Viking Invasion-Chapter 61 — The Campaign

Rurik was the first of the jarls to reach the royal hall. The early autumn light slanted through the high windows, glimmering upon the polished oak beams and the pennants that hung unmoving in the still air. He crossed the flagstones with quiet composure, handed his tribute ledger to Godwin, and completed the customary formalities before the king.

"How fares Bjorn?" Ragnar asked when the ceremony was done.

The question set Rurik on his guard. Anything that touched upon the royal family demanded caution. He replied in a tone of studied neutrality, relating the practical details of the Icelandic settlement—its ships, its trade goods, its hardships—nothing more.

"For near twenty years," said Ragnar, his eyes gleaming, "there have been tales of a far western land. I never thought the man who found it would be my own son."

Discovery of new routes and strange lands—these were the crowning glories of a seafarer’s life. Ragnar’s voice swelled with paternal pride. But before he could say more, Queen Sola spoke, her tone cutting through his warmth like the edge of a cold blade.

"Lord of Tainburg," she said, "according to your report, Bjorn concluded his trade and sailed homeward without once seeking an audience with his king?"

There was challenge, even reproach, in her voice. Rurik met her gaze steadily. "The North Sea grows treacherous in winter," he replied calmly. "Each day’s delay multiplies the danger. Bjorn deemed it wiser to sail while he still could."

"I am well aware of the sea’s moods," Sola retorted. "But even so, he might have entrusted his tribute to you."

She would have pressed further, but Ragnar lifted his left hand, silencing her. "I have not granted Bjorn that fief by royal seal," he said. "I hold no claim upon his allegiance." The words fell with the quiet authority of judgment. Sola bit back her reply, and the matter was closed.

Two hours passed. One by one the nobles filed into the hall, their cloaks heavy with road dust, until the benches were filled. At last came a foreign envoy—an emissary from Mercia, bearing a message from Prince Burgred.

The man called himself Theowulf. He wore a tunic dyed in the vivid blue of woad, with a cloak of crimson wool clasped by a golden brooch. Thick rings gleamed upon his wrists. Everything about him—the fine weaving, the arrogant tilt of his chin—spoke of the southern courts.

"You filthy Norse savages," he began, his voice sharp and carrying, "you have until the spring thaw to quit Britain. If you remain, Prince Burgred will lead his armies north to purge this land of your evil and raze every Viking den to the ground!"

The insult rang through the hall like the crack of a whip. The nobles leapt to their feet, roaring, some half-drawing their swords. Rurik, who had sat silent through the tumult, finally spoke when the noise had ebbed enough for his words to be heard.

"Burgred does not fight for justice," he said coolly. "If he did, he would not have stood idle when we took Northumbria three years past. And as for Prince Ælla—he refused to seek refuge in Mercia, preferring exile in Frankland. He must have known the true measure of your prince’s virtue."

Ragnar barked a laugh. "Well said!" he shouted, and others joined him, the hall filling with raucous cheers.

Theowulf sneered. "If you spurn His Highness’s mercy," he said, "then let our blades speak for us on the field."

With that, he turned and left the hall. The air he left behind was thick with outrage. The nobles clamored for war. Ragnar, sunk deep in thought, let them rage until he raised his hand again for silence.

"Three years ago," he said, "when the Norse host took York, Rurik spoke to me of Mercia. He said the influx of refugees would, in time, strengthen them, though for a season it would strain their stores. Now three years have passed. They have swallowed their hunger and grown in strength. At last they are ready to test us."

Murmurs rippled through the chamber. Mercia was a rich and populous realm—equal to Northumbria in power, and perhaps greater in pride. Ragnar’s eyes were hard as iron. "We shall not give them time to ready their hosts," he said. "We strike first. Strike now. Before they gather. We march for Tamworth before the snows grow deep, and end this war before spring."

A roar of assent shook the rafters. "Now! Now!" the jarls cried. "Into Mercia!"

"The winters here are soft compared to home," Ragnar continued. "The English freeze before the Norse do. Each of you return to your lands. Muster your men. Within a fortnight, all forces are to assemble at Sheffield."

His word was law. The lords scattered that very hour, scarcely pausing to eat, riding hard to raise their levies.

Four days later, in the hall at Tain, Rurik broke the news to Helgifu. Her hands went instinctively to her rounded belly. "Winter war?" she gasped. "Has Ragnar lost his mind?"

"The plan is bold," Rurik admitted, "but not without reason. The Angles dread the cold. Their muster will be slow. If we move swiftly while their borders lie bare, we may seize Tamworth before they can draw breath—and end the war in a single blow."

He took her gently by the arm and led her to her chair. "And there is another advantage," he added. "The North Sea storms are at their worst. No raiders can cross from Norway now. While I am gone, Tainburg will be safe. You must rest, Helgifu. I’ll have your mother and brother brought here to keep you company until I return."

That night he went to the storehouse and began his count. Because the campaign would run through the bitter months, every man would need a heavy wool cloak.

"Four hundred and fifty in all," he told his quartermaster. "Barely enough."

Tainburg’s standing force numbered eighty shieldmen. Rurik resolved to leave half for the defense of home, taking the other forty to war. To these he added four hundred freemen of the town, a hundred of whom were archers.

Three mornings later, in a keen wind that set the dragon banners streaming, the army of Tain set out from the palisade. Families watched from the ramparts as the long column wound south, the sound of their boots fading into the frost-hardened distance.

Compared with the iron winters of the North, this southern chill was tolerable. The men’s spirits held steady. Around the campfires they spoke of Mercia’s wealth, of its fat cattle and its golden chalices, each imagining the share that might fall to him once the plundering began.

By right of crown, Ragnar could summon any noble or freeman to arms, but the law bound him: no man might be kept under arms more than forty days without pay. After that, the king must give coin—or reduce next year’s tax in recompense.

Rurik calculated quietly. If Ragnar was wise, the war would be done before the harvest. A longer campaign would see half his host melt away to their own fields, leaving him hollow-handed.

The further south they marched, the bleaker the land grew. Near Sheffield the villages lay deserted, cottages burned or empty, the thatch torn by wind. Sometimes they passed a corpse by the roadside, stiff as oak, with crows gorging at the belly. The birds croaked and rose, black as smoke.

"Where brigands pass, they comb the land; where armies pass, they rake it bare."

Everywhere they saw the marks of both. Lords who should have guarded their men had loosed them instead, letting hunger and rage turn discipline to cruelty.

On the twenty-fourth of October, Rurik and his force reached the low hill north of Sheffield. Across the valley, pennants fluttered from every direction—a forest of colors marking the gathered hosts. He counted them carefully. Only one banner was missing: Ivar’s.

He gave his name to the sentries and rode into the camp. The stench of smoke and filth struck him like a wall.

Medieval armies knew no order in their baggage. Merchants and leeches, armorers and tailors, taverners, washerwomen, and whores—an entire shadow-city of traders followed every host. The Viking army was no exception.

Rurik’s jaw tightened. "If ever I command an army of my own," he muttered, "I will scour this rabble clean."

He dismounted, handing his reins to a stable-boy, and made his way to the king’s tent. Inside, he found only one man: Pascal, bent over a table heaped with scrolls and tally-sticks, his face drawn with weariness.

"Where is His Majesty?" Rurik asked.

Pascal looked up, rubbing his eyes. "In Sheffield town," he said dully. "By custom, the local lord must host the crown. The king and his company are lodged there. If I’m right, the feast will begin before nightfall."

And so it was: the calm before the storm—the eve of war, beneath the gathering dark.