Soaked in icy river water and unarmed, the grooms were the first to yield. Once they laid down their will, the soldiers soon followed, dropping their weapons one after another.
But it was far from over. One hundred and thirty men had surrendered, yet the horses knew nothing of human bargains. The moment a few of their kind were struck by arrows, panic swept the herd. Warhorses bolted east, north, and west in a stampeding frenzy.
Facing the chaos, Vig scrambled up a tree trunk and shouted to the bugler not far away:
"Quick! Signal them—pull up the trip ropes!"
The uproar dragged on until sundown. Twenty-seven raiders lay dead, all trampled or crushed under hooves. Fortunately, Vig had foreseen such a risk. He had posted thirty men at six road crossings. When the horns sounded, they sprang into action, driving the stampede into nets and barriers. At last, they secured one hundred and forty warhorses.
Once the reins were tied, the Norsemen carved small wooden boats with their axes—palm-sized decoys, set afloat downstream. The signal was clear: if Ivar's men saw them, it meant the upstream raid had succeeded and they should pull back at once.
After a night's rest, Vig overruled his men's calls to keep searching the woods. With the horses and captives in tow, he chose to withdraw.
Returning to Ratwulf's Castle by the same route, Vig was unsettled by what he found: the encampment outside the castle was almost deserted, and only three banners remained flying—those of Ulf, Pascas, and Leonard.
Pascas is a clerk, Leonard is wounded. That leaves Ulf alone to hold the town. If the main force is gone… could something have happened to Ivar?
Inside the gates, Vig turned over the horse herd to the stables and confronted Ulf, who hurried to meet him.
"What's going on?"
"Last night Ivar's men came back with word the upstream raid had worked. They began to withdraw, but Ivar changed his mind mid-march. He's lying in wait behind Wessex's main force—planning to strike their rear once we attack from the front!"
Ragnar raged at his eldest son's recklessness, yet he could not forbid it. Leaving Ratwulf's Castle and the wounded to Ulf, he marched south with four thousand men.
By midday, Wessex scouts had caught sight of the advancing Norse. They harried the column mercilessly while riders sped back to warn Æthelwulf.
"Ragnar advancing, and of his own accord?"
Æthelwulf was reluctant to act without his reinforcements. The horses and baggage train were still en route. Despite his officers' pleas, he denied battle again and again.
"Majesty, the Norse are six miles off."
"…Four miles off."
The distance dwindled. At last Æthelwulf gave orders: all troops were to arm and form ranks. He chose a conservative defense, anchored on the trenches dug around the manor estate.
From the mill tower, he counted the enemy—about even with his own: four thousand men, fewer than thirty cavalry for scouting and message-running, perhaps eight hundred heavy infantry.
"Equal in number, and three hundred fewer iron hauberks than mine. What makes him think he can strike me head-on?"
He tallied his own strengths—among them, eighty Frankish knights still fit for war—and saw no reason he should lose.
In small skirmishes, the Norse excelled. Stronger of body, they could best equal numbers of Saxons. But when the scale of war grew, it was discipline and formations that decided the field. Æthelwulf had studied Caesar's Gallic Wars in Winchester, along with other Roman texts. The Romans, shorter and slighter than the Gauls or Germans, had won battle after battle through order, training, and iron discipline.
To his mind, the Norse were little better than the Germanic raiders of old: marauders from a dozen shores, unruly, disorganized. (He conveniently ignored that the Anglo-Saxons themselves were of Germanic stock, descended from Schleswig in southern Denmark.)
Confident, he summoned his captains.
"Once battle is joined, let the trenches blunt their charge. We will bleed their strength away. In two days, when our full cavalry arrives, we counterattack and crush them."
"For Wessex!"
The officers chorused, then dispersed to their units.
In the past days, the Saxons had dug trenches two meters deep and three wide, piling the soil behind into ramparts. When the Norse came within three hundred paces, the Wessex line was ready, shields braced behind the earthen wall.
"Æthelwulf isn't a fool," Ragnar muttered, frowning. He swung his army westward, toward the weakest section of the works—a gap fifty paces wide where the trench was unfinished.
But just as the Norse prepared to charge, Gunnar raised a warning.
"Sire, remember Vig's trick at York? He lured Northumbrians into camp and slaughtered three thousand with hidden traps. I fear the same ploy lies here."
Ragnar glanced at his men—their morale ebbing with each passing moment. He growled low, "Then what do you suggest?"
"Make noise, but hold back your strength. Once they hear their supply line has been cut, and their horses seized, then they'll falter."
So the Norse converted their wagons into shield-carts, rolling them forward under cover of archery.
Through arrow-rain, hundreds of infantry pressed toward the breach. Steel clashed in brief but brutal melee. The Saxons behind the gap wavered, looking one more charge away from collapse.
"Just as I thought," Gunnar sneered. "They're feigning weakness."
He pulled back, striking instead at the flanks. Wessex stiffened, their true strength revealed—iron-clad elites stepped forward, driving the Norse back with ruthless counterattack.
From the mill, Æthelwulf watched and scowled.
"Damn it. Why does the book's stratagem not work?"
Then came a runner, breathless. "Sire! At the ford, the horse-train was ambushed. Our scouts found only ten mounts left wandering the woods."
"What did you say?!"
His prize advantage gone, Æthelwulf seized the man by the collar, then flung him aside in fury. "Seal this news. Not a word to the ranks."
"Yes, Majesty!"
"Wait." The old king stopped him with a raised hand. "If one ford was ambushed… could the other crossing also be trapped?"
Gazing at the dark line of forest on the horizon, Æthelwulf felt the truth sink in—he was already in a snare.
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