In mid-July, more than a hundred cadets from the Army Academy passed through Luton, among them the second prince, Freyr. He eagerly visited his older brother's residence—only to be deeply disappointed.
"You actually have time to grow corn and pumpkins? Your job is that easy?"
Frode set down his hoe and replied irritably:
"An easy job is a good thing. It means the district is stable. If I were overwhelmed with problems, that would mean I'm incompetent."
Freyr rolled his eyes and mocked him a few more times before stepping back—careful to avoid getting punched.
"Fine, I won't disturb your farming. Our summer internship just ended, and we're heading back to Londinium. Want me to pass along any message?"
"I sent a letter yesterday. No need."
Freyr glanced around, found the place unbearably dull, slipped into the kitchen, grabbed five smoked chickens and a smoked ham as extra rations for himself and his classmates, then left yawning.
At noon the next day, Freyr returned to the royal palace and reported on his internship in Cambridge County.
His duties had included helping build drainage windmills and bridges. Before long, he shifted the conversation to his brother's rural life, complaining that Frode now looked just like a peasant farmer.
"After I graduate, don't assign me to a local post. I couldn't stand that kind of life."
"What do you want to do?" Vig asked.
"Cavalry, of course!"
Cavalry service certainly sounded glorious. Vig was not surprised.
But he had no intention of placing his son in such a dangerous branch.
After a moment of thought, he quietly made a decision:
Since the boy showed talent for engineering, he would assign him to the engineering corps after graduation—building bridges, operating torsion ballistae and counterweight trebuchets. After several years of experience, he could grant him land and a title.
Meanwhile, the intelligence network had successfully penetrated Livonia.
Information about tribal locations, populations, and production flowed steadily to Gotland, where it was compiled and forwarded to Britain.
Vig planned ahead:
In two years—if conditions allowed—he would appoint his second son as Duke of Livonia, select a strategically located port, build a town, and expand outward gradually.
"Eastern Europe has vast lands," he noted in his memorandum.
"Its development potential far exceeds Norway or Sweden."
He jotted down a rough outline, then returned to the pile of pending documents.
The first report described a shipwreck dispute.
Last month, merchant Leonard's cog had sailed to Winchester to sell goods but sank off the coast of Cornwall. Leonard suspected that the local lord had deliberately set misleading lighthouse signals, causing the ship to run aground on reefs.
"Another shipwreck?"
By his recollection, this was the fourth incident in Cornwall that year.
Vig wrote instructions at the bottom of the document:
Both lords involved were to appear in Londinium, and the Minister of Justice was to send investigators to examine the site.
The second report concerned a request from wealthy merchant Harry.
His textile workshop had recently achieved a technical breakthrough: a method for producing more durable red dye.
Workers had also invented a double-dyeing process:
First dye cloth yellow using weld (a plant dye)
Then dye it again with woad
Result: green fabric
Unfortunately, competitors soon began selling identical red and green fabrics. Harry suspected industrial espionage and asked the king to intervene.
Harry's dyeing patent was valid for ten years.
Vig responded by instructing the Minister of Justice to handle the matter according to patent law.
There was no doubt that these two dyeing technologies would allow Harry's workshop to expand rapidly and surpass competitors—but Vig had no intention of interfering. He preferred to let market forces decide.
The third document detailed recent horse trade operations.
British merchant ships carried:
furs
strong liquor
whale oil
amber
dyed cloth
to Lisbon.
On the return voyage, goods such as spices and olive oil occupied little space, leaving much of the cargo hold empty.
Earlier in the year, the Minister of Naval Affairs had negotiated an agreement with the Governor of Lisbon:
Britain would supply much-needed iron ingots in exchange for permission to purchase warhorses.
Ships would use their spare capacity to transport horses back to Britain, easing the kingdom's chronic shortage.
On paper, the plan looked excellent.
Reality proved otherwise.
Britain's three-masted merchant ships had a capacity of about 300 tons.
In early June, one such ship departed Lisbon carrying 30 healthy Andalusian warhorses.
Using heavy canvas slings, sailors hoisted the animals one by one over the railings. Amid shouted commands and creaking pulleys, the horses were lowered into temporary stalls built below the main deck. Their anxious whinnies and heavy breathing echoed in the cramped space.
A week after leaving Lisbon's coastal waters, the ship encountered a storm.
Towering waves slammed against the hull. Cold, salty seawater flooded the lower deck. The stalls became slippery and muddy. Freezing temperatures and violent motion tormented the land animals.
Soon, a young stallion fell ill.
It refused food. Its once-glossy coat lost its shine. Its eyes sank into their sockets, and each breath sounded like air passing through a broken bellows.
To prevent infection from spreading, the captain ordered the crew to drag the sick horse onto the deck and push it into the sea.
The voyage grew worse.
Two more storms followed.
The lower deck became damp and foul-smelling. Some horses developed hoof rot and infections. Unable to stand, they lay on filthy, wet straw. As their condition deteriorated, they too were thrown overboard.
After one month at sea, the ship finally reached Londinium.
Surviving horses were carefully lowered to the dock using a treadwheel crane.
Only 18 remained.
Accustomed to constant motion, they struggled to stand on solid ground. Their legs trembled. Their coats were dull, crusted with grime and salt. Ribs showed clearly beneath loose skin.
A veterinarian who rushed to the dock sighed heavily.
"They'll need at least six months to recover. Some may never regain full strength. They'll be fit only for training or breeding."
Overall loss rate: 40%
Total cost per surviving warhorse: 7 pounds of silver
Vig was furious.
"So much money spent—and all we get are eighteen half-starved horses that may never recover. This is absurd."
From past battlefield experience, one heavy cavalryman was roughly equivalent to three heavy infantrymen in combat effectiveness.
But at seven pounds per horse, the cost-effectiveness was unacceptable.
For the same money, the kingdom could produce ten sets of standardized brigandine armor.
Better to equip more heavy infantry than waste resources on unreliable imports.
Vig paced back and forth across his office, gripping the report.
After a long silence, he returned to his desk, smoothed the crumpled paper, and issued a final order:
Reduce the cost per warhorse to six pounds or less—
or cancel the trade entirely.
—------------------------------
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