202. The Warm Season (4).
202. The Warm Season (4).
Birds chirped, flowers bloomed.
It should have been that kind of fairytale-like, beautiful season.
Because to people, spring was such a thing.
A season when the grey cold receded, and multicolored warmth drew near.
But reality, unlike human value judgments, was dry and prosaic.
The ranks of men moving like machines killed the presence of all beasts around them, and into a season filled with green and blue they infused the discordant colors of grey and black.
[Cheok! Cheok! Cheok! Cheok!]
The West Frankia army advancing in unison numbered roughly ten thousand, with perhaps another one or two thousand added, at a glance.
Their bold approach, making no attempt to hide their advance, was like a black tide surging across the plain.
I, who had known of their approach beforehand, withdrew all troops—except for the relatively mobile Thorstein on the Seine and the warriors of the Kingdom of the Isles—behind the garrison's defensive wall, which was in the midst of being upgraded from palisade to stone wall.
Soon, the grand formation of the West Frankia army entered and took position on the plain between Rouen Castle and the North Sea garrison.
'They really are many.'
If I had not drawn in Brace, I would have had to face far more enemies than that.
At that moment, our North Sea force, excluding the two thousand warriors of the Kingdom of the Isles positioned on the Seine, numbered roughly eight thousand.
Eight thousand against twelve or thirteen thousand?
It was worth a try, wasn't it?
Above all, this time the geographical advantage was ours.
I had no intention of going on the offensive against them, and this garrison was effectively being fortified.
Since siege weapons like the ballistae and scorpions would in fact show maximum effectiveness even in a defensive battle, I was confident.
And it seemed the West Frankia commander, who had achieved numerical superiority, felt the same.
[Dagr-dak- Dagr-dak- Dagr-dak-]
The plain was filled with only a moderate tension and the sound of the wind sweeping by.
The eyes of the people on the walls of Rouen Castle and on the garrison walls of the North Sea army focused on a single man riding out slowly.
Beneath a helmet that lacked the characteristic face mask of the North Sea army, revealing his face clearly, the striking face of a man with a fine mustache and a few strands of brown hair hanging down was visible.
Early forties? Or mid-forties.
The characteristics of a nobleman who does not labor in the fields were evident in his pale face, and his upright posture in the sumptuous leather saddle exuded a dignified grace.
A bearing that naturally revealed that he had been born into a noble house, and had heard, seen, spoken, and learned only precious things.
The guards flanking him also dripped with noble air, but their presence paled before the elegance exuded by their master.
I knew at a glance. That man was the Imperator of West Frankia.
"Refil, Seutorolpeu. Follow me."
"Yes, Fylkir."
"Understood!"
I conveyed my intent to Björn and Ivar with a glance, and Guthrum, who was in overall command of the garrison's defense, gave a loud order to open the gate.
[Grrrrrr-]
The mechanical device turned and the thick, heavy gate opened, and through it Camembert strode forward vigorously.
[Dagr-dak- Dagr-dak- Dagr-dak-]
The always pleasant rebound awakened every cell in my body. The momentum of Refil and Seutorolpeu riding behind me grew increasingly grim, but my heart was rather glad.
"Whoa—"
[Frrrr!]
As I pulled the reins, Camembert slowly came to a halt and engaged in a contest of spirit with the pure white horse before him, and likewise the guards of the two rulers entered their own standoff.
[Sssss-]
With one hand I removed my helmet, and my eyes met the refreshing wind as I looked at the Emperor before me.
Carolus Imperator.
Grandson of Charlemagne. A man who inherited the smallest share of land but dominated West Frankia by his own ability alone.
'His bearing is truly imposing.'
Looking closer, I noticed a crown engraved on his helmet. Perhaps the reason he did not take it off was to conceal his hair?
The most infamous nickname attached to Carolus was, after all, the Bald.
But no matter how curious I was, I could not ask a man who was the Emperor of West Frankia, 'Are you bald by any chance?' So I spoke first.
"Unless my eyes deceive me, the man I now face is the Imperator of West Frankia."
A brief silence followed.
Just as I looked at him, he also looked at me and then took my question.
"I wish my eyes deceived me a little, but hearing you speak confirms it. You are indeed the Fylkir of the North Sea. It would be a terrible thing if there were two of you."
For all his soft voice and hearty laugh, his gaze was far from ordinary. A look unique to those who have sent many a man to his end with words and stratagem.
Eyes that looked at people not with human feeling but with cold calculation, like a butcher eyeing cattle or pigs.
I had not yet met the Imperator of East Frankia, but if he was someone who contended with this Carolus, it was understandable that Lothar, caught between them, had lost his mind.
"I do not know the reason why the ruler of the North Sea has personally come this far, but this must go no further."
[Frrrr-! Frr!]
The Imperator of West Frankia soothed his own white horse, which was acting up from its clash of spirit with Camembert, yet he never took his eyes off me.
"As it happens, a feast day celebrating the resurrection is approaching, and a festival honoring forgiveness will be held. I shall consider all this to have never happened. As a proper host, I will even give the guest a gift. So, why not withdraw now?"
The language, as elegant as his gestures, was refined like the craft of a master sculptor.
But in the end, the realm in which he and I walked was not that of beauty and goodness, but the realm of profit where only cold calculation held sway.
The gain from standing firm was far greater than that from withdrawing.
"Imperator. There are two things I seek here. First, Rouen Castle."
From the very first condition, it was something intolerable to Carolus of West Frankia.
Naturally, righteous anger clouded his eyes.
"Second, the Imperator of Lotharingia. You will consent to the divorce of Lothar."
If the first condition had been a truly Norse demand, presented by Norsemen who had evolved from mere plunderers into the swollen North Sea folk—
The second condition was something even Carolus could not have imagined.
Perhaps this second condition was even harder to accept than the Rouen fortress.
"Is not conversation by nature something to be conducted at leisure over a long time?"
The eyes that had briefly clouded with confusion regained their composure as if nothing had happened, and the dark brown eyes—deep as his beard and hair—flickered with a fresh blue light.
"Since our opinions did not align today, let us speak again soon, Fylkir of the North Sea."
"I shall look forward to it, Imperator of West Frankia."
"Then. Giddyup!"
[Hihiing-! Dagadak- Dagadak- Dagadak-!]
Without hesitation, Carolus turned his body and headed back toward his army drawn up in formation.
'The words "let us meet again" probably meant to fight once first and then negotiate.'
"Let us return. Refil, Stórolf."
"Yes!"
"Yes, Fylkir!"
[Fururk-]
Throughout the meeting, Camembert had stood silent and unwavering like a dependable presence, and now he moved with majestic steps, clip-clop, lifting his hooves high.
'Had he won the battle of nerves among beasts in his own way?'
With a gait that was neither walk nor run, Camembert glided across the field, and as soon as he stepped through the sturdy gate, I could see the main military commanders gathered together.
Björn, Ivar, Guthrum, the Jarls and the Karls.
Facing my subordinates' faces, which held a mixture of anticipation and tension, I spoke lightly.
"I met their Imperator. He said we should fight it out first. North Sea army, prepare for battle."
[Cheok!]
"Yes, Fylkir!"
"Understood!"
The warriors all bowed their heads at once, raising their eagle fists to their left chests.
As if the encampment, which had been holding its breath, woke all at once at the thunderous sound of their voices, a savage energy began to rise like wildfire.
"Move to your positions!"
"47th Hundred! Take your bows and to the wall! And of course bring your shields! Don't ask such useless questions!"
"77th Hundred! To the wall!"
I had already laid all the plans. Was this the second siege defense?
At Jorvik, fighting against Ælla, there had been some real crises; here in the front yard of Rouen, I would test how elite Carolus's army was.
First, with the power of machines.
[Kkiririk- Kkiririk-]
[Geureureureung-]
*****
"Is he not truly a beast, Imperator!"
"He is an insolent man! How dare that wretch discuss family matters with the Imperator!"
[Dagadak- Dagadak-]
He let the sound of hooves and his subordinates' indignant voices pass through one ear.
Carolus was thinking only of the meeting just moments ago.
After all, having brought an army of thirteen thousand this far, it was a matter where the Imperator's dignity could not be preserved without a fight.
The plan to observe their defenses a little and sound out their commander vanished entirely from Carolus's mind the moment he confirmed that the one he faced was the Fylkir himself.
How bold a man was he? To come out of the fortress gate with only two escorts.
But.
Carolus's impression upon setting eyes directly on Fylkir Helgi Ragnarsson changed to thinking that it was entirely possible.
To think he had intended to face such a man directly—was it not Carolus himself who was the bold one?
The pitch-black horse that carried him was as broad as if looking at an aurochs, but his forearms were as thick as Carolus's own waist; his neatly trimmed jet-black beard and the jet-black hair flowing back made his green eyes stand out, and merely meeting them tested the fortitude he had cultivated all his life.
When that solid jaw—hard enough that even if struck with a stone it seemed the striker's fingers would break—opened, the whole world listened to that man's words.
That overwhelming pressure and dignity was something one could not understand without experiencing it.
However, Carolus was the Imperator of West Frankia.
Though that man was a ruler who had conquered the rough and perilous sea beyond, Carolus himself was the grandson and son of the successors of Rome, legitimate Emperors.
If he were to be broken here, he would not have even begun against his powerful brothers.
[Sreung-!]
Carolus drew the Ulfberht blade, the famed sword of the finest Frankish swordsmiths in Lotharingia, in one motion; whether his guards behind him fell silent in shock or not, he spurred his horse toward the front of the ranks as if entranced.
[Hwoong-!]
Then, as if to sever the lingering presence the Fylkir of the North Sea had left behind, he brought his sword down with all his might and cut through the fear in his heart.
Just as when he had stood against his two elder brothers, Lothar I and Ludovicus.
"Sons of West Frankia, hear me!"
The numbers deployed across this wide field alone were thirteen thousand.
Of course, the voice would not carry to the end.
Yet the warriors of West Frankia felt faith and fervor surge in their chests merely at the sight of their Imperator mounted on a pure white horse, swinging his sword and raising his voice.
"This is our land! The land where we sow and reap! Here your fathers and grandfathers, and I have ruled and lived! Here your sons and grandsons too shall rule and live! Those Northmen have plundered our land for countless years! But in the end they were defeated, and we were victorious! This time too, the outcome will be no different!"
[Hwoong-!]
Carolus's drawn sword, swung toward the Northmen's encampment, gleamed brightly under the sun.
"God is with us! God wills it! Your Imperator commands you! Drive all the heathens from this holy land!"
"God wills it!"
"The Imperator has commanded!"
Like a spreading wave, an unnamed emotion mixing fury and exultation erupted as a cheer from the entire West Frankish line.
[Iyaaaa-!]
And toward that line that did not doubt their victory.
[Hwoooong-!]
Several large, round stones flew with force.