Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 63: The Velvet Diplomacy

The Royal Palace, Winchester (Capital of Wessex)

Princess Judith sat in her private solar, holding a letter sealed with blue wax.

She drummed her manicured fingers on the table. She knew who sent it. Gyda. The self-proclaimed "Prime Minister" of York. The woman Judith had once dismissed as a shield-maiden with delusions of grandeur.

Judith hesitated. Opening this letter felt like opening a door to a blizzard. The Church had just declared the Northmen anathema. To communicate with them was technically heresy.

But curiosity and a heavy dose of vanity won out. She broke the seal.

Inside, there was no parchment. Instead, there was a folded square of fabric. Judith unfolded it. It cascaded over her hands like water, shimmering in the candlelight. It was a deep, royal purple. It was softer than silk, warmer than wool, and heavier than linen.

Jernheim Velvet.

Judith gasped softly. She rubbed the fabric against her cheek. It was intoxicating. In a world where even Queens wore scratchy wool that smelled of wet sheep, this fabric was a revelation.

A small note fell out of the folds. It was written in excellent, sharp Latin.

"To Her Highness, Princess Judith."

"The Church says our goods are cursed. I say they are simply exclusive. Enclosed is a sample of our Q4 production line. We are offering you sole distribution rights for the Kingdom of Wessex."

"Condition: You wear this to the Easter Feast. And you ensure our wagons are not robbed by your stepson’s knights."

"P.S. The dye is colorfast. It will not run, unlike a Saxon army."

Judith laughed. It was a sharp, barking laugh that startled her ladies-in-waiting.

" The audacity," Judith whispered, stroking the velvet. "She insults our army and offers me a bribe in the same breath."

She stood up and walked to the mirror, draping the purple fabric over her shoulder. She looked regal. She looked modern. She looked like a woman who could stare down a Bishop.

"Why did I have to find a rival who is actually competent?" she mused aloud.

She sighed, a pout forming on her lips. She hated Gyda. She hated Ragnar. But she loved this cloth. And she knew, with the certainty of a political shark, that if she didn’t secure this contract, the Queen of Mercia would.

Judith didn’t waste time. She grabbed the velvet and marched out of her solar. She headed straight for the King’s study.

King Aethelred of Wessex was currently having a bad day.

He was sitting at a heavy oak table, staring at a pile of broken swords. They were standard Saxon blades.. Iron, brittle, and prone to snapping.

"My Lord," his armorer was explaining nervously. "The iron from the local mines is full of slag. We cannot make them stronger without... without the Northern technique."

"The Northern technique is heresy!" Aethelred snapped, throwing a hilt across the room. "The Bishop told me that Ragnar quenches his steel in the blood of unbaptized infants!"

"Actually, sire," the armorer whispered, "rumor says he uses oil. Just hot oil."

"Get out!" Aethelred roared.

The armorer fled, nearly colliding with Princess Judith as she swept into the room.

"It is open," Aethelred grumbled sarcastically, though the door was already swinging shut behind her.

Judith didn’t bow. She was the daughter of the Frankish Emperor; she didn’t bow to stepsons. She walked up to the table and slammed the swatch of purple velvet onto the wood, right next to the broken sword.

"We have a problem, Aethelred," Judith announced.

The King looked at the fabric. His eyes widened. He reached out to touch it, but Judith slapped his hand away.

"Not for you," she said. "This is for me. But the problem is for you."

"What problem?" Aethelred asked, rubbing his hand. "The Church?"

"The Supply Chain," Judith corrected, using the new terminology that was slowly seeping south.

She paced the room, her voice sharp and echoing off the stone walls.

"The Bishop has ordered a blockade. He wants every Christian lord to seize the Viking wagons. He calls it a ’Holy Reclamation’."

"And I agree!" Aethelred said, sitting up straighter. "Why should we pay for their goods when we can take them? It is God’s will!"

Judith stopped pacing. She looked at him like he was a slow child.

"You are an idiot, Aethelred."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Think," Judith hissed. "If you sanction theft, who does the stealing? The robber barons. The petty lords on the border. Do you think they will send the loot to you?"

She picked up the broken sword hilt.

"They will keep the high-quality steel for themselves. They will keep the velvet for their wives. They will grow strong on stolen Viking tech. And you? You will be left here in Winchester with your broken swords and your scratchy wool, while your vassals become better armed than their King."

Aethelred froze. He hadn’t thought of that. The feudal system was fragile; a vassal with superior weaponry was a threat.

"Furthermore," Judith continued, twisting the knife, "Mercia is wavering. King Burgred is greedy. If he ignores the Church and keeps trading, his army will be equipped with Jernheim Steel by summer. And when Mercia marches on Wessex... will you fight them with prayers?"

Aethelred paled. The rivalry with Mercia was old and deep. The thought of Mercian troops wielding the "indestructible" northern blades while his men held rusted iron was terrifying.

"But... the Pope," Aethelred stammered. "The Excommunication."

"The Pope is in Rome," Judith snapped. "Ragnar is in York. And Ragnar has a machine that throws fire."

She leaned over the desk, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"The Church wants to starve the North. But Ragnar won’t starve. He will just find a new market. He will sell to the Welsh. He will sell to the Scots. Do you want to be the only kingdom left in the Dark Ages?"

Aethelred looked at the velvet. He looked at the broken sword. He looked at the empty coffers that could be filled with transit taxes.

He poured himself a large cup of wine and downed it in one gulp.

"Damn this Builder," Aethelred groaned, wiping his mouth. "He makes it impossible to be a good Christian."

"He makes it profitable to be a bad one," Judith smiled thinly.

Aethelred sighed, the fight going out of him. He grabbed a piece of parchment and a quill.

"What do I write?"

"A Royal Decree," Judith dictated. "State that while we condemn the heathen spiritual practices, the commercial goods of York are vital for the ’Defense of the Realm.’ Therefore, any lord caught raiding a trade wagon will be hanged for treason."

Aethelred scratched out the words. He felt dirty. He felt like he was signing a deal with the devil.

"And add a postscript," Judith said, stroking the velvet on the table. "Requesting a shipment of... agricultural tools. And perhaps a few bolts of this purple cloth. For diplomatic purposes, of course."

Aethelred signed the document with a heavy hand. He poured another drink.

"There," he grumbled, handing it to her. "Are you happy, Stepmother?"

"I am pragmatic," Judith said, taking the decree. "And I will be the best-dressed woman at Easter."

She turned and swept out of the room, the purple velvet trailing behind her like a conqueror’s banner.

Left alone in the study, King Aethelred stared into his wine cup.

"I hate them," he whispered to the empty room. "I hate their soap. I hate their math. I hate their perfect swords."

He picked up the broken Saxon hilt and threw it into the fireplace.

"But mostly," he admitted, "I hate that I need them."

****

The Road to York, Two Days Later

Leif the Lesser, Director of Intelligence, sat on a milestone marker by the side of the Roman road. He was eating an apple.

Above him, a hawk circled. It descended, landing on his leather-gloved arm. Tied to its leg was a small scroll sealed with the royal crest of Wessex.

Leif unrolled it. He read the decree signed by King Aethelred.

He grinned.

"Project Velvet was a success," Leif said to the bird.

He pulled a piece of dried meat from his pocket and fed the hawk.

"The Church screams," Leif mused, looking south toward Canterbury. "But the Kings listen to the coin."

He stood up, dusting off his trousers. He needed to get back to York. Ragnar would be pleased. The supply chain was secure. The southern markets were open. And somewhere in Winchester, a Princess was measuring herself for a new dress that would spark a thousand envies.

"Now," Leif muttered, starting the long walk north. "I wonder if I can get a bonus for this."