Borrow money from merchants?
Utgard felt a wave of rejection rise within him. As a traditional Viking warrior, he had always despised smooth-tongued merchants. Now that he had been raised to knighthood, he considered himself above common folk—and even less willing to deal with such people.
Still, reality pressed down on him.
He first went to the knight he had once served as a retainer and asked for help.
The older knight sighed helplessly.
"Lad… by rights, since you served me in the past, lending you money wouldn't be improper.
But I myself still owe a large sum I haven't repaid.
Go to Tyne Town and borrow from the merchants there.
Five years to repay—I doubt they'll refuse."
Under mounting pressure, Sir Utgard had no choice. He spent several days recruiting five young Vikings, promising them parcels of land, and then led his newly formed retinue to Tyne Town to seek a loan.
It was now late September. With the harvest finished, the town was overflowing with people—farmers from the countryside, merchants from the Northlands and Flanders, voices in several languages shouting prices along the market stalls. Prosperous, loud, and chaotic.
Utgard followed the main road. At a crossroads, he spotted a two-story stone-and-brick building with a signboard written in three languages, beside which hung a painted scale: wool piled on the left pan, silver coins on the right.
"The Wool Merchants' Guild?"
The knight couldn't read, but guessed that was the place. He entered.
Inside, the first floor bustled with activity. A long wooden counter draped with thick wool cloth ran along the wall to keep coins from rolling. Three young clerks handled transactions while a middle-aged accountant supervised.
A long line stretched before the counter: some people clutching parchment filled with text, others carrying baskets of wool, and others hugging heavy pouches—likely stuffed with silver.
Utgard did not line up. He marched directly to the counter.
"I am a newly appointed knight of the duke," he said. "I hear you provide loans?"
The accountant studied the brown-haired Viking—tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in a black wool cloak, battered scale armor beneath it, a sword at his waist.
"Walking the streets armed and armored… yes, that privilege belongs only to the gentry."
His demeanor changed instantly. With a practiced smile, he invited Utgard into a small reception room and began the formalities.
"Your name, age, date of investiture, and location of your fief?"
"Utgard. Twenty-four. I slew Hugh, the former lord of Glasgow. His Grace granted me knighthood half a month ago."
After verifying the information, the accountant asked which service the knight required. As expected: a loan to purchase warhorses.
He took out a contract and explained line by line.
"Recently King Ragnar imposed new taxes, causing warhorse prices to rise. Profits from wool and other exports have fallen, so our loan terms have been adjusted. The agreement is as follows:
A knight may borrow seven pounds of silver, with a total interest of 1.5 pounds, repaid over five years.
2. During repayment, the guild has priority purchase rights to all wool produced on the knight's manor.
3…"
One and a half pounds of interest?!
All the money I've saved my whole life wouldn't even cover the interest!
Utgard leapt to his feet. The guards outside heard the commotion and rushed in, but the accountant waved them away.
"You—you're all thieves!" Utgard snarled.
He had heard on the road about another group—the Pontiland Merchants—who also made loans. He decided to go there instead.
The accountant saw through him instantly and spoke gently:
"The Pontiland guild charges the same rate. Worse—their wool distribution network is far inferior. They may pay you less for your wool.
As for the third group—the one run by Lady Iris, Her Grace's mother—the duke forbade her from lending to knights and barons. He does not wish moneylending to damage his relationships with his vassals."
Utgard didn't take the accountant at his word. He went outside to verify.
Half an hour later, he was back.
Soon the accountant drafted the loan agreement. A public notary from the market arrived, as did the guild's chief shareholder on duty—Harry. The county office even sent a young clerk to explain the terms to the knight in detail.
After an hour of mental torment, Utgard finally pressed his thumbprint on all three copies and scrawled his signature.
"Is that all?" he asked weakly.
Harry—round, red-faced, and smiling—placed a heavy sack on the table.
"Yes. Seven pounds—1,680 silver pennies. You may count them one by one or use the scale."
Utgard appealed to the notary for help. The notary weighed the sack on a balance.
Correct—seven full pounds.
The transaction was complete.
One copy of the contract remained with the guild; one with Utgard; one with the county offices.
As Utgard carefully stored his parchment, he shook hands with Harry—then suddenly noticed the Anglo merchant wearing a pendant shaped like Yggdrasil.
Not only him—every guild employee wore the same amulet.
Utgard froze for a moment… walked out of the guild… and after several steps finally understood:
Roman Christianity forbids moneylending by its believers.
So these greedy bastards simply switched religions!
He felt spiritually shaken. Tilting his head toward the clear blue sky, he sighed deeply:
"Commerce is the most corrupting force in the world.
Once a knight entangles himself with it, loyalty, faith, bravery—all virtues rot.
As for merchants… they are not masters of wealth, but its slaves."
Shoving his way through the crowded streets, he reached Tyne Town in the southwest and paid the ducal accountants the money for the Frankish warhorses. Then he requested an audience.
When Vig learned of his sudden arrival, he seemed puzzled.
"The horses won't arrive until next spring. Why the rush? Borrowing months early means you begin paying interest earlier. It's not cost-efficient."
Utgard scratched his head.
He admitted he hadn't thought about it at all—he simply wanted to finish everything in one trip.
Vig let it go. They spoke a while longer, and then the duke advised him:
"There will be no war in the coming years. Treat your people well. Build your estate patiently."
"Yes, my lord."
Utgard bowed and left the hall. As he stepped outside, he brushed past five young men with clean, earnest faces.
They were graduates of the first class of the school. At Ivar's request, they had spent half a year in Ireland sorting out his chaotic accounts. Now they had returned to Tyne Town to report.
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