85.
85.
[Ji-ji-bae-bae— ji-ji-bae-bae— jjaek— jjaek— kkaak—!]
'Is that a swallow? Incredibly noisy.'
Summer. The space between Grantebrycge and Beodericsworth had become a place where only birds flew.
Two weeks had already passed since the preliminary skirmish, and only the ceaselessly roaming scouts continued to report the ever-changing enemy movements to their respective fortresses.
I was settled in here, waiting for Ivar and Hásteinn's movements, but as for what Edmund was waiting for—just as I suspected, reports of a massive army being sighted began to trickle in one by one.
Mercia's main force had finally revealed itself.
Since it was observed by human eyes, the exact number could not be known, but this was their main camp, after all. It would be at least ten thousand. Combined with the vanguard Edmund had led, that would make fifteen thousand—or more.
Our numbers, by contrast, totaled eleven thousand.
My vanguard of two thousand, two thousand under Guthrum, three thousand Helgi loyalists within East Anglia centered on Sigebryht. Oleg and Djur, who had arrived a few days ago, numbered four thousand.
I had never fought a war with superior numbers, so the thought that these numbers were enough to work with drew a brief laugh from me—but this time, it was not a situation where I had to attack unconditionally, as in Northumbria.
Because while we had been glaring at each other's walls, positioned within half a day's march of one another, the news I had been waiting for had finally arrived.
Hásteinn's messenger had reached me at last.
'Cymru wants compensation, he says... Compensation? Whatever. Such a trifling thing.'
As if Cymru would ever be unified. The Celt friends were divided into north and south. Yet these people, who were never shy before a fight, seemed to have united in purpose at last, having seized the chance to batter the Angle and Saxon kingdoms.
Hásteinn, through his messenger, emphasized how hard both he and Salomon had labored to reduce their outrageous demands—but I was prepared to grant every one of the Cymry's demands.
What they wanted was the western territory of Mercia. The limit being wherever their hands could reach.
If they could take it, let them. I could give away that much land as much as they pleased. It was land I could not swallow right now anyway.
After sending my thoughts back with the messenger, I resolved to move at last and immediately summoned my army's principal commanders to one place.
[Cheok! Cheok! Cheok! Cheok!]
Since no one knew when the enemy attack might begin, everyone was properly armed. Without much effort, my subordinates climbed the steps up onto the walls, which were not particularly high to begin with.
Refil and Stórolf. Oleg and Djur. Sigebryht and Guthrum.
And even Leon, who had become my order clerk.
We had come a long way, I reflected, from the days of dashing about with Ivar, leading fewer than a thousand warriors.
"Konungr, you summoned us!"
The ever-vigorous Stórolf asked on behalf of the group, and I pushed myself up from where I had been leaning against the wall.
"You have come well. Jarl Hásteinn has sent a messenger."
It was but a single sentence, yet among those gathered here, there was none who did not grasp its meaning.
One and all, my subordinates' eyes began to glint. A low laugh escaped me at the sight of them.
"It has begun at last..."
Sigebryht, who harbored a particularly deep grudge against Edmund, gave off an air that suggested he might draw his sword at any moment. Since he had always shown me only his composed side, it was not unpleasant to see this face of his.
It made him seem more human, perhaps.
"Yes, it has begun at last. But since the Cymru friends are unlikely to come crashing into the enemy's rear instantly, we must regard the victory as ours to win."
"Of course! Konungr!"
"We shall not let a single one of them go alive!"
"Leave it to us!"
I had spoken a little sternly, worried they might grow careless in the triumphant atmosphere, and they all snapped sharply to attention.
The purpose of this summons had been, in the first place, to announce the start of the east-west pincer operation and to issue a reminder. The objective had been fully achieved. All that remained now was to face the enemy.
The enemy would trust in their advantage, so they would never refuse our challenge.
"Good. Then today, we march out of the fortress. But remember this. It is a battle won by merely holding the enemy's ankle. I shall bestow generous rewards upon everyone, so needless greed will be absolutely forbidden. Understood?"
"Yes! Konungr!"
[Kung!]
My subordinates bowed their heads in unison and rendered their military salute.
As my heart swelled with satisfaction at that trustworthy sight, the chirping of the birds looking down upon the humans on the wall continued without pause.
*****
Beodericsworth moved.
Like a bear in winter sleep, like a beehive hoarding honey, the Northmen's army had been crouching still—then in an instant, the number of scouts increased more than tenfold, and soon the fortress gates opened and they poured out all at once.
For Burgred and Edmund Cyning, who had instigated this war and who were in the position of having to seize enemy territory, it was a welcome development, yet it left an aftertaste that was not entirely clean.
"They opened the fortress gates and came out...? Is this report truly correct?"
"It is, Burgred Cyning. Unless our scouts' eyes were all blinded in the same instant, every one of them has returned the same report."
"How could I ever doubt my warriors' words? It is merely... so unexpected. Could it be that we misjudged their numbers?"
"We did not, Cyning. It has been confirmed time and again. Our numbers are greater."
"Yes, and not by a difference of one or two. Even so, what do you suppose their reason for coming out could be?"
Burgred's deeply furrowed brow was full of doubt, while on Edmund's face, which had long been full of somber gloom, a light of hope arose.
"I do not understand it well myself, Cyning."
"That is my point."
Edmund, who had been listening silently to the exchange between Burgred and Cœnred, stepped forward at the moment when the conversation between the King of Mercia and his Eorl seemed to be chasing its own tail in circles.
"Their Konungr, Helgi Ragnarsson, is without doubt a tremendous warrior such as might appear in the Bible. I who have faced him know this better than anyone here."
Though the forces he possessed were few, Edmund was, nevertheless, the rightful monarch of East Anglia. In fact, he even had the recognition of the Pope, whose influence on this island of Britain was not great, so Burgred nodded for him to continue.
"I shall listen attentively, Edmund Cyning."
"Thank you, Burgred Cyning."
For a moment, as their gazes met, a subtle current passed between them.
Alfred, who had been sitting quietly in this gathering as an observer from Wessex, noticed the tension between the two kings but merely filed the fact away in a corner of his mind. He made no particular move.
"Truly, that vile wolf-chieftain and his pack are, at their root, nothing more than mere plunderers and a savage rabble who know not the true faith. Having triumphed in East Anglia, in Northumbria, can you not imagine how immense their arrogance must be?"
Edmund expressed his displeasure toward the Northmen and their chieftain, Helgi Ragnarsson, without reserve. Yet he was not a man so wholly buried in faith that he ignored reality, and he began to unfold his own logic.
"They have won so far through the powerful breakthrough led by their heathen Konungr, and so they shall surely do again this time. But I have not been idly at play while preparing for this moment. I and the warriors of East Anglia shall hold them at the center."
Edmund's expression was resolute. His posture, his countenance, and his voice, thick with fervent heat, conveyed a kind of piety.
Like everyone else in the hall, Burgred found himself receiving a new impression of this man called Edmund. Concealing his admiration with effort, Burgred asked Edmund his plan.
"Indeed, you are a Cyning worthy of the Canterbury Bishop's praises. Yet I cannot but ask: by what means do you intend to halt their charge, with which we are all too familiar?"
The answer to this supremely rational question was supremely faithful. A madness the likes of which had rarely been seen before flowed from Edmund's lips.
"With faith and with blood. With long spears and sturdy shields, I have sworn before God's name that we shall fight until we all fall. I, and the soldiers of East Anglia, shall not retreat a single step."
"Mm..."
"Haah..."
Before the blind gaze of a man resigned to death, the royals and nobles, who clung to life more dearly than anyone, all let out sighs.
'I had heard that two monasteries in northern East Anglia had greatly overextended themselves for this expedition of Edmund's. It seems that was true after all.'
Of course, the resolve of Edmund and his men, who disregarded even death, was dazzling—but since when did reality ever turn on faith alone?
Burgred could already guess who, behind the scenes, had propelled Edmund forward. Likely the Bishop of Canterbury, and Wessex's Æthelred... How else could Edmund, driven into the marshlands, have appeared leading two thousand elite soldiers? War is waged with money and provisions, steel and men, after all.
'Well, it matters not.'
The decisive blow would be struck by Mercia's elite warriors anyway. If Edmund was offering himself as bait to buy time, there was no reason to refuse.
Of course, he would have to consider once more whether Edmund truly held such value in the eyes of the enemy leader, Konungr Helgi.
But that was a topic best not broached here and now.
"What a man of true faith you are, Cyning Edmund. I wish to apologize for my earlier discourtesy. Please, forgive me."
"What is there to speak of forgiveness or not? Eorl Coenred. Are we not all Catholic brethren facing the enemy of the faith? Please, say no such thing."
"Haah... you truly make me ashamed, Edmund Cyning."
"Edmund Cyning!"
"Long live Edmund Cyning!"
'Edmund has already earned the full worth of his staked life.'
To buy the respect of the haughty nobles in a single moment.
In this moving moment, Burgred, who felt that Edmund was a more fearsome man than he had thought, suddenly found his eyes meeting those of Alfred, who was clearly thinking much the same thing.
That prudish brother-in-law of his, who had been looking at Edmund with an awkward expression, turned his eyes away hastily, as if embarrassed, the moment their gazes met.
'I've been thinking about this all wrong. If we fight these Northmen here... in the end, it is Wessex that wins.'
With a bitter smile, Burgred brought the council, whose mood had brightened in an instant, to a conclusion.
If Beodericsweg had moved, then Grantebrycge would answer as well.
"Warriors of Mercia and East Anglia! The time has come to debate before that heathen Konungr of the North whose faith is the true faith. Today, we march out from the fortress."
"Long live Mercia! Long live East Anglia!"
"Long live Burgred Cyning! Long live Edmund Cyning!"
The fervor of the commanders soon spread to their warriors, and the warriors of Burgred and Edmund marched out from the gate with vigor, heading toward their promised victory.
*****
Vigorous and resolute.
The combined army of Mercia and northwestern East Anglia had set out in high spirits, but they soon found their faces hardening as they advanced toward what they thought would be a pleasant victory.
This was because the ranks and bearing of the Northmen, who had already taken up position along a low range of hills, were far more formidable than expected.
'Damn that Edmund. What? They're fundamentally nothing but savages? In what way do those look like savages?'
Was it said that war is waged with money and provisions, men and equipment? Of these, the most important was men. In a sense, the Mercian-East Anglian alliance might have fallen into the trap of numbers.
For the enemy's bearing was so stern that it seemed they could lightly overcome that numerical difference and then some.
'They are stretched out in a long line, hugging a low range of hills. Because of that, their exact numbers are difficult to grasp, and since they sit astride the road, bypassing them will be no easy task. Our only points of faith are that our numbers are still greater and our mobility is faster.'
The riders of Mercia were famed as a cavalry force not inferior to Wessex's. They were by no means lacking compared to the cavalry that the Kingdom of the Franks, across the southern strait, had begun to develop in earnest.
Of course, it was more accurate to say that the riders of Western Europe in this era were meant for fighting on foot rather than on horseback, but in any case, mobility was of the utmost importance.
'In the end, is there no choice but to clash and see?'
Where had all the fervor from before their departure gone? Glancing at Edmund, whose face had hardened the moment they actually faced the enemy, Burgred soon gave his orders in a composed tone.
"Thankfully, the enemy has been waiting for us first. We too shall deploy our forces and establish a guard. We must not allow the enemy to slip around into our rear."
"Aye!"
A battle where two armies of no small number clashed. Victory would not come easily.
Burgred resolved to prod at the enemy's nerves, little by little. Then, he would go in for a proper thrust. In a war of attrition, the side with the greater numbers held the advantage, after all.
'This is a war I cannot lose.'
If worst came to worst, he could mobilize the forces not yet summoned from the rear, or call for reinforcements from Wessex.
Burgred thought that this war was absolutely impossible to lose.