Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 180: Clover and Turnips

Wigg moved quickly. He resigned one day and packed his bags to leave Londinium the very next morning.

The Great Affairs of a Nation are in Sacrifice and Warfare.

After half a year serving as Prime Minister, he believed the importance of finances far outweighed both war and sacrifice. Some had suggested launching raids, but looking at their surroundings, the only suitable target was West Francia—a massive kingdom that controlled Agder and Breizh, boasting a population of five million.

Times had changed, and the scale and intensity of warfare were steadily escalating. If Ragnar intended to revisit those lands, he would need to muster a force of at least twenty thousand men, and even then, he would have to pray that the other Frankish kings did not intervene.

"If I am not mistaken, the timing for an invasion of West Francia depends entirely on when the kingdom's finances inevitably collapse."

In late August, Wigg arrived at a village called Durham. Just a bit further north lay his own territory. Observing the lands closely along the road, he noticed that most of the pastures had been converted to grow clover.

From his memories, clover possessed the ability of nitrogen fixation, converting atmospheric nitrogen into usable fertilizer for the soil. Long-term cultivation would not deplete the land's fertility; instead, the soil would grow richer over time, making it perfect for pastures and fallow fields.

Gazing out into the distance, he saw the low-lying forage hugging the earth. The leaves rippled in the gentle breeze, dyeing the rolling hills in varying shades of vibrant emerald. Flocks of sheep dotted the landscape like scattered balls of cotton, their heads lowered as they focused on grazing, their thick fleece swaying slightly with every chew.

Beneath the shade of a nearby tree, a herdsman dozed against the crooked trunk of an ash. His coarse linen cloak was spread over the meadow, while a few buzzing bees circled around him.

Alerted by the approach of a large group of riders, the herdsman was jolted awake by the loud barking of his sheepdogs. Spotting the black dragon banner held by the lead horseman, he hesitantly stepped forward to greet them."My Lord?"

"I need a moment of your time," Wigg said, tossing him a Silver Penny as he asked the herdsman for his thoughts on this new crop.

"It is wonderful. The sheep grow much faster and their wool is much thicker. Plus, because these plants grow low to the ground, they stifle the growth of ordinary weeds. We only need to scatter the seeds once in the spring, and we do not have to worry about them for the rest of the year." The herdsman led a sheep over to show everyone its dense fleece, then waved his arm to shoo away the pesky bees buzzing nearby.

"The only drawback is that the clover attracts bees, which ruins the afternoon naps for me and the other herders. The village is currently discussing how, since the beekeepers' swarms are gathering nectar in our pastures, we ought to receive some sort of compensation."

'It has such an effect?'

The widespread planting of clover had spurred the growth of the beekeeping industry, an unexpected benefit that Wigg had not foreseen. If the price of honey dropped, the brewery could appropriately increase its production of mead to sell for a hefty profit in Northern Europe. Given the choice, his fellow Vikings still preferred mead above all else.

During the conversation, Wigg learned that the herdsman's village had acquired a threshing machine and was also preparing to plant turnips. Piqued by sudden interest, he decided to follow the man to take a look.

"Did the agricultural technician from the Town teach you all this?"

The herdsman scratched his grimy, ear-flapped leather hat. "Yes, he is a very young lad. His mouth is always full of nonsense words like 'performance' and 'KPI.' It seems that if we do not plant clover and turnips, his superiors will dock his pay. Ah, the poor boy is always running around looking miserable. I do hope he manages to earn his full wages this year."

Hearing this, Wigg could not help but smile. This was the true advantage of establishing a system of civilian officials—it allowed government decrees to be rolled out at a much faster pace, rather than passively waiting for the common folk to adopt them on their own.

Upon arriving at the village entrance, he saw farmers actively operating the threshing machine. They fed bundles of barley stalks into the intake hopper. Pulled by draft horses, the cylindrical roller spun at a steady pace. The spiked teeth on the roller's surface repeatedly beat against the stalks, causing the grain to detach and fall through multiple layers of sieves into the lower compartment. Meanwhile, the crushed straw was expelled from the rear of the threshing machine to be used as livestock fodder.

"The Town lent us this machine for free, but the farmers are planning to pool our money together to buy it outright."

Compared to traditional manual threshing, the efficiency of the threshing machine was a qualitative leap. In the nineteenth century of another era, the widespread use of such machinery had reduced the reliance on manual labor, ultimately triggering the Swing Riots across the English countryside.

The root of that unrest lay in the Enclosure Movement, which had created a surplus of people with too little land, stripping farmers of their livelihoods. However, during the sparsely populated early Middle Ages, the current populace felt almost no resentment toward the threshing machine.

After watching the entire grain threshing process, Wigg followed the herdsman to an open clearing at the eastern edge of the village.

According to the agricultural technician, turnips had a relatively short growing cycle of roughly three to four months. If planted in the autumn, they could be harvested by the end of the year or early the following spring. This would prevent the harsh winter shortage of fodder that traditionally forced farmers and herdsmen to slaughter their livestock.

At that moment, the stubble left behind by the harvesting sickles still poked out of the soil, and a few missed bundles of straw lay askew across the dark brown ridges. A man was driving a draft horse forward, using a heavy iron plow to turn the earth. A woman wrapped in a coarse linen apron trailed behind him. She grabbed handfuls of grayish-brown seeds from her apron pocket and spread her fingers, tossing them into the furrows much like sprinkling salt.

Behind the parents, a child of about six or seven skipped along merrily, using a slingshot to chase away the birds circling overhead, preventing them from pecking at the freshly sown seeds.

After a long while, the man straightened up and thumped his aching back. Staring at the newly sown ridges, he muttered, "If these turnips can survive the frost, we will not have to slaughter those sheep come spring."

"Why not?" The child failed to grasp his father's worries and instead clamored loudly for a bowl of mutton stew.

The woman wiped the sweat from her brow with her frayed sleeve. As she bent down, the sun-peeled skin on the back of her neck was exposed. She silently continued to scatter seeds into the moist earth. The distant tolling of a temple bell echoed across the fields, startling a few drab sparrows into flight.

Concluding his visit, Wigg rewarded the herdsman with another five Silver Pennies before mounting his dapple-gray horse and riding away.

Upon his return to Teyne, Heregyth was both surprised and deeply relieved to see Wigg back so soon. She had heard from passing merchants that the kingdom's financial situation was a complete disaster this year. The Cabinet had been borrowing money from every corner, earning her husband the new moniker of the "Gold-Sniffing Raven."

After dinner, the couple retreated to their bedroom on the fourth floor, where she brought up the pressing issue on everyone's mind. "How much exactly does the royal family owe? The crown still owes us four hundred pounds for iron supplies, and we have not heard a word about it in over a year. Did you not ask the King for the money?"

Wigg lowered his voice. "Over twenty thousand pounds in total. More than half of that belongs to the various nobles. It is highly likely this bad debt will never be repaid."

Heregyth sat listlessly on the edge of the bed. As a Duke's family, their household of four had lived frugally these past few years. They kept no peacocks or swans, hired no foreign chefs, and did not employ a dedicated bard. They had worked hard to save that money, only to be swindled out of four hundred pounds by the royal family for absolutely nothing. It was a bitter irony.

Wigg stretched lazily as he organized his recent notes, taking a moment to comfort his wife.

"Do not worry. If this drags on a little longer, someone is bound to lose their patience and demand repayment. The royal family cannot afford the price of angering all the nobles at once. They will have to provide us with an explanation eventually."