In order to raise funds and replenish the depleted ranks of the Royal Guard, Astrid began selling off royal lands on a massive scale. On Paphis's recommendation, she also created a brand-new noble title: "Knight."
The title of knight was held for life and was not hereditary. Aside from satisfying the holder's vanity, its only real benefit was personal legal protection.
By long-standing custom, if a noble accidentally killed a commoner, they merely had to pay the standard wergild. If the killing was determined to be intentional, an additional "atonement fee" was paid to the lord or the king.
Furthermore, accusations against nobles required "reliable witnesses." Testimony from commoners was often discounted. Even if a judge accepted such testimony, a noble could still demand a trial by combat to prove innocence.
By contrast, killings between nobles drew particular attention from the Crown and carried far harsher penalties. In recent years, offending minor nobles had faced three possible punishments:
fines,
exile,
or execution with confiscation of family lands.
In legal terms, a knight was counted among the nobility. If a wealthy townsman or landed squire became a knight, they effectively fell under royal protection—any enemy would think twice before acting against them.
As a result, this new title was wildly popular within the royal demesne. Astrid rapidly raked in over a thousand pounds. Overwhelmed with emotion, she hugged her son and wept with joy.
A few days later, even better news arrived.
Eager to suppress rebellion, Ivar had blundered into an ambush in the hills of western Ireland. He was badly wounded and confined to recuperation in Dyflin.
"Good. Good," Astrid murmured. "At last, the gods have shown mercy to this ill-fated mother and son."
The royal armories held over a thousand suits of stockpiled armor, along with countless axes, round shields, and bows. Astrid planned to use her newfound funds to recruit and train more Royal Guards, intimidating the great nobles who harbored dangerous ambitions.
In July, she came up with another idea.
Rumor had it that the northern trade route—Tynemouth to Shetland to Bergen—was extremely active. It would be ideal for establishing customs offices in the north to collect tariffs. At the same time, it would conveniently relocate a batch of civil officials whose loyalty was questionable.
"If Vig kills them, so be it," she thought. "As long as they aren't publicly executed, everything is negotiable. It's not time for an open break with him yet."
Anything involving money brought out astonishing efficiency in Astrid. In just two days, she finalized a personnel list and urged them to open operations in Tynemouth as soon as possible, funneling revenue back to the Crown.
Just over a week later, fifteen customs officers arrived by ship at Tynemouth's docks—and were utterly stunned by the town's prosperity.
Judging by the sheer number of vessels moored along the river, they estimated Tynemouth's trade volume at roughly one-third of Londinium's. This was staggering. Londinium was the commercial hub of southern Britannia, drawing goods from across the realm—yet Tynemouth, relying only on the sparsely populated north, had reached such scale?
"By Odin… we've struck gold."
Their worries evaporated instantly. The future looked bright.
After disembarking, they wandered about searching for office space and noticed strange wooden rails laid along the dockside, used to carry wagons loaded with cargo.
Before long, shouting erupted behind them. A driver steering a rail-wagon cursed at the outsiders:
"Out of the way! Where'd you country savages come from? No manners at all!"
With a crack of the reins, he drove his draft horses onward, vanishing into the sea of people.
Following the rails with their eyes, the officials saw them extend deep into the town, continuously transporting goods. After observing for several minutes, they realized the rail-wagons carried significantly more weight than ordinary carts.
"Is it really worth it?" they muttered, exchanging glances.
Proceeding to the castle in the southwestern quarter, they met Herligev, seated calmly. The Anglo woman had pale, cool features and wore a plain black linen gown without ornament—she could easily have been mistaken for a nun.
"Is she pretending to be poor?" the lead official wondered darkly.
Introducing himself as Sir Hack, he loudly proclaimed the Dowager Queen's edict, demanding the establishment of a customs office in Tynemouth and the levying of tariffs on goods.
"I understand," Herligev replied evenly. "Allow me a few days to consider."
She neither refused nor agreed, merely inviting them to stay in town.
Stay in town?
By noble custom, a host should offer a banquet and lodge guests in the castle. Sir Hack considered himself both noble and royal envoy, yet he wasn't even offered a meal. Annoyed, he stepped forward to protest the lady's discourtesy.
At that moment, Leif returned from Stirling with a message. He casually grabbed a goblet from the long table and hurled it.
"What are you supposed to be, calling yourself a noble?" he snarled. "Keep making trouble and my axe won't be so polite!"
After the outburst, Herligev intervened calmly.
"The child doesn't know better—just a joke. The castle is currently reorganizing rooms, and there are no spare beds. My apologies."
Once the guests were dismissed, Herligev sent Leif back to Stirling to seek Vig's counsel.
A week later, she summoned the customs officials—who had been idling at an inn—and presented a seemingly reasonable proposal:
"Besides Tynemouth, Edinburgh, Aberdeen, and Orkney also trade with the north. If customs are placed here, I fear you won't collect sufficient revenue. I suggest another location."
She had a maid spread out a crude, hastily drawn map and pointed to a northern transit hub—the Shetland Islands.
"Ships traveling between the two regions stop briefly in Shetland. How much you collect will depend on your ability."
With that, Herligev leaned back and said nothing more. The knights could extract no further concessions and left resentfully.
As they departed Tynemouth, they grumbled about the lady's stinginess. During their wait, they had already selected an office site near the ball field and theater—perfect for profit and pleasure alike. They had never expected this outcome.
"No way. I paid four pounds for this title—I'm getting my money back."
"Exactly. With royal authority behind us, there's no way we won't make a profit."
Soon after, they found a cog bound for Bergen. The ship carried Tynemouth-produced woolen cloth for sale in the north and stopped for two days in Edinburgh to purchase large quantities of pig iron.
On official business, Sir Hack swallowed his pride and chatted with commoners, learning a great deal of useful information.
Northern Europe was in turmoil. The prices of weapons and pig iron were soaring, dragging up the cost of iron tools as well. Farmers were furious. Everything was getting more expensive—except one thing.
Slaves.
"Hm," Sir Hack mused. "We should probably adjust the tax rates on certain goods."
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