After leaving the brewery, Halfdan headed to the nearby textile workshop.
Pushing open the door, he found more than twenty women seated at looms. Bursts of laughter rang out from time to time. It was obvious that most of their energy went into gossip; spinning and weaving were secondary concerns.
"You—you all…"
After delivering his customary scolding, Halfdan summoned the overseer and demanded a report on recent income and expenses.
The textile workshop was in the worst condition. Productivity was low, and they could only produce the cheapest grade of woolen cloth. There were no dyed fabrics or embroidered pieces. Estimated profit for the month: a mere two pounds.
Lastly, Halfdan visited the smithy. A wave of scorching air hit his face. Sparks flew, and the rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil rang without pause. Newly forged hoes, axes, and spearheads gleamed dimly in the shadows.
Compared to the previous workshops, the four master smiths and ten apprentices were performing best. Halfdan was about to praise them when he noticed the pig iron ingots they were using, and anger surged.
"Last month I ordered you to use local iron. Why are you still buying Sterling's expensive pig iron?"
The blacksmiths answered in unison.
"Your Majesty, Sterling's iron is the finest. If we purchase inferior local iron to save money, we must spend far more time refining it. Production slows, and the quality suffers."
Halfdan took the ledger. Last month's profit was four pounds—acceptable. He left with a dark expression.
Beyond these three workshops, he had also invested in a shipyard. The first two cogs built at great expense were unfit for sailing. After improvements, the second batch of two was still substandard. Buyers complained bitterly, and Halfdan fell into heavy debt.
Worse, the buyers were nobles from Sweden's eastern coast. Some had invested individually; others had jointly purchased vessels. This debt could not be evaded. Halfdan would have to repay it slowly.
Returning to his longhouse, he summoned the treasurer. This year's projected revenue was just over four hundred pounds. Even with frugality, they might save one hundred pounds at best—the equivalent of twenty suits of mail.
"Pathetic," Halfdan muttered. "As king, I live worse than a Frankish or British earl."
Compared to Vig's extravagant display during the civil war—producing seven thousand suits of armor at once—Halfdan felt defeated. The throne of Britain seemed farther away than ever.
"I will launch a large-scale raid. Send word to Ubbe, Niels, and young Erik."
Schleswig
Niels faced similar troubles. Southern Denmark had suffered repeated warfare; agriculture and handicrafts brought little profit. He shifted his efforts to Pomerania, conquering twelve West Slavic tribes. Yet these tribes were impoverished—there was little wealth to extract.
Meanwhile, British goods flooded Northern and Eastern Europe. Tribal chieftains grew addicted to strong liquor, sugar, dyed cloth, fine horses, and superior armor. Wealth drained away steadily.
To satisfy their needs, some tribes developed a new trade: sending young men to Britain as laborers, working on road construction and building projects. The youths earned wages, and chieftains received brokerage fees.
Faced with Vig's overwhelming commercial influence, Niels abandoned any dream of competing in trade and gladly sailed to Gothenburg to discuss raiding plans.
Upon arrival, he saw no sign of Ubbe or young Erik and felt disappointed.
"Only us?"
Halfdan replied, "Ubbe is occupied with internal unrest. Young Erik prefers trade and declined the invitation."
As for targets, they dared not provoke Vig or Gunnar. Eastern Europe was too poor. Suitable prey remained only Flanders, southern Frankish Aquitaine, or Iberia.
The latter two were distant. Halfdan and Niels agreed on Flanders.
Privately, they had considered raiding Norway—but never voiced it aloud.
In recent years, young Erik had granted lands to twenty barons and over a hundred knights, smuggling horses from Britain and Normandy. If war broke out, he could field two hundred cavalry—enough to crush a loosely organized raiding force of light infantry.
In early July, Halfdan and Niels gathered four thousand raiders and sailed along the coast.
Midway through the journey, three two-masted square-rigged ships quietly appeared off their rear flank. Black dragon banners flew from their masts.
The square-rigged ships never attacked. Nor did they accept Halfdan's repeated invitations to join.
Niels advised abandoning the invitations.
"They are Vig's patrol ships. They do not raid—they watch us."
Halfdan admired the large, seaworthy vessels and the intimidating heavy ballistae mounted on deck.
"If I had ships like these," he said wistfully, "I'd sail into the Mediterranean. Bjorn made a fortune with longships. These would bring even greater gains."
Niels sighed.
"You can buy them from Vig. Ship, ballistae, arms—two hundred pounds per warship at internal prices. For a Swedish king, it might exceed three hundred."
At dawn on July twentieth, the raiding fleet reached the coast of Flanders and entered the Scheldt River. Muddy marshes and reeds lined the banks. Broken fishing boats lay stranded on exposed flats. Five startled wild ducks flapped into the reeds.
Soon they reached a bend in the river where a wooden watchtower stood, blackened by smoke. Below lay over a dozen corpses. Ravens feasted upon them.
Halfdan frowned. "Who did this?"
"Likely British raiders," Niels replied. "Vig issued privateering licenses. Some restless Vikings have been harassing Flanders' coast."
The sight dampened their spirits. After three months of low-intensity conflict, Flemish maritime trade had collapsed. There might be little left to plunder.
Pressing inland, they passed orderly wheat fields and vineyards. Halfdan detached small units to loot while the main force advanced.
At dusk, they reached Antwerp. Its wooden palisades had been hastily reinforced. Militia crowded the battlements.
Halfdan drew his sword. "Charge!"
Longships grounded on the shallows. Raiders leapt into waist-deep water, shields raised, wading toward the walls. More than twenty ladders were thrown against the battlements. Fearless warriors climbed wildly.
Bodies fell from the ladders one after another.
Niels leaned close and murmured, "Light is fading. Time is short. Will you send in your berserkers?"
Halfdan shook his head. The four hundred armored berserkers behind him were the core of his rule. He could not afford heavy losses.
Unable to persuade his ally, Niels ordered a retreat. The army camped in the open fields, intending to renew the assault the next day.
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