That night, Æthelwulf held a great feast in honor of the Frankish knights.
Having witnessed their terrifying prowess, the old king grew eager to reform his own tactics. Over wine, he made an offer to the envoy, a man named Lamberto:
"I would purchase horses—good horses, like yours."
Lamberto's eyes flickered, weighing his words. He tested the waters with a price:
"By your Anglo-Saxon pound, a sound warhorse is worth three pounds of silver. A fine breeding stallion, five."
"No quibbling," Æthelwulf declared, striking the table with his cup. "I will pay thirteen hundred pounds in silver, and a thousand in woolen cloth. When will they be delivered?"
He doesn't even bargain? Truly, rumor held true—Wessex was rich, fattened by wool exports and its silver mines.
Suppressing his joy, Lamberto feigned difficulty. "So many horses cannot be gathered swiftly. I will write at once to my king. Should the royal studs fall short, I will purchase from the counts' estates. Rest assured, your order will be met."
Tamworth.
From Gunnar's reports out of Oxfordshire, it was judged that Wessex had mustered some three thousand men, more than six hundred armored. Ragnar's answer was to summon reinforcements from home, rebuilding his strength step by step.
By mid-March, the thaw complete, the Norse host marched south. The greatest threat—Wessex—must be crushed first. The lesser four realms could be dealt with afterward.
"Five thousand six hundred warriors," Ragnar tallied in the saddle. "Against three thousand Saxons? We need not fear."
On the third morning, a small fortress rose ahead: a Roman stone watchtower, ringed by a wall five meters high.
"Mercian soldiers still within?" Ragnar wondered.
Peering closer, he counted a hundred figures manning the battlements. A captured Mercian was sent to parley.
Minutes later, the man stumbled back, bloodied and bruised: Lord Ratwulf would not yield.
"After Tamworth fell, still one dares resist to the death? A rare courage," Ragnar murmured. He ordered the engines readied.
Half an hour on, as the ram was assembled, Pascas spoke up:
"Sire, after Tamworth we captured many young squires—sons of noble houses. One claimed to be Ratwulf's second son."
He urged delay. Searching the baggage train, he produced the ledger of captives. Indeed, among them was Ratwulf's heir.
"Excellent!" Ragnar grinned.
On the left wing.
When the assault did not come, Vig sought shade and sleep. "Jorund, keep the men in place. Send scouts to watch the hills. Wake me if aught stirs."
Leaning against the oak's rough trunk, his mind drifted.
How long he slept, he knew not. Jorund shook him awake:
"My lord, the garrison has surrendered. We are taking possession."
"Help me up."
He rose with effort, thigh aching. From afar, the Mercian banner was already torn down, replaced by Ragnar's thunderbolt flag.
"So quickly?"
Yet as they dined within the walls, a soldier burst in with alarm:
"Our left wing is moving southeast. I know not why!"
Ragnar's gaze darted to Vig and Ulf, both as baffled as he.
"Are these stragglers, or the whole wing?"
"Five or six hundred, bearing Lord Ulf's river-fish banner."
The feast was forgotten. Vig and Ulf ran for the stables, while Ragnar and the rest climbed the watchtower to peer toward the hills.
Two horses burst from the gate, wind stinging their eyes. Ulf shouted above the thunder of hooves:
"I'll chase those fools! You gather the rest!"
"Agreed!"
They split. Vig spurred to his own troops. Fury boiled in him. "What madness is this?"
Sensing their lord's wrath, his guards quickly excused themselves.
"Not our doing, lord. Scouts reported a small Mercian band beyond the southeastern hills. Some raiders broke off to chase them. Ulf's men followed. We tried to stop them—failed."
"By Odin, why send such dullards to torment me?"
His chest tightened; blackness swam at the edges of his vision. He nearly fell.
"My lord!"
"Never mind me. Rally the men. If we delay, Ulf's five hundred are lost!"
Five minutes' work formed the lines. Vig drove them on. Already Ulf's men had vanished beyond the rise. Birds startled skyward, dark flecks rising into the boundless blue.
Soon a scout galloped back. "We routed the Saxons! Our men pursue them still!"
"Still chasing?"
Numb now, Vig only sent him back to Ragnar. "Let the king decide."
His horse trod knee-high grass. The wind carried dandelion seeds past its mane. At the crest of a hill he drew rein.
The land rolled like a green cloth wrinkled by a giant's hand. Ulf's host was scattered across it, no order at all—some chasing into woods, others brawling on the slopes.
Vig closed his eyes. By his experience, such men could not be recalled before their strength was spent.
"My lord, the king approaches!" cried a guard.
He turned. A black tide of Norse surged forward—Ragnar, Ivar, Nils, Leonard, and thousands more, an onrushing storm.
"All this," Vig thought grimly, "from a handful of looters… and now we are thrust into battle unready."
There was no choice. He pressed on toward the high ridge two miles ahead—the ground most suited to watch the field unfold.
~~--------------------------
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