207. Rules Set by Man, Rules Set by Nature.
207. Rules Set by Man, Rules Set by Nature.
Madness did not approach stealthily.
If you interpreted the meaning of madness, it was a sign of going crazy.
A sign meant a strange atmosphere as things unfolded.
A strange atmosphere?
What I meant was, the madness of the howling Franks was not created by a single sudden cavalry charge from the North Sea army.
It was not exact, but roughly calculated, it was three-tenths of about 13,000 troops.
Rounding up, about 4,000 men had their ranks split diagonally, so the morale of the already miserable and struggling Frankish army hit rock bottom, and only the primal instinct to survive remained in their heads.
"To the fortress...! Let us go to the fortress!"
"We just need to cross that waterway!"
"People of Rouen Fortress! Help us!"
"Hey! Stop pushing!"
"There is nowhere left to go! Please stop!"
"At this rate, we will all die!"
"Whoa—! Whoa!?"
[Uuuuuu—]
Clearly, it was a wave and tide of people that should not have been audible, but everyone within it felt it. They felt that a massive movement surged momentarily toward the deep, cold moat of Rouen Fortress.
"Whoaaa—"
[Pungdeong!]
It started with one person.
"Stop—"
"We have to get over there!"
"Hey! Behind us is the moat!"
"In front are Norsemen! Please go back!"
[Pungdeong! Pungdeong!]
After that, it was dozens.
Though the buildup for the madness had been proceeding steadily, the wave that surged in an instant unleashed its violent force without any warning.
No, from the start, when the reckless attack was ordered, when the siege failed, when attention was stolen by the enemy on the riverbank, distracting the precious cavalry, and finally when the enemy cavalry that had closed in smashed the right wing—all of that had been the omen.
"Aaaagh!"
[Pungdeong! Pungdeong!]
"Save me!"
"Cross the moat!"
"I cannot swim—"
[Pungdeong! Pungdeong!]
The madness that surged violently vanished only after the Frankish warriors in heavy armor had pressed down on the shoulders of comrades who had fallen in ahead, and had their own shoulders pressed by those behind them, repeating this countless times, as if satisfied.
"Stop! Stop it! What are the duces and comites doing! Restore order! The enemy is not many! Order— order!"
Carolus, who had no choice but to watch it all.
The elite warriors who had formed an ironclad shield wall around the ground where he stood upon a pure white horse had to keep cutting down the Frankish warriors filled with nothing but terror and urgency.
No matter how loudly they shouted, the human voice was weaker than expected, and the fear brought by the shocking defeat, the stones falling from above, and the longships and cavalry that could strike at both flanks at any moment was thicker than Carolus had anticipated.
At the voice of the furious Imperator Thor, his subordinate lords shouted until blood came from their throats.
"This is the order of Imperator Thor! Everyone stop!"
"In the name of God, stop! What is this madness!"
"Sons of Frankia! Stop this foolishness!"
But of course, the shouts from within the shield wall shattered into pieces and scattered before the gale that had struck outside.
When all this tumult finally subsided a little, it was already too late.
The moat, made by drawing in the Seine. It was so well-made that even the people inside the fortress could only come and go freely by launching small boats or, in normal times, by setting up a well-made bridge.
So many Frankish warriors had sunk deep that the flow of the waterway slowed, creating a bank with their own bodies.
'More must have died in the water than in battle.'
What a disastrous situation it was. What a disgrace it was.
Anger surged to the top of his head, and regret propped up beneath it. He was so furious that his head actually cleared.
He raised one arm to silence the voices of the lords who had gone hoarse from shouting, and Carolus gave the order that Imperator Thor had to give even in the worst situation.
"Not everyone can enter Rouen Fortress. Their catapults cannot reach this moat, so we move to the north gate of Rouen Fortress. Command shall be taken by Duke Boso of Divio."
Carolus was famous for always speaking politely to his subordinates, giving the utmost consideration to their dignity and political standing, but the current situation did not allow him such leisure.
Of course, Boso, the great lord of Divio, the central city of northern Burgundy, was privately Carolus's brother-in-law, so it was not that strange. But to those who knew Carolus well, it signified how precarious the situation was.
"Yes! Imperator Thor! I shall carry it out without a single mistake!"
"I will trust you, Boso. You must move right now. I shall enter Rouen Fortress and meet Gauzfried, the lord of Rouen. Messenger, wave my flag at once and tell Gauzfried to lower the gate. And a boat..."
The scars left by the terrible chaos still filled the front of Rouen's west gate, and Carolus, whose breath caught at the sight, could not continue speaking for a moment.
"Tell them to send a boat so I can cross."
"Yes! Imperator Thor!"
Carolus, who hurriedly turned his head, then summoned the cavalry commander and had him protect the left flank of the moving column. His voice did not tremble as he continued to give orders, and his posture remained unshaken, giving a sense of stability to the lords and warriors of West Frankia who looked only to Imperator Thor, but...
He looked as if he were being chased by something.
*****
"Boudewijn. This is not a matter of loyalty or oaths. Rather, it is a matter of your life, mine, and that of your only son, Boudewijn II."
Bruges, Flanders.
A precious nest that Boudewijn had built anew by refurbishing the old Roman and Frankish fortress site himself. Around this fortress, as meticulous and solid as her husband's character, a city worthy of being called the center of Flanders was gradually being formed.
It had high spires, a drawbridge that could freely open and close over a moat fed by the river, large and sturdy walls, and even rough warriors who knew how to fight properly after clashing with Norsemen for generations.
From childhood, following her father's orders, she had gone to Britain, and even to Rome with Boudewijn to petition the Pope about her father's injustices.
To Judith, whose knowledge had grown through countless adventures rivaling those of any Norseman, Bruges and Flanders seemed a place sufficient to become a mighty power.
It was more than enough to be a sturdy home for her beloved husband, her son who was more precious than Judith's own soul, and Judith herself.
Was that why her father, the great and exalted Emperor of West Frankia, who had long ago cast aside any familial affection and lived only for the dark ambition in his heart, had come to her in person?
When he had pushed Boudewijn and her into this barren marshland to fight and die, now that they had at last settled a little, he came pretending to be kind and stirred this innocent husband's heart.
Judith truly disliked this situation.
"Judith, my love. I know well what worries you, but the Emperor is my liege and your father."
Boudewijn had never once raised his voice to Judith from the moment they first met. He was a man who fought more bravely than anyone on the battlefield, praised by the people here with nicknames like 'the Strong' and 'Ironside'.
Looking into those innocent eyes, Judith was at last able to cut off even the last lingering attachment to her father.
"Boudewijn, listen well. If my brother Louis of Aquitaine and Duke Hrørekr of Frisia had not helped us, you and I would already have been captured by my father. In the end, you would have died, and I would have been locked away in a convent to die alone."
"That—"
Boudewijn's eyes reproached her, as if asking why she had to dig up the past, but Judith's heart felt ready to burst and she could no longer hold back.
"The late Pope himself declared that our love was rightful. Even the bishops of West Frankia said our love was not wrong. Yet my father sent you and me here, to a place where Northmen demand our silver year in and year out, and we must fight."
Without any support.
After giving birth, it had been especially difficult to control her emotions. She had vented her sudden anger, but seeing her husband at a loss at the sight of her tear-filled eyes, Judith took a deep breath and composed herself.
This man was blameless. He had only tried to protect her.
And so now it was she who must protect him.
"They say a Duke and Comes have a sacred duty to obey the Emperor's command, but that is a promise that holds force only when the reverse holds true. Boudewijn, this is not merely my personal grudge. If we aid the Emperor and somehow win a victory against that mighty Fylkir of the North Sea, the aftermath will be borne entirely by the people of Flanders here."
The Emperor of West Frankia and all the nobles still perceived that Fylkir of the North Sea as merely a somewhat stronger chieftain of the Northmen. And this delusion could never work in their favor in the coming war and the days ahead.
"Judith, it's not that I am unaware of what worries you. But if we do not follow the Emperor's command, our Flanders will become isolated from the Frankish order."
At Boudewijn's pragmatic concern, Judith felt rather reassured. So this man was not hopelessly naive after all? He had been worrying in his own way?
"The lords of northern Burgundy, Orleans, and Paris are tied to the Emperor by blood and political partnership, so they cannot refuse his command. But what of my brother in Aquitaine? What of Margrave Robert of Neustria—Anjou, Maine? And did not Salomon of Brittany openly raise the banner of rebellion?"
"They... will not move actively, I suppose?"
"Your path forward lies there. The Emperor of West Frankia has no mind to help the Margrave of Flanders. So why must you help him? Send the Emperor's messenger back. Reply that you will move your forces, and seek Duke Hrørekr of Frisia."
"Hrørekr Konungr— Duke Hrørekr?"
Judith's gaze, as she looked at Boudewijn's puzzled face, held both firm resolve and ardent love.
"Just because the Emperor decides to fight the North Sea, it does not mean we must join in that foolish decision."
*****
Konungr Hrørekr of Frisia and his heir and nephew Hroldulfr had to encounter an unexpected figure.
"This is the first time we meet face to face. Jarl Harald."
Like a cat approaching its prey, the 1,000 valiant warriors of Frisia had been creeping along the river, heading toward Verden along the broad watercourse of the Weser, but earlier, in the small town of Bremen which lay on their path, they had sensed something unnatural.
As if a town already taken was pretending otherwise, one might say?
Naturally, Hrørekr, a seasoned raider and a master of both politics and discernment, could sense the handiwork of his own kin, and so he raised the flag of Hel he had prepared just in case and carefully approached the palisade of Bremen.
And sure enough.
The one who opened the wooden gate of Bremen and welcomed him was a strongly built Northman—no, a North Sea man—with striking beautiful blond hair.
"Your lofty name has already reached me. Hrørekr Konungr of Dorestad. My father always told me to emulate Hrørekr Konungr's deft skill."
"Haha! Is the ruler of Kaupang still in good health?"
"Of course. He is presently exerting himself in the Fylkir's city of Árós."
"Ohh—Árós, Árós."
For an instant, Hrørekr felt envious of Konungr Halfdan, who was already putting his retirement plans into practice, but he soon shook his head and brushed it aside.
"This is my nephew and heir of Frisia, Hroldulfr."
"Ah, is that so. Pleased to meet you. Jarl Hroldulfr, I am Jarl Harald of Kaupang."
"An honor, Jarl Harald."
Soon, the two jarls, who would both inherit the rights and responsibilities of a konungr, seemed to sense something kindred in each other.
Watching the two young men grasp each other's forearms, Hrørekr felt in his heart that his own end was truly drawing near, but—
as always, he shook off the cruelty of time with a generous laugh.
"Haha! Now that two heroes have come to know each other, drink and song can hardly be left out! However."
Hrørekr's beard flicked as he smiled brightly, but his eyes grew sly.
"I never imagined the North Sea would come this far up the deep waterway? It seems the battlefield of Hamburg did not satisfy them?"
The way he subtly probed was so natural and good-humored that Harald couldn't help but burst into laughter as well.
"Our Fylkir is a man of somewhat large stature, you see. Not only here but to the east of Hamburg as well, things should be starting soon. Will you step into my longhouse and hear the details?"
"I was waiting for those words. Jarl Harald."
Laughing together, the old man and the young man walked into the Frankish village as if it were their own home, their guards following behind.
Behind their ceaseless laughter and chatter, the cross that stood high upon the church came down, and the anxious gazes of the villagers wandered aimlessly.