When Herjigif departed, Rurik was left to his own devices. The silence of the riverside weighed heavily upon him. He stooped to gather a flat stone, sending it skimming across the water. One, two, three ripples broke the mirrored surface before the stone sank. Another followed, then another, until the pastime itself became wearying.
Half a minute passed before Mitcham appeared, arms laden with ledgers and rolls of parchment. He paused a moment, studying his lord's distant expression, then ventured with a half-smile:
"My lord, have you perhaps taken a liking to her?"
Rurik shot him a glance. "What nonsense is that?"
But Mitcham pressed the matter, undaunted.
"My lord, marriage is no light affair. Managed wisely, it may prove the strongest pillar of your rule. The finest course, of course, would be to wed a royal princess—yet His Majesty has neither daughter nor sister. That avenue is closed. The next best would be a union with the kin of the great magnates, though I cannot yet speak with certainty of their affairs. The third path, and perhaps the shrewdest, is to wed into a local house. As an outsider, to take a native gentlewoman would soften the hostility of the people. Herjigif is well-fitted. It is even said her great-grandmother bore royal blood—a faint tie, yet not unworthy of you."
"This is all too sudden. Give me leave to consider." Rurik waved him off. His gaze drifted across the river to a flock of wild ducks bobbing amidst the reeds, his thoughts no clearer than the mist rising from the water.
Yet Mitcham had struck true. As a nobleman, the question of marriage could no longer be put aside.
Names rose unbidden to his mind. King Erik's daughter, Eve, still unwed—the very name that Nils had whispered with a fevered longing throughout their campaigns in the East. Yet Eve's reputation was a peril in itself. Her aunt, Sola, Ragnar's queen, was famed for beauty, but more for wantonness. A wife of such temper promised little peace. "Let some other fool take her," Rurik thought grimly.
Other noble daughters he recalled: names and faces, gowns and jewels, but little substance behind them. Few possessed wit, fewer still learning, and none the steadiness he required. One by one he cast them aside.
Herjigif alone remained, and in her favor weighed three undeniable advantages.
First, she was of the Anglo-Saxon people. Her hand would bind him to the land, and her presence might turn suspicion into loyalty. Second, her household was small and fragile, with no brothers to stand above her. Marriage to Rurik would place her family's fortunes entirely in his keeping, ensuring her fidelity. And third—and rarest of all—she could read and write Latin. In an age when even princes scrawled with difficulty, such a gift was priceless. With her, the household itself could become literate, its affairs ordered with pen and parchment rather than memory and guesswork.
For more than two hours he turned these matters over in his mind. At last he left the riverside and entered a narrow chamber beside the great hall, where Mitcham sat bent over tallies.
"Choose a day to visit her house and make the proposal," Rurik said at length. "Go with courtesy. I will not be made to look a bully who seizes a woman by force. If they refuse, so be it—I have no lack of other options."
Nor was this boast idle. His exploits in the East had already become a tapestry of rumor, and his valor in the battle at Northumbria had made his name resound across the North. Earlier that year in York, shieldmaidens had come in droves, some bold enough to press their suit at his very door. Yet what were looks and courage, when lineage was slight and minds dull? None were fit for a wife.
"As you command, my lord." Mitcham bowed.
The next morning he rode with gifts and two guards. Herjigif's mother, Elisse, received him with gladness, and consent was swift. To place her daughter beneath the protection of a noble lord was to secure her younger son's future; a burden long pressing upon her heart was lifted at once.
So it was that the wedding came to pass. From hamlets and manors alike the local gentry hastened to the feast. The hall rang with music and laughter, the air rich with roasted meats and ale. And when the merriment was ended and the gifts counted, Rurik discovered that, even after expenses, he had profited by three pounds of silver.
"Good," he murmured with a satisfied smile. "They know how to show respect."
He entered the sum into his ledger and turned to the broader accounts.
Tynnborg's domain held nineteen manors and twenty-three villages. The manors housed twenty-five hundred souls; the villages, some five thousand more—freeholders, peasants, and a sprinkling of petty landowners. Altogether, seventy-five hundred Anglo-Saxons. To this were added two hundred nearby Anglo farmers and five hundred Norse settlers, still trickling from across the sea. In all, some 8,300 subjects.
"Sparse indeed," Rurik muttered, "a poor shadow of Leonard's Mancunium."
That city boasted two thousand burghers within its walls, and in its surrounding lands more than twenty thousand subjects—second only to Ragnar's York. And one burgher, in wealth and trade, equaled many peasants. Leonard's yearly income, Rurik reckoned, must stand between two hundred and fifty and three hundred pounds of silver.
"The South is rich indeed," he sighed, and began the reckoning.
Wheat formed the backbone of his revenues. At a levy of fifteen percent, the yield came to twenty-eight thousand bushels, nearly seven hundred and eighty tons of grain. Valued at two pennies each, they brought him sixty pounds of silver.
Beyond grain, each manor rendered two sheep, five pairs of fowl, and a little ale and honey. Rurik barely skimmed the lines, stifling a yawn.
His three workshops brought in a profit of 1.6 pounds each month. After maintenance, their annual gain stood near fifteen pounds.
Then came the debits. A shieldman's wage stood at seventy pennies a year, but with food and equipment the true cost reached six-tenths of a pound. Twenty men cost twelve pounds; fifty would consume thirty.
To these were added tax-gatherers, smiths, tailors, cooks, grooms, shepherds, rat-catchers, and servants. And now, with Herjigif as lady, six maids must be employed besides. Their keep would swallow another eight pounds a year.
At this, Rurik froze. He had forgotten Ragnar's tribute.
"By the gods," he muttered. "How could I overlook that?"
Too much tribute would beggar him; too little might sour the king's regard. He sat in troubled silence.
Herjigif found him there at midnight, the ledgers still open.
"My love, what troubles you so?"
She leaned over the accounts, reading with care. "The Carolingians, in the West, have granted many earldoms. My father once read a scroll that said an earl must spend between five and twenty percent of his revenues to meet royal duties—warfare, hospitality, special levies. This year no wars have come. You should give no less than fifteen."
Taking her counsel, Rurik ordered the tribute: twenty bolts of wool, ten carts laden with grain, and a drove of livestock. In all, worth ten pounds of silver. Enough, he hoped, to satisfy Ragnar.
When at last he lay in bed, sleep would not come. His reckoning had unveiled a truth: the tales of poets and minstrels lied. Noble life was not endless feasts and bright tourneys, nor a river of wine and venison. To maintain a lordship was a labor of constant strain.
Unless, of course, one stooped to borrowing—from bishop or guild, as many had.
He thought of his predecessor, who had squandered recklessly and fallen into debt with the Church. The burden had endured for decades, until the keep itself stood unfinished, its walls still of timber instead of stone.
"No," Rurik resolved in the dark, "I must find new ways to earn."