Chapter 16: An empire in transition
It is, I think, something of a cliche that we only truly reflect upon our lives when we are dying. That does not, however, make it untrue. If you are reading this, I am dead and there is almost certainly pus on the page. I apologize for the pus, but it cannot be helped. Please clean it off, if you are the first one to read it. I may have been Fylkira, but I do not consider my bodily excretions to be holy. If you must keep it in a jar or something, very well. I suppose I cannot object, as I am dead (which I believe I previously mentioned.)
I am fully aware, have been aware, that I was never intended to take the throne. My father, Halfdan the Cruel, first Fylkir of the Norse, had eleven children, of which I am the sixth. (I will be using the present tense for the remainder of my chronicle; however, at all times, you should recall that I am not alive, but dead. My corpse may very well be in front of you as you read this. I implore you, do not poke it with a stick to see if I am dead. I am. Although, I suppose, since I am dead [see above], I can't really object. So, go on, poke all you like.) I had three older brothers, and while all of them rose to high office, none of them rose to the highest office. That, undoubtedly, rankled at them. However, my father chose me to take his place. It is perhaps because of my kind, trusting nature. I couldn't say. I do know that when I was chosen at the moot, he praised my learning and my ability to calm people down. These are good things for a monarch. Yet we, Norsemen, have always valued the blade above all other tools at settling disputes. I pray the gods look after my successor. But, here, I digress. I should go to the beginning and tell you about my reign. (The less bright among you, dear readers, might simply wish to ask me. I am dead. I cannot stress this enough. I will endeavor not to mention it again.)
I wasted no time in calling a blot and commissioning a runestone to honor my father. I, equally quickly, called a moot to choose my successor: Halfdan II, King of Wales, son of Ofeig, son of Halfdan the Cruel.
My nephew had some very excellent qualities to recommend him. He had, for example, a few extra bits between the legs, which gave him considerable advantage over me. He was brave to a fault, although shy in front of strangers (unless he was killing them). He yearned for high office. He was not particularly exceptional at any one skill, but familiar with them all, and married to a wonderful woman who accentuated his modest gifts. He was beloved of all men (and dare I say, a few women). If he had been of age when my father died, I believe he would have been selected. However, Halfdan the Cruel never made a decision only to unmake it unless somebody forced him to. The blade of Skullsplitter is crimson with the blood of those who tried. My father even had one final son, born after he died, named Ake.
I suppose at this point, a discussion of my husband is in order.
My dear Oswulf had precisely two items I found charming. (Well, three, but it is unbecoming for a lady to mention that sort of thing, even if she is dead.) Although sometimes a bit mad, Oswulf was a talented warrior, a worthy successor to Skullsplitter. I also fancied his mustache, an imperial mustache to the end. I think I loved him. That's such a strange thing to say -- after all, you either love someone or you don't. Yet, I don't remember very much of him. We were rarely together, and when we were... Ahem.
One of my first objectives was to reduce the amount of infighting and slowly but surely dispose of the followers of the Old Faith. To that end, I called a Moot for all the nobles in England to tell them that I (or rather, Oswulf's mustache and/or axe) would not have any more of this fighting nonsense. Although this angered some of my vassals, I think it helped keep the peace.
My advisors were, to a man, competent.
Remarkably, I wasn't related to any of them. This may shock and offend you; if it does, I apologize. Nonetheless, I spent my years as Empress seeking out and promoting talent. Not just the kind of talent that beheads people either; the kind that will convince somebody to behead somebody else for you. Grand Mayor Toke, my Steward, was a good friend to me, if a bit lazy from time to time. We always had plenty of gold. Granted, with an Empress, he didn't need to serve in my stead as I went beheading people. That did make his job somewhat easier, I imagine.
One of the most important things I ever did was directly teach my half-brother, Halfdan. (Not the King of Wales; that was my nephew.) I, of course, already had a son, Knut, the product of my first husband, Eirikr the Priest-Hater. Sometimes titles are undeserved; I agree with Frodi of Mercia that my father did not deserve the title "the Cruel." Eirikr, on the other hand, hated priests so much that no seer would approach him until he was dead and buried, just to be safe.
The first, and perhaps only, significant challenge to my rule was when my brother Frodi, King of Svithjod, decided to rebel.
Frodi was a conniving, deceitful man who was about 1% as good at warfare as he thought. With two Thanedoms in England and a sizable portion of meaningless land in Svithjod, he was never a serious threat. In fact, his war directly led to less independence for himself, as his rebellion allowed my request for more authority in England to be approved very quickly. By fall of 1042, less than two years after his rebellion began, our armies were banging on his door.
In spring 1043, he surrendered. I gave credit to Oswulf for our victory (although, to be honest, it was fairly easy) and made him Marshal of the Empire. I also named my son the new King of Svithjod; Knut was a good lad. Oswulf spent the new few years conquering bits of Svithjod, to the point where people voluntarily joined our Empire lest they face his wrath. I am utterly convinced it was the mustache. My reign was never seriously challenged again, that much is painfully obvious, even as we conquered other bits of Europe.
When my nephew Halfdan died, however, that did put a serious crimp in my plans.
I decided to name the most loyal person I could think of as the new Heir at the Moot held after his funeral: Halfdan, my younger brother. (If my father was indeed cruel, it was in inspiring hundreds of boys with the name Halfdan.) I created a Kingdom of Frisia, hoping to gift it to my brother Bersi (and thus win his loyalty), but he decided he would rather remain in prison than accept my gift. I did find that one hurt a bit. [1] I further strengthened my authority (that is to say, his) throughout the entire Empire. We Norse must be united, because the followers of the White Christ will always and have always loathed us.
One of my proudest moments as Empress was the formal presentation of the Heir to the Throne, Halfdan son of Halfdan, to the people of our Empire.
If my skills at diplomacy were good enough to convince somebody to behead somebody else, his skills are good enough to convince them to behead themselves. He is the most genuinely good human being I have ever met; he abhors violence, gives to charity, is always patient and kind. He may be called a coward by some, but he is literally terrified by the sight of blood. You may note he has a beard: the very first time he tried to shave he nicked his skin and passed out for three days.
His wife is, in her own way, every bit the human being Halfdan is. She is brave where he is afraid of bloodshed, and with a few extra bits between the legs would probably be at least his equal as an Emperor, some day. She is Dutch, but nobody is perfect, and she is a good Norse woman. I, of course, immediately named Halfdan my Chancellor.
There is not much to tell about the rest of my life. I conquered some more territory, met Odin (he's taller than you'd think, but he reeks of mead), even bought an inn. I can fairly say that Halfdan and Swanhildis's wedding in 1049 was the last genuinely happy moment of my life. My son died a maimed cripple the next year. My husband was a blithering idiot for five years before he went into a coma and died. My heir saw somebody stomp on a bug and cried for six hours.
Oh, and of course, I got the Great Pox. We mustn't forget about that (the pus will undoubtedly remind you, if it hasn't yet been cleaned).
The Empire of Britannia is a little larger today than the day I took the throne. By that measure, I am a success. I had a single serious rebellion, which I put down ruthlessly. Yet I have been miserable every single day, and alone, so alone. I never remarried. I suppose I loved Oswulf after all; isn't that odd? I never see Halfdan, who is almost always traveling the world under my orders. He is doing as he is told, but I hate him for it. Isn't that monstrous of me? Perhaps I deserve to die of this miserable plague.
I recognize that my words will seem bitter. I have tried to be kind all of my life, but I simply cannot be kind when I am in agony every moment. If that makes me an awful person, I suppose I cannot object. I am in fear, too, about the Empire my father and I have built. My brother will either be hopelessly corrupted and hardened by the job he will have to do, in which case he will be a vile human being, or he will continue to be the wonderful person I know him to be and the Empire will crumble around him. I fear I have, perhaps unintentionally, crippled us by my selection of Halfdan, son of Halfdan the Cruel. Yet like Halfdan the Cruel, I hate changing my mind. Do you know something funny? For that quality, he was called Halfdan the Cruel. I am called "Rikissa the Wise."
I suppose not having the extra bits is so terrible after all.
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[1] Again, a relic of the whole "he's not really a nobleman, he has a republic!" The bit about him being in prison is real; remember Bersi was defeated and imprisoned in the waning days of Halfdan's reign.
We're now caught up with where I stopped playing, so you'll need to wait a bit before I can update again. Halfdan's reign, as I plan to play it, will be... interesting.
