Autumn winds stirred once more. It was time again to journey to York and pay tribute.
In early October, as Vig was preparing the offerings, Bjorn's fleet arrived. This time he brought three shiploads of volcanic ash, along with heaps of dried cod and sealskins.
"The usual deal—grain, iron, and livestock."
Bjorn's settlement had grown to four hundred souls, thanks in part to over a hundred slaves he had purchased. Yet despite his fame as a legendary sailor, he had found no stable industry to sustain his colony. The ash and pelts he shipped were worth far less than the supplies he needed. To balance the trade, he dipped into his own hoard, leaving him only twenty pounds of silver after the exchange.
Seeking counsel, Bjorn visited the town hall on the west side of the square, where Vig and his wife still resided during Tynemouth's reconstruction.
Over supper, he could not hold back his question:
"Sheep take years to breed before they yield profit. The island's climate is harsh. Some land grows rye, but in such meager quantity it cannot be exported for silver. Have you any other ideas?"
Exports from Iceland?
Vig stared at the lamb chop on his plate, thinking. "Any signs of metal deposits?"
"I send expeditions regularly. Nothing of value—only ash."
Suddenly Bjorn slammed his cup on the table.
"On my last voyage, a stupid whale stranded itself ashore. If only I had thought to bring a few barrels of blubber! Would Tynemouth take such things?"
Whale fat could be rendered into whale-oil candles, nearly as fine as beeswax, prized luxuries. Vig nodded eagerly and promised to buy as much as Bjorn could deliver. "And I just remembered—if Iceland has so many volcanoes, it must yield sulfur. I'll pay well for that too."
Sulfur was already used by herbalists to treat skin ailments, and by weavers to fumigate wool and flax, making them softer and whiter. Vig silently weighed its many uses, realizing the trade could be lucrative. He and Bjorn struck a supply agreement on the spot.
"Whale oil and sulfur—those two alone should offset the costs of importing food, iron, and stock. You might even turn a profit."
Bjorn refilled his goblet with wine, his face darkening.
"It's not so simple. The Icelandic coast is long. If a whale beaches far from us, it will rot before we arrive. As for sulfur—the people fear volcanoes. I'd have to drive slaves into the mines. That'll be trouble of its own."
The rest of the evening was filled with his grumbling. Since becoming a lord, Bjorn had discovered the role was not the glory he had imagined, but a tangle of endless problems. "By the way, how fares the hops you sowed in spring?"
"Not yet. The first two years yield only small harvests. The third year brings abundance. Then we can brew beer in bulk."
"So long?" Bjorn scowled. Norsemen loved their drink. On every voyage he carried kegs of ale home. But with the North Sea too stormy for months at a time, and ale spoiling quickly, he had been forced to buy mead—far costlier but longer-lasting—to keep his folk content.
After two days' rest, Bjorn drove six cattle and eight pigs aboard, then readied his ships to return.
At the pier, Vig stopped him. "You're not going to York to pay tribute?"
"Why should I?" Bjorn looked honestly surprised. "I claimed Iceland myself. No king granted it to me. Ragnar is my father and I'll always honor him—but he is not my liege. The King of Northumbria has no claim over me."
Vig froze. The argument sounded… reasonable.
Bjorn pressed on. "If my mother yet lived, perhaps I'd spend time in York. But it's Sola who sits the throne now. I've no taste for flattering that woman. Nor she for seeing me—or Ivar, or Halfdan. She'd rather shove us all aside and clear the path for her son, Ubbe."
Now that he had his own foundation, Bjorn cared little for courtly masks. He bellowed his disdain openly, ignoring the stares of bystanders.
"Until next year, Vig—my good brother!"
Having vented against Queen Sola, his spirits lifted. He ordered the three longships to raise sail. The autumn gales grew harsher by the day. They stopped one night at the Shetlands, then before dawn Bjorn drove his men back to sea.
"Row! I paid dear for twenty casks of ale and five of mead. When we reach Iceland, you drunkards shall drink your fill!"
Under his shouts, weary oarsmen bent their backs. Luck favored them. From the third day onward, easterly winds filled their sails. On the sixth evening, when the sea's color paled, Bjorn finally allowed himself to rest. He stretched out on the deck and sank into deep sleep.
Hours later—
"My lord, wake up!"
Bjorn stirred, and opened his eyes. Countless green lights shimmered above, twisting like serpents of fire. Darker waves of emerald rippled across the clouds, as though Valkyries thundered overhead, their skirts trailing light.
Staring at the northern lights, Bjorn's heart trembled. He whispered to the Æsir:
"Odin… what is it you command of me?"
York.
A year had passed, and the city was busier than ever—yet filthier too. Much of the change traced to Erik's wars.
Vig reckoned that twenty to thirty thousand Norse had poured into Britain. Tynemouth absorbed three thousand; the rest followed rivers and roads to settle around York.
The land around the city was flat and fertile, enough to take them all. On his way in, Vig had counted a dozen new settlements, each forty or fifty houses, nearly two hundred people apiece.
"Such a flood of folk—will the kingdom's officials cope? Have Pascas and Godwin made ready?"
Once inside the city, his first errand was to the markets. Grain had risen: wheat sold at 2.6 pennies a bushel, up from 2 last year. Barley, oats, rye—everything had grown dear.
Everywhere he asked, prices had risen. The crown had done nothing to curb them.
"Fortunate I laid in stores last year. We'll last until next summer without trouble."
~~--------------------------
Patreon Advanced Chapters:
patreon.com/YonkoSlayer