107.
107.
The clearing of Leicester Castle was over in a flash.
It was not that large to begin with, and even the people who had lived there had vacated the place.
What's more, the siege, where spears and swords actually clashed, had lasted only a single day... so if the walls or somewhere on the gate was damaged, it must have been that way to begin with.
My forces had not suffered many dead or wounded, so the 6,000 troops I had originally led here remained nearly intact. Meanwhile, half of the 2,000 defenders we had taken prisoner had switched sides.
In the end, the number of troops in my hand was 7,000.
Of course, that was a rough rounding up, but it was about that many.
Therefore, I transported the remaining thousand or so prisoners—those still undecided, or who wished to return to the same Angle and Saxon cultural sphere once the war ended—to Lincoln. At the same time, I sent messengers to Djur, Guthrum, and Sigebryht, who needed to hold off Wessex further south.
I warned them that when Wessex moved, Flanders might move as well, from across the sea.
Sincerely, I was not afraid at all, but a strong premonition told me that the moment I was about to face Burgred, the enemy would make their move. So I sent another word of caution to those Jarls, all of whom were exceptionally capable.
And Artos, the brave Welsh messenger who came and went through enemy lines as if it were his own backyard, set off west once again with my message.
He carried word for Rhodri and Hásteinn, who had encountered the stubborn resistance of the fortresses positioned in western Mercia, to consider a new prey for once.
The western part of Wessex, that was.
Like Mercia, Wessex's heartland lay in the west, far from the center of its territory.
It was the perfect opponent to strike, just when they were focusing their gaze eastward to keep me in check. What was more, there were people in the west of Wessex who had poor relations with their Saxon friends.
Those were none other than the people of Cornwall.
Having finished all the groundwork, the 7,000 troops, fully recharged after washing, eating, sleeping well, and treating their wounds, finally received the information brought by the scouts and marched out of the castle.
The army of 10,000, led by Burgred Cyning of Mercia, was approaching across those hills.
*****
Tamworth, the city of the Angles built beside the River Tame.
Usually, the famous cities of the island of Britain shared the common trait of having been founded by old Rome, but Tamworth in Mercia was not one of them.
Though it was, in truth, built upon a Roman road.
Anyway, from that city—which sat on the eastern side of the River Tame, a name meaning 'dark'—it was all open grassland once you crossed a few shallow streams.
There was no restriction at all on a large army maneuvering or fighting.
For Burgred Cyning of Mercia, it must have been a choice he had no option but to make.
If he marched south out of Tamworth to link up with Wessex, Leicester's position, which sat squarely blocking that route, would have been far too troublesome.
If things went wrong, his rear could be struck, and if I made a truly bold decision, he was close enough that I could burn Tamworth, his capital, to the ground while he was away.
As the lord of Mercia, not a vassal of Wessex, the only choice left to him was to fight me.
Tamworth's defenses were not so formidable, and if he stayed cowering at his home base, he could no longer ignore the screams of his nobles rising from the west.
I sometimes mix it up myself, but the kings of this world are not the absolute monarchs of Northeast Asia who enjoy omnipotent power.
To put it very roughly, they are closer to the politicians of the 21st century.
The difference is, if they lose an election or are ousted for any reason, death comes swiftly.
Thus, on a nameless plain between Leicester and Tamworth, Burgred's army and mine stood facing each other in a standoff.
10,000 from Mercia versus 7,000 Northmen.
Considering that 1,000 of my 7,000 were half the 2,000-strong garrison that had surrendered at Leicester, I had no choice but to marvel at Mercia's strength.
'A last stand, perhaps? The morale of the Mercian warriors is higher than I thought. Their weapons and armor are all properly equipped, too...'
Facing them like this only reinforced my conviction that my judgment was correct.
The thought that when the chance came, I had to settle the kingdoms of Britain.
The more time I gave them, the more threatening they would become.
"Konungr. A rider is charging out from their camp. Under a white flag."
Ubba, the most sharp-eyed among my commanders—who had been quietly observing the enemy formation and planning the battle—spoke to me in a low voice.
This stubborn brother, much like Björn in that sense, would never treat me casually on formal occasions like this.
He always addressed me respectfully as 'Konungr' and chose his words carefully. It was like watching a fox, but he was also a pillar of strength, so I left him to it.
"A messenger? Don't tell me Burgred also wants a sacred duel?"
I spoke half in jest, thinking of the previous cases of Edmund Cyning of East Anglia and Ealdorman Ceolwulf of Leicester, and laughter blossomed around me.
"Haha! Surely not, Konungr. In daring to stand against you like this, it seems Burgred is thankfully no coward... but him facing the Konungr directly is a completely different story."
"To face the Konungr directly would be no different from suicide!"
The conqueror and the conquered.
Oleg and Leofric were a duo who got along surprisingly well. As they shook their heads vigorously at my words and made a fuss, the Jarls and guards around them dissolved into another round of laughter.
It made one wonder, weren't they a little too relaxed before a battle? But this was, in fact, the very identity of us Northmen. To an outsider, it might seem almost cynical—this total detachment in the face of death, forever seeking song and laughter.
Death is like the wind. It is always beside me.
... That was a line I had heard somewhere before.
Anyway, amid the unashamed boisterousness of the Northmen before battle, Leofric, the hunter from the Fens, and my excellent rangers naturally blended in. They were slated to be used as specialist archers in the rear for this battle.
While my infantry line was, in practice, a hybrid troop type that could use spears, swords, and bows to some extent, the seventy-odd rangers of Huntadun were specialists of the longbow.
They would be a great help.
"Burgred seems to want a parley, so we shall have to oblige him. Refil, send our own messenger to meet theirs and find out what it is he wishes to say."
"Yes! Konungr."
Refil, who had been reliable from the start but was now growing ever more capable, moved swiftly, and soon a rider bearing a white flag shot out from our camp as well.
"Hyah!"
[Purrrrrruk—! Dagak! Dagak! Dagr-dak! Dagr-dak!]
While the Jarls took that chance to size up the enemy once more, I slowly scanned the enemy formation again, from left to right.
'Left, right, center. A textbook deployment with the most strength in the center. Judging by the ratio, it's 3:4:3.'
How should I smash that?
Where should I strike to make it collapse in one blow?
You cannot tell that by looking from afar. This is precisely why a formation is so important—because if you grab peasants who know nothing, throw armor on them, stick spears and shields in their hands, and roughly line them up in ranks, they can look very convincing.
That was why the role of the cavalry I would lead in this battle was crucial.
Ordinarily, in the world of the right-handed, even an army's formation is weaker on the left. So I planned to start with the enemy's left wing and ride toward their right, examining their formation.
I would then exploit the weak point I found.
'Usually, they say to play it safe when you're outnumbered...'
If anyone sensed something strange in my words, they must be a person with a keen tactical eye.
Yes, I was now thinking of an attack, despite being outnumbered.
Compared to defense, the sole advantage of the attack is that you can move proactively. But that single advantage is truly crucial.
Especially when I led the army in person.
[Dagr-dak— Dagr-dak—!]
Beyond my sight, where I had just finished reviewing the army's operation, the messengers who had met as each other's proxies turned their backs and returned to their camps.
A brown horse and the man on it came running with a light rhythm.
Refil, having heard the messenger's report, soon approached me. Bearing the gazes of the Jarls gathered around me, he then relayed its contents.
"The one leading the Mercian army is indeed Burgred Cyning, Konungr."
The Konungr and the assembled Jarls all nodded in unison. The scratch-scratch sound was the transcription of Jarl Leon, who had brought his writing tools even here. (I had officially granted him the title of Jarl. An honorary position without a jarldom, of course.)
"Good, what did Burgred say?"
"Well, that is..."
As if having heard something unexpected, Refil hesitated a moment. Unable to resist the demands of the countless eyes fixed on him, he had no choice but to confess the message.
"He proposed that even if they are to fight, how about the Cyning and Konungr of both sides meet face to face first..."
"Hmm?"
It seems the nobles of Mercia must have read too many heroic epics.
Was this some mass onset of adolescence?
"A strange man, this Cyning of Mercia!"
"There is no harm in it, is there? Anyone would want to see the Konungr's heroic bearing with their own eyes. Even if he is an enemy!"
"I can guarantee that! In truth, the main reason I went in person as an envoy for surrender was my great desire to see the famed Northern Dragon with my own eyes!"
... Don't say that as if it's something to be proud of, Leofric.
Amid the murmuring Jarls, I pondered what trick this might be and habitually stretched my neck this way and that, tilting my head up. I soon looked at the sun above our heads.
'... The sun? The sun. Could this be it, Burgred?'
Since we had moved out early and blocked the enemy, it was still morning.
Burgred, it seemed, had wanted to buy time to gain even the slightest advantage. At the very least, he would have hoped the sun wouldn't be in their eyes.
Fortunately, the terrain favored me a little more this time as well. Though there was hardly any slope, I still had a gentle downhill before me.
'Is a greeting even appropriate between those who have already crossed swords once, Burgred? We'll exchange greetings a little later.'
"Refil! Ubba! Oleg! We advance!"
"—So that the meeting— ... Yes! Pardon?"
The Jarls wore looks of astonishment at my sudden shout directed at the commanders leading our army's left, right, and center respectively.
Regardless, my body and mind, having sensed the coming battle, had already flipped the switch.
"Leofric! The archers are all yours! Follow Ubba's command, but act according to your own judgment!"
"Yes, yes! Konungr!"
"Thorbjörn! What is the status of the riders!"
"Hel's Wolves await only the Konungr's command, as always!"
"Good! Stórolf! Raise the banner high! Sound the horns! Jarls! Warriors! The hour of battle has come! Make haste! Now is the time for us to fight!"
"Yes! Konungr!"
"Understood!"
The atmosphere changed in an instant, but the confusion lasted only a moment.
The Jarls and the warriors beneath them, already accustomed to my style of command, began the advance without any particular upheaval.
[Buuuuuu— uuuuuung—!]
"Raise your shields! Raise your spears! Forward!"
"Follow the ranks! Focus on the center's signals!"
[Buuuuuu— uung— uung—]
"Left wing! Advance! Do not lose sight of the center!"
"Right wing! Advance!"
The sound of horns resounded all at once.
At the same time, the spirit of my soldiers, stepping forward like a machine, blazed up like a wildfire.
"Let's go! Camembert!"
[Purrrrrruk—!]
Camembert, my faithful steed who read his master's intent, moved his legs without me having to apply any real force. Behind him, Stórolf and the rest of my riders followed.
Ubba was commanding from the center, while Refil and Oleg had each ridden off to the left and right wings.
Facing the wind that pleasantly grazed my face, my cavalry of about 150 men and I rode toward the far left flank of our extended battle line.
[Dugu— dugu— dugu— dugu—]
A large-scale maneuver, whose very sound differed from riding alone.
Soon, within my excellent field of view, I sensed the enemy also advancing in response to our army's sudden movement.
Beyond their long line of battle, a line of horsemen was tracking us.
'Where did they get horses again?'
I had clearly annihilated them all.
'It matters little. I shall kill them one more time.'
Beyond my sharpened eyes, our battle line soon halted first, and then countless arrows embroidered the sky.