117.
117.
Cornwall.
That was the name the Saxons gave it.
Kernow.
This was the name we called it.
Dungarth, the Rix of Kernow, stood on the cliff at the end of the land, listening to the words of a kinsman with a familiar appearance.
"-Thus, the Cyning of Wessex abandoned Devon. Dungarth Rix. Regarding this land, the Konungr of the North has said he will not claim ownership, and Roderick of Cymry sent me to seek your opinion, Dungarth Rix."
Artos, he had said his name was. A capable and brave warrior was always a joy to the eyes.
Dungarth, who always wore his armor, felt a sense of satisfaction.
'Cymry. Mercia. Wessex.'
Those who had been fighting among themselves in this land for a long time.
'Konungr.'
A title appearing in this land for the first time.
'When Rome first appeared in this land, my ancestors fought.'
And they had been soundly broken, I heard.
And the result was this very cliff at the end of the land that I now saw.
I had heard they were driven back quite thoroughly...
But the blood shed then was not at all in vain.
For empires honor the strong and enslave the weak.
Behold, were not the four greatest forts and cities of Kernow all built by old Rome!
In the end, the only law of the world was that one must have strength to be treated well.
Therefore, Dungarth of Cornwall sought to show strength.
Roderick of Cymry and Æthelred Cyning of Wessex, who still seemed not to have come to their senses, appeared to willfully ignore and evade the obvious outcome, but...
Precisely because we were the weakest, the people of Kernow, who had tenaciously passed down old memories and wisdom through generations, had eyes to recognize the strongest.
Thus Dungarth the Rix could see clearly.
Who indeed was the true ruler of this island of Britain.
'In the tongue of the Saxons they called it Bretwalda, was it?'
But in the end, whether Cyning or Rix, all sat in a position of choosing.
They would only need to take responsibility for their own choices.
Dungarth nodded willingly and gave the response to this brave Cymry messenger.
The answer their Rix wished to hear.
"I heard that Roderick of Cymry shed much blood this time. Tell him that Kernow will not concern itself with Devon."
"...Roderick is never a stingy Rix, so he will certainly repay this great favor. I will convey that, Dungarth Rix."
Dungarth nodded once more to Artos, who expressed gratitude on behalf of his lord, and gazed at the sun setting beyond that cliff.
'We could not prove it this time, so we must prove it next time. That we are useful.'
The king of Kernow, seeking to adapt to the new order of this island.
It was as if the next war was already drawn in his mind.
*****
I sent back the secret envoy sent by Karl King of West Frankia, discussed the matter with Ubba, and set out on the return journey.
I had hurried down without even pretending to look at the scenery, but the landscape of southern Britain was... how should I put it...
There was a certain warmth within the cold.
Or, a coolness within the dampness.
Yes. It was simply a humid and warm climate with fresh greenery everywhere, and it was truly a sight to behold.
"Karl King is playing games."
As we appreciated that cool scenery, the heavy rain stopped as if it were a joke, and the sun peeked out on a bright midsummer's day.
Ubba gave a cold assessment in a voice dripping with frost.
"Games?"
"Yes, games. A man who shed no blood in this war is trying to take the most, isn't he?"
"In what way?"
I, curious about Ubba's reasoning, asked immediately, and as if he had been waiting for my question, Ubba shared his thoughts.
"What irritates the Kuning of West Frankia are not only his brothers and nephews to the east and south but also Breizh to the west. Salomon of Brittany took our side in this war, and Karl King would not have liked that."
Oho.
"So he wants to get close to us, then deal with Breizh. After Breizh is dealt with?"
"Then we would be next."
"Maybe, maybe not. But in my opinion, Karl King will not leave us alone, Helgi."
"Hm."
I had been suspicious, but after hearing Ubba's words, Karl King's intentions certainly did not seem entirely good.
"Ubba, Hásteinn was still there, wasn't he?"
"He has taken root in Devon, they say. The messenger told me he's dying from post-war cleanup, but from what I see, that man does nothing but drink."
"..."
Ubba was too cold. Hásteinn might suddenly change his mind and work hard.
"Helgi. I know that look. Hásteinn is a warrior with a personality completely opposite to Björn's. He's truly a man who can drink nothing but alcohol all week long."
Ubba shook his head as he spoke, his voice carrying a nuance of incomprehension.
In truth, in Norseman society, Ubba was an outsider. An eccentric Norseman who did not like drinking and did not seem particularly interested in women.
But from a 21st-century sensibility, he could be understood as someone whose reason took precedence over instinct. In that respect, Ubba and I had similar traits.
After all, I was an extremely rational person, no matter what anyone said.
"I don't really understand it either. What's so good about guzzling alcohol?"
When I asked sincerely because I couldn't understand, Ubba and the Jarls arrayed around me all turned their heads toward me.
With expressions that said they had heard something they could not bear to hear.
As if those gazes were,
'You!?'
speaking aloud.
"...Helgi. Do you know that Hrolf sends men all over the mountains to find bees every summer? Do you even know that beneath your house in Árós there is a vast liquor warehouse?"
"..."
"I hear that you empty half of all the liquor that comes into that place—what—"
"Huh? What's that over there? Hyah!"
[Puheeeeng— dagak— dagak—]
Feigning the sighting of something far beyond the hills, I drove Camembert forward with vigor, and from behind me came the sound of Ubba's sigh mingled with the laughter of Seutorolpeu, Oleg, and Leofric.
[Ppok—!]
I pried open the leather flask, and the rich aroma of the mead I had ordered through the passing merchants rose fragrantly.
'Can't give this up.'
Mead and wine instead of water. Had this been an ordinary human body, it should have given out long ago, but my flesh remained utterly unaffected.
The undisputed greatest drinker among the Norsemen smiled at the cool sensation sliding down his throat.
*****
The land of Helgi Ragnarsson, Mercia. Lincoln.
Northern Mercia, southern Northumbria.
Lincoln, arguably the most critical strategic point on the eastern roads of Britain, was filled with a bustle rarely seen.
The war in the south had concluded, yet the Konungr's passion, having taken a brief respite, showed no sign of cooling.
To bring an end to the northern war still being fought by his brother, Jarl Ivar, the Konungr of the Norsemen slowly moved his army.
The forces, which had swelled to eight thousand including the surrendered troops, had been reduced to three thousand through redeployment and the return of men to their homelands. Yet they joined with the 2nd Expeditionary Force led by Jarl Halfdan Ragnarsson, and the numbers swelled once more to seven thousand.
Add to this the five thousand that could be comfortably drawn from southern Northumbria, Dair, and the total reached twelve thousand.
Performing the magic of swelling his forces the more he fought, Helgi Ragnarsson's host advanced northward along the main road.
With the Jarls who had hastened from Tamworth and Lincoln, the southern redeployment was already complete.
The threat Karl King would pose to Brace was first conveyed to Jarl Hestein, sending him hurrying back and strengthening ties with Cornwall.
Cornwall and Brace were, after all, but a two-hour boat ride apart.
Devon, now emptied of refugees and reduced to a central buffer zone between Cornwall and Wessex, fell under the control of Cymry's Roderick, as had been previously agreed.
Artos of Cymry, whose name had become known through this war, settled there; should Wessex stir again, Devon would likely become the front line.
In Mercia, I made Tamworth my direct fief and appointed Ubba, now Jarl of Lincoln, as its administrator.
'Ubba is more than qualified to be a lord of a province.'
Perhaps, in time, he might be given something even greater.
The reason I deliberately established direct fiefs was the lessons gleaned from East Anglia and Northumbria. My direct fief in East Anglia, Beodericsworth, and my direct fief in Northumbria, Jorvik, had produced vastly superior crop yields, iron, population, and even well-water quality compared to the domains of other lords.
I knew that the various traits I had set in my previous life were manifesting, but I did not know exactly how they functioned.
In a way, this was also a kind of experiment.
'If my direct fiefs really do receive a strong boost in productivity, should I just make every last bit of land my direct fief?'
The truth was, the difference in harvests between my direct fiefs and the other domains was not so staggering as to be definitive, so it was a somewhat ambiguous question. Still, it was worth confirming; hence, I made Tamworth a direct fief.
Furthermore, by holding the center of a region in my own hand, the surrounding assimilation would also quicken.
My loyal sycophant Ecgberht, who had been administering Lincoln, was to move with me and again assume responsibility for Jorvik. As my deputy, he would govern southern Northumbria.
Sigebryht remained in East Anglia, and as promised, Leofric had been granted not only Huntadun but also the lordship of Grantebrycge.
On top of that, I had ordered the full-scale training of rangers, along with the hunting rights to the forests stretching from Huntadun to Grantebrycge. The look on Leofric's face—delighted by the expanded lands yet simultaneously on the verge of tears at the sudden weight of enormous duties—still lingered in my memory.
'Irrepressible fen-dwellers.'
The hunters, utterly elated, laughed and danced in strange, unfamiliar steps regardless of their captain's tearful expression.
If, as I planned, the number of skilled rangers—that is, skirmishers—increased, they would become a truly formidable asset in the wars to come, whether against Wessex or beyond.
In any case, through the fear and coercion that are the virtues of wartime administration, I had received the sworn oaths of loyalty from every Angle Ealdorman across Mercia and East Anglia.
Now, to those lords now become Jarls, I demanded only one thing.
That they would allow absolutely nothing to be placed before my name.
Be it a god, a tradition, or ambition.
I would not tolerate it.
All of this was done to forge unity from my fragmented kingdom.
Having examined the cautionary tale that was the Eastern Roman Empire with my own eyes, I understood well that if something was not to be surrendered freely, it must be held with an iron grip.
The redevelopment of Árós through Leon, the high-grade Islamic slaves and Norsemen who would mingle in the process, and the Norsemen who entered as disciples under Leon.
The construction of a library, the import and translation of books.
The plundering of Eastern Rome's superior architectural techniques, the re-establishment of linguistic systems.
And above all, the diminishment of the gods' prominence, carried out even to the point of shattering rock with my bare hands.
Let me ask: how can two domains, separated from one another by a sea, become one?
Through a language if not identical then similar; similar architecture; similar education. A familiar god.
A single, common king.
And a new land to bind the two together?
Ubba had spoken of it until the moment of our parting, and perhaps a clash with Karl King was indeed inevitable.
'But first, the rear must be secured.'
The force of seven thousand, under the command of Halfdan, Guthrum, Oleg, and Djur, had first departed through Lincoln's thick gates and advanced northward.
I had remained behind briefly alongside Ubba to reorganize the southern forces, arrange defensive lines, and receive the oaths of Jarls arriving from various regions.
Soon, I would join my host waiting in Jorvik, together with Refil and Seutorolpeu.
And no longer would I leave any who defied my name alive in the north of this island of Britain.
Reckoning the date, I noted that today was Anno Domini 867, the third month of summer, the third week, Thor's day.
Before the last of this summer passed, I resolved firmly that I would return home.