For the next several days, Vig drifted between banquets, seizing every opportunity to probe for information—yet most of what he heard was the usual mix of rumor and nonsense, impossible to verify.
By late October, with autumn winds growing sharp, Vig bid farewell to the nobles in Londinium and began the journey home.
Upon entering the castle courtyard, two small boys bundled in thick winter clothes rushed him, shouting for gifts.
The older one was his nephew Leif, now ten.
The younger was his firstborn son, Frodi, only three.
His second son, Frey, not yet a year old, could not yet walk and lay sleeping soundly in Herligev's arms.
"The sweets are here. Remember to rinse your mouths afterward."
Vig handed them two sacks of cane-sugar candies from the wagon, successfully sending the noisy pair running.
Cane sugar had been introduced from India to Persia and the Mediterranean in the 7th century via the expanding Arab Empire.
But sugarcane required abundant sun and water—conditions utterly lacking in northern and western Europe.
Thus sugar had become a luxury reserved for the elite.
While servants unloaded the cargo, the chief craftsman Lúkal approached.
"My lord, we've finalized a usable formula for the 'coal briquettes.' Do you have time to inspect?"
"Lead the way."
They headed for the docks. Piles of coal lay stacked on an open patch of ground. Bare-chested laborers dumped the raw coal into a stone trough, where a water-powered crusher hammered it into gravel. The crushed coal showered down into sieves; the fine powder sifted through like black wheat grain.
Craftsmen mixed the coal dust with clay—thirty percent clay, seventy percent coal powder—adding water, then stirring in a handful of sawdust and charcoal dust to improve burning efficiency.
The mixture was packed into molds, shaped, and set out under the sun to dry before being sold to the townspeople.
Seeing the satisfaction on his lord's face, Lúkal whispered:
"My lord… after limited testing, the people praise this new fuel highly. How shall we set the price?"
Vig glanced at the shabby, chilly-looking townsfolk near the docks. He pushed aside any thought of excess profit.
The price would be kept low, available throughout Tyne County and the northern four counties—if it meant getting these stubborn people to drink more hot water and bathe more often, the reduction in disease was worth more than coin.
For years, he had fretted over public sanitation. He'd even asked the Raven-Speaker to weave "drink hot water, bathe regularly, never eat raw meat" into the Norse doctrine.
Cheap, reliable fuel might finally make these reforms acceptable to the general populace.
Besides hot water and bathing, another path to cleanliness was soap.
Northern soap was made from animal fat and wood ash; some artisans even mixed in flower petals to create expensive "rose soaps" for the wealthy.
But agricultural output was still low, and animal fat remained costly, preventing widespread use.
"In the south they use olive oil… but even there, the poor can't afford soap."
Vig sighed. The puzzle had bothered him long enough; for now, he set it aside.
December 31st — The Annual Meeting of Tyne Town
Tyne County now held 32,000 inhabitants, of which 17,000 were Norse.
The four northern counties had a combined 5,000 new northern settlers (including Finns and Sámi), mostly concentrated in the county towns, seven baronies, and over a hundred knight's fiefs.
His power base, Tyne Town, had grown to 3,500 residents—now rivaling Londinium, Winchester, Tamworth, and York.
Its rapid rise came from two factors:
Geography — Tyne sat at the northern entry point of Britain, perfectly positioned to receive Norse migrating along the Bergen → Shetland → Britain route.
The lord himself — Most Viking nobles cared only for war and feasts. Anglo-Saxon nobles weren't much better. A literate noble was rare, and even then they read only scripture.
None could compare to Vig of Tyne Town, armed with knowledge from another world.
When the population report concluded, they moved on to finances.
Revenue for the Year 850
Thanks to booming shipyards, smithies, and the new paper mill, Tyne County's revenue reached £550, with agriculture now only half of that.
Stirling County's iron mines brought £400, and the tin mines brought another £50, totaling £450.
The four northern counties collected £100 in trade taxes and £200 in agricultural taxes.
After listening to the numbers, Vig's smile faded. He paced the hall with the ledger.
"Sixteen thousand people in the four counties.
Yet your total farm tax is only £200?
Together, you still fall short of Tyne County's revenue. Unacceptable!"
A chill spread through the room.
"I expect you to work harder next year. Less gambling, less gaming. One way or another, next year the four counties will surpass Tyne County."
There was also special income—the Bergen raid, which had yielded £100 in silver.
Total revenue: £1,400.
Expenditures
The standing army had grown to 2,000, including a newly formed Tyne Town garrison battalion. Frequent anti-bandit operations drove military spending from the expected £360 up to £450.
Administration, schools, temples, and hospitals—now larger than ever—cost £320.
Tyne Town Castle's own expenses remained stable at £150.
Construction, horse procurement, and tribute combined for £330.
Total expenditure: £1,250.
That left a surplus of £150.
Vig planned to use part of it to repay old debts. Last year, he had borrowed £400 from Ragnar and others; repaying was only proper.
But he would not pay it back all at once.
Instead, he would repay in small, gradual amounts—carefully disguising Tyne Town's growing strength so outsiders assumed he remained financially strained.
"£1,400… on par with the Duke of Wessex.
If all goes well, once I fully digest the Scottish Lowlands, my revenue may even reach Gunnar's level."
When the assembly finally adjourned, Vig Horstd a lavish banquet for vassals, officials, shieldsmen, and prominent townsfolk—over 300 guests. Space was tight; the second-floor guest rooms became improvised private boxes.
He spared no expense—fine wine and mead, rare spices, truffles. Reputation required nothing less.
After two hours of feasting, the guests slowly dispersed.
A Quiet Night in Winter
Snow fell thickly that night. The fireplaces crackled, filling the hall with warm light. Vig held a small family dinner.
On his left sat his eldest son; on his right, Herligev cradling the infant Frey. His older sister Britta and nephew Leif sat nearby, along with his mother-in-law Elise and her son Hossa.
Vig raised his cup.
"To family—to all of you.
In this chaotic world, common folk toil for survival and nobles scheme for power.
When storms descend, who can we rely on, if not our own blood?"
"To our family," the others echoed.
Outside, winter winds howled against the walls, while inside, warmth and quiet surrounded them as they shared the last meal of the year.
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