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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Simzy
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Britain. Northumbria, a beautiful land.
Bamburgh, the city that claimed dominance over northern Bernicia, when that vast territory was divided in two.
A messenger had arrived from my brother, “Snake-Eye” Sigurd, whom I had appointed Jarl there.
I had been spending happy days with Inga for the past two weeks, but could there be a more unwelcome guest…?
However, a Konungr has his duties.
Leaving behind a deep sense of regret, I turned and headed towards the longhouse, where I soon received the letter Sigurd had sent with the messenger.
As befitting Sigurd’s refined hobbies, the runic letters written in ink on parchment began with flamboyant rhetoric and ended with a pretentious flourish that made my head spin.
That grand letter, surprisingly, contained only one message:
[I’ve decided to marry Aethelthryth. I’ll be going to ask Mother for permission soon. I’ve written many songs.]
‘No way…’
Aethelthryth was the only daughter of Aella, the King of Northumbria, who had died by my hand.
I believe Osberht, the other King of Northumbria who died by my hand, had no children, which meant that Aethelthryth held the claim to the Northumbrian throne.
‘How will this play out?’
I would have to meet this woman, Aethelthryth, myself. Sigurd, you always give me a headache.
In truth, Northumbria’s northern part, Bernicia, was no different from Kyiv in the east. Both were too far from Aarhus for me to rule directly, so I had no choice but to appoint proxies.
In that sense, although he was lying low for now, Haskuldr of Kyiv, who could build up his power based on the fertile black soil of the Dnieper River, was practically treated as a margrave, an independent ruler, in my mind. So, giving Bamburgh and Bernicia to Sigurd wasn’t a difficult decision.
For now, they might want to be under the large umbrella of Helgi Ragnarsson, but the human heart is fickle, and after a few generations, both gratitude and resentment fade. Loyalty and blood ties mean little.
Such things are only believed in fairy tales. What a monarch should truly rely on are human desires and national interests.
Therefore, I personally didn’t care whether Sigurd married Aethelthryth or divorced her…
But a chilling premonition ran through me, a feeling that Halfdan’s marriage to the daughter of Bagsecg, the Konungr of the Jutes, my marriage to Inga, and Sigurd’s marriage to Aethelthryth…
These three marriages were somehow intertwined.
‘It’s a joyous occasion, but…’
I’ve said this before, but if I were just farmer X from an ordinary Norse family, I wouldn’t have cared if my three brothers got married at once. Three brothers? I’d only be interested if thirty brothers were getting married.
However, I was the Konungr, the king who had practically swallowed all of Scandinavia, except for the lands of the Jutes beyond the island of Zealand and the lands of the Geats in the western fjords.
Naturally, my marriage wasn’t just my own. People from all directions would come flocking, calculating their gains and losses. And if my two brothers’ weddings were added to the mix?
These boisterous people, who loved to feast and celebrate, might throw a month-long festival. And during that time, I would be plagued by all sorts of political maneuvering.
‘…Oh well, I don’t know.’
What could I do in the face of a letter that declared, as if it were a declaration of war, ‘I’m getting married’?
My stepmother, Aslaug, the effective head of our family in the absence of my father, would have a headache… but I decided to leave this matter entirely in her hands.
‘She’ll probably accept it. If Sigurd and Aethelthryth’s son takes his place in Bernicia, it could be even more advantageous for me…’
If things went wrong, I could grant them independence, or we could move forward together. Eventually, the time would come to redefine our relationship with the Kingdom of the Scots to the north and the Kingdom of Strathclyde to the side.
Ivarr, who had settled in Dublin, across the sea to the west of Northumbria, would handle that.
Regardless of the reasons we gave, we were invaders of Britain. I would have preferred it if we stopped here and everyone lived happily ever after, but I had spent too long in this harsh world to believe in such fairy tales.
Ancient Rome built massive walls and fortifications, but I knew they weren’t enough. So, I would wait a little longer, and when the time was ripe…
‘I must bring Britain completely under my banner. If that’s impossible, I must at least make it so they never think of challenging me again.’
To the King of the Scots, sharpening his sword even now, the ambitious warlords of Ireland, the kings of Mercia and Wessex, the greatest threats down south, and the wounded Edmund of East Anglia.
We were destined to fight. Until one side surrendered, a fate of fighting for a long time, to the descendants of our descendants, and their descendants.
So, wouldn’t it be a better ending for both sides if it were neatly unified under my rule?
My hands and eyes held and scanned Sigurd’s letter, but my mind was looking towards the future beyond it.
Perhaps because his brothers were easygoing and his mother was somewhat intimidating, Sigurd had sent the letter only to me.
Therefore, it fell to me to inform Mother Aslaug.
Of course, since it was awkward for me to tell her in person… another messenger departed for Roskilde, on the southern island of Zealand, where she had gone to see Halfdan.
I wondered how she would react.
Would she be happy that her frivolous, womanizing son was finally getting married?
Or would she be angry that he had made such an important decision without consulting her?
…Probably both.
Anyway, since the wedding was likely to happen, and likely to be a joint ceremony, I tried to spend more time with Inga.
We rode horses and reindeer together (Inga was very skilled at riding reindeer; it seemed all animals generally obeyed her), dipped our feet in streams and meadows, lay down and stared blankly at the sky.
We had countless conversations. Inga, curious about my life so far, listened intently to my stories about the duel in Aarhus, the battles in Britain, and the political maneuvering in Constantinople.
Of course, I wasn’t just playing around during that time. I learned that her brown eyes had hints of blue, that her left dimple was deeper when she smiled, and that the fine hairs on her face, along with her thick eyebrows, had a faint golden hue.
And I discovered that she was a wonderful bard and a great listener.
This talented woman often turned my stories into songs, and whenever she did, I felt as if Inga and I were the only two people left in the world.
We became more comfortable with each other, laughed more often, became more at ease, and grew closer.
This courtship was partly due to my lingering 21st-century sensibilities, but mostly due to my mother’s genuine desire for my happiness.
Marriages during this time weren’t usually preceded by such courtships. Even my brother, Halfdan’s, marriage was more driven by political considerations.
There was a reason why kings throughout history and across the world had mistresses.
Marriage was an agreement between families, so it couldn’t be helped, but having mistresses and extramarital affairs by mutual consent wasn’t prohibited.
This wasn’t unusual in my current reality either…
‘…Just look at Michael.’
I didn’t need to look far; didn’t the events I experienced in Constantinople just two months ago provide the answer?
Therefore, although Inga’s and my situation was unusual, I wanted to make it a tradition in my family.
‘So what if I earn less profit or fewer titles? As long as the kids are happy.’
It was a far-fetched thought for a clumsy couple who hadn’t even kissed yet, but that was what I thought.
Anyway, since my mother, Asta, was very positive about a “triple wedding,” I, after finishing my morning walk with Inga, headed towards the workshop of the renowned swordsmith I had specially invited to work with the meteorite.
Randi, who had settled in the northern mountains and lived with the sole ambition of surpassing the famous Frankish swordsmithing group “Ulfberht (+VLFBERHT+),” was a striking man with a bristly beard, unruly hair, and reddish skin earned from years of facing the forge’s heat.
The “Sword of Courage” presented to me at the Uppsala Thing was also his work.
This craftsman, whom Bjorn had recommended when I was looking for someone to forge a weapon from the meteorite, was as eccentric as he looked. I vividly remembered him rushing over as soon as he heard the meteorite was in my possession.
“Konungr Helgi Ragnarsson…! Son of the great Ragnar, champion of the goddess Hel. I am Randi, called simply Randi because I do not know my father’s name. I heard there is iron that fell from the sky here. Could this humble craftsman take a look?”
It wasn’t that he was disrespecting me, but the craftsman’s speech was rough because he didn’t interact much with people.
His words, filled with sincerity instead of formality, pleased me. I personally guided this craftsman, whose eyes had become those of a madman from his intense focus, and soon, he fell in love with the meteorite.
About the size of three children, the extraterrestrial iron, with its grey and blue hues shifting depending on the viewing angle, captivated Randi. He sat beside it, occasionally hugging it, eating and sleeping next to it…
After three days of unusual behavior, he abruptly asked where the iron ore in Aarhus was mined. He moved his workshop next to the site and immediately began construction.
Of course, during the move, he insisted on maintaining “originality,” causing a minor conflict with Eret when he insisted on using two perfectly healthy reindeer and a cart. However, the two craftsmen, each masters of their own craft, soon became drinking buddies.
It had been a week and a half since Randi started working.
Iron ore in Scandinavia and Northumbria was typically found in swamps. According to my theory, the iron in the water, through some mysterious natural process, formed iron ore in the swamps… Anyway, if you poked around enough in the swamps and wetlands, iron ore would miraculously pop out!
Hard to believe, but a definite fact.
The iron ore from Aarhus, like everything else, was abundant and of high quality. According to the elders, it usually took 20 years for new iron ore to form in the same spot, but in Aarhus, for some reason, new iron ore appeared the following year after one was mined. So the increasing demand for iron wasn’t a problem.
Anyway, he carefully built a furnace with mud bricks and started a large fire inside.
Then, he mixed various substances with the prepared iron ore to make it harder and more flexible… He wouldn’t tell me what these substances were, claiming it was a craftsman’s secret.
‘Do you think I wouldn’t know?’
Of course, with my enhanced senses and brain, I already knew from the smell and glimpses I caught that the substances were black stones, charcoal from burnt wood, and such, but I pretended to be offended.
Randi looked apologetic, but in reality, he was desperately trying to suppress a grin.
What a shady old man.
Since we couldn’t keep making iron by hand forever, systematic management was needed. I would put it to good use then.
[Clang-! Clang-! Clang-! Clang-!]
Randi’s workshop radiated intense heat from afar. Thanks to my generous support, the workshop occupied a fairly large area, even diverting some of the water flowing towards Aarhus’ farmlands.
These crazy craftsmen. It was fortunate that water resources were plentiful; in other regions, this would have caused bloodshed.
Farmers valued water above all else.
[Clang-! Clang-! Clang-!]
Master craftsman Randi, shirtless, swung his hammer relentlessly in a steady rhythm, and a dozen or so craftsmen, presumably his apprentices, silently and diligently continued their work with precise movements.
Every time the hammer, swung with powerful muscles, struck the red-hot iron, sparks flew, and the meteorite beneath the point of contact gradually yielded.
[Clang-! Clang-!]
Under the increasingly fierce hammering, a massive blade, nearly the height of a grown man, was slowly taking shape.
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