251. No One Is Without Fault.
251. No One Is Without Fault.
"I am leaving! Farewell, Helgi!"
"I will complete the order and return!"
[Bwoooong-!]
Two days before the meeting with Björn on Munsö, Ivar had coldly departed for the southeast without waiting for his eldest brother.
"Since the Fylkir has granted permission, Hásteinn and I shall stay here a while and then depart."
"What!? You truly mean not to stop at Árós?"
"If you really want to go, go by yourself."
"Damn it, what fun is going alone?"
Björn, who had stubbornly refused to see his stepmother Áslaug, stayed secretly on Munsö for a few days with that iron will of his and then truly left for Rouen Fortress without a word.
'Crazy older brothers.'
Father. Grandfather. Ancestors. The first and second of the family are carrying on in such reckless ways — ought you not appear in a dream and give them a piece of your mind?
Yet if someone asked whether the third, Halfdan, or the fourth, Sigurdeu, were normal either, it was difficult to answer.
Halfdan had been holed up in Hedeby ever since Botilda became pregnant, and was not even writing to Mother. However, he had been reporting to me without fail about the nephew in Botilda's belly, and he expressed his intention to come to Árós before long for the safety of Botilda and the child.
How would my stepmother react, I wondered...
In Sigurdeu's case, the problem was that he wrote too many letters to everyone in my palace, including my stepmother. He was, after all, the son of a noble house, and a man of my brother's standing could not possibly be poor — yet seeing him use those precious parchments for trivial song lyrics or to ramble on about Sigurdeu's peculiar ideas, the same sigh as my stepmother's would escape my lips.
Hamburg, where Sigurdeu was, remained a little too unsettled for young Hardaknut (Sigurdeu's son) and Æthelthryth (Sigurdeu's wife) to reside, so my sister-in-law and nephew were naturally living under Mother's care, and Sigmarr, in particular, took a great interest in Hardaknut.
"E- ehe- eh-eh-"
"Bba-bbabau! Ppeu-o!"
"E-ehe-e-e-"
By the time the warm summer was quietly preparing to retreat, Sigmarr was already past eight months old. My son, sturdy beyond sturdy, had stood up on his own two feet, commanded Bokshiri, and sat upon that supple back to roam the entire palace. He also chased after his family members living in the palace with immense curiosity.
Even now, from early morning, he pestered Inga, and after devouring in an instant the cream, cheese, small apple slices, and meat cooked over a low flame that Inga fed him at his side, he would either head toward his grandmother Asta or ride Bokshiri briskly to his cousin Hardaknut's room — that was Sigmarr's usual morning route these days.
According to the old priestess who had assisted with the births from Hardaknut to Sigmarr, ordinary infants typically began to gain weight noticeably, grow more talkative, and manage solid food between four and six months at the earliest.
My son had already started running by about six months, so all of the above rules were of no use before Sigmarr.
Even Inga, who was taller and possessed a larger frame than most women, struggled to hold Sigmarr for long stretches — such was his robust constitution. Thus, before even turning one year old, my son could officially confirm his title as the strongest infant.
Above all, how could anyone contend with a baby who rode around on a wolf?
At any rate, the diligent Æthelthryth had been flustered at first by Sigmarr, who sought her out at every spare moment, but she seemed to have put her mind at ease seeing how Hardaknut, in response to Sigmarr's attention, laughed brightly and twisted his body this way and that.
At least when Sigmarr was present, Hardaknut did not cry, or so I heard. Naturally, everyone in the palace watched this closely, and in a world where walls had ears, such a tale could not help but spread.
Sigmarr's dragon-soaring saga was fresher than the tiresome (?) tales of me, already a demigod reaching into the domain of the gods, and so Sigmarr's name kept being heard in the taverns of the North Sea.
"Ppyu- oooooo-!"
[Awoooo-!]
"Ihi! Ehe! E-e-"
Whatever amusing stories the babies exchanged with one another, they carried on their private conversations with delight, and the bright laughter of Mother, Inga, and Æthelthryth watching them was pleasant to hear.
Inga's glinting eyes, as she passed by, were not ordinary.
Perhaps because she was the woman whose labor had officially taken less than a minute? Inga, who desired a second child, had no fear, and before that will I had unconditionally declared my surrender, so perhaps we might hear news of a second child before long...
After spending such a peaceful morning and leaving the residential quarters of the palace to reach the audience chamber, I always exchanged greetings with Hrolf, who stood at the proper hour beside my throne.
"You are here, Fylkir. The morning air is growing chilly."
"I felt it too during my dawn drills. The palace must now prepare for winter."
"Once this festival is over, the timing will be about right. I shall instruct the woodcutters and hunters to move without delay."
The shepherds could handle their own affairs. For families whose head had died in the last war, or whose eldest or second son had died, a little more care was required. With timber overflowing on all sides, if someone froze to death for lack of winter firewood, there could be no greater grievance.
"Please do so. That reminds me, how are Hrolager and Constantine faring?"
My thoughts, which had been on the woodcutters, drifted to Hrolf's child and Basil's child.
After all, I was planning primogeniture — and if Sigmarr himself adamantly refused, then the next in line would inherit — but in any case, I intended a single inheritance, not partition, so the matter of talents who would assist my future children was of considerable importance.
Hrolf himself was now keeping a low profile, yet apart from my brothers, he was the second man of the North Sea, with no equal.
Given the renown he had built and his extraordinary ability, a son of such a Hrolf could only be a help if placed at my son's side — it hardly seemed likely to become a mistake.
From what I had observed of his entire growth at close hand, Hrolager, who circled Árós every morning and never neglected his training, was tempting. And Constantine, who ran alongside him, bore the staggering title of the son of an Eastern Roman rebel, yet he too was a child I was watching carefully.
Hrolager was now entering his thirteenth winter, and Constantine his eighth — as promising youths of such an age, the odds were high that they would be active together with Sigmarr in due time.
Others: Sigurdeu's son Hardaknut, the yet-unknown-gender child of Halfdan who would soon enter this world, Ubba, who was thinking of marrying next spring, and the jarls of each region.
Could it be that I was already looking forward to the next generation's exploits?
When I hinted at such thoughts to Hrolf, the gaze that came back appeared weary somewhere.
"My Fylkir. As I understand, Your Grace has yet lived through only twenty-one winters. And as I understand, the Fylkir's family is a long-lived line, unless they reach Valhalla."
"...Can I not have expectations?"
"I am expecting that we shall quickly wrap up the matters concerning the Great Festival together with my Fylkir."
Hrolf, who during working hours tolerated not even the slightest deviation. At that stern attitude, I nodded with an equally weary face and rose heavily from the stone throne that was stealing the warmth from my backside.
"Let us go, then. To work."
"The sight of my Fylkir fulfilling his duty will be an immense inspiration to all the North Sea."
"I shall work even if you do not tease me so. Let us finish this festival plan today. Where did we leave off yesterday?"
"We were bringing in the interim plans for the arena installation and road control that Jarl Leon brought."
"Yes! Jarl Hrolf!"
In the left wing of the audience chamber, a war had been waged since early morning. Into that passionate atmosphere, I threw my body and spirit without regret.
*****
Wessex. Winchester.
Once he had accepted the North Sea's supremacy, Alfred was unstoppable.
In proportion to Canterbury's disappointment, the people of Wessex bloomed with laughter.
'Take heart.' 'You must endure.' 'The Lord will deliver us.'
Unlike the promises of Canterbury and Rome, which might take who knew how long, the power of the North Sea and the Fylkir was visibly rushing toward Wessex at once.
"The soaring grain prices have now fallen too far. The ealdormen have given up competing and are abandoning farming, turning their eyes elsewhere."
"It is not only grain. Fish, cloth, even people. Everything is cheaper and more plentiful from the North Sea."
"Why do you leave out the quality?"
They were being denounced for betraying the faith and buying peace, yet the signals coming from every part of Wessex did not lie.
Until the North Sea suddenly appeared, Wessex had subjugated all the Angle and Saxon kingdoms, save for Northumbria in the north. Wessex, which had accumulated considerable wealth over the generations of Alfred's father and older brothers, had accepted the North Sea's abundant goods without difficulty.
But before his first winter under the North Sea had even approached, Alfred realized this was a far more serious matter than he had thought.
'The North Sea can make everyone around kneel through overwhelming productivity. Even if by a miracle we won a military victory, it would still be a problem. Britannia already belonged to the Fylkir.'
Even if they managed to fend off swords and spears, how could they fend off bread and meat?
'Yet if we stay idle like this, Wessex will be able to make no sound at all within the North Sea. Something must be done...!'
Bowing his head to the Fylkir was no longer a shameful act. Standing against a tidal wave was a fool's errand.
Yet seeing Wessex decline within it was another story. Alfred had to find some way. A chance to prove their usefulness beyond merely eating and living well.
Otherwise, Jarl Uva of Mercia, who greeted Alfred with a gentle face and offered to provide Wessex with everything it needed, would simply devour everything while sitting still.
What could Wessex do?
What did the North Sea need at this moment?
Were the Britannic Catholics left with no choice but to quietly accept a peaceful death?
No — putting all that aside, was there truly no way to raise high again within the North Sea the honor of Wessex, built by Alfred's father and older brothers and ancestors?
It was deeply paradoxical, but a time of unprecedented peace and prosperity for Wessex flowed equally with a time of agony for Alfred over his house's prosperity and survival.
Then, all at once, word came from the sea of the Eire to the west — that a North Sea vessel had been attacked.
"This is it!"
The Cyning of Wessex, Alfred, began to look beyond the sea for a new opportunity, just as his distant forebears had done.
And at around the same time, a little north of Wessex in Northumbria.
At Lindisfarena, the northernmost point of Northumbria, nearly touching the kingdom of the Isles, and the last rallying place of Northumbrian Catholicism, the aged bishop of that place, Alquin, was at last making a momentous decision.
"Behold! People of Vernika (northern Northumbria) and Dair (southern Northumbria)! My old neighbors, brothers and sisters!"
The old bishop, who had long dwelt on this holy island and had always aided the weak and never hesitated to oppose greedy cynings. The true man of faith who had summoned his courage to beg for mercy even before that overwhelming Fylkir. He lifted his gaunt arms before the eyes fixed upon him.
"This is from Rome! And this is a letter from Canterbury! Though we follow the same God and share the same faith, as long as our realities differ so greatly, there is no helping it!"
In one hand, a letter from the Pope in Rome; in the other, a letter from the bishop of Canterbury.
Unease flickered in the gazes watching Alquin, yet in his own eyes there was only conviction.
"When the cyning ruled, we had to worry about today! Now that the Fylkir rules, we are now waiting for tomorrow! We need not abandon the faith of our Lord in following the Fylkir! I shall no longer send the names of my brothers and sisters to Canterbury and Rome!"
This was a cry declaring that Northumbria would break away from the Rome-centered Catholic world.