114.
114.
The night assault that took place on Cynwit Hill.
Ealdorman Odda of Devon and the men of Devon who fought under him were brave, but
this world was not a film, and reality did not give much extra credit to courage.
The result of Hásteinn and his forces firmly blocking them and Artos of Cymry rushing in from behind was truly despairing for the Saxons of Devon,
for Oda of Devon, who had lost the bulk of his forces on that accursed hill, barely managed to escape with his life; of the four thousand warriors, those who fell in just one battle numbered a thousand and those captured another thousand.
Hásteinn and Artos, who had gained Devon in a single battle after landing, sat down there in a dazed state, but unfortunately, Wessex's crisis did not end there.
Cornwall in western Wessex, with Rhodri of Cymry acting as a bridge after receiving Helgi Ragnarsson's proposal, even began to rise up.
The center of Wessex, the royal court at Winchester, had turned into a funeral-like atmosphere as such tumultuous tidings flew in incessantly.
And there was also a disquiet of its own being staged here.
It was because of the awkward silence between Margrave Boudewijn of Flanders, who had crossed the sea in the name of reinforcements, the Cyning of Wessex Æthelred, and his brother Alfred.
'Truly, this is dreadful.'
The savior who appeared in Flanders, where being plundered and scorned by Norse raiders and neighboring Frankish kinsmen had been a daily occurrence.
'Iron Arm' Boudewijn scratched his arm, whose muscles were bulging as if they would burst out of his flesh at any moment.
[beokbeok-]
It should have been a similar region, but perhaps because of the feel, the British summer was somehow more humid, itchy, and irritating.
Already irritable enough to die, Boudewijn, displeased even with this damned weather, was unconsciously displaying behavior unbefitting a noble's dignity.
But in truth, the weather was a secondary matter; there was another reason Boudewijn felt so awkward.
It was the Saxon Cyning and his brother, who were sitting in the same space and, like himself, examining the ceiling pattern or staring out the window, doing their utmost to feign indifference.
All this problem stemmed from his own wife.
Judith.
A man's man who never spoke with a forked tongue. The finest warrior Flanders had ever witnessed. Boudewijn's first love and lifelong lover.
The daughter of Karl, the Kuning of West Frankia.
Above all, the woman who had been the wife of Wessex's Cyning before last, Æthelwulf, and at the same time the wife of the previous Cyning Æthelbald, who was Æthelwulf's son.
In other words, this meant that the current Cyning of Wessex, Æthelred, who was Æthelwulf's son and Æthelbald's younger brother, was family with Boudewijn.
'The son of my wife's ex-husband before last, and the younger brother of her former husband...'
Boudewijn truly loved his wife, Judith.
Judith must love him too. Why else would that noble princess of the Franks have eloped with him, the son of an insignificant house?
The memory of helping her escape from the monastery was still vivid: they had crossed forests and rivers while evading the Kuning's pursuers, clung tightly with anxious hearts, felt each other's warmth every night, and nurtured their love even more.
If Hrørekr of Dorestad, whom he had sought out after many twists and turns, had not helped him out of friendship for his predecessor, he would surely have been captured and killed by his furious father-in-law, Kuning Karl.
His father-in-law had raged, "Even a man is pointed at for marrying three times, how can a woman marry three times!" but... honestly, Boudewijn himself saw no problem with it.
Judith was beautiful and wise.
Because of that, his fearsome father-in-law the Kuning had bestowed upon him the abandoned land of Flanders and commanded him to repel all Norsemen who came there.
This was tantamount to telling him to die, but Boudewijn, with his innate strength and the help of Jarl Hrørekr, had been able to defend Flanders by fighting, and at times cooperating with, the Northmen.
While thus gradually establishing order in the lawless wasteland of Flanders and developing it to the point where it deserved the name of a fief, a command had come from his father-in-law that he absolutely could not refuse...
That command was to cross the sea, aid Wessex, and drive out the Northmen.
Boudewijn, who understood the Norsemen better than anyone among the lords of West Frankia, his father-in-law's realm, and those of Lotharingia, East Frankia, and Italy ruled by his nephews and brothers, immediately sensed that this was yet another assassination plot.
No doubt about it!
Who was the lord of the Northmen who had entered this Britain now?
None other than that dragon of Northumbria, Helgi Ragnarsson.
Helgi Ragnarsson!
There were so many tales about him that one had to take them with a grain of salt, but one thing was certain: he was a Konungr whom one must never face on the battlefield.
Thus, upon hearing of this, his wife Judith, saying her father was going too far, had tears welling in her lovely eyes.
That evening, as Boudewijn and Judith were drinking with torn hearts, the messenger who had delivered the Kuning's letter secretly appeared before them.
"The Kuning does not wish for the Margrave's death. Now he wishes for the Margrave and the princess to be happy. He has already forgiven you in his heart, but he asks you to convey his apologies that he cannot grant an official pardon because he is mindful of the eyes of the church and the people."
The story that came through the messenger's mouth soon untangled the resentment and self-reproach that had been knotted in Boudewijn and Judith's hearts.
Judith, who had always felt guilty toward her father during their time together, shed tears, and Boudewijn himself, offering prayers to the Lord, also let a tear roll down his firm jaw.
But the messenger's words did not end there.
"The Kuning wishes you, Margrave, to cross to Wessex for now. However, what actually needs to be done is of a nature entirely different from the surface reason."
To his question of what that was, the Kuning's deep scheming, conveyed through the messenger's lips, was extremely cold-blooded.
It was, namely, that rather than considering the circumstances of Wessex, which now had no reason at all to be saved since the marriage alliance was already over, he was to convey a willingness to cooperate to the one who was already rising as the new master of the North Sea.
That was to send greetings from the true master of the Franks to Helgi Ragnarsson.
Since ancient times, a king sending greetings to another king had borne a meaning beyond a simple greeting.
Only then did Boudewijn realize that Wessex had already left the Kuning's heart.
"Whether the Ealdorman of Devon is alive or dead, we cannot know now, but what is certain is that our west is now exposed to the enemy's direct attack."
A voice broke the uncomfortable silence.
Boudewijn had to suppress the urge to casually say, 'I see, son.'
In such a serious situation, a tasteless joke like that could have provoked a knife fight.
Genealogically speaking, could he not become a stepfather? At the same time, he was also a brother-in-law.
"Odda made a foolish choice. But at the same time, he bought time for the people of Devon to evacuate. So it's hard to view it as a complete failure."
In the misfortune, it was fortunate that although the four thousand warriors of Devon were annihilated in an instant, the people of Devon had safely fled to Somerset to the east.
If they joined forces with Somerset's warriors, they could not defeat the enemy but could certainly hold them off.
Unlike Devon, Somerset had fortresses with high walls.
However, as Alfred said, it would be inevitable to organize forces to counter the Cornish, the Welsh, and the Northmen who were active in western Wessex.
This made it even harder to deal with the Northmen pushing in from the north and east, so Æthelred swallowed a groan and rubbed his temple.
'If I negotiate, how much must I concede?'
In the mind of Boudewijn, who had crossed the sea with two thousand warriors of Flanders, battle had already ceased to exist.
And it would be no different for the two sons sitting before him.
Æthelred, who had been silently rubbing his temple, spoke with difficulty, his face much more haggard than just a few days ago.
"I must negotiate with the Konungr of those Northmen. Alfred, are the troops ready."
"Yes, Cyning. The warriors of Wessex are ready."
"Understood. Then we must move at once. We cannot fight on three fronts. We must hurry."
"Yes, Cyning!"
Seeing Alfred answer vigorously, Æthelred seemed to regain strength and immediately turned his gaze to Boudewijn.
"What will you do, Margrave? My brother and I are going to face their Konungr. Will you join us?"
His tone was markedly cautious.
This was likely not simply an attitude taken because Boudewijn was a subordinate of Karl King.
The other side was also well aware, of Judith's presence...
"Of course, Æthelred Cyning. I came to help, so I cannot just sit idly and drain your granary. I will join you."
"Thank you for your help, Margrave."
"You're most welcome."
"..."
With that exchange ended, the uncomfortable silence returned once more.
Under the suffocating awkwardness, this strange father-son relationship hastily dispersed.
*****
The eight thousand troops who had left Tamworth marched south along well-maintained roads for two days.
On the way, they stopped at small villages and one large castle.
With Burgred Cyning's order to surrender already spreading throughout Mercia, there was no place that denied my rule.
The ealdormen, who would now be called Jarl, all came out to the castle gate to greet me, and they swore anew before the names of their gods and my god.
As I had done in Northumbria and East Anglia, I let those who wanted to leave go, and accepted those who wished to stay.
With but one iron rule: the principle that no name could come before my rule.
The Catholic dominance in Britain was not as strong as I had thought, and with old traditions and customs still remaining here and there, there was no great resistance.
Of course, it also helped that the priests, whom I had expected to foam at the mouth and rush at me, had all either followed Burgred and left or headed to Wessex just below...
In any case, after walking so smoothly along the road, we arrived somewhere near Wælingford.
This castle, situated on the upper reaches of the famous River Thames, could be seen as the border between Wessex and Mercia.
A castle built with the river on its left to block enemies descending from above.
Its size aside, like many castles in Britain, one side was blocked by the river, making it a truly troublesome castle to siege.
To take it, I would have to either surround it on four sides with a large force and starve them out, as with Jorvik, or climb the walls myself.
'I felt like I was becoming more of a human weapon as I went along.'
A strategic weapon, Helgi Ragnarsson.
Was that not a name with a deep resonance?
I had reached such a level. I had gained certainty when I took Leicester Castle.
Anyway, the sight of the castle beside the proudly flowing River Thames was rather scenic, so I watched my warriors begin to set up camp in front of it and started waiting for guests.
Those I awaited were the Cyning of Wessex and the Margrave of Flanders, who had crossed the sea.
"In Britain's renowned castles, traces remain in the records, great Konungr."
"That would be so, Leon. After all, your ancestors lived here, did they not."
"Ha ha. My family never left Athens, but broadly speaking, it is so. Seeing the traces of the old empire—the square walls, the way they were built, the roads...—brings me great joy and also sadness as one who lives in the present empire..."
Unlike his usual lively self, the Roman Leon became momentarily sentimental.
Strictly speaking, this Anglo-Saxon country would be no different from an enemy to him. From a Northeast Asian perspective, were they not barbarians!
Of course, it's not for me, the chief of barbarians, to say...
Wasn't the Kingdom of Gwynedd, now called Cymry, also descended from the Romans? Once, they were all Roman provinces together.
Of course, it was all the karma of the Roman Empire.
I could not help but feel once more the futility of empires.
"There is no such thing as an eternal empire, Leon."
"Indeed, indeed it is so."
Then what of my kingdom?
What would become of this land, already too large to be called a kingdom?
Could I change a fate with a predetermined answer?
The precariously standing Wælingford and the River Thames flowing proudly beside it.
That River Thames must have flowed proudly somewhere here before Rome came, before humans lived.
Gazing at the dark blue river water, my thoughts grew deeper and deeper.