Viking Invasion-Chapter 98 – The River Severn

By late July, the army’s reorganization was complete.

From the intelligence he had gathered, Rurik chose his line of march.

"Gentlemen, we shall advance toward Worcester, then follow the Severn upstream. The river will bear our supplies by ship, and in time we will reach the capital of the Kingdom of Powys — Mathrafal."

His reputation, forged in many campaigns, silenced any dissent.

After two days of westward marching, the column reached the Severn’s banks. On the eastern shore stood a modest town: Worcester.

The place still lay under Æthelwulf’s jurisdiction. Since receiving orders a month before, the local lord had built or requisitioned fifty longships.

"Too few," Rurik said sharply. "My order was for one hundred."

He scolded the Worcester lord so fiercely that Æthelwulf, standing beside him, merely watched with thinly veiled amusement. The man was his own vassal, long known for perfunctory obedience; a public rebuke might do him some good.

Rurik gave the lord fifteen days to make up the deficit in ships and wagons, then led the army north along the river. Before long, they came upon the legendary Offa’s Dyke.

Stretching from north to south, the vast earthwork ran unbroken across the land — a rampart two and a half meters high, fronted on its western side by a ditch nearly two meters deep. Any Welsh raider hoping to cross it would have to climb more than four and a half meters in all.

As a Mercian noble, Æthelwulf’s voice swelled with pride as he explained:

"From the estuary of the Dee in the north to the mouth of the Severn in the south — a span of a hundred and fifty miles. King Offa commanded it built, conscripting war captives, peasants from his vassal states, and even Welsh tribesmen. It took twenty years to complete."

"Remarkable," Rurik said at midday, sketching the scene with pen and paper. "A monument of its age."

He paused, his tone cooling.

"Yet every wall requires soldiers to hold it. The watchtowers we’ve passed are ruins now. Offa’s labor has come to nothing."

The casual remark struck Æthelwulf like a blow. He fell into silence for the rest of the march.

On the afternoon of August 1, the army met its first attack.

From the western bank of the Severn, a hundred Welsh longbowmen emerged from the woods and formed a loose skirmish line, harassing the Vikings on the opposite shore.

"Heavy crossbowmen to the ships — return fire! The rest, shields up, keep moving!"

At that range — more than a hundred and fifty meters — ordinary crossbows lost their bite. Rurik ordered a hundred heavy crossbowmen onto the decks to exchange volleys with the archers.

Almost at once the Welsh turned their fire on them. Arrows clattered against iron helms and shoulder plates, sparks flying in showers so dense that Rurik thought of rain hammering on a tin roof.

After enduring several volleys, the crossbowmen finished loading and loosed a deadly answer across the river. Then, crouching low, they began to reload for a second round.

Ten minutes later, on the western shore:

Each longbowman had carried two quivers — sixty arrows in all. At a rate of six arrows per minute, they fired steadily for ten minutes until their arms trembled with exhaustion.

Panting, their commander counted losses: twenty men down, and still the enemy’s bolts came on—slow, rhythmic, unstoppable.

"Damn those Viking brutes—they fight without honor, wearing armor to trade shots with us. Fall back! We’re done here."

Dragging the bodies of their fallen, the Welsh melted into the forest.

Rurik ordered camp made for the night. Fearing a counterattack, he and Æthelwulf took turns on watch, surviving the most perilous hours till dawn.

On August 2, after breakfast, the column followed the river for two more hours and at last reached its destination.

Across the Severn lay broad fields under cultivation; beyond them the land began to rise, and upon a hillside stood a wooden fortress.

Rubbing his weary eyes, Rurik murmured to Æthelwulf beside him,

"Mathrafal Castle—the royal seat of Powys. We’ve arrived."

On the opposite bank, eight hundred militiamen had assembled, three hundred of them longbowmen, determined to bar the crossing.

The two sides traded volleys for several minutes. But the Vikings’ overwhelming firepower—five hundred archers and eight hundred crossbowmen—soon broke the Welsh line and drove them from the shore.

"Proceed as planned. Begin the crossing in order."

Under covering fire from their own archers, two hundred armored warriors were the first to land. They locked their round shields together, forming a silent wall against the arrows that hissed down from the slopes.

By two in the afternoon, most of the army had crossed.

Rurik led three thousand men toward the fortress while Æthelwulf remained with a thousand to guard the ships.

It was August; the winter wheat had yet to be sown, and the fields were overgrown with low weeds. Under the punishing sun, the Vikings trudged through the soft grass toward the hilltop stronghold.

The sight of so many armored men shattered the militia’s resolve. They withdrew into the fort, hoping to hold out behind its five-meter palisade against the heathen host.

Three hundred meters from the walls, Rurik signaled his flanks to drive off nearby bowmen. Then he ordered a thousand archers and crossbowmen forward to within a hundred meters of the ramparts, suppressing the defenders on the parapets.

When the answering fire slackened, a hundred Vikings pushed forward handcarts—four men to a cart, twenty-five in all.

Perplexed, the defenders watched the carts rumble to the base of the wall. Then the Vikings heaved clay jars from them and hurled the jars against the timber stockade.

The sharp crack of pottery was followed by the heavy scent of tar and pine resin. Realization swept through the fort—the enemy meant to burn them out.

At the king’s order, Welsh archers leaned from the battlements to shoot, but to little effect; dozens were cut down by concentrated volleys. The Vikings threw every last jar of fire oil they had brought.

Then their bowmen drew fire arrows, loosing them into the slick-soaked ground.

Flame leapt to life, running up the outer walls like a living thing.

The oil had once been prepared for the siege of Paris. When peace was made, the Viking fleet carried the unused stores back to Britain—only to spend them now at Mathrafal.

Under the fierce heat, the clay facing of the wall began to flake away, exposing the peeled timbers beneath. Desperate defenders hauled up buckets of water, leaning over the parapet to pour it down—but the effort only multiplied their casualties.

Outside the walls, Rurik—hollow-eyed from sleepless nights—squinted against the sun and muttered,

"Use up the rest of the fire jars. If that doesn’t breach the walls, start felling timber and build catapults... or siege towers."

Realizing the defenders had no new tricks left, he sat cross-legged on the grass, resting his head in one hand, on the verge of sleep.

Moments later, Jorun shook him awake.

"My lord, they’ve surrendered. There’s a man wearing a crown waving to us with all his strength."