214. Blood Is Thicker Than Water (4).
214. Blood Is Thicker Than Water (4).
The great wave that had risen in one surge reached far beyond the fertile lands Robert had cultivated with all his might—past the Le Mans region, beyond Orléans, and farther still.
It was planting season, and a sudden tide of refugees descended.
If one looked closely into each story, it was filled with tales that would bring tears: old women who had lost their husbands and gallant sons in a single night; hobbled elderly fathers; widows who had not even been married a full year; children who had lost their fathers. Infants crying aloud, having lost even their mothers in the frantic flight.
Yet, even though these were sights that could not be seen without tears, the truth of human life was that while people might offer distant sympathy and readily open their wallets for a remote tragedy, the moment that same tragedy drew near to their own doorstep, they would recoil and shake their heads as if faced with something foul-smelling.
The column of exhausted refugees, searching for a place to lay down their weary souls and bodies, looking for some spot that was acceptably empty and would take them in, moved on and on, disappearing into the forest and beyond.
Only God would know what final end awaited their tragedy.
A quiet sigh, like his own name, escaped the lips of Abbot Hugh as he silently crossed himself.
'The land of Le Mans is already left with only fleeing flocks of sheep and the cubs of lions that fell bravely—what on earth am I to do?'
The house that effectively controlled the south of West Frankia and Lotharingia. Hugh was the second son of the Welf family, known to have existed since the founding of the Frankish Empire. He had taken the path of the clergy early and was called 'the Abbot' by the people, but in truth, he was a soldier-cleric who had long led armies assisting Emperor Carolus.
Alongside Boso, who was now accompanying Emperor Carolus on campaign, he belonged to a powerful house of the Burgundian region and was a man whose abilities had been proven in many battles.
Robert's two sons were still too young to succeed the seat Robert had suddenly left empty, and Le Mans needed a leader who could fight right away.
So, as always, Abbot Hugh became Emperor Carolus's relief pitcher and was heading for Le Mans with troops drawn from Burgundy.
Nominally, the southern Burgundy region fell under Emperor Lothar of Lotharingia, but Emperor Lothar, who preferred to stay in Aachen, held weak influence while Carolus's was immense, and so the houses of Welf and Boso did not hesitate to follow Carolus's orders.
'I did anticipate something like this, seeing that even Robert was brought down, but this is far worse.'
Swallowing a groan, Abbot Hugh felt the despairing atmosphere growing thicker and the number of people sleeping on the streets swelling the closer he drew to Le Mans.
Robert had been the ruler who governed the entire Neustrian march, a domain comparable to all of Burgundy. And he was no mediocre noble who had merely inherited wide lands through good fortune—he was a tremendous man who had won it all by his own ability.
The sense of loss and despondency among those left behind was beyond words.
'It was the right judgment for the Emperor to withdraw to Paris, but the timing was truly regrettable.'
Hugh already knew well that the affairs of the battlefield do not bend to the hearts of men. Yet, it was human nature to dwell upon and regret things already past, and Hugh, whose spiritual cultivation had not yet reached the heights of His Holiness the Pope or other renowned saints, could not conceal his regret even as he loathed himself for such unworthy thoughts.
If only they had faced the North Sea army a little more cautiously, Robert might not have died like this.
Though he was an abbot and a general, Hugh was fundamentally a scion of a great noble house and thus well-versed in the politics that were the fate of Frankish nobles.
He knew all too well the many political considerations that had factored into the Emperor's retreat, and that made this whole situation all the more bitter.
'But what is already done cannot be undone. I must see to my own mission.'
The mission given to Hugh was this: to defend Le Mans against the corrupted Salomon of Brittany and the heathen Hásteinn, and to grant them no more of the fertile land along the Loire River.
For that purpose, the first thing to be done was to meet Robert's two sons—and above all, not the still-infant younger one, but Odo, the nominal rightful heir of Le Mans.
"Margrave. Hugh of Burgundy comes before the Margrave."
Hastily spurring his horse, Hugh entered the inner fortress of Le Mans, where deep grief and bitter resentment had settled. He immediately asked where the Margrave was and directed his steps there.
He soon found the coffin of Robert, already laid to rest in the family tomb after the funeral, and a young boy standing endlessly before it.
"Welcome. The messenger sent by the Emperor delivered word ahead of you. I expected it would take at least two more days, but you have arrived far sooner. My name is Odo."
The name of the child who softly offered his thanks was Odo. The face of this heir, standing at the boundary between boy and youth, was gaunt, but he did not seem broken, nor was he drowning in sorrow.
As Hugh silently gazed upon him, his heart grew heavy and his eyes stung, but he showed no sign of it.
Just look at the wariness that had settled in Odo's eyes. Look at his tightly shut lips and strong jaw. Robert was dead, but his blood had been passed on very thickly indeed.
There was still hope in Le Mans.
"Margrave. Do not forgive me for having to be rude from our very first meeting. But grief and despair already fill this city. Such emotions are permitted to those farmers and widows, so my lord Margrave must act swiftly. I shall assist you at your side."
Of all the heathens who had entered this land of Neustria, the most dangerous was, without dispute, the Fylkir of the Northmen, whom the Emperor was facing directly.
What kind of fortress had Rouen been? Like Hamburg in East Frankia, it was a fortress specially designed to block the Norsemen coming up the Seine.
Yet even such a fortress had not lasted long before the name that had newly arisen as the North Sea.
What was at least fortunate was that the Emperor's judgment had, for now, tied down their steps. And the fact that Le Mans still had a portion of the elite infantry Robert had left behind, as well as a relatively intact cavalry force and reserves.
Moreover, that Salomon of Brittany was also catching his breath, having taken no small amount of damage in the fierce battle against Robert.
"The Emperor had already spoken of it. He said that Abbot Hugh is a Burgundian noble who has personally participated in many battles and won them, and therefore can be trusted. Then, should I simply stand here and nod my head?"
The sight of Odo, jaw clenched and eyes red-rimmed, was righteous fury itself. Grief and longing for his father who had died so bravely. Anger at the Frankish nobles who had turned a blind eye, and ultimately at the Emperor. Helplessness at the low, scheming intrigues that sought to take what was his.
As Hugh quietly watched this, he lowered himself a little more to meet Odo's eyes.
Odo thought the man seemed quite tall, which he had not noticed before because of his baggy robes.
"My lord Margrave. You who must carry on a great name. Though it may be presumptuous, as one who serves the clergy and as another son who has lost his father, I dare to say this. An external foe can be defeated with sword and spear, but an internal enemy must be fought with a watchful heart alone. Do not reveal your emotions. Do not expose your weakness. You are no longer merely the successor of Robert the Strong. You are the Margrave of Neustria."
Before Hugh's warm yet stern words, Odo shed the tears he had been holding back.
'I will help you.'
And Hugh made his resolve.
*****
Spring of 868. The heart of the North Sea Empire, Árós.
Most of the remodeling of the new building that people had named Fylkir's Hill was complete.
Originally called Leo, but who had at some point begun to go by Leon to honor the successor of the Eastern Roman Empire—he was the North Sea's greatest architect.
Jarl Leon, unable to contain his impassioned heart, flared his nostrils and savored the happiness that filled the whole world.
"Fylkir is a god, and marble is invincible...!"
To Leon, a man of most refined taste who adored the strange, the novel, and the exotic, the designs of this North Sea had lacked any amusement.
Would anyone believe it if you told them that they used curves for nothing but their ships?
That the people who had shaped the beautiful form of the longships lived in spaces full of nothing but right angles?
Yet this question was immediately understandable the moment he examined the stones quarried around this North Sea. Unlike marble, these stones were so hard that they could only barely be shattered by a blow from the Fylkir's full-powered fist, and they were utterly impossible to use for beautiful, flowing architecture.
'But look! O Vitruvius! Father of my architectural studies, my teacher, my god! To the strength and utility that you spoke of, I have at last added beauty to this North Sea!'
As Leon spread his arms wide and proudly lifted his head toward the sky, he almost seemed to hear the bright laughter of the ancient Roman Vitruvius amid the beautiful melodies of Elysium.
Splendid, Leon!
Contrary to the coarseness of their daily life, the people of Árós had an unusual sense for the pretty and the magnificent, and they constantly lingered around under all sorts of pretexts to view the Fylkir's new house as it went up.
In proportion to the complaints of the city guard, the rising interest of the people infused Leon with endless vitality and inspiration. The result was that Fylkir's Hill became something entirely new, harmonizing the powerful patterns of the North Sea with the flowing curves of Eastern Rome.
This achievement, worthy of the history books, naturally pleased not only Leon but also Kyrillos, the head of the research and education institute that had changed its name from the University of Árós to the University of the North Sea, and Drottning Inga, who was essentially the mistress of this mansion.
Drottning Asta, who stood at the top of the pyramid of the Hel faith, saw how Drottning Inga delighted like a child and gladly promised additional support.
And what did this mean?
Did it not mean that the moment had finally arrived for Leon to unfold the vast ambition he had cherished in his heart?
'To make Árós a city that does not fall short of Constantinople.'
It was probably impossible within Leon's lifetime.
The population of the North Sea Empire was rising steeply, and the silver flowing in was increasing in proportion to that population, but the headcount and economic power of the Eastern Roman Empire and Constantinople were overwhelming.
Yet Rome was not built in a day, and this North Sea possessed something that Rome never had.
As the scholars who were gradually transferring their registry from Romans to Northmen began to acknowledge, one by one, the quantity of food produced in this cold land was absolutely not normal, and no matter how one looked at it, the 'Proof of Helgi' was not a rock that could be crushed by a human fist.
Then what was this?
It meant that the Fylkir and his bloodline were sacred.
The dignity and glory that the emperors of old Rome had built up through countless triumphs over barbarian after barbarian? It was not necessary for the Fylkir.
Look at how the multitudes of Britain and the Rus scrambled to bow their heads.
Would it be any different for the Franks? For the countless tribes that bordered the North Sea?
A power that attracted everything around it merely by living and breathing. Or at least, that was something Leon had never seen in any history book.
Furthermore, the heir, Sigmarr, already showed ominous signs. When you saw a babe less than a year old, cradled in his mother's arms (though given his size, that would not last much longer), gazing toward the south with a worried expression, even the veteran Konungrs who had inwardly fretted over the Fylkir's succession found themselves nodding.
If only he could, Leon wished to extend his own lifespan. By about 200 years, roughly. How different would the North Sea Empire be by then? Would the culture of the North Sea that Leon himself had introduced bloom brilliantly in Árós?
Even if he could not see it, he could at least set its direction.
In Leon's eyes, where regret and anticipation coexisted, the sight of Árós spread out below.
A city that was old and new. Split in two, yet all the more harmonious for it.
Ships endlessly came and went, wagons moved about. Laughter and the sounds of work filled the air, and the walls were once again being torn down and expanded.
In the gaze of the eccentric Leon, who saw a little differently from ordinary people, the shapes of a grand city stretching past that view all the way to Uppsala, and all manner of colossal structures, were being added one by one.