Viking Invasion-Chapter 83 — The Homeward Road

For many nights Ragnar weighed his decision. At last, he resolved to bring Aslaug north with him.

In truth, she could not have been more different from Queen Sola. Where Sola was proud and distant, the daughter of an ancient house who spoke like one accustomed to command, Aslaug was of humble birth and open temper — bold in laughter, fierce in drink, and as deft with a throwing axe as she was with bow or chessboard. The nobles, who shrank from Sola’s icy hauteur, warmed quickly to Aslaug’s rough charm.

Thus, when the royal procession finally turned its wheels toward York, she rode at Ragnar’s side. And as the last of the gilded wagons vanished into the north, Rurik stood by the roadside, watching the dust of their departure fade into the horizon.

He sighed. "Now," he murmured, "the real show begins."

By early July, Rurik reached the southern bank of the River Tyne. Across the water, he could see the rising shape of the fortress on the far hill — still unfinished, its scaffolds stark against the sky.

Taking a ferry to the northern shore, he was met at the docks by Helgifu, cradling a swaddled infant. Rurik reached out and gently poked the child’s cheek. The skin was soft, warm — and for a moment his habitual solemnity eased into a quiet smile.

Months earlier, when Helgifu had given birth, she had sent a messenger to the front at Tamworth with a list of names. Rurik, weary from campaign and overwhelmed by paperwork for the Mercian royal estates, had simply chosen the first — Frode. And thus his firstborn son was named.

At last home, Rurik spent several restful days in the manor with his family, before turning once more to the duties that had piled high in his absence.

The first matter was the new stud farm. He appointed an experienced Norse groom as overseer, and on the man’s advice, set aside a vast stretch of grassland two miles west of Tyne-town for its use.

From the captured Frankish horsemen, Rurik had gathered much knowledge. Mares above three years could be bred; their foals required nearly eleven months in the womb. The young colts were to begin training at two years of age — learning to bear weight, to heed commands, and above all, to master their fear of battle’s chaos.

The costs were substantial. Feed alone consumed sixty percent of the budget — vast stores of oats and hay. Labor made up another twenty, with each groom earning between five and ten silver pennies a year. The remainder went to the upkeep of stables and barns, and the purchase of tack, medicine, and tools.

Yet Rurik did not flinch. His lands were prosperous; even if the number of horses doubled, he could bear the expense.

"Treat these Frankish mares well," he ordered. "Do not spare the cost. If the stallions prove too spirited, have them cross with local stock. Expand the herd, and when the foals are grown, keep the best for breeding at the new farm. The lesser beasts can be sent to the old pastures east of town."

When the stud’s boundaries were marked, Rurik rode on, inspecting the farmlands that stretched beyond.

Three years of steady reform had changed much. Nearly all the farmers now practiced the three-field system — dividing their lands into tracts for autumn grain, spring crops, and fallow. With it came a quiet revolution: some had begun to use horses for plowing.

Rurik dismounted near one such field and spoke with a smallholder guiding a team of two chestnut mares. The man’s face was brown and lined, his hands rough as bark.

"The horses," Rurik asked, "do they truly plow faster than oxen?"

The farmer scratched his beard. "Aye, my lord. They can work eight hours a day, maybe more — two or three longer than oxen. A good team can do the work of three beasts."

"But the cost must be greater. Is it worth it?"

The man grinned. "Since we took up the three-field system, a third of our land grows oats, barley, or peas. The oats feed the horses. What once was idle is now their fodder. It balances itself out."

Rurik nodded thoughtfully. So the three-field system not only restored fertility — it had also made horse labor practical.

He rested his hand on the padded collar of one of the draft horses, feeling the slow rhythm of its breath. The change, he thought, might serve him in war as well as peace. Farmers who worked daily beside horses would learn their moods and tempers, their gaits and fears. When war came, those same men could be mustered as cavalry — already half-trained, saving months of instruction.

After several hours among the farms, Rurik rode on to the livestock market.

The market was a clamor of sound and smell — the grunting of swine, the bleating of sheep, the rank odor of straw and dung. Pens of timber divided the animals; traders in soiled aprons walked between them, prying open jaws to judge the age of beasts by their teeth.

Rurik found the market’s clerk and asked to see the year’s accounts.

The records confirmed his suspicions. Oxen, once thirty silver pennies apiece, now sold for twenty-eight. Draft horses, however, had risen sharply in value — eighty-two pennies and climbing. Sheep, pigs, and poultry held steady.

"Then it begins," Rurik mused. "The richer peasants — those with thirty acres or more — will turn to horse plowing. The poorer will keep their oxen. Let them choose for themselves; if I decree it, they’ll only curse my name when something goes wrong."

A week later, Bjorn arrived — his ships heavy with whale fat from the northern seas. Rurik went down to the docks to meet him, and at once saw the weariness in his cousin’s face.

"What happened?" he asked.

Bjorn gave a tired laugh. "A storm, off the northwest. It drove us onto an island — bare rock, no trees, only moss and wind. Half my crew froze before dawn. We burned our oars to stay alive. I meant to sail south and join your campaign, but it seems I came too late."

"Indeed," Rurik replied, clapping him on the shoulder. "Come, rest awhile. You look half-dead."

That night, over mugs of ale, Rurik recounted the long campaign — Tamworth, Wessex, the siege, and the endless marches.

When he spoke of the battle with the Frankish cavalry, Bjorn frowned. "Four hundred horsemen did all that? I can scarcely believe it."

"Believe it," Rurik said. "Go to York and see. The king’s gathered the captured horses and knighted those who fought well. He means to raise a standing corps of cavalry. Watch them train — then tell me what you think."

Bjorn grunted, downed his ale in one swallow, and burped loudly. "Perhaps I shall."

Two days later, he sold his cargo of whale fat and set out for York — to observe the king’s new horsemen, and, as he jested, "to pay respects to my father’s latest queen."

At the wharf, Rurik watched as the barrels of whale fat were rolled into the candle workshop. The air was thick with the stench of oil and smoke. Craftsmen labored beside open hearths, slicing the pale blubber into hand-wide strips, salting it to keep rot at bay.

Once the fat was ready, it was chopped and boiled with water in great iron cauldrons. After hours of slow simmering, the whale oil rose to the surface — golden, translucent. Workers skimmed it off with long-handled ladles, filtering the dregs through bark sieves. From each barrel of fat came roughly one quarter its weight in pure oil.

The liquid was then mixed with a touch of beeswax and poured into wooden molds. A wick was set in each, and as the mixture cooled, the workshop filled with the pale scent of sea and honey. When the candles were released from their molds, their light was clean and steady — no smoke, no foul odor.

They were the pride of the upper class. In all Rurik’s domain, only his own household could afford to burn them freely. The rest were sold to Flemish traders, who carried them south to the monasteries and noble halls of the Franks.

The lesser gentry and freeholders made do with tallow candles or lamps of rendered fat, which smoked blackly and stank. As for the common folk, they had no such luxuries at all. They rose with the sun and slept at dusk, letting daylight govern their lives.

And so peace settled once more over Tyne-town — a peace of labor, trade, and quiet purpose, with the scent of horses, smoke, and whale oil drifting through the long northern summer.