That night, the Marine Battalion camped in the woods near the beach.
Early the next morning, Leif led his men toward the port known as Helier.
After circling the harbor, he noticed an important weakness: the defenders' trebuchets were mounted on fixed bases facing south toward the sea. They could not be rotated to cover the other sections of the wall.
"We can take it by assault."
Leif climbed a seaside hill and signaled the fleet, requesting reinforcements. The fleet lacked infantry, so the commander detached sailors from various ships, forming a temporary landing force of four hundred men equipped with bows and crossbows to support the attack.
Over the next five days, Leif had his soldiers construct shield carts and siege ladders, preparing to assault the northern wall.
Under sustained arrow fire from Viking archers, most Frankish militia crouched behind the battlements. When they occasionally raised their heads to shoot back, they barely aimed—terrified that a fast-moving arrow might pierce their throats.
At 10 a.m., just as Leif prepared to deploy the shield carts, he spotted riders appearing on the northeastern hills.
He tightened the formation and waited.
Only a dozen cavalrymen came into view.
He exhaled in relief.
"That nearly scared me to death. Third Company—guard the rear flank. First and Second Companies—advance!"
With covering fire from crossbowmen, the Viking infantry successfully breached the wall.
After the battle, Leif questioned prisoners and learned that Jersey Island contained:
One baron
Five knights
The harbor belonged to the baron
The knights' estates lay inland
"Five estates? By Odin, after all this work, we'll finally make a little extra money."
He handed the harbor's defense to naval crews and led his excited Marines inland.
The sky was thick with clouds. The air carried the crisp coolness of September, mixed with the lingering salt scent of the sea and the fragrance of roadside flowers.
At 3 p.m., after passing through a dense beech forest, the view suddenly opened.
On a nearby hill stood a wooden fort surrounded by cultivated fields. Most of the wheat had already been harvested, leaving behind golden stubble.
"First Company—attack. Second and Third Companies—stand by. Don't give me those looks. Your turn will come."
Leif paid little attention to the small-scale battle unfolding behind him. He walked around the hill and reached a sunny slope facing southeast.
There, he stopped.
Before him stretched a vineyard.
Rows of grapevines climbed neatly arranged wooden stakes. Beneath thick leaves hung clusters of deep purple grapes—so dark they were nearly black, their skins dusted with a pale bloom.
Occasionally, sunlight pierced the clouds, casting brief flashes of brilliance across the fruit, making them gleam like dark gemstones before shadows swallowed them again.
A gentle breeze rustled the vines, the leaves whispering softly, mingling with distant shouts of combat from the fort.
Leif laughed.
"Now we're rich."
He immediately issued orders to all units:
No soldier was to damage the vines.
The grapes here were of mediocre quality—far inferior to those from Bordeaux or Burgundy. But rarity drove value. Grapes were scarce in Britain, with only a few vineyards along the southern coast. Wine from the Channel Islands would sell at a premium.
"My uncle should have taken these islands earlier," Leif remarked.
"The vineyards alone could cover the cost of the garrison."
After securing the Channel Islands, Leif returned to Londinium to report.
Vig listened to the account, offered a few words of reassurance, and dismissed him to spend time with his family.
Then Vig turned back to the large map on the wall and fell into deep thought.
He ordered an attendant to summon Salomon, the exiled Breton noble.
The campaign against the Channel Islands had never been about vineyards.
It was a foothold—
a base for gradually penetrating Brittany.
"Understood."
The attendant traveled to Oak Street, near the royal palace.
The street contained rows of identical courtyards used to house lower-ranking nobles or visitors who could not afford property inside the city.
"Number 78 Oak Street. This is the place."
He knocked repeatedly, but no one answered.
A Moorish scholar from the neighboring courtyard stepped outside, yawning.
"Stop knocking. They usually wander around during the day and return around eight in the evening. Sometimes they stay out all night."
"Where are they now? It's urgent."
"Most likely at the public bathhouse near the civic square. They bought seasonal passes and take turns bathing there every day."
After thanking the man in loose robes, the attendant left the western district and entered the bustling civic square.
The area was crowded with merchants selling goods. Occasionally, vendors fought over prime stall locations, drawing curious crowds and blocking pedestrian traffic.
"Savages with no sense of order," the attendant muttered, clutching his purse as he forced his way toward the public bathhouse on the southern side.
Passing through the square's center, he noticed a loud, heavyset man standing on the steps, holding a booklet and announcing recent news:
"Land prices in Visby on Gotland remain low after expansion. Merchants interested in trade with Northern and Eastern Europe should consider investing."
"Grapevines in the Canary Islands are maturing. Large shipments of wine are expected to arrive in Britain next year."
"War has erupted in the Iberian Peninsula. Moorish forces are advancing into the northwestern mountains of Asturias."
The attendant paid little attention and finally reached the bathhouse entrance, purchasing a single-use ticket.
Inside, the first room served as a cloakroom with rows of locked wooden cabinets for clothing and valuables.
Pressed for time, he hurried through and entered the open-air courtyard.
The space was lively:
Citizens quietly discussing business
Vendors selling drinks and snacks
Minstrels performing
Men wrestling in sand pits to work up a sweat
On the left lay the cold bath, straight ahead the warm bath, and on the right the hot bath.
He searched each one before finally entering the sauna beside the hot bath.
Steam filled the room, dimming visibility. Sunlight filtered through narrow windows high on the wall, creating shifting beams of light.
The attendant shouted loudly.
At last, he located a young Breton man.
"Where is Salomon? The king wants to see him immediately!"
"Probably watching a game," the young man replied, suddenly alert.
He rushed out of the sauna, quickly rinsed himself in warm water, and led the attendant toward the arena in the eastern district.
At that moment, the arena was roaring with thunderous cheers—the match inside had reached its climax.
The attendant reached for his money to buy a ticket, but the young man stopped him.
"Don't bother going in. My lord only watches matches played by the Sterling and Tyne teams. Since neither is playing today, he's probably at the Tuna Theater watching a performance."
—------------------------------
Pat reon Advance Chapters: patreon.com/YonkoSlayer