Viking Invasion-Chapter 60 – Trade

The autumn winds had begun to rise again—the season when tribute was due to York.

In the first days of October, Rurik was overseeing the collection of offerings, reviewing ledgers and inventories, when Bjorn’s fleet appeared upon the river. This time he brought three ships laden with volcanic ash, as well as a bounty of dried cod and sealskins.

"The usual exchange," Bjorn said as he leapt ashore, his voice carrying over the water. "Grain, iron goods, and livestock."

By now, his name—Bjorn Ironside, son of Ragnar, the sea-rover of legend—was enough to turn heads wherever he went. His settlement in Iceland had swelled to four hundred souls, including more than a hundred slaves he had purchased in trade. Yet for all his renown, prosperity had eluded him. The island’s industries were few, its climate harsh, and the wares he brought—the ash, the pelts, the dried fish—could never fetch enough silver to balance what he paid for necessities. Even after this voyage, his coffers held barely twenty pounds of silver.

Seeking counsel, Bjorn went to the town hall on the western square of Tynburg. The fortress was still under reconstruction, so Rurik and his wife had taken temporary residence there.

That evening, as the firelight flickered across the dining table, Bjorn could no longer restrain his restlessness.

"Sheep," he said abruptly, "take years to breed before they yield profit. The island’s climate is bitter. There’s land enough to grow a little rye, but the yield is meager—too little to export, too little to matter. Tell me, my friend, what would you do in my place?"

"Local exports..." Rurik murmured, turning a slice of roasted lamb upon his plate as his mind turned the question over. "Have you found any mineral deposits?"

"None worth the trouble," Bjorn replied. "I’ve sent expeditions, time and again—nothing but volcanic ash."

He sighed, then thumped his cup against the table in frustration. "On the day I left, a great fool of a whale washed itself ashore. Had I known better, I’d have brought a few barrels of its fat. Does Tynburg buy whale oil?"

Rurik’s eyes lit at once. Whale oil—rendered from the thick blubber—could be made into candles nearly as fine as those of beeswax. A luxury, bright-burning, clean, and fragrant.

"I’ll take all you can supply," Rurik said with a rare smile. "And another thought—if your island is as volcanic as you say, then there must be sulfur. I’ll buy that as well, in quantity."

Sulfur, though unglamorous, was precious in its way. Apothecaries used it to treat skin ailments and to drive away fleas. Weavers burned it to bleach wool and linen, leaving their cloth whiter, softer, and free of pests.

As Rurik considered its uses, the possibilities grew. There was profit here—a steady trade to bind Iceland’s outpost to Tynburg’s workshops. The two men struck a bargain then and there: a long-term agreement for the supply of both whale oil and sulfur.

"With these two exports," Rurik said, lifting his cup, "you can cover your costs for grain, iron, and livestock—and perhaps earn a little silver besides."

"Perhaps," Bjorn muttered. He refilled his wine, then frowned. "But it won’t be so simple. Iceland’s coasts are long. If a whale strands on a distant shore, by the time my men reach it, the carcass will have rotted. As for sulfur—my people fear the volcanoes. I’ll have to force the slaves to dig, and that will bring trouble soon enough."

He went on for some time in this vein, his words a torrent of complaint. For all his strength and fame, Bjorn had learned that the life of a lord was no easier than that of a wanderer. Responsibility clung to him like chainmail. Each solution birthed two new burdens.

"Tell me, then," he said at last, "what of the hops you planted in spring? Are they ready for harvest?"

"Not yet," Rurik replied. "The first two years yield only a small crop. The third brings full maturity—then we can brew our new beer on a proper scale."

Bjorn groaned aloud. "Three years? The gods test my patience!"

No Viking was ever long at ease without drink. On every voyage Bjorn carried barrels of ale, but once winter set upon the North Sea, the storms made trade impossible. Ale spoiled quickly. To appease his men, he had been forced to buy mead—dear stuff, but it lasted the season and dulled their complaints. 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝒆𝔀𝒆𝙗𝓷𝒐𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝓶

Two days later, his ships reprovisioned, Bjorn herded six cattle and eight pigs aboard and made ready to depart.

As he strode down the dock, Rurik called after him, "You’re not sailing to York to pay tribute?"

Bjorn stopped and looked back in honest surprise. "Tribute? Why should I?"

He spread his hands, incredulous. "That Icelandic lordship is mine by conquest, not by some king’s decree. Ragnar was my father, and I’ll honor him to my death, but he was no overlord of mine. The lord of Iceland owes no fealty to the King of Northumbria."

Rurik paused, caught between logic and politics. The reasoning was hard to refute.

Bjorn went on, his voice growing louder as the wine took hold. "If my mother still lived, perhaps I’d go to York for her sake. But the one upon that throne now is Sola—and I’ve no stomach to flatter that woman. Nor, I think, does she wish to see the likes of me, Ivar, or Halfdan. Better to drive us all out and crown her precious son Ubbe instead."

Now that he had lands of his own, Bjorn no longer bothered with tact. His voice rang out across the docks, and the bystanders pretended not to hear.

"Until next year, Rurik—my good brother!"

Having vented his spleen, he felt lighter. With a roar he gave the order to raise anchor. His three longships slipped downriver toward the sea, the rowers chanting in rhythm with the oars.

The voyage would not be kind. The autumn gales grew fiercer by the day. They stopped for one night only, at the Shetland Isles, and before dawn Bjorn roused his half-sleeping crew.

"Row!" he bellowed. "Row, you devils! I’ve paid dearly for twenty barrels of ale and five of mead. Make haste, and you’ll drink your fill before the snows fall!"

Grumbling, the men took up their oars. By fortune’s grace, on the third day a shifting east wind caught their sails, speeding them on their way. By the sixth evening, as the sea’s hue turned pale and the scent of land reached them, Bjorn at last lay down upon the deck and slept.

It was night when a sailor shook him awake.

"My lord—look!"

Bjorn rubbed his eyes and stared upward.

Across the northern sky drifted veils of light—pale green at first, then deepening to emerald and violet. They moved like serpents, weaving silently between the stars. Then came a slow, rippling surge, as if vast banners were unfurling behind the clouds. To Bjorn’s dazzled gaze, they seemed the skirts of the Valkyries themselves, galloping unseen across the heavens.

He stood there long, his breath fogging in the chill air, awe and dread mingling in his chest. At last he bowed his head and whispered, "All-Father Odin... what would you have me do?"

In York, a year had passed since Rurik’s last visit, and the city had changed. It was richer, busier—and filthier. Much of the turmoil came from King Erik’s wars.

By Rurik’s reckoning, twenty to thirty thousand Vikings had crossed into Britain that year alone. Tynburg had taken in three thousand of them; the rest had scattered inland, many settling near York.

The surrounding plains offered fertile, unclaimed ground enough to hold them all. On the road, Rurik had passed a dozen new hamlets—each with some forty or fifty houses, perhaps two hundred souls apiece.

"So many mouths to feed," he mused. "A true test of the kingdom’s governance. I wonder if Pascal and Godwin are ready for it."

Entering the city, his first concern—as always—was the market. He went straight to the grain stalls and inquired after prices.

Wheat had risen from two pennies per bushel to two and six. Barley, oats, and rye had all followed suit. Every necessity was dearer than the last.

He questioned merchant after merchant and found the same pattern everywhere. The crown had done nothing to check the inflation.

"Fortunate," Rurik thought, "that I stocked my granaries last year. We can hold till summer comes again."

He turned from the stalls, the murmur of the market fading behind him, and walked toward the guildhall as the chill wind lifted the dust along the streets of York—a city swelling with fortune and trouble alike.