Being a Viking Isn’t Fun – Chapter 19

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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Shio
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In Beodericsworth, the heart of the South folk in East Anglia, something strange was happening in this old Roman transportation hub.

‘What’s going on? Why aren’t they plundering anything? Why are they making people work and paying them for it? What on earth…! Are they giving travel money before killing them!?’

The Angles who had decided to remain in the city were bewildered by the lack of violence and oppression.

‘What’s happening? Why aren’t we plundering anything, yet our pockets are getting fuller? It’s unsettling…! Should we kill something to satisfy Jarl Helgi?’

The Norse warriors, used to proving their worth through violence, were equally puzzled by the new warlord’s methods.

This was 21st-century welfare, you 9th-century humans! Just wait a little longer, and I’d make it even better to live here once I earned more money.

“I’ve spent my whole life earning bread through expeditions, but this is the first time I’ve seen warfare like this. Making war with money, when usually we wage war to earn it.”

It was now winter.

The autumn leaves that once richly colored the world had fallen, and the persistent rain gradually turned into snow.

The political landscape of East Anglia had changed significantly.

“Jarls working in the field might not realize, but from a wealthy man’s perspective, ruling through plunder, arson, blood, and fear is actually disadvantageous.”

How many silver coins could farmers have stored away? Even if you plundered them, it wouldn’t amount to much. Burning down houses wouldn’t yield gold.

The same went for capturing and selling slaves. Although selling slaves to Muslims and the Eastern Roman Empire fetched high prices, the transportation and other costs made it unprofitable.

Well, unless you captured and sold a thousand slaves at once, which wasn’t my goal.

To flex a bit, that’s the kind of thing venture companies without capital, like Viking lords such as Bjorn, Ivarr, and Halfdan, would do. From my position as a large corporation, it was just cute.

Moreover, with a three-digit administration stat and a passive skill that blessed the land I stepped on with abundance, my focus was naturally different. Productivity skyrocketed just by making my people happy.

That was why I chose harmony over destruction.

I used excited merchants to transport grain and various goods from Aros to Beodericsworth, deliberately employing locals in the process to pay transportation fees and lay more roads…giving rewards to warriors who were hunting wolves, pigs, horses, or chickens around because they had nothing else to do.

Seeing this, Ivarr complained that I was spending money on unnecessary things, but if I didn’t spend it like this, I’d have to dump this year’s harvested grain into the sea. Surplus produce would only rot and increase the number of mice.

A message from Mother mentioned that the cat warriors guarding our granaries in Aros were getting tired of battling the ever-increasing mouse population.

So, it was a win-win. This was how you became rich by spending, my foolish brothers.

“It’s almost winter, where will people spend the money they’ve received? They’ll spend it on the grain I brought, the weapons I brought, the horses and livestock that have now become ‘ours’. If this process continues, everyone will become happy.”

“Yes, everyone will be happy. Only you’ll be ‘a bit’ happier, Helgi.”

“I can’t believe you’d say such a disappointing thing. I’m just receiving fair compensation, Ivarr.”

Sparing their lives, giving them shelter, feeding them. Of course, it was originally their own homes… But if they were upset, they should have won the battle.

“Ha! Fair compensation, indeed. Well, I suppose whatever the guy who kicked the cyning’s ass out of here does is fair. He’ll kick the ass of anyone who objects right out too!”

When Edmund and the priests of Beodericsworth who followed him left, an administrative vacuum was created. So, I thought it’d take a long time to establish a new system. But surprisingly, it was over in a flash after one busy week.

Sigebryht, the Earl of Rendlesham, was very capable, and the people of Beodericsworth were also extremely cooperative.

Amidst various favorable factors, fortunately preserving our strength intact, our vanguard, now grown to 2,500, seemed like it would be able to spend this winter comfortably.

Incidentally, we could also build some brotherly affection between us, as opportunities to gather like this were rare.

[Ding-Dingding-]

As Sigurd, who had obtained a harp from somewhere again, started to sing without even noticing the simultaneously distorted expressions of Ivarr and me, an urgent cry interrupted at the perfect timing.

“Jarl Ivarr! Jarl Helgi! Jarl Sigurd!”

The name of the man running towards us, waving a parchment in his right hand, wearing only loose monastic robes with a hairstyle that evoked pity at first sight, was Hrothric. He was a unique Anglian monk who had earned the respect of us Norsemen despite not being a warrior.

He was the only priest who remained with the people of Beodericsworth among the priests who had filed out of the city gates following Edmund, who was wounded physically, mentally, and spiritually.

When Ivarr asked if he wasn’t afraid of death, he replied trembling that no matter how afraid of death he might be, leaving the people here couldn’t be God’s will. Of course, we didn’t kill him.

Perhaps Hrothric, Edmund, and the other priests were lucky.

If I hadn’t been here, they would likely have been sold at a high price to Muslims and met a very unpleasant fate.

The reason Norsemen persistently raided monasteries was because the value of slaves with high education (who could speak Latin), like these priests, was very high.

In that sense, this brave priest, unaware that he had been one step away from falling into the pit of hell, ran up with his side hair fluttering, waving the paper in his hand.

“The Archbishop of Canterbury, Ceolnoth, has sent me a message! The Cyning Aethelberht of Wessex has finally breathed his last! Ah-! Lord, please take good care of his kind soul… Amen…”

Contrary to Hrothric’s deeply solemn tone, the three Norse brothers were not affected at all by the death of Aethel-whoever.

“…?”

“What, he finally died? They must be in disarray over there too.”

“Aethelberht? Who’s that? Do we know him?”

[Ding-Ding-]

Sigurd, who had little interest in names like Wessex or Mercia, looked blankly at Hrothric who had ruined his song and asked:

“I heard he was the strongest king in this land. So will his son inherit his position?”

Among the Norsemen who showed not even a speck of reverence for the king of another country, Hrothric, who was the only one making the sign of the cross and praying for Aethelberht’s passage to heaven, wiped away the sweat that had trickled down his shiny head and answered my question:

“Because the king had no children, it seems his younger brother Aethelred will ascend to the throne.”

“No children? That’s unfortunate. So should we send some kind of gift?”

“A gift!? No, absolutely not…! There’s no case of sending gifts when someone has died… Oh, Lord…”

“… I know that much too, brave Hrothric. I meant Aethelred, who has become the new king.”

‘I hope they don’t disturb the western border while we’re dealing with Northumbria…’

If Wessex moved, Mercia above it would move together.

For now, the king of Mercia, Burgred, was the son-in-law of Aethelwulf, who was the father of Aethelberht who died today and his brother Aethelred.

If Wessex moved first, Mercia had both justification and practical benefit in driving out us Norsemen, their burdensome neighbors, so perhaps Burgred of Mercia might be the most excited about the current situation.

“Ah, I see. My ignorant self failed to grasp the Jarl’s meaning. Still, the atmosphere in the Wessex court must be chaotic now, so I think it’s not an appropriate time to send gifts.”

“I know that too, regardless of timing, if they readily accept a gift sent by heathens, it would complicate their relationship with the church. I was just saying it, so don’t worry too much about it.”

Still, I had a feeling that someday we would face the king of Wessex. They were the actual owners of Kent, and we were entering and leaving Dover as if it were our own home without any permission from the owner.

Someone was bound to be uncomfortable, and usually in this era, when kings became uncomfortable, they tended to fight each other.

‘Come if you dare. I’ll face you.’

I had decided to clear away all obstacles lying on the path to avenging Father. Adding one more burden wouldn’t change anything.

“Is that all?”

When words of heathen discrimination came out of a heathen’s mouth, Hrothric, who was very flustered with sweat drops sliding down his shiny head, answered my question affirmatively, and I let go of Hrothric who was twisting his whole body expressing discomfort.

“Thank you for bringing the news, you may go now.”

“Thank you, Jarl.”

Bowing his head deeply, Hrothric hurried away with small steps from among the barbaric Norsemen. Watching him go, Ivarr dropped a comment:

“That friend is very courageous. Although he has no hair.”

Sigurd and I both chuckled at Ivarr’s words, which sounded regretful. Who was he to talk? Just yesterday, he was complaining that too much of his hair was falling out when he combed it.

[Ding-Dingding-]

“This won’t do. For the unfortunate Ivarr—ahem, Hrothric’s hair—I must sing about Baldr, who is said to have had radiant golden hair flowing like a picture!”

“Damn it, stop it.”

As Sigurd, whose every conversation led to a song, cleared his throat, Ivarr threw the comb he had been fiddling with at him.

I felt as if the clear sky was suddenly clouding over. I was about to say something to Sigurd, following Ivarr’s lead, when once again, the sound of hurried footsteps and a frantic voice called our names.

“Jarl Ivarr! Jarl Helgi! Jarl Sigurd!”

What, déjà vu?

Feeling strange at the memory of having seen this situation before, the three of us looked at each other’s faces, and soon, Ivarr’s capable adjutant, Guthrum, came running breathlessly.

Unlike Hrothric, he boasted abundant brown hair.

“A messenger from Sigebryht of Rendlesham in the east. Dozens of dragon ships have arrived on the coast, and the one leading them has identified himself as Halfdan Ragnarsson.”

“Ah—Halfdan. He’s finally come.”

The third of the six Ragnarsson brothers, Halfdan Hvitserk, had reached East Anglia on the British isle.

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Halfdan, whom we were seeing after about a month, looked very healthy.

He must have eaten all sorts of healthy things with the buff from our two mothers. Halfdan, who had the smallest appetite among our brothers, had always had a good build even without eating much, but after the news about Father, he had lost a lot of weight, worrying all the family members.

However, we didn’t hold any grand welcoming ceremony.

We just roasted deer that Sigurd and I had hunted ourselves and had a few cups of high-quality mead that had been hidden in the monastery for some reason.

As Halfdan, who had loosened up after resting with us like that, told us various stories about the Thing held in Aros and Uppsala, or festivals, we were able to alleviate our longing for our hometown and mothers a little.

I should write another letter. Brave merchants would still come and go even as we entered full winter.

‘Hometown, hometown. Since when did I start calling Aros my hometown? This is quite amusing.’

Regrettably, the brotherly bonding time didn’t last long, because an unexpected guest soon arrived.

“Greetings, sons of Ragnar. I am Olaf Ingjaldson.”

A warrior with impressively white-dyed hair. Seeing him, a big smile spread across Ivarr’s lips.

“Hinn Hviti!” (“The White”)

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Brotherly bonding! I wonder how the death of the current Wessex king’ll shape the story? What are y’all’s thoughts?

Ping Oihs in the Arcane Translations discord for any grammar errors!