Hearing the king's question, the Prime Minister produced a debt repayment plan.
"Your Majesty, when we issued the war bonds, the terms promised repayment of principal and interest, along with a grant of land."
"I propose we set clear conversion rates. If bondholders are willing to forgo their monetary returns, they can receive larger tracts of land instead—particularly valuable properties such as vineyards and olive groves..."
After listening to the proposal, Vig fell into thought.
If the plan could be successfully implemented, the amount of silver the Crown needed to pay out would be drastically reduced, likely to no more than £80,000.
The financial situation had not yet reached a critical point.
Relieved, Vig stretched lazily and returned to the palace.
The interior looked exactly as it had before he departed for war.
It felt as though everything had returned to the way it was.
After washing up, Vig shared lunch with his family.
The Second Prince chattered endlessly about his experiences during the campaign, especially the Battle of Rick Plain.
The sight of six thousand cavalry charging across the battlefield was something he claimed he would never forget for the rest of his life.
Across the table, Horsa instinctively calculated the costs.
"Six thousand cavalry... How much money must that have cost?"
After a few moments of mental arithmetic, he reached the same conclusion merchants always reached:
War was the most expensive activity imaginable.
At the far end of the table, Britta remained silent.
Now elderly, she had never adjusted to life in the Canary Islands and had recently returned to Londinium to spend her final years there.
As a traditional Viking woman, her understanding of warfare remained rooted in the shield-wall battles of decades past.
Terms such as hollow squares, line-column transitions, and bayonet charges meant little to her.
After listening quietly for several minutes, she carefully examined her son and brother.
Finding no signs of injury on either of them, she lowered her head again and silently sipped her warm fish-and-oat porridge.
After lunch, Vig settled into a reclining chair in his office for a nap.
Over the years, he had discovered that he slept best there.
The office was more comfortable than his bedroom—or anywhere else, for that matter.
Before long, his consciousness began drifting away.
Just as sleep overtook him, he heard a guard knocking outside.
The visitor was Count Rikard.
Shamelessly interrupting the king's rest, he came to inquire about the upcoming distribution of fiefs.
Rubbing his eyes irritably, Vig replied:
"At the Battle of Running Bull Bridge, you personally killed the King of Provence."
"You've earned a county."
The reward matched Rikard's expectations.
After expressing profuse gratitude, he made an additional request.
"I am willing to surrender my current holding of Scunthorpe."
"In exchange, I would like an additional county in West Francia."
"Preferably one adjacent to my other lands."
Scunthorpe lay south of the Humber and north of Cambridge.
Its terrain was flat and reasonably fertile—above average by Britannian standards.
In West Francia, however, it would rank as merely mediocre, perhaps even poor.
After all these years, Rikard had grown tired of Britannia's gloomy weather.
He wanted nothing more than to retire somewhere pleasant in West Francia.
Studying the map on the wall for a moment, Vig eventually nodded.
The request was granted.
After sending Rikard away, Vig ordered the guards not to admit anyone else.
Then he slept until three in the afternoon.
Unfortunately, someone had already been waiting.
The next visitor was the Earl of Suffolk, eldest son of Godwin.
During the war, he had contributed only militia while remaining safely in Britannia under the excuse of "ill health."
He knew he had no claim to additional lands.
Instead, he requested permission to surrender Suffolk in exchange for holdings in Francia.
Out of respect for the old Prime Minister's service, Vig did not make things difficult for him.
"Francia was conquered only recently."
"Order is still unstable."
"Are you sure you want to abandon your old lands and move somewhere far more dangerous?"
The earl snorted.
"They're just peasants."
"I'm not afraid of them."
"Very well. As you wish."
Vig had no desire to argue further.
Before nightfall, several more nobles arrived one after another:
Count Brecon (Earl of Liverpool)
Little Pascal (Earl of Tees)
The Earl of Lancaster
Their requests were nearly identical.
All wished to exchange their Britannian holdings for land in Francia.
From the Crown's perspective, Britannia's land might not be as fertile as West Francia's, but it was far easier to control.
With the addition of these five counties, royal lands would now comprise roughly half of all territory in Britannia.
That gave the Crown overwhelming superiority over every major noble on the island.
Even if the continental empire were somehow lost one day, they could retreat to Britannia and still develop into a dominant maritime power.
Several days later, Duke Eamon of Dublin sought an audience.
He offered to surrender Devent, Ivar's original fief, in exchange for a county in southern Francia.
His only condition:
"It must produce wine."
Back when Ivar had conquered Ireland, he had squeezed Devent nearly dry of manpower and resources.
Even now, its population had yet to surpass ten thousand—less than one-seventh that of neighboring Tyne County.
After consulting maps and population reports, Vig awarded Eamon a territory northeast of Bordeaux.
The duke left thoroughly satisfied.
After that, no further requests arrived.
Though West Francia possessed some of the finest land and climate in Europe, most of the remaining great nobles preferred to stay where they were rather than rebuild their power from scratch.
After more than a week spent balancing competing interests, Vig finally produced a reasonably acceptable plan for distributing lands.
April 1st — Londinium Civic Square
The square was a vast rectangle measuring roughly 180 by 250 meters.
To the north stood the towering stone temple.
To the west stood the city hall and the Hall of the Wise Council.
To the south were the public baths and library.
To the east rose rows of stone buildings housing the headquarters of major merchant guilds.
At dawn, large numbers of city guards entered the square, clearing away vendors and bystanders.
Then units of the expeditionary army began marching in from the northern entrance, forming orderly ranks.
At eight in the morning, two thousand Royal Guards arrived.
They were followed by officials, nobles, priests, and members of the Wise Council.
Everyone took their assigned positions.
After another period of waiting, the royal carriage entered the square.
It stopped at the foot of the temple steps.
As always, Vig wore a black robe.
Alone, he began ascending the stairs.
Tens of thousands of eyes followed him.
Yet he felt none of the exhilaration he had expected.
He had begun as a farmer from the distant edge of the world—from Gothenburg in Scandinavia.
It had taken him thirty years to reach this point.
In peacetime he had governed and built wealth.
In wartime he had personally led armies.
He had never taken shortcuts.
Compared to someone like Basil of the Eastern Roman Empire, he had struggled many times harder.
This empire had been earned honestly.
Therefore, he felt neither anxiety nor secret delight.
Only a calm sense of acceptance.
Slowly, he climbed higher.
The coronation ceremony had sparked fierce debate beforehand.
Some ministers argued for a Roman-style imperial ceremony.
Crow-Speaker and Wind-Chaser preferred the prevailing continental custom, where the ruler knelt while a priest placed the crown upon his head.
Ultimately, however, the decision belonged to Vig alone.
Reaching the top of the staircase, he did not kneel.
Instead, he walked directly to Crow-Speaker, who held a ceremonial tray.
Upon it rested the crown.
Its gold had been gathered from many conquered crowns:
Northumbria
Wessex
Sussex
The various Frankish kings
At Vig's command, craftsmen had melted portions of each crown together and forged them into a single diadem.
Its surface glittered with gemstones of countless shapes and colors.
The finished crown was surprisingly heavy.
It carried a tangible weight in the hand.
Heavy lies the head that wears the crown.
Then he turned.
Before him stretched a sea of humanity.
Thousands upon thousands of people.
Slowly, he lifted the crown and placed it upon his head.
In that instant, a tidal wave of cheers erupted across the square.
—------------------------------
Pat reon Advance Chapters: patreon.com/YonkoSlayer