100.
100.
Winchester. Wessex.
For long ages, it had been the nest of Saxon kings.
The word used to name the strongest in Britain, 'Bretwalda.'
The one who dared use that title, Æthelred, stared at the letter in his hand and was lost in anguish for a long while.
Beside him, Alfred, who had been watching with an expression full of worry, cautiously spoke to his brother.
"Brother. Is it from our sister?"
At that gentle voice, Æthelred came back to his senses.
The Cyning of Wessex gazed with warmth in his eyes at his younger brother, who had gone so far as to face that fearsome Norse Konungr himself to prove his loyalty.
"Yes, Alfred. The situation in Mercia seems very dire. For our sister, who rarely involves herself in the Cyning's affairs, has sent a letter."
[Ssseuk-]
In contrast to his smiling face, Æthelred handed over the letter with a strained gesture.
From that letter, Alfred could catch the scent of fresh grass.
In his childhood, back when their father Æthelwulf was still alive, all the family would gather and spend their days joyfully.
Alfred, who had been especially attached to his sister, could always smell that fresh fragrance whenever he went to her side... perhaps Alfred had projected the void left by their mother, who had passed away early, onto his sister.
After shaking off his muddled thoughts with a single shake of his head, Alfred, having returned to his cool-headed self, focused on the contents of the letter.
Likewise, there were letters recalling old memories, sentences discussing longing. But at its core, it was a request for aid to their ally Wessex, written as the Queen of Mercia.
Thus, it was time for Alfred, too, not as a brother longing for his sister, but for the sake of the present-day Bretwalda, the King of Wessex, to rack his brain.
"What do you intend to do, Brother?"
Having set the letter down, Alfred asked simply.
As if his current question held no weight at all. In a casual, passing tone.
Seeing his younger brother's diplomatic phrasing and expression grow, Æthelred gave a hollow laugh. He was regretful that his innocent younger brother seemed to be no more, yet at the same time, he felt a sense of gladness.
For as dark as the age was, the Bretwalda needed capable people beside him.
'The men I can trust and entrust things to are Oda of Devon and Alfred, I suppose. But Alfred is barely nineteen now. He still has much to learn.'
"We must help. I can drive out the Cymry to the west and some of the Northmen before winter comes. The problem is their Konungr, Helgi Ragnarsson, who is coiled in the east."
"Helgi Ragnarsson..."
At the mere utterance of the name, the candle flame resting between the two brothers seemed to flicker for an instant.
Recalling that inhuman majesty, Alfred's face stiffened entirely, and Æthelred did not miss that change in his brother.
"You saw him yourself. How was it? That Northern Dragon? Was he just as the rumors say?"
Æthelred's voice was composed, and the agitated Alfred quickly regained his calm.
"The rumors rather fall short, Brother. Their Norse Konungr must be eliminated by any means, or if that is impossible, we must at the very least avoid facing him in an open field."
"He is that much of a threat..."
Letting out a short sigh, calculations spun rapidly inside Æthelred's head.
What could be gained now, what must be abandoned now.
Standing at the center of all that thought was the peace, prosperity, and supremacy of Wessex.
Having finished his calculations with a gleaming gaze, Æthelred rose from his seat.
Having cast aside his feelings for his sister, the Bretwalda's face had returned to that of a sovereign.
"You must cross the sea. Alfred."
"Pardon?"
"I will seek aid from the King of West Frankia and the Pope beyond him. The price will be the rights and interests in Britain and our full-fledged support for the Papacy. Above all, make clear your unconditional support to Karl King of West Frankia. That Wessex will recognize him as the Emperor of Rome..."
"...!"
That the Frankish Kunings were fighting over the throne of the Roman Emperor was a fact known to everyone around them.
The 'Emperor' of Italy and the Kunning of East Frankia would certainly not be happy if they learned of this...
But what did it matter? They were far away, while West Frankia was close.
'The Norse Konungr is even closer...'
"I understand, Cyning."
"I shall trust in you. And I must call for Oda of Devon. I will finish pacifying the west first, for certain."
Making the west the main thrust meant accepting the damage that Mercia would suffer in the east.
It was a cold-hearted decision, but Alfred nodded.
"It shall be so. Cyning."
*****
At the same time. South of Lincoln, at Stanford.
"Lincoln to the north has surrendered, and Huntadun to the south has also surrendered! Their refugees must have already passed through this place heading towards Mercia! Abandon your meaningless resistance and surrender! I shall protect your lives and property!"
Excluding me, Seutorolpeu, who had the loudest voice among us, was showing off his vocal cords that reverberated all around.
"Or else you shall all die! Do not make a foolish choice! Stanford! Heu-eup-"
[Buuuwoooong-! Woooooong-!]
Not satisfied with that, Seutorolpeu was blowing his horn with all his might.
At that spirited display, the Jarls and warriors watching from behind me roared in unison in response. The battle cry raised by a massive force of roughly 9,000 men literally made the mountains and rivers tremble.
[Yiaaaaa-!]
"Hel-!"
"Odin-!"
"Tyr-!"
Roped into the mood, the names of the gods were invoked for the first time in a long while.
Amidst an atmosphere that felt as if the battle had already been won, I gradually sensed something was strange.
The inside of the fortress was too quiet.
Was it just too noisy over here for me to hear? For that to be the case, there seemed to be hardly any people on the walls themselves... and the flags seemed to have mysteriously decreased in number...
I pondered for a moment.
Just as the sound of Seutorolpeu's horn was dying down. Over the walls, where not a single human face could be seen, a shield painted stark white rose up, trembling violently.
Anyone could see that was not a signal to fight, so Seutorolpeu stopped his coaxing and cajoling and looked towards me.
"Wahahaha! These cowards! The lightning of Thor shall fall upon them!"
"Our Konungr is a demigod! Surrender before you die!"
"If you're harder than rock, keep pushing your luck!"
"Enough."
"Your mother—..."
Something odd was heard at the very end.
I turned my head slightly to see Leofric, who had been eagerly shouting something, now with his mouth covered.
The silence that began at the center soon spread through every rank, and the field was filled with it in an instant.
Soon an old voice came from atop the wall.
"O Konungr Helgi Ragnarsson, renowned for honor and mercy! This fortress and all its people will surrender, only spare our lives...!"
An aged voice that seemed to strain even to speak loudly.
The arm holding the white shield trembled so badly that it soon dropped the shield entirely.
"You there, elder! Are you the Ealdorman of this place!?"
"N-no, that is not...!"
"No!? Then where has the Ealdorman gone!? And who are you!?"
Sveinolf, thrown into confusion, kept firing questions as if he couldn't understand the situation.
But the wall fell into silence once more.
In this bewildering turn, everyone lost their words and Sveinolf's directionless gaze wandered between the wall and me, until at last the sound of the gate's bar being lifted was heard.
[Kkigik— kkiiiii— kung!]
Then beyond the slowly opening gate, an old man whose hair and beard had turned pure white stepped out, walking slowly.
"Camembert, let's go. Hya!"
[Purureuk— hihihihing! Dagarak— dagarak—]
[Dugu— dugu— dugu—]
My Jarls followed behind me as I rode forward without hesitation, and soon Sveinolf fell in behind as well.
Seeing that, the old man's already stooped back seemed to shrink entirely. I stopped in front of him and dismounted. The old man bowed his head deeply.
"Lift your head, brave old man."
"...Y-yes! I shall!"
He slowly raised his head. It was the face of a man who had worked under the sun for many long years.
'Not a warrior, and certainly not a noble.'
His eyes were full of worry that this huge Konungr before him might wring his frail neck like a chicken at any moment.
Yet the reason he had stepped forward like this was surely because of that sliver of resolve and firmness visible through the fear.
I really do take a liking to people with courage.
"Well then, where did the Ealdorman go?"
At my question that cut straight to the point, the old man's head, which he had barely lifted, dropped again hastily.
"I-I heard he went west...! All those who could move with the Earl have left, and the majority of those remaining inside the fortress now are old folks like me, Konungr...!"
"Is that so?"
I had thought it might be possible, but to actually flee under cover of night...
Did he leave the elderly behind because he trusted the reputation of my honor? Or did he abandon them?
I didn't want to find the right answer, so I held back the sigh that was about to escape and decided to release the old man, whose neck was trembling from bowing, from his suffering.
"Lift your head now, and guide me. I do not break an oath once sworn. Everyone in this fortress, including you, shall live, and I shall not touch your property."
"Ah... thank you, thank you again...! Honored Konungr...!"
[Teolsseok!]
I had told him to lift his head, but is stubbornness the only thing that grows with age? Now he simply collapsed to the ground. I forcibly helped the old man up, and supporting him, I slowly moved my feet.
Refil and my other subordinates followed behind me, and the series of procedures that had by now become our army's custom proceeded.
The veterans accompanied the Jarls into the fortress, while the middle ranks and below began setting up encampments around the walls.
My soldiers grumbled that they were becoming more familiar with shovels than swords as time went on, but I knew well that all of it was the process of transforming from a mere warrior band into soldiers, so I felt rather proud.
On this day, Stanford, too, fell into my hands at last.
*****
Bamburgh, Jorvik, Lincoln, Stanford, Huntadun, Beodericsworth.
The eastern coast of the island of Britain was now mine.
All those cities and fortresses were strung out in a long line from north to south along the old Roman road, and they were the most important points in the east.
What that meant was that from now on, I could concentrate my full strength at a single point whenever I wished.
Of course, the situation on the island of Britain wasn't so easy that I could simply concentrate everything in one place, but looking at it simply, it was a far more favorable environment than when I had been split between Northumbria and East Anglia.
As a clear example of that, the 2nd Expeditionary Force that had finally departed from Árós no longer needed to remain on the Frankish coast, and in theory, it was even possible for them to cross the North Sea directly!
That was only in theory, though.
In practice, moving 100 longships—roughly 4,000 troops—was no small matter, and the situation here wasn't so urgent that I had to take such a gamble, so I had them safely travel through northern Frankish lands.
In any case, I had now emerged from a defensive posture and firmly seized the initiative in the situation, which meant I had a choice.
Should I draw a border here and fortify my defenses, or push forward into Mercia?
Fortifying defenses would actually make everything easier.
I could intervene in the northern affairs where Ivar and Olaf were moving in earnest, and I was also confident I could extract many concessions from Burgred of Mercia.
On the other hand.
If I chose to attack, the Mercian army that I had already faced and defeated once did not frighten me. They were numerous and fought well, but I had a force that had grown to 9,000, plus 4,000 fresh troops about to arrive.
If I fought, I would never lose.
What weighed on my mind, however, was the movement of Wessex, which lay just below Mercia.
Ælla and Osberht of Northumbria, even in their divided state, had wielded a great host of 20,000 men, and Burgred of Mercia had also commanded a force of that size.
Edmund of East Anglia was already a lion with its teeth pulled...
What I was trying to say here was that Wessex was the kingdom that had seized hegemony over Britain.
In other words, their strength was at least 20,000. It was likely more than that, and stronger.
'What should I do...?'
In the lord's chamber of Stanford, which was now mine, I drank down the expensive wine that the Ealdorman of this place had been unable to take with him in his hurry, and soon made up my mind.