Vikings: Lords of the Ice Sea

Chapter 182 Inevitable Fate

After the audience, Vig noticed that something was wrong in Londinium. Rumors were spreading that the royal family was in debt and would not pay, the market was gradually declining, and some foreign merchants chose to pack up and flee.

"Poor Goodwin, I wonder how much longer he can hold on?"

Upon returning to Tyneburg, Vig continued to focus his efforts on agriculture, touring the countryside of various counties and inspecting the promotion of clover, turnips, and threshing machines.

Upon the conclusion of his inspection tour, he received news that the royal family had ordered an increase in agricultural taxes in the directly controlled territories, and that the national wool export tax rate had risen to 45%.

"is this necessary?"

Vig's promotion of new crop varieties was originally intended to expand his sheep herd and profit from selling wool. However, this unprecedented tax rate is expected to deter Flemish merchants from importing West Francia wool, which, in the long run, will severely damage the livestock industry of the Kingdom of Britain.

In December, he tallied up the accounts for the year, and total revenue had increased to £3,200. However, the growth rate of the brewing, textile, shipbuilding, iron smelting, and agricultural taxes had slowed down in the past two years, seemingly reaching a bottleneck.

"Fortunately, agricultural innovation measures have been promoted, and the growth rate is expected to improve in the next two years."

Expenditure increased slowly, reaching £1,900. Instead of purchasing warhorses from Normandy, Vigé invested the surplus money in the production of cloth armor.

With the West Frankish monarchy now increasingly secure, Charles the Bald imposed a warhorse embargo, which Gunnar dared not disobey, thus ending the major warhorse trade. Only sporadic warhorse smuggling remained in Brittany, but the price had risen to £5.5 per horse, making it too uneconomical, and Vigé abandoned any such endeavors.

In terms of population, the situation in Northern Europe has stabilized this year, and the number of immigrants has dropped to 4,000. Including the natural population growth in the six counties, the total population has reached 280,000.

After settling the accounts, Vig put on a thick wool cloak and inspected the military horse farm on the western outskirts of Tyne.

Through breeding, the number of horses in the military horse farm reached 450. Excluding pregnant mares and foals that were being trained, it could provide 280 warhorses in wartime, which was about 70% of the total number.

At that moment, a light snow was falling from the sky. Vig stepped into the military horse farm through the frozen mud. Not far away, a blacksmith was shoeing horses, and the sound of hammering and the heavy breathing of the horses pierced through the cold wind.

At the southern end of the military horse farm, there are rows of stone stables. When Vig pushed open the door, he was hit by a pungent smell mixed with hay, oats and horse manure.

A tallow lamp hangs from the top of the stable, and the ground is covered with a thick layer of hay and sawdust to absorb urine and prevent it from freezing.

On either side of the stables were rows of oak stables, each with a sturdy warhorse draped in coarse linen felt, its breath condensing into white mist in the cold.

Huff, huff.

Vig lifted the cloak of a warhorse; the horse's coat was thick and glossy. Traditionally, winter was not a time for trimming coats to prevent frostbite.

Just then, two grooms pushed a handcart by, which was loaded with four large barrels of warm water mixed with a small amount of honey and salt.

After replenishing their water, the warhorses lowered their heads and ventured into the feeding trough, contentedly munching on the oats and hay. To withstand the severe cold, their food intake was 1.3 times that of summer.

Suddenly, a mournful whinny came from the next stable. Vig went to check and found a mare giving birth. Three grooms were sweating profusely as they helped deliver the baby, and blood soaked the dry hay on the ground.

"How many foals can be bred each year?" Vig asked the stable manager next to him.

The steward took out a thick register that recorded the birth date and pedigree of each horse. Turning to a certain page, he respectfully replied, "A total of one hundred and two foals were born last year, and seventy survived."

Nearly 70% survival rate? Vig was helpless. This figure was similar to that of other nobles' horse farms. Without antibiotics, this was the only level they could achieve.

He left the stable, his breath catching in the cold air. In the distance, in the hunting grounds, more than ten cavalrymen rode their warhorses at breakneck speed across the snow. Their hooves were wrapped in thick, non-slip linen, and as they ran, fine snow flew up like mist, leaving a series of shallow hoofprints.

As the number of horses increased, the operating costs of the horse ranch rose. Last year's expenses, converted into silver, were equivalent to two hundred and thirty pounds. Vig carefully checked the ledgers and returned to the castle after confirming that everything was correct.

In February, news came again from Lentinium that the king had adopted Horst's suggestion to "borrow" money from all the monasteries in the kingdom.

When the former Prime Minister Pascal was in office, he once advised the King to protect the monasteries within the territory. Unfortunately, the King had run out of money and had no choice but to resort to this desperate measure.

However, in recent years fewer and fewer farmers have voluntarily paid tithes, and the monastery is in dire financial straits. Tax collectors have counted the “loans” from various places and barely managed to raise more than seven thousand pounds.

Upon receiving this one-time income, the king did not rush to make a decision. He lay in bed tossing and turning, feeling that this kind of life of carefully calculating and paying off debts was really meaningless.

"Am I destined to spend the rest of my life with these debts?"

Gazing at the flickering candlelight, Ragnar planned an unprecedented raid to escape his predicament.

Braving the biting wind and snow, court messengers rushed to the fiefdoms of many nobles, ordering them to assemble their troops and arrive at Rendinium by April 20th.

War has finally arrived.

This seemed like an inescapable fate, drawing in all of Britain and Northern Europe, even extending to Eric the Younger, Niels, Oleg, and Hafdan, who were far away in Northern Europe, and they received the call to arms.

Thanks to the Vikings' martial tradition, nobles responded in droves, and the British Isles became a huge military camp. Anxious villagers put down their farming tools and followed their officers to practice fighting skills.

When spring arrived and the snow melted, Vig led his two thousand-plus men, now fully trained, southward. Before leaving, his sister Britta grasped his arm, urging him to protect their only son, Leif, at all costs.

Leif is sixteen years old, which is considered an adult according to Viking custom. He has been listening to his uncle's glorious achievements since he was a child and has been clamoring to join this unprecedented expedition.

"Mom, you should go back now. It's too embarrassing. Everyone's watching."

Having shaken off his weeping mother, Leif excitedly followed the team across the pontoon bridge. Now, his eyes were filled with honor, and he didn't feel that the war was dangerous at all.

"Hmm, almost everyone's here."

As Ragnar climbed the towers of Rendinium, gazing at the rolling encampments and fluttering banners in the wind on the northern outskirts, he felt all his gloom vanish. "Let the so-called merchants, finances, and debts roll as far away as possible. I am destined to be a conqueror."

Suddenly, another army marched in from the north, their ranks impeccable and their formations tight. The rider at the front carried a black flag with a snake on it. "It's Vig's army!"

Ragnar went out of the city to greet them. Seeing that half of the 2,600-strong force was armored, he was even more pleased. He greeted the vassal with a smile, "Hey, you've finally arrived. Who's the young man behind you? Your son?"

“Nephew, come and do odd jobs for me.”

Vig dismounted and signaled the troops to move into the pre-prepared camp, while he himself went to the palace to discuss military affairs.

(End of this chapter)