With Hugh dead, the bizarre food-poisoning incident finally came to an end.
To prevent anything similar from happening again, Vig issued two decrees:
Farmers are strictly forbidden to sell grain contaminated with "poisonous ergot." Violators will be fined; in severe cases, punished by hanging.
Every bakery in the towns must forge an iron stamp. After the bread is baked, the loaves must be marked with the baker's unique seal—allowing authorities to quickly trace the source if food poisoning occurs.
With these measures finished, the sun had nearly set. It was at this time that a local knight stepped forward to invite the duke to stay the night at his manor.
As etiquette dictated, a lord's willingness to lodge in a vassal's home symbolized trust. Refusing such an invitation would imply suspicion—that the lord now doubted the vassal's competence or loyalty.
After a moment's thought, Vig accepted.
They rode down a country lane, crossed a low fence, and arrived at the manor proper.
At the center stood the knight's residence, surrounded by a wooden palisade. Around it lay more than thirty small houses—home to Norse settlers and a few local tenant farmers.
The knight explained that his estate consisted of:
500 acres of arable land
200 acres of grazing pasture
150 acres of woodland
and fishing rights to a nearby stream.
The manor supported thirty households.
Eight belonged to Norse freemen, who farmed in peacetime and answered the call to war.
Thirteen were tenant farmers, who worked two days a week for the lord and paid one-fifth of their harvest as rent in kind. They had no obligation to fight, but in their spare time could hire themselves out to freemen.
The remaining nine households consisted of the steward, retainers, stablehands, carpenters, servants, hunters, fishermen, and two shepherd families.
In addition to the roughly 150 permanent residents, seasonal workers from nearby villages came and went throughout the year.
Standing atop the palisade under the moonlight, Vig surveyed the manor.
"What are your revenues and expenses?"
"Each year we collect roughly 400 bushels of grain. The wool from over 300 sheep sells well too. Altogether, that's around six pounds of silver in gross revenue. After expenses, the manor saves about one to three pounds a year."
Only that much?
Vig frowned. No wonder so many knights sought to serve in the standing army, or worked as officials in the Northern Shires—or even tried to secure posts in Tyne Town itself.
Judging by the ratio of income, wool accounted for nearly half the profit. Pasturage was more efficient than farming… no wonder the "enclosure movement" would occur centuries later.
The next morning, Vig did not hurry back to Glasgow. Instead, he carefully observed the manor's daily life.
Norse freemen lived relatively comfortably—able to enjoy a cup of home-brewed ale with supper. Tenant farmers fared worse, surviving just above subsistence level—especially the overly devout ones who insisted on tithing even when it meant their families ate less bread.
Vig took out paper and pen and calculated. In the absence of war or natural disaster, this manorial economy could sustain itself indefinitely. In wartime, it provided trained cavalry—greatly reducing the lord's military expenses.
Moreover, the feoffment system had another benefit: strengthening control over newly conquered regions.
Knights, once granted a fief, would move with their families and a few Norse freemen to a strange land. Isolated, distrusted by the locals, the only people they could rely on were their liege lord and fellow knights.
The moment they sensed rebellion brewing, they would urgently notify the reeve. And when suppression began, they would raise their own militia to help—after all, their land and their children's future were at stake.
Suddenly, Vig thought of the Ming dynasty's garrison system (the weisuo). Its original purpose was nearly identical: maintain regional stability and provide soldiers in wartime.
Even in the Ming's final decades, many unpaid garrison troops still marched loyally to defend the throne—poor fighters perhaps, but undeniably loyal.
Considering all this, Vig decided to confer knighthood upon another batch of men.
With papermaking now established, paper supply had increased, and the ducal office had begun compiling service records for junior officers and clerks—laying the groundwork for reward and punishment.
Having decided, Vig wrote to Tyne Town and requested a list of men who had distinguished themselves in service. From these, he would choose seven lucky ones.
The new fiefs were located north of Glasgow, where the plains met the foothills. Each new knight received:
1 pound of silver,
A knight's standard kit: 10 shields, 10 hand-axes, 10 spears, 10 yew longbows,
And 100 bushels of wheat as emergency provisions.
After the ceremony, Vig asked:
"Will you purchase your own warhorses, or shall I arrange it on your behalf?"
Under feudal obligation, each knight's fief had to field two cavalrymen, two infantrymen, and a groom—which required at least two warhorses, plus two extra riding horses for travel.
Upon learning they wanted the duke to purchase the horses, Vig yawned and casually explained:
"Last year, a warhorse cost three pounds. Unfortunately, King Ragnar has imposed a sixty-penny import duty, and with the transport fees from Normandy, the price is now three and a half. Two horses cost seven pounds. Gentlemen, they will arrive next spring. Be sure to pay what you owe."
So expensive?
The seven knights exchanged looks. Their joy faded instantly. They huddled in the corner, whispering desperately about how to raise the money.
"Rob someone! Find a few trustworthy brothers and scrape the silver together!"
A knight named Utgard immediately objected:
"And rob whom? Plunder Britain and anger King Ragnar? Or sail to Normandy and wreck the duke's relationship with Gunnar?"
The others fell silent.
Indeed. These days, raiding was a losing business. Rich lands were too well-defended; poor lands yielded nothing—barely enough to cover the cost of equipment and supplies.
Someone muttered:
"Sigh… becoming a knight feels worse than the life I had before."
Utgard chuckled.
"If you dislike your new rank, you can give it up. There are plenty who'd take your place. And you've followed the duke for four years—served in the Mercia-Wessex war and the Frankish campaign. You must've saved at least four pounds of silver. You're the richest among us."
The man groaned:
"Gone—every coin. The moment I got my share of the loot, I went to town and found merchants and brothel-keepers. Their services were varied, their voices were sweet—and before I knew it, all the silver was gone."
After a long pause, someone proposed another solution:
"Borrow from the merchants. They say a man named Harry in Tyne Shire specializes in such loans. Sometimes he lends to cash-strapped knights. Business is booming—they even call his group the Tyne Wool Merchants' Guild."
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