The two armies broke contact. The Norse fell back to Ratwulf's Castle, fortifying themselves behind its walls. To the south, the Wessex host withdrew fifteen miles, encamping upon a vast manor estate.
Though they had failed to smash the Northmen in one stroke, the sight of Frankish knights shattering two enemy lines in succession electrified Anglo-Saxon morale.
A mere four hundred horsemen had routed over a thousand Vikings, fought through encirclement, and hacked their way out. To celebrate such a rare triumph, Æthelwulf ordered a feast in the foreigners' honor.
At the high table, the old king looked down at the young knights, his thoughts heavy. Viking longships could not carry horses; their raids relied on light infantry, vulnerable to the charge of massed cavalry. Yet for generations the Angles had fought without stirrups, forced to meet the raiders head-on with shield walls.
Now the times had changed. With the stirrup and quality steeds flowing into Britain, the pirates' proud infantry advantage was crumbling. At last, there was hope to end the decades-long storm of raids.
The Earl of Oxfordshire asked about the next move. Slowly, Æthelwulf declared:
"Cavalry. Now I understand—war's key is the horse. After yesterday's fight, we have barely two hundred riders left, with only eighty fit mounts. I will halt here until fresh horses arrive, then meet Ragnar again in battle."
"Wisely spoken, Your Majesty."
Nobles chorused their praise and returned to the laden tables. Even at the front, the royal steward had scoured nearby estates to supply beef and mutton. Laughter rang down the hall. Yet one man sat brooding.
At last, he approached the king. "Your Majesty… about my earlier proposal?"
Æthelwulf blinked, then replied with stiff patience, "Lord Theowulf, I have considered your request. There is no need to remind me each day."
Since fleeing Nottingham, Theowulf had wandered south with a thousand desperate followers, barely clinging to life. Now he sought opportunity in Wessex's war.
To him, Mercia's royal line was broken. The surviving cadet branches were dissolute, unworthy. But his wife shared blood with the old dynasty—why should she not be queen, and he king by her side?
Ten days past, he had revealed this plan. Æthelwulf's answer had been vague. Five days past, he asked again; the old king told him to wait. Tonight, rebuffed once more, Theowulf wandered in the dark, weighing whether to bribe more courtiers.
Passing a barn, he overheard drunken guards slurring his name. Creeping close, he listened.
"Hic. Theowulf's a fool, dreaming of Mercia's crown. His Majesty spends a fortune on this war—think it's for justice?"
"Ha! When the Norse are beaten, the king himself will take Mercia's throne. The lands will be granted to us. After such toil, don't we deserve reward?"
Each word fanned Theowulf's fury. Æthelwulf, he realized, was courting both church and nobility, promising them the vacant estates left by slain lords at Tamworth.
Chester, Worcester, Cambridge… even Nottingham, his own seat, was whispered among the prizes.
What? I yet live, and my lands are already promised away?
Rage ebbed, replaced by dread. He had only a hundred loyal soldiers left, a thousand starving refugees. Without his royal ambitions, Æthelwulf might have given him land—if he pledged his support at the witan.
But now? By claiming the crown, he had crossed the line. No longer ally, but rival.
He remembered Æthelwulf's cold gaze—the look villagers gave poultry bound for slaughter. Terror gripped him.
"He cannot… he cannot do this to me."
Shivering, Theowulf slunk back to his chamber. After a sleepless night, he resolved upon a desperate course.
At dawn, he sought the steward, slipping him his wife's last dowry: a golden necklace.
The steward pocketed it smoothly and led him aside. "My lord, what do you ask?"
"About… my wife's claim to the throne—?"
Before he could finish, the steward smiled blandly. "The king is considering all matters. Be assured, he seeks a safer, stronger future. Of all candidates, he favors you most."
Theowulf bowed, muttering thanks. But he heard the hollowness, the dismissal. The last shreds of hope fell away.
That night, dressed as a commoner, he fled through a back gate. He did not seek his own men—they were useless now. Instead, he rode north under cover of darkness, reaching the outskirts of Ratwulf's Castle by the following evening.
Faced with Viking sentries' arrows, he raised both hands, babbling the only Norse name he knew: "Vig, Vig…"
The guards did not understand, but dragged the suspicious man to the castle nonetheless. If he caused trouble, there were a dozen ways to kill him.
In the hall, nobles feasted. Word came that an Angle demanded to see Vig. Curious, he rose from his seat—and found an old acquaintance waiting.
"Lord Theowulf? What brings you here?"
"Surrender."
"Why now?" Vig's guard rose at once.
This was the man who had held Nottingham three months, refusing to bow, fleeing south rather than yield. For him to bend the knee so suddenly—what had changed?
"I sought Mercia's crown. Æthelwulf seeks it too. He mistrusts me, I fear for my life… so I come for aid."
Finding at least a kernel of truth, Vig ordered him searched, then brought him before Ragnar.
~~--------------------------
Patreon Advanced Chapters:
patreon.com/YonkoSlayer