Early the next morning, Bjorn led three hundred able-bodied men out of Quebec, heading for the camp of their native allies.
From Major Lake's perspective, the locals had faces covered in intricate tattoos. They did not grow beards and possessed an almost inexplicable obsession with alcohol.
After linking up with an equal number of allied warriors, Bjorn felt confident in his advantage and chose to strike the enemy tribe proactively.
Two days later, the two sides met on an open stretch of snow-covered ground. More than half of the Vikings wore armor, and they defeated the enemy with ease.
When the battle ended, the crew of the Traveler received large bundles of furs as payment. Their spirits were high—they believed they had made a fortune.
Meanwhile, the native tribe that had requested help believed they were the true winners. Not only had they eliminated a long-standing enemy, but they had also gained land and population.
Bjorn, too, felt he had come out ahead. He acquired territory southwest of Quebec, an area filled with streams and small lakes, teeming with beavers—an excellent source of furs.
All three parties believed they had profited.
They cheerfully divided the spoils and concluded the brief tribal conflict.
On the return journey, Captain Lake approached Bjorn.
"Will there be more operations like this in the future?"
"No," Bjorn replied.
"The New World is vast and sparsely populated. Contact between tribes is limited. Wars here are far smaller and less frequent than in the Old World."
The captain was deeply disappointed.
Still, he could hardly force Bjorn into war with nearby tribes. Instead, he joined the settlers' hunting parties, trapping beavers in shallow waters.
In mid-April, the river at Quebec finally thawed.
The Traveler wasted no time setting sail. Riding the North Atlantic Drift, the return voyage was swift. On May 15, the ship arrived back in Londinium.
At the docks, Vig personally welcomed the forty-one surviving crew members.
He honored his promise:
Major Lake was elevated to the rank of Baron
The remaining sailors were collectively knighted
All were granted permission to establish estates in the New World
Thanks to the Traveler's exploration, merchant ships could now reliably sail between Europe and the New World by following ocean currents. Both efficiency and safety improved dramatically.
Two days later, Vig issued a new Maritime Act:
Except for the kingdom's navy and registered merchant vessels, all other powers were forbidden from using the southern route to the New World.
Any violators would be sunk without warning.
For twenty years, he had poured enormous effort into improving shipbuilding technology, developing the Canary Islands, and discovering new sea routes. He had no intention of letting others benefit from his work—especially the powers of the Iberian Peninsula.
For the moment, the outside world showed little reaction.
Bjorn's fur company was listed on the Londinium market, and all its goods were sold within Britain. In essence, it functioned as a British colonial company—and the Crown held 30 percent of its shares. Business continued as usual.
The merchant class responded calmly. The booming textile industry was absorbing most available capital. After weighing risks and profits, merchants preferred to stay in Britain. Only when domestic competition became saturated would they feel strong enough incentive to venture into the New World.
West Francia lagged behind in shipbuilding technology. They could still produce only heavy cog ships, lacking the capability for long ocean voyages.
The Moors (Arabs) possessed relatively advanced navigation skills, but the Iberian Peninsula was mired in war. Northern and southern factions were locked in a stalemate, leaving no spare resources for New World exploration.
Moreover, the newly established Canary Fleet was stationed in the south, constantly watching their movements.
"Whether the Moors or the Eastern Romans," Vig concluded,
"their galley-style warships are unsuitable for Atlantic sailing. They're confined to the Mediterranean. Unless they redesign their ships—which would take ten or even twenty years of sustained effort—they won't pose a threat."
In June, on Jersey Island in the Channel Islands:
"Sigh… time for another reconnaissance mission ashore. Let's hope I make it through this one."
At this time, Salomon served in the Intelligence Service — Investigation Bureau — West Frankish Division. His official待遇 matched that of an inspector, but in practice his duties resembled those of a field detective or junior agent—he had to gather intelligence personally.
On June 2, a two-masted sailing ship quietly left the harbor and headed toward the southwestern coast of the Brittany Peninsula.
When no one was watching, the ship lowered a small boat. Salomon and a young Breton rowed toward the shore.
After landing, they hid the boat beneath nearby rocks and disguised themselves as an ordinary father and son, walking through the wilderness with canes.
After crossing a hillside covered in white wildflowers, a strong and peculiar salty odor hit them.
Salomon looked ahead.
Gray-blue seawater rolled back in foamy waves, revealing a vast stretch of wet tidal flats. Along the shore lay piles of green seaweed.
These piles were not random.
They had been carefully arranged into long ridges—like the lifeless body of a giant sea serpent.
A few dozen paces away, several farmers in coarse linen shirts worked with bent backs. Using wooden forks, they turned over the seaweed heaps while flocks of seagulls circled overhead, squawking as they fought over crabs and shellfish unearthed from the piles.
Farther away, seaweed that had dried for a long time under the sun had become a sticky mass of decaying organic matter. Farmers shoveled it onto carts and hauled it back to their fields.
As a native Breton noble, Salomon understood exactly what they were doing.
Rotting seaweed made excellent fertilizer.
Farmers plowed it into the soil to increase crop yields—or burned it into ash to improve the land.
"Back last year," he thought,
"I reported these methods to the Minister of Agriculture. I wonder if he ever promoted them properly."
Walking slowly along a country dirt road, Salomon and his companion occasionally encountered Frankish knights on patrol.
They respectfully stepped aside, appearing no different from ordinary Breton peasants.
By the following morning, they reached the western port of the Brittany Peninsula:
Brest
Years ago, the port had belonged to Salomon's cousin. Now it was the territory of a Frankish count.
"The outer wall is still a wooden palisade," he observed quietly.
"The seaward side is heavily fortified, and an additional stone wall has been built. Eight large trebuchets are in place."
Leaning on his cane, Salomon strolled casually around the defenses, recording details:
wall height
moat width
harbor fortifications
positions and firing angles of the eight trebuchets
"The northern coastline of Francia is long," he reflected,
"but there are few ports suitable for large-scale landings. They can concentrate resources to build strong defenses."
"If I were attacking Brest," he continued in his mind,
"I would avoid the seaward approach and strike from the northern or eastern wall with a surprise assault."
After completing his circuit of the walls, Salomon headed to a tavern for a meal.
He placed a denier silver coin on the counter.
The innkeeper examined the coin carefully and commented:
"A design from five years ago. Ever since the king debased the currency, the market's been flooded with low-silver coins. Yours is worth about thirty percent more than the new ones. What would you like to eat?"
"Four large mugs of ale, two plates of fish pies, and some salted meat for the road—pork or mutton will do."
Salomon chose a seat in the corner.
He drank quietly, listening to the conversations of the patrons—paying particular attention to prices and the movements of local nobles.
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