Ragnar studied his chancellor for a long moment, then gave a weary smile.
"If it were Pascal, he would have said it outright—
that those guards were letting me win.
But you… you think too much.
You won't even give me a single honest sentence."
He tossed the silk cloth to a maid and returned to the shade beneath the arbor.
"Still," he added, "it's better than flattery.
A chancellor should not lie to please me.
Now speak—what trouble have you brought this time?"
Vig presented his proposal and persuaded the king to reform the customs offices.
Ragnar frowned.
"They're old brothers-in-arms who fought many battles.
Expelling them feels… wrong."
Old brothers-in-arms? They're a pack of layabouts who never earned knightly rank…
Vig glanced at Æthelwulf, hoping the Sea Minister would expose the incompetence of those men—
but the old duke was dozing in his chair while young Sigurd poked his nose with a blade of grass.
Is he pretending? Or actually asleep?
Setting the thought aside, Vig softened his wording and suggested a more palatable solution:
"Your Majesty, we could form a new guard for the temples—
in name, a sacred protection force.
In truth, it would be where we reassign the useless Viking officers.
Their pay will not change, but they will no longer interfere with civil administration."
After much explanation and coaxing, Ragnar was persuaded.
Customs duties now accounted for thirty percent of royal revenue—
mostly from wool export taxes.
Letting the ports rot further would only hurt the king himself.
Only then did Æthelwulf finally awaken—thanks to Sigurd's persistent poking.
"Hrm—cough! Prince—?"
Blinking in confusion, he learned the decision had already been made, bowed hastily, and shuffled out of the garden.
The Examination
The next morning, London's customs officers were summoned for evaluation:
A report of their recent work,
A written test—basic arithmetic and account-keeping.
As expected, all six Viking officers failed miserably.
Æthelwulf announced their reassignment:
"His Majesty remembers your past service.
You will keep your pay.
But you are to report to the Stonehenge Temple Guard at once."
Instead of gratitude, the six erupted.
They had grown used to constant gifts—
Rus amber, Nordic furs, Flemish dyed cloth, Frankish wine, Berber sugar and spices.
One man roared:
"No! You're an Anglo—what right have you to command us?
I fought by the Seine!
I demand to see the king!"
They shoved the elderly Æthelwulf aside.
In the room next door, Vig sighed, then entered with Loch and Utgard.
Blocking their path, he spoke through clenched patience:
"Enough.
These are His Majesty's orders.
Apologize to the Sea Minister, collect your belongings, and report to Stonehenge."
Faced with the North Serpent himself, none dared resist.
They packed up heaps of illegal gifts and slunk away—
expelled at last from the customs office.
Loch watched them go, conflicted.
"To treat veterans this way… you may earn their resentment."
Vig laughed bitterly.
"His Majesty has never been stingy with rewards.
Seven hundred royal knights have been created in recent years.
If these six ever achieved anything,
they would not still be commoners."
He recruited six sharp-minded Vikings from the townsfolk to replace them,
then mounted his horse and rode south—toward Dover.
Dover
As the first port for continental ships, Dover had prospered greatly.
Flush with coin, Earl Ulf had raised a stone castle atop the cliffs.
A tall southeastern tower burned a beacon-fire every night—
a blazing candle guiding lost ships home.
"What a magnificent structure," Vig murmured.
He had visited before, but the sight still stirred him.
Compared to this, Tyne Town felt almost humble.
Ulf, meeting him at the gates, muttered unhappily:
"Blame Ragnar.
The lords of Kent traditionally lived inland, at Canterbury—
but he forced me to move here and defend the southeast coast.
So I spent a fortune building this place—
otherwise I'd wake up dead one night."
At the port, Vig began the same reforms as in London—
tests, evaluations, dismissals.
The useless were expelled and assigned to temple duty.
Ulf clicked his tongue in admiration.
"Those fools always stirred trouble in my lands,
hiding behind the king's favor.
Finally, someone has the spine to deal with them!
We must drink tonight—celebrate properly!"
"Business first," Vig replied.
He produced a parchment stamped with the seals of the king, the chancellor, and the Sea Minister.
By this decree:
Kent must establish a coastal guard, staffed by locals.
They may keep half of all seized contraband.
And a new Piracy Act was enacted— declaring piracy punishable by hanging, and anyone who supplied ships or fenced stolen goods subject to severe penalty— even death.
Ulf scratched his cheek.
"Strange, isn't it?
Under this new law… wouldn't all of us be criminals, back in the old days?"
Vig shot him a glare so sharp it silenced him instantly.
Ulf muttered under his breath:
"So the cabinet won't fund the coastal guard…
Great.
I'll have to squeeze the merchants again.
Gods forbid I end up paying out of pocket."
Feasting at Candle Castle
That night, musicians played lively village tunes.
The feast was heavy with Frankish dishes.
"Try the new cook," Ulf urged.
"He's good with meat pies and fish."
There were pigeon pies, venison pies,
and a dish of roasted lamprey drenched in brown sauce.
Vig sampled it—ginger, pepper, vinegar, wine.
"Better than the palace cooks in London," he admitted.
"You chose well."
Ulf raised two fingers.
"Two pounds a year.
Expensive—but worth it.
We've spent our lives fighting;
we can at least eat well.
By the way—
when will the crown repay the five hundred pounds it owes me?"
Vig exhaled.
"Too many debts.
Pascal borrowed from everyone last year—
even stripped four hundred pounds' worth of iron ingots from my Stirling mines.
I asked His Majesty last month.
He had no clear answer—
only told me to persuade the nobles to 'wait a little longer.'"
—------------------------------
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