Viking Invasion-Chapter 100 – Disposition

When the envoy stammered through his proposal, Rurik accepted every condition without dispute, then ordered his men to light a great bonfire on the wharf.

"Go back and tell Hywel this—if that fire burns out before he surrenders, the name Gwynedd shall vanish from the earth."

Ten minutes later, King Hywel came alone to the pier. When he saw Rhodri standing beside Rurik, he froze in disbelief and burst out,

"You shameless traitor! You’ve sold yourself to the Norse?"

Rhodri only rolled his eyes and turned toward the sea, too weary even to answer the insults of an old acquaintance.

With both kings now subdued, Rurik felt that the atmosphere had been properly set. He brought the two monarchs back to Mathrafal, and dispatched envoys to summon the other Welsh nobles to assemble.

During the days of waiting, Rurik idled little. He observed the local conditions and quickly noticed how primitive Welsh agriculture was. Their system of "partible inheritance" divided estates evenly among all sons, so that each generation’s holdings grew smaller. Small wonder they often crossed eastward to plunder Mercia.

"The root of raiding is poverty," he mused. "That must be remedied—or else, in a few years they’ll rebel again, and Ragnar will lay the blame on me."

He resolved to divert the Welsh from war—at least for five years. After long thought, he decided to teach them to drain marshland and reclaim wasteland.

Under the puzzled stares of local farmers, over a thousand Norsemen marched southwest toward the fens, wielding mattocks and shovels to carve a web of ditches that would lead the stagnant water eastward into the River Severn.

Yet some tracts lay too low for natural drainage. Consulting notes from ancient manuscripts and borrowing ideas from Persian vertical-axis windmills, Roman Archimedean screws, and waterwheel mechanisms, Rurik designed a ten-meter-tall drainage windmill.

"Clear the rabble out of the way—don’t hinder real work," he commanded.

The idlers were dispersed, and Rurik began testing his invention. By noon, a mountain breeze came sweeping down; the four canvas sails creaked and groaned as they caught the wind.

Below the tower, muddy water streamed from the newly cut ditches. The network of channels divided the marsh into moist square plots. Barefoot Norse warriors stood in the muck, shoveling silt from the ditch bottoms onto the banks; brown mud splattered their legs and dried into crusts. Occasionally a frog leapt from the reeds with a plop into the yellow-brown water.

Inside the windmill, great wooden cogs turned the central shaft, transmitting the wind’s power to an iron screw pump below. The tilted screw bit into the water, lifting it segment by segment up an iron pipe until it gushed from a wooden trough above. 𝗳𝐫𝚎𝗲𝚠𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝘃𝚎𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝗺

Tests showed that one windmill could raise the water level by only a single meter. So Rurik constructed three windmills in series, forming a stepped system that lifted the ditch water higher and higher until it spilled through a sloped canal into the River Severn.

As days passed, the water level in the marsh steadily fell. Places once covered with reeds now revealed cracked black mud. Wild ducks rose in flocks, beating their wings furiously as they fled.

Next, the Norsemen spread layers of clay over the exposed ground and planted willows around the edges to bind the soil and prevent the land from reverting to swamp.

At that point, the main reclamation work was done. Rurik advised Rhodri to sow pasture grass over the new ground, to graze cattle there for several years, letting ash and dung enrich the soil before turning it into farmland.

Rhodri gazed at the expanse of new land, delight mixed with puzzlement.

"Why do all this?"

Rurik yawned.

"A kind heart, my lord. I cannot bear to see the poor suffer."

The reclaimed tract covered barely five hundred acres—a medium-sized estate at best. Yet across Powys lay countless more marshes awaiting drainage. Rhodri would have work for years to come.

The project took over a month. By then, Welsh nobles began arriving at Mathrafal one after another. When they saw the windmill-driven drainage in action, each secretly entertained the idea of imitating it.

Reading their expressions, Rurik allowed himself a sigh of relief. For a long time to come, the Welsh would busy themselves improving their lands, too occupied for war or raiding.

And even if, years later, they drained all their marshes and grew powerful enough to wage campaigns again, their blades would turn eastward toward Mercia or south toward Wessex—not north toward Thainburg.

"In the early sixth century," Rurik mused aloud, "the Britons were defeated by the invading Angles. Some fled into the western mountains and became the Welsh. The Welsh and the Angles have been old enemies ever since. Let them keep quarreling—it has nothing to do with me."

On September 20th, Ragnar appointed Oleg the White-Haired as his envoy, sending him to Mathrafal to receive the allegiance of the Welsh lords.

On the gentle slope outside the timber fort, Rhodri hastily arranged a ceremonial ground, decorated with symbols of nature worship and druidic tradition. Before the envoy’s eyes, the nobles swore solemn oaths never again to rebel.

When the ceremony ended, the scribes spent two full hours recording the names of thirty-five nobles. Oleg, unable to read Latin, flipped through the parchment with exaggerated seriousness—never noticing that he was holding the register upside down.

"Let me see that."

Rurik took the list and turned to the final page. The annual tribute owed by all thirty-five lords combined amounted to three hundred furs and three hundred barrels of salted fish—a sum that, in silver, did not even cover one percent of the war’s expenses.

Economically, Ragnar had lost heavily. Politically, however, he had salvaged the prestige eroded by Halfdan’s defeat and, at least in name, gained a new circle of vassals—a draw, at best.

When Oleg finished delivering the royal pardon, a young noble in a green cloak raised a question:

"There are rumors, my lord, that Ragnar intends to appoint his son as Duke of Wales. Is it true?"

Oleg shrugged.

"I’ve no idea. My task is only to proclaim the king’s pardon to those who submit. What happens afterward is none of my concern."

The noble turned to Rurik.

"Then, Lord Rurik—perhaps the title is meant for you?"

By now, everyone had witnessed the Serpent of the North’s prowess—both in battle and in governance. If one man were to be chosen as Wales’s overlord, he seemed the obvious choice.

"Don’t speculate," Rurik said curtly. "It has nothing to do with me."

He dismissed the rumor outright. The land of Wales was already parceled out among local lords. Even if he were made duke, he would hold no direct estate—merely a hollow title, like the puppet emperors of Zhou or Han. Rhodri and the others would play him for a fool.

Besides, Ragnar would never tolerate a vassal ruling both Wales and the North (Scotland).

And between the two, the North—with its iron and coal, its ready access to Norse settlers—was far more promising than the rugged, remote hills of Wales.

Hearing this, the man in the green cloak grew visibly anxious. In his agitation, he sought out Theowulf and pressed a silver arm-ring into his hand as a bribe.

"My lord, merchants tell me Ragnar has five sons. The eldest two already have lands. It’s said he may grant Wales to one of the remaining three. Do you think Halfdan might be named Duke of Wales?"

Theowulf refused the gift with a sigh.

"I’ve been a surrendered lord for barely two years. Do you really think I’m privy to such high matters?"

Sensing the man’s distress, he asked in return,

"Why are you so anxious about whether Halfdan becomes Duke of Wales? Do you have some special reason?"