91.
91.
Mercia's assault was relentless.
By Alfred's suggestion, the Northmen's iron will was tested every moment in the face of rotating waves of attacks that leveraged their numerical superiority, and a situation where a single moment of carelessness led to death was no easy thing even for these mighty warriors...
Yet they possessed one beacon that shone brighter than anything else.
His name was Helgi Ragnarsson.
"Why...? Why can we not overcome that single warrior? Is he truly a man of the same flesh as us...?"
Three days already. Though they had pressed hard, taking only the barest minimum of Hugh's rest, the Northmen's wall stood firm and held fast.
With all the cavalry lost as well, cutting off the enemy's supply lines was a near impossibility.
But even so, though arrows that could not be infinite ran dry, and their arms that had gleamed with white light were now cracked and shattered everywhere, their will alone still blazed brightly.
The majestic presence of their Konungr, Helgi Ragnarsson, the heart of that steadfastness, sickened all who watched.
That man did not tire.
He did not fall, and along the arc of the sword he swung without rest, none could count how many of Mercia's gallant warriors had lost their lives.
Thus, what Burgred and everyone here could be certain of was that with only the men present here, they could no longer surmount that low hill of theirs.
Unlike three days prior when they had set out boldly, now among the Eorls slowly contemplating retreat, while they were in the midst of a silent standoff over who would carry the can, unexpected tidings arrived.
It was that the Cymry and another host of Northmen had invaded the western lands, which lay as good as empty with the great army having marched out.
"The Cymry? These base wretches...! The ink on the treaty, which was to ensure no further conflict after our last clash, would scarcely be dry...!"
"... Then there is no help for it now. I have received a letter from Æthelred Cyning of Winchester, stating that the very same trouble has befallen him."
The space was filled with both gloom at the dire situation and fear of the enemy. Within the command tent, Alfred, the Prince of Wessex, shook his head and spoke.
"Burgred Cyning. Edmund Cyning. Had we but a little more time, had the enemy not launched a surprise invasion upon Wessex and Mercia's west, we could have felled the evil dragon on that hill. But our old foe, the Cymry, have stirred at the worst moment, and so we must first quench the fire within our own house."
The young prince addressed them with words that saved face for Burgred and a voice and expression laden with apology for Edmund.
At his words, whatever their true feelings, the lords of Mercia nodded with gloomy expressions, and the few lords of East Anglia still loyal to Edmund wore faces that soured by the moment, yet they could not speak freely.
The faces of the two Cyning bore contrasting expressions as well.
The troubled expression of Burgred. The expression of Edmund, as if all emotion had drained away.
From all around, murmurs such as "Hear, hear!", "Let us bide our time for the next chance!", "Must we not defend our own foundations first?" circulated, and when even those feeble voices gradually fell to whispers—
The Cyning of the weak realm—nay, the realm now all but extinguished—upon whom every eye in this space rested, Edmund, slowly rose from his seat.
"Even if the foe stirs in the west, will the dragon before our very eyes suffer us to leave in peace?"
At his voice, which bore a note of detachment, the lords of Mercia all felt shame, yet reality was ever cruel. Not one stepped forward for East Anglia's sake.
It stood to reason, perhaps—had they driven these Northmen out, these Mercian lords might well have meant to swallow East Anglia whole.
Though all present, nobles and royals alike, knew this full well, such words were of the sort that cultivated people could scarcely dare to let pass their lips.
Edmund continued.
"If someone must bar their path, then it is right that I and the warriors of East Anglia remain. In the stead of all East Anglia, I offer my gratitude to the many valiant men who have aided us thus far."
At Edmund's posture as he inclined his head lightly, the lords of Mercia started up in alarm, lifting their heavy backsides from their seats.
Burgred and Alfred in particular sprang up in shock and seized Edmund by the shoulders.
"How can you do this? Edmund Cyning. It is not yet ended. Once we drive out those ungrateful Cymry who have had the insolence to encroach upon us, we shall surely return. Do not abandon hope!"
"Burgred Cyning speaks true. We have now firmly grasped the enemy and their chieftain's measure this time, and next time we shall not retreat thus. Pray, steel your heart. Edmund Cyning."
Steel my heart? If I hold out here longer? Would it not be only you who profit further from it?
Though he let none of these questions show upon his face, Edmund bowed his head still lower.
"Words I am thankful for. This unworthy man shall never forget. May the Lord watch over us all..."
With those weighty words, the joint Mercian-East Anglian army dissolved.
Mercia to defend their west, the remnant East Anglian force to defend the fortress of Grantebrycge.
Between those who parted ways, no trace of comradely bond was to be found.
Left alone, clutching the old fortress and the handful of troops Burgred had left behind as though dispensing charity—there stood Edmund.
Yet perhaps because the Northmen too had suffered considerable damage through three days of fierce battle, they did not press the pursuit of the retreating Mercian army.
Thanks to that, having safely crossed the river and entered Grantebrycge, Edmund dispatched a messenger through an underling.
The recipient was that great warrior of the Northmen. Helgi Ragnarsson.
*****
"What?"
Had I misheard?
"... Is that true?"
"I-it is, sir...! Kyni—no, Konungr...! It is truth beyond doubt! Here, the Cyning's own hand!"
"Hmm... Stórolf?"
"Aye! Konungr!"
[Chak! Chak! Tak!]
"Eek!"
[Chak! Chak!]
"Here it is. Konungr!"
"My thanks."
Stórolf, who had snatched the letter from the hand of the poor messenger trembling in fear, handed it to me courteously. Inside, when I carefully broke the cross seal upon the paper, whose soft texture was striking, I found one sheet written in flowing Latin and another sheet written in the runes of the Angles, which resembled ours yet differed slightly at the same time.
"...? Huh."
As you well know.
Were Edmund and I on terms where we would trade warm smiles and ask after the weather? The tone, though milder than I had expected, carried a chill, and the sentences did not run on long.
Setting aside the brief pleasantries, flourishes, and praises of God, the core substance was but one thing.
[Sacred Duel]
Let's settle this one-on-one!
That was the key point.
'Edmund, had he finally gone mad?'
He had seen me fight, hadn't he? Had he secretly developed a gun while I wasn't looking? I wasn't sure I could beat a gun just yet...
"What is written, Konungr?"
After three days of battle, the gazes that looked upon me had changed into something beyond mere respect and reverence, and my retainers were all staring at my expression with curious eyes.
Among them, the voice of Refil, who was my blood kin and something like an exclusive adjutant, roused my deliberating mind. I handed Refil the letter written in Runic script, which he could more or less make out, and gave the letter written in Latin to Leon, who was recording all of this.
"Huh-. What are these letters...? Is this what I think it is?"
"Mmm...? Has this man finally gone mad?"
"What is it? Let me see as well! ... Huh-?"
Not only Leon, who was staring intently at the Latin letter, but Stórolf, and Oleg, Djur, Sigebryht, Guthrum, and even Thorbjörn, the senior-most cavalryman newly included in this gathering.
They all stared with looks of disbelief, so much so that the poor, trembling messenger looked about ready to roll his eyes back into his head, so I waved my hand to draw their attention.
"Right, messenger. Was there any other word your Cyning bade you deliver separately?"
"Th-there is! Konungr! Cyning Edmund said he would wait at the Grantebrycge bridge in one day's time...! Th-that is all, my lords!"
Where he had learned such a thing, or whether it was a universal human behavior, I could not say. Complicated gazes intertwined above the head of the messenger, who bowed deeply.
"Konungr. It may be a trap."
"It is certain that the Mercian army moved beyond the river, but our scouts could not cross the river. I concur with Jarl Refil's opinion."
The most level-headed Refil and the most experienced Oleg here had agreed. It was surely a trap.
It had to be...
'Why then, did my intuition tell me it was not?'
"Hmm-."
For a moment, I stroked my quite shaggily grown beard and gathered my thoughts, then made a decision.
*****
867 AD. The second month of summer. Its final day.
Eastern Britannia. The border between East Anglia and Mercia. The bridge beside the River Granta. Grantebrycge.
A river that could be crossed readily enough. Yet a river infinitely difficult for a great host to cross.
With that natural barrier between them, the warriors arrayed on both sides were staring at one another.
On the left, the East Anglian warriors who had come out with the fortress at their backs numbered at most a thousand.
On the Örn side, the Norsemen warriors standing with the vast grasslands at their backs numbered at a glance five hundred, fewer than that.
Yet the morale was infinitely higher among the Norsemen of the Örn. Even before the fighting began, the East Anglian warriors were already broken.
Had it not been for Cyning Edmund standing before them, they would have fled long ago.
This was not because they were weak, but because their opponent was simply too strong.
However, the two groups seemed to have no intention of fighting at all, standing as still as if nailed in place for a long while, with the flowing river as their backdrop.
"Camembert. Let's go."
[Prrrrt- prrt- clop- clop-]
The brief silence ended, and having finished our staring contest, I made the first move.
Whatever the humans upon the saddle were doing, Camembert, who was pleased by the cool breeze off the riverside in the sweltering heat, obeyed me willingly, and soon I, along with all my retainers and a few guards, advanced slowly toward the bridge.
An old Roman bridge extending from an old Roman road.
Built using the stone of Britannia, the bridge was suitably wide for many people to cross, and even after all that time, it was functioning without issue.
When I halted for a moment before that beautiful piece of engineering, Edmund, who had likewise ridden out from the opposite side with his followers, also stopped his horse.
From here on, I had to go forward alone.
"All of you, wait here."
"Aye! Konungr!"
[Hup-cha. Sssrrrng-!]
Thanks to Camembert's short stature, I dismounted without any difficulty, setting foot on the soft earth, and drawing the greatsword from the saddle, I stepped forward.
In step with my movement, Edmund also dismounted and came toward me. Along the way, his guards seemed about to follow, but soon retreated at Edmund's sharp rebuke.
[Jjeobuk- jjeobuk-]
[Teobuk- teobuk-]
[Caw- caw- caw-]
The time was, as Edmund had said, around sunset. When the cool riverside breeze that eased the sweltering heat began to blow.
The summer birds, which had fled this space amid the human commotion, returned and chirped once more, and the distance between the two men treading lowly upon the old stone bridge narrowed until at last they reached a distance where they could discern each other's faces.
The birdsong vanished, and only the sound of the leisurely flowing river and the rough snorting of the horses remained.
This was because both camps had simultaneously raised their tension and bloodlust for the safety of their two kings.
In the midst of this unpleasant yet familiar feeling, it was I who spoke first.
"Cyning Edmund. I had to doubt my own eyes. A sacred duel... Where in the world did you learn that word?"
I recalled the countless times I had fought the 'Duel of Árós' back when I was still Jarl of Árós, before I became Konungr. In fact, my current guard force was practically composed of the losers from those duels. Stórolf was the youngest among them...
Who could have guessed that Edmund would bring up those duels, which I had ceased to fight after becoming Konungr? That was why I could not refuse to come here in person.
"Konungr Helgi. I, too, am a man of the Angles. It shames me to say, but apart from the royal family and the nobles, those below them have little true interest in the gods. Be it our god or yours... the traces of many old gods still remain among us."
The look in Edmund's eyes as he answered in a heavily hoarse voice was different from the look he had before.
No longer filled with fanaticism, yet his faith was not extinguished either.
As if he had realized something, and at the same time, had let everything go.
'The eyes of a man facing death.'
[Sreung-]
With a chilling sound, the sword was drawn from its golden scabbard and held in Edmund's Örn hand.
"I am the Cyning of East Anglia. Konungr Helgi. Men like Sigebryht who follow you call you the Konungr of East Anglia. Let us decide here and now who is the true master of this land."
[Tat! Tat!]
With those final words, Edmund, fastening his helmet and gripping his shield tight, began to run toward me.