Vig acted quickly. He resigned one day, and at dawn the next, he packed his belongings and left Londinium.
In a realm, nothing is weightier than rites and war.
Yet after serving half a year as chancellor, Vig now believed that finances outweighed both war and worship. Some ministers proposed raiding, but looking around, the only plunder-worthy target was West Francia—a vast kingdom ruling Aquitaine and Brittany, with a population of five million.
But the times had changed. War had grown in scale and intensity. If Ragnar truly wished to "revisit old places," he would need over twenty thousand men, and pray the other Frankish kings did not intervene.
If my guess is right, the timing of a West Frankish campaign depends entirely on when the royal finances collapse.
By late August, Vig reached a village called Durham. North of it lay his own lands. Riding along the road, he noticed that most pastures had been converted into clover fields.
In his memory, clover fixed nitrogen from the air, enriching rather than depleting the soil. Perfect for fallow fields and pasture.
The landscape rolled in layers of green. The low, tight-growing clover rippled under the breeze like shifting jade. Sheep dotted the hills like tufts of cotton, heads lowered as they grazed, their wool swaying gently with each chew.
Under a crooked ash tree, a shepherd napped, wrapped in a rough wool cloak; bees buzzed lazily overhead.
Startled awake by the barking of his sheepdog and the thunder of approaching hooves, the shepherd saw the black dragon banner at the head of the column. He hesitantly approached.
"My lord?"
"Just need a moment."
Vig tossed him a silver penny and asked about this new crop.
"It's excellent," the shepherd said eagerly. "The sheep grow faster, the wool's thicker, and the clover grows so low it smothers weeds. In spring we sow once—after that, no trouble at all." He dragged over a sheep and showed off its dense fleece, swatting away bees as he spoke.
"The only problem is the bees. So many of them! None of us can nap in peace. And since the beekeepers' bees fatten themselves on our pastures… well, the village is discussing compensation."
So it has that effect too?
The spread of clover had unintentionally stimulated beekeeping—a benefit Vig had not foreseen. If honey became cheaper, mead breweries could expand production and sell more to the Norse. When given a choice, Norsemen always preferred mead.
During the conversation, Vig learned the villagers had a threshing machine, and were preparing to sow turnips. Curious, he followed the shepherd to see for himself.
"These things—did the agricultural officer teach you?"
"Yes," the shepherd sighed. "Young fellow, always muttering strange words like 'performance' and 'KPI'. Says if we don't grow clover and turnips, his superior will dock his pay. Poor lad—always stressed. I hope he gets his full wages this year."
Vig chuckled.
A functioning civil service really does speed up reform far more than waiting for peasants to adopt things on their own.
At the village entrance, farmers were using the threshing machine.
Bundles of barley were fed into the hopper. A draft horse pulled the crank, turning a cylinder lined with iron teeth that beat the grain loose. The kernels fell through layered sieves; the shattered straw was spat out the back for fodder.
"The town lent it to us for free. We're saving to buy it outright."
Compared to hand-threshing, the machine was revolutionary. In the later nineteenth century it would spark the "Swing Riots," when displaced English laborers protested mechanization.
But here in the early Middle Ages—land plentiful, people few—no such resentment existed.
After watching the threshers, Vig followed the shepherd eastward.
According to the agricultural officer, turnips had a short growing cycle—three to four months. Sown in autumn, harvested by late winter or early spring, providing crucial fodder so families would no longer be forced to slaughter livestock to survive winter.
The barley stubble still bristled from the earth. Black-brown furrows held forgotten bundles of straw. A man urged a plow-horse forward, turning heavy soil; behind him, his wife tossed grayish seeds from the pouch of her coarse apron, scattering them like salt.
Behind them, a child of six or seven hopped after birds with a slingshot, driving them away before they could peck the seeds.
After a long while, the man straightened, clutching his aching back, muttering,
"If the turnips can survive the frost… come spring we won't have to slaughter those sheep."
"Why not?" the child asked, thinking only of stewed mutton.
The woman wiped sweat from her brow, the sunburn peeling at her nape, and continued sowing. From afar, the temple bell tolled, sending gray sparrows fluttering into the sky.
When it was over, Vig gifted the shepherd five more silver pennies and rode north.
Returning to Tyne Town, Herligev was stunned—and relieved—to see her husband. News from traveling merchants had already reached her: the kingdom's finances were dire, the cabinet borrowed everywhere, and her husband had earned the nickname "the Silver-Sniffing Raven."
After supper, the two returned to their chamber. She finally asked the question everyone wondered:
"How much does the royal family owe? The crown still owes us four hundred pounds for iron—over a year now. You didn't press the king?"
Vig lowered his voice.
"More than twenty thousand pounds in total. Over half owed to the nobles. That debt… will likely never be repaid."
Herligev sat on the edge of the bed, dazed.
They were a ducal household—yet for years they had lived frugally: no peacocks, no swans, no foreign chefs, no dedicated bards. They had saved every coin… only for the crown to swallow four hundred pounds of it without a word.
A cruel mockery.
Vig stretched, sorting the notes he brought back, and tried to soothe her.
"Don't worry. Give it time. Someone will eventually lose patience and demand repayment. The crown cannot afford to anger all its nobles. They'll have to give an answer."
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