After the tribute ceremony, Vig sensed something wrong in Londinium.
Rumors spread wildly among the people that the royal family refused to repay its debts.
The market grew sluggish, and many foreign merchants quietly packed up and fled the city.
"Poor Goodwin… I wonder how long he can hold on."
Returning to Tyne Town, Vig threw himself once more into agriculture, traveling through the counties to inspect the spread of clover, turnips, and threshing machines.
Just as he finished his rounds, a new decree arrived:
the royal demesne's farm tax would be increased, and the nationwide wool export tax raised to 45%.
"Is this really necessary?"
The whole purpose of introducing improved fodder crops was to grow larger flocks and profit from wool. But with a tax rate no one had ever heard of, the Flemish merchants would surely prefer importing wool from West Francia instead.
In the long run, the measure would badly damage Britannia's livestock industry.
In December, Vig reviewed his annual accounts.
Total income had risen to £3,200—yet growth in brewing, textiles, shipbuilding, ironworking, and farm tax had slowed noticeably. The economy seemed to have reached a plateau.
"Fortunately, the agricultural reforms should raise growth again in the next year or two."
Expenditures had crept upward to £1,900. Vig decided not to buy Norman warhorses and instead poured surplus funds into producing padded armor.
For West Francia's royal power was growing steadily.
King Charles the Bald had issued a ban on exporting horses. Gunnar dared not defy him, and the large-scale horse trade was cut off entirely.
Only Brittany still smuggled a few horses across the channel—at £5.5 apiece, far too expensive. Vig abandoned that option.
Population-wise, northern Europe had stabilized. Immigration fell to 4,000 this year, but with natural growth across the six counties, his total population reached 280,000.
Finished with the books, Vig wrapped himself in a thick wool cloak and visited the military stud west of Tain Town.
After years of breeding, the stud counted 450 horses.
Excluding pregnant mares and untrained foals, about 280 warhorses—roughly 70%—could be fielded in wartime.
Snowflakes drifted from the sky as Vig stepped through the frozen mud of the horse yard. Nearby, a smith hammered horseshoes into place, the clang of iron mixing with the deep, steaming breaths of the animals.
At the southern end stood rows of stone-built stables.
Vig pushed open a heavy door.
A harsh mixture of hay, oats, and manure stung his nose.
A tallow lamp hung from the rafters.
A thick mat of hay and wood shavings covered the ground to absorb urine and prevent ice.
On either side stood stalls of oak.
Within each, a broad-shouldered warhorse rested under a coarse wool blanket. White vapor curled from their nostrils in the frigid air.
Huff. Huff.
Vig lifted a blanket. Beneath, the horse's winter coat shone with natural oils—never trimmed, lest it freeze.
Two grooms trundled past with a handcart carrying four steaming buckets. The water had been warmed, with a little honey and salt mixed in.
Once watered, the horses dipped their heads into their troughs, happily chewing oats and hay—eating 1.3 times their summer ration to survive the cold.
Suddenly, a shrill neigh rang out from the next stable.
Vig stepped over and found a mare in labor. Three sweating grooms knelt around her, their arms soaked in blood as they helped the foal down onto the straw.
"How many foals do you produce each year?" Vig asked the stablemaster.
The man took out a thick ledger filled with birth dates and bloodlines.
"Last year, my lord, we had 102 births, and 70 survived."
A survival rate of nearly 70%.
Vig sighed helplessly. It was similar everywhere.
Without antibiotics, this was the best the age could manage.
He exhaled a cloud of mist and stepped out of the stable. Out on the snow-covered training field, a dozen cavalrymen galloped at full speed, their horses' hooves wrapped in rough anti-slip cloth. Fine snow sprayed behind them like mist, marking the ground with a trail of shallow prints.
As the herd grew, so did expenses.
Last year the stud's operating costs amounted to £230 in silver.
Vig checked the accounts, found no errors, and returned to the castle.
In February, new word came from Londinium:
the king had accepted Horst's proposal and ordered all monasteries to "loan" money to the Crown.
Old Chancellor Pascal had once begged the king to protect the monasteries. But the man was gone, and Ragnar was truly out of money. He had no choice.
Yet fewer and fewer farmers voluntarily paid tithes these days, and the monasteries themselves were struggling.
Even after the tax collectors scoured the realm, they gathered only a bit over £7,000.
The king now had a one-time injection of funds—yet he hesitated.
Lying awake at night, Ragnar found this careful budgeting unbearable.
"Am I really doomed to spend the rest of my life wrestling with debt?"
Staring into the wavering candlelight, he reached a decision:
He would launch a grand raid, one without precedent, to break free of the crisis.
In bitter wind and swirling snow, royal messengers rode across the realm, ordering every noble to muster troops and arrive in Londinium before April 20th.
War had come.
It felt like an unavoidable fate drawing in all of Britannia and Scandinavia.
Even far-off figures like Little Erik, Niels, Oleg, and Halfdan received the summons.
Thanks to the Viking martial spirit, the nobles rallied instantly.
Britannia became a gigantic military camp.
Uneasy villagers set down their tools and practiced fighting under their lords.
When spring thawed the land and melted the snows, Vig marched south with over two thousand trained men.
Before departure, his sister Britta took his arm and begged him to protect her only son, Leif.
Leif was sixteen now—an adult by Viking custom.
He had grown up hearing tales of his uncle's glory and had been pestering everyone to let him join this unprecedented expedition.
"Mother, go home! You're embarrassing me. Everyone's watching."
Breaking free of the tearful woman, Leif followed the marching column over the floating bridge, eyes full of dreams of honor, never imagining the danger ahead.
"Good… looks like almost all are here."
Standing atop Londinium's city wall, Ragnar surveyed the tents rolling across the northern plain, banners snapping in the wind.
For the first time in months, the gloom in his heart lifted.
"Let merchants, finances, and debt go to hell. I was born a conqueror."
Suddenly, another army appeared from the north—tight formation, impeccable discipline.
At its front, a rider carried a black serpent banner.
"It's Vig's force!"
Ragnar rode out to greet him. Seeing that fully half of Vig's 2,600 men wore armor, his mood improved further.
He grinned and waved.
"Hey, you finally made it. And the young one behind you—is that your son?"
"My nephew. He'll be running errands for me."
Vig dismounted, signaling his troops to occupy their assigned camp. He himself headed toward the palace to discuss the coming war.
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