May.
At dawn, riding the rising tide of the Thas, a two-masted square-rigged ship entered the river mouth. Bjorn handed the helm to his first mate and leaned over the rail, taking in the scenery on both banks.
The river stretched wide. Muddy tidal flats thick with reeds lined both sides, where flocks of wild ducks, herons, and gulls foraged for food.
"Thinking back… it feels like a dream."
Five years had passed since Bjorn's last visit. Back then, his father Ragnar had lain unconscious on his sickbed, and the pri minister and queen had even borrowed eight hundred pounds from him in an ergency.
Soon after, the kingdom's fate had taken a sharp turn: a suspicious coronation placed the young Sigurd on the throne; then Aslaug suddenly struck, killing Queen Thora. Royal authority collapsed, plunging the realm into a brutal civil war.
As the ship sailed onward, the land along the banks gradually rose. Dense oak forests covered the higher ground, while fields and pastures spread across the lowlands. Wheat fields shimred gold in the wind, dotted here and there with grazing sheep.
Further upstream, the river narrowed. Stone fortresses stood on both the northern and southern banks. As the ship approached, the forts began launching stones.
The river here was about six hundred ters wide. Large trebuchets and ballistae could strike vessels up to three hundred ters away. Firing from both sides, they could effectively seal the channel.
Seeing splashes erupt near his hull, Bjorn had no choice but to drop anchor and wait. Soon, a small boat approached, and a sergeant climbed aboard by rope to inquire about the ship's identity.
"I am Bjorn. I've co to Londinium for trade. What's the aning of this?"
Recognizing the legendary explorer, the officer straightened respectfully and explained the king's decree.
"Recently, rchants from Flanders incited rebellion within the kingdom. His Majesty issued letters of marque, authorizing privateering against Flanders. Both sides now send out privateers. Overall, we hold the advantage—but they occasionally strike back, harassing our coasts.
"So the king decreed that all ocean-going ships entering the Thas must first dock at the Canvey Island fortress at the river mouth. After identity verification, they are issued a flag to fly from the mast."
Under instruction, the ship docked at the northern bank. Officials recorded the crew and onboard weapons, then issued a gray flag marked with red stripes. With the flag hoisted, the ship continued upstream.
The farther they sailed, the more villages appeared along the river. The most striking feature of each Viking settlent was usually the black spire or bell tower of a temple. Wooden fences enclosed surrounding fields. Fishing boats and small rowboats crowded the docks, carrying produce to Londinium or unloading salt, ironware, and cloth from the capital.
Occasionally, one could glimpse the residences of barons and knights—so wooden keeps, others small stone towers.
By afternoon, they drew close to Londinium. The number of vessels increased dramatically: fishing boats, ferries, flat-bottod cargo barges, and massive seagoing ships. Dye works and tanneries lined the banks, discharging wastewater into the river and filling the air with a pungent stench.
Ahead stretched a stone bridge spanning the river. It teed with people. The current beneath ran swift, and so larger ships bound upstream had to lower their masts or wait for the wooden lift-section at the center to be raised.
Bjorn had no intention of going farther upriver and steered to dock at the northern quay.
Before long, two customs clerks boarded, registered the cargo, and sealed it with lead stamps—reminding Bjorn of the customs houses of Constantinople.
After completing formalities, Bjorn paid his crew. They scattered instantly, rushing toward the nearest taverns.
Suppressing his own restlessness, Bjorn headed toward the shipyards. The streets were broad and clean, flanked by drainage ditches. Public bathhouses, hospitals, arenas, and theaters appeared along the way—all built of stone in a style reminiscent of Roman architecture.
Bjorn was not surprised. He had known Vig for nearly twenty years and understood his temperant and aesthetic well.
Eventually, he reached the southwestern district. Far from the bustle of the markets, it was filled with campuses and training grounds. Passing by, he saw the Royal Academy and the southern branch of Tynefort Academy. Through the gates, he glimpsed students no older than fifteen.
Next ca the Army School and the University of Londinium. The forr sprawled widely, sharp whistle blasts and the shrill neighing of horses echoing from within.
At the university gates stood nurous carriages. Over the wall, atop a small hill, rose a strange new stone structure under construction.
Curious, Bjorn asked a nearby coachman.
"What's that? Building a palace?"
The man lowered his ale jug and belched. "An observatory. For watching the stars at night and calculating the calendar. Costs a fortune, they say. His Majesty even invited Arab scholars from Iberia to design it after their observatories."
Where does Vig get all this money?
Puzzled, Bjorn made his way to the southwest corner of the city, where the Navigation School and the Londinium Shipyard stood. A two-masted square-rigged ship was about to be launched.
On closer inspection, its structure differed slightly from older designs. Between the foremast and the bow, a triangular sail had been added—improving speed and windward performance.
"How much for this ship?" Bjorn asked.
The shipwright, irritated by the burly stranger, replied bluntly, "That's a warship. Built from the finest oak. Superior to current two-masted rchant ships. Designed for ocean voyages. Not for sale."
After being brushed off, Bjorn refused to give up. He strode to the new royal palace in the west of the city to request an audience.
Escorted through the moat and gate, past the unfinished main hall, he entered a modest residence and was led to a second-floor office, where he found Vig.
"Long ti no see, Bjorn. What'll you have?"
Without waiting for an answer, Vig poured two glasses of pale yellow whisky.
"Compared to wine or ad—how does it taste?"
"It's strong," Bjorn said after a sip, "and there's a peculiar fragrance."
The alcohol dissolved the initial awkwardness between them. After so casual talk, Bjorn explained his purpose.
"In the past two years, I've tried sailing farther west. But after a certain distance, the sea keeps pushing us back. I need a sturdier ship—one that can better handle headwinds."
The sea pushing you back?
Vig suspected ocean currents.
He agreed to sell Bjorn one warship—but advised that his crew undergo short-term training in Londinium to learn the new vessel's handling characteristics.
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