The lands of West Francia were fertile and mild, blessed with a gentler climate than almost anywhere else in Europe. For the sake of peace, Charles the Bald was more than willing to part with some of his gold.
Listening to the discussion from the side, Ælla remained expressionless. Though he loathed the Vikings outside the walls, he was still just a penniless exile leeching off the Frankish court. He had no right to question his host's decision—only to bide his time and wait for fortune's turn.
News of the negotiations spread quickly. Before long, a crowd of noblewomen gathered outside Lambert's residence, begging him to inquire about their captured sons and husbands.
Sensing their desperation, Lambert straightened his posture and put on a solemn, righteous face.
"Ladies, rest assured. I will speak to Ragnar myself, and see that he treats your noble kin with proper dignity."
Pushing through the crowd, Lambert rode to the southern bridgehead and walked the rest of the way to the Viking siege camp.
To his surprise, the guards at the gate did not harass him—they even seemed open to negotiation.
After ten minutes of waiting, he was escorted to the largest tent in the camp, where a middle-aged man wearing a crown sat reading, with a young interpreter standing beside him.
The interpreter addressed Lambert in Latin:
"Please, take a seat."
Once seated, Lambert formally relayed King Charles's offer: withdraw your army, and both sides shall keep peace for five years.
Soon, the interpreter translated Ragnar's reply:
"Thirty thousand pounds of silver. One thousand warhorses. Meet these terms, and the siege will end."
Lambert winced.
"Your Majesty, we don't have that kind of money."
He put on a pitiful expression, hands spread in helplessness.
"Even if you take Paris by force, even if the king dies in the ruins, the nobles will crown another ruler, and your army will be dragged into an endless war of attrition. Eventually, you'll have no choice but to retreat to Britain empty-handed."
Lambert knew his audience. From the intelligence he'd gathered, Ragnar had spared King Æthelwulf after taking Winchester last year—a pragmatic, calculating chieftain rather than a bloodthirsty savage.
If nothing went awry, Lambert estimated a seventy percent chance the negotiations would succeed.
By midday, the first round of talks ended with both sides far apart. Lambert, lacking authority to promise more, took his leave.
Before departing, he was granted permission to inspect the southern prisoner camp. The place had once been a small village; the Vikings had forced the captives to rebuild the huts and surround them with palisades. The guards were strict but orderly, and the prisoners—surprisingly—did not look mistreated.
Lambert, ever the opportunist, suggested improving the nobles' living conditions. The guard captain sneered.
"Hah! They should be grateful for porridge made from mixed grain. You think Ragnar cares about such trifles?"
"Oh, he will," Lambert replied smoothly. "Because it concerns his profit—and by extension, the profit of his whole army."
Then he explained the Frankish custom: noble captives were to be treated with respect and had the right to ransom themselves—the sum typically equaling two to four years of income.
(Historical note: In 1193, England's King Richard the Lionheart was captured and ransomed for 150,000 marks—around 34 tons of silver, or 97,000 pounds—three years of royal revenue.)
"Remember this: peace is almost settled. If a single noble dies by your negligence, none of you low-born guards will survive the consequences."
"W–what? You're bluffing…"
But the man's face went pale. Indeed, a few weeks earlier, a captured earl's nephew had died of a beating, and two other nobles had succumbed to their wounds. Now he realized the gravity of it.
Panicking, the captain later confessed everything to Ragnar himself.
Meanwhile, Lambert returned to the island and reported the Viking's terms.
"Your Majesty, Ragnar isn't after our land. He just wants money—a hefty haul, but nothing more. Thirty thousand pounds of silver and a thousand warhorses."
"Pfah!"
Charles the Bald nearly spat out his wine.
"Is that all? The Norse beggars truly have no sense of proportion! For this pocket change they've turned my kingdom upside down."
He wiped his mouth with a silk napkin, tossed it aside, and grumbled:
"Fine. Go back tomorrow. Don't agree too quickly—make them sweat first."
"Understood."
The next day, Lambert returned to Ragnar's tent and argued his case passionately: the crown could only afford ten thousand pounds of silver and five hundred horses, while noble ransoms could raise another six to seven thousand pounds and several hundred more horses.
Ragnar frowned at the red-faced little Frank. Could Charles truly be so poor that even such a modest price was beyond him?
He dismissed the envoy and summoned his war council.
Ten minutes later, Ragnar glanced around the tent, dumbfounded.
"Where is everyone?"
"Nils and Orm are out hunting nearby. Ivar took a party to intercept a Frankish relief force. Theowulf's praying at some church in the countryside. Gunnar's breaking in new horses. Vig's scouting terrain twenty miles southeast."
In short—two-thirds of his senior officers were slacking off.
Ragnar sighed. With only a handful present, they debated briefly and agreed to lower their demand:
twenty thousand pounds of silver and fifteen hundred warhorses.
Southeast of Paris, in an oak forest—
Led by a local villager, Vig arrived at a small clearing, gazing at a crystal spring.
"So this is Fontaine Belle Eau—Fontainebleau?"
He stirred the water idly with his fingers. Nothing remarkable. With a sigh, he took out his notebook and sketched the scene.
"A wasted trip. Nothing but trees and disappointment."
Returning to the siege camp, he soon learned of the new treaty terms.
"Your Majesty, why not demand more?" he asked Ragnar.
Ragnar tossed him a crumpled letter. Vig scanned it quickly.
"Halfdan… defeated? Incredible."
He bit back his criticism—Halfdan was Ragnar's son, after all—and simply nodded.
"In that case, it's no loss. My lands are a mess anyway. A swift return may be for the best."
Truthfully, two months of campaigning for such enormous profit was a remarkable bargain—especially with 1,500 Frankish warhorses in the spoils. Based on his recent record, Vig expected to receive at least a hundred of them.
Silently calculating his share, he bowed and excused himself to resume writing his chronicle, The Wars of the Franks.
Just as he was leaving, Ragnar called out:
"Vig! Your victory at Paris will be sung for generations. I intend to raise you to the rank of duke. What do you think of Wales?"
Before the other nobles, Vig instinctively declined.
"I'm more accustomed to the northern climate, Your Majesty. The Picts still raid my villages often—I intend to march north and put an end to them for good."
Ragnar smiled.
"So be it. Then from this day, you are Duke of Tyne Town, lord of the Northlands."
A clever move: the northern highlands were rugged, cold, and full of hostile Picts—a perfect empty title that cost Ragnar nothing.
He went on to promote Ivar as Duke of Dublin, nominal ruler of Ireland.
Ivar accepted the honor carelessly. Titles meant little to him; battles would still be fought the same either way.
As the ceremony ended, Ivar muttered under his breath:
"Spending too much time with Sola, Pascas and Godwin has made the old man sly. Who knows what trick he'll pull next?"
Over the next few days, Vig secluded himself in his tent, writing The Chronicle of the West Franks.
Just as he penned the final lines, a messenger arrived, breathless:"My lord, ships are coming up from downstream—flying the sword-and-axe banner of King Erik!"
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