"Building a fort, hoarding weapons, and openly challenging the lord. This is no ordinary disobedient citizen. Follow me into the attack."
Two hundred meters from the wall, Vig ordered the battering rams and ladders to be assembled, with no intention of persuading them to surrender.
At the same time, fifty archers each took a large door shield from the cart and advanced 150 meters forward with their shield raised. Entering the shooting range, the archers propped the shield up with a strong wooden stick as a barrier and fired at the top of the wall.
The twenty English-speaking archers on the wall, outnumbered by them, were overwhelmed and could not raise their heads. No matter how much the owner of the estate shouted, they did not dare to resist. After all, they were just a group of farmers making a living from farming. They had hardly any military training and had rarely seen men kill men, let alone risk their lives shooting at Vikings.
After the assembly was complete, thirty Vikings slowly pushed the ram forward, like a giant turtle with slow movements.
Seeing this, the defenders fired again, heedless of the danger. Most of the arrows they fired hit the ceiling of the ram, having little effect, and only injured the arm of one Viking.
When they reached the gate, the people on the ceiling shouted in unison: "Pull, push and hit! Pull, push and hit!"
Just half a minute later, with a loud "bang", the flimsy oak door swung open with a crash, splinters flew, and twenty strong men in iron armor rushed in with round shields.
Seeing this, Vig drew his long sword and led the next troops to quickly pass through the wooden door, iron armor rattling and boots rolling on the broken wooden splinters on the ground. Looking around, his side had an overwhelming advantage, with only a small group of people still resisting in the corner.
"Does the owner of the estate also have chain mail?"
Vig spat, and then stepped straight forward. Before the middle-aged man in chain mail could scream, the tip of the sword cut his wrist where he held the sword. At this time, the guard in the iron helmet on the left swung his axe and struck him. Vig raised his shield,
to block the blow, and the axe blade caught in the edge of the shield. The sword struck from below, and the guard fell with a gurgle in his throat. Then the two men on the right rushed forward at the same time. One of them was struck in the stomach by Vig's sword, and his internal organs slid out and covered the ground; the other turned to run, but was kicked into the haystack in front of him, and the front half of his body got stuck in the haystack, leaving only two legs outside, flapping constantly, which looked especially funny.
"Those who surrender will be spared!"
There was a roar like thunder, and the yard suddenly fell silent. The young farmer instinctively threw down his pitchfork, and under his direction the rest of the men also laid down their weapons.
"No, kill all these barbarians." A middle-aged man in chainmail covered his right wrist and urged his tenant farmers to fight to the last man.
Impatient with his noise, Vig asked the boy's identity. Upon learning that he was the owner of the manor, he sighed and said, "In the name of King Ragnar, I sentence you to treason. Joren, hang him."
Soon, under the gaze of over 150 locals, Joren and the others wove a noose out of hemp rope and found an oak tree nearby to hang the owner of the manor.
After the execution, Vig announced that the estate owner's family's property would be confiscated and the family would be taken to Tyneburg for imprisonment. The common tenants and serfs remained and continued to live. If they followed the lord to take part in the next stage of the battle, they could receive an additional plot of land to earn a living.
"Who's willing to participate?"
After a long silence, the young man paused and asked, "How much can you have?"
"Fifteen acres." Whig named his price and successfully rallied ten militiamen whose loyalty was questionable.
Over the next half day, the crew counted the estate owner's family's property, the robbers collected gold and silver, and the farmers received food and some livestock. Earl Tyneburg himself received the following:
an old coat of mail, two iron swords, two horses, four oxen, twenty-one sheep, and an Anglo-Saxon who could keep records.
The man's name was Mitch. He was tall and thin, with thinning hair. He had once been a small landowner in the neighborhood. He had been imprisoned under the main house by the estate owner over a land dispute. After hearing about Mitcham's experience, Vig asked him two simple arithmetic questions and appointed him as a tax collector.
In front of a group of nobles and village representatives, Vig made a solemn introduction: "Mitcham will be in charge of collecting taxes in the future. Please cooperate with me. If you suspect that he is doing something dodgy, you can come to Tyneburg and report it to me."
"My lord, you worry too much. I swear to treat this job well." Mitcham took a dirty leather hat to cover his head, his eyes were sinister, and it was chilling.
Vig nodded secretly, thinking that he needed this motivation. But on the other hand, I hope that this man does not go too far, otherwise he will have to be expelled to calm the public discontent.
Introducing the tax collector, he offered a lucrative deal to appease the nobles: "Whoever is willing to buy this estate, the highest bidder wins."
These words were like a drop of cold water dropped into boiling oil, the crowd erupted and the nobles raised their hands to bid enthusiastically.
"I bid two pounds of silver."
"Three pounds plus two cows."
...
Soon the price was raised to fifteen pounds of silver. Not only that, this fat squire named Harry also made a condition that was impossible to refuse.
"Sir, I have a blacksmith on my estate. His two sons grew up one after the other. One inherited the family property, and the other went off to earn a living. I would like to introduce you to this young man named Cader, to serve you."
A blacksmith?
Vig's expression was solemn. As a high-class technical talent in the Middle Ages, the status of blacksmiths far exceeded that of common trades such as tailors, carpenters, farmers, and shepherds. There was a consensus in Viking society at the time: "Blacksmiths always have a place at the lord's table."
"As you wish."
He asked Mitcham to write a deed granting Harry the manor in the name of Lord Tyneburg, on condition that he pay fifteen pounds of silver. The price was fair, especially since the manor was a rare four-story stone watchtower, which was far more defensive than the usual wooden houses.
"Um, sir, can you pay half the bill in gold?"
"Yes." Gold and silver are hard currencies, and Vig happily accepted.
"By the way, stone watchtowers are indeed good, but nobles in the southern region usually own wooden castles. It makes sense that the economic conditions in the north are bad. How did you manage that?"
Harry gave an unexpected answer to his own question:
"Long ago, the Romans left behind Hadrian's Wall, which ran between the east and west coasts. In the last twenty years, the number of Viking raids has increased, so one squire tore down the wall and transported the stones back to the estate to build houses, and the effect was very good. The previous lord intended to follow their example, and specifically asked the mason to draw a design five years ago, planning to build a tall and majestic castle. Unfortunately, his family owed a huge debt to the Bishop of York, and father and son spent thirty years and could not pay it off, so the construction was delayed.
That's all.
It is not surprising that there are many mossy stones dumped on the river beach near Tyne Castle.
Since there is no shortage of stone materials, Vig decided to start the construction, having saved enough money, first repairing the main castle, and then the outer wall, and it will be completed one fine day.