That afternoon, once Loch had escorted the silver to the treasury and returned to report, he found thirteen Viking clerks seated in the ground-floor hall of the Chancellor's Residence.
With their left hands they manipulated some strange contraptions; with their right, they scribbled tirelessly with goose-feather quills—clearly auditing accounts.
"What is that?"
Loch leaned closer, inspecting the wooden frame studded with beads.
A young clerk glanced up, eyes full of the subtle disdain city folk reserve for country bumpkins.
"An abacus. The Duke taught us how to use it—an instrument from the distant Tang Empire."
Then he returned to his work.
He was Vig's personal retainer—answerable only to the Duke, not the King—so he felt no need to curry favor with Loch.
Softly murmuring bead-formulas, the clerks worked skillfully.
The wooden beads clicked and snapped in rapid rhythms, filling the hall with a sharp staccato that sounded like hail falling on shields.
Dusk fell. Whale-oil candles bathed the room in steady yellow light, turning night briefly back into day.
They worked until deep into the night, rose early the next morning, and resumed with relentless efficiency.
By the end of the third day, they had finished reviewing the entire previous year's accounts.
And surprisingly—
Their calculations matched Pascal's ledgers almost perfectly.
The treasury really had posted a deficit of twelve thousand pounds.
Pascal didn't skim anything?
A deep doubt welled up within Vig.
A surrendered Anglo noble, toiling earnestly for ten years without lining his pockets—why?
When he summoned Loch, the secretary—looking uncharacteristically subdued—provided an unexpected answer.
"Twelve years ago, when His Majesty was still King of Northumbria, some urged him to confiscate monastic estates.
The Chancellor dissuaded him—promising he would solve the fiscal crisis if the King agreed to protect every monastery in the realm."
So that was it.
Vig finally understood.
The old Chancellor had treated his office as a kind of lifelong penance—working himself to death to uphold that promise.
"Was it worth it…?"
Moved by the man's stubborn devotion, Vig walked to the window and looked out across the pale-yellow clover lawn.
After a long silence, he turned. The decline must be reversed.
He returned to his desk and reviewed the clerks' summary.
Almost all of last year's twelve-thousand-pound deficit had been borrowed from within the realm.
"Ragnar prepared for the northern expedition… and Pascal, lacking coin, delayed payment wherever he could.
Let's see who the unlucky creditors are."
Ranked first:
Duke Æthelwulf of Wessex—one thousand pounds' worth of grain and ships requisitioned by the crown.
Duke of Mercia—eight hundred pounds loaned to pay soldiers' extended service, with no repayment date given.
Earl of Kent, Ulf—five hundred pounds' worth of goods seized for the campaign.
Duke of Tyne Town—four hundred pounds of iron ingots taken for weapon production, still unpaid.
Earl of East Anglia—four hundred pounds borrowed, plus five hundred sheep requisitioned.
And beyond the nobles, London merchants and local landowners had likewise been stripped of goods and silver.
The plan had been simple: repay them with spoils from the conquest.
But since the Danish and Swedish nobles surrendered without a fight, no spoils ever materialized.
Worse still, Denmark and Sweden were poor even in peaceful years—after the wars, their annual tribute was practically nothing.
Economically, the expedition was a complete disaster.
"All because of Halfdan," Vig muttered.
"If he'd stayed put in Gothenburg, none of this would've happened.
He got half of Sweden killed, cost the treasury tens of thousands, and dragged more than ten thousand of us across the sea for nothing."
He locked himself in the study for half a day drafting a fiscal report.
Two days later, after verifying every detail with Loch and the clerks, he presented it to Ragnar.
"Your Majesty," Vig said, "last year's deficit totals twelve thousand pounds.
Recently I borrowed two thousand from the Berber guild—we must repay three thousand three hundred in total.
Thus, the amount we owe stands at fifteen thousand three hundred.
Here is the full report."
Ragnar took the stack of papers and sighed bitterly to his two queens.
"Everything was fine until recently… and suddenly we're buried under this mountain of debt. I don't know what to do."
From the steps below, Fourth Prince Ubba pumped his fists.
"We're Vikings! Vikings don't pay debts!
Anyone who dares ask for their silver back—just kill them!"
Expressionless, Vig chose not to bother correcting the boy.
Most of this debt is owed to your own vassals.
Try defaulting and watch how long your father's crown lasts.
Ragnar handed the papers to his queens. All three faces darkened.
Then young Sigurd, sitting in his mother Aslaug's lap, spoke up:
"Alfred told me that when peasants owe money, they sell cows, sheep, or land to pay it back.
Father, we have a lot of land. Why not sell some?"
A surprisingly reasonable idea.
In previous Anglo kingdoms, rulers in crisis often raised taxes or borrowed from the Church, offering land as collateral.
The child's innocent remark awakened Ragnar.
Last year he had confiscated Niels's fief—Nottingham.
It could be sold to raise funds.
But Vig dashed his hopes:
"Land prices depend on annual yield—usually ten to twenty times yearly income.
Niels bled the land dry to raise troops; there's hardly any farmland left.
Selling it outright might give you only three to four hundred pounds.
"As for the town of Nottingham… even if Your Majesty grants a charter allowing self-governance, the population is under two thousand.
Income would still be limited."
Aslaug then hesitated, speaking softly:
"Um… what if… land and noble titles were sold together?
Buy an estate, earn a knighthood… perhaps even a barony…"
Halfway through, she shut her mouth—realizing the absurdity.
Selling titles was tantamount to burning royal legitimacy.
Every noble present would oppose it fiercely.
Vig finally presented his proposal:
Impose a luxury tax—heavy duties on wine, spices, sugar, and dyed cloth.
2. Launch land reclamation projects.
3. Promote trefoil (clover) cultivation to expand sheep herds; sign contracts with merchants and repay debts in wool instead of silver.
4. Audit the royal demesnes of York and Tamworth, long neglected due to distance from the court.
With these measures, the treasury could produce a surplus of roughly two thousand pounds annually.
In eight years, the kingdom might repay the fifteen thousand and restore fiscal stability.
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