80.
80.
Whether it was the King of Breizh or our Scandinavia's Fylkir.
I decided to set all of that aside for now. This occasion was, after all, merely the wedding of myself and my brothers, and it was hardly the right setting to deal with such grave and weighty matters.
Of course, I had the gift and message from Salomon, the leader of the Celts west of the Frankish lands, carefully put away. The golden necklaces were quite lovely, and since he had the sense to send about five of them, I was able to distribute them evenly to both mothers, Inga, and also Botilda and Æthelthryth.
He probably calculated that. The first impression from this man Salomon was quite favorable.
Konungr Halfdan and his son Harald, and Konungr Bagsecg stayed for three more days before departing for their own territories.
It was remarkable enough that men who were essentially kings of their own regions had moved their heavy posteriors like this. Each of them departed in grand style, leading a retinue of followers out through the West Gate and the southern docks respectively.
Though, in the case of the Black King Halfdan to the west, he would have to confirm his own authority and rule once more.
The vassal lords who had raised rebellion against him were all coastal lords strung along the western coast of the Scandinavian peninsula, far west of Kaupang, and it seemed all of them had inclined their hearts toward Olaf the White of Dublin.
Because Olaf had declared his allegiance to me.
'I never gave any permission for that...'
I explained to Konungr Halfdan that this was the first I had heard of it, and he told me he understood and, rather, tried to reassure me.
I did not know precisely when Olaf would leave Dublin and return to his homeland, but in my judgment, the White One would need to be wary of the Black King's attack.
He did not seem the sort of man to retreat quietly, after all.
In any case—apologies to my subordinates and the other lords—but as a Konungr, I was not a man given to workaholism. I sealed off the major problems and delegated all the minor ones to capable vassals, receiving only the important reports in between, and ran my court in that fashion.
My subordinates were said to have run themselves ragged enough that their beards fluttered, but were those not all experiences that became flesh and blood for them?
As a result, I was able to spend a satisfying amount of time with my bride, Inga.
My newly wedded other half, Inga, was the sort of woman who might wonder when I would return, but never once asked what I had discussed with the other lords, or what the plans were for the future, or anything of that sort.
If she had asked while going after my earlobe, which was my weakness, even I would not have been able to resist. My wise wife left the affairs of the realm entirely to my domain.
So when a woman grew cautious without fail whenever she asked what time I would come home, how could I bury my head in those endless administrative, political, economic, social, military, and all other duties?
I believed I was not reborn into this world for that.
Thus a system was being established—a sort of arrangement where the king, the vassals, and the queen were all happy together. I heaped work on my subordinates and merely pointed out the crucial points with a tap.
Hm? The vassals might have a different opinion? Impossible. Look at Hrolf's face over there. Did he not look as though he was eating well and living well, with sparks practically flying from his eyes?
At any rate, just as I was waiting for moving day to my newly built house, with the roof work nearly finished, utterly unexpected news arrived.
A letter sent by Sigebryht, my vassal in East Anglia and the steward of my direct holding Beodericsworth, reached me, and its contents informed me of a suddenly changed situation in a calm tone of voice.
[The marshlands to the north have been divided in half, and Edmund, with the support of Mercia, is plundering the Konungr's domain. I have first brought the people of the surrounding region into Beodericsworth...]
Edmund had moved.
And Mercia behind him as well.
It was something I had expected, but having been struck first, I could not help but feel the sting on one cheek. I looked for the name of Wessex as well, but nowhere in Sigebryht's refined sentences could I find any mention of Wessex.
'He is definitely behind this. In some way.'
I ought to sweep them all away this time.
Were it not for the kiss of luck I had received when I left the house that morning, I would have torn this letter to shreds. I spoke quietly to Refil, who stood attending beside me.
"East Anglia has been invaded. Refil."
My brothers were essentially the lords of their own regions, so with Erik and Refil, Stórolf and Leon—the vassals who were closer to my own hands and feet—present, I passed Sigebryht's letter around so that all of them could see it.
Remarkable Sigebryht. A perceptive man. A clever man. When in the world had he learned the Rune script of the North? Though, seeing that even Ubba spoke Latin in scattered phrases, it was not so very surprising.
When Stórolf, who was weak with letters, received the letter last and was glaring at the paper with great intensity, the astute Erik spoke first.
"Konungr. Sigebryht has prepared well with Beodericsworth at the center, but East Anglia's capacity has not yet risen to the point where it can contend with Mercia."
It had not yet been a year since Beodericsworth became my direct holding. Whether by design or not, Edmund and Mercia had chosen their moment well.
For if not now, it would only have grown more difficult for them with each passing season.
"Action is clearly necessary. Refil, the Jarls have not yet departed from Árós, have they?"
"They have not, Konungr."
"Inform them all that a Thing has been summoned. I shall have to hold a council of war."
"... Understood, Konungr!"
In the eyes of my direct subordinates—capable but still young—flames ignited all at once, and they rose from their seats in a flurry, bowing their heads to me, and went off to find their respective tasks.
'I simply cannot understand it. Has Burgred of Mercia gone mad? Does he truly not know that I am glaring down at him from directly above?'
My power did not end with East Anglia alone. Rather, my true strength within the island of Britain lay, one had to say, in Northumbria.
Surely he could not be unaware of that?
This question of mine was resolved roughly two hours later by yet another letter that arrived.
The letter, delivered by a merchant's courier famed for sailing fast ships, was sent by Jarl Uhtred, who could be considered the steward of Vernika in the north of Northumbria.
This letter sent by a capable figure—who smelled less of the crafty minister than Sigebryht—was also filled with painstakingly written Rune letters clustered together...
But its contents were not pretty at all.
[Kingdom of Scotland, Kingdom of Strathclyde rising up simultaneously. Several villages near the border plundered. Beyond them, the enemy's army sighted. Northumbria shall prepare for war...]
The sentences were a bit closer to the Northern style than Sigebryht's.
'... There it is. They formed an alliance, did they?'
Now I could understand Mercia's confidence a little. Seeing it laid out like this, it truly struck home anew that on all sides in Britain, there were enemies.
'Mercia. Do you think you alone have friends all around you? I shall draw in the Cymry to the west, then.'
Did those friends of theirs not positively delight in Anglo-Saxons?
Coincidentally, Hásteinn was also here. Given the guarantee of the future King of Breizh—who was very close with the Cymry (sharing the same Britanno-Roman, Celtic cultural sphere and a similar language)—there seemed to be some room for cooperation...
I, who had been tapping the table, carefully stored the Örn idea that had come to mind in a corner of my head, rose from my seat, and made my way through the passageway into the vast hall connected beyond.
The war had already begun.
*****
Ordinarily, a king's council is not convened in such a manner.
"What in the world is this about? The Konungr's domain has been attacked!? Is this place not perfectly intact? I see no enemy!?"
"Hey, you... have you lost your mind? Who comes to the Konungr's hall in full war gear like this...?"
"Should an enemy appear, am I not the one who must protect him!"
"... You there, can you shatter a boulder with your bare hands?"
"That is a different matter altogether!"
That is to say, a king's council does not ordinarily unfold on such an immense scale, in such chaotic fashion.
The Norse lords, suddenly inflamed with righteous fury at the news that the Konungr's domain had been attacked (even jarls who had not yet sworn their oaths of loyalty were angered), gathered up the armor, axes, swords, shields, and helms they had set aside during the festival period. Among them, a few of the more extreme ones attempted to enter the council chamber in full kit, only to be stopped by their comrades or, in some cases, halted by Stórolf himself.
Those lords who displayed such zeal were then able to experience firsthand just how vast the domain of Konungr Helgi Ragnarsson truly was—stretching from the renowned warrior lords settled beyond the Eastern Sea, beginning with Knyaz Rurik and Jarl Oleg, Djur, and Haskuldr, all the way to the king's own two brothers seated in the west, Jarl Sigurd and Ubba.
When the lands of the powerful lords seated here were connected end to end, the sheer scale of it defied all estimation.
Consequently, those lords who had already made up their minds felt considerably lightened in spirit, while the hearts of the still fairly powerful lords who continued to wrestle with indecision grew heavier yet—but such things were not what mattered in this moment.
"Ahem... hm..."
"What? Why are you lowering your voice like tha—mmmph..."
The jarls, who had breathlessly called out their names and domains to the Huskarl guarding the main gate before stepping into the great hall—each and every one of them, wild as stallions, fell silent the instant they entered the king's hall.
For at the far end of their gaze, there sat a man clad in a mysterious robe of violet hue.
A man who emanated an utterly different presence from the figure they had witnessed at the wedding and the Fylkir council that followed, as though those prior glimpses had been a lie.
The name of the man who seemed to be questioning Jarl Hestein and Thorgunbaldr, seated to either side of him, with brows deeply furrowed, was Helgi Ragnarsson.
Jarl Hestein was, of course, a legendary warrior whom anyone would wish to meet at least once, and Jarl Thorgunbaldr was no less renowned. Yet even they, seated beside the Konungr, barely registered in the eye unless one strained to focus upon them.
A power that felt as though it alone existed within this enormous space.
Yes, this was no mere illusion of aura or atmosphere. It was a force that truly existed.
Perhaps ten minutes passed after all the jarls—hastening to take their seats one by one amid a weight so oppressive that even drawing breath without permission seemed a struggle—had finally entered.
Within a silence that had settled far too calmly for any gathering of Norsemen, which were ever boisterous affairs. At last, the Konungr, perceiving that the jarls were all in place, set down the parchment he held in his hand with a low murmur and rose from his seat.
Even seated he had been enormous, but once standing, his majesty was such that all thought of defiance simply evaporated.
With a single gesture—extending his arms forward and turning to acknowledge the jarls to either side in thanks—Helgi Ragnarsson, who had already brought everyone to their knees in spirit, parted his lips without the slightest hesitation.
"Esteemed jarls. I am profoundly grateful that you have answered my summons and gathered here thus."
If his voice rang in the ears of those seated farthest away as though a hammer were driving the words in, what must it have been like for the jarls seated in the very front?
As all exclaimed, with one heart and one voice, that they had merely done what was naturally their duty, the Konungr of Árós silently continued.
"As the principal of the wedding and the master of this place, I bear the obligation to properly see my guests off once the feast is ended. Yet I have gathered you here, despite that duty, because urgent tidings have arrived from the isle of Britain in the west."
The words of Helgi Ragnarsson were unlike those of anyone else.
They were not like those of Konungr Halfdan or Jarl Ivar, famed for their eloquence, nor did they resemble the rough yet forceful speech that was the strong suit of Konungr Bagsecg or Jarl Hestein.
Jarl Björn was famous, from the outset, for rarely speaking at all. Jarl Halfdan and Sigurd, contrary to expectation, were known as hot-blooded types whose actions outpaced their words.
But Helgi Ragnarsson fit into neither category.
The ruler of Árós possessed an innate power.
It was not merely a matter of physical strength. It was a force that drew in the very souls of those who listened, as though he had been fashioned from birth to walk the path of a sovereign.
Leon, the scholar whom Rome prided itself on, recorded in a corner of the thick tome in which he continuously transcribed the Konungr's words that this was something akin to sorcery. The king's will, transmitted with perfect clarity even to himself, whose command of the Norse tongue was not yet fluent. If the power to seize and wield the heart of even a foreigner and heathen such as himself was not magic, then what else could it be?
"My domain on the eastern coast of the isle of Britain, East Anglia, has come under attack by Edmund Cyning, and Northumbria to the north has been assailed by the Kingdom of Scotland and the Kingdom of Strathclyde. That land, in particular, was won when I achieved vengeance for my father—and so I am determined to hold it at all costs."
Since he conveyed only the essence of the matter, omitting minor details of circumstance, most of the jarls who had entered this suffocating place without knowing the reason were now able to grasp the situation.
"Yet we know not how numerous the enemy may be, and should even a single thing go amiss, we might find ourselves forced to fight with foes on both fronts."
A great war, led by the mightiest Konungr, and one against whom none could raise a single dissenting voice. And not on this barren mainland, but a war to be waged across the sea, upon lands of abundance.
To the jarls, who understood the value of the sea routes and the power of Helgi Ragnarsson better than anyone else in this world, this was a colossal opportunity.
A golden ticket granting passage to the foremost ranks of the new order that would soon be established.
"Thus do I entreat you for your aid... Will you lend me your strength, and fight alongside me?"
Though he had not strained to raise his voice, once Helgi's words, which pierced the breast of every soul present, came to an end, the chamber was submerged in a momentary silence.
A span of time no longer than a single deep breath drawn in and released.
And then at last, led by the Jarl of Gotland, the lords of domains great and small began to rise from their seats one by one.
When at last every man stood tall from his seat and signified his consent, Helgi Ragnarsson gave a weighty nod of his head.
"Then from this moment forth, it is war. Esteemed jarls."
The fierce spirit of Helgi Ragnarsson spread contagiously to all at once, until even the hand of Leon, clutching his quill, bulged with veins from the excitement that gripped his heart.
Steadying his trembling hands and his shaken heart, Leon steadfastly completed his record amidst the Norsemen, who all raised their hands as one and roared a thunderous battle cry.
[-And so, the Northmen accepted the challenge that had come before them.]