238. White Branch, White Crow (4).
238. White Branch, White Crow (4).
It was a given.
Árós was the best place to live in Scandinavia.
Unlike Uppsala, which had always been crowded and bustling with people even before the Fylkir and the North Sea Empire truly emerged, it was a quiet little village curled up at the meeting of river and sea like a secluded lakeside.
The Árós in Hrolf's memory had been like that, and it was always superimposed over the Árós of today, whose old appearance could only be found in the uncleared foundation stones of the first wall's ruins.
Wasn't that what it meant to grow old?
It was like forcibly fitting oneself into a world that seemed unchanging yet had suddenly become utterly different.
In the past, he had not understood the reckless expeditions and tragic end of his old lord, Konungr Ragnar, whom he had admired, and he had resented him.
But now that Hrolf had gradually reached the age of that bold lord who had always gazed far into the distance, he came to understand his lord's choices and heart more with his heart than with reason.
If Ragnar Loðbrók's life had been filled with a burning rage against the gods and reality, what was Helgi Styrkr's life filled with?
'Filled with strength.'
When he had been young, he had been somewhat serious and dignified, but the older he got, the more it seemed he only added pointless wordplay.
Hrolf, who burst into a hearty laugh at his own silly thoughts, climbed Fylkir's Hill, which still preserved its unchanging appearance in an Árós where so much had been turned upside down, and finally put an end to his thoughts about Ragnar and Helgi.
These two, father and son, differed in many ways from the hair on their heads to the tips of their toes, except for their green eyes, but they had oddly similar traits.
Ragnar, who, caring for the safety of the second wife in Árós and her son whom he had neglected while minding his first wife Áslaug, had immediately appointed himself a Huskarl of Asta, High Priestess of Hel, and entrusted everything in Árós to her.
Helgi, who, preoccupied with frequent expeditions and major affairs, had delegated to him all manner of things he had neglected: the management of the North Sea's bureaucracy, mining explorations, ceremonies for foreign dignitaries, palace management, and so on.
He had seen many cases where bloodline was reflected in appearance, but this was the first time in Hrolf's life he saw it reflected in the way they handled matters.
These rulers of the family, who were both attentive and indifferent, could be said, in a good way, to possess the spirit of heroes, but to be more honest, they were exhausting lords to serve under.
Those with ability would blossom brilliantly beneath them (or be sucked dry), while those who sought family connections or various workarounds rather than relying on their own skills would have a hard time.
Even the fearsome Konungr Sigurd Hring of two generations past had been like that, but Ragnar Loðbrók and of course Helgi Styrkr also possessed an uncanny ability to grasp a person's true nature.
Especially from the perspective of Hrolf, the old retainer who had watched Helgi Ragnarsson's growth right by his side, the new heir of this ancient Konungr family—Sigmarr Helgirson—lately he found himself thinking more and more that this boy was no less than his father.
For the sight of wisdom dawning in the eyes of a six-month-old newborn was something he had witnessed only once before, after Helgi Ragnarsson.
"Aigo~ Lady Hel~ shall I rest here a bit before going on?"
Having eased the stiffness of dawn a bit with his muttering, Hrolf filled his lungs with the warm summer air and plopped his bottom down on a round stone.
This spot was a Hugh-style resting point that Hrolf had noticed while commuting every day to the Fylkir's office after the Fylkir had triumphantly returned from the Frankish lands with what was truly the greatest victory in the history of the North and the North Sea.
Because of the steepening slope from above, one could not be seen here, while below it sloped gently and offered a panoramic view of all of Árós.
It was truly an optimal point for a surprise attack and a strategic location among strategic locations suitable for a camp.
And above all, it was the best spot to catch one's breath a moment before the day's work that would soon begin.
"Playing is the best~ Playing is the best~"
As Hrolf hummed the song the Fylkir had personally made for his own son, the complex power structure of the North Sea, more complicated than one might think, surfaced in his mind.
Of course, the power, prestige, and faith of the North Sea people that had already reached the realm of religion—of the Fylkir and his family who had departed far beyond even the white clouds drifting over the highest mountain of the North Sea—there was no mortal who could dare covet it.
But the people beneath them were another story, were they not?
Starting from the Fylkir's capable and ambitious brothers, to Konungr Rurik in the east of the empire, and Jarl Sigebryht and Uhtred in the west.
And the outstanding generals: Refil, Seutorolpeu, Guthrum, Oleg, Djur.
The Fylkir and his family had gone so far away that one could hardly lift one's head to look at them, but those who followed the Fylkir were, after all, merely outstanding humans.
That was why, he had heard, Drottning Áslaug had lately been beset with happy worries. For over the betrothal of the eldest son's second grandson, Jarl Refil, great houses not only in Scandinavia but across the sea were waging an underwater war.
The fact that Jarl Björn, Refil's father, had voluntarily departed for Suthrland (Normandy) across the sea had certainly played a part in this complicated situation at home.
'And beside him, as it happened, was Björn's old friend Hásteinn.'
Two troublemakers. The cause of Konungr Ragnar's chronic headache in his later years. The meeting between Björn and Hásteinn, who still remained as Uppsala's mischief-makers in Hrolf's mind, would never pass quietly.
Though they were now such seasoned and powerful warriors that they no longer needed his advice, and he had no particular worries, it still concerned him, that was the truth.
'I should send someone ahead to Ubba in Northumbria. Just telling him to stay in frequent contact with Björn, clever Ubba would immediately understand what I worry about.'
Aside from Ubba and Helgi, the two odd ones out in the generally adventurous and impulsive Ragnar family, the lineup of Björn, Ivar, Halfdan, and Sigurd was a group you could not take your eyes off for a moment.
Especially considering the grudge Björn and Hásteinn held against those turban-wearers, something would definitely be likely to erupt.
Of course, Björn's son Refil probably felt his own head would burst right now.
'Grit your teeth and endure, Refil. He is the lord you chose.'
All who followed the Fylkir knew that the Fylkir had originally paid a great deal of attention to Refil and Seutorolpeu.
As a result, Refil had become such an outstanding general that a whole expeditionary force could now be entrusted to him, and Seutorolpeu had grown into a fearsome warrior who could match the Fylkir's merciless charge.
The Fylkir had wanted Seutorolpeu to grow into a more versatile general, but a person's abilities and traits did not go as one wished, even with the Fylkir's mythical power.
Thus, the Fylkir's attention, which increasingly focused on Refil's growth, immediately turned into a heavy burden of duties for Refil, and on top of that, with a grand wedding beyond his control descending upon him, Refil's current situation would rather make him long for the wars where he had fought for his very life.
kkeulkkeulkkeul-
Clicking his tongue and letting out a low chuckle, Hrolf soon brushed himself off, got up, and began climbing the steep slope.
'Refil is only the beginning—the nobles of the Marmaros assembly, key to trade with Constantinople, are targeting Jarl Ivar's son, Baldr.'
On top of that, there was Stórolf, of course, and even that brat Constantine of Eastern Roman noble origin whom the Fylkir personally took in.
For now, the marriage arrangements of those linked to the Fylkir would merely be bloodless, but they would become a war zone for the great houses of the North Sea.
In that process, what shape would the ever-shifting factions and alliances take, and what effect would they have on the North Sea?
Hrolf was intrigued, but at the same time he did not lose his cool.
'The Fylkir had already revealed his true intentions in what he said to Jorvik's deputy, Jarl Ecgberht.'
It is good to look after your own interests. But you must not harm the interests of others.
What a simple and clear guideline that was.
At times, the Fylkir looked like a big bear, but inside there was definitely a wise fox.
The greedy nobles and clergy of Árós and Uppsala had already been thoroughly purged by the Fylkir once before. That memory had grown hazy with the passage of time, but Hrolf clearly knew that the Fylkir had no hesitation whatsoever about shedding blood.
'Before the Fylkir, there is no high or low. They are all equally frail. Those who fail to remember this will all die in the end.'
But that, in the end, was something to watch and see as a little more time passed.
What mattered right now to Hrolf were all the various items he had to report to the Fylkir. Mostly things related to taxes. The harvest conditions of the lands designated as the Fylkir's direct holdings, the types and quantities of taxes to be collected. Since all the land, sea, and sky of the North Sea belonged to the Fylkir, there were also documents proposing to investigate the proper tax rates to levy from the subordinate lords and the unique features of each fief, and so on.
Putting aside the idea of idly singing songs and escaping reality before the enormous workload, and confronted by the overwhelming splendor of the Fylkir's palace looming ever closer, Hrolf heaved a sigh and stepped forward with vigor.
But there was one fact that the seasoned Hrolf overlooked—it was that the interest pouring in on his only son, Hrolaf—who was a key figure of the current Fylkir and the North Sea and who, in the past, had been appointed protector by Konungr Ragnar, the Fylkir's father—was no less than that on Refil, Baldr, and Stórolf.
And so, the all-too-busy fate of Refil, for whom he had so earnestly felt sympathy, was steadily approaching Hrolf himself, moment by moment.
Perhaps Hrolf was just deliberately turning his head away from the cold reality.
*****
"Uwah— bddu! Eeeeyah! Bu!"
With cute little front teeth, Sigmarr, who had become much more talkative, was growing into a child who hated anything stuffy.
When trying to put something on his head or wrap a furry scarf around his neck, he would twist his head this way and that, giggling "hee-hee-," which was adorable, but seeing him pout and turn his mouth into a tiny triangle in protest at Inga's will to bundle him up thoroughly for his health, I would sometimes secretly slip off his hat.
Since he took after me, the cold was unlikely to be much of a bother. I had never caught a cold in my life. This was something ordinary humans (?) like Inga, my two mothers, and the Konungr trio (Bagsecg, Olaf, Halfdan)—the old men who had practically moved into my hall—could never understand.
I understand you, my son.
Anyway, Sigmarr hated anything that constrained his body, but in Inga's arms or mine he would cling so tightly he had no intention of letting go. Having finished a rare relaxed morning of work, the two of us—father and son—stood before the large map hanging on one wall of my office and gazed at the fairly elaborate map of the North Sea Empire.
First, the land of the Sámi stretched far away to the northern edge of the world. Funny enough, my morning work had been related to the Sámi. The Sámi, who practiced semi-nomadic pastoralism—both farming and herding—and mainly ran reindeer farms, appeared very free at a glance, but in fact, the nomadic laws regarding grazing land and fences were strict as could be—truly terrifying.
Those who came all the way to Árós to see me had come down via the farm of my father-in-law, who had settled north of Árós. To put it simply, So-and-so's reindeer and So-and-so 2's reindeer got mixed together, and in the process of separating them a dispute arose, leading to a brawl between the tribes of So-and-so and So-and-so 2.
Fortunately, before any bladed weapons could be mobilized, the most powerful chieftain in the area, Duttat, stepped in and stopped the fighting and, according to tradition, requested arbitration from the highest authority. That authority was none other than me—the Grand Chief of all Sámi and the newly inaugurated Fylkir.
First of all, I wasn't quite sure when I had become the Grand Chief of all the Sámi. My father-in-law had been pouring all his attention onto his adorable grandson Sigmarr, so precious he wouldn't even mind if he were put in his eye, and I hadn't had the heart to ask.
There was also the fact that I had been convinced by the duo of Ivar and Hrolf, who argued, 'What's the problem when we've already swallowed Frankish lands and Karelia too?'
In any case, I made up for the losses of the tribe that had lost reindeer, and I told them that if something like this happened again, they should not fight but first come to me, and so it ended happily.
If I set my mind to it, I felt I could buy up all the reindeer north of Árós, but compensating such a trifling loss wouldn't even warrant a detailed entry from my finance officer (Hrolf). He would probably just jot down one line and be done with it.
"Uwa-ta! U-ue? U-ihihi!"
Sigmarr, who had been happily prodding the Sámi lands on the map and my clean-shaven face with little pokes, delighting in his own little world, soon shifted his attention and stretched his arm toward the western edge of the map.
Taking it as a sign to move that way, I shifted to the left end of the large map; for a moment I looked at the detailed coastline of the island of Britain, which I had drawn using my own knowledge.
Sigmarr, who hated anything stuffy, soon began fidgeting with the pure white wood that decorated the edge of the map and the carved patterns on it.
"U-uu— o— oa—"
From Sigmarr's point of view, was it that the decorations blocking the fully spread map bothered him? Or did he like the beautifully carved wood patterns?
Holding tight to Sigmarr, who was captivated by the white wooden decoration, my own mind turned to the island of Britain drawn on the map, and to the worlds beyond—not on this fine map but definitely out there.
'The New World.'
Before that, there would be Iceland and Greenland. Beyond the sea beyond the highest point of the Sámi lands, which were considered the end of the world, there would be the Arctic.
Would my unreal power still work there? That thought suddenly crossed my mind.