20.
20.
The father's far too young wife, the son who snatched his stepmother (not stepson).
Hearing a story that sounded straight out of Sodom and Gomorrah, the world suddenly seemed a little more mysterious and beautiful.
In history books, they just pronounce, "On such-and-such a date, such-and-such a country was Christianized. Bang, bang, bang!" and that's that. But the truth was, if Christian values had been well kept, would such a thing have happened?
A spring breeze whispered, and flowers bloomed here and there across the southern part of the island of Britain.
Our mighty host of Norsemen, sustained by a supply line running along the coast of East Anglia, was marching north in high spirits.
With the shoreline lying east toward Örn, we moved slowly along the old road that still served its purpose for now, and the settlements great and small around us had no choice but to cooperate with us.
'Seeing it like this, I felt a little sorry for no reason.'
The sight of people peacefully ploughing their fields and fishing suddenly shrieking and bolting away... What made it even more heart-rending was that afterwards those same people came carrying armloads of goods with both hands and presented them to us.
Anyway, we graciously accepted those gifts (?) and guaranteed their safety.
There had been a time when I thought, 'Hey, you lot! Why aren't you looting? Why aren't you burning? Aren't you savages?!' But, to put it simply, the supply-line security I had carefully involved myself in over the winter had been so successful that we had no trouble feeding ourselves without having to strip the peasants bare.
The bigger reason was that the warriors, mostly Danes and Svear, were constantly watching my mood.
Originally they would have carried out honourable (?) plunder in order to go to Valhalla and become Odin's lackeys, but I had given them a second option — Hel.
"That the realm Hel rules is a cold and frozen land is nothing but baseless slander babbled by ignorant priests. Look upon me and the Árós I rule. Where in Árós is there anyone who starves to death? Where in Árós can you hear the wailing of a mother grieving for her lost child? If the power I wield as Hel's great warrior is already this great, what must the realm she herself rules be like?"
Thanks to my presence, forever trying to gaslight them with this kind of talk at every opportunity, this world was gradually turning into a more hopeful world.
At any rate, without committing plunder and without committing glorious war crimes — without even dying by an enemy's blade! — the majority of the warriors strove to uphold the 'honour' I had worked so hard to instil in them, so that they might enjoy another life beside Hel's great hearth in the hereafter.
Things like 'if possible, do not kill the weak; do not force yourself on a woman before her family's eyes; when stripping the weak of their property, take only half — because you'll have to come back later.'
...
It was odd, but it couldn't be helped. That level of intensity was still appropriate for now. Later, I'd have to ease it further, little by little.
"They called it the Great Fen (The Fens), and it truly is staggering. I never imagined there was a place damper than our homeland."
"They're called Gyrwas, the fen people, aren't they? I thought we were in the territory of Mercia, but there's no one claiming to be Mercian — it's all fen people everywhere."
Unlike moving eight hundred or two thousand men, we now had to handle a great host of eight thousand, so instead of being at the head of the column, we were in the centre, riding forward on horseback among the warriors of Árós who had been designated the elite bodyguard.
The solemn Björn rode silently at the very front, Ivar and Sigurd chattered in high spirits ahead, and behind them Halfdan, Ubba, and I followed, listening in.
"Did you hear what the man who brought us two hens said? Beyond these fens lies a strange sea called the Great Wash — the wāse. Sometimes it's sea, sometimes it's land! I'd give anything to see it with my own eyes."
"Calm yourself, Sigurd. Once our vengeance is complete, you can wander these lands to your heart's content."
'... I wasn't sure I'd have the leisure for that even after finishing the revenge.'
To hold this sea that was a hybrid of tidal flats and fens, we would first have to expel Edmund of East Anglia entirely from the eastern coast, and we'd have to settle Mercia as well.
"I know that well enough, Ivar. But just look around us! Isn't it beautiful? Can't you hear the gods whispering?"
"Honestly, I can't tell. I don't hear the gods' voices, but I hear the birds and the insect wings loud and clear. Why are there so many bugs?"
Unlike Sigurd, who was brimming with excitement and gazing at the damp ground and the sea visible beyond it, Ivar irritably waved his hand, swatting at the flying insects circling his head.
"Come to think of it, of course it's damp! It rains half the month — if the ground were dry, wouldn't that be stranger?"
"Getting rained on is nice, what's wrong with it?"
"I don't like my hair getting wet."
"Ah—"
At Ivar's honest answer, we grew solemn in an instant. As one, we drew our combs and smoothed our precious hair. Björn, having restored the pure white comb to his bosom, looked down at Ivar with an unusually tender expression, then lightly touched his own crown.
From behind, I could see that Björn was still fine for now.
"Jarl Björn!"
Just as Ivar was about to lose his temper at the uniformly pitying gazes his brothers were casting at him, a messenger came galloping briskly from the head of the column.
"There is a large river ahead!"
"Oh — it must be the River Nene the fen man spoke of!"
Sigurd, utterly captivated by the nature here, hurriedly spurred his horse forward to the head of the column, and we brothers followed after him.
'What — it's fairly big?'
The fen man had said it was fordable, so I had imagined something like a stream, but beyond a river that stretched wider and longer than expected, a small village formed around a large church came into view.
And alongside it, a certain monk stood gaping at us with his mouth wide open.
"Good, they're waiting for guests. We'll cross the bridge as we are."
The road built by the old Romans, stretching straight northward, was connected by a bridge over the river, and it continued on beyond. This road would likely guide us to Eoforwīc in Northumbria.
"Vanguard! Cross the bridge! Forward!"
"Forward!"
And Mercia did not seem to have the will to stop us.
*****
Here, too, was another amusing tonsure.
"Well, Jarl Helgi... why are you staring at me so...?"
Medeshamstede.
Once a farm belonging to a man named Mid, this place was now a village with a church. And the abbot who effectively administered this village in the name of Burgred, King of Mercia, was now trembling from head to toe under my stern gaze.
"Your head is very distinctive, Abbot."
"Pardon? Yes... to follow the Lord and His Son, the holy Jesus Christ—"
"Ah, I understand."
Where did he think he was going to deliver a sermon?
The abbot's head was shaved clean on the crown, leaving only the sides.
That hairstyle, called tonsura in Latin, was said to signify a kind of religious devotion. When I thought of the monks from my previous life, shaving the head seemed to express a certain will and resolution.
In that sense it wasn't bad, but did it have to be shaved in exactly that shape? Seeing something like this, being a religious person truly was a profession that couldn't be undertaken with ordinary resolve.
But this man was amusing not only because of his hair.
"By the way, Abbot, I'm sorry, but I've forgotten your name. What was it again?"
"Ah — that's quite all right, Jarl Helgi. My name is Seaxwulf."
Damn. I almost let out a laugh. Why was the stress on the first syllable? Was that deliberate?
Looking at that smooth, bowed head, I desperately suppressed my laughter and steadied myself by gazing off at the distant mountains.
'How could a person's name...'
He wasn't a wolf who was good at sex; it must have meant the wolf of the Saxons. That, too, didn't suit the title of abbot at all. It seemed this man had chosen the wrong profession.
"Right. Seax... wulf. Thanks to you we crossed the river safely. Once more, I thank you."
"No, no. I merely did what was to be done."
The expression of Seaxwulf, who hastily waved his hands at my thanks, was full of fear.
Having used a full day just to cross the river yesterday, and having encamped in the clearing before this little village, we would now again climb onto the old road and march north.
According to the information the abbot with the name Seaxwulf had given us, the Romans' road indeed connected all the way to Eoforwīc in Northumbria.
Of course, the journey would not be smooth. We still had to cross another river called the Welland, pass a village named Stamford beside it — 'Stone Village' — and because this land was crisscrossed with waterways, keeping a river to our left as we went straight up, we would come to a stone fortress called Lincoln.
From that point onward, the land of the old Kingdom of Lindsey would stretch before us.
Once we crossed the ancient Celtic kingdom that now remained only a name, it would finally be Eoforwīc in Northumbria. The place where Ella would be.
"Helgi — it's time to depart!"
It had been a brief respite, and I had been spending an amiable (?) time with Seaxwulf amidst the busyness, but now Björn's voice rang out, telling me it was time to move.
At the head of the column, where preparations for departure were nearly complete, my brother Björn was waiting for me.
"Alas, I must take my leave, Seaxwulf. I pray your god blesses the days ahead for you, steadfast as you are."
"Thank you, Jarl Helgi. May your gods also watch over your path."
Then the monk with the outrageous name made the sign of the cross.
I smiled at him, then made my way to the head of the long column.
"Jarl Helgi."
"Helgison."
"Jarl Helgi Ragnarsson."
[Dung- Dung- Dung- Dung-]
With the beat of the drum preparing for departure, the warriors who called my name and titles and bowed their heads every time I passed showed no trace of sordid physical or spiritual remnants such as exhaustion or madness in their eyes.
Only fierce faith had taken root there.
When this war was over, my mother might well praise me. After all, I was churning out followers of the Goddess Hel in mad, endless numbers.
At last my swift strides reached my brothers at the head of the column, and grasping the reins of the horse Ubba handed me, I lightly vaulted up and settled softly into the saddle.
"Whoa there. Thank you, Ubba."
[Purureuk- puruk-]
"The cross-believer seems to have caught your interest?"
Ubba, one eyebrow lifting, asked me in a subtle manner. Ever since he had discovered last evening that I could read Latin, this fifth Ragnarsson had seemed to be watching my every move.
'There's so much greed in the corners of his eyes...'
My rare brother who loves knowledge. The day I set out for Miklagard (Constantinople), I would surely bring you with me. Don't come to regret it too late.
"If we're all ready, let us march. I want to behold Eoforwīc with my own eyes before this month ends."
The captain of this great host, Björn, gave the order to advance, and soon the Norsemen resumed their march. No matter how much Lincoln was a fortress built by the old Romans, there would be no mercy this time, as there had been at Canterbury.
If they did not clear the path, we would trample them and pass.
*****
866 AD. First month of summer. The last week.
Mercia chose silence before the enraged Norsemen, and there was no resistance.
In return, we did not burn Mercia. Medeshamstede, Stamford, and Lincoln decided to cooperate with us, and our supply line was maintained.
That was a good thing for them, too. A force that, rounded up, numbered ten thousand needed a great many things, and they took money and provisions in return for handling the sourcing and transport.
If they betrayed us, we could simply pay them another visit. With steel, of course, not with talk.
Right now, something more important lay before our eyes.
Eoforwīc. The name the Angles had altered to suit their own tastes from the Latin Eboracum. Its meaning: the village of boars.
"The time for the hunt has come, brothers."
At the head wolf's evenly spoken words, the brother wolves' green eyes glinted dangerously.