By August, the farmers around Tynnborg were turning their fields in preparation for sowing winter wheat a month later. With little to occupy his time, Rurik rode out on his gray horse, watching closely as his tenants worked.
At present, the land was tilled under a two-field system: one half planted with winter wheat, the other lying fallow. On the eve of plowing, peasants drove their oxen to drag a light wooden plough, turning the soil with poor efficiency. Each field often had to be ploughed twice.
To Rurik's mind, tillage was meant to loosen the earth, to aerate it, and thus strengthen the crop. The deeper the furrow, the better. Shallow scratching was of little use.
He called to a nearby Anglo farmer.
"Ho there—why use such a feeble wooden plough? Why not a heavy iron one?"
The man's face was dull and timid.
"We've always used this 'Roman plough.' Never thought to change."
A Roman plough…
Rurik fixed his gaze upon the contraption, mind racing. Its flaw was plain:
"The Mediterranean is dry, the soil soft enough for such a toy to cut deep. But here on the North Atlantic coast the earth is wet and heavy. Even ploughed twice, it does not suffice. Gods above, you've copied Rome blindly for centuries and never improved a thing."
Back in his study, he ransacked his memory until it yielded a picture: the great heavy ploughs of the eleventh century—iron ploughshare, mounted on wheels, drawn by two oxen.
"Yes. That's the design."
He sketched a dozen variations, tugging his hair in thought, then at last selected two drafts that looked workable. These he passed to Kadel.
"Make it. Spare no effort. Such a plough could bless half of Europe's farmers."
After dispatching the smith, Rurik's mind turned to the three-field system, a further advance to raise yields.
Under the two-field system, an acre of wheat land yielded about eight bushels.
(One bushel of wheat is about 27 kilograms.)
Suppose a family of five held thirty acres: half under crop, half fallow. Their harvest would be 120 bushels.
From this they must keep seed: two bushels per acre, or thirty bushels for the fifteen sown.
Then came the dues: fifteen percent in lord's tax (eighteen bushels), ten percent tithe to the Church (twelve bushels). Together, thirty bushels.
For their own mouths: each person required six hundred grams of grain per day, about forty bushels a year for the household.
What remained? Twenty bushels only. And out of that must be bought tools, young stock, salt, clothing, shoes—leaving little to store.
The three-field system offered relief. The land divided in thirds: one for winter wheat, one for spring crops—oats, peas—one lying fallow.
Where the old system used only half the land, the new brought two-thirds into use. Legumes enriched the soil with nitrogen, further raising yields.
"More harvest means more tax," Rurik mused. "We'll test it on a small scale for a year. If it prospers, extend it to all."
After much persuasion, he convinced ten Viking households to attempt the new system, promising to cover any shortfall himself.
By September, despite muttered gossip, the ten families divided their land into thirds, sowed ten acres of wheat, and left twenty for spring crops and fallow.
With sowing done, farmers turned to washing their woolens. The new water-powered fulling mill proved far swifter and cleaner than hand-beating. Willing enough, they paid the five-percent fee. Watching the great wheel turn without pause, Rurik marveled that at last he could earn coin while sitting still.
One morning, as he basked idly before the mill, the bookseller's daughter appeared.
"May I use the mill for my cloth, my lord?" she asked.
"Of course, Elif. Hand it to the workers inside, and remember to pay when it's done."
"My lord, my name is Herjigif."
She dismounted, carried her bolt of wool inside, and the workers showed her how to set it in the trough. The river turned the wheel, the wheel raised and dropped great wooden hammers, beating the cloth in water.
"Incredible," she whispered. In the past, one bolt of cloth had taken her parents and herself together, hours of weary pounding. Now the mill's hammers, driven only by water, outstripped all their strength.
From outside came Rurik's voice:
"You may watch. But you mustn't build a mill elsewhere and steal my trade."
"I know," she said lightly, stepping out into the sun. She raised a pale hand against its glare. "Our household is poor. For now we'll only farm and keep sheep. No silver for mills."
"Is that so? To me, farming and sheep once seemed a rare blessing." Rurik spoke of the northern countryside, where thieves abounded and raiders struck ten times in a year—sometimes lone rogues, sometimes bands of three or five.
"In recent winters the North has been harsh beyond bearing. Many could not live and fled here to Britain. Compared with home, this land is gentler, its yield higher by a third at least. Poor fare still, but better than nothing. Nothing, of course, like the black earth of the Dnieper."
"You passed the Dnieper? Were you bound for Constantinople?"
Her question startled him.
"You know that trade-route? Remarkable."
At the mention of Constantinople, he recalled the duel before the emperor. She caught the glint of memory in his eye and looked doubtful—until he drew his sword.
"Look. Europe's finest blade. Ivar's Heart-Sunder was Damascus steel, yes—but nothing like Dragon's Breath."
Nobles such as Erik and Leonard had begged to buy it, offering as much as twenty pounds of silver. Some had even thought to win it by duel.
Three of them he killed outright, to end the trouble. At last even Ivar declared: "Even if a man wins that sword by duel, I'll take it back by duel myself." Only thus was the hunger of rivals checked.
Herjigif shuddered, but then smiled.
"A fine tale, if somewhat bloody. Farewell, Lord Rurik."
She dipped in a graceful curtsey, gathered her woolens, and walked away.