171. The Kings' Hearth Fire.
171. The Kings' Hearth Fire.
Then the world briefly went dark.
'What did I just hear?'
What did that man just say?
My semicircular canals spun dizzily at the disjointed connections between Fylkir, Frisia, and the Norsemen.
[Gulp— Gulp—]
I calmly downed some cold water.
"What do you mean by that, Hrorek Konungr?"
I asked with as much respect as I could muster for an elder and the ruler of a region. What the hell he was talking about right now.
"This is a message the Emperor of Lotharingia, Lothar, bade me deliver. He thought that since we are both Norsemen, we might find common ground. Though this alone shows just how little those Frankish Emperors know of the North Sea and Fylkir."
Hrorek paused to collect himself, took a sip of ale, and continued.
"It was a matter that would not harm Fylkir and the North Sea. Lothar wishes to make his bastard a legitimate heir, and the kinsmen around him do not desire that. Therefore, Lothar hopes that Fylkir will attack West Frankia and East Frankia. The price for this is all the territory that Fylkir seizes."
Are the actual Frankish royals insane?
Can you not bear the name of Carolingian without going mad?
The West and East Frankish Emperors who sabotaged the divorce, and Lothar who was willing to burn everything down to stop them from blocking the divorce—all of them existed beyond my scope of understanding.
'I know division is practically the identity of their empire, but isn't this a bit much?'
They were still supposed to be family under one roof. I would have to take this as a cautionary tale and prepare some countermeasures, but honestly, I worried because I couldn't interfere with the affairs of future generations.
I worried about the lives of children not yet even born, and while a wretch like me had the fortune of living life twice over and could endure it, the fact that I couldn't freely befriend anyone my own age was, in a way, closer to a curse.
Ah, the disgrace of the Franks was an ugly sight. But it was by no means someone else's problem, which made my head throb all the more.
"However, that is the circumstance of the Lotharingian Emperor. Surely the circumstances of Dorestad and Frisia are another matter."
While I was suffering from parenting stress(?) before even giving birth, let alone raising a child, Hrorek's meaningful words slipped through the cracks.
"Frisia, where Dorestad is, is a sodden land. Those unaccustomed to seawater cannot endure even a week before fleeing. There are many waterways to approach by, but the paths that directly lead inland are limited. It is the same when coming by land. In a word, it is a region easy to defend."
What was the reason and intent behind suddenly reciting the topographical traits of Frisia?
When I glanced sidelong at Hrólfr, his sullen expression that seemed to say 'I know nothing' looked suspicious.
Regardless, as if a bard were singing a saga, Hrorek continued his verse.
"Dorestad, in particular, sits upon the waterway leading inland, and has been a useful port for us Norsemen since old times. Nowadays, it prospers even more as Fylkir conquers Britain. Seen this way, could one not say that not only the Norsemen of Frisia but also the tribes originally settled there are deeply indebted to Fylkir?"
"Hrorek Konungr."
I had no choice but to cut off this old warrior, who spoke nonstop with a composed expression. Wasn't this practically the momentum of handing over land outright?
"Forgive my discourtesy. But I cannot help but ask. What is the reason you are telling me this?"
A welcoming smile or a gentle air would no longer linger on my face. My brows were probably slightly narrowed, my gaunt cheeks and large jaw standing out all the more.
Hrorek Konungr no longer looked like some old man simply drinking ale on a street corner either. Though old and tinged with grey, the bearing of a still-formidable warrior and veteran Konungr bloomed from his entire body.
A presence that seemed to erase everyone else seated there. Truly, this man was a hero who would not pale in comparison to my brothers or any other Konungrs.
"Fylkir. The lands beyond the southern sea are utterly different from this place that Fylkir rules. Witness how a so-called Emperor of a nation cannot even divorce as he pleases. Even when the couple agreed! Furthermore, I nominally have three lords. When I negotiate with West Frankia, I am their vassal; when I negotiate with East Frankia, I become their vassal. But Frisia is land that I and my brother's warriors have occupied."
[Gurgle— Gulp— Gulp!]
Perhaps his throat was dry, for Hrorek filled his empty cup with wine this time and emptied it coolly.
"If such a man as I serves one more lord, who would dare speak against it? Especially if that lord is Helgi Ragnarsson of the North Sea, whom the Norsemen of Dorestad and the tribesmen of Frisia desire. Even if I invited the warriors of the North Sea into that low country, they could not easily show discontent. Fylkir—"
In Hrorek's eyes, as he leaned slightly forward, another emotion besides pride and intense desire was glimpsed. A fear that he could not wholly conceal before me.
"Does a ship not sail forward when it catches the wind, and do you not press the attack in battle when momentum is with you? What I seek to gain is the survival of my nephew, Dorestad, and Frisia.
Does Fylkir have no intention of making the North Sea your lake?"
*****
"Saints Aidan and Cuthbert, please, I beg of you, grant me wisdom."
Lindisfarena. North of the isle of Britain. The holy island.
Beyond the beautiful arches and pillars that a Roman scholar named Leo would have sketched without inspiration, Bishop Alcuin lowly called out the names of his predecessors.
There was no answer, of course, but he hadn't expected one anyway.
The surface of the wooden cross he habitually caressed felt especially rough today.
[Tuk.]
Just the same, he stood the crucifix upon the desk, also carved from wood, and Alcuin left the monastery room and slowly walked toward the endlessly surging waves.
[Swoosh— Crash. Swoosh— Crash.]
Waves that always crashed in and receded the same, yet each time left behind white foam of a different shape. There had been a time he believed even those waves were ordained by God.
Oh— his spiritual faith remained firm even now, but the affairs of the secular world always shook Alcuin.
For instance, a name like Helgi Ragnarsson.
The newly born empire under the name of the North Sea. No one had named it an empire, but if this was not an empire, what was it?
It had swallowed all of Britain, and all that remained were Wessex, which had now even lost Devon, the petty kingdoms across the sea, Cymry next to Mercia, and the Cornou below them.
Any Cyning or Rich who had proper thoughts in their heads would be exceedingly cautious about provoking the North Sea's ire.
Perhaps for a span of at least fifty, sixty years.
Astonishingly, the newly risen Fylkir, Helgi Ragnarsson, was said to be twenty years old (unbelievable as it was). Surely, at least that much time would have to pass before this mythic hero manifested in the mortal world could fall.
Perhaps by then, the situation would change again, and maybe the original inhabitants of Britain would get an opportunity.
Yes, it should be so. Yet, in the span of just one year, incomprehensible things had begun to happen.
First was the departure of those who had been faithful and strong supporters of the Church.
Most notably, Jarl Uhtred of Bebbanburg was originally an Angle lord who had inherited his ancestors' names and titles for many long ages. This faithful house, which one might well say had shared the history of Catholicism on the isle of Britain, turned in an instant.
'Ealdorman Uhtred. Edmund, Cyning of East Anglia, has secretly appealed to me for aid. In turbulent times like these, should not those who follow the words of Christ band together? Help your brother, gain great honor by aiding your brother in faith!'
It was a time when fear of Helgi Ragnarsson still loomed larger in Bernicia and Deira.
Though he had rushed at full speed to Edinburgh, the returned Uhtred's answer was shocking.
'Bishop. You may say so, Bishop. I can understand. Even I still see the beautiful sight of Lindisfarena and the scene of worship in my dreams, so I understand your urgency well. But Bishop. Bishop, you do not know what I have seen. You were not present on the day that Ella and Osberht met death. That day, in that place, we saw a dragon.'
My warriors and I have not forsaken the Lord. Rather, we have accepted Hel and Helgi Ragnarsson.
It was a profane and unforgivable utterance.
But before Uhtred, who covertly hid his two trembling hands, the bishop could say no more.
Because Alcuin, who had long played the bishop in this land still overflowing with barbarism and unbelief, knew better than anyone how dangerous and powerless a faith without worldly strength could be.
So Edmund, along with Burgred, challenged the Fylkir of the North Sea, and both were exiled.
That they kept their lives was solely owed to Fylkir's mercy. They would likely never set foot on this land again.
'In the end, was I the fool, and Uhtred in the right?'
Or, should I have steeled my resolve and faced a glorious martyrdom as Edmund did? What would my predecessors of the past generation have done?
Yet, the falling away of the brothers in faith was, compared to the many miracles that began appearing thereafter, something one could at least understand.
In the past year, the bodies of no newborns had been buried. During the past winter, none had frozen or starved to death.
'Look here, Alcuin. Of your religion, I know only that the son of the God you believe in was nailed to a cross and killed by the scheming of wicked men. So I ask, is there a way for the people who believe in your God and my gods to coexist without fighting each other?'
The most likely suspect who had brought about all these miracles. The unforgettable voice of Helgi Ragnarsson stilled the sound of the waves.
'A way to coexist, you say.'
Were they not already doing so? Had the name of Hel not taken root in the hearts of the Angles and Saxons just as deeply as the name of the Lord?
[Sreuk—]
Alcuin took out the letter from the Archbishop of Canterbury and the one from the Holy See from his bosom, stroking them.
Soon, his hand slowly stretched out, and the two letters fell from it and vanished into the white foam.
'Stand firm in faith. You must overcome the trial.'
If only they had experienced what Alcuin had seen and felt, they would never have written such rigid phrases and sent them.
Clutching the necklace at his chest tightly, Alcuin stood rooted to that spot like a stone for a long while.
*****
"Alfred."
Winchester, Wessex.
Because of the last great war, Wessex had lost Devon in the west.
Naturally, the atmosphere in Winchester was grim, and that mood reached its peak when Odda, the Ealdorman of Devon, returned half-dead.
But Æthelred, Cyning of Wessex, forgave Odda.
"Brother. I am here."
Yet, perhaps because Æthelred could not ultimately forgive himself, the chest pains he had long suffered worsened greatly.
Most likely, the final letter left by his sister, who had been exiled alongside Burgred, had aggravated Æthelred's illness.
Perhaps because they were of the same blood, just as Æthelred had forgiven Odda, his sister had written that she likewise forgave Æthelred. And so, perhaps that tear-stained letter tormented Æthelred all the more.
But now, all of it had passed.
Regret over not having lent more certain strength to Mercia sooner, over not having pushed Cymry alongside Mercia earlier, over not having refused Edmund and East Anglia's plea for help.
Regret trailed upon regret, and only in the moments before death did it finally set Æthelred free.
His complexion pallid, Æthelred held a faint smile at the voice of his younger brother, Alfred, whose two reddened eyes were brimming with tears.
"Why are you weeping?"
"Brother..."
Hoooo—
The sensation of his harsh, dry throat grew distant, and the most striking scenes of the life he had lived flashed through Æthelred's mind.
His ever gallant and brave father, his eldest brother from whose eyes fire seemed to blaze. His second and third brothers. Quarrels with his father. Quarrels with his brothers. Battles with the Norsemen.
And now, his youngest brother who would remain alone, and an infant son. Alfred and Æthelhelm.
"I am placing too great a burden upon you. But you will manage it well. Because you were the best. Father knew, Alfred... Father always knew..."
His final breath was long and slow.
"Brother."
Alfred called out to Æthelred, but there was no answer coming back anymore.
☆☆☆☆☆Reference☆☆☆☆☆
Thomas Girtin, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
The ruins of Lindisfarena Monastery. It's an imagined drawing.
Lindisfarena is an actual historical place... It's also a holy site for Catholicism in Britain, and it proudly holds the honor(....?) of being the very first monastery plundered by Norsemen(...!)!
Since it was an island jutting out to the east of the isle, it was just far too obvious a target...
Chris Combe from York, UK, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons
A beautiful and divinely serene isle.