At dawn the next day, Vig rode out to the cavalry training field beyond the city walls. The place was bustling—four hundred horsemen had gathered there, among them Gunnar, who was in charge of the drills.
Knowing that most of his men were still novices in horsemanship, Gunnar had chosen to focus their training on a single key technique—the couched-lance charge. Each rider held a shield in the left hand and braced a three-meter lance under the right arm, the weapon resting against the armpit during the charge.
Thanks to their modified high-backed saddles and long stirrups, the riders swayed far less when charging, allowing for far greater accuracy and impact.
Vig stood quietly at the edge of the field, watching the session unfold under the mild winter sun.
Twelve Viking knights lined up abreast.
"Walk forward!"
The lead rider tucked his training lance under his arm, nudged his horse's flank with his spurs, and the warhorse snorted, trotting toward a row of straw dummies.
"Trot!"
At his command, the line of horses broke into a brisk pace, hooves kicking up yellow dust that startled the sparrows on the fences.
When only a hundred paces remained—
"Charge!"
The command split the air. Hooves thundered like rain on iron. At thirty paces, every lance dropped level in unison. In seconds, the line struck the targets with a tremendous crack. Straw exploded into the air; fragments of dummy heads tumbled to the ground.
When the pass was over, an older officer strode forward to inspect the results:
five hits, three glancing strikes, four misses.
"Fools! Idiots! Useless dolts!"
He slapped each of the four who had missed so hard that the onlookers fell silent in fear.
"With this kind of aim, how do you expect to stand against the seasoned cavalry of the Franks? His Majesty granted you estates—do you repay him with this disgrace?"
He shouted for two straight minutes before calling the next team to ride. As they trained, the same curses filled the field—"useless," "worthless," "trash." When the results were truly poor, Gunnar himself stepped in to administer punishment.
Vig watched for half an hour and couldn't help thinking:
"Compared to him, my temper's positively saintly."
Still, judging by the progress achieved in half a year, Gunnar was clearly the right man to lead the cavalry. With these couched-lance riders in the coming campaign, Vig reckoned their odds of victory had improved by at least ten percent.
After the inspection, Vig left York and continued south. Traveling through Mercia, he noticed that heavy iron plows were now increasingly common—nearly every well-off farmer owned one.
Some fields had even adopted the three-field rotation system. Had this not been imposed by local lords, Vig thought, it would take a decade or more for peasants to adopt it voluntarily.
"Once three-field rotation spreads," he mused in the saddle, "the prices of oats, barley, and peas will drop, while wheat will rise a little."
He decided to send a letter home to Tyne Town, instructing Heligif not to sell their stored wheat too soon, but to hold it longer for better profit.
When he reached Oxford, the watchtower flew Theowulf's blue banner, embroidered with a red camellia blossom.
As courtesy among nobles demanded, Theowulf invited his guest to supper.
"Any news from York?" he asked.
"Queen Aslaug bore twins—a boy and a girl. His Majesty was overjoyed. There's to be a celebration, and York's taxes have been reduced for the year."
"To their health, then!" Theowulf raised his goblet cheerfully.
Having surrendered first to Ragnar, Theowulf was despised among Anglo nobles; his rule survived solely by currying favor with the new king. As long as Ragnar protected him, no lesser lords would dare rebel.
"I bought two fine gemstone necklaces last month," he added eagerly. "A gift for each of the newborns."
Vig made no comment. The gesture would surely please Ragnar and Aslaug—but it would also anger Queen Sola, who, though outwardly calm of late, would inevitably clash with Aslaug one day—for dignity's sake, and for the sake of her son Ubbe's inheritance.
As for Vig, his relations with Ivar and Bjorn had remained friendly ever since their adventure in the East. Now that Bjorn had sailed off to Iceland—abandoning any claim to the throne—Vig knew that, when the inevitable succession war came, he would have to choose sides.
"War, managing the estate, crushing bandits, learning Anglo and Latin, navigating royal politics…" he sighed. "Gods, it's exhausting."
Seeing his gloom, Theowulf misunderstood, assuming Vig worried about shipbuilding and armament.
"If you need anything, say the word," he thumped his chest. "I'll prove my loyalty to His Majesty through action—none shall question Theowulf's devotion!"
"My thanks," Vig said dryly.
Leaving Oxford, his column followed the Thames southeast. The river widened with each tributary until, at last, they reached Londinium, its surface hundreds of meters across.
"What a desolate sight."
The Londinium before him was far from the bustling metropolis it would one day become—just a modest, half-ruined settlement on the north bank of the Thames. The stone Roman walls still stood, guarding the residents within from small bands of raiders.
Passing through the gate, Vig saw ruin and emptiness. The public baths and amphitheater had long since collapsed; children played among the towering remnants. Weeds pushed up through the cobbled streets, nature reclaiming Rome's bones.
"Silent ruins speak of fallen empires," he murmured. "Broken tiles still wear their ancient grace. Give it a century or two, and even these stones will vanish."
In the city center, he presented Ragnar's letter to the governor, formally taking charge of Londinium for the coming campaign.
As the forward base of the West Frankish expedition, the city would soon receive a steady influx of supplies. Vig's first tasks were to repair the warehouses and organize proper storage.
He also had to maintain order as troops gathered—Ragnar had emphasized this point himself: Londinium, as royal domain and potential new capital, must suffer no damage or disorder.
After reviewing the ledgers, Vig went out to inspect the southern docks.
Unlike the crumbling city center, the riverside bustled with life. Wooden piers stretched out into clear water; over thirty merchant vessels lay moored, and laborers hauled sacks across the gangplanks, sweat steaming from their backs.
Examining the cargo, Vig noted that Londinium's main trade was with Flanders—exporting wool, salted fish, and hides, while importing glassware, wine, and metals such as iron, copper, and tin.
His aide Joron leaned close and whispered,
"My lord, shall we detain these merchants? To prevent any leaks about our preparations?"
"Wessex has probably already warned the Franks," Vig sighed, rubbing his eyes.
After a moment's thought, he nodded.
"Do it anyway."
~~--------------------------
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