116.
116.
For all his composed delivery, Æthelred's voice held a faint trace of terror.
I could also confirm the fear in Boudewijn's gaze, even beneath his genial smile.
Why was that?
Because they were afraid of me.
"What use is Wessex's recognition to me, Æthelred Cyning?"
But the fact that a king of one realm and a margrave second only to a king both harbored fear of me... I had to consider once more whether that was something I ought to accept with nothing but pure delight.
"Do not misunderstand, Cyning. And Margrave. I am not trying to intimidate anyone right now—I am asking purely out of curiosity."
Since my potential enemies were already showing signs of banding together, I could not afford to give them further pretext. Was it not the very basics of diplomacy to divide the enemy and bind one's own side together?
Thus I had to treat them with even greater regard. Sparing Edmund and Burgred—all of that was part of this same undertaking.
The goal toward which every action I had taken thus far was aimed was the unification of Britain, but that was not my final objective.
"As you yourself have said, Æthelred Cyning, Northumbria, East Anglia, and Mercia have already fallen into my hands. What I mean is that the recognition of Wessex and the Franks can hold no sway over me whatsoever."
At my voice, courteous and calm, merely reciting the facts, Æthelred's expression grew even more haggard. What was worth noting here was the peculiar attitude displayed by the Frankish Margrave.
He had clearly crossed the sea as part of Wessex's reinforcements, yet he showed no reaction at all to my probing questions.
'Rather, he seemed indifferent. Do the Franks have no interest in Wessex at all?'
Or perhaps that Frankish Margrave was a man thoroughly versed in diplomacy who could wear countless masks upon his face—or simply a man with no thoughts in his head whatsoever.
It was foolish to judge the posture of an entire kingdom from one man's attitude.
Still, I filed this information away in my mind for now.
Something along the lines of: the attitude of the man representing the King of West Frankia was strange.
"Even at this very moment, my allies and forces are moving on Wessex's eastern and western flanks. And is that all? Should these negotiations break down, the forces I have here will move as well. If you have conditions in mind, how about we stop the probing and each say what we want?"
Having reminded them of reality once more, I raised my golden cup and emptied its contents in one draught.
As the sweet fragrance diffused softly through the tent, Æthelred, who had been quietly gathering his thoughts, answered me in a strained voice.
"You are not merely strong, it would seem, Konungr Helgi. You are shrewd as well—how could anyone stand against you?"
Heh—.
Æthelred, who let out a sigh as if lamenting, then spoke terms that could be regarded as nothing short of surrender.
"Wessex shall give up Devon."
Æthelred had steeled himself to cut off his own left arm—for peace, to buy time.
*****
The conference thereafter proceeded without a hitch.
Since I, who effectively held the knife by the handle, had been contemplating an end to the war from the very beginning, the moment the hearts of the three men with real power aligned, the conclusion of the negotiations was only a matter of time.
The most important thing in these negotiations was not the acquisition of Devon, which came almost as a bonus, nor the gold and valuables received in exchange for handing over prisoners. In my view, the greatest prize of this war was the very fact that Wessex and the Franks had acknowledged us as the hegemon of the north.
Huh?
Does something seem off? Did I not press them at the negotiating table, asking what need I had for their recognition?
Those were all diplomatic techniques...
What I am saying is that we—who had originally been treated as Norsemen, heathens, beasts barely one rung above speechless animals—had finally been raised to an equal footing!
This, in truth, would have a greater impact on the people of my holdings in Britain than on any external reputation.
Such justifications may seem trivial, but since they are perhaps the most important things of all, my heart was glad.
'A war from which I have truly gained much.'
In any case, I collected the gold and valuables I had not bothered to refuse since they were being offered, and though the warriors grumbled and grumbled at being told to dismantle the encampment they had built with all that digging and hammering after barely a single day, they all moved briskly nonetheless.
I told Ubba to dispatch messengers in every direction to inform them that the war here had finally ended, and decided to send a special envoy to Cornwall.
The man entrusted with this weighty responsibility was none other than Artos of the Cymry.
Since my Norse subordinates would not understand a single word of the Cornish tongue... it was only right that someone who had some degree of contact with them should go.
Thus Artos, who had transformed from a recklessly daring messenger who threaded through enemy lines, to a fairly superb military commander, and now into a diplomat bearing a critical mission, seemed to have firmly impressed himself upon Roderick of Cymry.
And since it looked as though he would achieve the rise in station he himself had desired, he would have no particular complaints.
'Still, I ought to give him a gift.'
Thanks to Æthelred's generous payment—not only for the prisoners captured in Devon, but also for the priests and nobles who had failed to escape from East Anglia and Mercia in time—I intended to scatter rewards as freely as I pleased.
Some to my brothers who had toiled, some to my subordinates, to the lords who had surrendered, to my allies as well.
'At this rate, the money going out may exceed what I received... but does that really matter?'
Money, after all, circulated and circulated until it flowed back into my own purse.
The trade routes connected to the Eastern Roman Empire were pouring waves of gold and grain into both Árós and Constantinople.
It might be a slight exaggeration, but even if the waters of this River Thames were to dry up, my coin would never run dry.
So it did not matter. It was a bonus party.
"Long live the Konungr!"
"Giver of golden arm rings! Giver of golden goblets! The golden Konungr!"
"Long live Helgi! Long live Hel!"
The mouths that had been grumbling—thanks to the rain that fell even as they dismantled the encampment—had been protruding a full span from my warriors' faces, and were so pitiful they looked like drowned mice. So I announced to them all that there would be generous rewards, and at once the morale of the troops, which had plummeted to the very depths beneath the earth, soared again to the highest reaches of the heavens.
In the end, it became an occasion to feel keenly that even in this age, the best way to move men was with a bonus.
At any rate, with the war gradually drawing to a close, I sent Leon and his disciples—who were determined to remain at my side to the bitter end—back to Árós, along with an order to headhunt the adventure-minded scholars of Constantinople.
Perhaps the reason Leon was so desperate to stay beside me was precisely because of the immense workload awaiting him in Árós...
But honestly, I could not entrust the redevelopment of Árós to my Norse subordinates, who knew nothing of engineering beyond building catapults and ships—I had thought all they knew was how to fight. There was no helping it.
In exchange, I promised Leon an enormous reward as well.
What Leon desired was not gold and valuables, but the establishment of a great library.
This clumsy spy and excellent scholar was a man driven more by ambition for honor than for wealth, so I agreed to do as he asked, and told him that the building to be newly raised would bear his own name.
Thus, the eight thousand troops who had come down together from Tamworth finished preparing to march north again, and around the time the messengers Ubba had sent were reaching the east and west—
A secret envoy sent by Boudewijn, the Margrave of Flanders who had returned to Winchester with the others, sought out my tent.
As it turned out, this envoy had been sent not by Boudewijn, but by a man above him—Karl King of West Frankia.
"Karl King of the Franks sends his greetings. O Northern Dragon, Helgi Konungr."
The envoy, who identified himself as the emissary of Karl King, conveyed to me but a single piece of information.
It was that Karl King wished to open relations with my newly established kingdom in Britain, and hoped to form close ties going forward—in trade, of course, and beyond.
"That is, of course, what I desire as well. Convey my gratitude to Karl King. And tell him that this man sends his regards."
"How could it be otherwise, Konungr? It shall be so."
'Good heavens.'
This was a conversation that had passed in secrecy within a tent lit by a single wavering candle.
Did Æthelred of Wessex know of this?
The man I had seen at the conference, though he appeared ill, had been a Cyning of cool-headed discernment.
He probably at least suspected—that something was strange about the Franks' movements.
But for Wessex, it was tantamount to a checkmate. In truth, Æthelred had no means whatsoever to obstruct contact between the Franks and the Norsemen.
'Truly, there is neither eternal friend nor eternal foe.'
I had to forcibly suppress the wry laugh trying to slip between my lips.
And why not? What sort of people were the Franks?
Had we not battered each other bloody in my grandfather's and father's generations?
That was precisely what made this conference all the more meaningful.
Because at last, we Norsemen had been reborn—from mere pirates into a kingdom that drew the direct gaze of the Frankish King.
'The Franks have turned their backs on Wessex, and it is highly probable that the Cyning of Wessex suspects as much. Now, how should I make use of this...'
Of course, whether they acknowledged me or not, I—who had already built amity with the Emperor of the Eastern Romans—was not moved in the slightest.
My mind had already begun devising plans to divide my potential enemies by exploiting this.
First: the unification of Britain.
And then, for the next objective.
*****
The war in the south had been brought to a full stop with the fall of Mercia and East Anglia, and the loss of Devon—but the war in the north was still underway.
AD 867. The third month of summer. The second week. Sunnudagr.
Two months had already passed since Edmund of East Anglia's invasion effectively ignited the war.
The attacks of Strathclyde—the Kingdom of the Gorge—and the Kingdom of Scotland, which had risen in step with East Anglia and Mercia in movements that were clearly prepared in advance, were sharp ones.
The Kingdom of Strathclyde, pushing in from the west along the rivers, attacked much like Norsemen themselves, burning every village they passed.
The warriors of the Kingdom of Scotland, coming in from the north along rugged mountain paths, also burned whatever was a nuisance and seized people as slaves as they attacked.
Against them, Bernicia—Northumbria's northern region—consolidated its strength under the banner of the one and only Jarl recognized in this land by Konungr Helgi: Uhtred.
Jarl Uva, who effectively governed Jorvik, the Konungr's direct holding, on behalf of the Konungr, raised his army as if he had been waiting for this moment and struck the emptied southern flank of the Kingdom of Strathclyde.
Likewise, Jarl Ivar, Konungr Helgi's brother, brought the forces of Dublin and the Kingdom of the Isles across the western sea and struck the emptied side of the Kingdom of Scotland.
Under Jarl Uhtred's steadfast command—yielding what had to be yielded, and holding fast what had to be held with a defensive line anchored on shallow streams—the coordination between the Kingdom of Strathclyde and the Kingdom of Scotland was severed in an instant.
"We must turn back and defend our homes and lands!"
"We must trust those who remain! What we should be doing now is seizing that accursed Bamburgh—no! Even Edinburgh—with our own hands!"
"And if we seize those fortresses? By then, the people of our homeland will most likely all be dead or taken as slaves! Besides, even if we take Edinburgh, would it not be you alone who ultimately benefit?!"
"What...? Are you questioning the honor of us Scots now?"
"Do you even possess such a thing? I had not realized!"
"You damned gorge bumpkin...!"
"What of it, you who eat and sleep among goats? Are you not savages yourselves, from your very forebears?!"
Due to such a series of disagreements, the armies of Strathclyde and Scotland came to the very brink of drawing swords upon one another. They managed, with the greatest difficulty, to part ways without blood being spilled.
Thus, the soldiers of both kingdoms turned from Uhtred's solid defensive line and headed for home. Afterwards, the Kingdom of Strathclyde was able to catch its breath thanks to Ubba, who had abruptly wheeled his forces around—but the situation of the Kingdom of Scotland was altogether different.
Jarl Ivar and Jarl Olaf.
These were two names that no one in the northern reaches of Britain and Éire could possibly fail to know, and they were tenaciously pressing their assault upon the northern coasts of the Kingdom of Scotland.