Along the banks of the Seine, Vig saw the newcomers approaching—young Erik at their head, commanding fifty longships and two thousand infantry.
"The war's already over," Vig muttered. "What are they doing here now?"
To the seven thousand Vikings camped by the river, this belated "reinforcement" was met with cold stares. Ragnar could not defy the will of his army, so he refused Erik's request for a share of the loot, even though the boy was Queen Sola's nephew.
Dividing spoils after battle was sacred among the Norse. Any hint of favoritism could spark unrest—or even mutiny.
"You're half a month late," Ragnar said flatly. "There's nothing left to divide."
"Uncle, that's not fair," Erik protested. "We sailed from Oslo through storm and hardship. If we return home empty-handed, the cutthroats back in Norway will never let us live it down."
"Rules are rules," Ragnar replied. "No one here is giving up his silver for you."
Seeing his uncle's resolve, Erik's shoulders sank. After a long silence, he asked if there were any nearby settlements worth raiding.
"There are," Vig answered, "but I wouldn't recommend it. Your men are light infantry—too poorly equipped to face Frankish knights. Better find another coast."
Erik gave a bitter, mocking smile.
"Another coast? And where exactly would that be?"
The question hung in the air. The Anglo-Saxon kingdoms—once the raiders' favorite hunting grounds—were now all under Ragnar's rule. Their options were dwindling fast.
Rus, Livonia (modern Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania), East Francia… names flashed through Erik's mind, but in the end, he decided to stay in West Francia.
The next day, he and his two thousand grumbling men set sail downstream, intending to raid the coast wherever fortune led them.
Watching their sails vanish beyond the bend, Ragnar's face was expressionless. Not long after, Lambert approached to probe whether the Norse intended to renew hostilities.
"That was Prince Erik of Norway," Ragnar said. "His fleet isn't under my command."
"Ah, then it was a misunderstanding." Lambert wiped the sweat from his brow and hurried back to Île de la Cité with the news.
"Your Majesty," he reported to Charles, "those were Norwegian raiders, not Ragnar's men. From what I saw in their camp, the Norse are busy repairing ships and tallying spoils. They seem eager to sail home."
"Good," Charles said, reclining on his throne. "We'll sign the treaty in two days."
For his success in negotiation, Lambert was promoted to Minister of Foreign Affairs.
"You did well," Charles told him. "You cut their price from thirty thousand pounds to twenty—and even that includes the nobles' ransoms. Between the monasteries and local lords, the crown itself will only pay five thousand. I misjudged you before."
As summer heat pressed down, neither side had the will to keep fighting. At last, a peace treaty was drafted outside the southern bridgehead: five years of mutual nonaggression.
Ragnar then presented a list of prisoners and asked Charles to pay their ransoms.
"I don't intend to wait forever. Perhaps you could advance the payment yourself?"
"Very well."
Charles leafed through the list with one hand, goose-quill in the other, marking off names—over five hundred in all, nobles, knights, and landowners.
"And the rest?" Ragnar asked.
"The treasury is empty," Charles replied, closing the ledger. "Give me time, and I'll raise the rest. They're in your custody—so you have my word, I'll redeem them."
Having received nine hundred horses and twelve thousand pounds of silver, the Vikings embarked and sailed from Paris on June 10, crossing the Channel back to Kent.
For convenience, the remaining five thousand captives were left in France under Gunnar's supervision to manage future exchanges. Once the Franks delivered the payments, he would release prisoners accordingly.
Ragnar had chosen Gunnar for this role because his name now carried the most weight in West Francia. As cavalry commander, Gunnar had pioneered the lance charge, defeating Frankish knights despite being outnumbered, shattering their formation, and cutting down many in the shallows. His single-handed duel at the southern bridgehead had earned him the nickname "The Savage Bear."
Vig and Ivar, by contrast, had played their parts less dramatically—one commanding from high ground, the other advancing with heavy infantry. Neither had achieved Gunnar's near-mythic renown.
The next day after landing, Ragnar convened his war council and distributed the spoils.
The shares were the same as last year's: the crown received fifteen percent, nobles forty percent, and soldiers the remainder.
Thanks to his outstanding performance on the Seine, Vig earned the largest share—worth about 1,400 pounds of silver. After some thought, he chose to take 600 pounds in coin, 130 warhorses, and a chest of Latin manuscripts.
The campaign had brought him more wealth—and even a ducal title—than the previous year's wars combined. But he knew such profitable ventures would not come often.
The next morning, Vig went to Godwin to collect his allotted goods, only to receive barely sixty percent of what was owed.
"What's this supposed to mean?" he demanded.
"Simple," Godwin replied. "King Charles only paid twelve thousand pounds and five hundred horses—about sixty percent of the total. So that's all you get. Every noble's in the same boat."
He showed Vig the ledger, swearing he'd stolen nothing.
"The common soldiers got full pay because the king made up the difference out of his own pocket. Yes, you heard right—His Majesty didn't profit a single coin. He even spent silver from the London warehouses."
After that long explanation, Vig grudgingly accepted reality and returned to his camp to pack his things. He was halfway through loading his wagons when a royal guard arrived.
"His Majesty requests your presence."
Vig sighed. What now?
When he reached the central pavilion, Ragnar delivered unexpected news.
Originally, Ivar had been assigned to invade Wales. But with rebellion flaring again in Ireland, he could not leave. The unfinished mess left behind by Halfdan and Æthelwulf would now fall to Vig.
"I'm honored, sire," Vig said carefully. "But Wales is rugged and forested. It would take unimaginable time and resources to subdue."
He presented two plans:
Pacify and subdue – win a few decisive victories, then compel the Welsh tribes to swear allegiance. Quick and efficient.Total conquest – a long, costly campaign to occupy the entire region.
"When King Offa of Mercia ruled," Vig continued, "his power reached its height—the other six kingdoms bowed to him. Yet even Offa couldn't conquer Wales. To defend against their raids, he built that massive Offa's Dyke, stretching 150 miles across the west. I strongly advise the first plan."
Ragnar, ever mindful of reputation, had initially wanted to crush the Welsh outright—to remind the Anglo-Saxons of Norse strength. But Vig's reasoning slowly cooled his temper.
"Very well," he said at last. "If the Welsh lords will swear loyalty and stop raiding our borders, I'll end the war. But if they break their word…"—he slammed a fist against the table—
"…then by Odin, I'll fight them to the last. Damn it! Vikings raiding others is tradition enough—never before has anyone dared to raid us!
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