On the way to assume his post, Frode reviewed the relevant information.
Thanks to a large influx of migrants, the population of Londinium County had grown to 90,000. About 65,000 lived in rural areas governed by eight towns.
Luton had a population of 8,000, located on flat terrain, free from bandit or pirate threats.
It was expected to be an easy assignment.
At noon the next day, a small settlement appeared ahead on the road.
There were roughly 130 houses, surrounded by an oak palisade designed to keep out wild animals and occasional bandits.
After entering the enclosure, residents curiously stared at the red cloaks of the royal guards and the tall, powerful horses beneath them.
Suddenly, a middle-aged bald man pushed through the crowd and dropped to one knee before the prince. The rest of the townspeople, unsure who the young man was, followed his lead and knelt as well.
"Who are you?" Frode leaned slightly forward from his saddle.
He soon learned the man was Sanchez, the former town mayor, and instructed him to lead the way to the official residence.
"Your Highness," Sanchez asked, surprised,
"how did you end up taking this position?"
"It was my father's decision," Frode replied.
"I only received the notice two days ago."
He dismounted and followed Sanchez on foot. After only a few steps, mud splashed onto the hem of his belted robe. Having marched through Ireland before, Frode was already accustomed to muddy roads and did not make a fuss.
They entered a courtyard.
Directly ahead stood a Viking-style longhouse used for the mayor's daily work and residence. On both sides were rows of wooden barracks capable of housing more than thirty people.
Where would the rest of the royal guards stay?
Frode temporarily set that question aside and requested the formal handover.
Sanchez wasted no time. He unlocked a wooden chest and produced more than a dozen record books.
The first ledger listed warehouse inventory—grain taxes paid by residents and fees collected from the mill.
Frode asked,
"According to protocol, is my first duty to verify the inventory after taking office?"
Sanchez nodded.
"Yes. But it isn't really necessary. I wouldn't dare deceive the Crown Prince."
Frode scratched his head but decided to follow procedure anyway.
They walked out the back door of the longhouse.
Dozens of meters away stood a large stone granary with a steep roof covered in clay tiles.
The arched entrance was four meters wide—large enough for a fully loaded wagon to pass through.
Inside, massive oak pillars and beams supported the roof. Piles of wheat and oats rose like small hills.
Narrow vents along the walls allowed airflow to prevent spoilage. In one opening, a gray cat lay sleeping in the afternoon sun.
After spending considerable time inspecting the storage, Frode estimated the total reserves.
"All the summer taxes are stored here?"
Sanchez flipped to a page in the ledger.
"Villagers still owe 900 bushels of wheat and 300 bushels of oats. These are the debtors. The worst offender is this man—Sir Lawrence. He relies on his knightly status to delay payment and often tries to pass off low-quality grain."
Seeing an opportunity, Sanchez launched into a lengthy criticism of the old knight. Since he was about to be transferred to Londinium after receiving excellent performance evaluations, he no longer feared retaliation.
Frode interrupted.
"A knight's fief is exempt from agricultural tax. Does he own additional land?"
"Yes," Sanchez replied.
"In addition to his original 1,000-acre grant, he has purchased more property in recent years—about 700 acres of farmland and 200 acres of pasture, nearly doubling his holdings."
After finishing the inspection, they returned to the longhouse.
Frode reviewed the remaining records, which listed the population and property details of each village.
Current statistics for Luton:
14 settlements
8,300 residents
1,200 households
More than half the households owned over 30 acres of farmland
Under the newly issued law, each such household must provide one adult male for militia training.
"Organizing training for six hundred men… this will be troublesome."
Thinking about housing and feeding trainees during drills gave Frode a headache. He felt his father's policy was too ambitious.
After all, the royal navy now controlled:
the Baltic Sea
the North Sea
the English Channel
Across the entire Atlantic, no rival fleet could challenge them.
The Minister of Naval Affairs was even preparing a Southern Fleet, to be based in the Canary Islands, with future plans to enter the western Mediterranean and expand the kingdom's influence.
With overwhelming naval supremacy, the kingdom faced little risk of invasion. Even if Charles the Bald mobilized thirty thousand—or fifty thousand—troops, he still could not land on Britain's shores.
Frode's thoughts raced.
Instead of spending massive resources on militia training, why not invest everything in the navy?
Strike into the western Mediterranean.
Capture one of the Balearic Islands.
Use it as a base for a Mediterranean fleet.
Although Frode had spent his youth in the army academy, he found himself increasingly aligned with naval thinking—especially a statement once published in a newspaper by a maritime instructor:
"Control the seas, and you control trade.
Control trade, and you control the world."
"Perhaps I should write to Father," he thought,
"and urge him to allocate more resources to the navy."
Eventually, hunger pulled him back to reality.
Lunch had been prepared.
He and Sanchez ate together, then continued the transfer process.
By evening, both men signed the documents.
Frode officially became Mayor of Luton.
Early the next morning, loud commotion woke him from sleep.
He stepped outside the longhouse and saw the courtyard filled with wagons delivering grain.
An elderly knight in chainmail leaned against the granary, dozing. After being nudged awake by an attendant, he hurried forward and bowed.
"Your Highness, this is the tax I owe. Please inspect it."
Frode walked to the wagons.
The wheat kernels were full and golden, free of weeds and debris.
After finishing the inspection, he yawned, unlocked the granary, and ordered the grain stored.
Seeing his name crossed off the debt list, Sir Lawrence asked anxiously:
"Your Highness, has the former mayor been spreading rumors about me?"
Frode remained silent.
Sensing danger, the knight quickly began recounting his past service:
He had become a royal shield-bearer in 845, fought in countless battles, and was finally knighted in 858. He continued serving the crown afterward, and both his sons now held positions in the army.
That was the problem.
This man had served Frode's father for twenty years. It would be difficult to punish him over something as minor as delayed taxes. Escalating the issue might damage the crown's reputation among the nobility.
"Sir Knight," Frode said with a forced smile,
"I have never doubted your loyalty."
He invited the man inside for drinks.
Soon, Lawrence was thoroughly drunk.
Frode then ordered guards to load him onto a wagon and send him back to his estate.
Watching the wagon disappear into the distance, Frode's new wife complained:
"He fought for twenty years and only became a knight. After the conquest of Ireland, His Majesty granted forty baronies, then a second wave after that. This man claims great achievements, yet he ranks below later arrivals. He's nothing but a freeloader."
Frode glanced at her.
"Enough. That kind of matter is beyond my authority. What's the point of discussing it?"
Just then, the sound of horses echoed outside the courtyard again.
More wagons had arrived.
They belonged to other landowners and farmers who had fallen behind on taxes. The grain they delivered was of excellent quality.
Clearly, these people might be greedy— but they were not foolish enough to offend the Crown Prince.
—------------------------------
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