap Bjorn.
The attempt failed miserably. Bjorn killed the attackers in mere seconds—all of them except the king himself. As tensions escalated and a larger battle seemed imminent between the two forces, Bjorn made a decision.
He took the agreed-upon treasure and prepared to leave, but not before delivering a clear message to the king: he would return, and the tribute had better be prepared with interest added for this betrayal.
By late July, Bjorn finally returned to Kattegat, his ships laden with silver, livestock, and most valuable of all; skilled craftsmen who could teach their trades to his own people.
What he found upon his return was, oddly, disappointing. No one had attempted to raid his farms or attack his lands during his absence. His reputation, it seemed, had grown to the point where it actively deterred potential attackers.
He had expected—perhaps even hoped—that at least two neighboring chieftains; Jarls or kings, would unite and try to seize some of the treasure he had brought back. At least then he would have had a legitimate excuse to retaliate and expand his territory.
But no action had been taken against him. His neighbors, it turned out, weren't idiots after all.
With his immediate borders secure and his wealth growing, Bjorn turned his attention to a pressing problem: Kattegat needed to expand, and it needed to expand quickly.
He found himself growing increasingly impatient with how slowly things progressed. Building a town from a settlement required more men, more craftsmen, more resources; and he needed them fast.
The question was: in which direction should he expand?
He considered three options: north through the inland kingdoms of Norway, east through Alfheim into Sweden, or south into Denmark.
He immediately dismissed the last two options. Both Sweden and Denmark had changed dramatically since the fall of Uppsala.
They were slowly but steadily moving toward centralized power, with strong kings emerging who were consolidating previously independent territories.
Some of these consolidations had already succeeded, and Bjorn knew several of these rising powers by name and reputation.
Expanding into either Sweden or Denmark would require significant military force, which would overextend his relatively small number of household warriors.
More dangerously, it would place him in the center of increasingly bitter power struggles, making him a target for multiple ambitious kings simultaneously.
The north, however, offered better prospects. Norway's inland kingdoms were fragmented, landlocked, and increasingly desperate.
They had no access to the sea and therefore couldn't participate in the lucrative western raids. They had no tradition of shipbuilding.
They were watching the coastal jarls grow wealthy while they remained poor and isolated.
Bjorn decided his best strategy was to expand strategically toward the north by leveraging what both he and these inland chieftains wanted. He would use his surging reputation to his advantage, offering them something they desperately desired.
It was a strategy built on mutual benefit rather than conquest.
Everyone would profit. But Bjorn, naturally, would profit most of all.
The pieces were falling into place. The invitations had been sent. The feast was being planned. And the stage was being set.
-x-X-x-
"Your hospitality is legendary, Jarl Runi," Thorstein said. "Though I confess, we half-expected to find you surrounded by a dozen beautiful women, given your reputation."
Laughter rippled through the hall, neither too loud nor too restrained. Runi smiled from his high seat, a expression that transformed his already handsome face into something that had made more than one woman forget her husband's name.
"The night is long, friend Thorstein. Perhaps later I'll show you my... other hospitality." He gestured to the long table that dominated the center of the hall. "But first, you must be starving. Come, sit. Eat. Drink. We'll speak of serious matters after you've remembered what it's like to feel your fingers again."
The table groaned under the weight of Runi's generosity.
Roasted boar, its skin crackling and golden, occupied the place of honor.
Around it spread a bounty that made Thorstein's men lean forward with hunger barely concealed: whole chickens glazed with honey, great rounds of cheese aged in the caves to the north, fresh-baked bread that steamed when broken open, smoked fish arranged like silver treasures, turnips and onions roasted until sweet, curds swimming in cream, and preserved berries.
The ale flowed freely, amber and strong, brewed from the previous year's barley. But for the guests of honor, Runi had ordered mead—the good mead, golden as a woman's hair, sweetened with honey from his own hives and flavored with herbs that grew only in the high meadows.
"To King Bjorn!" Runi raised his horn. "May his fame grow with every telling!"
"To Jarl Runi and his generosity!" the hall echoed, and they drank.
Runi studied Thorstein over the rim of his horn. His face was honest, and perhaps too honest. Not stupid, no, but not given to the subtle games that kings and jarls played in the shadows between their words. A sword-man, not a word-man.
Perfect for delivering a message. Terrible at concealing one. Now that made him curious, for why such a person was chosen.
The conversation flowed with the mead—talk of the harvest, of the early winter, of the raiding season just past. Thorstein's men gradually relaxed, their laughter becoming genuine as the warmth of the hall and the quality of the food worked its magic.
Runi made sure to include them in the conversation, asking after families, praising weapons, admiring the craftsmanship of a brooch or the design of a scabbard.
All the while, he watched.
The gifts they had brought lay beside his chair: three axes of western make, their blades keen enough to shave with, the steel folded so many times the patterns looked like frozen water; two swords with hilts wrapped in silver wire, balanced so perfectly they seemed weightless; and a helmet, magnificent, he never seen anything like it. Made in Kattegat, they said.
They were good gifts. Very good.
Runi let the feast continue until he judged the moment right, when bellies were full but minds still sharp, when the mead had loosened tongues but not yet drowned judgment. He raised his hand, and the hall quieted. Even the fire seemed to burn more softly.
"So, Thorstein of Kattegat." His voice carried warmth. "I think it's time for us to speak about your visit. Surely you did not come all the way here just to see my handsome face or to learn from me how to charm women."
Thorstein laughed, the sound booming off the rafters. "Trust me, if it were another time, I would surely have tried to learn a trick or two from you, Jarl Runi. But as you know, the deep winter season is upon us, and we don't wish to get frozen on our way back to Kattegat."
"Wise choice. My tricks will surely not work on the frozen roads." Runi's own laughter joined his, easy and friendly, as if they were kinsmen of many years rather than near-strangers.
He drank deeply from his horn, then fixed Thorstein with a look that was suddenly all business beneath the bonhomie. "So, what message do you bring from King Bjorn?"
Thorstein set down his food with a deliberate motion, clapping his hands together. The gesture drew every eye in the hall. Even the servants paused in their endless circulation, sensing that the real purpose of this visit was about to unfold.
"Well," Thorstein began, his voice taking on the formal cadence of a man reciting words he had memorized with care, "the King knows that you don't have access to the sea, so you can't raid to the west. And he sent us here with an offer that he said..." Thorstein paused for effect, "'You wouldn't be able to refuse.'"
'Ah', Runi thought, keeping his face pleasantly interested while his mind raced ahead. 'And there it is. The hook beneath the bait.'
"Well then, I'm curious. Go ahead." He gestured to a serving girl with hair like spun gold to refill his horn. She did so with grace, her movements designed to please the eye without drawing undue attention.
Runi had chosen all his servants with care. A man's hall spoke for him in a thousand silent ways.
"First," Thorstein said, leaning forward, "you can have access to the sea to sail west alongside Our King."
Runi let his brow furrow, playing the part expected of him. His kingdom was landlocked, trapped between the inland territories with, if you are lucky, only local lakes for water. No shipyards. No tradition of shipbuilding.
Every man in this hall knew it. The question was not whether Bjorn knew this obstacle existed, but how he planned to use it.
"But we don't have ships, nor the right people to build them," Runi said slowly, as if working through a puzzle. "So how can we sail west?"
Thorstein smiled as if has been waiting for exactly this question. "You have heard of King Bjorn's ships and how much better they are, haven't you?"
"Of course. Who hasn't?" Runi kept his tone light, almost mocking. "The people say he binds spirits into them, that's why they're so fast. They say the ships themselves hunger for the western shores."
"And what do you say, Jarl Runi?" Thorstein's eyes gleamed, pride in them, defending his Lord's reputation.
Runi raised his hands, palms open, in an eloquent shrug. "I have met many jarls and kings. All of them try to bend the seas to their will. I've seen only a few achieve it. And your King might be the cleverest of them all." He let admiration color his words; admiration that was, in its way, perfectly genuine.
Thorstein laughed as if Runi had praised him personally rather than his king—a telling reaction. "He certainly is."
"And let me tell you this: they are the fastest ships in all the seas," Thorstein continued, warming to his subject. "And he offers you this: You can have your own ships made in his shipyard. Only, you need to provide all the materials needed; the timber, the iron for rivets, the wool for sails. And all the craftsmen required to help the shipbuilders in their work: carpenters, weavers, ropemakers, smiths. Including payment for the shipbuilders themselves."
Runi let the words hang in the smoky air of the hall. Around him, his men had gone very still. They understood what was being offered and what it would cost.
"Ships such as these..." Runi spoke slowly, thoughtfully, as if tasting each word. "One might consider them priceless. Surely a man of sense would not give them away lightly." He studied Thorstein's face, searching for any crack in the messenger's composure. "I do love clever bargains, friend Thorstein."
"He offers you a way that would strengthen and benefit you and him as well." Thorstein met his gaze squarely, and Runi had to respect the man's directness. "He is asking for your allegiance to him as your King."
There it was. The truth laid bare, without pretty words to dress it up.
Loyalty. Such a small word. Such a weight it carried.
Runi leaned back in his chair, his fingers forming a steeple as he thought. The hall was utterly silent now. His men watched him, waiting.
Thorstein's men watched him, waiting.
Even the fire seemed to hold its breath.
The offer was elegant in its simplicity, and its chains.
Ships built in Bjorn's shipyards would remain in Bjorn's harbors. Controlled by Bjorn's harbor masters. Crewed by Bjorn's men, or at least men who had sworn to Bjorn.
Oh, Runi could provide the raiders who would fill those ships, could earn his share of the silver and gold they brought back. But the ships themselves? Those would always belong to Bjorn, in every way that mattered.
It was not ownership being offered. It was permission.
And the price? His independence. His freedom to make alliances, to refuse raids he deemed unwise, to chart his own course. All of it would flow through Bjorn's hands.
But, Runi's mind whispered to him, 'what is independence worth if you're trapped on land while others sail to glory?'
He had heard the stories, everyone had. The ambitious kingdoms along the coast, though not all of them, were slowly growing fat on western silver.
While he sat here, lord of forests and lakes, watching the world change without him.
"Is it true then?" Runi asked, breaking the silence with a casual tone that belied the importance of his question. "That you brought back some five thousand pounds of silver from a king there in the west? Some say it's ten thousand, some say three thousand. Very hard to tell when it comes as rumors and gossip."
Thorstein's laugh was immediate and genuine, the laugh of a man who had been there, who had seen wonders with his own eyes.
"It was only three thousand and two hundred pounds of silver!" The word "only" seemed absurd, but Thorstein delivered it with perfect sincerity. "And some dozen pounds of gold. Nothing much." He waved his hand dismissively, as if discussing a successful fishing trip rather than wealth that could buy kingdoms.
"Let me tell you, Jarl Runi," Thorstein continued, leaning forward with the enthusiasm of a born storyteller, "he entered the most fortified place you could imagine. They call it Yorvic (Norse can't pronouce Eoforwic). It's a settlement with thousands of people living in it, protected by walls of stone, unbreakable walls if you ask me."
The hall had come alive again, Thorstein's audience leaning in to catch every word. Even Runi's most stoic warriors were listening with hungry attention. This was what they all craved: tales of glory, of impossible victories, of wealth beyond measure.
"They had a river that passes in front of this Yorvic," Thorstein said, his hands moving to sketch the scene in the air, "Our ships couldn't simply enter the river mouth and sail there without being seing and alerting them, which then surely they would have readied all their men. All the men thought it was impossible to raid it with our twi hundred men. Any other man would have turned back. But not King Bjorn. Not Ragnar Lothbrok."
He paused for effect, and Runi had to admire the showmanship. Simple he might be, but Thorstein knew how to hold a hall's attention.
"They had a plan. They made them think Bjorn was a monk and Ragnar is a villager. Then they entered this foreign place, where their people speak a different tongue than ours. The king entered into their temple, and when they expected it less..."
"No," someone breathed. Even knowing how the story must end, the audacity of it stole breath.
"Yes!" Thorstein grinned. "Then, with his father Ragnar Lothbrok, they took hostages: the prince, the princess, and their high priest, whom they call an archbishop. Can you imagine? They walked out of that city with the king's own children, and they had to pay to get them back."
Thorstein's eyes shone with the memory. "And you did not see that princess, I'm telling you. She had such beauty to her face. Smooth hair, eyes like—"
"Yes, yes," Runi interrupted gently, though not unkindly. "I'm sure she was lovely." He had no doubt the princess was beautiful—man with statuts bred for beauty as they did for strength—but a woman across the sea, no matter how fair, was of less interest than the principles at play.
What interested him was the strategy. The boldness. The sheer, calculated risk of it.
And the profit.
Three thousand, two hundred pounds of silver. Dozen pounds of gold.
For one raid.
A cow's price is 1/5 pounds of silver. (0.22 pounds of silver)
A sheep is 0.03. A good sword could go two two pounds of silver.
His mind raced with calculations. Could such a feat be repeated, or was it a once-in-a-lifetime chance of fortune and blessings from the gods?
Runi studied the faces around him—his men, alive with hunger for the stories they were hearing; Thorstein's men, proud and satisfied with the impression they were making. He could feel the pull of it, the attraction of Bjorn's feats.
The world was changing. He could feel it.
Other kingdoms were already following Bjorn's example. His influence was spreading like fire. Jarls and kings up and down the coast were organizing their own raids westward, trying to duplicate his success. Some would succeed. Many would fail. But all of them would be learning, adapting, growing stronger.
While the inland chieftains—himself included—sat and watched.
The pattern was clear: those with access to the sea were pulling ahead. In another generation, maybe less, the balance of power would have shifted so completely that inland territories would be little more than tributaries to the coastal kingdoms.
Vassals in all but name, paying tribute in timber and iron and men, while the real wealth flowed through hands that could reach across the waves.
'If I ally with Bjorn', Runi thought, 'I gain opportunity. Ships. Raids. A share of the western silver. A seat at the table where the future is being decided.'
'If I refuse him, I risk being swept aside. I cannot match him on the waves. But I can control what happens on land, and perhaps influence his choices to my advantage.
If I do nothing... well, doing nothing is itself a choice. And perhaps the worst one.'
His wealth was growing faster than winter floods, they said. And unlike flood water, it wouldn't recede with the seasons.
'I must watch him closely, Runi decided, and perhaps ride his tide before it drowns me.'
But he wouldn't make it easy. A man who seemed too eager got the worst terms. A man who had to be courted, convinced, won over, that man could extract concessions.
"I heard," Runi said carefully, as if the thought had just occurred to him, "that he found some new way to improve the harvest of the farms. Surely your King would not deny me the chance to learn from him?"
It was a test, disguised as a request. Agricultural knowledge was valuable, yes, but it also revealed something about Bjorn's character. A king who hoarded every advantage, who refused to share even beneficial knowledge, was one kind of ruler. A king who understood that strengthening his allies strengthened himself was another.
Thorstein spread his hands apologetically. "I unfortunately don't have the power to negotiate any further. I'm just a messenger, Jarl Runi. My task is to deliver the King's offer and hear your answer." He paused, then added with a knowing smile, "But the King offers you to join him in his kingdom for a feast. To discuss these matters, and others."
Ah. Now the picture was complete.
This wasn't truly a negotiation. It was an invitation to negotiate. Bjorn wanted to meet him, to take his measure in person. To see if Runi was a man worth having as an ally or merely a minor jarl to be absorbed or ignored.
The feast would be theater, of course. Bjorn would display his wealth, his ships, his warriors, the loyalty of his men. He would demonstrate, without saying a word, exactly what it meant to be in his alliance, and what it might cost to be outside it.
And Runi would be expected to be impressed. To be overawed, perhaps. To understand his place in the natural order that Bjorn was establishing.
Well, Runi thought with an internal smile.
"If the great hero Bjorn invites you, how can you refuse?" Runi said, leaning back in his chair with a smile that gave away nothing. He let the silence stretch just long enough to make Thorstein slightly uncomfortable, to remind everyone in the hall that he was still the one in control here, in his own kingdom, in his own hall.
"Tell your King," Runi continued, his voice carrying to every corner of the hall, "that Jarl Runi of Hedmark is honored by his invitation. I will come to his feast when the weather permits, perhaps when the first thaws make the roads passable again. We have much to discuss, he and I."
Thorstein's relief was visible. He had accomplished his mission. The message had been delivered, and it had not been rejected out of hand. That was success enough for a man like him.
"The King will be pleased," Thorstein said. "He speaks highly of you, Jarl Runi. He says you're a man who understands the way the world is changing."
'Does he? Runi wondered. Or does he say that to every jarl he's trying to recruit?'
Out loud, he merely said, "The King is generous with his praise. I look forward to our meeting."
He raised his horn. "But tonight, we celebrate! You have traveled far, you have brought excellent gifts, and you have shared tales of glory that will be told around this fire for years to come. Drink! Eat! Tomorrow you begin your journey home, but tonight, you are guests in my hall, and no guest of mine goes cold or hungry."
The tension broke. The hall came alive again with conversation and laughter. Food was brought out—sweetmeats that had been held in reserve, preserved fruits from the previous summer, the last of the autumn apples, crisp and sweet.
Runi made sure Thorstein and his men wanted for nothing. He told his own stories—carefully chosen tales that demonstrated his cleverness, his courage, his ability to manage the complex web of alliances that made up the inland territories.
He flirted harmlessly with the serving girls from time to time, made jokes, laughed at others' jokes, and played the perfect host.
All the while, his mind worked.
-x-X-x-
End of Year 796 A.D.