After weighing the brewing industry against textiles, Vig decided to invest his limited capital in the former and leave the textile industry to private merchants.
In the aftermath of the war, most of Londinium's wealthy merchants were either dead or had fled. Only small traders with limited capital remained. Vig therefore summoned merchants from the Northern Marches, who mainly fell into three groups:
The Tyne Wool Merchants' Guild, led by the stout country squire Harry;
The Ponteland Guild, composed of Viking merchants, equal in status and loosely organized;
The Iris Guild, founded by Iris—Vig's mother-in-law—and now managed by her son, Horsa.
After exchanging pleasantries, Vig led these old acquaintances into a warehouse and introduced them to the strangely shaped spinning machine, personally demonstrating how it worked.
"Watch closely."
He grabbed a handful of fluffy, soft wool sliver and—somewhat awkwardly—twisted it between his fingers, forming a short length of coarse yarn thick enough to hook. He then hung the yarn ends onto the iron hooks in front of eight spindles.
Next, Vig turned the crank on the right side of the machine with one hand while steadily feeding the wool sliver with the other. As the crank rotated, all eight spindles spun rapidly. The wool fibers twisted and stretched, transforming into strong, fine yarn.
"Gentlemen, this is the process of wool spinning. Flax fibers work just as well. What do you think?"
Faced with such a leap in technology, the merchants spared no praise. The warehouse quickly filled with compliments—but not a single concrete commitment was made. Everyone was waiting for the king to reveal his terms.
They had known Vig for many years and had watched him rise from count to king. They understood perfectly well that he was not the sort to give anything away cheaply.
Sensing the subtle restlessness in the crowd, Vig did not rush to discuss conditions. Instead, he shifted the topic to trade between Britain and Flanders.
"For a long time, Britain's textile output has been low. We export raw wool to Flanders, where it is turned into cloth. Some of that cloth is sold on the Continent, and some is shipped back to Britain. We lose enormous profits for no reason at all. This pains me deeply—what are your thoughts?"
"Your Majesty is absolutely right. We've been fed up with Flanders for years!" Harry took the lead, echoing the sentiment alongside his seven partners. There was genuine feeling mixed in—they truly envied Flemish profits. But lacking comparable technology and output, they had been stuck doing exhausting, low-margin work like buying wool from the countryside.
Seeing that the atmosphere still wasn't quite there, Vig threw out a much bigger lure.
"When I served as chancellor, I reviewed customs data. Recorded wool exports and cloth imports totaled eight thousand pounds. Due to the old royal administration's incompetence, this represents only a small fraction of the real trade. Most wool and cloth moved between Britain and Flanders through smuggling.
"By my estimate, annual cloth imports exceed thirty thousand pounds. With this new spinning machine, we can seize at least ten thousand pounds' worth of orders!"
In the early Middle Ages, textiles were among the most profitable industries. Now the raw materials, technology, and markets were all in place. The merchants' excitement visibly grew.
Relying on his family connection, Horsa spoke first. "Your Majesty, are you planning to borrow money from us and operate the textile business yourself—or do you have another idea?"
Vig explained that his funds and energy were limited. Instead, he proposed that the merchants establish textile workshops for centralized production. He would authorize them to use the Jenny spinning machine, in exchange for an annual payment of 20% of sales revenue—essentially a patent licensing fee.
"The machine is right here. Take your time studying it. How much you earn depends entirely on your own ability."
Once the agreements were signed, Vig left the warehouse. If these merchants turned out to be hopeless, he would have no choice but to enter the business himself—at the cost of draining what little energy he had left and neglecting other state affairs.
Compared to textiles, the brewing industry posed far fewer problems.
Vig allocated three hundred pounds to the Tyne Town distillery, ordering its director to retrieve blueprints and distillation equipment from a room in Tynefort's main keep. The factory was to be expanded to twice its original size and begin producing distilled spirits according to the specified process.
Even before the relocation, Herigif had been experimenting privately in Tynefort's alchemical laboratory and had already developed a formula suitable for large-scale production:
First, barley was malted, then dried over peat fires, giving the malt a distinctive smoky flavor. After crushing the malt, saccharification and fermentation followed, yielding a brew of about 5% alcohol.
After two rounds of distillation, impurities were removed, producing a spirit with 60–70% alcohol content.
After moving to Londinium, Herigif distributed ten barrels of samples to nobles and the royal guards. The response was unanimously enthusiastic. Drinkers praised its strength and flavor, declaring it far superior to beer and mead, and urged the king to begin production immediately.
Beyond drinking, distilled spirits had medical value—they reduced wound infections and could be used to intoxicate patients as a crude anesthetic during surgery.
Upon receiving the edict, the distillery followed the king's instructions. While hiring large numbers of laborers to expand the facility, the director also placed an order with the armory, asking skilled smiths to produce dozens of copper pot stills.
The smiths exchanged puzzled looks.
"Bourbon, what is this thing even for?"
"Royal orders," Bourbon replied. "His Majesty wants me to expand the factory and use these strange devices to make a new kind of liquor."
Invoking the king's authority, Bourbon cowed the smiths and soon obtained thirty copper stills. Clearing space in the old factory, he began experimenting with the new spirits.
Thanks to the queen's meticulous notes and diagrams, the first batch was a complete success. The taste was excellent—though the alcohol content was so high that Bourbon woke the next day with a pounding head, as if he'd been struck with a club.
Other drinkers reacted much the same. Despite feeling awful, they couldn't resist drinking again the next day—and the next—until the entire first batch was gone.
With nearly everyone drunk, the Tynefort distillery muddled through brewing the second batch, which tasted far worse. Enraged, Bourbon cursed loudly.
"Stop drinking and get back to work! If His Majesty finds out, none of us will survive this!"
Left with no choice, he changed his hiring criteria, deliberately recruiting women who didn't drink, to avoid drunken mishaps.
By May, the distillery had entered large-scale production. The new distilled liquor was shipped by boat to Londinium for sale.
Upon release, the spirit—named "Whisky"—attracted widespread attention. Due to its high production cost (five parts fermented mash yielded only one part spirit), each barrel sold for eighty pence, roughly one-third the price of wine. Even so, it was eagerly sought after by the upper and middle classes.
The rapid growth of the brewing industry greatly eased Vig's worries. With southern Britain devastated by war, he had been forced to rely almost entirely on northern manpower and wealth to rule the kingdom.
"Now the kingdom doesn't lack food. Once production scales up, earning one or two thousand pounds a year shouldn't be a problem," he thought with relief.
This year, at least, we'll make it through.
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