The refugees' tempers had been soothed, yet Vig had no intention of letting certain men escape punishment.
At his command, Jorund led the shield-bearers in a swift raid, seizing the worst offender among the local gentry. His estate was confiscated, his person driven into exile. Once the judgment spread, the rest hastened to deliver the missing supplies. Vig's popularity among the refugees rose sharply.
Thus the "refugee affair" ended, muddled but resolved. Vig turned his focus to the next priority: brewing.
When it came to drink, three paths lay before him.
First, the costliest and finest—Frankish wine. But grapes would not grow in these northern lands, and so the option was dismissed.
Second, mead, beloved across Norse society. It required honey, water, and yeast, left to ferment in casks for a month or more. Berries and herbs could be added for flavor. Yet honey was dear; common folk seldom tasted it. To brew on any scale would require greatly expanding the hives.
Vig personally visited the beekeepers. They used woven straw skeps sealed with clay, immobile, destroyed each harvest to seize the honey.
"Why not build a hive that allows repeated gathering?" he asked.
"Repeated?" The keeper stared blankly, unable to grasp the thought.
After much scratching at his hair, Vig himself could not picture the design. He urged them to consult one another, to attempt some new form.
"Yes, my lord," they said, but their tone was slack and unconvincing. Vig shook his head. In the short term, honey would not suffice. Mead was set aside.
That left ale.
It required malt, water, yeast, and herbs. Locals used peat to dry the malt and char the casks, imparting a smoky tang.
"But why peat?" Vig asked several villagers. No one could explain; it was simply custom.
He gathered recipes. Most spoke of gruit—a blend of yarrow and bog myrtle—to aid fermentation. Heligif, leafing through a monastery scroll, found a variation.
"With rosemary and wormwood," she said eagerly, "the brew lasts longer."
In the flickering candlelight, Vig watched her sprinkle herbs into the mash. For a moment it seemed less brewing than alchemy.
"You're certain?" he asked.
"Of course. Books do not lie." She spread the parchment again—then frowned at a neglected line.
"Wait. Here, in East Francia they brew with Humulus lupulus. You must send for it."
Humulus lupulus? Vig had never heard the name. It was, in truth, hops. He yielded to her insistence. "Very well. When I pay the tax in York this autumn, I'll ask the Continental wool merchants to seek the seed."
To be thorough, Vig ordered trials.
Cask I: plain ale.
Cask II: with gruit.
Cask III: with wormwood and rosemary.
Cask IV: with all combined.
When the brews were ready, the shield-bearers sampled them. Unanimously, they declared the fourth the best.
With the recipe chosen, Vig raised a brewery in the western quarter of the new town. Each stage—malting, mashing, fermenting, casking—was given to separate workers, carefully overseen.
Besides the brewery and the smithy, Vig had no wish to micromanage other trades. Mitcham spread the word: two years' tax reduced by half, loans free of interest, to draw in merchants and craftsmen.
From York, Leeds, and Dublin, Vig had studied how towns grew. He sketched a plan:
Food processing: The watermill remained; beside it, bakeries. The livestock market and slaughterhouses, breeding flies and stench, he set in the southeast—downstream.
Textiles and leather: Wool work was household labor; the northeast quarter was given to weavers. Tanneries, polluting and foul, joined the slaughterhouses in the southeast.
Smithies: Vital to all, placed in the southwest near Tynemouth itself, within easy watch. (The fortress stood on a low hill in the town's southwest corner, overlooking river and land alike.)
Carpentry: By the water-powered sawmill, so planks might flow straight to the woodworkers' street, where they shaped furniture, barrels, tools, wagons.
Shipbuilding: On the southern bank, where the Vikings could ply their ancestral craft.
Lesser trades: Inns, potteries, barbers, herbalists, tailors—these he left to fend for themselves.
For health, Vig enforced rules—drainage ditches beside the streets, cats encouraged, public baths erected, refuse forbidden in the lanes, a monthly cleansing of the town. He had not forgotten the plagues of later centuries.
The rumor spread. Families came from Derwent and Tees. By October, Tynetown had eighty households, nearly three hundred souls.
To make its name known, Vig proclaimed: on the first and fifteenth of each month, ale would be sold at half-price in the taverns. Farmers flocked to market. Taxes were light at first; once trade bloomed, the levy would rise.
"To make goods, to tax trade, to shield both by arms—fulfill these three, and Tynetown shall thrive. In a few years, the town's revenues may well surpass the countryside's tithes."
For a mayor, Vig weighed carefully, then chose a shield-bearer named Bafus. His skill at arms was slight, but his mind was keen.
"This charge is yours," Vig said. "Guard my investment well."
Overwhelmed, Bafus dropped to one knee, clasped Vig's hand, and kissed it.
"I was born to carry out your will, my lord."
With affairs in order, Vig gathered his men and set out southward—for York, and the year's tribute.
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