Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 291: The Noble Class

After five days of hard riding, Om led a detachment of over eighty cavalrymen to the outskirts of Mancunium. Expansive oak forests stretched across the surrounding area, the autumn chill having dyed the rolling hills a brilliant gold. In the woodland clearings, villagers' free-roaming pigs snuffled around, foraging for fallen acorns.

While they rested at the waystation, Om deliberately sent a messenger ahead to notify Leonard of their arrival, a decision that left Fridleif deeply puzzled.

Suppressing his confusion, he took small bites of his dry rations while observing the Fourth Infantry Regiment constructing a road a short distance away.

Along their entire journey from Londinium, only this final, brief stretch of road remained under construction. Judging by their progress, Fridleif estimated it would take another half a month to complete.

'Londinium to York to Teyne... Londinium to Mancunium... What is Father's next move?'

Once their rest concluded, the company proceeded to the south gate of Mancunium, where the Earl and his entourage had already been waiting for quite some time.

Following a brief exchange of pleasantries, Om stated his business. He declared that their mission was to audit the textile workshop's accounts and demanded the Earl's full cooperation.

Barely had the words left his mouth when Fridleif noticed a subtle shift in the expressions of Leonard and his retainers. It seemed the intelligence network's suspicions were dead on.

Struck a nerve, Leonard forced a composed smile and quickly shifted the focus to Fridleif. He proudly announced that he had prepared the finest chambers and a lavish banquet to welcome His Highness the Crown Prince.

A barrage of fawning flattery immediately flooded Fridleif's ears. Overwhelmed and exhausted by the sycophancy, he edged closer to Om, using the veteran warrior's imposing presence as a shield against the nuisance."Lord Earl," Om intervened firmly. "The Crown Prince is merely observing and has no involvement in this investigation. You are barking up the wrong tree."

Om firmly insisted on heading straight to the textile workshop. Along the way, a memory struck him: the Battle of Mancunium from twenty years prior. Back then, the Viking Allied Forces had surged through a breach in the walls, only to run headlong into Northumbria's Royal Guard. They had ultimately been forced into a humiliating retreat, fleeing eastward out of the city.

Perhaps due to the passage of time, most details of that brutal clash had blurred in his mind. The one thing Om still remembered clearly was accidentally dropping a small pouch of silver coins during the frantic retreat—a loss that had stung his pride and his purse for quite some time.

'Was it twenty silver pennies, or fifty?'

Riding behind him, Fridleif took in the sights of western Britain's most prosperous settlement. The streets were narrow and cramped, packed with a dense flow of people. A flock of sheep was being herded across the thoroughfare, their bleating mixing with the Anglo-Saxon shouts of local peddlers.

Compared to other regions, Mancunium's greatest advantage was the twenty years of unbroken peace it had enjoyed. Its population had grown steadily to over five thousand, boasting a level of prosperity that far surpassed most other settlements.

Swaying gently in the saddle, Fridleif soon found himself in the northwestern quadrant of the town. Bordering the River Mersey, this area was ideal for transporting supplies by water, making it the perfect location for Leonard's textile workshop.

The workshop occupied a massive footprint. Near the riverbank sat a water-powered fulling mill, while massive mountains of raw wool were piled high in the open yards. Rows of sturdy factory buildings lined the eastern side, housing dozens of state-of-the-art spinning machines.

At first glance, the operation appeared to be running smoothly. Even with standard, honest management, it should have been turning a handsome profit. Had Fridleif been in charge, he would never have resorted to petty embezzlement schemes.

While Om and his accompanying bureaucrats meticulously audited the ledgers, Fridleif strolled the grounds under the protective escort of the Royal Guard. He noticed the absence of a dyehouse; the facility only produced ordinary, unbleached cloth. Furthermore, the weave of the fabric was uneven, making it of rather mediocre quality.

"Why is this the case?" he asked the Earl, unable to hold back his curiosity. In response, he received a helpless, bitter smile.

"I truly don't know the exact reason," Leonard sighed. "I spent a fortune constructing these buildings, purchasing raw materials, and hiring laborers. Yet, the cloth we weave simply cannot compare to the goods produced by merchants like Harry. I have fired several supervisors in a row, but nothing seems to improve the situation."

Standing beside the Crown Prince, Leonard endlessly muttered his grievances, pouring out his frustrations over the business that had plagued him for the past two years. At first, it had brought in a decent profit, but as market competition grew fiercer, the enterprise struggled. Now, the revenue barely covered the operational costs.

Over ten minutes passed. After quietly listening to the Earl's tale of woe, Fridleif did not rush to offer an opinion.

"Lord Earl, I am merely here to observe," Fridleif said coolly. "You should save this speech for the Minister of Justice."

It was painfully obvious that Leonard was omitting the damning details, portraying himself as a pitiful, oblivious noble while shifting the blame for the forged ledgers entirely onto his steward and workshop supervisor.

Over the next few days, Om's team remained stationed at the textile workshop, meticulously combing through the accounts. As Fridleif observed the grueling process, he realized his initial assessment had been entirely wrong. The workshop's management was rotten to the core; it was virtually impossible for it to turn a profit in its current state.

Cornered by the evidence, Leonard meekly surrendered his steward and the workshop supervisor. With the time to offer tribute fast approaching, he promised to make a personal trip to Londinium to explain the situation directly to the King.

Before they departed, Leonard rode out of the city to see off Om's party, acting remarkably nonchalant. "As an Earl, I have a massive retinue relying on my coin to survive, which is why I foolishly went along with my steward's terrible scheme. Alas, it seems I am doomed to tighten my belt for the foreseeable future—unless the King decides to lead us on a raid against West Francia to plunder a proper fortune!"

Eavesdropping on Leonard and Om's idle chatter, Fridleif found himself entirely speechless. This seemed to be the prevailing mindset among the older generation of Viking nobles: sail out to war, return home with rich spoils of war to squander extravagantly, and then sail out to fight once more. They utterly lacked any concept of financial savings or proper territorial management.

Moreover, their methods of warfare were gradually becoming obsolete. Accustomed to relying solely on the traditional shield wall, they struggled to adapt to increasingly complex battlefield tactics. If this continued, the influence of the old nobility would inevitably wane, while the power of the citizen class would steadily rise to replace it.

'Could Father have anticipated all of this?'

Upon returning to Londinium, Fridleif voiced these lingering doubts to Wigg. The Duke set down his paper and pen, countering with a question of his own. "What exactly do you think a noble is?"

Fridleif hesitated for a moment. "Hereditary warriors who hold territory?"

"To be precise, they are hereditary warriors bound to the manorial economy," Wigg explained. "Take, for instance, a knight's manor sprawling over thousands of acres. The tenant farmers provide labor and physical rent to fulfill the daily needs of the knight and his retainers. This allows the warriors to dedicate themselves entirely to honing their martial skills and horsemanship, with the occasional hunting trip for leisure. In a sense, the Kingdom is simply trading a portion of its tax revenue for elite soldiers.

"However, in regions with booming commerce, the sheer abundance of entertainment leads the nobles to indulge in hedonism. They neglect their martial training, and their financial strength is severely drained. Furthermore, the local populace in these areas is highly mobile, entirely lacking the strict dependency that defines the rural manorial system."

After absorbing Wigg's lengthy explanation, Fridleif managed to distill the core point:

The very foundation of the noble class lay in the manorial economy. Because rural areas were relatively isolated and highly self-sufficient, the country nobles retained immense influence. Conversely, the power of the nobility stationed near major towns was in a slow, irreversible decline.

Realizing the crushing momentum of this shifting era, Fridleif was shaken to his core. A whirlwind of thoughts spun in his mind, yet he couldn't find the words to express them. He stood in a daze inside the office for a long time before Wigg finally shooed him out, ordering him back to his classes.