Viking Invasion-Chapter 72 – The Encounter at Tamworth

That night, King Æthelwulf held a lavish banquet to honor his knights. The hall glowed with candlelight and the clinking of goblets, but beneath the revelry stirred a grave purpose. Having witnessed the terrifying power of the Frankish cavalry earlier that day, the old king could no longer ignore what he had seen. Their charge had shattered shields and men alike — a storm of iron and muscle unlike anything in the Saxon way of war.

Between toasts, he turned to the foreign emissary seated at his right, a man called Lamberto, whose polished manners and measured words bore the unmistakable stamp of the Continent.

"Sir Lamberto," Æthelwulf said, leaning closer so that his words would not carry beyond the high table, "I wish to speak of your horses. Tell me — could your realm provide us with such steeds as those your knights ride?"

Lamberto hesitated. His eyes flickered briefly toward the courtiers, then back to the king, gauging both opportunity and risk. At length, he answered in a tone of feigned reluctance.

"Well... let me think. If we measure the price according to your own Saxon pound, then a warhorse fit for battle would cost three pounds of silver, while a stallion of noble breed might fetch five."

"Done," Æthelwulf said at once, striking his goblet against the oak table with such force that wine splashed onto his sleeve. "I shall pay you thirteen hundred pounds of silver — and woolen cloth worth a thousand more. How soon can you deliver them?"

Lamberto’s breath caught. He had expected negotiation — perhaps outrage, perhaps suspicion — not this easy acquiescence. The rumors were true then: the kingdom of Wessex was rich beyond measure, its coffers filled by wool exports and silver mines. He forced his expression into one of dignified concern, though inwardly he could barely restrain his joy.

"Your Majesty," he replied, "to gather so many fine horses in so short a time will be... challenging. But I shall write to my king at once. If the royal stables of Charles himself cannot meet the order, I will see that every count and noble in Francia contributes. You have my word — your request shall be fulfilled."

Meanwhile, in the north, preparations for war moved apace.

From reports gathered by Gunnar in Oxfordshire, the Danes learned that Wessex had already mustered nearly three thousand men — six hundred of them armored. Ragnar considered this by the firelight, weighing numbers like stones in his palm. 𝒻𝘳ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝒷𝘯ℴ𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝑐ℴ𝑚

"Five thousand six hundred Vikings," he muttered, "against their three thousand Saxons. Even if the other petty kings come crawling to Æthelwulf’s aid, the odds remain in our favor."

By mid-March, when the snows had melted and the rivers ran free, the Viking host began its march south. Ragnar’s plan was simple: crush Wessex first — the mightiest of the English realms — and the lesser kingdoms would follow like sheep.

Three days into the campaign, a watchtower rose on the horizon, stark against the gray sky — a remnant from Roman times, its weathered stones encircled by a high defensive wall.

"Is that a Mercian garrison?" Ragnar asked.

Through the spyglass he saw the telltale movements of armed men behind the battlements — more than a hundred by his count. He sent forward a captured Mercian soldier to parley, bearing an offer of mercy.

Minutes later, the man returned bloodied and bruised, his tunic torn.

"My lord," he gasped, "the commander — Lord Ratworth — refuses to surrender."

Ragnar let out a low whistle. "So there still breathes a Mercian noble with courage enough to defy us. A rare breed indeed." Then, with a wave of his hand, he ordered the siege engines assembled.

Within half an hour, the battering ram stood ready. But before it could be brought to bear, Pascal approached the king.

"Your Majesty," he said, lowering his voice, "after we took Tamworth, we captured a number of young squires — sons of local nobles. Among them, I recall one who claimed to be Ratworth’s second son."

He proposed that they delay the assault, and rummaged through the baggage train until he found a leather-bound register of prisoners. Leafing through the pages, he pointed triumphantly.

"Here — Ratworth’s son. Alive and in our custody."

Ragnar’s face lit with satisfaction. "Excellent. Let us see if a father’s love can achieve what our rams cannot."

On the army’s left flank, however, discipline was already beginning to fray.

Rurik, weary from days of marching, had found a patch of shade beneath a gnarled oak and settled there to rest. "Jorund," he murmured to his lieutenant, "keep the men in position. Send scouts to the ridges and hollows. If anything stirs, wake me."

The world dimmed. For a time, he drifted in that half-sleep known only to soldiers — one ear always attuned to the distant murmur of men and the creak of leather straps.

Then came the shaking of his shoulder.

"My lord, the enemy has surrendered," Jorund said breathlessly. "We’re taking control of the fortress."

Rurik rose stiffly, his thighs aching from long hours on horseback. Through the shimmering heat, he saw the Mercian banner replaced atop the tower by Ragnar’s thunderbolt flag. "That was... quick," he said dryly.

He joined the others for a brief meal within the captured walls, the air heavy with the smell of smoke and roasted meat. Yet before the wine had cooled in their cups, a soldier burst through the doorway.

"My lords — something’s wrong! Our left wing is moving southeast. I don’t know why!"

All heads turned toward Rurik and Ulf, commanders of that flank.

"Are your men redeploying?" Ragnar demanded.

"Not that I know of," Ulf said, paling.

The messenger added hastily, "There are five, maybe six hundred of them — carrying the River-Fish banner."

The mood in the hall changed at once. Chairs scraped back; helmets were seized from benches. Rurik and Ulf ran for the stables while Ragnar and the others climbed to the tower’s summit to watch.

Below, two riders burst from the gate, spurred their mounts into a gallop, and vanished in a trail of dust. The wind tore at their cloaks as they shouted to each other above the thunder of hooves.

"I’ll catch those fools myself!" Ulf bellowed. "You regroup the rest before they all scatter!"

Rurik raised a hand in acknowledgment and wheeled his horse toward the waiting ranks. His patience — never abundant — was at its limit. "What in Odin’s name happened now?" he growled.

One of his shield-bearers answered quickly, eager to avoid blame. "It wasn’t us, my lord! The scouts reported a small Mercian party on the southeastern hills. A few raiders went off to chase them — Ulf’s men followed — we tried to stop them, but..."

Rurik’s jaw clenched. "By the gods... why send me such men to torment me?"

His breath came shallow; a wave of dizziness swept over him, and for a moment the world blurred.

"My lord!"

"I’m fine," he rasped. "Form the ranks. If we don’t move now, Ulf’s men will be corpses before sunset."

Within minutes, he had the column reassembled and pressing hard in pursuit. But by the time they crested the nearest rise, the errant troops were gone, swallowed by the rolling hills. Overhead, flocks of startled birds wheeled into the vast blue, their cries fading into the wind.

Soon a scout came riding back. "We caught them, my lord! The Saxons broke and ran — our men are chasing them through the fields!"

"Still chasing?" Rurik murmured, almost to himself. His voice was flat now, emptied of anger. He merely nodded to the messenger. "Report this to the king. Let Ragnar decide whether we continue or call them back."

The grass brushed their knees as the horses advanced. Dandelion seeds drifted past like pale ghosts, scattering through the warm air. Rurik halted at the crest of another low hill.

Before him stretched the undulating land — a vast green sea rumpled by invisible tides. Below, Ulf’s men were scattered in wild pursuit, darting among the slopes and copses, hacking down the retreating Saxons wherever they found them.

Rurik closed his eyes. He had seen this too many times before. Once discipline dissolved, no order could restore it until exhaustion did.

Then one of his guards spoke softly: "My lord... the king approaches."

Rurik turned. On the horizon, the main host of the Viking army advanced — a dark tide rolling across the hills, banners snapping in the wind. Ragnar rode at its head, flanked by Ivar, Nils, and Lennard — the chieftains of the north, their armor gleaming like stormclouds.

"All this," Rurik muttered, "from a handful of fools chasing glory." He watched the black mass move closer, heavy and implacable. "Now the whole host marches to war — without plan, without readiness. Too soon... far too soon."

But there was no turning back.

He lifted his sword, signaling his men forward, and led them toward the highest ridge two miles ahead — the only ground from which he might still make sense of the chaos unfolding.

The wind carried the clang of distant weapons, the shouts of men drunk on battle, and the slow, inexorable drum of fate.