At dusk, Wessex's captains gathered in the manor hall for supper, where the grim news of the ambushed horse-train was laid bare.
One asked, "Is the other supply route still secure?"
"I've dispatched scouts," Æthelwulf replied. "No word yet."
The answer left the captains exchanging uneasy glances as they chewed their mutton stew without appetite. Only when the wine was nearly drained did a guard rush in with further tidings:
"Sire, this noon, the fishing village on the south bank was attacked. We retook it two hours later, but most boats were burned. The rest were carried off by Ivar."
The old king now saw his "defensive counterstroke" strategy in ruins. Only one choice remained—battle.
If he could defeat Ragnar in open field, the initiative would return to him. He could then send a detachment to retake the village while leading the main force north in pursuit. If he lost…
No. There is no if.
With his lifeline cut, Æthelwulf shed the last of his hesitation. At dawn, he marched out to meet Ragnar in battle.
In the open wheatfields, two armies advanced shield-wall against shield-wall. With no real cavalry on either side, the clash became a grinding contest of endurance—shields slammed, spears jabbed, men roared as blood slicked the earth.
As casualties mounted past the breaking point, the Wessex line began to yield ground.
"Hold! Press forward!" Æthelwulf cried.
His left wing faltered under Norse assault. He threw in two hundred of his household guards, barely shoring up the line—when suddenly, from the woods on the north flank, seven hundred Vikings surged forth, and with them, two hundred mounted warriors!
At that moment Æthelwulf had but one hundred guards and three hundred archers at his side. He hurled them forward in desperate defiance. Their shield-wall shattered beneath the Norse infantry. And all the while, the horsemen did not charge, but merely sat their massive steeds, casting a shadow of dread that sapped Saxon hearts.
Half an hour later, the Wessex line broke entirely. Only then did Æthelwulf grasp the ruse—the riders were no real cavalry, but a bluff. Their stillness had been enough to unmake his men.
Swept away with fleeing soldiers, the king let out a bitter roar:
"Damn it all—we've been fooled by that serpent-bannered devil!"
When the slaughter was done, Ragnar sent his fittest light infantry to chase the fugitives. He himself rode straight for the towering steeds.
Leaping from the saddle, he stroked the Frankish destriers' sleek manes and iron-hard muscles, unable to hold back his admiration.
"Excellent… this is what a warhorse should be. Are these all of them?"
Helm removed, Vig reported the tally:
"Yes. One hundred and forty Frankish chargers, and sixty nags to pad the numbers."
Ragnar ran his hand along a steed's flank, then made good on his promise. He heaped out seven hundred pounds of silver, coins spilling like water across the grass until the men were dazzled.
Once the rewards were divided, he ordered the captured grooms closely guarded. He meant to found a royal stud farm, dedicated to breeding Frankish horses for the charge.
To save their lives, the grooms swore service—and sweetened it with staggering news:
"After the Oxford tourney, Æthelwulf paid West Francia two thousand three hundred pounds of silver for seven hundred horses. Besides these, his stud near Winchester holds another five hundred."
"What did you say?" Ragnar's face lit with savage joy. His mind leapt to bolder schemes.
After one night's rest, he chose two thousand of his least-worn men and struck south for Oxford.
On the road he joined with Ivar. Led by the younger, the Norse reached Oxford within two days.
They wasted no time. From four directions the raiders stormed the town, hauling up grappling lines as stones and arrows rained down. At the cost of a hundred dead and more, they seized a section of the east wall.
Wave after wave clambered up the ropes. The county reeve who led the defense was cut down, and the militia's will collapsed. Oxford, stronghold of the north, was theirs.
In the reeve's manor, Ragnar slumped back, weary but listening.
"Any word of Æthelwulf?"
"None, my lord. But we seized one hundred and thirty captives—clerics, scribes, and pages."
Regretful at missing the king, Ragnar sighed. "Keep them under guard. They may prove useful yet."
After a brief rest, he conferred with Ivar. The son urged a daring thrust.
"Strike south at once. Before the Saxons gather, seize Winchester itself."
"From Oxford it is forty miles," Ragnar objected. "Two days' march at best. But our men are spent. And that city was built by Rome itself—stone walls too high for rope and hook. It will take engines, and engines will take months."
But Ivar held his ground.
"If its garrison is weak, I take it. The war ends in a stroke. If not, I fall back and raid the stud farm as planned."
At last Ragnar yielded. Ivar gathered eight hundred volunteers and marched along the old Roman road.
Centuries of weather had buried the stonework, leaving only hardened earth winding through hills and woods. Spring rains made it mire, rutted with the scars of passing carts.
"Walls, roads, aqueducts… By Odin, what power did the Romans wield? Was it sorcery itself?" warriors muttered.
Two days brought them to the River Itchen. Fishermen cast nets from skiffs, ducks flocked in the reeds. Following the river south, the silhouette of Winchester rose before them.
"Faster. Forget the peasants," Ivar ordered, spurring his weary men. More and more fell behind, but he saw only the looming wall.
From three hundred paces, they saw the yellow dragon-banner of Wessex fluttering above the towers. Outside the gates, a long line of townsfolk waited to enter.
The Norse charge sent the queue scattering. But the guards slammed the gates in their faces, heedless of the peasants' cries.
"My lord, what now?"
"Withdraw!"
Glaring at the battlements bristling with archers, Ivar pulled back. From nearby villagers he wrung the location of the royal stud farm, then turned his force southwest, leaving the city behind.
~~--------------------------
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