115.
115.
Wælingford, Wessex.
Not a single signpost marked the spot, but everyone knew this was the border between Mercia and Wessex.
[Piiiiiik-]
Even that lone hawk in the vast sky, having left its nest for the hunt, would have been able to look down from that wide heaven and recognize that one mass of humans and another mass of humans stood at opposite points from each other.
To the memories of my past life, accustomed to the perspective of Northeast Asia, eight thousand warriors might have seemed somewhat lacking, but in truth, an army of this size was by no means a small number.
Especially when the one leading them was me, Helgi Ragnarsson.
On the upper reaches of the River Thames, which flowed with a black hue true to its name, where soft grasses grew here and there making the land perfect for horses to frolic, my warriors and I had thoroughly established our encampment.
As all of this was ultimately an extension of battle, my warriors had to take turns constantly working their shovels.
And the result was a camp completed to a standard that even Leon, my subordinate who came from that highly sophisticated Eastern Rome, could admire.
Given the maddening nature of this region where the sun might blaze bright when you started breakfast but torrential rain would pour down by the time you finished, we could never build camp right beside the river, so even if it placed us a bit farther from the fortress, we took position on a broad patch of high ground with reasonably solid foundation.
Most importantly, we dug out thick drainage ditches, then sectioned off the area to pitch tents and erect a palisade.
All of these materials had been prepared in advance, so the speed was such that all the work could be finished within half a day.
If we had put in just a little more effort, we could have built not just a palisade camp but an outright timber fortress... but I decided not to go that far.
If my calculations were correct, this standoff with Wessex would not last long anyway.
And just as I expected, the news I had been waiting for began to pour in one after another soon after.
First, Hásteinn and our Cymry friends in the west had accomplished their mission beyond my expectations.
The occupation of Devon, which could be considered the western march of Wessex.
This held great significance in itself, but from a more strategic view, it had secured a foothold for the Cornish forces, who had answered my request and were awaiting their opportunity, to pass through. Æthelred's mind must have reeled for a moment when he heard this news.
The second was the news from the east.
Halfdan, having crossed the rough seas aboard my specially commissioned ships, had advanced without hesitation.
Not only Sigebryht, who was tasked with supporting this new army, but also Guthrum and Djur would join him to threaten Lundenwic in Wessex.
However, like Canterbury of the Kingdom of Kent I had seen before, Lundenwic was a strategic hub and fortress that Old Rome had poured its heart into constructing...
Halfdan's four thousand, plus the three thousand that Sigebryht, Guthrum, and Djur had squeezed out as best they could—a combined force of seven thousand—would find it hard to assail such a stronghold.
But, as they were operating on my eastern flank for convenience's sake, this force we would call the Eastern Army was by no means the main thrust.
The main force was always where I was.
Right here, Wælingford.
If negotiations with Wessex were blocked by absurd conditions or deemed a mere stalling tactic, I was determined to push past that fortress and drive all the way down to Winchester.
'Then one of us will truly die.'
Hoping dearly that such a thing would not happen, I was waiting for Leofric and Oleg, who had gone out hunting promising to treat me to a special meal, when a loud shout rang out from the watchtower set up far in the distance.
"Konungr—! A rider waving a white flag is approaching from the fortress!"
It seemed the guests I had been waiting for had finally arrived.
*****
After several messengers had shuttled back and forth between each other's camps, the conference was set to take place in the central zone.
As it was attended by the Konungr and Cyning of the two mightiest powers in present-day Britain, the number of guards was large and the attendants many, but...
Such things held no meaning.
"Is the cloth brought from Rome prepared?"
"Yes! Jarl Ubba!"
"And the golden cups and arm rings?"
"All accounted for without exception!"
"Good. The Konungr shall advance wearing the cloak gifted to him by the Roman Emperor himself. Let no guard bring shame upon the Konungr, and you shall personally inspect the condition of the gifts once more—"
'...When did he even bring that?'
...Perhaps, it had no meaning only for me.
I had left Refil, who was steadily growing into a consummate general, in Tamworth which I had now made my direct holding in Mercia, and appointed Ubba as my second-in-command, and this cold-natured brother had begun to display a truly mechanical work efficiency.
From forming the camp to standing watch, and now even diplomatic affairs.
It was a passage that showed me how Ubba had been able to keep Jorvik under his thumb during my absence.
My honest feeling was that this was a style of working that blew things far too out of proportion, a somewhat exhausting style...
I would have to make time later to have a talk with Ubba. I ought to pass on some of my own know-how, like 'methods for putting myself down a bit,' or 'how to give your subordinates not just workload dumping— I mean, how to give them trust. The art of trust.'
If he worked like a madman like that, he wouldn't live a long life, just like Chancellor Zhuge.
In any case, thanks to the efforts of the mad workaholic and my subordinates, whose military discipline was pulled taut for the sake of the Konungr's dignity as he went to face the enemy king, the conference chamber—lacking only a carpet, otherwise no different from the ceremonies I had seen in Eastern Rome—was finally revealed, and I led Camembert toward it.
The faces of Leon and his disciples, who were recording all of this, were even more excited than mine, looking as if they might dash off somewhere at any moment, but...
All such things were of no importance after all.
What mattered were the two men standing before me right now.
[Purrrruk-]
"Well done. Camembert."
[Pruk- purrrruk!]
Clearly a possessor of abnormal intelligence, my clever horse inclined his head toward me once and then backed away from the spot on his own.
The Saxon and the Frank who had come out to greet me tried hard to conceal it, but they were giving off a palpable thread of tension visible to my eyes.
'This one is Æthelred Cyning. And that one must be the famed 'Iron Arm'.'
I could tell just from looking at their builds.
The Margrave of the Franks, Boudewijn, had a naturally large frame and the physique of a warrior who had never neglected his long training. The Cyning of Wessex, Æthelred, had trained in martial arts but not with such earnestness, and the darkness in the corners of his face spoke of recent heavy stress.
The time of tacitly sizing each other up came to an end, and at last I spoke with a smile upon my lips.
"Æthelred Cyning, Margrave Boudewijn. It seems the heavens themselves bless our meeting. Just as the warm weather of this summer day, let us strive to see today's conference between us bloom into a favorable outcome."
When fluent Latin, neither the tongue of the North nor the tongue of the Saxons nor the tongue of the Franks, flowed from my lips, a glint of interest appeared in the eye of Æthelred of Wessex, while the pupils of Boudewijn of the Franks shook violently.
'What, this fellow... doesn't know Latin well...?'
That was possible.
I was not a man who scorned others for not knowing their letters.
Stepping closer to the two men standing still, I this time spoke to Boudewijn in the Frankish tongue.
"Margrave Boudewijn, I too have heard your name. I have heard you are called the 'Iron Arm,' and I can well imagine how great your martial prowess must be. It would be my earnest wish that we achieve good results in today's conference."
"Ah— Konungr Helgi. Before the name of one called the Northern Dragon, what worth could my insignificant name possibly hold? I am shamed. I also hope that today's conference may end in a direction beneficial to all three of us."
Though I did not know the finer points of Frankish etiquette and custom well, I could clearly see that Boudewijn's manner was a little different from that of a stereotypical noble.
'This man came from the streets.'
I could feel the free and rebellious spirit unique to those of street origins. To meet one of the same breed here. Though, of course, I myself came from a Viking prince background.
My satisfied heart showed on my face, and as I stood with a generous smile, Æthelred Cyning's composed voice reached me.
"Konungr Helgi, though affairs in East Anglia and Mercia have caused your forces and our Wessex to take the field against each other, I hope we may swiftly correct all these misunderstandings and arrive at a result that brings mutual prosperity. And our Wessex is prepared to open its ears to any conditions, so shall we begin the conference?"
Ah— yes. This was it. This was the flavor of the nobility.
Æthelred's Latin was fluent down to each phrase, each gesture, each subtle metaphor. That meant it was precise.
Extending one arm, Æthelred pointed toward the large tent wrapped in luxurious cloth and adorned with various ornaments that served as the conference hall.
Accepting his proposal, I soon moved my steps alongside the two men.
The interior of the meeting hall, prepared solely for the three of us, soon revealed itself.
'Good god. Ubba...'
I had told him to be a little more slapdash, but he had stubbornly insisted that for the Konungr's face and prestige he absolutely could not, and this was just a bit...
"The tree is truly beautiful, Konungr."
"Haha. Do we not all come from one root originally? It is to signify that we must draw out a good result with one heart."
"Oh—. Your words carry the sincerity of the Konungr...!"
What on earth could be the meaning of planting a tree here...
A tree acquired from heaven knows when or where had been planted, and from its branches hung the symbol of Hel. On the opposite side hung a cloth bearing a cross.
Beside the tree was placed a circular table carved with antique patterns.
Around that table sat three more chairs, giving off a feeling akin to a gathering of sacred druids.
No sooner had the three of us taken our respective seats than servants, belonging to each party as seemed prearranged, entered as if they had known just when to do so, and set down three golden cups, three golden wine flasks, and simple refreshments.
The servants then lit candles around the tree and withdrew.
Thus, with an atmosphere more like a date course than a negotiation chamber drifting around us, I, who had received interior hints by thinking of Inga, first moved my hand and poured the drink from the golden flask into my cup.
[Jurrrruk-]
I had expected mead, but what came out was wine.
'Not bad.'
[Jurrrruk-]
[Jurrrruk-]
Following my action, the three of us filled our cups, lightly raised them to meet each other's eyes, and then drank as much as each desired.
The fragrance of the wine lingering at my lips passed through my nose and descended below my throat, and by the time even the remaining scent had vanished.
The two kings and the one margrave set down their cups at the same moment, and soon moved on to the main subject.
The one to begin was the man most desperate in this place, Æthelred Cyning.
As always, the speech of the learned began with a compliment. Of course, it was the Cyning of the Saxons, speaking in Frankish out of consideration for the one who did not understand Latin.
"Since Konungr Helgi seems proficient in Frankish as well, it would be best to speak in Frankish today. Bearing in mind Frankish Kuning Karl, who could not join us here. Would that be acceptable?"
Æthelred, hence praising my language skill while also saving Boudewijn's face.
I naturally answered that it was fine, and Boudewijn showed a slight bow of his head.
Æthelred received that silent courtesy with a laugh and continued speaking.
But what followed was by no means light.
"Konungr Helgi. Mercia has already knelt before your power, so must this war not be halted now? If more blood is seen, this harvest will yield no grain, and we shall have to face a winter harsher than any before."
Æthelred's words were filled with genuine concern.
The kings of this era raised their armies after sowing and ended their wars before the harvest, and there was good reason for this.
All was done ultimately for the sake of survival. Æthelred was saying that it was now about time to begin the harvest.
Yet I could not fail to make a proper reckoning.
"Those are righteous words, Æthelred Cyning. What conditions, then, does Wessex have in mind?"
Having paused briefly at my question, Æthelred soon narrowed his brow and spoke to me.
"Wessex shall recognize all the dominion Konungr holds in Mercia and East Anglia."