With the three mills now running, Vig enjoyed a rare spell of leisure. He rode out hunting, bringing back game to break the monotony of fish.
Whoosh!
An arrow hissed into the grass, followed by a furious bellow. Out burst a dark-brown boar, tusks flashing. Vig loosed another shot at its neck—close, but it buried itself in the haunch instead.
The beast charged, massive body plowing through the brush. Vig's next arrow struck its forehead, but the skull turned the point, leaving only a shallow wound.
"What a savage brute," he muttered.
At once, his six shield-men hurled axes and closed with spears. Blades cut and lodged; the boar staggered, confused. Circling warily, it faced their bristling spearheads—then another arrow struck home, piercing the neck.
Blood spurted in steaming arcs. The shaft quivered as the animal thrashed, then crashed to earth. Two men jabbed its belly, ensuring death, before cutting it up.
The boar weighed near four hundred pounds, tusks like short spears. Vig ordered the head preserved to hang in his hall. Four horses bore the quarters back to Tynemouth.
No fish for days—spirits lifted, Vig whistled a jaunty tune. Until he saw a cluster of finely dressed men and women at his door.
Squires?
If they come unbidden, trouble follows.
He dismounted, entered the hall, and barely sat when a woman wailed for justice.
"Well then, speak," Vig sighed, slouched in his chair, fingers tapping the armrest.
The woman, gaunt and coughing, had two children at her side. Opposite stood a father and son; the elder clutched a parchment covered in Anglo-Saxon script.
From their quarrel, Vig pieced together the matter: the men claimed her late husband owed three pounds of silver. Unable to repay, she must yield land.
She protested she knew nothing of such debt.
"Three pounds is no trifle," Vig said. "Surely there was a witness?"
Her answer: "He marched south last year—and fell in battle."
The debtor dead, the witness dead—Vig rubbed his temple and signaled Mitcham to inspect the deed.
"Date, place, witness, sum."
After half a minute, Mitcham sighed. No flaw.
Trouble indeed. Vig's finger drummed the chair. "Her husband owed three pounds—what was it for?"
"Ink and parchment," the men said together. "Roman books. He meant to study heretical lore."
Books? Vig sat up at once. "Which kind?"
The men looked at each other. "We… can't read Latin."
The widow swore she had never seen such worthless tomes. Yet behind her, someone whispered Latin words before falling silent.
"Who spoke?" Vig's eyes narrowed. His hand rested on his sword. Predatory tension filled the hall.
The sound came from the girl at the widow's side.
"You," Vig said, "repeat it."
Pale, the girl waved her hands. "Nothing, my lord—"
Mitcham coughed. "If I heard rightly, she said Commentarii de Bello Gallico. In our tongue, The Gallic War."
At once, the men brightened. "Yes! He often spoke of Gaul. She admits it!"
The widow's mask cracked. In fury she yanked her daughter's dark hair. "Cursed Heligif! I told you to hold your tongue. Should've sold you to slavers!"
"Stop! Ow!" The girl darted about the hall, her mother in pursuit. The racket wearied Vig.
Leaning close, Mitcham whispered, "My lord, most books today are theology. A set like this is rare. Buy it cheap."
"Hm. A fine primer for Latin, at least."
Knowledge was treasure. Vig considered, then asked, "Heligif, what books did your father leave? Name them, and I may buy."
"My name is Heligif," she blurted, only to have her ear twisted by her mother. "Speak!"
Through tears she recited titles in Latin. Mitcham translated:
The Gallic War (fragments)
On the Orator
On the Republic
On Constellations and Fate
Travels in Andalusia
Natural Rites of the Caledonians
Mitcham could hardly contain himself. "My lord, these are worth far more than three pounds! Even selling south, we'd make a fortune."
Profit too? Vig nodded. Caesar, Cicero—names alone drew gold.
"Very well," he declared. "Since you cannot pay, I shall buy the books for three pounds. Deliver them. If genuine, I will hand the silver to your creditors."
"No! Too cheap! My father's life's work—years of wool-trade for these volumes—" Heligif cried, muffled as her mother clamped a hand over her mouth. "We accept," the woman said quickly, fearing the lord might reconsider.
That night, after feasting on boar, Vig lay full-bellied and thoughtful.
Three pounds of silver—the price of twenty-four oxen, or two hundred acres of land. And still, cheap for books. No wonder the Church hoarded knowledge so jealously.
~~--------------------------
Patreon Advanced Chapters:
patreon.com/YonkoSlayer