110.
[This is part 2/2. Continue translating exactly where you left off, maintaining all previous rules and narrative flow.]
110.
Clearing a battlefield was perhaps more arduous than the fighting itself.
There was a slight exaggeration in that, but I meant it was difficult to that degree.
The hardest part, above all else, was collecting the bodies of comrades with whom you had been laughing face-to-face just the evening before, salvaging usable equipment, and burying those heavy, lifeless bodies in the ground.
From the battlefield, it was half a day's journey to Leicester in the direction of Örn, and half a day to the left to Tamworth.
So the men who had marched out from their respective cities labored heavily to clear the field.
The Catholics were buried under the direction of a Catholic priest, and my warriors under the hands of those led by a priest of Hel, each according to their own rites.
That priest of Hel was none other than Haldis.
She was the messenger my mother sent on the very day I first seized Northumbria, and in rough Catholic terms, the 'head of the Brittonic diocese of the Hel faith'.
I was very glad to see her, as she was a priestess I had known since childhood. But the priests of Hel, who all had a somewhat rigid side to them, were each devoted to their assigned duties. After exchanging simple greetings, I had to go right back to the king's work.
I needed to speak with the captured Cyning and decide the future of Mercia.
Thus, on one side of the nameless hill, the work for the dead was in full swing, while on the hilltop overlooking the whole scene, the high lords held a council for the days the living yet had to face.
Using the word 'council' made it sound rather grand, but it was more accurately a proceeding to pronounce judgment on a captured enemy king and his subordinates.
The Mercian Ealdormen and Burgred Cyning, knowing this well, sat in the appointed places with gloomy faces, while the faces of my Jarls, sitting on the side that had swung the blades, bloomed with smiles.
"Now, just a few days past we sought to cross swords and take each other's lives. But now we sit face to face to discuss peace. So, let us reach a conclusion to this war."
With me sitting at the highest seat, the Mercian dignitaries, including Burgred, were to my left, and my subordinates were on the Örn side.
Naturally, the people of contrasted moods all nodded their heads at once in agreement.
"I will be direct, Burgred Cyning. You have two choices."
He had not expected his name to be called so suddenly. Burgred's head, which had been deliberately avoiding my gaze from the moment he surrendered, lifted up.
A haggard face. Even more haggard eyes.
'I could not possibly know that heart.'
'Nor do I ever wish to know it.'
"First, lay everything down and go to Árós. There, you and your family will receive treatment befitting the rank of Jarl."
The dark circles under his haggard eyes seemed to deepen even more.
I continued speaking.
"Second, take as much of your wealth, your family, and your people as you can carry, and go wherever you wish. Those under my command will not stop you."
"...There is no choice in which I remain here."
Burgred's voice, which I heard for the first time in days, was in even worse condition than his haggard face and eyes.
A rough voice, like looking upon rice paddies cracked and split from a long drought.
I had surely permitted him meat and drink to his heart's content. The wound to his spirit seemed far greater than I had thought.
Yet, no matter how wretched Burgred's plight might be, it could not be a matter for political or diplomatic consideration.
I had to remain cold. It would be better for Burgred and his people that way.
"Look here, Burgred Cyning."
"..."
At my low voice calling his former title, Burgred lifted his head with effort and met my eyes.
His pupils were so deeply sunken that only sorrow and fear were visible, but I was not one to trust people easily by nature.
"If you remain here, some man will inevitably appear and whisper foolish thoughts into your ear, and then we will have no choice but to repeat this whole process again."
"..."
"Even if that were not so, let me ask you in turn. If you had captured me and, rather than killing me outright, had arranged a council like this, what words would you have spoken?"
Would I not have been fortunate to escape being hanged on a cross and burned at once?
Only then did Burgred realize how great a mercy this was, and his two eyes sank downward, descending into an even deeper gloom.
"... May I, may I have a little time to think, Helgi Konungr."
To Burgred's question, now fully aware of his position, I answered that he could, and I informed him that his entire family would be summoned here.
The battle in East Anglia, the first cavalry engagement, the hellish forest march, and the recent fight.
They were all difficult battles. After the great advances I had made since returning from the Eastern Roman Empire, I had secretly thought there would be no equal to me in this Britain.
It had been harder than I thought.
Many had fallen, and many had been crippled.
All warriors I must embrace and bear.
Thinking of them, I honestly would not have felt my anger eased even if I had killed the lords and king of Mercia with a single stroke right there. But I was not that kind of king.
By showing them mercy, I would change the culture of this land from Angle to Norse.
And so Burgred must leave this place.
My kingdom had no need for a rallying point for the refugees of this island, a hope for rebels.
Like Edmund of East Anglia, he would have to choose.
'Come to think of it, Edmund succeeded in his vengeance. I wonder, does he still dream of revenge against me as well?'
Along the long table where silence had settled, with the Jarls and Ealdormen on either side watching my mood, I soon began to pass judgment on the Eorls of Mercia as well.
"The master of this land is now Helgi Ragnarsson. All things under him... people, land, wind, water, even lives, are all utterly mine. The names of gods shall not stand before my rule. If there is any man here who cannot agree to this, I will gladly send him away. I will guarantee as much wealth as you can carry, and the lives of all your families.
So, choose."
Would you leave, rejecting the order I would establish? Or would you submit and remain beneath it?
Amid the boisterous sound of eyes rolling about, I decided to give them time also. The period would last until the arrival of Burgred's wife here.
*****
AD 867, the third month of summer, the second week, Thor's Day.
Dover, in the domain of Wessex.
The Ealdorman of Dover, Eadbert, found it all too much to bear.
'I am simply too old to be dealing with such things now...'
His only son, born to him late in life, pretended not to, but inwardly seemed to covet this seat of Ealdorman. But Eadbert in his heart wished he could tell the boy to cast such thoughts aside at once.
The office of Ealdorman of Dover was, in ordinary times, a fine post that brought in a bit of unofficial income and allowed one to handle rare goods...
But in times like these, when the world was running mad, it was the perfect position to get killed.
While his immature son dreamed of gaining experience in the Cyning's direct guard and swung his wooden sword and shield even today, Eadbert himself had to stand against this sea wind for the sake of his family's survival.
'First, it was the common rabble of raiders, then that ferocious and cunning Ragnar Sigurdsson, and then... Helgi Ragnarsson.'
Helgi Ragnarsson.
To be honest, now that I can speak of it, the one who had once stood beside him, acting all friendly—Helgi Ragnarsson's brother, Ivar Ragnarsson—had been far more terrifying when I first met him.
In all my long years serving as the Ealdorman of Dover, the gateway to this island of Britain, I had met countless people, but that peculiar aura Ivar Ragnarsson exuded was something I never wished to experience a second time.
On the other hand, Helgi Ragnarsson, who has by now already ascended beyond legend into the ranks of myth, had been, at that time, a Norseman of terrifyingly huge stature but with a surprisingly gentle look in his eyes.
'That just means my eye for people has gone completely blind... It's a sign my time is coming.'
Only two years ago, he had been a green young Norse Jarl learning under a seasoned brother-raider. Yet now, he was a fearsome Cyning who had brought the mighty Northumbria to its knees, swallowed East Anglia, and was even setting his sights on Mercia just above... No. Was it Konungr?
Yes, had he not become a Konungr?
'If even Mercia were to fall...'
It was such an impious and horrible assumption that Eadbert had to quickly raise his hand and cross himself.
Yet, whether he prayed or not, his brain, which did not listen, began its own speculations and calculations, and his mind, still boasting quick-witted performance, produced a negative answer.
That conclusion was that if Mercia was devoured too, Wessex alone would be hard-pressed to stand against them.
'What on earth is to be done about this...'
"Hoo—"
A foreign sensation was felt between the fingers wiping across his face.
The ring that the dangerous Norse warlord, Ivar Ragnarsson, had given him.
This amber ring, engraved with an unknown pattern, was clearly precious at a glance, and everyone who saw it for the first time was always busy asking its origin.
'If the moment of choice draws near, what will you do? Eadbert.'
The old Ealdorman posed the question to himself, stroking the pattern that somehow felt sacred.
He thought that all the lords of Wessex were probably asking themselves this same question now.
Even their Cyning, Æthelred, too.
"Ealdorman! Ealdorman!"
Just as he was about to continue his thoughts, a man running up from the docks below the hill in the distance cut off his musings.
"Ships! It's not just one or two! Ships are coming!"
"Ships!? Are they more longships of the Northmen!?"
Though I had grown somewhat accustomed to it by now, I still had nightmares on foggy days, of dragon heads suddenly appearing through the mist.
It was said that no more raiding had occurred since Helgi Ragnarsson's appearance, but old-timers like myself still carried the old memories.
However, the report of the guard who had come running with his equipment clattering was telling a different story.
"They are not longships of the Northmen! Uh— they are similar, but larger and without dragon heads! Instead, they were bearing crosses!"
'Crosses?'
Ah—.
So the reason I had been gazing endlessly at the sea, lost in thought, had finally shown itself.
When Cyning Æthelred, who had taken little interest in this place, had suddenly ordered us to welcome guests along with supplies.
Was it them?
"Indeed. It seems our Frankish friends are arriving. Then we, too, must prepare to receive our guests. Ring the bells."
"Yes! Ealdorman!"
I'll be busy again.
I pray they do not bring blood with them this time.
The aged yet dutiful nobleman slowly rose to his feet.
*****
Since I had no intention of entering Tamworth before all problems were resolved, the encampment situated beside the battlefield had unintentionally grown larger and larger by the day.
It had already been five days since the battle ended.
Fighting was fighting, but anyway, the countless people gathered here had to eat and live, so merchants naturally followed.
And following the merchants, bards came in, women came in, and even mountain folk from gods-know-where, curious if some great event had occurred, hovered around.
With the great battle over and a general reading of the mood suggesting the war here was also winding down.
The warriors, who had a keener nose for these things than anyone, gradually began to start a revel, and naturally, the atmosphere grew relaxed.
Yet this was by no means a bad thing. Rather, it was closer to a movement to self-treat the mental fatigue and problems like PTSD, which clearly existed in this era as well.
I would have to put a brake on it if it got too severe, but I planned to let it be for now. Because even if it looked like they were just playing and loafing around, most of those who now fought under my command could be called veterans.
Truly, they had followed me around and fought in a packed, intense manner over a short period.
Many died, but many were also injured, and all of them, if they wished, would become instructors. Those who did not must be sent back to their homes with ample wealth to spend the rest of their lives.
The massive funeral rites, conducted under the command of Hel's Priest, Haldis, were held with the participation of every Norseman present here.
Just like the grave of my father in Northumbria and the graves of our warriors who fell there.
Here too, we gathered large stones and arranged them in the shape of a longship.
Before them, the name of Goddess Hel came most frequently from the lips of those quietly praying for the repose of the dead, though the names of Odin and Freyja were spoken as well.
And so, all those honored dead entered their rest.
"So, have you reached a decision now?"
Another two days passed while handling these significant matters.
Burgred's wife, Æthelswith, and their family, who had finally arrived here, spent an entire night sharing both the joy of reunion and the sorrow of defeat.
Now it was time to give an answer.
"Yes. Konungr. I thank you once again for the mercy you have shown to me, my family, and the people of this land."
Burgred's complexion as he answered my question looked somehow at ease.
I had seen such a face once before...
"You asked me once before. If our positions were reversed, what would I have done... I would have beheaded you without hesitation. Helgi Konungr."
There was Burgred, looking somehow transcendent, and Æthelswith sitting demurely beside him with her hands folded.
True to what I had heard, she was a beauty, but compared to Inga... she was but a firefly before the sun.
"Is that so? I am fortunate to have won, then."
"Haha. Though you might not be curious, the reason is precisely because you are too strong."
Perhaps she had felt my gaze, as Æthelswith lifted only her head slightly from her demure pose to look into my eyes, her gaze as steadfast as a pine tree.
'Ah, this is a person whose appearance is not her whole being. She has eyes of steel.'
So it was this person's strength that had allowed Burgred to regain his senses so quickly.
"I have heard the other name the Northmen call you. Helgi 'Sterk' Ragnarsson... I and my people will leave this place."
At the sight of Burgred closing his eyes, I bade him to do so.
And the next day, the city that had long served as the heart of Mercia, Tamworth, welcomed a new master.