The rest of the evening, Vig pressed the Berber captives with questions—what woods they favored for hulls, what fabrics they used for sails, where the rudder ought to be fixed.
At last the feast waned. Bjorn, staggering on unsteady legs, slipped from the hall. Half-blind with drink, he rubbed his eyes and froze.
A slender figure waited outside his chamber.
"Princess Eve?" he muttered, bewildered—they had scarcely spoken before.
The woman leaned close, a sweet fragrance clinging to her hair. "I long to hear of Iberia, Prince Bjorn. Might you spare the time to enlighten me?"
"Ah—why, of course, fair princess."
The next afternoon, Vig found him strolling with Eve through the palace gardens.
"Listen," Bjorn blurted, "I thought long last night. We should adapt Berber techniques—build ships not for rivers and quick raids, but great sea-going vessels, fit for the open ocean."
Viking longships had always sacrificed size and stability for shallow draughts and nimble oars, so they might dart up rivers to plunder inland towns. But the future, Vig knew, belonged to sail. Larger hulls, steadier keels, cargo-laden craft driven not by muscle but by the wind. One day, fleets of hundreds, even thousands of tons, would darken the seas.
(Indeed, in centuries to come, war galleons would displace over a thousand tons. Nelson's Victory carried 3,500.)
Vig's vision was bold: a team of craftsmen dedicated to building sail-driven ships of over a hundred tons' burden, to carry goods across the seas.
The moment he spoke of voyaging, Bjorn's eyes lit. Together they hurried to the great hall, where Ragnar sat.
"Hmm. There is sense in this," Ragnar mused, stroking his beard.
Yet Pascas, his steward, interjected: "Sire, the treasury is strained. Pray, weigh this carefully."
"I know, I know." Ragnar waved him off, grumbling. "Kingship is a curse. Once, I was free. Now every day they hound me—wives demanding jewels, guards baying for raids, peasants quarreling over sheep and barley. Odin above, two landholders wasted half a day bickering before me, all because one flock chewed another's wheat!"
Bjorn leaned forward, amused. "And how did you settle it, Father?"
"I tossed them two swords. 'Fight, and let the gods decide.' They quieted soon enough. Perhaps I should make trial by combat my law—let every quarrel be settled by steel!"
After his laughter faded, Ragnar nodded at last. "Very well. I will grant twenty pounds of silver, and summon seasoned shipwrights. Let them work with the Berber captives. Together they shall build this new vessel."
"Your wisdom honors us, my king." Vig bowed, leaving the hall at Bjorn's side.
Moments later, Bjorn froze. "Wait—Eve! She's still in the garden. She'll be furious I abandoned her! Curse you, Vig!"
Before Vig could retort, Bjorn dashed away down the passage.
A week passed in York. With matters settled, Vig took his leave and journeyed north.
At Tynemouth, Heligif greeted him not with embrace but inquiry. "Well? Did you bring the Humulus lupulus?"
"I've arranged it. A wool merchant will come in summer. He'll bring seeds when he buys our cloth."
Two days he spent at her side, indulging her curiosity, before turning again to work. In Tynetown's southwest quarter, the carpenters' street rang with his orders.
"Five hundred bows. Ten thousand arrows. One thousand round shields."
Rumors from York whispered of war. King Erik had gathered wealth enough to launch a great campaign—come spring, he would march to subdue all Norway.
Battle loomed, and Vig meant to profit. Should the war drag on, he would forge yet more arms for sale across the North.
"Your will, lord," the carpenters answered, glad of the coin. The skilled set to shaping bows; the lesser hands to shaft and shield.
Whenever time allowed, Vig watched the yew-staves at work.
First, the wood was split lengthwise. Heartwood, dense and hard, became the back of the bow. Sapwood, supple, formed the belly. Always the grain must be followed, lest cracks ruin the stave.
Once shaped, the blanks were left to season half a year, drying until their strength was sure. Then came the shaving—knife strokes here and there, until both limbs bent even in the draw.
One day, Vig asked, "In the East, I saw bows of horn and sinew, bound with fish-glue. Why do we not make such here?"
Most had no answer. At last an old master spoke: "When I was a boy in Wessex, my master took such a commission. We labored long, glued horn and sinew true—yet whenever the rains came, the bows fell apart. The lord we served cursed us bitterly. We fled north to escape his wrath."
"So that is the reason." Vig understood now. In this damp land, composite bows rotted in the rain. No wonder England's armies bore the single-piece longbow.
Spring of 846 came. The gales of winter died at last, and longships again crossed the North Sea.
Travelers bore grim tidings. Erik had raised two thousand men, three hundred clad in iron—fifteen percent in mail.
Every settlement he took, the king slew the lord and kin, and exiled the bravest fighters. Then he imposed Frankish law—his own kin set as counts and knights over the land. Each knight owed forty days' service each year, or wages beyond. Fail in duty, and land and title would be stripped.
"How curious," Vig murmured. "Even Britain has not fully embraced the feudal fief. Why does Erik rush ahead?"
He pressed the messengers, and the answer emerged: Erik's advisers were merchants well-traveled on the continent. They had recited the deeds of Charlemagne to him. The king dreamed of becoming the Charlemagne of the North.
(Charlemagne, 742–814, crowned "Emperor of the Romans" by the pope, ruled over France, Germany, the Low Countries, Italy—most of Western Europe. His empire was the pinnacle of Frankish might, bound together by feudal fiefs.)
"Perhaps the defeat in Northumbria stung him deeply," Vig thought. "Perhaps I am to blame. No matter. Let him chase crowns—I will chase coin."
And so he spurred the carpenters on, for war was coming, and war was profit.
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