179. Winter Sun.
179. Winter Sun.
"How long had you been thinking this through?"
Had someone who didn't know the context heard it, there could have been no more random a question.
But Björn and Hestein had braved life-and-death battlefields together, roaming the Mediterranean far and wide.
Naturally, Hestein understood exactly what Björn meant. As if trying to calm Hestein, whose entire demeanor had shifted, Björn answered in a low, measured voice.
"The eastern North Sea will aim for East Frankia, the western for West Frankia."
"...Good god. Both at once? You really are planning to wage a proper war. Does Britannia's strength turn toward West Frankia?"
Hestein's face hardened, turning so terrifying that it looked as if he might grab an axe and charge an enemy then and there, but Björn and Ivar paid it little mind. After spending time with Helgi, a mask like that was nothing.
"Look here, Björn. To my knowledge, Britannia in the North Sea is everyone except Wessex. Mercia, East Anglia, Northumbria, and above them the newly established power of Konungr Olaf—no, Jarl Tosteinn. If we raise three thousand each, that's ten thousand; if five thousand, twenty thousand. This is no mere raid we're embarking on, is it?"
Licking his poor lips with a burning thirst, Hestein stared intently at Björn.
"By Odin. I can't believe I said it myself and still can't believe it. How in the world did I overlook this fact until now? Right above my head, a full-grown bear had been crouching in silence."
"And not just any bear. It's a Fylkir bear, commanding bears as large as the three of us gathered here. We won't know the exact numbers until we draw them out, but there won't be a case where we have to retreat because we're short on men, as you feared. How does that sound? Doesn't it feel a bit more doable now?"
Watching Ivar, who smiled roundly as he added his remarks, Hestein kept his stiff expression and grumbled his reply.
"More than enough. Even without that, ever since the last Great Britannia War, tensions between our Salomon Dux—and King Karl the Kunning—have been worsening, precisely because we helped Cymru and Cernyw strike Mercia. If West Frankia were to invade at any time or from anywhere, I could say, 'Ah, so it's finally come!'"
What Hestein said was true.
It was a widely known fact that Karl of West Frankia had poured particular dedication into Wessex, just across a narrow strait. Although she was now the wife of Count Baldwin, the Margrave of Flanders, hadn't Judith originally been the wife of the kings of Wessex?
Everyone kept quiet about it since it was a dark stain on the renowned Imperator, but the past, once real, did not vanish in an instant.
It was perhaps only natural that Britannia's ally Breis earned the bitter grudge of Karl by mercilessly helping to smash that very alliance. The two rulers had met this autumn, but rather than reaching a good conclusion, they had entered a state of tension—though, on the surface, it was announced as a reconfirmation of loyalty.
"Right at the start of winter, a plan can change at any moment, so it's wise to be cautious. But Breis will certainly cooperate. No, I myself will take part, without fail."
'I've never heard a tale of the Fylkir of the North Sea losing any battle he took part in, so this time too it should be at least fifty-fifty.' With that thought, Hestein boldly raised the stakes.
Above all, what Nant could gain was the goodwill of the Fylkir. Recalling the enormous gifts—silver coins, leather, grain—they had received during the latter part of the last Great Britannia War despite having contributed little, there was really no need to ponder.
"I thought as much. It's better to hear the finer details directly in Árós when the frozen waterways open, but if convincing Breis's dux proves difficult, just drop a hint that Hrorik, Konungr of Frisia, is also joining in."
"Hrorik of Dorestad?"
He had thought there would be no more surprises. Yet across Hestein's face, now rigid as a stone, actual convulsions were running.
"Hrorik of Dorestad—that old Konungr who is still alive and vigorous? That man never tosses his dice lightly. Which means—"
Lotharingia! Lothar of Middle Francia is the one who has set this in motion!
A faint tremble gave way to a thin smile crossing Hestein's face, while Ivar, following his lead, grinned slyly, and Björn's expression shifted as if he were looking at something dreadful.
"Jarl Hestein. You must prepare well with your men. The Fylkir Helgi rarely makes a move, but once he does, he never finishes things lightly."
"Oh—of course. Most certainly. Nant and Breis will prepare. Jarl Ivar."
'Britannia's neck must have already flown off, so is it finally time for me to retire, like Björn here?' Hestein had secretly been asking himself.
A fervent longing rekindled across the face of this old warrior.
Beyond where their shadows fell, the barrow of Ragnar Loðbrók and the warriors kept its silent vigil.
*****
Torbjörn was having a wretched time of it.
In truth, Torbjörn was a warrior born of the temple of Hel, an orphan raised there. So many who bore the names 'Helason' or 'Helasdottir' were of temple origin—ninety-nine out of a hundred—that the Fylkir, the Fylkir's city, and the Fylkir's goddess cherished and loved the orphans.
Naturally, the foremost aspiration of every Helason and Helasdottir was to become a guardsman of the Fylkir, to serve in the Fylkir's hall, the Árós Thing, the temple of Hel, or as a temple priest.
Among them, Torbjörn himself had caught the Fylkir's eye and thus held the excessive dual post of cavalry commander and captain of the guard. Yet, this was the thing.
Nowadays, he was feeling it bone-deep—that the sense of reward and pride was an entirely separate matter from physical and spiritual exhaustion.
'That damned Stórolf...! That horse's ass of a Leif...!'
On top of that, because the two Jarls of Norrland, who were supposed to share some of the workload, had gone and crossed the eastern sea, Torbjörn himself had taken charge of patrolling the roads stretching from Árós to Kaupang, and from Árós to Roskilde.
No wonder that bastard Leif had been overly obliging.
He had been thoroughly fooled, but that was no reason to abandon his duties.
From the security of important figures to road patrols and training the cavalry according to schedule—somehow, he had managed to oversee all of it. Yet the greatest burden Torbjörn had been feeling lately was none other than guarding Drottning Inga.
What special reason could there be?
Because the Drottning was currently carrying the Fylkir's child.
Furthermore, according to the discerning insight of the wise priests, nine months had already passed since Drottning Inga had conceived, and the child would soon be born.
This was nothing less than a state of ultra-emergency for the guards of the Fylkir and the Drottning.
Thus, Torbjörn had rolled up his own sleeves and stepped forward, personally verifying the Drottning's every move, to the point of forgetting that bread and ale could even enter his nostrils.
'I'm sorry to the Fylkir, but honestly, the Fylkir is a person who has no need of our protection!'
He would understand. He might even prefer it. He was such a free-spirited man.
Just at the last athletic competition, he had out of nowhere decided to compete in the swimming events, leaving everyone's minds blank. Two days ago, he had suddenly headed to a place where a bunch of foreign lagmen—called 'Árós University'—gathered to do odd things.
Since he was a man a commoner's mind could hardly comprehend, guarding the Fylkir had practically been like rowing on irregular waves.
By contrast, the Drottning was a person of relatively regular habits.
She always rose early in the morning, checked on young Hardeknut together with the Fylkir, and immediately set out for a walk, accompanied by her two pet reindeer, a puppy that—no matter how you looked at it—appeared to be a gray wolf cub (...), and two cats.
After that, she usually made clothes with Drottning Áslaug and Lady Asta, or checked on the state of the farms and granaries. Once she finished her duties as Drottning while the sun was up, she would dine with the family in the evening, then spend time with the Fylkir when he returned late.
The women around her had marveled, saying it was extremely rare for a woman heavy with child to move about so vigorously, but to Torbjörn's eyes, it was only because she was overshadowed by the Fylkir. The Drottning herself was as tall as a full-grown man and, though slender of build, had inherited the sturdy body of Jarl Eret.
Since she always gave the impression of overflowing strength, he could never shake the thought, 'Like husband, like wife.'
'So to speak, she is the women's Helgi Ragnarsson.'
In any case, today's schedule was to stroll the shoreline around the swimming venue—the one the Fylkir had personally smashed with his own two feet—and inspect the docks together with the Fylkir, who was taking a rare rest day.
Winter in Árós or Uppsala was not so severe that one couldn't see a hand's breadth ahead, as the Sámi people in the far north said, but it was not something you could laugh off with a chuckle either.
Thus, the management of the longships—which could be called the Norsemen's number one asset—grew even stricter in the winter season. They were drawn up onto land, the barnacles that had inevitably clung to them were scraped off ParkPark, every part was carefully inspected, any nails that had grown slack were pulled out, and brisk new nails were pounded in Park.
A fresh coat of sticky liquid was applied to the wood, and any misalignments were repaired or the vessel was condemned.
Since the impact of the gigantic longship first unveiled by the Fylkir had been so immense, starting with Jarl Halfdan in the land of the Jutes, everyone who had come into some silver had heard they had ordered new ships twice the size of the previous ones.
Thanks to the untimely boom, shipwrights were working without regard for winter or anything else.
Therefore, the Fylkir had come in person to forestall any possible accidents.
Up ahead, the Drottning, who had been walking ahead, swayed briefly, and soon she was seen leaning her body against the Fylkir.
'Are they expressing their love again?'
The affectionate antics of the Fylkir and his wife were already a famous sight in Árós.
It was unmistakable that he doted on his wife, and his henpecked side was gradually being drawn as well. At such times, the men of Árós confirmed that the Fylkir was still at an age full of pure feeling, a tender young man.
In the taverns mostly gathered near the docks, conversations about how even the Fylkir was, after all, only a man, constantly resurfaced.
'A lovely pair.'
Were they not so well-matched one might say they were born for each other? Yet somehow, Torbjörn felt something was off.
'That's not leaning, it's bending forward—'
"Torbjörn! Clear the way!"
The thought continued no further. The Fylkir's thunderous voice smacked Torbjörn's ear as if delivering a slap to the huge space itself.
The command that fell like a whip seized control of Torbjörn's brain. Instantly grasping the situation by instinct, Torbjörn spun 180 degrees on the spot, burst out, and yelled.
"Guard! Clear the way! Clear every path leading to the Konungr's hill!"
[Chak!]
In a single moment, the twenty-odd guards halted. With their blind loyalty to the Fylkir and their grueling training, they were already like a single sharply honed sword.
Any personal doubt had long since been pushed far down the list of priorities beneath the command that hung like the sky. At once, the voices of the guards, who ran on either side following Torbjörn and controlled their surroundings, overlapped.
"Make way! The Fylkir has commanded it!"
"Clear the way! Do not move!"
"Come out! You there! Come out!"
Of course, the dock road, a place of heavy traffic, was full of crowds and sailors who had gathered to see the Fylkir's procession with their own eyes.
But soon, heavily armed guards were running out, and in their midst, the Fylkir himself, wearing a fearsome expression, was carrying the Drottning in both arms and moving with extremely careful steps.
The men of Árós who had wives and children instantly grasped the situation and immediately shouted in all directions.
"Hey! Nobody move!"
"You there! Don't block the way—get out!"
"Move! Move, you bastards!"
Human voice naturally traveled faster than footsteps. Soon, people who were about to enter the docks or head out of the docks into the residential quarter had no choice but to stop under the shouts of irate friends and family, without knowing why.
But as they grasped the situation, they too raised their voices, voluntarily bringing all traffic along the road to Konungr's hill to a standstill.
The traffic that always flowed unimpeded, like a vigorously leaping artery, came to a simultaneous halt, but no one expressed a complaint.
The people of Árós simply hoped—fervently praying to the goddess Hel and the goddess Freyja—that no harm whatsoever would come to their Fylkir, to their Drottning, or to their offspring.