Ragnar decided it was time to leave the smoke of the foundry and see the sun. He ordered his horse and rode out to inspect the agricultural sector.
He expected to see mud and misery. That was the standard for 9th-century English farming.
But The fields outside York were no longer a chaotic patchwork of weeds and half-starved crops. They were divided into neat, four-square grids.
A farmer named Stig was guiding a team of oxen. He was using one of Leif's cast-iron moldboard plows.
The heavy iron blade sliced through the wet clay soil with a satisfying tearing sound, turning the earth over completely.
Ragnar pulled up his horse. "Stig!" he called out. "How is the yield?"
Stig stopped the oxen. He wiped sweat from his brow.
"Director!" Stig grinned, pointing to a pile of turnips. "Look at these bastards! They are the size of a man's head! The cows are eating better than the King!"
"And the wheat?"
"Double the yield from last year," Stig beamed. "The 'Clover-Trick' is magic.."
