A journal of a long journey.

[Robere]

Geographically, the most perilous part of the journey I am undertaking is the very beginning. The wet season is fully involved already - as I write this, I have taken refuge in a church, and I have found water has soaked through the waxing on my saddlebags, and on my pack, and entered most of what I have brought with me. I have arrived, after some significant peril, at Saint John's Town on the River Tay, so called for the church of John the Baptist that has given me shelter. Not more than two miles away is Scone, wherein the Kings of Alba have been crowned upon a stone said to be of some power.

From here, I will travel forward on the old Roman road, where it remains passable. I will be in Alba - which more and more I hear being called "The Kingdom of Scots" - for some time as I travel south from Saint John's Town. The road from here should be well-traveled, and I expect my knightly countenance will allow me to cross what exists of the border between Alba and Strathclyde, which has often existed in tumult. From there, I may again cross into Bernicia and south - though that would involve traveling through the Viking Kingdom of Jorvik, though the roads are frequently in better shape. A decision I will make on the road.

My journey began in the town of Inverness, the furthest-north holding of King Constantine II, save for some highland villages. Inverness guards the entrance to the Glen Alban - or Great Glen, a corridor used to move from the east coast of Alba to the west coast, and vice-versa. The Vikings have raided it several times; there is undoubtedly an understanding that control of the Great Glen would shorten their communications to the Irish Sea; it would also deny the Scots and Picts of the north a great asset in handling their attacks. I was involved in repelling the latest settlement of Vikings - some three hundred stout warriors who had dug themselves a palisade wall at the entrance, and were clearly attempting to winter.

Inverness itself is not large, with maybe two or three thousand souls in the town and the surrounding areas. The town itself is almost completely Scots, while Picts remain the majority outside of the town. The local laird, who called himself "King of Fortriu", had perhaps five hundred men in his militia, though they were scattered. He began summoning them once I arrived. My warrant included the employ of ten Scots knights and thirty solid yeomen, all veteran warriors of other Viking raids and skirmishes with the Britons to the south and west, though two of the yeomen died on the journey across the Red Hills. Our arrival caused consternation with the settlers - none of them wished a fight with the Vikings, given their legendary ferocity. They were simply pleased their own palisade had kept the Norsemen from marching on the town.

There was no doubt in my mind that the Viking warriors would one day sally forth. My warrant to the "King" of the area was clear, and once two priests read the paper and confirmed its contents, he began to gather his forces. My time, while I waited for drips and dregs of Highlanders to arrange, was to drill the town's militia and prepare for the coming battle. This task was trying, for the local townsmen were not well equipped. Quilted jerkins and bits of hardened leather made up the best of their armour, and very few have swords - most have a dirk, perhaps a woodaxe. Spears were easily made, but would scarcely stand up against the mail worn by the average Norse warrior. I will admit that I was concerned.

Perhaps I will continue this tale when next I rest - the candle is flickering as it reaches the bottom of its length, and I have a lot of travel ahead of me. I will resume this when I next have time to stop.

[Robere]

The day was wet, again, as they are wont to be in the north of Britain. My time in the Scots' lands has come to an end, and now I have reached a town called Edwensburh, one of the pre-eminent places remaining in the Kingdom of Northumbria. My first trip to this land was some years ago, when I first came to this island. Half of Northumbria was taken by the Vikings about forty years ago, at the Great Battle of York - the city is now named Jorvik. The remainder of the Kingdom is called Bernica, and only an alliance with Constantine and the Scots to the north has kept it in the fight. I crossed to this town on a ferry at a place called Inverceibtheg, operated by a young man named Domnall. A Scot, as well, though with Bernican grandparents. He told me that the land to the south of the inlet, the Firth, were taken by the Angles some time ago when Northumbria was established, and the Picts still remember. I wonder if, one day, Edwensburh will be ruled by the Scots.

The church in Edwensburh is dedicated to Saint Cuthbert, whom many consider the patron saint of England. King Alfred of Wessex was fond of the legend of the saint, and it was during his reign that the Northumbrians raised this church. There are plans, I am told, to make it yet larger - assuming the Norse or the Scots don't raze it. But it seems safe enough for the night. I have decided to head through Jorvik on the better roads; I will hire a guide, as some are available. I am unconcerned for my personal safety, as I believe that I am the master for any Viking who might try to waylay me. The lands to the south are battered by the passage of the Great Heathen Army thirty years ago. Without new settlers, they are surely still scorn by war. The Vikings have worked to repopulate the lands they took before they were defeated by Alfred; the Bernicans do not have a constant supply of anything, save poverty.

The people of northern Alba are similarly poor. It is a constant reminder to me that there are many places of this world without wealth as I quest on this island. I am used to grand courts and well-dressed and well-fed souls. Inverness had few of those. The militia, as I have noted, were not well equipped; the town's single blacksmith had iron of inferior quality and wasn't capable of making much in the way of weapons, but he did forge some steel tips for wooden pikes that would do in a pinch. The highland Picts had even less in the way of armour, but some had well-kept swords - aged, but well kept - that likely had been passed down from father to son for generations, an edge honed against the eventual need of use. Many of them had bows as well, though they aren't as stout as war bows and the arrow shafts neither long nor tipped with steel. There were maybe ten dozen of them, stronger and stouter than the locals. Combined, we outnumbered the Vikings two to one, or a hint moreso.

While I waited for them to arrive, and while the militia was prepared, I spent time watching. You can learn much of your enemy simply by watching them perform their daily tasks. I found a place atop a nearby hill and I sat to observe. Their patterns weren't easy to discover at first. Their small camp had about three hundred men; in the burn they had beached four longships, and usually kept twenty or thirty men to guard them. The palisade had two gates, one opening onto the beach on the burn, and the other on an angle to Inverness itself, which would force any attackers moving for it to go a quarter-rotation around the palisade, offering their flank to the archers within. The burn and the nearby hill would angle any passing army anyway (not that I had much of an army).

But it was after careful observation over the course of a week that I realized a critical fact. There were not four longships - but there were five. Every few nights one was slipping out as another returned - likely sailing to another Norse hold for supplies. It explained why the Vikings were able to stay supplied in their base - most likely sailing from the north from their holding in the Orknejar Isles. And it gave me an idea.

I will elabourate on that - tomorrow, I must start for Jorvik. The roads should be good, but I will need to take extra supplies - it seems unlikely there will be much in the way of an inn or friendly church on the way.

[Robere]

The ride to Jorvik was almost exactly as I expected. I hired a man in Edwensburh named Olaf Knutsson, who came recommended as a guide into the Norse-run region to the south of what remains of Northumbria. We rode south along the road at a good pace. Olaf is not a verbose man; he had little to say, save to recommend that we make the best time possible. I asked him from time to time to explain one particular roadmark or another, but he rarely had anything to say. I gathered he has travelled all throughout Norse-run England, with one wanderer or another, with a caravan or two, and traded his knowledge of language and traditions for coin. So I was left on my own to experience the remnants of Bernica.

I had passed through before, on my trips north, but never before had I ridden north-to-south along the remains of what was once the Kingdom of Deira and what was now added to the Kingdom of Jorvik to the south. Surprisingly, the areas south of Edwensburh were not in the worst of shapes; here and there a farm lay surprisingly fallow, with old timbers thrust up from the sod, blackened wood resisting still the growth of moss, but in general, most areas that should contain people did.

This changed when we crossed the Wall.

Rome carved two walls across Britain, when they were the masters of this land. The more northerly of them was the Antonine Wall, and it was made of sod and earth and wood; it exists, in a sense, still, but it is a ditch where it holds. Still, it has value, militarily, and it has formed the division between Northumbria on the eastern end, and Alba above it, terminating in the Firth that Edwensburh borders, though further to the west. The second, and more permanent, is Hadrian's Wall, which still exists in many places, but has been thoroughly destroyed along the roads in most places, rendering it less useful as a defensive structure. Still, the eastern half formed the division between the Kingdoms of Bernica and Deira; combined, they were the Kingdom of Northumbria. Until the Danes and Norse destroyed the latter thirty years ago.

South of Hadrian's Wall, the destruction was absolute. Only a handful of farms existed - and I mean a handful, I counted four - on the road, until we reached being a day's walk from Jorvik itself. Once there, we plunged into a surprisingly lively area. Farms and gatherers, small hamlets bustling with business. The Norse have come, and they have come to stay. It reminds me of a legend I once heard, while questing in Wales, but I think it would be best to save those concerns for another time. I am writing by lamplight in an inn; the night has already gone long, and I wish to continue the story I began, of the defeat of the Vikings in Inverness.

As I noted, we had discovered that ships were sailing back and forth to the north, bringing supplies by night. I quickly realized that the Vikings were guarding the night reloads heavily, with at least half of their compliment without, both to haul barrels to their camp and also to ensure their resupply stayed safe. A plan formed naturally at this point.

I left the men-at-arms that the King had sent with me to command the militia; instead, I took the highland Picts and a handful of the Scots with me as we crossed the River Ness. After speaking with the locals, I'd learned of a legend of the Jarl of the Orknejar Isles being buried at a landing to the north after his leg had taken with infection. It was avoided by the Picts, as one of the men who spoke some Anglish told me, due to a fear of the man's ghost. It seemed a logical place for the ships to beach during the day so they could finish their approach by night.

It was three hard days of marching through the woods and rugged mountains until we got to the place, Sigurd's Howe. We made camp and only two days later, we were rewarded by a longboat beaching during the day. All we had to do was wait as the Vikings dismounted. Some kept watch, but most seemed to laze about. The ship was laden with supplies and had a small crew, which we took as the sun dropped without losing a man, save for one who broke an arm when he tripped over a fallen Norseman. The handful of Scots with us had been the fishermen and boatmen of Inverness - and we set them to start preparing the longship for the water.

Again, the hour is late, and I am tired after my time on the road. Tomorrow, I will depart Jorvik and head to the south through the Five Boroughs - again, of Viking descent. After that, I will be in Wessex, and from there, it should be quick enough to ride to Windstorm.

[Robere]

I was surprised when we passed near Lincylene. I had assumed that it would have been swallowed by the Danish and Norse hordes, but I was wrong. The town itself still holds more true to its Angle ancestry, though I wonder for how long. On this journey, perhaps aggravated by my habits of lumping all the Vikings together, Olaf finally began to speak to me. He has explained that there are actually three categories of Vikings who have made raids on England - the Norse and the Danes, as well as the Swedes. The Swedes, he has noted, usually attack south and east; it is the Norse and Danes who primarily raid England. The Norse to the north and the Danes more along the south. It seems to be a point of pride to him, as a Dane (as he has told me) that he is different to the Norse. I suppose it is similar to how the Angles and Saxons still see themselves as of different tribes, yet to outsiders (such as myself), there are few differences.

Olaf is well-taught about the histories of the people he inhabits, and the others who together form the Viking tribes. He has told me of marvellous stories - of Viking raids to the east that have established new kingdoms in a place called Kyiv; he has told me of raids that entered the Mediterranean and struck at islands there. He even told me a fantastic tale of settlement on an island of ice and steam far to the north of Britain. Majestic.

We passed through Lincylene and started south, following the road known as the Fosse Way. It's nearly as straight as an arrow and crosses England east-to-west as it rides south. It will take me as far as Escancester, in Wessex; from there, it is not far at all to Windstorm. This area is now known as the Danelaw; it is different to the Kingdom of Jorvik in that it is run by Danes; some from the Danemark itself, others from East Anglia which now has Danish rule. Ligeraceaster was also once a Mercian town; now ruled by the Danish warriors. Still, they welcomed us as travellers. The Danelaw isn't a unified kingdom, but a series of lands pulled away from the rump Mercian state.

Next was Mercia, itself. The bards suggest that once Mercia was the dominant of the seven Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms that established themselves in England following the departure of the Romans. They had a great king named Offa who defeated the Northumbrians and the Welsh and the East Anglians and the Kentish and ruled over most of what is now Wessex. How times have changed; Northumbria half a country, caught between the Scots and a hard place; Kent and Mercia now provinces of Wessex; East Anglia ruled by the Danes; Essex simply gone as a nation. One gets the feeling Mercia will next lose its place as a nominally independent nation. I do not despair of kingdoms ruled by women, else I'd not ride to Windstorm at all, but Æthelflæd is said to rule here. Yet she is the daughter of Alfred the Great - perhaps Mercia will one day regain its place among nations.

Our stopping place this time is Cyrencester, a town the Romans once called Corinium. It has many old remains of that civilization that people have repurposed; a great battle was fought here between the Mercians and the Saxons under a king called Penda, and afterwards it thrived as a border city. No more. You get the sense of despair here; trade can easily flow along the Fosse Way now, or across on the road that leads from Lundenburh across to Glevcester at the foot of Wales. It no longer needs to stop in this town, and the people here have seemed pathetically happy to take my silver, ignoring the visage of Constantine upon it. I have taken a room in a small inn that is cozy enough, and tomorrow I will start the final leg of my journey.

It is also time to recount the final stage of our battle with the Vikings - the Norse - in Inverness. We had taken the longship and we packed it full of Highland Picts; many of them stole the fine steel ringcoats of the Norse for their own, as well as the spears and bows and shields. There were not a lot of them, but enough. The fishermen of Inverness rowed us down the water, though inexpertly, and we all took time at the oars. We reached the familiar glen after sunset but before the moon rose. Another longship passed us shortly after the sun set; one man called to us and I waved in the starlight in response. It seemed enough.

I could see shadows on the beach, dozens of them, Vikings waiting for us to arrive. One of the Scots guided the vessel expertly onto the sand, and it grated on the hull. We tossed them ropes and they pulled as we rowed, to slide the longship further ashore. Gutteral greetings met us from the sand, ones to which we couldn't properly respond. So we compensated by tossing barrels of pitch off the ship, to roll into the sand, followed by sparks of flint and steel, and the toss of torches.

The beach lit up fast, and my soldiers and the highlanders leaped from the boat, an attack made easier by the fact that the Vikings had helped pull us so far up the beach. My cloak fell away, revealing my shining armour in the firelight. We were outnumbered somewhat, but we had surprise on our side. We struck fast and the first waves of Vikings fell, allowing even more highlanders and Scots to arm themselves with proper swords and shields and occasionally hastily-donned helmets.

Arrows from the longship took several of the Norsemen as they turned to flee and discouraged them from forming their infamous shield wall, but many of them fell back through the sand, heading to the palisade. The closer gate opened as we gathered our numbers, and the compliment of the settlement came forth, linking their shields together. I had lost some men now, there were maybe eighty of us left standing; just over two hundred Norse were preparing to sweep down the beach towards us. They demonstrated with loud chants, but they were fireblind and hadn't noticed Picts scurrying to the other ships. More pitch was spilled, and at the right moment, more torches lit. The longships began to burn, all of them, and we had the pleasure of watching our enemy decide whether or not to strike the foe before them, or save their lifelines.

Their commander must have been a man of uncommon intelligence, realizing that he had the men to do both. He told off some of his soldiers to the nearest ship, and then marched his shieldwall towards us across the sand. We fell back over the beach but there was not far to go, and we were outnumbered two to one by a stronger, better armed crew. But that was when the trap was sprung.

Shafts lit through the air as the Viking shield wall passed the burning pitch on the beach - shafts from behind. They were not all shod with steel, but enough of them bit to make the lines of Vikings tremble. Two or three volleys slammed into the warriors before they realized they were surrounded, that their camp had been taken by the militia as soon as they had responded to the distraction on the beach. Pikemen clashed into them not much after, and the Picts, who had been salivating for the moment, charged at the same second. They worked a horrendous slaughter, but they spared the men who surrendered. Some thirty militia and another two dozen highlanders died; I killed a particularly large Norseman in the final press, who served as a captain of one of the flanks. I think he was shocked to find someone armed as a knight in Inverness.

We stayed, but not for long. A letter had arrived for me and my task there was done. I have set off across this island, and now my journey is nearly complete...