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Chapter 47 - Chapter 47: Settlers

The new trouble came from the Angles—or rather, from a band of Angle farmers who had fled and now returned.

Two years before, the Viking host had stormed York, slaying King Ælla and his queen, and Northumbria fell under new rule. At the news of such calamity, many fled. Tynemouth, lying in the north, lost nearly a quarter of its farmers to Pictish lands.

Time passed. Word trickled north: the new lords were not as bloodthirsty as feared. Taxes were little different from the old, and the conqueror had even married a local gentlewoman's daughter.

Homesick, unwilling to live forever as strangers, the refugees began to drift south again.

But when they reached their villages, they found their farms seized by neighbors, their houses turned into pens for cattle and geese, the stench unbearable. Quarrels broke out at once.

By mid-June, more and more gathered before Tynemouth's gates, pleading for Lord Vig to grant them justice.

In principle, he should have ordered the squatters to yield the land and pay compensation. Yet in practice, those who had stayed had paid taxes, while the refugees had paid nothing. He owed them no protection.

After a long talk with Heligif, Vig summoned the local gentry and village elders on the thirtieth of June.

"Since summer began, refugees have swelled to nearly a thousand. They camp at my gates and sour my mood. In truth, it was you who caused this trouble. Find a solution—lest I deal with it myself."

Elise, emboldened by being Vig's mother-in-law, spoke first:

"My lord, it is against all custom! They abandoned their lands and fled. They paid no dues last year. By tradition their farms became no man's land. Why should we return them?"

With her leading, others raised their voices. Fat Harry, the squire, made the strongest case:

"My lord, none of us kept more than our share. Some took fields, others farmhouses, still others only pots and pans. This is settled fact. Why trouble all for the sake of a few?"

"Aye! They chose Pictland. Let them live as Picts!"

"Drive them back north!"

When the shouting died, Vig's face was dark.

"Since you will not yield the land, there is another way. We shall settle them on new ground south of the Tyne."

Relief flashed across their faces—until Vig rose, his voice edged with open menace.

"But for two years, while they break new ground, the villages from which they came shall feed them. Divide the burden among yourselves—those who seized land will pay more, those who took houses less. But the grain and livestock must be provided."

He paced among them, locking eyes one by one.

"Remember—you took the profit. Do not think to lay the cost on me. If any delay, this matter will end… poorly."

None could mistake his meaning. The gentry, elders, and petty landlords had reaped most from the refugees' flight—lands and beasts, a third of all. Profit for them, trouble for him? Unacceptable.

Still seething, Vig dismissed them with a meager meal of fish soup and bread. Elise lingered, urging her daughter:

"Come visit home. Horsa misses you."

"Another time. We're busy now," Heligif replied, then returned to Vig. "Mitcham is tallying the refugees' origins. Two days more. He asks—how much land for each household?"

"The old rule. Thirty acres."

Vig cared little for the details. Once recorded, the refugees—over nine hundred souls, two hundred households—were ferried south. They were divided into two villages. On his order, all new fields would follow the three-field system.

There was still plenty of land north of the river, but he dared not place the returnees there. If stirred to revolt, he would at least have the Tyne as a shield. North of the river, Vikings would guard his seat; south, the Angles could dwell.

In the following weeks, grain and livestock were delivered from estates and villages. Though resentful, the refugees bent to the task, raising huts, clearing soil. Only two months remained before winter wheat sowing; every day was precious.

Vig foresaw more would return. When the south bank grew populous, he might even raise a floating bridge across the Tyne.

Surveying the banks, he often spoke with the settlers. By chance, he learned of his sister Brita.

Six years earlier, in 839, her second husband Helgi had sailed to Britain at a friend's urging. Since then, no word. Vig's heart leapt. Voice trembling, he pressed a settler:

"You're certain?"

The man shifted nervously under his gaze. "In Edinburgh, where I labored, my master often cursed the Vikings on the northwest coast. Among them a leader called Helgi, with a wife named Brita."

Eager, Vig sought more news. He learned Helgi dwelt chiefly on the northwest coast of Scotland, among the islands thick with Norse settlements. Recently, he and other chiefs had formed a powerful Isles Alliance.

So they lived! Joy overwhelmed him. Without delay he gathered twenty shield-bearers to visit—and to probe the strength of this new alliance. If ever he marched north, such men might be hired as mercenaries.

Choosing a sturdy oak longship, Vig steered north along the coast. From time to time they met Viking fishermen.

From their tales, he learned Helgi's exact seat: the Isle of Skye, off Scotland's northwest coast.

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