Having made up his mind, Vig ordered his men to interrogate the six thousand Frankish prisoners, selecting three hundred who had some connection to Rouen.
Before departure, he double-checked with the interpreter.
"That's all of them?"
"Yes."
Vig said nothing more. He signaled his 1,600 personal troops to load the supplies and prepare to embark.
Suddenly, shadows appeared across the northern bank of the Seine—a host of men rowing longships toward the south.
Moments later, Vig recognized a tall, broad-shouldered figure standing proudly at the prow, flanked by Ivar and Bjorn.
Ragnar?
The realization rippled through the southern shore. The instant the soldiers saw their supreme commander alive and well, cheers erupted, rolling like thunder along the river. Countless warriors splashed into the shallows to welcome him.
As the High King of Britain, the living legend known across all the Viking world, Ragnar's prestige far eclipsed any other man's. Even with the brilliant exploits of Vig, Ivar, and Gunnar combined, none could replace his place in the hearts of the army.
Leaping down from his longship, Ragnar spent half an hour talking and laughing with his men. Remarkably, he could call many by name, even those he had met only once.
"Eivor! How's your brother's leg healing?"
"Visek! Last time in York you drank yourself senseless for a full day—has your tolerance improved since?"
"Harald! Your eldest daughter must be of marrying age by now. Have you found her a husband? When we take Paris, I'll gift her a gold necklace for her dowry."
After soothing the troops' excitement, Ragnar gathered the nobles for a council—and to explain his two-day disappearance.
"At first, I had no intention of attacking Île de la Cité outright. Then that bald little king—yes, the one with the crown—walks out of the walls alone, shield in one hand, sword in the other, challenging me to single combat.
I was surprised. As a grandson of Charlemagne, I thought I ought to grant him the honor.
But who could've guessed? The treacherous fool had catapults hidden behind the walls! He hurled pots of flaming oil at me—the High King of Britain!—disgracing his grandfather's name!"
Pelted by burning oil, Ragnar barely escaped alive, fleeing north through swamps and forests. For two days he eluded pursuit until finally being cornered in the bell tower of a stone church.
When his pursuers piled wood at the base and prepared to set it aflame, the heavens themselves intervened: dark clouds gathered, and within minutes, a torrential downpour doused the fire. The miracle bought Ragnar and his five guards enough time to hold out until Ivar and Bjorn's rescue party arrived.
Finishing his tale, Ragnar raised his cup with a booming laugh.
"Ha! It seems Odin still has greater tasks awaiting me!"
The nobles rose as one, raising their cups.
"Long live the High King!"
After the meeting, Vig led his troops aboard ship and set sail for Rouen.
Landing on the northern bank, he used the three hundred prisoners—including the son of Rouen's lord—as bait to distract the defenders. Meanwhile, small assault teams breached the wall from a weaker northwest section. Within two hours, Rouen fell.
At the river's edge, Vig found the iron chain still anchored to the rocks on the north bank. The opposite end, cut days earlier, had sunk into the depths of the Seine.
"Medieval iron is rare and costly," he mused. "This chain alone could fetch a fortune if sold."
Once order was restored in the town, Vig ordered his men to bring oxen and horses to haul the submerged chain from the riverbed.
Returning to the Paris front, he employed an old Eastern European technique he had learned—"hauling ships over dry ground." Using this method, the Vikings dragged their longships upstream and established fortified camps on both riverbanks. Then, across the water, they stretched the recovered iron chain, sealing the river like a blade drawn across its throat.
Thus, the eastern approach to Paris was blockaded.
No more supply convoys from upstream could reach the city.
Both bridgeheads to the south and north were also cut off. The Viking army threw itself into constructing siege engines, planning a full assault by mid-June.
"Damn these Norsemen! They're using my own chain against me!"
Behind the battlements, Charles the Bald glared upriver, rage and humiliation twisting his face. Seeking counsel, he ordered two men brought before him—Lambert and Ælla.
Lambert, a royal administrator, had once been sent as an envoy to Wessex and had personally witnessed the Viking invasion of Winchester. He was familiar with their ways of war.
Ælla was the exiled prince of Northumbria.
Two years earlier, he had fled Britain and wandered across the Frankish realms, begging nobles for support to reclaim his throne. Few had even granted him an audience. Gradually abandoned by his own followers, Ælla ended up lingering in Charles's court—mocked by petty courtiers as "Ælla the Fat."
The two men soon appeared before the king.
Charles asked grimly:
"Tell me—what do you make of the heathen army outside my walls?"
Eager to redeem himself after being disgraced in a horse-trading scandal, Lambert spoke first, cutting off Ælla before he could answer.
"Your Majesty, according to my information, Ragnar's army has three key nobles: Vig, Ivar, and Gunnar."
He gestured toward the banners on the distant banks—the serpent, the wolf, and the brown bear.
"Vig is the siege master—nicknamed the Chosen of the North, the Serpent of the Frozen Lands, the Hammer of Cities. His conquests include York, Dubh Linn, Repton, Tamworth, Winchester, and, most recently, Rouen."
He risked a glance at the king's expression, then hurried on.
"Ivar, Ragnar's eldest son, claims dominion over all Ireland. Two days ago, he shattered our left flank with heavy infantry.
As for Gunnar, he's the oldest of Ragnar's companions—once obscure, until his unmatched skill in cavalry tactics earned him command of their horsemen. Two days ago, he led the charge that broke our lines. Surely, Your Majesty remembers that."
Charles's face darkened, but he didn't interrupt—allowing the oily administrator to continue.
"In short, Ragnar and these three, commanding seven thousand men, can easily take Paris. My advice: seek peace at once."
The king frowned, deep in thought. He had indeed been approached by many nobles begging for negotiations—to ransom their captured kin—but he had hesitated, doubting the Vikings' honor.
Lambert pressed the point.
"Your Majesty, Britain is in turmoil. Ragnar cannot afford to keep his army here for long. He must return home soon—so he'll have to accept peace. Otherwise, he risks losing his own realm."
It made sense.
Charles ran his hand along the rough stone of the battlement, his expression softening as he accepted the logic.
Yes—West Francia was vast. Local lords were building wooden keeps, some even stone fortresses, too many for the Vikings to capture or hold.
His eyes brightened, his voice steadier.
"Very well. You will go out and negotiate with Ragnar. Tell him I'll pay him off—but under two conditions:
First, he releases the prisoners.
Second, both sides swear by their gods not to attack each other for five years."
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