Under the weight of countless suspicious stares, Theowulf recounted his time in the Wessex camp. He claimed he had a way to hand the Norse victory—if Ragnar would accept his oath of fealty.
"Win this war, and there'll be land enough for all," Ragnar strode up to him. "The real question is—why should I trust you?"
Scorning the nobles' sneers, Theowulf steeled himself. "Because you don't have time!"
He raised four fingers. "Four hundred Frankish knights. Two hundred dead, but they took eight hundred of your men with them. Wessex did not press the attack because they await fresh horses from the rear.
"And not only the Franks. The king has gathered over a hundred local gentry who can ride, drilling them daily. Give it a little longer, and they'll be field-ready. When that day comes, how will you stop them?"
The facts were hard to deny. Ragnar, unwilling to throw away any chance at survival, grudgingly promised Theowulf the return of Nottingham.
But Theowulf pressed on, "Compared to your grand design, Nottingham is little enough. Better this—when we win, grant me lands befitting my service."
No sooner had the words left his mouth than Ragnar drew steel. The cold edge of his sword touched Theowulf's shoulder. "Kneel. Swear fealty."
Without hesitation, Theowulf sank to one knee. He recited the oath, clasped Ragnar's right hand, and kissed the gold seal of his ring.
When the ritual ended, he moved to the map table, briefing his new master.
"The fresh horses should arrive in four days. Last week a flood destroyed this bridge. Wessex supply trains now cross here—this fishing village by boat. Yet horses don't travel well on swaying skiffs. They may instead ford the river at a shallow, thirty miles upstream."
Ragnar frowned. "You mean to ambush both places?"
"Yes—and quickly. Æthelwulf may already suspect I've defected. We must act before it's too late."
It was a risky plan. Ragnar canvassed his jarls in Norse. Vig offered two paths:
Take the gamble—strike now, seize the horses, cripple Wessex's cavalry.
Withdraw to Tamworth—or even north of the border—forge spears in bulk, and raise phalanxes to counter the mounted charge.
But smithing and drilling would take too long. To Ragnar, the ambush was the lesser danger.
He chose battle. Ivar and Vig, his fiercest war-leaders, would each command several hundred in separate ambushes.
"At once, my lord."
Time pressed. Vig handpicked three hundred men, a third of them seasoned hunters. Burdened with supplies, they marched before dawn.
To mask their trail, they circled far east, plunging into thick oak woods where no wagons could pass, bringing only thirty packhorses.
Alone, with scant provisions. If Theowulf proves a spy, we may lose not only Mercia, but Northumbria as well. To entrust one's fate to another—it gnaws at the gut.
After a long march, Vig reached the swamps Theowulf had described. Scouts soon found a ruined manor nearby. Using it as a landmark, the raiders turned south another ten miles until hunters discovered a stream. From there it was simple—follow the water down to a ford no deeper than the knee.
By the second nightfall, they reached the ambush site. The river teemed with trout and perch, tempting the hungry men. Some even reached for hooks and lines—until Vig's cold order cut the mood short: no fishing, no fires. Smoke and sparks would betray them.
They grumbled, but discipline held. They gnawed hard rations in silence, listening to the gurgle of the stream.
By the fourth morning, boredom had set in when at last a hunter brought news:
"My lord, the enemy horse—three miles out."
Vig sprang up, brushing leaves from his armor. Most of his force concealed themselves along the north bank, while forty slipped into the southern thickets, tasked with cutting off retreat.
As scouts trickled back, the picture grew clearer: two hundred horses, a hundred shield-and-axe men, and eighty grooms and servants.
Holding the advantage, Vig reminded his men: spare the horses.
"Frankish warhorses are worth more than gold. Without raids, we'll never buy enough of them. His Majesty swore—five pounds of silver for every captured horse. For your own purses and for the army's strength, remember this when you strike!"
Then he added, "And leave the grooms alive."
"Yes, lord."
They were hard men, chosen for ruthlessness. But their eyes gleamed at the promise of silver.
Five pounds a horse—one hundred fifty head meant seven hundred fifty pounds of silver. Split evenly, each man would walk away with two and a half pounds—enough to buy four young slaves of fine looks, or twenty oxen.
Greed sharpened their patience. They crouched in the brush, waiting.
At last, the Wessex horse reached the ford. A handful of soldiers crossed first, letting the mounts drink.
Warhorses were fragile beasts—each needed oats in bulk and twenty to thirty liters of water daily. Neglect, and they sickened quickly.
Once watered, the grooms stuffed dry bread into their mouths, still chewing as the column began to cross. The river churned with leaping fish, splashing and thrashing tails, spooking the mounts. An hour passed before all were across.
"Finally done."
But before they could draw breath, screams ripped the air. From three sides, axe-and-shield Vikings surged from cover. A single volley felled thirty men where they stood.
Panic took hold. Many Anglo-Saxons fled back toward the ford—only to find the southern bank explode with more Norse warriors, bellowing in broken English:
"Yield, and live!"
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