After Heligif left, Vig once again sank into boredom, tossing stones across the river and watching them skip.
Half a minute later, Mitcham appeared behind him, carrying a stack of account books. He noticed the lord's odd expression.
"My lord… have you taken a liking to her?"
"What nonsense are you spouting?"
Mitcham pressed on. "Marriage, for a noble, is not a trivial matter. Handled wisely, it can bring great advantages to your rule. The best choice is a royal princess, but His Majesty has neither daughters nor sisters—so that's impossible. The next option is the daughters of other great lords, though I don't yet know their situations. Lastly, as a foreigner, marrying a local gentry's daughter would ease resistance among your subjects. Heligif is a good match. It's said her great-grandmother was of royal blood—enough, at least, to stand beside you."
"This is all rather sudden. Give me time to think." Vig waved him off, staring blankly at the ducks across the river.
Mitcham was right. As a noble, it was time he considered marriage.
His thoughts drifted.
There was Princess Eve, youngest daughter of King Erik. During their two years in the East, Nils had spoken of her endlessly, nearly obsessed.
"Eve, Erik's daughter. Her aunt Sola married Ragnar. Highborn, strikingly beautiful—but with a reputation for being… excessively free. Best leave that problem to someone else."
More names flashed—daughters of this or that noble. Yet their poor education weighed against them. One by one, Vig discarded the options.
As for Heligif, three advantages stood out.
First, she was Anglo, which would soften local hostility toward him. Second, her family was small and weak—she would depend wholly on him, ensuring loyalty. Third, she could read and write Latin. In an age of near-universal illiteracy, that alone made her invaluable. As his wife, she could manage household affairs and even assist in governance.
After brooding for hours, Vig went to a side room near the hall, where Mitcham was bent over accounts.
"Pick a day to call on her family. Ask properly, and be polite—I don't want to look like some thug bullying a widow. If they refuse, it's no loss. I've no shortage of choices."
It was no boast. With his legendary adventures in the East and his glory at the Battle of Northumbria, Vig had become a figure of renown across the North. Earlier that year in York, shield-maidens had come knocking on his door almost daily. Yet their low birth and poor talents made them unfit for marriage.
"As you command, my lord."
The next day, Mitcham set out with gifts and two guards. Heligif's mother, Iris, was overjoyed. With the lord himself as her daughter's husband, her youngest son would grow up safe, her worries at last put to rest.
The lord's wedding drew every local squire and village headman. When it ended and Vig tallied the gifts, he found that even after expenses he had profited the equivalent of three pounds of silver.
"Not bad. At least they know their place."
He noted it in the ledger and turned to the year's tax accounts.
Tynemouth held nineteen manors and twenty-three scattered villages.
The manors had some 2,500 inhabitants. The villages—mostly tenant farmers, peasants, and a few smallholders—numbered 5,000. In all, about 7,500 Anglo subjects.
Adding two hundred farmers near Tynemouth and the five hundred Norsemen who had migrated since last year, his domain now counted roughly 8,300 souls.
"Sparse indeed. Compared to Leonard's Manchester, I lag far behind."
Manchester boasted 2,000 townsfolk, plus countryside settlements, totaling over 20,000—second only to Ragnar's York. And one townsman's wealth equaled that of several peasants. Vig estimated Leonard's revenues at 250–300 pounds of silver.
"The south will always be richer," Vig sighed, and began his calculations.
Grain was the chief income. At a tithe of 15%, he collected 28,000 bushels (about 780 tons). One bushel of wheat sold for two silver pennies—altogether, 60 pounds of silver.
Each manor also owed two sheep, five pairs of poultry, and some ale and honey. Vig yawned, turning the page.
His three workshops brought in 1.6 pounds of silver monthly. After deducting a quarter for upkeep, annual profit came to 15 pounds.
On the expense side: a shield-bearer's yearly wage was 70 silver pennies (0.3 pounds). Add food and equipment wear, and each man cost 0.6 pounds per year.
"Twenty guards cost me 12 pounds. If I raised fifty, that would be a ruinous 30 pounds!"
Then there were tax officials, smiths, tailors, cooks, grooms, shepherds, rat-catchers, laborers… With his marriage to Heligif, six maids were added, their food and wages costing 8 pounds a year.
As he finished the sums, Vig froze. He had forgotten Ragnar's tribute.
"Damn… how could I forget that?"
He fell into a long silence. Too much tribute would bleed him dry. Too little would sour the king's favor.
"My love, what troubles you?" Heligif noticed him restless in bed. After a while, she brought up the Franks.
"The Carolingian kings grant titles to many counts. My father once read a scroll in a monastery—it said counts spent 5–20% of their income on royal duties: wars, hosting the court, special levies. Since this year was peaceful, I think you should at least offer fifteen percent."
Guided by her counsel, Vig drew up his list: twenty bolts of wool, over a dozen carts of grain, and livestock besides.
"Worth about ten pounds of silver. That should suffice."
Dragging himself to bed, he lay awake. Today's sums had laid bare the truth: the nobles of the Middle Ages lived far less lavishly than tales and plays suggested. Even daily expenses strained their purses—let alone hosting feasts, balls, or tournaments.
Unless, of course, they borrowed—from the Church, or from merchant guilds.
He recalled the ruin of Tynemouth's previous lord: a spendthrift father who borrowed heavily from the Church and left debts unpaid for decades, unable even to build stone walls.
"It seems I'll have to invent new ways to make money."
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