The tempers of the refugees had been soothed, yet Rurik was not the sort of man to let certain offenders escape unpunished.
By his stern order, Jorunn led a band of shield-men to seize the worst of the local gentry—the man who had cheated the settlers most brazenly. His estate was confiscated entire, his family driven from the land in disgrace. When word of this judgment spread, the remaining landowners hastened to make good their arrears. Fear quickened their hands; food and tools flowed at once in proper measure. Among the refugees, gratitude toward Rurik deepened. Their lord had shown himself not only stern but just.
Thus the storm passed as suddenly as it had come. The matter was settled, if not cleanly, then at least decisively. With peace restored, Rurik turned his full attention to a new venture: the brewing of drink. This, he determined, would be the next pillar of his domain.
He considered his choices.
The finest, most costly drink was the wine of West Francia. But vines would not grow in these northern soils. The option was discarded.
The second was mead, beloved of the Northmen, brewed from honey, water, and yeast, sometimes flavoured with berries or herbs. Yet honey was dear, beyond the reach of common folk. To brew mead in quantity would require far greater beekeeping.
Rurik sought out the peasants who kept hives. They used woven straw skeps, capped with clay to keep out the rain. Such hives were crude and immovable; each harvest destroyed the comb and wasted the bees. Watching the process, Rurik asked idly:
"Why not fashion a hive from which honey may be taken again and again?"
The beekeepers stared at him, puzzled, uncomprehending. "Again and again?" one repeated, as though the thought were foreign to his tongue.
Rurik tugged at his beard. He could not at once imagine the form such a hive should take. In the end he urged them merely to share knowledge among themselves, to devise some new craft if they could. They bowed and promised obedience, but their voices were listless. Rurik knew too well that no great change would come of it, not soon. Honey remained too scarce. Mead must be set aside.
The last choice was ale. It could be brewed from malted barley, water, yeast, and herbs. Local folk, he found, dried their malt with peat, giving it a smoky tang.
"Why peat?" Rurik asked one brewer after another. None could explain. It was simply the way things were done, a custom handed down. They even charred the inside of barrels with peat smoke, as if compelled by tradition.
Gathering knowledge, Rurik learned that fermentation required a herbal mixture called gruit, chiefly yarrow and bog myrtle. Herjigif, poring over books in the monastery's library, uncovered another recipe. With shining eyes she mixed in rosemary and wormwood, claiming these would preserve the ale longer.
Rurik watched her work by candlelight, herbs scattered like a healer's charms. A draught stirred the flames, and for a moment he felt he was not in a brewhouse but in an alchemist's cell. He blinked and asked, half-doubtful:
"Are you certain of this?"
"Of course. Books do not lie," she said, spreading wide the Latin text before him. Then she paused, brow furrowed. "Wait. Here—see this note. It speaks of a plant used in East Francia, called Humulus lupulus."
"Humulus… what?" Rurik repeated the strange words. He had never seen it, nor guessed that it was the hop.
Herjigif urged him earnestly. At last he relented. "Very well. When I go to York to pay tribute, I shall ask the merchants of the Continent to seek such seeds for me."
For rigor's sake, Rurik ordered trials. Four barrels were brewed: one with no herbs, one with gruit, one with rosemary and wormwood, and the last with all of them combined. When the ale was poured out to the shield-men, they tasted each in turn. By common voice they chose the fourth as the best.
So the recipe was fixed. On the western side of Tynnetown Rurik built his brewery. The process was set in strict order: malting, mashing, fermenting, barreling—each step entrusted to different hired hands, none free to shirk.
Besides the brewery, he kept close watch only on the smithy. Other trades he left to grow as they might. To foster settlement, he declared that for two years all who came to Tynnetown would pay but half their taxes, and might even receive loans without interest. The promise spread swiftly, drawing craftsmen and merchants from miles around.
From his travels in York, Leeds, and Dumbarton, Rurik had gathered much to guide his plans. Now he laid them down:
Food and trade. The watermill would stand as before, but beside it a bakery must rise. The livestock market and slaughterhouses, with their foul stench and swarming flies, would be placed downstream to the southeast.
Cloth and leather. Weaving was chiefly a cottage trade; thus he allotted the northeast quarter to the spinners and weavers. But the tanneries, with their noisome waste, he set again in the southeast, far from the dwellings of decent folk.
Metalwork. The smithies were of greatest importance. These he placed in the southwest, within easy reach of Tynemouth fortress itself. The hill on which the fortress stood overlooked all the town, and from there Rurik's eye might always fall upon the smoke of the forges.
Woodwork. The carpenters were gathered near the water-driven sawmill, all along one street, that timber might pass swiftly from plank to finished tool, barrel, or cart.
Shipbuilding. This was the pride of the Norse, a craft as old as their wanderings. The shipyards were set upon the southern riverbank, where keels might slide easily into the tide.
As for taverns, potteries, barbers, herbalists, and tailors, Rurik troubled himself no further. Let them choose their places as they would.
But of public health he was mindful. Knowing that pestilence might one day sweep across Europe, he decreed measures in advance: drainage ditches along the roads, cats encouraged in every household, a public bathhouse raised, the careless dumping of refuse forbidden, and each month a general cleaning of the town.
Word spread. People came. From the Derwent, from the Tees, families began to move into this new borough. By the month of October, Tynnetown counted more than eighty households—nearly three hundred souls.
To give the place a name among the markets of the north, Rurik ordered that on the first and fifteenth day of every month, taverns should sell ale at half price. Farmers from the countryside would come for the bargain and stay for the fair. At first, taxes on market stalls were set low, to tempt the traders. Later, when the town had grown, the dues might be raised.
"Produce the necessities of life, profit from trade and taxes, defend all with arms," Rurik declared. "Do these three, and Tynnetown shall prosper. In a few years' time, its tolls and duties may well surpass the rents of all the countryside."
At length there remained the matter of governance. After weighing his men, Rurik named a new town-reeve: Bafus, a shield-man whose sword arm was ordinary but whose mind was shrewd.
"Bafus, this charge I give you," Rurik said. "Guard my investment well. Do not let it wither."
The man dropped to one knee and kissed his lord's hand.
"My lord, I was born to serve your will."
So the affairs of Tynnetown were set in order. And having laid the foundations of his borough, Rurik gathered his company and rode south once more, bound for York to pay the tribute of that year.