The Tumultuous Year of 1066

In the blink of an eye, the year 1066 swiftly passed, but not without leaving its indelible mark on the continent of Europa, which had been swept by tumultuous events.

In the northern reaches of the continent, the island of Great Britain was embroiled in a multi-nation conflict.

On September 26th, King Harold of England vanquished King Harald Hardrada of Norway at Stamford Bridge, situated on the River Derwent.

This victory marked the new king’s debut, granting Harold a formidable boost in legitimacy.

Yet, fate proved unkind to the nascent monarch; merely two days later, William, the Duke of Normandy—dubbed “the Bastard” and asserting his claim to England—landed at Pevensey, fueled by insatiable greed and a relentless ambition for the English throne.

He ruthlessly ravaged Kent and Sussex, leaving countless farmlands scorched and innumerable lives extinguished.

Consequently, Harold, having just concluded a major war, found himself in disarray.

With the northern barons yet to arrive and the forces from the western counties still ungathered, he hastily marched his army south.

Their path ultimately led them to Senlac, where he engaged in a decisive battle with William “the Bastard”.

On October 14th, Harold fell in battle, and England suffered a crushing defeat.

William “the Bastard” usurped the throne, ascending as King of England, thereby standing as an equal to Philip I, the Capetian King of France.

In the wake of this conquest, France found itself divested of vast territories.

Meanwhile, in Central Europe, the German Roman Empire stirred.

Emperor Henry IV of Rome finally cast off the shackles of Archbishop Anno II of Cologne, stripping him of all secular power.

Simultaneously, he expelled the Bishop of Bremen from the council, citing charges of “abusing public office for private gain”.

Having also triumphed over the Slavic pagans to the north, he solidified his position by marrying Bertha of Turin on July 13th.

A new sun was ascendant, as the formidable Roman Emperor, having endured a prolonged period of confinement, prepared to step onto a fresh historical stage.

Across the Apennine Peninsula, the Italian city-states seethed.

The chasm between the reformist faction, spearheaded by Pope Alexander II, and the conservative Milanese deepened with each passing day.

The title “Papa” seemed poised to soon eclipse “Pope” in its symbolic weight.

Concurrently, a wealthy, fair maiden in Canossa found herself ensnared in profound distress.

As beautiful as any goddess sculpted in Rome, she fretted over her impending marriage.

Though her courtiers pleaded beneath her throne, she steadfastly refused to wed an unsightly “hunchback”.

In contrast, Robert, Duke of Apulia in Southern Italy, was not one to be bartered like a woman.

His ambition burned fiercely, his sights set on conquering the entirety of Sicily.

He harbored the intent to expel all remaining Saracens from the island, thereby realizing his grand vision of unification.

And in the distant East, the purple Roman Empire, enduring for a thousand years, wavered.

Emperor Doukas remained utterly inert, allowing Seljuk cavalry to ravage Armenia unchecked.

Manors were torched, and people were mercilessly slaughtered.

Under his reign, internal corruption proliferated, nobles engaged in bitter power struggles, and the theme system existed in name only.

The vast treasury amassed by Basil II was squandered entirely.

Eastern Rome—the eldest son of Rome—appeared to be teetering on the brink of collapse.

****

Beneath the eaves, water ceaselessly dripped from the tips of icicles.

In the wheat fields, the tender shoots, nourished by melted snow, appeared even more vibrantly green.

Winter had receded, giving way to the period of Lent.

Inside the blacksmith’s hut, a group of Norsemen crowded around the dining table.

A tantalizing aroma wafted from the kitchen, stirring their appetites.

“Noren! Is it ready? I’m practically starving!” Frey exclaimed, impatiently tapping the table with his knife hilt.

Tolruk, already salivating profusely, chimed in, “Aye, little Noren! Hurry and serve the meal! I’d hate for the Valkyries to ask how I died, only for me to say it was from starvation!”

From the kitchen, the young woman’s impatient, playful retort rang out, “What’s with all the rushing? Good work takes time, don’t you know that?”

Moments later, a substantial platter of food was carried out.

Upon the enormous wooden platter sat five earthenware bowls, each filled with pig’s trotters and noodles.

“Don’t rush to eat, there’s more!” Noren announced, carrying out a large basin of dumplings, a stack of steaming baskets, five bowls of grape vinegar, five plates of pickled cabbage, a bowl of minced meat and egg custard, and a dish of onions stir-fried with cured meat.

Regrettably, the process of brewing soy sauce was intricate, consuming both salt and meat.

The meager small jar of edible, qualified soy sauce she had managed to brew this year was already depleted.

Moreover, there were no chilies or tomatoes in Opava, which prevented her from preparing many dishes she wished to make.

‘Oh, if only I had tomatoes,’ she mused. ‘I wonder if I’ll ever again taste home-cooked meals like scrambled eggs with tomatoes or tomato and egg soup in this lifetime…’

With Frey finally recovered today, Noren’s long-held anxiety dissipated.

To satisfy Frey’s gourmand cravings, she had, for the first time, prepared a lavish feast for everyone.

Watching them feast with gusto, Noren’s heart swelled with a profound sense of accomplishment.

Tolke, twirling noodles onto his two-pronged fork, mused, “Speaking of which, shouldn’t we raise a toast in celebration?”

“Celebrate what? The fact that we successfully survived another year?” Frey retorted.

Though he had recovered from his illness, the recurrent high fevers he endured had left an indelible mark, and he still felt a lingering sense of trepidation.

Tolruk, downing the entire broth of his pig’s trotters and noodles in one gulp, declared, “Who cares what we’re celebrating? Celebration needs no reason! Cheers!”

With that, Tolruk raised his cup.

“Good point!”

“Cheers!”

“To the New Year!”

“Cheers!”

The Norsemen lifted their cups and drank deeply, allowing the bitter yet fragrant malt liquor to course down their throats.

Warmed by the furnace of their stomachs, their faces began to glow with a ruddy hue.

After several cups, Noren felt a pleasant tipsiness, her cheeks flushed with a rosy blush.

In her slightly hazy state, she perceived an incredibly familiar, bushy beard.

It was as if she saw Svein.

Was it merely an illusion?

She rubbed her eyes, yet the burly, imposing figure remained steadfast and unmoving.

Before Noren could utter a word, she heard Frey’s joyous shout, “Father!”

“Svein?”

“Old Man Svein?”

Tolruk and the others also gasped in surprise.

Noren finally realized that the old man before her was no hallucination, and her burgeoning tipsiness vanished instantly.

“Old Man, you’re back?”

Svein pushed back his hood, his face etched with weariness.

“Yes, it’s all over,” he replied.

Svein’s safe return was, naturally, cause for celebration.

Even though Noren harbored some resentment for his neglect of their home, she chose to forgive him.

She offered the man a cup of barley ale.

In this season, where the chill had not yet fully receded, a warming drink was the perfect solace for someone who had endured a long journey.

Svein accepted the cup and settled beside the table, gulping down the ale in one go.

A look of astonishment then spread across his face.

“This…” he murmured, a hint of disbelief in his eyes.

It was the first time he had tasted malt liquor of such exceptional quality.

Despite his genius, he had once experimented with numerous recipes, privately brewing many delicious ales that could be considered fine craft—yet none came close to the cup he had just consumed.

The young woman, hands on her hips, proudly lifted her chin.

“What’s wrong?” she challenged. “It’s a recipe I developed myself, utterly unique in all of Opava, you know~”

Svein tilted his head back, some ale dribbling from the corners of his mouth onto his bushy beard.

He slammed the empty cup onto the table, “Another cup! No! Bring me a whole barrel!”

He had witnessed countless deaths during this period, observing many individuals who could have been cured slowly succumb as their bodies grew cold from repeated bleedings.

He had seen men, already with one foot in the grave, tortured to death by so-called castration therapies.

Even having grown accustomed to death in the East, he still felt a profound sorrow when he saw lives vanish before his eyes, especially those not lost in battle.

Noren hauled an oak barrel from the cellar, uncorked it, and continuously refilled the man’s cup.

The man drank cup after cup, white foam clinging to his massive beard.

He was truly a beer immortal of his time, finally succumbing to drunkenness after consuming a full three gallons of malt liquor.

Svein, feeling hungry, reached out to eat directly with his hands.

Noren, quick as a flash, grasped his wrist and swiftly wiped his hands clean, preventing him from soiling the dishes by eating with unwashed fingers.

As Svein ate and drank, he recounted the tragic state of Opava, simultaneously revealing a crucial piece of information.

“What! Jaromir fled!”

Noren was simultaneously shocked and enraged.

Between the nascent malt liquor workshop, the sudden plague necessitating the maintenance of village order, and her concern over Frey’s illness, she had been utterly devoid of free time.

She had planned, now that Frey was recovered, to journey to Opava today and eliminate Jaromir, only to discover that the fellow had simply absconded.

She felt a fire ignite within her, burning ever more intensely.

“Where did he go?” she demanded.

Svein fished a dumpling from the basin, popped it into his mouth, and replied unhurriedly, “The church is built, and the Bishop stated he had urgent matters requiring his return to Prague.

He departed Opava over ten days ago, and before leaving, he appointed a new bishop for the Opava diocese.”

The sheer volume of information was considerable, prompting Noren to pinch the bridge of her nose.

She then singled out several crucial questions: “Why did you remain in Opava for over ten days after the Bishop left? What exactly is a holy relic? And aren’t bishops appointed by the lord of the territory?”

Svein choked slightly, hastily took a gulp of ale, and thumped his chest.

After exhaling a heavy breath, he slowly began to explain: “After the Bishop left Opava, I traveled to Hradec.

Secondly, the matter of appointing bishops is intertwined with internal power struggles within the Přemyslid dynasty, and it might also be connected to the ongoing religious reforms.

As for what a holy relic is, I heard it’s merely a saint’s remains.”

“A saint’s remains?”

“Things used by the dead!”

A while later, Svein finished his meal, and the other Norsemen at the table were equally sated.

Having cleared the remnants from the table, Noren seized a short spear and headed outside.

The day’s feast had consumed a significant amount of meat, and with the rain and snow beginning to melt, wild boars would soon be active, making it an opportune time for hunting.

Moreover, with the plan to assassinate Jaromir canceled, she had nothing else pressing to do.

Observing this, Tolke hastily slung his bow and quiver onto his back, then hurried to follow the young woman.

Before stepping out, Noren glanced back at Svein, “Old Man, do you think the ale we just drank would sell well?”

The potent after-effects of the malt liquor began to take hold, rendering Svein almost unconscious with drunkenness.

He mumbled incoherently, “Yes… yes… it would sell… it would sell… sell…”

No sooner had the words left his lips than he began to snore with thunderous intensity.