257. The Helm of Awe (3).
257. The Helm of Awe (3).
Refil received the ultimatum.
"Did Grandmother truly say such a thing?"
"Yes, Jarl Refil. I know not if I speak out of turn, but Drottning Áslaug has never once failed to keep a promise."
"..."
Had the thing in Refil's hand been a dueling ground, that might have been better, but regrettably, private duels were slowly vanishing across the North Sea, especially in Árós. The Fylkir had told them not to, and what fool would ask his reasons?
So when he rubbed his eyes and stared at the letters again, the words stood there unchanging, brazen and bold.
[If you do not meet and marry one of the women listed below by next year, I shall refuse all food and drink!]
Grandmother Áslaug, raised as the precious daughter of the famously wealthy Jarl of Gotland. She who sat at the side of Grandfather Ragnar upon Odin's eagle-throne in Valhalla, and who had, knowingly or not, aided Grandfather's rule.
It eased his heart to see her still vigorous in every stroke of the letters, brimming with force, but when he recalled the contents of the letter, summarized all too bluntly, Refil's head throbbed.
"Does my father perchance know of this letter's contents?"
"To my knowledge, a letter of identical content has already departed for Jarl Björn."
Father was too cruel as well. The number of the Garmr Brotherhood under Refil's personal command already reached thirty thousand. Not some boastful fantasy number from regional jarls who loved to bluster, but a full thirty thousand elite warriors, active and churning across the soil of the North Sea right now.
They were men who ate well and grew tall and fought well from the land of the North Sea, selected through all manner of bizarre trials dreamed up by Stórolf, and thus their ability was high and their pride immense. A day was already not long enough to stem all the crazy, unimaginable things these boar-like bastards did in the name of the Fylkir and the North Sea.
I, get married...?
'Father, you said you would help me.'
His father, who knew Refil's own circumstances well, had promised to help with a face like steel, but even the peerless Björn Ironside could not hold out against Grandmother, it seemed. Before the offensive of a grandmother who had rolled up her sleeves for her grandsons' marriages, what iron wall? Father had crumbled as feebly as cream and fled to Rouen Fortress.
But even that desperate flight would end before this letter, no doubt. Refuse all food and drink—if such a situation came to pass, the Fylkir himself would step in, and his uncle Ivar, who had likewise chosen flight, would also yield to Grandmother in the end.
"Come to think of it, what of Baldr? Did Grandmother say something similar to Baldr?"
"She did, Jarl Refil. I understand that Jarl Baldr was summoned directly last night."
"Poor wretch."
Baldr and Refil were the same age and, both being the sons of legendary warriors Björn and Ivar respectively, shared a deep friendship. Refil had an older brother in Erik, but Erik had already married the year before and was now by their father's side, serving as administrator of the newly occupied region of Sudrland (Normandy)—the model firstborn of an upright noble house.
Thus it was that Refil had often raised a cup with Baldr, a fellow problem child (?), and they had unburdened themselves of such burdens to each other. And now the matter of marriage had come for them both.
'Marriage—is that truly something I can do?'
It was not that Refil and Baldr knew nothing of women. There had been those with whom they had held secret trysts, knowingly or not, and among them, women to whom they might well have given their hearts. It was just that, unlike Stórolf, who was faithful first to his instincts and acted without a plan, Refil and Baldr were somewhat more rational.
Refil and Björn respected and followed their fathers from the depths of their hearts, but having observed their fathers' married lives, and Grandfather Ragnar's as well, they could not say that the life of a Konungr or Jarl was purely happy.
Refil's mother had died giving birth to Refil himself; Baldr's mother had died giving birth to Baldr himself. Odin and Frey took only the souls of those slain by the blade on the battlefield, so in a sense it was only natural that Refil and Baldr had turned to the Goddess Hel. Their mothers would dwell in the Goddess Hel's domain, after all.
After that, Father Björn and Uncle Ivar had not remarried, but even without listening to street rumors, they knew that the two of them had often met with other women.
Frequent campaigns meant often leaving home empty, and when one risked his life fighting in foreign lands, a season came when instinct overcame reason. That was a warrior's life, the life of a Norseman, and he held no grudge against his father for it.
Yet at the same time, he held no certainty. Could he build a harmonious household? Might living like Stórolf perhaps be the right answer? Could he keep a bond forged by political calculation to the very end?
While sharing in the Fylkir's glory, Refil had grown into a commander counted among the best, but in other fields he still felt clumsy. Was Refil himself ready to love?
"I understand. I shall head to Árós myself soon to see Drottning Áslaug, so convey to the Drottning that she must take good care of her health."
"I shall do so, Jarl Refil."
He sent back the graying huskarl who had served under Grandmother for many long years, and for a good while Refil simply stared vacantly out the window, his mind in turmoil.
At a time like this he wanted to share a drink with Baldr or Stórolf, but neither of them was in Norrland just now.
'O Hel, O Mother, watch over me. Life is truly lonely.'
With the resolve that he must ease this loneliness together with the warriors under his command, Refil's cold gaze moved to the parchment lying upon his office desk.
[By order of the dread Fylkir: Norrland Winter Training Plan -Stórolf]
Stórolf, who had carried out all manner of madness regarding training. Scale a sheer frozen cliff with a single rope and two axes—how many men in all the North Sea, the Fylkir aside, could do such a thing? And so the Fylkir had personally told Stórolf to report all future training plans in advance.
And the result was that very parchment.
It had been a mad plan to push mind and body to the limit and arrive at Valhalla (...), but after the Fylkir had revised it, it had become a rather plausible training plan that now sat upon Refil's desk, and for the first time in his life, Refil had begun to look forward to winter.
*****
Regrettably for me, this world turned without pause. Like a film without a stop button, like a game. Whether Árós held some festival or not, whether human bastards dug up the ground or filled the sea to reshape the earth's surface as they pleased.
Time was impartial to all. This iron horse that knew no stopping kept dragging the world forward, and to me, who had thought there was a fair bit of leisure left, it tossed an unordered parcel and vanished.
"So, you're telling me you caught—no, brought a person from a place called the Faroe Islands (Føroyar)?"
"That is correct, Fylkir. A man of the Geatish tribe from the west coast of Scandinavia, one Flóki Vilgerðarson, came to me with his entire family after losing a case at the Thing assembly. Their circumstances were pitiful, so I granted them a place to stay, and it turned out he was a warrior braver than expected! He dared to sail out to those Faroe Islanders of the distant sea who have not yet bowed their heads to the Fylkir, and settled matters with them directly!"
Who told him to set off on an expedition to Iceland, and who told him to conquer the Faroe Islanders along the way?
This was certainly my own oversight for not having thought of it, but the likelihood was high that the roughly one hundred households on the Faroe Islands had no idea what the North Sea was, or what use a Fylkir might serve.
To my knowledge, the word Føroyar could be analyzed through both Gaelic and Old Norse. If we take the Norse meaning, fær—sheep—attaches to make it the Isles of Sheep, but in Gaelic, fearann makes it the Land Island.
The information supplied by my mind, an automatic language dictionary, told me that these Faroe Islands had in fact been tread upon by the people of Britain and Éire long before we Northmen discovered them. It had not even been a century since we Northmen mingled with them there.
So it was at the level where not only the Northmen of Britain, but even the Northmen across the sea in Scandinavia, knew nothing of such islands existing.
Since they had been conquered (?) in the course of things, there would be no one who did not know now.
In any case, what had already happened had happened, and what I had to do was develop this situation in the best possible direction, was it not? The sovereign's work is like managing water—simply opening the channels well can be considered doing all that is required.
"Brother of Faroe, raise your head."
"Y-yes! I follow your words! Fylkir!"
The Faroe islander who had been trembling beside Jarl Torgenvald of Orkney, who had come to report on the affairs of southern Britain as well, raised his head with great effort.
He had raised his head but demonstrated the technique of his pupils fixating solely on the ground. 'Is this a martial art from the Sapa?'
As it seemed impossible for a normal conversation to proceed in this state, I instructed the Huskarls, who played a solid role in forming this oppressive atmosphere, to feed and treat this poor Faroe islander well, and soon I was able to speak privately with Torgenvald.
"It is an encouraging matter that the Faroe Islands have come into our fold. If there truly is a new land in that northern sea, they will be able to serve as a way station between northern Britain and Scandinavia henceforth."
"Precisely so! Fylkir."
Torgenvald, who had been watching for any chance to advance into central politics, had now reached my presence and Árós, which he had desired so greatly, and seemed to have achieved a kind of spiritual ascent, as his eyes had gone slightly unfocused.
He was not going to forget all of this conversation later, was he?
Frankly, I felt a little uneasy, but I continued speaking, partly to organize my own thoughts.
"I shall bestow a special reward upon that brave man named Flóki. What is most crucial for one who ventures out upon the distant sea is a longship, so I shall grant one of the longships specially built under my own authority to him and his warriors."
"A longship of the Fylkir...! This is truly, truly an honor for Flóki and for all of Orkney. Fylkir!"
Had this been the 21st century Republic of Korea, it was the sort of remark one would perceive as the cunning act of subtly transforming a subordinate's achievement into the collective glory of the whole group, but Torgenvald of 9th-century Scandinavia was deeply moved from the heart.
"There is a saying that the longship upon which the blessings of the Fylkir and the Goddess Hel descend is shunned by Njord's wrath! We warriors of Orkney, with Flóki at the fore, shall lay down our lives to fulfill the Fylkir's command!"
"...I cannot cleave the waves or hew the storm. Jarl Torgenvald. My longships too are, in the end, nothing more than scraps of carved wood, so reckless expeditions must not be undertaken."
"Is watching the waves and the wind not our entire life? I shall assuredly do so. Fylkir."
I could sense madness flickering in the corners of Torgenvald's eyes as he replied that he understood, but at least where the sea was concerned, I had no choice but to trust these sailors, who would resent being considered second to any.
I set aside my concerns and resolved to prepare what I could.
"Jarl Torgenvald. They say that if you climb endlessly from here along the mountains to the north, you finally reach a frozen land that even those hardy Sámi people shrink from approaching. It is passable enough in summer, they say, but when winter begins, even the beasts cease to go there."
It was a speech that began out of nowhere, but Torgenvald lent his ear as if determined not to miss even a single breath.
"The winters farther north than here and Orkney will be far harsher and more bitter. Winter is coming soon, so it would be best to bestow ample food and timber upon the Faroe Islanders and refrain from additional expeditions."
"I shall do so. Fylkir."
Torgenvald gave a resolute nod. This Jarl, brimming with ambition and strength, and unexpectedly deeply connected to Harald of Kaupang and my kinsman Halfdan so that his network of personal ties could not be dismissed, then twitched his brows for a moment, as if something was weighing on his mind.
"Fylkir. It seems to this humble one that the Fylkir is certain of the existence of a new land. Is this true?"
Ambition, strength, personal connections, and even perceptive. He would truly be useful to keep close at hand.
The inner chamber where we sat had the laughter and singing of the audience hall, transformed now into a great feast, filtering in softly, while the crackling of firewood from the hearth burning right beside us added its warmth.
I, who had turned my head from Torgenvald for a moment to gaze at the crimson embers and black charcoal, nodded.
"That is so, Jarl Torgenvald. I am certain that beyond the Faroe Islands lies a land of ice and flame."
And beyond that, there would be yet another land, and crossing one more sea would bring a new continent.
[Crackle- Crack-]
"I understand fully. Fylkir. I shall offer that sea and that new land to you."
The sound of cups clashing together rang out precisely over Torgenvald's resolute voice.
☆☆☆☆☆Reference☆☆☆☆☆
Rob984, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons
The location of the Faroe Islands.
In reality, the Northmen showed an absolutely overwhelming presence in seafaring, but before that, the level of activity by monks from Ireland (...) was also no small thing...!
These Éire monks, also called the Celtic Catholic, were documented quite a lot as practicing the life of a hermit, that is, hiding in remote places to practice asceticism! According to records, it was in fact these Éire monks who first reached Iceland...!!!
Of course, there are fierce debates about its authenticity... but personally, I don't think it would be strange if people from Éire and Britain had set foot on Iceland before the Northmen...!
As you can see, the Faroe Islands are about 450 km from Iceland and 300 km from Orkney, so isn't it possible that the Éire-Britain people, who operated sailing ships far earlier than the Northmen who only began using sails around 750, went beyond the Faroe Islands to fish and found it...!!!!!!!
The Flóki who appeared in the work will be a familiar name if you've watched the show Vikings lol he is a real historical figure who greatly contributed to the discovery of Iceland...!!!