19.
19.
Olaf "hinn Hvíti" Ingjaldson.
The White. In other words, he was old.
Astonishingly, this seasoned warrior, who had been active almost concurrently with my father (AD 820-present), was, in 21st-century terms, the Konungr of Dublin (Dublin, Dubhlind), in other words Ireland, the next neighborhood over.
Just as his byname suggested, his hair was entirely white, and his beard—clearly worn long for cosmetic reasons rather than mere neglect—looked as though it would serve perfectly as camouflage if placed on a field of white snow.
"Ivar the Boneless. Good friend! How can you arrive with so little word!"
The White one and the Boneless one soon embraced and expressed their joy at the reunion. How were the children? And the wife? What? Lately he was seeing a lover instead of his wife? Had he lost his mind? That his wife had a lover too?! Good heavens!
The two of them, who had been casually exchanging what seemed like things they should not be discussing in front of Sigurdeu, Halfdan, and me, only turned their attention to their surroundings after inquiring after each other's well-being all the way down to what they had eaten for dinner the night before.
"Now, brothers. This is my comrade who was with me when I sailed all around the island of Britain, Konungr Olaf. He is the master of Dublin."
"Once again, it is good to see you! O sons of the great Ragnar!"
This robust man, who showed no physical signs of aging despite his years, soon strode over, clasped arms with each of us, and greeted us one by one.
"So you are that Helgi "Sterkr" Ragnarsson!"
"It is good to meet you, Konungr Olaf."
"The pleasure is all mine, great warrior Helgi!"
In the powerful grip that seized my arm and his piercing blue eyes, I felt admiration for a strong man mingled with a fierce competitive spirit. This man was a born warrior.
Presently, we held a small feast for Olaf, who had come a long way.
In the wide hall beneath the old palace of Edmund—which at some point had become our home entirely—whose interior had been remodeled to suit Norseman tastes. There, Olaf and his son Thorstein "the Red" (Thorstein "Raudr") also joined us, and Thorstein, who had red hair unlike his white-haired father, drew all of our attention.
As it turned out, this native Irish Norseman, a year younger than me, was very interested in Sigurdeu and myself, who were close to him in age; he asked me many things, especially how I had gotten my body to be so large.
And so, as wine and song, and the subtle flirtations of men and women flying across the warm flames of the hearth all mingled together, and as all good things must come to an end, Olaf softly inclined his head toward Ivar and said something, whereupon Ivar called for Halfdan and went with Olaf into the inner chamber.
'Come to think of it, I had heard that if Ivar had been a comrade of Olaf of Dublin, Halfdan had been a comrade of Jarl Rognvald (Rognvald Eysteinsson) of Orkney.'
Orkney was north of Alba, and Dublin was west of Mercia and Wessex.
'It was obvious. We had annihilated East Anglia with a mere two thousand men, so they wanted to dip their toes in.'
Loyalty and promises were things that must not be trusted in the bloodless 9th century. If we had been stuck in a quagmire, they would have stood by and watched. But now that the winds of victory were blowing, our 'friends' were seeking to hoist their sails into that wind.
'Things are getting interesting.'
Whether the interest of these veteran Viking colleagues who had already laid the groundwork would prove a help or a hindrance remained to be seen. Either way, it did not matter. Once this winter passed, Björn's main force would cross over...
Before long, every king and lord on this land would have to decide. Whether to bow their heads to us, or to stand against us.
Because, though I might not know for certain, my brothers never seemed to intend to stop at Northumbria.
*****
Olaf and his warriors returned to Dublin before the snowfall grew heavier.
The satisfied smile on his departing face suggested that the discussions held between Ivar and Halfdan had pleased him greatly, but Sigurdeu and I did not ask about the matter.
Instead, Sigurdeu and I shared a considerable rapport with Olaf's son, Thorstein. That red fellow was hiding great ambition behind his solid frame inherited from his father; before long, the King of Alba would have to deal with a troublesome enemy.
Thus, the winter that fundamentally stilled all human activity drew near, yet beneath its surface we were busily in motion. Many tales must have been passing between Wessex and Mercia as well. I had heard that the two foes of Northumbria were still fighting for the throne, even after East Anglia, sitting right under their chins, had collapsed in an instant.
Was it arrogance? Or had they simply given up on everything? Did they think that there would be no price to pay for throwing my father into a pit of snakes?
I would be visiting Ella soon to ask him that answer.
Fortunately, time never stopped and flowed majestically only forward. And the people of Beodericsworth were able to spend a truly peaceful and warm winter for the first time in a long while.
And in 866 AD. The sixth month of winter.
Around the time the festival celebrating the end of the long winter was winding down.
The hundred longships, whose mere moving majesty had silenced the shores of Frankia and, beginning from Dover, had plunged all the people along the coast of East Anglia into terror, finally touched the island of Britain.
*****
Guided in by the high watchtower that Eorl Sigebryht of Rendlesham had prepared in advance, Björn, having completed the orderly disembarkation of his great host, faced the wind blowing in from the sea toward the land and looked out over the assembled army.
Jarls proclaiming themselves with banners dyed white, black, red, and blue, each taking the raven of Odin as its symbol, and the warriors beneath them.
Among them were the most conspicuous ones: these exceptionally tall and powerfully built warriors, distinct even among the already tall Norsemen, carried a banner unlike those of the other kinfolk around them—a banner bearing the face of a woman, half in human form and half in the form of a skull.
'Hel...'
Efforts to depict a god's face had existed for a long time, but I had never seen such a vivid countenance anywhere.
Mother Asta truly has received the favor of Goddess Hel— thought Björn. Then what about Helgi, the son of Mother Asta? Everyone was keeping it quiet, but the wondrous power and miracles shown by my proud youngest brother... were they not beyond what a man could do?
'It is not important yet. Now, I must think only of Ella and revenge.'
Before leaving Uppsala, Mother Áslaug and the Uppsala Thing—and even those arrogant Godi, the high priests—had all spoken with one voice. Father's seat must be continued. If things go on as they are, the world of the Norsemen would scatter and vanish. A wolf pack always needs a leader to guide them.
But who could have tamed these savage beasts? Who could have given them a purpose and led them to the hunt?
There was one fact everyone was keeping quiet about, but which everyone except for me knew.
'But not yet.'
Look at the army arrayed across that field.
All of them were disordered in a display of unique individuality, and only the warriors of Árós upheld their banner with a strictly disciplined bearing. They had trained for the same amount of time, so how could they be so different?
If only all Northmen could become like them?
"Refil, sound the horn. It is time to meet your uncles."
"Yes, Father."
[Bwoooong- Ooooo-]
In the sight of his son vigorously blowing the horn, Björn saw not his own reflection, but the face of his father Ragnar. The very face he had often seen in Ivar's countenance.
'If only Erik had come along with us...'
Of his two sons, Erik was a child of frail health. A child who had been weak since birth. Yet the spirit coiled within him possessed a fortitude that would not shame the ancestors.
Perhaps that was why it felt all the more regrettable, for the way of nature Björn had observed all his life was that the weak did not survive long.
'But if they belong to a strong pack, even the frail can be protected.'
His second son, Refil, had grown into a sufficiently sturdy warrior. Enough to remind Björn of his own childhood self.
When the time came for Helgi to step forward onto the world's stage in earnest, rather than merely continuing his role of supporting the old, like Björn himself and Ivar, Refil would be able to stand firmly by his side.
Or perhaps, he could even set out on another expedition of his own.
'Have I grown old as well? I keep having idle thoughts.'
Whenever he had seen the old men gathered at the Thing, he had wondered how on earth they could babble on so mindlessly about nothing but their own stories, and the fact that he now felt he understood that a little was both sad and amusing to him.
'But not yet. My other brother, Hásteinn, is still down in Nantes wrestling with the Franks, so I, who am younger than him, cannot afford to fall behind already.'
That old man had definitely said he would retire before long... and that had been five winters ago.
With a single toss of his head, Björn scattered the thoughts that had been clouding his mind since the moment he left Uppsala. He steadied his body and his heart, mounted the horse Sigebryht had prepared for him, and gently nudged the beast's soft flanks with both feet.
[Pururuung!]
At once, the colossal host, which had seemed frozen in place, stirred into motion. The officers and men of Árós took the lead, following behind Björn as he rode ahead.
There, at the very head of the great column leading this vast army, seated at the dragon's head of the formation, Björn's figure was as unyielding as steel itself.
*****
Ivar and I had first set foot on this land leading 800. After that, Sigurdeu had come with a thousand, Halfdan with two thousand, and finally Björn and Ubba with four thousand.
With the nobles of East Anglia, including Sigebryht, joining the cause, our total strength was roughly eight thousand five hundred.
Someone from the 21st century might look at that and think, 'Isn't that still a small number of troops?' But what mattered was that all of these soldiers were warriors armed and trained with the high-quality weapons, shields, and armor that countless craftsmen had labored to produce throughout the past winter.
Since their drill instructor had been none other than Björn, the host marching steadily into the encampment prepared before Beodericsworth exuded an extraordinarily solid fighting spirit. Among them were welcome faces who had joined from Árós, and so a corner of my heart felt a deep, reassuring sense of strength.
'So both of my mothers have drawn their swords as well.'
Árós was already pouring in massive quantities of supplies, and this time they had selected and dispatched an additional 400 men (this was truly a significant number. The key point was that even after selecting this many, they still had ample reserves to spare). I had also heard that Gotland, the political base of my stepmother Áslaug, had actively joined the campaign.
Nothing in this world comes free. If this expedition concluded successfully, these two cities would likely reap the greatest benefits. For the calculations of Northmen were as precise as a blade's edge.
"So, the Cyning of Wessex has changed again?"
At last, the six Ragnarsson brothers gathered together at the humble feast prepared in Beodericsworth's noble hall.
The time for light laughter and passing cups came to an end. The Jarls of each region, who were participating in this campaign and assigned the rank of lieutenant commander, vacated their seats. Only we six brothers remained to continue our discussion.
"That's right, just as you heard."
Unlike the rest of us, who accepted the news from Wessex with as little thought as watching a dog or a chicken, Björn, the supreme commander of our grand army, displayed great interest.
"Æthelwulf held a deep grudge against me and Hásteinn. Before we entered the sea of the Romans, we had plundered the cities of the West Saxons to fill our coffers. That was a truly enjoyable time."
Ah— so here was the main culprit who had driven his likability among the Angles and Saxons down to -100.
"From what I know, that is why Æthelwulf married the eldest daughter of Karl II, the König of West Frankia. Truly, those who believe in the cross have all lost their minds. A Cyning who had seen well over fifty winters, marrying a girl who had seen only twelve springs."
"Pfft—! By Odin..."
"Æthelwulf, that man was truly a remarkable fellow, it seems."
Our heads reeling at the marital history of the European nobility, we could do nothing but press our hands to our foreheads.
This was now the early medieval world of the 800s. While marrying at twelve was a relatively common (?) occurrence, even so, that sort of age gap was never common. It was certainly worthy of gossip.
"You know what's even funnier? Just about when I was setting out on the Great Expedition, I heard news that Æthelwulf had died. So then Karl's daughter—that is, Æthelwulf's child-bride—this time went and remarried his own son. The moment I heard that, I began hunting those who believe in the cross even harder."
"....?"
"Good God, Tyr! What a beastly bastard!"
"This is quite entertaining. This will make a good song."
"A terrible song it will be, Sigurdeu. When you sing it, it will be an even more terrible song."
'I've heard of levirate marriage, but this son-marrying-stepmother situation is a bit...'
Björn, having coolly drained the mead from his leather cup, shook his head just like the rest of his brothers.
"Æthelbald, his name was Æthelbald. After him came Æthelberht, and now it is Æthelred... At this rate, I wonder if Æthelred might not also die young. Then the last remaining son would seize the throne, wouldn't he? His name... what was it..."
Knitting his brow deeply as he strained to recall the hazy name, Björn snapped his fingers and exclaimed.
"Alfred!"