Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 325: Maritime Act

Early the next morning, Bjorn led three hundred able-bodied youths out of Quebec, heading toward the camp of their indigenous allies.

From Major Lyke's perspective, the locals had faces adorned with numerous intricate tattoos. They did not grow beards and possessed an indescribable obsession with alcoholic beverages.

After merging with an equal number of allied forces, Bjorn felt they held a massive advantage and took the initiative to attack the enemy tribe. Two days later, the two sides clashed on an open expanse of snow. With an armor rate exceeding fifty percent, the Vikings easily routed their foes.

When the battle concluded, the crew of the Voyager received large bundles of furs as their promised reward. They were in high spirits, utterly convinced they had struck a highly lucrative deal.

On the other hand, the indigenous tribe that had requested their aid believed they were the true victors. Not only had they eradicated a long-standing nemesis, but they also gained substantial land and population.

Similarly, Bjorn did not feel shortchanged in the slightest. He acquired the territory southwest of Quebec, a land crisscrossed with streams and small lakes teeming with beavers, making it an exceptional source for furs.

None of the three factions felt they had taken a loss. They joyfully divided the spoils of war, bringing this brief tribal conflict to a satisfying close.

During the return journey, Major Lyke sought out Bjorn. "Will there be any more operations like this in the future?"

"No," Bjorn replied. "The New World is vast and sparsely populated. There is very little interaction between the various tribes, so the scale and frequency of wars are nowhere near that of the Old World."

The major was deeply disappointed, but he could not possibly force Bjorn to wage war against the neighboring natives. He had no choice but to join the hunting parties of the Quebec residents, trapping beavers in the shallow waters.In mid-April, the frozen rivers of Quebec finally thawed, and the Voyager eagerly set sail. Aided by the North Atlantic Current, their return voyage was remarkably swift, and they arrived back in Londinium on the fifteenth of May.

At the docks, Wigg personally welcomed the forty-one surviving crew members. Fulfilling his promise, he officially enacted the enfeoffment of Major Lyke as a Baron. The remaining crew members were collectively promoted to knights, granted the right to pioneer and claim their own territories in the New World.

Thanks to the pioneering exploration of the Voyager, merchant ships could henceforth follow the ocean currents back and forth between Europe and the New World, drastically improving both navigational efficiency and safety.

Two days later, Wigg decreed the new Maritime Act:

Aside from the Kingdom's fleets and merchant ships, all other factions are strictly forbidden from traversing the Southern Route to the New World. Any violators will be sunk without mercy.

For twenty years, he had poured his blood, sweat, and tears into advancing shipbuilding technology, developing the Canary Islands, and discovering new sea routes. He absolutely refused to let others reap the rewards of his labor, especially the factions residing on the Iberian Peninsula.

In response to this, the outside world showed little immediate reaction.

Bjorn's Fur Company was publicly listed in Londinium, and all the goods it acquired were sold exclusively within the British Market. It was, in essence, a British Colonial Company. Furthermore, since the Royal Family held thirty percent of its shares, business proceeded as usual.

The merchant class reacted with similar indifference. The textile industry was currently booming, absorbing the vast majority of available capital in the market. Weighing the risks against the potential profits, they vastly preferred to remain in Britain. Only when domestic competition reached a saturation point would they have enough incentive to venture into the New World.

Over in West Francia, shipbuilding technology remained dreadfully outdated. They were still only capable of constructing clunky Knarr ships, entirely lacking the ability for deep-ocean voyages.

The Moors possessed relatively advanced navigational technology, but the Iberian Peninsula was deeply mired in the chaos of war. The northern and southern factions were locked in a bitter stalemate, leaving them with zero spare resources to invest in developing the New World. Moreover, the newly formed Canary Fleet was stationed in the south, maintaining constant vigilance over their every move.

"Whether it is the Moors or Eastern Rome, their galley warships are completely unsuited for navigating the Atlantic; they can only cower in the Mediterranean. Unless they redesign their ships, a time-consuming and labor-intensive process, they will need ten or even twenty years of long-term investment." In June, on Jersey, an island in the Channel Islands south of Britain.

"Sigh, it is time to go ashore for reconnaissance again. I just hope I can smoothly survive until this is over," Salomon muttered.

At present, Salomon was assigned to the Intelligence System—Investigation Bureau—West Francia Branch. Although his compensation and benefits were equivalent to that of an Inspector, his actual duties were no different from an investigator or a low-level agent; he was required to go out into the field and gather intelligence.

On the second of June, a brigantine slipped out of the port, quietly making its way toward the southwestern coast of the Brittany Peninsula. Seizing a moment when no one was watching, the ship lowered a small boat. Salomon and a young Breton man rowed the small boat toward the beach.

Upon coming ashore, the two hid the small boat beneath some nearby rocks. Disguising themselves as an ordinary father and son, they hobbled along the wilderness path, leaning heavily on walking sticks.

Cresting a gentle slope blanketed in white wildflowers, a strong, peculiar, and salty stench assaulted their senses. Salomon gazed toward the side ahead of them; the grayish-blue seawater retreated with churning white foam, exposing vast stretches of damp mudflats where massive piles of green rotting seaweed had accumulated on the shore.

The seaweed was not scattered at random. Instead, it had been meticulously raked into long, continuous ridges, resembling a colossal, lifeless sea serpent stretched across the coast.

Dozens of paces away, several farmers clad in coarse linen shirts were hunched over, hard at work. They used pitchforks to turn the rotting seaweed piles, while flocks of seagulls circled noisily overhead, aggressively fighting over the crabs and shellfish unearthed from the mounds.

In the distance, some of the seaweed that had endured prolonged sun exposure had broken down into a gelatinous humus. The farmers shoveled this nutrient-rich matter onto carts, transporting it to their own fields.

As a native Breton noble, Salomon perfectly understood their intentions. Rotting seaweed was a high-quality fertilizer. By plowing it into the soil, the farmers could significantly boost their crop yields. Alternatively, they could burn the seaweed to ash, which was equally effective at enriching the earth.

'As early as last year, I reported these methods to the Minister of Agriculture. I wonder if he has actually put any effort into promoting them?' Salomon thought to himself.

Trudging slowly along the dirt country roads, Salomon and his companion would occasionally encounter Frankish knights out on patrol. Whenever this happened, they would respectfully step aside to yield the road, acting exactly like two ordinary Breton farmers.

On the morning of the second day, they arrived at Brest, the western port city of the Brittany Peninsula. Many years ago, this land had belonged to Salomon's cousin, but it had since fallen into the hands of a Frankish Earl.

'The perimeter wall is still a wooden palisade, but the side facing the ocean is heavily fortified. They have constructed an additional stone city wall equipped with eight massive trebuchets,' Salomon observed inwardly.

Leaning on his walking stick, Salomon aimlessly wandered the area, silently memorizing the height of the walls, the width of the moats outside, and the various defensive structures of the port. He paid special attention to the exact positions and firing arcs of the eight large trebuchets.

'Francia's northern coastline is incredibly long, yet there are very few ports suitable for a large-scale amphibious landing. This allows the Frankish army to concentrate their resources and build extensive defensive fortifications. If I were the one commanding an attack on Brest, I would avoid a naval assault entirely. Instead, I would circle around to the northern or eastern walls and launch a surprise strike,' he analyzed.

After completing a full circuit around the walls, Salomon headed to a local tavern for a meal. He fished out a Denier. The bartender carefully scrutinized the purity of the silver coin and sighed in admiration. "This is a design from five years ago. Ever since the king devalued the currency, the market has been flooded with inferior coins featuring abysmally low silver content. Not bad at all, old man. Your coin is worth thirty percent more than the newly minted ones. What'll you have?"

"Four large mugs of ale, two plates of fish pie, and some salted meat for the road. Pork or mutton, either is fine," Salomon replied.

Choosing a secluded corner table, Salomon quietly sipped his ale. He tuned his ears to the chatter of the other tavern patrons, focusing intently on any mentions of local commodity prices and the recent movements of the nobles.