18.
18.
Beodericsworth, the center of East Anglia's Suffolk (South folk). Though it felt natural now, a rather strange thing was happening in this transportation hub originally laid out by the legions of old Rome.
'What? Why aren't they looting anything? Why are they making us do forced labor and paying us for it? What on earth...! Are they giving us travel money before killing us!?'
The Angles who had braced themselves for violence and oppression, but chose to stay in the castle for their own reasons, were thrown into confusion.
'What? Why aren't they looting anything, yet our pockets are getting heavier? This is unsettling...! Shouldn't we catch and kill something, so that Jarl Helgi will be satisfied?'
The Norse tribesmen, who wanted to prove their worth to the chieftain and get a share of the tip, were also thrown into confusion by this new war leader who just gave them money for staying put.
So, how did you like the taste of 21st-century welfare, you 9th-century humans? Just wait a little longer—once I earned more money, I'd make it an even better place to live.
"I've made my bread all my life through raiding, but this kind of warfare is a first for me. Waging war with money, when usually we wage war to earn money."
Before I knew it, it was winter.
The autumn leaves that had so richly colored the world had all fallen, and just as the incessant, drizzling rain was gradually turning into snowflakes, the political landscape of East Anglia and its surroundings had changed a great deal.
"The Jarls fighting in the field might not understand, but from the standpoint of a wealthy man like me, ruling through plunder, arson, blood, and terror was actually a loss."
How much could it be, even if peasants hid a few silver coins in their houses? It wouldn't even amount to the value of a single piece of tableware I had made for the servants in my household. And if I burned down an innocent house, would gold coins sprout from the ashes?
It was the same with capturing and selling slaves. If we just carted them off to sell to the faraway Muslims and the Eastern Roman Empire, we could get a big sum averaging thirty sheep per male slave, but considering the transportation costs needed to get there, and various fees, it didn't add up at all.
Well, unless we seized about a thousand at once and sold them simultaneously... For me, enjoying the capital gushing from the gold mine of Árós, there was no merit in trying that at all.
To flex a bit, that was more like something ventures with no capital—the Viking lords like Björn, Ivar, Halfdan—would do. From my position as a major enterprise, it was almost cute.
And besides, I wasn't just any major enterprise; my governance ability in the triple digits was applied as a passive skill, making me a walking human fertilizer who bestowed the blessing of abundance upon the land I set foot on. So if I simply made the people living on my land peaceful and happy, their productivity would skyrocket through the roof, so my focus had to be different from the start.
That was why I chose harmony instead of destruction.
I employed the eager merchants to bring grain and various odds and ends from Árós to Beodericsworth, deliberately hiring locals in the process, paying them transport fees, laying roads... and I gave rewards to the warriors who had nothing to do but hunt the wolves, boars, horses, and chickens around...
Ivar, seeing this, grumbled that I was spending money on useless things, but if I didn't spend it like that, I'd have to dump this year's harvested grain into the sea. Surplus produce only rotted and made rats happy.
There was word from Mother that the brave cat warriors guarding our granaries in Árós were gradually getting worn out in the battle against the ever-expanding evil Rat Demon King's army.
That, my foolish brothers, was how you grew richer by spending.
"Winter would soon be here—where would people spend the money they received? On the grain I brought, the weapons I brought, and the horses and livestock that were now 'ours'. If this process continued, everyone would become happy."
"Yes, everyone would be happy. Only you'd be 'a bit' happier, Helgi."
"To say such a hurtful thing, I can't believe it. I was only receiving a fair price, Ivar."
I saved them, gave them shelter, fed them. Granted, they originally owned those houses... but if they felt wronged, they should have won the battle.
"Ha! A fair price—well, whatever the man who kicked this Cyning out on his arse does, it'll be fair. Because he'd kick out the arse of anyone who argues as well!"
After Edmund and the priests who followed him departed Beodericsworth, I had thought it would take a long time to get a grip on the administrative vacuum that suddenly appeared, but it turned out to be unexpectedly busy for about a week before it was all sorted out.
Earl Sigebryht of Rendlesham was very capable, and the people of Beodericsworth were extremely cooperative.
Amid a number of favorable factors, our vanguard, now swollen to 2,500 men with our forces fully preserved, seemed set to spend this winter comfortably.
And, by the way, we could also build some brotherly affection among us brothers, who seldom had the chance to gather in one place.
[dirin- diririn-]
Sigurd, who had gotten a harp from somewhere and was plucking it, paid no heed to the expressions of mine and Ivar's that were simultaneously distorted, and just as he was about to break into song, a frantic shout cut in at an incredibly opportune moment.
"Jarl Ivar! Jarl Helgi! Jarl Sigurd!"
His hair style and loose monastic robes made one feel pity at first sight, and he came running, waving the parchment in Örn's hand. His name was Hrothric, a peculiar Anglo-Saxon monk who, though no warrior, had earned the respect of us Northmen.
He was the one priest who had remained with the people of Beodericsworth out of all the priests who had followed the physically, mentally, and spiritually wounded Edmund out of the city gates.
When Ivar had asked him if he wasn't afraid of death, the trembling man had said that no matter how much he feared death, abandoning the people here could never be God's will, and of course we did not kill him.
Perhaps Hrothric, along with Edmund and the other priests, had been lucky.
If I hadn't been here, they would likely have been sold to Muslims for a high price and met a most unpleasant fate. The reason Northmen persistently plundered monasteries was precisely because such priests—learned slaves who could speak Latin—had very high value.
In that sense, this brave priest, unaware that he had been one step away from falling into the pit of hell, ran frantically, his side-hair flying, waving the paper in his hand.
"Archbishop Ceolnoth of Canterbury has sent a message! He says that Cyning Æthelberht of Wessex has finally breathed his last! Ah—! Lord, pray look after his good soul... Amen..."
Contrary to Hrothric's expectation who had spoken in a briefly mournful tone, the three Norse brothers were entirely unmoved by the death of some Æthel-whatever.
"...?"
"What, he's finally dead? I guess they've got their hands full over there too."
"Æthelberht? Who's that again? Do you know him?"
[dirin- diririn-]
Sigurd, who had little interest in names like Wessex or Mercia, asked with a sullen look at Hrothric, who had ruined his song.
"They say he was the strongest king in this land. So will his son inherit his place?"
Among the Northmen, who showed not the slightest reverence for foreign kings, Hrothric was the only one crossing himself and praying for Æthelberht's journey to heaven. At my question, he wiped the sweat that had dripped down his gleaming head, and answered.
"Since the king has no children, his younger brother Æthelred will likely ascend the throne."
"No children? That is regrettable. So should we send some kind of gift?"
"A gift!? No, absolutely not...! When a person has died, it is not the custom to send a gift... O Lord..."
"...I know that much, brave Hrothric. I meant for the new king, Æthelred."
'I hope they don't stir up the western border while we're settling Northumbria...'
If Wessex moved, Mercia above it would move as well.
For now, Burgred, the king of Mercia, was the son-in-law of the Æthelwulf who was father to both the deceased Æthelberht and his brother Æthelred.
If Wessex moved first, Mercia would have a justification, and it would also give them the practical benefit of driving out their burdensome neighbors, the Northmen. So perhaps Burgred of Mercia was the one most eager in this situation.
"Ah, I see. In my ignorance, I misunderstood the Jarl's meaning. However, the mood at the court of Wessex will be unsettled now, so I think it is not the right time to send a gift."
"I know that well too. Timing aside, if a king were to readily accept a gift from a heathen, relations with the church would become awkward. I was just making conversation; you don't have to dwell on it."
Still, I had a feeling that someday, the king of Wessex and we would face each other. They were the real masters of Kent, and we were coming and going through Dover as if it were our own house without any permission from the master.
Someone was bound to be uncomfortable, and in this era, when kings got uncomfortable they generally fought each other.
'Come if you dare. I'll deal with you.'
I had already resolved to clear away every obstacle on the path to avenging my father. Adding one more piece of luggage wouldn't change anything.
"Is that all?"
When the heathen's own mouth spoke of disregard for heathens, Hrothric became greatly embarrassed, and droplets of sweat slid down his gleaming head even more profusely. To my question he answered yes, and I released Hrothric, who was twisting his whole body in discomfort.
"Thank you for bringing the news. You may go now."
"Thank you, my Jarl."
Hrothric bowed his head and hastily trotted away through the barbaric Northmen. Ivar, who had been quietly watching that sight, spat out a remark.
"That fellow is an extremely brave one. Even if he has no hair."
At Ivar's pitying words, Sigurd and I both gave a hollow laugh. Coming from whom, to whom? Hadn't he himself, just yesterday, gloomily told us that he was losing too much hair when he combed it lately?
[dirin- diririn-]
"This won't do. I must sing of Baldr, who is said to possess radiant golden locks flowing like a painting, for the sake of that unfortunate Hrothric—cough—Sigurd's hair!"
"Damn it, stop."
Sigurd, whose story always ended in song, cleared his throat, and Ivar threw the comb he had been toying with at Sigurd.
Just as I felt as though the clear sky had suddenly clouded over and was about to chime in with Ivar against Sigurd, another urgent footstep and a flustered voice called our names again.
"Jarl Ivar! Jarl Helgi! Jarl Sigurd!"
'What is this, déjà vu?'
Feeling something strange as if I had seen this situation before, the three of us brothers looked at each other, and soon Ivar's capable lieutenant, Guthrum, came running breathlessly.
Unlike Hrothric, he boasted a thick brown head of hair.
"A messenger from Sigebryht of Rendlesham to the east. Dozens of longships have arrived on the coast, and the one leading them has identified himself as Halfdan Ragnarsson."
"Ah—Halfdan. You've finally come."
The third of the six sons of Ragnar. Halfdan Hvitserk had reached East Anglia on the island of Britain.
*****
When I saw Halfdan after about a month, he looked very healthy.
He must have eaten all sorts of nourishing things, buffed by our two mothers. Halfdan, the lightest eater among us brothers, had always had a naturally good build even when he hardly ate anything, but after the news of Father he had lost so much weight that all the family worried.
However, we did not hold a grand welcoming ceremony.
We simply roasted the deer that Sigurd and I had hunted ourselves, and drank a few cups of the high-quality mead that had been hidden away in the monastery for some reason.
And as Halfdan, his tongue loosened by a good rest with us, told us stories about the Things held in Árós and Uppsala, festivals, and various other things, I was able to soothe some of my longing for home and Mother.
I'd have to write one more letter. Even as true winter set in, the brave merchants would still come and go.
'Home, home. Since when did I start calling Árós home? It's a ridiculous thing.'
But the easy time for us four brothers did not last long, for an unexpected guest soon arrived.
"Greetings, sons of Ragnar. I am Olaf Ingjaldson."
A warrior whose striking white hair was his most notable feature. Seeing him, Ivar's mouth curled into a wide grin.
"Hinn Hvíti!"