Night had fallen, and under the steady glow of candlelight, Vig and Herligev sat together, tallying their accounts.
The past few years had been costly: the construction of Tyne Castle, the mass production of weapons and armor—all of it had nearly drained the treasury. What remained was mostly grain: 30,000 bushels stored in the granaries.
Vig frowned, scribbling figures on parchment.
If he were to raise 4,000 soldiers next spring and campaign for eight months—from early spring to the start of winter—each man would require at least one kilogram of grain per day to sustain the exhausting marches and battles.
After a few quick calculations, he came to the grim conclusion: 42,000 bushels of grain would be needed.
"We'll keep buying," he said firmly. "Grain first—then a shipment of oats for the horses. And tell Micham to purchase every bar of Northland pig iron he can find before they realize what we're planning."
Aside from grain, the estate still held 1,200 pounds of silver, all spoils of past wars:
200 from the Mercia–Wessex campaign last year.
600 from the Frankish war earlier this year.
400 as a reward from Ragnar after the conquest of Wales.
Herligev tilted her head.
"If we start buying so much at once, prices will skyrocket. Are you sure you want to do that?"
"Yes," he said without hesitation.
A lion used all its strength even to catch a rabbit—he could do no less. He would throw the entire 1,200 pounds into the war effort. Grain, iron, and—if all went well—mercenary knights.
"Let's see," he muttered. "Three pounds of silver per knight as an appearance fee. In the division of spoils, they'll get five times a common soldier's share."
"That expensive?" Herligev gasped so loudly that their baby stirred in his cradle.
"Expensive, yes—but worth it. You've never seen a full cavalry charge with your own eyes. The age is changing, Herligev. Wars are being won by horsemen now. The more knights we field, the higher our chances."
Drawing from his recent experience, Vig had begun classifying cavalry into four tiers:
Anglo-Saxon riders — no stirrups, essentially mounted infantry; good for scouting and messages, useless in melee.
Norse/Norman riders — equipped with iron stirrups and Anglo horses; adequate, a third-tier force.
Frankish knights — heavier, disciplined, formidable shock troops; second tier.
Norman lancers under Gunnar — using high-arched saddles and perfected couched-lance charges. Their impact power surpassed even the Franks', placing them firmly in the first tier.
He recalled a legend from later centuries: in the 11th century, Norman knights demonstrated the couched-lance charge in Constantinople, astonishing the Byzantine emperor Alexios Komnenos. His daughter, Anna Komnene, would later record the scene in her Alexiad, praising the Normans as so fierce that "their lances could pierce the walls of Babylon itself."
Herligev, half skeptical and half amused, let the matter drop—she didn't need to fight battles, after all.
"If funds fall short," Vig continued, ruffling her hair affectionately, "we'll borrow. Ragnar, Bjorn, Theowulf, Pascas, Ulf—each of them can spare a few dozen pounds. With overwhelming strength, we'll crush the northern clans before they can even react."
He didn't mention Ivar—Ireland was still aflame with rebellion, and that brother had his hands full.
After a brief three-day rest, Vig returned to work. Touring the market, he stopped by the school to inspect its progress.
It was September of 848—four years since the Raven-Speaker had founded the school. The primary curriculum lasted five years, which meant the first graduating class would be ready next year.
In the office, Vig flipped through rosters and grade records of the fourth-year students. Then he decided to conduct an impromptu examination, focusing on three subjects.
First, Old Norse—students were to demonstrate vocabulary and grammar by composing a tax report to Tyne Town as if they were royal clerks.
Second, arithmetic—using real livestock-market ledgers, they had to calculate each item's taxable value and total the sum.
Third, elementary natural science—basic physics and agriculture: designing pulley systems, crop rotation and sowing schedules, and how to treat sick livestock.
Once the questions were prepared, Vig ordered the teachers to copy them onto parchment and gathered the children for the test.
As he watched them frown in concentration, something tugged at his chest—a strange, quiet melancholy. Memories of his own youth came flooding back until the sound of quills scratching paper drew him back to the present.
"My lord?" whispered the Raven-Speaker. "Should we begin the arithmetic test now?"
"Ah—yes," Vig said, blinking. "Go ahead. Hand them out."
By noon, the teachers had finished grading. Out of forty-five students, the results were mixed, but enough showed promise to be useful once the northern lands were conquered.
"Students trained by our own hand will always be reliable," Vig mused. "Ragnar fills his court with Anglo scribes—and with them come corruption, leaks, and spies. Wessex and Francia must already have agents crawling all through his palace."
With that thought, he resolved to allocate twenty pounds of silver to the school—both to improve the wages of its forty teachers (mostly shamans) and 260 students, and to buy more ink and parchment.
"What else do you need?" he asked the room.
The Raven-Speaker hesitated.
"We have enough food, clothing, and charcoal for winter... Perhaps, my lord, you might let us borrow some of the new books you brought back?"
"You've finished the last batch?" Vig raised an eyebrow, then nodded. "Come."
He led the Raven-Speaker, Kemi Wildfire, and the others up to the fourth floor of the keep—his private library. Rows of shelves lined the walls, filled with Latin, Norse, and Frankish manuscripts.
As the shamans eagerly stepped forward, Vig added sharply:
"Wait. Not The Chronicle of Britain or The Chronicle of the Franks. Those stay here."
"Why?" the Raven-Speaker asked, puzzled. "They tell of your victories, my lord. Shouldn't the children learn your glorious deeds?"
He was right, in a way—but only partly.
Vig's battle diaries contained more than just strategy. There were complaints about his peers, criticism of commanders' recklessness, notes on corruption and loose tongues—details that could ruin alliances if ever revealed.
"Some things," Vig said quietly, "are better left unread."
The Raven-Speaker bowed, still confused, and withdrew.
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