On May 15th, Bjorn's longship reached Tynemouth.
No sooner had the vessel moored at the docks than a squad of townsmen armed with shields and axes approached, demanding to inspect the cargo.
"Nothing but pig iron ingots and tar," Bjorn whistled, letting them rummage freely through the hold.
When the inspection was done, their leader recited the town's rules: "No theft, no raiding, no killing. And don't forget to pay tax on your trade."
"Understood. We won't cause trouble."
Shaking free of their nagging, Bjorn dismissed his crew to do as they pleased, while he wandered along the riverside workshops.
"Watermills… driving saws and millstones. So Vig has mastered the Romans' craft."
At the door of the water-powered sawmill, he inhaled the sharp tang of cut timber. The river turned the wheel, which through rods and gears drove an iron blade up and down. Workers fed logs into the frame, slicing them into neat planks, then hauling them onto carts bound for carpenters inside the walls.
"Hey! Don't block the way!" A dozen laborers bustled past him carrying tools, ready to fit a new blade. Bjorn calculated in silence:
One blade equaled the work of eight men. With three already in place, and two more being added, Vig now commanded the labor of forty men. Why did he need so much timber?
Curiosity carried him further. He toured the millhouse and the fulling works, both under expansion, alive with shouts and clamor. The noise reminded him faintly of the bustling cities along the northern Mediterranean.
After half an hour, Bjorn passed through the south gate into Tynemouth proper. The order shocked him: all carts and pedestrians kept to the right, gutters lined the streets, and hardly a scrap of refuse marred the cobbles. Cleaner than any town he had ever seen.
He drifted into a tavern—always the best place for news to a wanderer.
"Two mugs of ale, and some dried beef."
He slid half a silver penny across the counter, but the tavern-keeper shook his head. "The lord forbids the slaughter of draft cattle. Mutton or pork instead?"
"Pork, then."
In a shadowed corner, Bjorn sipped the ale. A crisp, sweet drink washed down his throat, malt aroma tinged with the faint peat smoke of the kiln.
"This is ale? Are you sure you didn't mistake it for wine?"
"None of your nonsense," the tavern-keeper muttered, polishing a cup. "The lord built a great brewery. Choice barley, every step strictly overseen. Far finer than the swill peasants brew at home. And today's your luck—on the first and fifteenth of each month, all taverns sell at discount."
Soon Bjorn drained both mugs, then tossed a handful of pennies onto the counter. "A few casks for the voyage."
"Reminder—only draught is discounted. Casks cost full price."
"Spare me. I'm no pauper."
Having stowed his purchase aboard, he drifted with the crowd into the central square. To the east rose a great black temple, solemn rather than sinister. North of the square, a board bristled with notices written in Norse, Latin, and Old English. A fat crier read them aloud to the passersby:
"Households of five must keep at least one cat for catching rats."
"Boil all drinking water, especially for children."
"Smiths and masons moving to Tynemouth will be granted free plots to set up shop."
"Wars rage in the North. Many Vikings flee to Britain. Beware coastal raids!"
On the western edge stood the town hall. Guards turned him back at the steps. Wandering south, he came to a courtyard alive with the shouts of children. Peering through a window, he saw them slumped on benches, staring blankly at diagrams on a blackboard.
The shaman at the lectern intoned: "The sum of two sides of a triangle is greater than the third. The three angles together equal 180 degrees."
Listless voices droned in reply.
"Mathematics?" Bjorn scoffed. "Why not teach them to fight?"
Yawning, he climbed the slope of the southwest hill. There stood a square timber fort, a black dragon-banner snapping above.
"I am Bjorn. I seek Lord Vig."
After his voyage on the Middle Sea, "Ironside" Bjorn's fame had soared. He was hailed as a new master of the waves. Recognizing the guest, the guard bowed from the wall. "The lord is in the fields. I'll take you."
The gate cracked open. A shield-bearer led Bjorn west, until they came to a hillside sloping toward the sun.
There, among the fields, rows of slim stakes jutted from the soil. Bjorn, well-traveled though he was, had never seen such a sight.
Vig stooped and plucked a seed from the earth.
"This is a plant the Germans use in brewing. Its Latin name is Humulus lupulus. I call it 'hops.' It climbs by twining, so we set stakes for its vines to grip."
Bjorn turned the seed in his hand. "And ale brewed with this—better than mead or wine?"
Vig shook his head. "Taste is not the point. Preservation is. Ordinary ale sours in three weeks. With hops, it lasts months. Then Tynemouth's brew can sail with our ships across the North, and profits will soar."
After a few more words, Vig asked what had brought him here. Hearing Bjorn's plan to seek the fabled 'Jotunheim,' he frowned.
"That place is nothing but barren land. Why are you so eager to find it? Some special reason?"
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