In September, Vig led two thousand men back to Tyne County. He did not completely disband the two infantry regiments, instead preserving their basic structure to allow for rapid mobilization in the future.
After half a year apart, Britta rushed forward and embraced her son Leif. She cried for a while, then carefully examined him.
"Not bad," she said with satisfaction. "Going out with your uncle really has steadied you. It's time to start thinking about marriage and children."
She then sought out Vig, asking her younger brother to recommend daughters from noble families—preferably pretty ones.
Vig lowered his voice and explained, "At the Battle of Auxerre, more than half of the king's army was wiped out. For example, in two villages near Londinium, not a single man who went to war returned. Their families are making trouble outside the royal palace right now. This isn't a good time to talk about betrothals—better wait a while."
For most of the following half month, Vig rested at home. The war had consumed too much of his mental energy, leaving him listless and drained. He neglected official affairs, paid little attention to his sons' studies, and often sat alone in the small garden corner of the castle, lost in thought—until Bjorn came to visit.
"You came all this way?" Vig asked.
Bjorn sat down on the ground and idly played with the blooming marigolds.
"My father is still unconscious. I made a trip to Londinium and got tangled up with the prime minister and the two queens for a long time. In the end, I agreed to lend them eight hundred pounds."
Recalling the expressions on the queens' faces, Bjorn felt both amused and deeply saddened. Just two years ago, the kingdom had marched north in a single, unstoppable campaign, swallowing Denmark and Sweden alike, its prestige resounding across the world. Now it had fallen into such a miserable state—yet he could not pinpoint exactly where things had gone wrong.
After a long silence, Bjorn changed the subject.
"I've heard a lot of rumors about you. Honestly—how did you escape from that desperate situation?"
Vig picked up a branch and casually sketched the rough geography of West Francia on the ground, explaining his judgment on the day of the ambush. Bjorn struggled to follow the logic and listened in a daze.
"I still don't get it," Bjorn said. "How could you tell, just from a map and a pile of letters, that our army was about to clash with the Franks?"
"It's hard to explain," Vig replied. "Maybe after fighting so many wars, you unconsciously develop certain instincts."
Bjorn thought Vig was brushing him off and couldn't help patting him on the shoulder.
"That aside, two thousand cavalry and two thousand mounted infantry—Gunnar clearly wanted you dead. He's become a Frank through and through."
Summing up the defeat, the decisive factor had been Gunnar. His strategic mind was sharp, and he was intimately familiar with Ragnar's and Ivar's tactics.
If Gunnar were removed from the equation, Charles the Bald would have had almost no chance of victory. His only options would have been to cede territory, abandon the imperial title, and beg for reinforcements from Middle and East Francia.
After a moment of reflection, Vig suddenly remembered something. He invited Bjorn to the shipyard to see a newly launched experimental vessel—the Gray Parrot.
Compared to the traditional cog, the Gray Parrot featured two masts, both carrying square sails. Behind the main mast hung a mizzen fore-and-aft sail, improving windward maneuverability and allowing the ship to sail closer to the wind.
In addition, the ship abandoned the cog's boxy sterncastle, lowering the center of gravity to prevent capsizing in rough seas. The long tiller on the aft deck was replaced with a wheel rudder, further enhancing handling.
Bjorn ran his hand over the wheel and couldn't help asking, "What's her cargo capacity? And the cost?"
"The shipyard spent four years experimenting to develop this design," Vig replied. "The Gray Parrot is mainly for testing new technologies. Her carrying capacity is about one and a half times that of a standard cog. Her strengths lie in speed and stability."
The inspiration came from the two-masted square-rigged ships Vig remembered—brigs—fast, agile, and operable by just thirty to fifty crew, especially favored by Caribbean pirates.
As for cost, the Gray Parrot required a total investment of eighty pounds. Once the technology matured, the cost might drop to seventy pounds—but that still meant a sale price well over one hundred pounds, far beyond the reach of ordinary merchants or minor nobles.
"Far too expensive," Bjorn sighed repeatedly. Still, out of respect for Vig, he agreed to order two of the new twin-masted ships and paid a forty-pound deposit.
The two shareholders then discussed the affairs of the Western Sea Fur Company. The company had now established trade relations with half of the tribes in southwestern Greenland. The natives hunted seals and were occasionally hired as temporary sailors aboard whaling cogs, working in the open sea.
All combined, the company's annual profit exceeded eight hundred pounds.
With operations stabilizing and wealth steadily flowing in, Vig was satisfied. He refrained from interfering in Bjorn's and Helgi's management and contented himself with staying at Tyne Town, counting his dividends.
October arrived.
Since he had gone on campaign that year, Vig was exempt from paying tribute in Londinium, yet he continued to monitor developments in the south—none of them good.
Ragnar remained unconscious, while rumors of the king's death spread unchecked among the populace.
Prime Minister Godwin traveled to Calais to negotiate prisoner exchanges with Lambert. Based on the status and number of captives, Godwin agreed to pay one thousand pounds of silver. However, the Franks insisted that Ragnar personally sign an agreement acknowledging defeat and guaranteeing full payment of the tithe to British monasteries. The negotiations reached an impasse.
Meanwhile, Æthelwulf, Duke of Wessex and Minister of the Sea, passed away. His title passed to his eldest surviving son, Æthelbald.
According to established custom, when a vassal inherited a title and its associated lands, he was required to pay a sum to his liege lord to formalize the inheritance. This payment was known as the Inheritance Tax (Relief, from the Latin relevium).
Accepting this payment signified that the liege recognized the new vassal's loyalty, formally confirming the feudal contract between them.
If the heir was underage, the liege had the right to administer the estate, collect all its revenues until the heir came of age, and even arrange the heir's marriage.
Last year, after the Earl of Leeds died, his eldest son inherited the title and paid one hundred pounds to the crown.
This time, however, the two queens believed that a duke's inheritance tax should be higher. Ignoring the prime minister's strong objections, they set the Duke of Wessex's relief at four hundred pounds.
A royal messenger arrived in Winchester. Æthelbald reacted calmly—neither angry nor argumentative—and followed the messenger to Londinium.
Inside the main hall of the palace, with the king still unconscious, the two queens acted as regents and accepted Æthelbald's oath of fealty.
But when it came time to pay the inheritance tax, Æthelbald did not produce silver.
Instead, he drew from his robes a debt agreement bearing Pascal's signature.
"Two years ago, when the king campaigned in the North, Prime Minister Pascal requisitioned ships and supplies everywhere," Æthelbald said evenly. "In total, the crown owes my house one thousand pounds. This is the note."
"Subtracting the four hundred pounds I owe in relief, the royal treasury still owes my family six hundred pounds. So tell me, Your Majesties—will you repay us in silver, in goods… or in land?"
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