265. Crescent Moon, Cross, and Pure White Bones (3).
265. Crescent Moon, Cross, and Pure White Bones (3).
Bordeaux.
The seat of the lord of Aquitaine. A city that had once been massively sacked by the Saracens of Al-Andalus a little over a hundred years ago. Had there been no outstanding general by the name of Charles Martel, not only the south of Aquitaine but the north as well could have fallen into Umayyad hands at that time.
As a result, the Franks had begun to take a far keener interest in affairs south of the Pyrenees, and the people of Aquitaine in particular reacted more sensitively than anyone when it came to the Saracens.
The Norsemen raiders who had been constantly probing for an opening had all vanished at some point, and in waters where the killer whale had disappeared, the sharks now swarmed.
The Imperator of West Frankia, who could endure it no longer, set aside past grudges together with Björn of the North Sea, who had approached at just the right moment.
Louis of Aquitaine, the heir of West Frankia and a ruler who had revealed his cold and calculating nature in the course of dealing with Robert of Le Mans, resolved to obey his august father's command and immediately summoned to Bordeaux the sword he could most trust at present.
[Dagadak- Dagadak- Dagadak-]
"Horsemen approaching from afar! Halt! This is the seat of Louis, Dux of Gascony and Dux of Aquitaine, lord of Poitiers!"
'Truly enormous and magnificent titles, those.'
The man who cast a derisive sneer at the guard diligently performing his duty atop the wall was none other than Burgred.
A Comes of West Frankia who had been granted a small village whose name meant 'village by the shore,' and a man whose name was being called again and again at the great and small banquets of the Aquitanian lords of late.
Burgred of the Attack. Burgred of the Gale Wind. Burgred 'Élan' Beorhtwulfson.
Though he had been defeated and driven out by the Fylkir of the North Sea, there were no longer any Frankish lords who looked down on Burgred. For when the Imperator of West Frankia and the Imperator of East Frankia had both been bested at the same time, being defeated by the Fylkir of the North Sea was no longer a thing of shame.
On the contrary, support for the Imperator of West Frankia and Louis of Aquitaine—who had recognized a talent like Burgred and boldly employed him—was fervently rising. Behind this surge lay the nobles' intent to curry favor with the Imperator, who had clearly lost the great war against the North Sea yet whose domestic influence had grown far stronger, and with his son.
To put it very roughly, the last war had really just been a family squabble within the great Frankish imperial house, and while the death of the Margrave of Neustria was regrettable, had that man not been getting a little too big for his boots all on his own?
In the end, they had taken the opportunity to clean out the northern coasts, which were poorly governed anyway, and had strengthened their internal foundations. Save for the dead Robert, the Frankish nobles had little to feel wronged about.
Moreover, if they wanted to build up their strength right away and go punish the fearsome North Sea men holed up in Rouen Fortress or the insolent Flemings beside them, the Saracens were rampaging along every coast of West Frankia and Italy.
Burgred, who honestly had little interest in such complicated calculations, intentions, and problems, simply wished for all of these matters to be over and done with as quickly as possible.
"I am Comes Burgred, and beside me are the horsemen of Aquitaine and Dux Louis! Did the guard not receive word that we would be coming!"
"Comes Burgred! The Dux awaits you! Please, forgive my blunder! Open the gates at once!"
"Open the gates!!"
[Grrrrng-]
Bordeaux was one of the foremost port cities of West Frankia.
Sail a little way south by ship and Al-Andalus appeared; sail a little way north and there lay Éire and Britain beside it. Naturally, in ordinary times, it swallowed up every last silver coin flowing into the western coasts of West Frankia. But in the present situation, with Saracen pirates running rampant, they could not possibly keep the gates open.
The Saracens were famous for driving slaves, and Bordeaux was a core city of Aquitaine—who knew when their spies might infiltrate it. Tightening the security was perfectly understandable.
Still, Burgred thought, there was no helping how irritating this entire situation was.
[Grrrng-]
"Enter quickly! Comes! The people of Aquitaine and Bordeaux pay you their respects!"
There was admiration shining in the voice of the guard who spoke, removing his helmet. Small wonder, for to the people of Aquitaine—who for the past half year of massive Saracen plundering had heard only tidings of which village had burned and which church had collapsed—it was Burgred's swift mobile force alone that continued to deliver news of victories.
Faced with that pure, unclouded, sincere goodwill, Burgred nodded his head with an awkward heart and hurried across the drawbridge.
At length, the city he entered was so brimming with vitality it was impossible to believe it was in the midst of war. People moved and haggled everywhere, enough to make both eardrums sting, but none dared block the path of the heavily armed horsemen.
Rather, they drew back in every direction, making the sign of the cross or bowing their heads.
A city of the Franks that had corners similar to the Mercia Burgred himself had ruled, yet was distinctly different. How to put it—could one say Mercia had been a slightly more free and unrestrained atmosphere? To Burgred's mind, the people here possessed something rather more solemn.
With such thoughts, he passed through the vast market district, then through a quieter residential quarter. Reaching the deep interior of the city where the footsteps of people gradually faded away, Burgred at last dismounted from his horse and, following the courteous guidance of the palace steward, moved his steps into the interior of the palace.
He walked a long corridor lined with marble sculptures that looked expensive at a single glance. Standing before a door from which a sweet fragrance faintly wafted, the steward's clear voice announced Burgred's entrance.
Then the firmly shut door opened, and the office of the Dux of Aquitaine revealed itself—a wide-open space flooded with sunlight.
"Ah, Co— Co— Comes B— Burgred. The r— rider of the gale wind! Master of the p— passionate spirit of the attack, overflowing with ar— ardor! You have come at l— last!"
Upon the long desk, neatly arranged parchments lay to the left and right, and at its end, a man whose appearance must be called beautiful beyond merely immaculate smiled brightly and spread both arms wide to Burgred.
This man was Louis of Aquitaine. In other words, Louis the Stammerer of Aquitaine, Ludovicus.
There had been people who sneered at that sight. And those people had all died, ending with the Margrave Robert of Neustria the year before.
"Ha, haha! C— come, t— take a seat! I have m— much to d— discuss with you!"
When mindlessly crashing into the enemy's shield wall, at least his heart had been more at ease. Sensing the fresh-honed dagger hidden behind the stupid expression and clumsy speech, Burgred sharpened his wits to the utmost.
"Pardon?"
But had sharpening his wits been the mistake? Should he have crashed in mindlessly instead?
Summarized, the proposal that this Stammerer laid before Burgred himself was as follows.
[To be honest, I cannot well trust the lords beneath me. Once winter passes, my father and I mean to deal Al-Andalus a mighty blow. I wish to make you, Burgred, the vanguard!]
"I ha— have n— no one but you! Bur— Burgred! The rest are naught but s— swine, wheat-maggots who covet only my seat, bl— bloodsucking vermin, all of them!"
Toward the Stammerer, whose tongue danced only when spewing insults, Burgred wanted to challenge him to a duel on the spot, but he could not help but endure it.
For the faces of his beloved wife and his young, precious son, who had temporarily moved their dwelling to Bordeaux for safety, rose before his eyes.
Burgred cursed his fate once more.
*****
"Father. I ask one last time. Shall I truly shave it?"
"My son. Shave it and smooth it down. Make it like that moist, sleek head I was tending to the day you were born."
"I am not sure what shape that was, but very well. Father, I shall begin now."
"... Wait!"
Hoo- hoo-
Ivar drew a ragged, heavy breath.
'I am the one who fought a three-day chase against the horse riders of the steppe upon the Volga. My father is Ragnar Sigurdsson, and my brother's name is Helgi Ragnarsson. The strongest man this world has ever known was my father, and the mightiest demigod this world now holds is my younger brother.'
I can endure this!
[Gulp- gulp- gulp- ... thud!]
"Kuh-! The mead tastes especially sweet today! As expected of the Fylkir's underground cellar! Now truly shave it off. My son!"
"I shall do as you say, so please hold still, Father. I must hurry back to my wife."
This rascal.
Though a touch of disappointment flickered at Baldr's demeanor, utterly devoid of even a speck of sympathy for his father, Ivar soon closed both eyes and let his conscious world slowly sink into the pitch-black darkness.
It was a strange thing, when he thought about it.
His grandfather and father, and of course his elder brother Björn, all had hair so abundant it overflowed. So why only him? Why was his own hair falling out like this?
'It must be that I take after my mother's side after all.'
Odin. Thor. Tyr, Freyr, Freyr, Njord, and all the other gods. If you yet live, I beg you, give me an answer.
'...'
As expected, there was no answer. This time too, Helgi had been right. The compassionate goddess who accompanies a person at their final moment. Save for Hel, every last one of them was worth less than the tail of a herring—
[Scrape- scrape-]
'Kk!'
Was this what it felt like to have flesh pared away? Had Ælla of Northumbria, bound to a tree, biting his own tongue and bleeding to death, felt such pain as this?
'That was truly the most wretched death I ever witnessed.'
[Scrape- scrape-]
Strangely, as the death of Ælla surfaced in his mind, he felt his heart growing steadily calmer.
Yes, life, in the end, always came to a close no matter how. How much time now remained for Björn and for Ivar himself? Before the meeting with Goddess Hel that would soon come to pass, Ivar's hair had simply departed ahead of him. He would meet it again in Hel's domain.
[Scrape- scrape- tak tak! Scrape-]
The strands of his hair, scattered this way and that beneath the dagger and axe blade of his beloved son Baldr. And his beloved, his woman, who had so reproachfully gone ahead of him. His grandfather, whose face rose dimly before him. His father, who must have reached Valhalla. He would meet them all.
So this paltry hair. He would surrender as much of it as needed.
He was Ivar hinn Beinlausi. The boneless one, supple as a serpent. He did not fall easily.
[Tak tak! Hoo- hoo-]
"Father. It is done. Clean and pleasing to the eye."
"Is that so? Thank you. Shall you try shaving yours as well, then?"
"I shall consider it after I have seen as many winters as you, Father."
"Ha ha!"
A blunt son though he was, the intent to comfort his father in his own way was clearly visible. Pleased by that sentiment, Ivar brushed his palm over the path the pale axe blade had taken, and at the unexpectedly pleasant sensation, he smiled.
"Go back inside now. Your wife must be waiting for you."
"Yes, Father. Then I shall come find you when you descend from Fylkir's Hill."
"There is no need. For the time being, I must see to the Marmaros Council's affairs and soothe your grandmother as well, so I shall be frantically busy. Now go on inside."
"Understood."
Waving off his son, who kept casting sidelong glances even as he tended to his axe and dagger, Ivar was the first to open the door and step outside.
Had the wind always been this cold?
The breeze grazing his scalp seemed to ask Ivar this.
"Nice and warm all this time with your hair, was it? Now feel my true power!"
[Whish- whish-]
Having killed the gods, could he not kill this wind as well?
Ivar smoothed a hand over his head once to share the warmth of his palm, then promptly moved his feet.
And with every step, he seemed to feel gazes landing upon his head. Though he tried not to be conscious of it, it felt as though he was being stared at from every direction. It could not possibly be so, yet the illusion that the entire world was pointing fingers at him refused to vacate Ivar's mind.
But he would have to grow accustomed to it now.
Walking onward with a composed heart, he soon found himself having crested Fylkir's Hill entirely, the Fylkir's palace right before his eyes. The abode of the demigod, pure white with endearing patterns here and there, trees and grass and green fields spreading out around it. A space worthy of myth, fit to rival Odin's Valhalla.
Already it had been woven into countless songs of the skalds, and countless more songs would surely be woven of it in the days to come. Toward that space, Ivar drew a great breath, then set his feet in motion again.
Soon he passed the servants and housecarls who bowed their heads from every corner, and strode with vigor toward the throne of the North Sea, where none but the Fylkir might sit.
And at last, the tall and mighty doors swung open on either side, and Ivar raised his eyes wide.
"Brother. Come in, promptly. Have you eaten your morning meal?"
A majesty that overwhelmed every single thing within this vast palace. A transcendent presence, his youngest brother. Ivar's Fylkir sat squarely upon the throne, having shaved off all his hair.
[Lick- lick-]
"Nyom- nyom- aahm-"
"...Sigmarr? Papa's head is not an egg."
"Uh-hihi! Tashtes good- nyom-"
"...Bokshiri? You stop licking too and come down."
[Lick- lick-]
For some reason, flanking the majestic Fylkir on either side sat a wolf fervently licking his head, while Sigmarr nibbled at it with his tiny, adorable mouth. The sight was so happy, so dazzling, that Ivar could not help but bow his head deeply and wipe at the corners of his eyes.
"Helgi... you wretched fool. I am handsome and have no need of paltry hair like this, but you must not do such a thing."
The sleeve of his tunic grew damp at once, and for a long while Ivar kept his head bowed.
A little time passed before Sigmarr and Bokshiri, who had been licking the great egg (?), were escorted out, and Ivar regained his composure.
☆☆☆☆☆Reference☆☆☆☆☆
Iñaki LLM, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons
Southern Aquitaine. This is why Gascony, or Vasconia, is so important to the Frankish Empire...!
It truly was the front line among front lines...! Bordeaux in particular not only held the water routes, but was a strategic choke point that could block the main route passing through the Pyrenees mountains...!!!
Conversely, it was a place that could serve as a forward base whenever the Frankish Empire went on the offensive...! At the time of the story, the Basques and the region near Barcelona were also under West Frankia's sphere of influence...!!!!
And this hairstyle matter actually carries quite significant cultural and social meaning!
The Norsemen in particular were said to be highly sensitive about this hairstyle...! The example of Caesar, who supposedly wore a laurel wreath to conceal his baldness, shows it well, but regardless of era or place, for any man... it is simply human instinct...
So everyone must put effort into grooming themselves to some degree...!!