84.
84.
There was a considerable distance between Beodericsworth and Grantebrycge (Cambridge).
The land was good, blanketed entirely in green, with open plains stretching cool and wide, dotted here and there by the rolling hills and hillocks that were indispensable to the island of Britain.
The fact that the distance could be covered in less than half a day if one moved with purpose meant, in other words, that both sides had to move with caution.
The enemy's main force, falling back carefully, numbered roughly seven thousand according to Guthrum's reports. Considering that two thousand of those were the men Edmund had scraped together from the northern marshlands of East Anglia, it was clear that not all of Mercia's strength had yet gathered here.
Conversely, the strength at Beodericsworth was five thousand. Not a single one of the lords of the eastern coast who had sworn oaths of loyalty to me had deserted.
'Astonishing.'
I had heard that distance weakens the heart as it weakens the bond, yet the oaths of fealty I had hardly expected to hold had proven to be an immense help. Perhaps it was the effect of the shared activities—hunting together, sleeping rough together? I would have to reward them all richly.
In any case, due to the nature of this age—where siege tools were as shabby as defensive works—the siege battle, which came down to a contest of numbers, ended with little gain for the Mercian side.
If matters had unfolded according to their original plan, while Edmund and Mercia's vanguard, moving with haste, pinned down the movements from Beodericsworth, Burgred, having gathered his full strength in the rear, would have swept across the entire undefended southeastern region of East Anglia.
Now that force had been crushed by my vanguard, which had moved like a thunderbolt. What remained between Burgred and me was nothing less than open battle.
So, in this situation, who truly felt the greater urgency?
Was it me, with my seaborne supply lines running smoothly and my strength growing with every passing moment? Or was it Burgred, who had scraped together forces from every corner in his haste?
He might have thought for now he only needed to worry about the Northmen to the east. But I held a hidden card.
"Konungr Helgi. A message from Jarl Ivar. He has arrived safely and says he will move soon."
"Has he? Good. Very good."
Ivar, having crossed over to the west, appeared to have reached Dublin safely, and he would soon move together with Jarl Olaf, who had become my vassal without my even realizing it.
By now, Ubba would have reached the north as well.
Hásteinn would take a little more time, but since I had sworn to help him claim the throne after this war ended, that ambitious man from Brace, Salomon, would also make his decision before long.
The longer I sat back and let time pass, the more the advantage tilted toward my side.
'There is not a single reason to attack recklessly. Nor is there any way to storm a fortress seated along a river.'
The advantage of attacking was seizing the initiative, but put another way, in war, that was truly the only advantage of the attack.
Under similar conditions where both sides had completed all preparations, an out-fighter was naturally favored over an in-fighter.
So, Edmund. Burgred. If you truly wished to fight...
This time, you would come to me.
'A battle on the open plain, I will accept at any time.'
No more reckless sieges.
*****
"Jarl Oleg! Is this the right place?"
"Uh—"
Oleg and Djur, who had transformed in the span of a single year from frontier Jarls into core figures of the strongest power in the Northern Hemisphere, found themselves in a difficult situation.
The first military command issued by the great Konungr whom they revered and admired without end.
The order had been to lead the first batch of recruits—men who had completed the 'training camp' that turned the stout lads from across the land, who still toiled with sweat and blood and tears in the wide space between Árós and Uppsala, who knew no form of fighting but the charge, into true soldiers—across the sea. Yet...
The problem, if there was one, was that both Oleg and Djur were on the western sea for the first time.
They had followed the coastline to a spot where the 'white cliffs' were clearly visible, rested for a full day, and then crossed the narrow strait, swinging around toward Örn. The heading had to be right, but...
'Shit, was it the left!?'
Before the expectant eyes of the warriors around him, all fixing their bright, alert gazes upon him with full attention, Oleg could not bring himself to say, 'To be honest, I'm not quite sure either!'
"Of course! Jarl Dir. If we go just a little further, a towering flame will rise to greet us!"
"Ooh! So that is the thing they call a lighthouse!"
"Wait for me, new land, for I am coming!"
He could not even convince himself with his own words, but the warriors rowing hard seemed brimming with anticipation at the prospect of the adventure and battle ahead. Though, above all else, escaping the training camp where they were fed and drilled all day long seemed to delight them most.
"..."
Of course, among them, there were always warriors with sharp ears who detected the faint tremor in Oleg's voice. Djur especially, perhaps beginning to feel a creeping unease, quietly rose from his seat and stared fixedly at the utterly unfamiliar land and the horizon beyond it.
'Impudent wretch...'
Had there not been unresolved ill feeling still lingering between Djur and his own brother, Rurik? If Konungr Helgi had not chanced to pass through the eastern lands, one of the two leaders—of Novgorod or Kiyiu—would surely have had to die.
Yet in that sense, Oleg did not hate Djur.
He did not like the man, but that was simply the way they lived.
Did the weak not die? The leader of the pack had to be strong at all times.
More than that, what truly irritated him was a different trait in this comrade with whom he had eaten, slept, and rolled through the training camp, suffering together under the vicious, focused scrutiny of Jarl Hrolf. And that was the fact that the man called Jarl Dir was exceedingly cunning.
In short, it meant he had an utterly vexing character. To Oleg, the very model of a hearty, open-handed warrior, Djur's constant calculation and consideration of every angle was far from the ideal image of a proper warrior.
"Jarl Dir, you'll strain your neck like that. Do you see anything?"
[Cheolssuk- cheolssuk- swoaaaaah- seureureureu- swoaaaaah- seureureureu-]
Kind words were not likely to find a vexing man, after all.
The soft sound of oars parting the waves scattered Oleg's curt voice. Behind the ships of Oleg and Djur, who stood at the van, a number of vessels too great to take in at a single glance cut through the sea in unison—a sight that held a majestic dignity in itself.
"Just to be sure, for now... hm?"
It was at that moment that Djur, silently staring at the horizon without answering, spotted a red dot far off in the gray-washed space.
"Jarl Oleg, do you see that flame over there?"
"Of course I see it. A flame floating above the sky—I can think of no other place it could be but the one the Konungr spoke of."
"There is no mistake."
Oleg thought that, since the slick but sharp-witted Djur's opinion matched his own, there was no need to suspect an enemy attack or a feint.
'Good, then.'
"Now—! Brothers of Garmr! Let us all pick up the pace! The Konungr awaits us!"
"Let us go—! To the Konungr!"
"Pull harder on the oars! Push the waves aside!"
[Bwoooong—! Bwoooo—!]
{Bwooong! Bwooong!}
At the sound of the horn Oleg blew with all his might, answering calls were soon heard from every part of the rear of the column.
The fleet of longships, which had been gliding slowly across the sea, picked up speed all at once, and the coast of East Anglia fell silent once more at the sight of a force that could not even be compared to the fifty-ship fleet that had passed along the exact same route just a few days earlier.
While the Mercian army based at Grantebrycge (Cambridge) and the Northmen's army based at Beodericsworth glared across the plain between them in a standoff, the second Northmen expeditionary force had finally arrived.
Their numbers were roughly one hundred longships. Four thousand troops. In addition, over one hundred merchant vessels laden with all manner of supplies and one hundred warhorses.
Though various oddments were mixed in among the cargo, Konungr Helgi would likely welcome the arrival of the warhorses most of all.
Watching the village around the lighthouse grow busier, Oleg thought to himself.
*****
[Prrrrt—]
"A horse is truly a mysterious creature, Ealdorman Alfred (Ælfred)."
A snow-white horse, like something from a painting. The prized steed, personally gifted by the Kuning (the King of the Franks) from West Frankia across the sea, was quietly enjoying its master's touch.
"Indeed they are, Burgred Cyning."
"There you go with that stiff formality again? I have long known you are a fine prince, so give it a rest. Am I not, after all, your sister's husband? We are one family, I say."
"Ha ha. I shall do so, Cyning."
"There, is that not far more pleasant? This fellow likes it too."
[Prrrt— Prrt—]
As he combed its mane himself with a brush specially made for this expensive beast, the horse let out a low whinny, as if content.
Though a great battle was imminent, the sight of such complete ease gnawed at the Prince of Wessex, Alfred, who had turned nineteen that year, but he forced himself to suppress the growing unease.
'Prudence is a virtue, but cowardice is unforgivable. The troops who answered Cyning's summons at Tamworth alone number ten thousand. Combined with the seven thousand who went ahead and the forces our Wessex will send, this is a battle we simply cannot lose... So there is no need to be afraid in advance.'
Alfred, who had shed the look of a boy completely, was a prince anyone would find admirable. A sturdy build, neatly trimmed blond hair, and even a beard.
In some quarters, there were even those who compared him to the sickly Æthelred. Perhaps that was why, fully aware that his brother's gaze lately carried a deepening trouble when it fell upon him, Alfred had volunteered for this campaign.
He could not cause grief to the brother who had raised and cared for him in their father's stead. Besides, as a prince of Wessex, he would never be made to fight on the front lines anyway. If he could catch a glimpse of the Northmen's famed Cyning, Helgi, during this campaign, nothing could be better.
"Cœnred sent a messenger. He reported that the enemy's chieftain has shown himself. You will have heard the name before—the Northern Dragon. Helgi Ragnarsson."
"...Helgi Ragnarsson."
The man who had appeared out of nowhere two years ago and settled the mighty Northumbria within a single year.
Northumbria under Helgi Ragnarsson did not pursue the fleeing clergy, farmers, or warriors, and the tales brought by the refugees who had fled to Mercia and Wessex in sheer panic were uniformly difficult to believe.
The betrayal at Eoforwic and that single decisive battle.
It was said that of Northumbria's two Cyning, Osberht died in a single stroke, and Ælla—the very cause who had called Helgi Ragnarsson to this land in the first place—died in a manner too gruesome to even recount.
'They said his corpse was left strewn in a field...'
He had heard that the spot became so steeped in Ælla's lingering grudge that even the beasts no longer went there. But the trouble did not end there, for the multitudes who fled Northumbria swore they had seen a gigantic dragon drifting through the sky that day.
The shape of a cloud like a long serpent.
As a result, countless brothers of the faith had turned their backs on the true God and begun believing in the heathen gods of those Northmen, and this was something that could not be ignored.
It was not merely a matter of faith; should the slightest misstep occur, the very lords of this land might be overthrown.
For the rulers of this land never welcomed the appearance of new prophecies, new gods, or powerful rivals.
"That expression tells me you know all about it, then?"
[Prrt— Squish— Crush!]
Burgred, who had plucked an insect sucking blood from the horse's mane, pressed it dead between his fingers and smiled.
"I have heard he is a great warrior. They say he broke through the warriors of Northumbria by his strength alone."
"A thing hard to believe. Is it not?"
Heave-ho—
Seeing Burgred put away the brush and mount his saddle, the surrounding guards and Alfred hastily mounted their own saddles as well.
The heavy breathing of horses poured out from all directions, and as the riders adjusted their formation, the King of Mercia and the Prince of Wessex slowly urged their horses forward from the head of the column.
A confident smile played at Burgred's lips, while Alfred's eyes, though still young, held a resolute will beneath them.
"The mouths of peasants turn a passing bird into a dragon, and a flowing stream into a great flood. Still, it is wise to be wary of this man called Helgi... Shall we make a bit more haste?"
"Yes, Burgred Cyning."
"Good heavens... Did I not tell you to stop being so stiff? That stubbornness you have comes from your father. Horsemen of Mercia! We ride out—!"
"We ride out!"
"Hyah!"
[Clop! Clop! Dugu— Dugu— Dugudugu—]
With a refreshing laugh, Burgred and the riders under his command briskly broke from the encampment and took to the road leading toward Grantebrycge.
Beside them, over ten thousand Mercian warriors let out a mighty cheer. For their Cyning.