Viking Invasion-Chapter 77 – The Ambush

Under the weight of many suspicious stares, Ceolwulf recounted, from the beginning, all that had transpired within the Wessex camp. His words were steady, his face grave. He claimed that he knew a way for the Northmen to claim victory — if Ragnar would accept his allegiance.

"Land enough there shall be when the war is won," Ragnar said as he strode forward, his shadow falling long across the rush-strewn floor. "But tell me — why should I trust you?"

The murmur in the hall was cold with scorn. Nobles shifted in their seats, warriors smirked into their cups. Ceolwulf felt their contempt burn like frost upon his skin. At last he gritted his teeth and flung his answer into the hush.

"Because you have no time left!"

He raised four fingers. "Four hundred Frankish riders — half of them fallen, yes, but they took eight hundred of your men with them. Wessex has not pressed the attack only because their horses are yet to come from the rear. Within days, their cavalry will be restored. And it is not only the Franks you must fear. Æthelwulf has gathered a hundred English thanes and landholders, training them even now to ride and fight in the saddle. Give him a little more time, and you will face twice the horsemen you fought before. How will you stand against that?"

The argument struck home. None could deny the truth of it. Ragnar’s brow furrowed as he studied the man before him — the pallor of fear still in his face, but beneath it the gleam of ambition. For a long moment the hall was silent save for the crackle of the fire.

At last Ragnar spoke. "If I grant your life, and your word proves false, what then?"

Ceolwulf drew a steady breath. "I ask not for mercy, but for reward. When this war is won, I beg only that Nottingham be restored to me."

Ragnar gave a low laugh — sharp as steel scraping stone. "And if the victory I grant you outshines the worth of Nottingham itself?"

"Then," Ceolwulf said, bowing low, "Your Majesty shall grant me a holding worthy of my service."

The Jarl’s hand flashed. His sword hissed free of its sheath and came to rest, cold and gleaming, upon Ceolwulf’s shoulder.

"Kneel," he commanded. "And swear."

Without hesitation, Ceolwulf dropped to one knee. He spoke the words of fealty with trembling lips, took Ragnar’s right hand between both of his own, and kissed the golden ring upon it — a gesture as ancient as kingship itself.

When the ritual was done, Ragnar sheathed his sword and led the man to the great table where a map lay spread across its length. Ceolwulf leaned over it, his finger tracing lines of river and road.

"The horses," he said, "are to arrive within four days. A flood last week broke the bridge here. The Wessex supply train must now cross the river by boat, near this fishing village. Yet because warhorses take poorly to the rocking of a deck, they may instead ford the shallows thirty miles upstream. Either way, they will be vulnerable."

Ragnar narrowed his eyes. "You propose to strike them at both crossings?"

"Yes. And swiftly. I deserted the camp in secret — Æthelwulf may already suspect my defection. If he does, we have but days before he changes his route."

The plan was perilous. Ragnar did not answer at once. He turned to his captains and spoke in Norse, seeking their counsel. Rurik was the first to reply, offering two paths.

"One," said Rurik, "we gamble — strike now, seize their horses, destroy their cavalry before it is born.

Two — we fall back to Tamworth, even to the border itself, and arm our men with long spears. Given time, we might forge a wall of pikes strong enough to break their charge."

Ragnar listened, his eyes distant. Spears took time to make, men even longer to train. Time was the one thing he did not possess.

"Then we strike," he said at last. "Tonight we ride."

He appointed Ivar and Rurik — his fiercest lieutenants — to command two detachments of several hundred men, each to march upon one of the fords. Their orders were plain: destroy the enemy’s horses, or seize them, but above all — stop them.

"Go," said Ragnar. "Bring me their strength before they can use it."

Rurik wasted no time. Before dawn he had chosen three hundred men, a third of them seasoned hunters who knew the land like their own hands. Supplies were hastily gathered — dried fish, hard bread, water skins — and by the time the morning star faded, they were already on the march.

To mask their trail, they turned eastward in a wide arc, threading their way through dense oak woods where the ground rose and fell in tangled ridges. Carts could not pass there; they carried what they could on thirty packhorses. 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝓮𝒘𝙚𝙗𝒏𝙤𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝒐𝙢

"Deep in enemy land, with barely enough food," Rurik muttered as they rode. "If Ceolwulf’s a spy, we’ll not only lose Mercia, we’ll lose Northumbria as well. Gods, it’s a bitter thing to trust another man with your life."

By dusk they reached the marshland Ceolwulf had described. Scouts fanned out, returning with word of a ruined manor nearby — a good landmark. Using it as their guide, Rurik’s men pushed southward for ten more miles until they came upon a narrow stream, winding silver through reeds and willow. If they followed it downstream, he reasoned, they would reach the shallow ford soon enough.

The next evening they arrived. The water there ran low, barely to a man’s knees. Beneath the surface swam trout and perch, sleek and fat in the clear current — untouched, for few men dared fish so near a war front.

Some of the younger warriors were already fashioning hooks and lines when Rurik barked a sharp order: no fires, no cooking, no smoke. "The enemy’s eyes may be nearer than you think. Eat your rations cold."

The men grumbled but obeyed. They were hand-picked — hardened raiders and hunters — men who knew when silence meant life. So they crouched among the reeds, chewing hard biscuit and listening to the murmur of the stream, waiting for the enemy who might come at any hour.

Four long days passed. The waiting dulled their nerves. Men whispered, played at dice, sharpened blades until the edges shone white. Then, as the sun climbed on the fourth morning, a scout burst through the undergrowth, panting.

"My lord," he said, "the horsemen — three miles out!"

Rurik sprang to his feet. Leaves fell from his cloak as he buckled his armor and took up his axe. He divided his force quickly: most to the north bank, the main body of the ambush; forty men to the south, hidden among the brush, to cut off any retreat.

As further reports came, the numbers grew clearer. Two hundred horses. One hundred fighting men with shields and axes — and eighty servants, grooms, and handlers. A large convoy, but not a disciplined one.

"Spare the horses if you can," Rurik ordered. "The king made it plain — every Frankish warhorse seized earns five pounds of silver. Enough to make a poor man rich. And mark this — kill no grooms. We’ll need them to handle the beasts."

A low chuckle rippled through the ranks. They understood well. Five pounds a head — seize a hundred and fifty, and the silver would weigh seven hundred fifty pounds. Split among them, each man would earn near three — enough to buy twenty oxen, or four fine slaves. Greed is the sharpest spur of all; their eyes gleamed like drawn steel.

They moved into position, crouching behind brush and fallen logs. Time dragged. Then the sound came — the steady rhythm of hooves, the clank of harness, the murmur of tired voices. The vanguard of Wessex had arrived.

On the southern bank, the horsemen halted to water their mounts. A handful waded into the stream to test its depth. The horses bent their necks to drink, snorting softly. These beasts were prized like gold — each required grain and clean water daily, twenty or thirty liters at least, else they grew weak or sick. Their grooms tended them with almost priestly devotion, brushing the sweat from their flanks, checking their hooves.

When the beasts had drunk their fill, the men unstrapped their packs and gnawed at crusts of bread. The break was short-lived. Orders rang out; the crossing was to begin.

One by one, the horses stepped into the ford, splashing through the shallows. A startled trout leapt, silver in the light, and a few mounts reared at the flash. It took more than an hour to get them all across.

"Done at last," sighed one weary groom, patting the neck of his horse.

He never finished the breath. A scream split the air. From three sides at once, shadows burst from the thickets — axes raised, shields flashing. The Norsemen fell upon them like a storm from the sea. Arrows hissed, thudding into flesh. In moments, thirty men lay dead or dying by the water’s edge.

Panic seized the rest. Some turned to fight, most fled — stumbling back toward the ford. But as they splashed into the shallows, the reeds on the far bank exploded with motion. From the southern brush rose another band of Vikings, their voices hoarse and terrible.

"Yield, and live!" they cried in rough, broken English.

And the river ran red with the answer.