Winter’s Early Embrace

Jaromir’s army camped outside Ostrava for the night, breaking camp at dawn the next day to continue their march north.

Yet, this colossal beast of an “army” left behind a significant “dropping” in Ostrava before its departure.

Svein was tasked with incinerating this “dropping.”

He piled a dozen corpses together, then heaped firewood, straw, and various combustibles onto the stark white bodies. A few fair-haired men stood at a distance, tossing torches high towards the pyre.

The torches landed, quickly igniting the straw, then the branches and dry wood. With a sudden boom, the flames swelled, swaying precariously in the cold winds of late autumn.

Noren watched the blossoming lotus of fire. “I thought Commander Wood would come to demand an explanation,” she remarked.

“An explanation for what?” Svein asked.

The young woman gestured with her hands. “Just… well, I suppose I was overthinking it.”

As Noren gestured, the realization dawned on her, and she swallowed the words she had intended to speak.

Svein offered an explanation. “If an army commander cannot control his own soldiers, then he is incompetent. He cannot reveal his incompetence to others, even if everyone is already well aware of it.”

Frey tugged his fur cloak tighter, sniffing. He looked at his father. “Father, I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

Svein merely glanced at his son, exhaling a puff of air through his nose. “Wood issued a military order: soldiers were forbidden from leaving the camp without permission.

These soldiers died because they defied his command.

If Wood were to demand an explanation for these soldiers who violated his orders, he would be telling everyone that his words are meaningless, and that no one needs to heed his command.

He could certainly demand an explanation for the dead soldiers, but the consequence would be that he could no longer command anyone in the army.”

Frey was completely swayed by Svein’s reasoning. “I see! Father, you’re so clever, why couldn’t I think of that?”

Noren’s lips curved subtly. ‘What a foolish younger brother,’ she thought. ‘Father’s deduction relies on a crucial premise: that Ostrava is a baron’s territory. If it were anyone else, even if the commander didn’t demand an explanation, the masters and comrades of the fallen soldiers would besiege the village with swords drawn. If not for Father’s status as a baron, Ostrava would surely have been plundered.’

Wood crackled and popped in the flames, and the acrid smell of burning flesh wafted from the pyre. Noren raised a finger to block her nose, but it was useless; the scent still seeped through into her nostrils.

Black smoke billowed skyward. Perhaps it was her imagination, but Noren thought the sky seemed to dim slightly.

The next moment, a howling gale swept through, making the cashmere scarf wrapped around the young woman’s neck flutter wildly. Her red fox felt hat was snatched away by the wind, and her golden hair, unbound, spread out like a cascade, dancing in the direction of the wind.

Accompanying the gale was a sudden blizzard.

Innumerable snowflakes descended from the heavens, quickly blanketing the grass, pine trees, firs, and other evergreens with a thin, white veil. A layer of white also settled upon the fair-haired Norsemen.

The young woman retrieved her fox fur felt hat, brushing off the specks of mud and grass. She gathered her hair, twisted it, and then covered the coiled golden locks with her hat.

She extended a hand, and countless snowflakes eagerly flew into her palm, melting into droplets like moths drawn to a flame. “Winter has come early. It seems, as you said, Father, the war in Opava will not go smoothly.”

Amidst the heavy snow, Svein’s thoughts drifted back to his homeland, distant Denmark, a frozen land where much of the soil was unsuitable for crops, covered instead by thick moss and lichen. Only during warmer periods could they cultivate hardy rye.

Yet, it was precisely this harsh environment that nurtured generations of brave and fearless Norsemen, including the bloodthirsty Vikings.

After a brief moment of reverie, Svein’s old, wrinkled face broke into a faint smile. However, the smile appeared and vanished so quickly that Noren couldn’t be sure if her father had truly smiled.

The young woman was still contemplating whether her father had smiled when she heard him say, “Let’s go home. It’s too cold, and my bones are itching terribly. Time to warm ourselves by the fire!”

Svein led Frey away directly.

Noren stood for a moment longer in the raging wind and snow, watching the stark white bodies in the tall pyre turn to black charcoal. Then, she rubbed her frozen red fingers, tucked her hands into her sleeves, and slowly walked towards home, battling the wind and snow.

****

The heavy snow howled for three days and three nights. A thick blanket of snow covered Ostrava’s wheat fields, and the forge in the blacksmith’s backyard might remain extinguished for the entire winter. From time to time, large clumps of snow would fall from the roof of the blacksmith’s cottage, landing on those below.

The two hundred new refugees huddled in the civilian houses day and night. They never stepped outside their doors, except to fetch things for warmth and food. Noren had visited them once; the smell inside the houses was truly awful, a mix of sweat and foot odor, like a medieval biochemical weapon.

It wasn’t fair to blame these medieval peasants for their lack of hygiene. Survival was the primary need. While opening windows for ventilation was good, it would instantly dissipate the accumulated heat inside the house. In the Middle Ages, where people relied entirely on shivering to generate warmth and survive winter, opening a window was undoubtedly a suicidal act.

Of course, the above only applied to the lower classes of the Middle Ages.

Noren, staying in the blacksmith’s cottage with its warm fireplace, actually found it too hot! At night, a brazier burned beside her bed, and she was covered with several layers of thick furs. If she didn’t sleep naked, she would overheat, often waking up drenched in sweat. She had lost count of how many times she had opened the window in the middle of the night.

She was merely the daughter of a blacksmith baron. Who knew how the kings and nobles spent their winters?

Was it like in the East, where maids warmed their beds in advance?

Did they use small bronze hand warmers?

Or did they place hot water bottles beneath their icy hands and feet?

Or perhaps…

“Hush~ whoosh~ hush~ whoosh~” Lost in thought, the young woman snuggled into her blankets and fell peacefully asleep. As she slept, she felt herself growing warm and kicked off the covers.

Two jade-like feet emerged from beneath the bedding, revealing a smooth, tender shoulder. However, the vast expanse of pale skin that onlookers might have hoped for remained concealed, never to be glimpsed.

****

Opava, north of Ostrava, was also covered in a blanket of silver: mountains, rivers, forests, roads, civilian houses, thatched huts, castles, and city walls, all shimmering white.

Jaromir’s army was encamped a few hundred yards south of Opava. They had braved the wind and snow to reach the city’s outskirts. Due to the heavy rain and snow, visibility was low, and the cold was intense. Wood merely ordered his soldiers to light fires, cook meals, and prepare to endure the blizzard.

“Damn it, this wretched weather came so suddenly!” A dozen knights huddled around a warm brazier in a military tent. The gusts of cold wind howled, making the tent flaps shake violently.

Wood silently warmed himself by the fire. The flames warmed his front, but his back remained cold. He said, “We should request a batch of cold-weather supplies from Hradec.”

“Yes, yes!”

“Absolutely!”

The knights agreed. As Bohemians, they lacked the Norsemen’s natural resistance to cold, and the sudden heavy snow this year made the cold unbearable for them.

Wood called for the guard standing watch at the tent entrance. The guard’s cheeks were crimson from the cold, his beard encrusted with frost, and his breath instantly condensed into a white mist.

The guard’s hands were tucked into his sleeves, his spear shaft cradled in the crook of his elbow. He shivered slightly as he asked Wood, “Sir, how may I be of service?”

“Send a scout to Hradec with a message. Tell them we need winter supplies for 800 men.”

The guard received his orders and turned to leave.

Before long, the guard returned with bad news for Wood. “Sir, it’s too cold, and there’s a blizzard outside. The horses are reluctant to leave the warmth of their stables…”

Wood frowned. “Have the scout ride my warhorse!”

Wood’s warhorse was excellently trained, not only possessing thick, cold-resistant fur but also showing less fear of ice, snow, and blizzards.

The guard went to carry out the order again, and this time, the scout successfully left the camp.

Wood, now restless, worried about the army’s morale. He called for a few young knights to accompany him on a patrol of the camp.

****

“Damn it, this awful weather has brought back my rheumatism!” an old soldier grumbled, sitting by the campfire, wishing he could hug the flames.

His fellow soldiers, sitting opposite and beside him, remained silent. Their clothes were less thick than the old soldier’s, and their bodies trembled with extreme frequency.

*Plop.* A peasant soldier fainted. He wore only a thin linen tunic and a cloak, which had been cobbled together by his neighbors before he was conscripted.

The old soldier pulled a fist from his tunic, then extended a finger from it, pressing the back of his finger against the peasant soldier’s forehead. It was burning hot.

“No hope, he’s already feverish,” the old soldier’s teeth chattered. He withdrew his finger, coiling himself back into a ball.

A soldier crept over stealthily, reaching for the unconscious peasant soldier’s neck, intending to strip him of his cloak.

The other soldiers noticed his actions, momentarily forgetting their trembling as they stared intently at him.

Suddenly, a large hand gripped the soldier’s wrist. The old soldier glared at him menacingly. “What are you doing?!”

The soldier, a ruffian with a black mole on his chin from which a coarse, dark hair sprouted, retorted, “It’s freezing cold anyway. This man won’t survive, so why not contribute his clothes to keep me warm…”

Before the ruffian could finish, the old soldier’s angry fist knocked him to the ground.

“Bastard!” the old soldier roared, his voice hoarse from the cold. “Does that mean I can kill you, too, and strip you of your gear to keep myself warm?!”

The old soldier’s actions immediately escalated the conflict. Two groups of men around the campfire sprang to their feet. They drew their swords and raised their weapons, pointing the tips of their cold steel at each other, poised to clash at any moment!

These two factions belonged to different knights. The old soldier and the unconscious peasant soldier were heavy infantry and conscripted militiamen under Laud, the ‘Longbeard.’ The ruffian soldier, on the other hand, was light infantry dispatched by the Duke of Bohemia.

On the old soldier’s side, there were twelve men who rose, making three heavy infantrymen in thick leather armor, including the old soldier. The rest were conscripted old peasants in linen tunics. In contrast, the opposing side consisted of fifteen men, uniformly clad in soft linen armor, which provided both warmth and a degree of protection.

If the two sides truly fought, the outcome was obvious.

Both sides stared intently at each other, sweat beading in the palms of their hands gripping their weapon hilts. Just as they were about to charge and engage, an enraged roar echoed from nearby…