After returning to Caen, Gunnar watched as Robert and "Enya" departed in a carriage, his wife's venomous gaze burning into his back. As the carriage gradually disappeared from view, unease gnawed at his heart—he could not help but doubt whether "Enya" could truly play the role of a "princess."
Suddenly, a servant came to report that an envoy from the King of Britannia had arrived to discuss the ransom for prisoners.
Gunnar received the envoy in the castle hall. As he carefully checked the information on the roster, his irritation grew by the minute.
"I can't come up with that much money."
The envoy was not surprised. "His Majesty anticipated this. You may offset part of the ransom with warhorses—three pounds of silver per horse, and no fewer than three hundred horses."
After Ragnar's second invasion of West Francia, relations between the two realms had completely collapsed. Charles the Bald strictly forbade nobles from smuggling warhorses and even used this as a pretext to strip two barons of their lands.
Later, Charles led his army to reconquer Brittany, slaughtering nearly all resisting nobles. From that point on, Britannia's access to warhorses was completely cut off.
Hearing the conditions, Gunnar was tempted to refuse, but the envoy spoke first:
"On my way here, I spread word in the towns along the route. The families of those prisoners have already heard the news. If you don't want them hounding you endlessly, you'd best pay up quickly. The prices for the eighty-two nobles are listed on the roster. Ordinary soldiers are ransomed at half a pound per man."
Ordinary soldiers?
Gunnar stroked his chin. He only intended to ransom civilians from his own lands and leave the rest to fend for themselves.
After weighing the options, he agreed with the envoy to redeem the first batch of prisoners next month. Before leaving, the envoy lowered his voice and suggested, "My lord, have you considered resuming warhorse smuggling? The price is negotiable."
Gunnar shook his head sharply. In recent years, Charles the Bald's authority had grown ever stronger. He dared not offend him for a bit of profit. Moreover, Gunnar still clung to the fantasy of reclaiming Britannia and was unwilling to sell warhorses that might help Vig build a massive cavalry force.
"Is that so? What a pity."
The envoy bowed and withdrew.
The year turned to 859.
"Another rainy day—does this place even let people live?"
After more than a month in Londinium, Vig had grown to despise the damp, cold climate. Its only redeeming quality was the lack of heavy snowfall and hard frost.
He spent half an hour exercising in the rear garden, hastily ate breakfast, and began work promptly at eight. Building this domain had not been easy—he dared not slacken even for a moment.
After two hours reviewing documents in his office, Godwin came by with a summary of the cabinet meeting. The previous month, Vig had specifically assigned a scribe to produce written records of every meeting.
Vig read it from beginning to end, then rubbed his tired eyes.
"Why haven't the silver mine supervisors responded yet?"
Back in Ragnar's time, the crown had taken ownership of three silver-producing veins:
Derby in Nottinghamshire, where silver occurred alongside lead and zinc;
Callington in Cornwall, where silver was found in copper and tin veins;
Cumbria in the northwest (within Ivar's former lands), where lead ore contained silver.
While serving as chancellor, Vig had reviewed the data. Converted to modern units, the three mines produced roughly 600–700 kilograms of silver per year.
At the time, he had suspected underreporting and planned an investigation, but he resigned before results came in.
Now that he was king, he treated the three mines as his own property, ordering immediate reports of output and delivery of silver ingots to the royal mint to strike silver pennies.
Having experienced Vig's way of doing things, Godwin did not mince words.
"Derby's silver mine has serious problems. I recommend arresting the supervisor. The other two are somewhat better—likely delayed on the road."
My money!
Vig's anger flared.
"Good. Handle it personally. If necessary, use the standing army. I want results within half a month."
After dismissing Godwin, Vig continued reviewing documents and accounts. In peacetime, finance was the most critical task—and nothing angered him more than people stealing from his pocket.
Just before lunch, a guard reported that an envoy from the Kingdom of Norway was waiting.
"Let him in."
Soon, the envoy entered the room. Seeing the man seated behind the desk in a black robe embroidered with golden dragons, he bowed respectfully.
"Little Erik has business with me?" Vig asked, eager for lunch and skipping formalities.
"Ah—he heard that you ascended the throne and sent me with gifts to congratulate you."
The envoy produced a list: white bear pelts, white wolf pelts—modest in value, but rich in symbolism. Since Vig's accession, Little Erik was the first monarch to recognize his rule.
"My thanks."
Suddenly, Vig remembered something.
"Earlier, your king ordered three two-masted square-rigged ships from the Tyne shipyard. That deal is canceled—I'm building a standing navy, and the yard has no spare capacity.
"How about this instead: the deposit will be fully refunded, and I'll gift Little Erik two cogs as a return present."
The envoy accepted at once. With Vig at the height of his power, it was unwise to provoke him—and receiving two free cogs ensured the king would not blame the messenger.
That afternoon, Vig continued working through documents. After some time, a guard reported that the queen's procession, along with the two princes, had arrived outside the city.
"Damn—I can't believe I forgot about that." Vig summoned Utgard and ordered the Royal Guard to escort them in.
The previous month, Herigif had written that she was nearly emptying all of Tynefort—besides luggage, she brought most of the household servants, a total of fifty supply wagons. Vig had dispatched a ranger company and an infantry battalion to escort them.
At dusk, Herigif stepped down from the carriage and surveyed the luxurious residence before her. She felt a faint sense of disappointment—she had expected to move into a palace. Given her husband's frugal nature, that dream would have to wait.
After dinner, Vig returned to his office to continue working. Herigif sent the two children off to bed.
"Show me around," she said, letting the maids guide her through her new home. After some time, the second-floor office was still brightly lit.
Entering, she found Vig seated behind the desk, one hand propping his chin, his gaze fixed on a bronze mirror in the corner, lost in thought.
She stepped behind him, ran her fingers through his soft hair, and sighed softly.
"Thinking back, you argued with people so many times that your emblem was a dragon, not a serpent. Everyone insisted it was a serpent. On this trip to Londinium, I heard people talking about you—they've all changed their tune, calling you the great dragon of Asgard descended upon the world, destined to conquer all. Heh… such is fate."
Watching the blurred reflection in the mirror, Vig remained calm. He murmured in Chinese,
"A gentleman must know how to change like dragon and serpent."
Then he switched to Norse:
"It doesn't really matter anymore. I've made peace with it—serpent or dragon, call me what you will. My starting point was just a Nordic freeholding farmer. There's nothing to argue about. The gods never decreed that someone born a farmer must remain one for life.
"Kingship isn't sacred. Slaves can become emperors—Macrinus, Rome's first African-born emperor, was once a slave, a gladiator, a soldier, commander of the Praetorian Guard, and ascended the throne in 217. Wanderers can become emperors. A sandal-selling peddler can become emperor. In the end, emperors and kings belong to whoever commands the strongest soldiers and horses. 'The divine right of kings' is nothing but a lie nobles and the Church use to deceive the common folk."
"After all these years, you still haven't changed at all." Herigif was long used to her husband's heretical views.
She bent down and wrapped her soft arms around him from behind, resting half her body against his back, thinking quietly:
"Perhaps knowledge is a curse. The more you know, the lonelier and more troubled you become. Vig is like this—and so am I. I was withdrawn since childhood, never able to find playmates, often scolded by my parents.
"With his learning and intellect, it's fortunate he married me—at least the two of us can talk sometimes. If it were someone like Aslaug, ignorant and only good at swinging an axe, they probably wouldn't even be able to hold a conversation."
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