194. The King and the Sword (4).
194. The King and the Sword (4).
When a person focused properly on one thing, they could experience a magical moment where everything around them grew hazy and distant.
They poured all the brain's power into a single point.
I was experiencing that phenomenon right then.
"·····!!!"
"···?"
"···!"
The prisoner who had been rambling wet himself where he sat—the atmosphere inside the tent, which had been pressing him until that point, shifted the moment the words 'Reims' reinforcements' appeared, and the discussion grew heated over how to devour an enemy whose numbers we didn't even know yet.
Yet all those voices failed to disturb my concentration.
As I sat still and stared down at the map, my mind weighed every conceivable possibility and permutation.
Given what we knew of Gausfred, holed up in Rouen's fortress, and his disposition as we had pieced it together so far, how would he react if we moved?
Even more important: once Rouen truly fell into crisis, how many troops would Carolus of Orléans bring?
If we could capture Rouen, when would the timing be right to help Salomon of Brittany and Hásteinn?
Most of all.
How were we to lure out the army led by Hincmar, Bishop of Reims?
'He had probably been in Paris by now. Or perhaps he had not arrived yet.'
The pitiful Frankish hunter who had soiled his trousers knew no detailed numbers about the reinforcements, but by my reckoning the count was roughly a thousand to fifteen hundred.
Considering the size of Reims, a city comparable to Rouen, it would not be far off.
Accordingly, I first sorted things out somewhat inside my head and then, one by one, threw the questions I had already mulled over at my subordinates, who were deep in heated debate.
A kind of brainstorming, as it were—and I felt it in my bones that many hands truly made light work.
"Information is paramount above all. We must find out where that so-called bishop of Reims is now and how many men he has."
"If I were the lord of Rouen, I would go to rescue the bishop without question. Setting everything else aside—if the man coming to save me died on the way, what face could I show to my retainers and my city's people!"
"We must use the waterways more aggressively. Just as the Frankish lords, Rouen among them, are too absorbed in defending their fortresses and gathering in one place, we need to move more quickly and across a wider area."
Those were the remarks of Ubba, Stórolf, and Tostein, in that order.
There were also suggestions to find a weakness in the moat or to begin assembling siege engines at once—all measures worth trying.
With my heart set on carrying them all out, I glanced sidelong at Torbjörn standing behind me.
The answer I wanted had not yet come out.
At my sudden glance, the gazes of every jarl in the tent gathered on my cavalry captain, who was oozing a cold sweat.
I looked at him for a moment, then quietly sounded him out.
"Torbjörn, what do you think?"
"Uh—in my view, unlike the hilly country of southern Britain or the mountain regions of the north, this place is entirely flat. I would say it is a field where cavalry can shine."
"Oh—"
I marveled at how smoothly Torbjörn spoke without a hitch. My standing forces were broadly split into two: the Garm Brotherhood, made up overwhelmingly of heavy infantry, and my guard, the personal mounted retinue. At some point, a competitive spirit had begun to form between the commanders of these two standing bodies—Refil and Stórolf on one side, Torbjörn on the other.
As for the soldiers beneath them, it was much the way a 21st-century army man might look at the air force: the heavy infantry in Nordland always thought the cavalry roaming around Árós had the cushy post, while the cavalry, who patrolled the well-maintained roads around Árós, thought the opposite—that the heavy infantry stuck in Nordland had the cushy post.
From my standpoint, where I could afford to abandon neither infantry nor cavalry, I preferred this kind of good-natured rivalry over the complacency that came with having no rival.
At any rate, with such a delicate relationship between them, Refil and Stórolf looked at Torbjörn with an expression that said "we don't love it, but you're right," while all the other jarls nodded at his words.
"That is right. You put it very well. It is flat terrain like this where cavalry runs rampant. Then I shall now explain my plan."
[Giii-]
We had replaced the insolent chair that dared make rude noises whenever the Fylkir rose, but even the replacement still creaked as I abandoned the wooden chair and stepped up to the long table.
Beyond the winding Seine we had crossed, on the other side of the straight-running river and the fortress of Rouen above it, up to the palisade where my army had encamped.
Upon a fairly accurate map rendered in charming little wooden carvings, our army's position and the enemy's presumed positions were marked. First, I pushed the heavy infantry stationed inside the palisade slightly forward.
"The first thing is to ensure that Gausfred, cowering in Rouen's fortress, cannot even think of moving rashly. Jarl Björn shall assume overall command; center around the Garm Brotherhood, and press the enemy with the Britannian reinforcements following in support. You shall operate a detached force and lock their north gate tight."
"Yes, Fylkir."
"Understood."
Björn, Ubba, Refil, Stórolf, and Guthrum answered in unison, along with Ivar, whose eyes were calmly shining.
"The main body's principal objectives are camp security and fortification, siege preparation, and wearing down the fortress of Rouen. And Jarl Tostein, your fleet and warriors must go beyond Rouen and block their east gate."
This was the first time 'the Red' Tostein had truly coordinated with me, and he was thoroughly sharpened for the task.
"Only entrust it to me, Fylkir! Not a single one of those Frankish bastards in Rouen's fortress shall slip out of the east gate!"
Here and there about his face, Tostein bore the look of the hot-blooded Konungr Olaf. This jarl, who gave off an air somewhat like Stórolf's, replied to my order with eyes that seemed to hold something close to ecstasy.
"In this operation, Tostein, your role may well be the most crucial. You must continuously exchange information with the main body, and you must endlessly watch for any relief force from Paris that might come charging from the east, or any enemy that might suddenly burst out of Rouen. If the situation becomes perilous, you must not hesitate to withdraw. I am counting on you."
"I shall surely fulfill the command the Fylkir has given...!"
Tostein was not, at least, the sort of man to shrink before a grave task.
It was also something of a test I was setting for him. If he lived up to my expectations, Tostein and the warriors of the Island Kingdom could become exceedingly useful cards to hold.
Even among the warriors of the North Sea, every one of them amphibious fighters, the Island Kingdom's men were the ones who came and went along Britain's northern coast as if it were their own backyard.
'Wait—if the Garm Brotherhood were infantry, and my personal cavalry were the air force (?), then the warriors of the Island Kingdom could be marines, couldn't they?'
If I could just get my hands on some Greek fire, I might even build a navy altogether.
A foolish thought flickered through my mind for a moment, but I soon shook my head, drove the wicked thought away, and steeled my resolve.
Because from now on, I had to persuade my vassals—men more frightening than the enemy.
"If things go as I intend, the enemy will inevitably be forced to send a relief force. And we possess the means to strike a force of suitable size hard, like lightning, and return."
As I began to speak meaningfully, I gauged my brothers' expressions—most looked as if they already knew what I was about to say. But why were there no signs of alarm, worry, or protest?
"Fylkir—surely the reason you asked for my opinion was not—"
On the contrary, it was Torbjörn, who had been poking his head out from behind me to study the map, who looked aghast and could not finish his sentence.
"That is right, Torbjörn. My standard-bearer. I will move personally."
I ended gravely, with an air that would brook no objection, and then waited for my retainers' protests to follow.
"..."
"..?"
"Fylkir, send only me and the cavalry! I shall slaughter every foe we meet so that the Fylkir shall not be disappointed!"
But what was this? Only Torbjörn, who was directly responsible for guarding me, went pale as if about to collapse; the rest of the jarls wore unconcerned faces.
'What, these people. Were they not even worried about me?'
My cavalry under my command had grown little by little and now numbered a full five hundred head. Surely it was enough now that I could boast of riding horses anywhere?
Moreover, our relationship with the Eastern Romans and the Magyars—peoples who possessed outstanding cavalry traditions—had long since evolved beyond mere alliance; we were developing into a community that one could not imagine doing without.
Naturally, the cavalry strength of the North Sea, which had received all manner of know-how, equipment, instructors, and horses, was right at this moment still growing—on the plains of Eastern Europe, the mountain regions of Scandinavia, and the hills of Britain.
Even if our cavalry had yet to reach four figures, my horsemen were basically clad in heavy armor; though mounted archery was impossible, they were capable of throwing javelins and were becoming a kind of hybrid, all-weather cavalry that swung long spears and curved blades.
And, though it was a little embarrassing to say with my own mouth, was not the commander leading those 9th-century Gundams precisely me, Helgi Ragnarsson?
The reason Torbjörn fretted like that was largely just the stress of being captain of the guard. The eyes of the other jarls were filled with faith rather than worry—
To a degree that left me a touch disappointed.
"May I say one more thing, Fylkir?"
As I patted Torbjörn's shoulder—his soul seemed about to depart his body—Björn's voice came from beside me.
My elder brother, like a machine, had received the tremendous responsibility of leading the main body without showing the slightest tremor.
'Well, he's the man who shook Iberia and the Mediterranean together with Hásteinn—would he waver over this much?'
"Of course, Jarl Björn."
Having asked my leave, Björn uncrossed his arms, which he had kept folded all day, and extended his right arm—clattering as it swayed—to point at Rouen's east gate.
"Here. The Fylkir is right to say that no messenger from Rouen's fortress can be allowed to slip through. If they cannot learn each other's circumstances, their minds will grow more desperate, and at length they will commit a mistake. Yet we must ensure that their first messenger does reach Paris."
At Björn's words, straightforward jarls like Stórolf and Tostein rolled their eyes and nodded as if they understood. Conversely, the well-rounded jarls like Ubba, Refil, and Guthrum all rested their chins in their hands and stared fixedly at the map.
Whether they did or not, Björn's voice continued without a tremor.
"The main body shall move first, and Jarl Tostein's fleet, which has been waiting in advance, shall confirm that their messenger has ridden out and then seal the east gate. Should this happen, the enemy commander in Paris will receive naught but a plea for aid, and can only grow more desperate."
Only after that explanation did Stórolf and Tostein let out exclamations of admiration.
I met eyes one by one with Ubba, Refil, and Guthrum to seek their assent, then nodded.
"Let us do so. Then, commanders of each force, prepare from this moment on. The operation will begin two days from now, so let us move with haste."
"Yes, Fylkir!"
[Chak!]
As Refil, his nostrils flared wide as he contemplated his father's expected feats, answered louder than anyone else, the jarls and I soon left the command tent and hurried our steps.
And three days later.
Paris received a messenger, his face drained white.