By August, the farmers around Tynemouth were plowing their fields in preparation for sowing winter wheat a month later. With little else to do, Vig rode his gray horse along the furrows, watching his tenants work.
The land here was still worked under the two-field system. The holdings were split in half: one plot for winter wheat, the other left fallow. Farmers drove oxen pulling light wooden plows, the so-called "Roman plows." They worked poorly, forcing them to turn the same plot twice.
In Vig's mind, plowing was meant to loosen the soil, improve aeration, and help crops thrive. To that end, the deeper the better—not this shallow scratching.
He hailed an Anglo farmer nearby.
"Hey! That toy's too light. Why don't you use heavy iron plows?"
The man, dull and timid, replied, "We've always used these 'Roman plows.' Never thought to change."
Roman plows.
Vig eyed the flimsy frame. His mind raced. The flaw was obvious.
"In the Mediterranean, dry soil turns easily. A wooden plow suffices. But here on the damp, sticky North Atlantic coast, you could plow a field twice and still not break it properly. Gods above, you've copied Rome for centuries without the wit to improve it."
Back in his study, Vig ransacked his memory. He recalled the heavy plows of the eleventh century: drawn by two oxen, fitted with an iron share, mounted on wheels.
"Yes… it should look like this."
He sketched page after page, discarding the crude ones, and at last pressed two half-decent drafts into Caddell's hands.
"Make it. And put your heart into it. This plow could feed half of Europe."
Once the smith departed, Vig's thoughts turned to the three-field system.
Under two fields, an acre of winter wheat yielded about 8 bushels.
(A bushel, roughly 27.2 kilograms of wheat.)
A family of five with thirty acres tilled half—fifteen acres—bringing in 120 bushels.
Expenses: 2 bushels per acre as seed (30 bushels total).
Lord's tithe: 15% = 18 bushels.
Church's tithe: 10% = 12 bushels.
Total deductions: 30 bushels.
For food, assume each person ate 600 grams of grain daily—around 40 bushels per year for the family.
In the end, only 20 bushels remained. Barely enough, once tools, livestock, salt, and clothing were bought.
But with three fields—one in wheat, one in oats or peas, one fallow—two-thirds of the land bore crops instead of half. And legumes fixed nitrogen, enriching the soil.
"Higher yields mean higher taxes. I'll test it on a small scale first—one year, ten farms. If it works, I'll roll it out everywhere."
After much persuasion, Vig convinced ten Viking households. He promised that if the new system yielded less than the old, he'd pay the difference himself.
By September, under the mutters of their neighbors, the ten split their land into thirds: sowing ten acres of wheat, leaving twenty for next year.
Once sowing was done, farmers flocked to wash woolens. The water-powered fulling mill proved far superior to foot-treading. Willingly, they paid the 5% fee. Watching the wheel spin ceaselessly, Vig marveled. For the first time in his life, he was earning money while sitting still.
One lazy morning he basked by the millhouse when the book-seller's daughter came again, asking leave to use it.
"No problem, Heligif. Give the cloth to the workers. Don't forget the fee."
"My lord, my name is Heligif."
She carried a bolt of wool into the mill, where the men showed her how to lay it in the trough. Water turned the wheel; hammers pounded the fabric in rhythm, scouring grease away.
"Incredible," she whispered. In the past, she and her parents had slogged for days over one piece. Here, flowing water worked harder than any family.
From outside, Vig's voice called: "You may watch. But don't think of building a mill of your own."
"I know," she said, shielding her eyes against the sun. "We're too poor. For now, we'll just farm and herd sheep honestly."
"Is that so? To me once, farming sheep was a blessing." Vig's gaze grew distant. "In the North, thieves were everywhere. In one year alone, my hamlet was raided ten times—some lone prowlers, others bands of brigands."
"The winters grew harsher. Folk abandoned their homes, fled to Britain under my banner. The climate here is gentler. Yields are higher by a third, enough to scrape by—but it still cannot match the black earth of the Dnieper valley."
"You've been by the Dnieper, then? Headed to Constantinople for trade?" she asked.
Her knowledge startled him. "You know that route? Remarkable."
At the name of Constantinople, memories of his court duel surfaced. Noticing her doubt, he drew his sword. "See? Finest blade in Europe. Ivar's Heartbreaker may be Damascus steel, but it's nothing compared to my Dragon's Breath."
During the wars, nobles like Erik and Leonard had begged to buy it, offering twenty pounds of silver. Some even challenged him to duels to seize it.
He had killed three such challengers before Ivar himself declared: "Even if you win it, I'll take it back the same way." Only then did the covetousness subside.
"A fine tale," Heligif said with a smile, "if a touch bloody. Farewell, Lord Vig."
She curtseyed, gathered her clean woolens, and walked away.
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