252. No One Is Without Fault (2).
252. No One Is Without Fault (2).
[Sssss- chirrr- chirrrrrr- swooooosh-]
The natural landscape surrounding Lindisfarne was, in itself, enough to call this land God's land.
Seen from afar it was dreamlike, and seen up close, pillars of an age beyond reckoning stood in rows, flaunting their beautiful patterns. The ruins of the old church, half vanished and half remaining, reaffirmed that this place was the holy ground of Northumbria.
Now the third-born of a fallen house in a remote corner of Deira, with few connections to speak of. Alquin, the aged bishop who had once reached all the way to Rome itself, beyond Canterbury and the lands of the Franks, sat in his modest but precious space, copying the Bible in the sacred tongue as he had done all his life.
[Squeak- squeak- squeak-]
A quill pen that seemed to scrape the parchment. Copying in this age was closer to tattooing the parchment than to the act of writing, but Alquin, who felt inadequate despite having done it his whole life, pulled the lamp closer to illuminate the parchment.
[Drrrr- squeak- squeak- ... tap.]
'The reason my letters wavered today was not because the lamplight was lacking or because my wrist had lost its strength, but because my heart wavered.'
With that sudden realization, Alquin set down the quill pen in his tingling forearm and pushed his chair back slightly to gaze out the small window.
The moonlight was bright, yet the moon itself could not be found. Countless twinkling stars stood in their places as they always had, merely sparkling.
'The bishop of Canterbury did nothing but repeat that he could never surrender, and Rome, though more cautious, sent word to hold on. But nowhere was there anything like reinforcements.'
Was my choice the right one?
Unlike Alquin's heart, which was filled with chaos, the night sky that simply stayed in its place was a perfectly fitting canvas upon which to release a heart that was thrashing about.
Resentment and fear. Fear of God. Duty and reality. The crushing burden that people's lives hung upon his tongue alone.
What ultimately moved Alquin's heart was his conversation with Uhtred, the illustrious noble of Bamburgh.
"You, Bishop, have never faced the Fylkir on the battlefield."
Being right next door, the ruler of Bamburgh had traditionally been Lindisfarne's patron, and as far as Alquin knew, he was Northumbria's finest warrior and commander. To instill such deep fear in the eyes of such a man, just how strong must one be?
With every Catholic kingdom in Britain except Wessex already fallen, was there really a way for distant Rome or Canterbury to drive out this new Bretwalda?
And so he chose. Naturally, as one who had received the grace of the Pope of Rome, there was much regret, but Alquin could only realize once more that this decision was the best one.
For people who had no interest whatsoever in complex doctrine or internal church politics, a bishop's authority ultimately came from the power to interpret the Bible, which was the voice of God.
And the one who ruled over those sacred letters was the Pope of Rome, and therefore all bishops were no different from the Pope's direct vassals.
Alquin had shattered that principle, which had endured for roughly a thousand years, with his own hands, and all of it, in the end, was not for the greater purpose of the Church but for the people of Northumbria, to whom Alquin had dedicated his entire life.
What doctrine and sacred letters could one invoke to those Norsemen—no, those North Sea people—who, when they saw a cross, did not bow their heads but thought first of stealing it?
So Alquin declared, for the sake of those Northumbrians who still foolishly had not abandoned their faith in God. Render unto the Fylkir what is the Fylkir's, and unto God what is God's. In this land of the North Sea, the only thing those who believed in the cross could offer to God was their faith. The rest the Fylkir would not permit. Nowhere was there a share for Rome.
Because the Fylkir, who had even killed his own gods, did not seem likely to spare God either.
[.....Swooooosh- ..... swooooosh-]
'The sky is far too quiet.'
Had his thoughts grown too deep? Had the time flowed so swiftly that even the insects had fallen asleep, and even the birds that were active only in the evening had succumbed to drowsiness?
That was not likely.
[Creeeeak-]
"Hoo—"
Rising from his chair, Alquin extinguished the lamp.
'Lord, unworthy Alquin has committed many sins until now.'
When he closed his eyes, the Apostles' Creed naturally came to mind, but Alquin merely confessed briefly. Then without hesitation he turned his body toward the fate that awaited him and moved his steps.
A wooden door as small as the space itself.
He had firmly instructed the other monks of this monastery not to take part in his declaration at all. One punished was enough; he alone would suffice.
[Creeeeeak-]
With a sound as gloomy as walking through the valley of death, the chill from outside the door slowly crept in. Had the season already changed so, without him noticing? He was no longer at an age where dying would be strange.
'Who has come to take my life?'
The night sky, which ought to have been pitch-black, was bright as broad daylight thanks to the torch-bearing men.
"Gophin, Rodan, Wismere. Have you come to take my life?"
Alquin's voice was calm, having reached a state that transcended life and death.
Faced with that impassive bearing, the heavily armed men hastily dropped to one knee and bowed their heads.
"Bishop! What are you saying! How could wretches like us ever...! Please forgive us!"
"We were wrong! Please do not be angry!"
"Lord...!"
So they were not assassins sent by an ealdorman under Canterbury's influence, nor by Rome?
"You, Bishop, are the one who drew the cross upon me with your own hand when I was born. I would sooner kill anyone who sought to harm you, but how could we ever dare even imagine such a wretched act while wearing men's heads at our belts!"
"We apologize for seeking you out so abruptly at this late hour, but we absolutely had no such foul intent. If my words are false, may God and Hel each strike me down with lightning, and I shall gladly accept it!"
"Then what in the world is your business at this hour? What wind has blown into men who always made this excuse and that excuse to slip away whenever I urged you to come to church?"
"Ahem, hem."
"Ahem."
"I, for my part, still went out once a month!"
When Alquin had unintentionally let slip a bit of his usual hurt feelings, he could see the kneeling men rolling their eyes back and forth at one another.
Seeing that, they truly did not seem to be assassins.
Watching Alquin, who let out a sigh, one of the men cautiously rose to his feet and spoke carefully to Alquin.
"Please do not be angry and hear us out, Bishop. After you conveyed the people of Northumbria's identities to Jarl Uhtred today, following your display of the letters from Rome and Canterbury, someone who wishes to see you sent us."
He had boasted of letters from Rome and Canterbury...
'What a profoundly significant gesture that was.'
These ignorant fools.
Alquin inwardly piled up a ledger of penance, then let out a deeper sigh and said,
"If it were Jarl Uhtred, he would not send someone at this late hour. Who is it that wishes to see me?"
"It is Haldis, the priestess of the goddess Hel."
The moment he heard that name, it was as if Alquin could faintly hear the howling of a wolf from somewhere in that dark forest.
*****
Burgred was melancholy.
"Kill the heathens!"
"Let's cut off the heads of every last one of those heathen bastards!"
"Allahu Akbar!"
"Deus vult!"
"Yaaaaaa!"
"Uwaaaaaa!"
Please.
'Áli or Deus, I just want to stop now...!'
Weren't they the same god anyway!
Had God truly cherished Burgred himself, He would not have taken his kingdom away!
But if he voiced such words now, it was obvious that both fanatical hordes would turn their heads in unison, so Burgred swallowed his urge to weep and had no choice but to shout along with them.
"God wills it! Brave men of Aquitaine! Warriors of Louis! Not an inch of ground shall be yielded to those filthy heathens!"
"Comes Burgred! Comes Burgred!"
"Do not falter! The Comes is with us! Do not show shameful faces!"
[Kung! Kung! Kwang! Peok! Pak!]
He had fled into exile to escape this nonsense, yet in his place of refuge he was again wedged between sweat-soaked shield walls.
Burgred fought with rancor and sorrow, with the heart of one vomiting blood, while the Saracens, who had charged in as if about to achieve martyrdom, now began scurrying away without looking back, climbing onto the ships they had come on.
"You sons of bitches!"
"You unclean children of Satan! Heathens!"
"Kill them all!"
Understandably, the warriors of Aquitaine went wild at the sight of heathens who had plundered their fill and were trying to flee.
[Buuuuuung—!!]
Stopping the warriors of Aquitaine, who were about to hurl themselves into the sea, with the blast of a great horn, Burgred held the horn in one hand and shouted until his throat burst.
"Archers!! Draw your bows!"
"Make ready to shoot!"
[Kkiik— kkiiiiik—]
"Loose!"
"Fire!!!"
[Pyung! Pyupyung! Pyung! Ssshaaaaaak—]
Over a hundred arrows rose at once, arcing beyond the waves, each seeking its target; roughly half vanished into the white foam, while the other half fell onto the fleeing men's napes or onto their shields.
[Hududuk! Hududuk! Pabapak!]
"Aaaagh!"
"Gah! Áli—!!"
"Run!"
Under the successive volleys, arrows also flew from their ships, but the Saracens' arrows were not very effective.
"No! Don't abandon us!"
"Brothers! Brothers! Take me!"
"Sorry! Insha'Allah!!"
At last, the Saracen ships could no longer hold and broke away from the shore.
The Saracens who had watched that sight in stupefaction soon had to turn their backs by force and face the warriors of Aquitaine, who all stared at them with menacing eyes.
"Comes Burgred. Shall we kill them?"
A voice so full of bloodlust and rancor that one could almost see the illusion of blood dripping from the speaker's lips.
"It is not right to kill them all on this spot. Cut down those who cannot move now, and bind those who can walk and bring them to Duke Louis. Do you understand?"
"Clearly understood, Comes Burgred!"
Seeing the warrior's flashing eyes, it seemed a few of the uninjured ones would likely die too, but that could not be helped.
Soon the beautiful western coast of Aquitaine was filled with human screams, but Burgred's mind was preoccupied with other thoughts.
'We were lucky to stop them here, but villages without warriors would be helpless. These heathens are no pushovers.'
Though the Northmen led by Helgi Ragnarsson were far more fearsome, these heathens were more vicious. They truly had no intention of trading; they only sought to capture Franks.
He had chosen exile in West Frankia to spend a comfortable retirement with his beloved wife, and because Emperor Carolus and his son, Louis of Aquitaine, had shown him great favor, he had been granted a coastal estate with beautiful surroundings. Yet...
Why then this...?
Burgred, who had never truly believed in God, yet particularly resented the heavens today, gazed out at the distant sea with an unsettled heart, the heathens' screams serving as his backdrop.
[Aaaagh— Áli— euheuk euheuk— Shaitan— guaaagh—]
Was Mercia doing well? He had not even been able to attend Æthelred's funeral. Was Alfred managing well? He had heard that Edmund of East Anglia had gone to Rome. Would there come a day to see him? If so, he truly wished to apologize to Edmund then.
As he chewed on such regrets, his thoughts drifted and flowed until they turned to the child in his wife's womb and worries about that child's future, when—
Far off, he saw a rider galloping, flying a bizarre flag of a cat (lion).
The messenger, who had ridden so urgently that he was gasping as raggedly as his wheezing horse, slumped forward as soon as he dismounted and held out a letter sealed with a beautiful red wax seal.
"For the Comes of Xaintes, from Duke Louis of Poitiers."
"From Duke Louis? Well done. Someone give this brave man something to drink."
"Yes, Comes!"
Burgred, who had once been a Cyning and was therefore skilled at giving orders, and who had grown without realizing it through the fierce battle against the Fylkir, broke the ornate seal and read the letter written in Latin, and soon his face hardened.
The letter summoned Burgred to the palace of Poitiers, its purpose a massive counterattack against the heathens.
'God, what more do You want from me?'
Burgred truly wished to live quietly, but the world seemed to have no intention of letting him go yet.