200. The Warm Season (2).
200. The Warm Season (2).
The farmers' attachment to the land was something that surpassed my imagination.
As it happened, the fertile soil around Rheims had lain in wait for its masters, cradling earth rich with nutrients, all because of the terrifying Norsemen who had descended during sowing season.
But the people who had been living in this area and fled beyond Rheims or Paris could not bring themselves to step past the gates of Rheims when they stood on its walls, seeing the Norsemen sitting bold as brass on a hill not so far away, building an entirely new village of their own.
Yet the people to the north, hearing that the largest port town in the area had fallen, had naturally fled in a panic toward the coast, and were now cautiously returning one by one to their own lands, keenly gauging the surprisingly docile(?) reactions of the Norsemen.
The soldiers I had on the move right then numbered roughly four thousand from Norrland and five thousand from Mercia and East Anglia, making it seem a vast host of ten thousand on paper, but in truth, all we could do with that many was keep the port city and Rouen in check.
Of necessity, we could only concentrate on the core regions, and the rest of the territory was bound to be riddled with holes, so I forbade anyone from frightening those farmers more than necessary or making any threatening moves.
'Though, honestly, it seems we've already done all the threatening actions we could.'
Those who were now desperately scrambling back were true addicts even among land-addicted peasants, the sort of people who would do anything at all for the sake of working the soil.
Which meant, if I managed to coax them the right way, I could improve a relationship meter that had already hit minus one hundred.
One might ask me why I walked such a complicated path when it would be so much easier to simply push through with force, but sometimes the hard road can prove the easiest one.
With barely nine thousand troops, no matter how many dozens or hundreds of rebellions I beat to pieces, speaking and acting with care to prevent them in the first place—unless I truly possessed a dragon that could soar through the sky and breathe fire—I could never, in the end, overcome the sheer numbers of the local population.
Just how many souls do you suppose lived bearing the name of Frank above their heads in those regions around Rouen and Paris?
And so began the awkward cohabitation between our North Sea army, which had seized the Seine region from the port city of Le Havre to Rouen, and the local inhabitants here, though in truth, little of substance changed.
"I heard there was a minor clash between our Hundred and those Rouen soldiers?"
"Yes! That is so, Fylkir! The proud warriors of the Fylkir drove out those cowardly bastards who do nothing but shoot arrows!"
"Now see here, Steinólfur. The arrow is a fine weapon. Did we not ourselves hurl stones from even farther away? Cowardly means is never the same as bad, my friend."
"Understood, Fylkir! But if I must shoot something anyway, I would rather hurl a good heavy, reliable stone than some flimsy arrow!"
So, if you're going to do a thing, bigger is better, is it?
In truth, Steinólfur's remarks reflected the views held by most of Norrland's warriors, who were fiercely proud of their combat skills.
Even Björn, rational as he was about everything, showed far more interest in ballistae, onagers, and Skorpiones than in bows or arrows.
When I thought about it, Björn, Hrolf, and Steinólfur seemed to share common ground in the most unexpected areas.
[Kreeeak— thwip! Shwaaaak—! Pak! Flutter! Flutter!]
"Oh—! Another hit!"
"It is the blue flag. A hit this time as well, Jarl Ubba."
"The Magyar bow is indeed smaller and stronger than ours. Why is that? Ours should be the larger weapon."
Just as there were warriors who wished to see blood drawn right before their eyes, so too were there those who preferred, on the contrary, to trade selfish volleys from a distance.
Their foremost champions, Ubba and Refil, were personally shooting and appraising the gifts sent by Árpád of the Magyars.
The bow now held in Ubba's hands, one that could laughingly send an arrow flying a hundred fifty meters, drew an elegant, sweeping curve as it bent beautifully; the tips were fitted with animal bone to secure the string, and it looked remarkably similar to what I used to picture when I thought of a bow in my former life.
Of course, even so, it would not compare to the bows of those distant-shot enthusiasts from the Korean peninsula, but the greatest advantage of that type of recurve composite bow was precisely that the draw length was easy to manage.
"The bow's strength and the arrow's power come not from their size, but from the force that sends them flying."
When I revealed myself among the warriors who had been clapping fervently around Ubba, all of them were instantly busy offering military salutes and bowing their heads.
"Fylkir, you have come."
"My Fylkir."
It gave me a peculiar feeling—both awkwardly burdensome and yet pleasant, as though I had become a five-star general at the tender age of twenty.
"Shall I have a look?"
"Of course."
I took the bow from Ubba's hands and found it was indeed a weapon ill-suited to my large hands.
"It truly is small."
"Though it is small, drawing the string requires considerable power—"
[Keeek—! Pah-rrrr—!]
"—Which it would seem you do not require."
I added force slowly, feeling the tension of the bowstring as best I could. I was testing just how much of my strength this fine bow could withstand.
The plucky thing seemed on the verge of breaking with a grotesque groan, yet held firm to the end. I let the shrieking bow rest, and remembering the intensity of the strength I had applied, I nocked an arrow to the string.
[Tak—]
An arrow not so large, as befitted the size of the small bow. It was because of this delicate cuteness(?) that the North Sea warriors all displayed their disappointment, but I knew better, did I not?
A baby arrow. A bullet. A sling's shot. The smaller the projectile, the deadlier it became.
[Keeeeeek—! Pah-rrr!]
Soothing the bow's complaint—that once might be forgivable, but twice seemed a bit much—I released the drawn string toward the meadow far away.
[Thwip—!]
My gaze was fixed solely on the target, and my fingers released the string so naturally that I could not even perceive the letting go.
[Shwaaaak—!]
The arrow that then went flying, fiercely lashing its tail, sailed beyond the target Ubba had set up and past the observers holding the blue and red flags.
"What is that? Where is it going?"
"I don't know, but it seems to have flown farther than that ballista did the other day."
"Must we go and fetch that one too?"
Everyone was staring entranced, tracking the arrow's path—they could clearly see it flying, but could not see it fall. Though I was surprised by the unexpected performance, I kept my feelings hidden and promptly snapped Ubba and Refil's minds back to reality as they stood there staring with mouths agape.
"It is indeed light and useful, but the trouble with these fellows is that they cannot be used in rain or wet weather."
Above all, this was the one flaw that could bury the composite bow's countless advantages in an instant. Northern Europe was already damp enough and saw frequent rain as it was.
The primitive glue, made mostly from fish bladders or animal fat, that held the bonded sections together could not easily endure use near water.
"...It is a shame. With this kind of power—"
Refil, who had been staring at the distant sky for a moment, received my words.
"—it would surely be of great help to our army. Though of course, we could not match the power you just showed us, Fylkir."
Unlike his father Björn, Refil was very pragmatic, and in that respect he seemed to click with Ubba. There must be a reason he had also grown so close to Leon.
To Ubba, who silently nodded beside him, I returned the slightly cracked bow and explained the alternative.
"It would be usable enough in the eastern region of the North Sea. But here in the western region of the North Sea, it is better to use a different bow. If bonding two pieces of wood together is the problem, you can simply cut one large piece of wood and make a bow from it."
If you made a bow about two meters long, first of all, our North Sea warriors, who like things big and strong, would not feel much reluctance. Its power would be quite effective, as guaranteed by Agincourt.
Come to think of it, was this not the land ruled by the ancestors of that Élan spirit (France)?
"A bigger one, you say."
At the simpler-than-expected answer, Refil scratched his beard, while Ubba looked at the composite bow in his hand and at a corner of the large clearing used as a training ground.
That ballista that was being dragged out at every opportunity and fired at the west gate of Rouen Castle.
"If only we could make that a bit smaller..."
From Ubba, who was muttering to himself in a low voice, I thought of a crossbow, but before I could discuss it, a desperate voice sounded from afar.
"My Fylkir! My Fylkir!"
[Dagadak! Dagadak!]
Inside the encampment, of course, there was a rotation of squads for sanitation duty just as for guard duty, and so the only one who could break the implicit rule that horses were not to run inside the camp was that very messenger who was now desperately calling my title.
As if the gazes of everyone gathered in the wide clearing being fixed on him did not matter at all, the messenger galloped like a bird, and before his horse had even fully stopped, he leaped from the saddle and immediately saluted me.
[Chak-!]
I felt a swell of pride in my chest at the sight, sensing that the horsemanship of the North Sea warriors was steadily improving, and I asked what the matter was. The messenger answered briskly.
"A message from Jarl Björn! Jarl Thorstein on the Seine, who has been moving beyond Rouen Castle, confirmed that a large enemy force has entered Paris!"
At last.
Had the Imperator of West Frankia finally made his decision?
At the messenger's words, I rapidly met the eyes of Ubba and Refil. My Jarls were all nodding in unison.
We hurried our steps toward Björn, who had taken over the command tent while I was briefly away.
*****
"I am fine; messenger, raise your head."
Paris, the brightest jewel of the Seine.
The Imperator of West Frankia, who had crossed the bridge stretching southward, calmed the citizens of Paris, who were shuddering with anxiety, with his mere presence. The wavering lords and clergy, like chicks seeing the mother bird they had waited and waited for finally return, craned their necks and exerted every kind of effort to flock to the Imperator's side.
The saying "out of sight, out of mind" also meant that once in sight, one could become close again. This was one of the reasons why the kings of this era in Europe had no fixed capital and wandered constantly.
As Imperator, Carolus's skill was already looking beyond proficiency toward full mastery, more than enough, it seemed, to make all the local lords and clergy prostrate themselves before him—however,
the problem that Carolus had faced this time was not a domestic one but one concerning an external enemy.
The Northmen, already threatening to begin with, had suddenly transformed into an empire called the North Sea and descended, and were even now pounding at the gates of Rouen Castle, barely a stone's throw away from Paris.
"It is with a wretched heart that I must deliver grievous news, Imperator Karolus!"
The messenger who had bravely ridden beyond the eastern gate of Rouen Castle seemed to be the son of a house that knew some etiquette. Carefully gauging Carolus's mood, he explained how the relief force from Reims had vanished after a single battle.
"A battle may be won or lost. I too suffered many defeats at the hands of my late elder brother in the past. What matters is standing in the end. So you, straighten your posture."
"...Yes! Imperator!"
With just a single conversation and a word of encouragement,
Carolus won the hearts of the brave warrior who had ridden alone along the dangerous road between Rouen and Paris to reach this place, and of the local lords.
Yet still, the problem of the North Sea and its Fylkir would be difficult to resolve without facing them directly.
"Their ships are floating on the Seine, and Hincmar of Reims was struck by cavalry that came rushing in from behind?"
'Is this not a situation where all routes have already been taken?'
There was no way to build ships comparable to theirs right now, nor any trained sailors to man them.
The bigger problem was the cavalry that had smashed Hincmar's rear on this plain where nothing but the horizon could be seen.
Whatever magic they might have used, Carolus knew well that his own military ability did not even match that of his late elder brother.
If Hincmar had been struck down, then so could he.
'Then, in the end, what is the strongest sword I can wield?'
Numbers.
The Burgundian army that the Imperator of West Frankia had summoned numbered over eight thousand.
Add the strength of Paris to that, and the number would easily swing between twelve and thirteen thousand.
But if there was a problem, it was time.
'If things go wrong, the peasants all along the Seine might end up having to buy wheat to eat.'
Was this not absurd? The peasants of this fertile West Frankia having to buy wheat from other regions because they had none?
So he had to reach a conclusion as quickly as possible.
Fight, or negotiate.
☆☆☆☆☆Reference☆☆☆☆☆
James Steakley, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons
Avar composite bow. Similar to the Magyar one.
wikipedia user Historiographer, CC BY-SA 3.0 <http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/>, via Wikimedia Commons
Korean horn bow.
Hard to make, hard to maintain, hard to handle, but if you can use it...!
It's truly the ultimate weapon...!!!!!
Hitchhiker89 at English Wikipedia, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
Size is proportional to strength.
Simple is best.
It's a 2-meter longbow...! Actually, its power is not at all inferior to that of a composite bow like the horn bow...! Although it's impossible to use on horseback lol.