Once the walls were breached, the battle dissolved into chaotic, brutal street fighting. In such close-quarter clashes, the tall, broad-shouldered Vikings held a natural advantage. By two in the afternoon, most of Winchester's defenders were dead or had surrendered. Only a few hundred men remained, barricaded inside the royal palace.
Half an hour later, Vig rode up to the outer courtyard and found Halfdan in a towering rage.
"Bring me everything that burns!" he roared. "I'll roast those fools alive!"
To show his rank, Halfdan had donned a white surcoat over his chainmail, emblazoned with a charred black oak tree—an image that made him look oddly like a crusader knight from a future age.
Under his orders, soldiers piled firewood outside the palace and soaked it in oil. Just as they were about to set it alight, Ragnar arrived with his royal guards and barked an order to stop.
"Hold! Send a prisoner inside with a message for Æthelwulf: I don't intend to kill him—nor to occupy Wessex."
"What?" Halfdan froze, staring blankly. He could not fathom what madness had seized his father. Seeing his brother's confusion, Ivar pushed him aside impatiently and carried out Ragnar's command.
A prisoner soon disappeared behind the palace doors. Facing the puzzled looks of his men, Ragnar sighed and explained, his voice steady but tired:
"Our strength is spent. We cannot hold all of Mercia, let alone Wessex in the south. The warriors yearn to return home. This war must end."
Half an hour later, Æthelwulf sent an envoy to parley.
Ragnar's message was simple:
"Æthelwulf may continue to rule Wessex—but only if he surrenders his crown and swears fealty to me."
Negotiations dragged on. Æthelwulf demanded that his faith and customs remain untouched; Ragnar insisted that Wessex cede Oxfordshire, surrender the customs rights of Southampton, and cap its army at a fixed number.
By dusk, debate narrowed to a single question. Ragnar frowned in thought.
"If Æthelwulf yields his crown willingly, what title shall he bear afterward? Earl of Wessex?"
At that moment, Godwin offered a suggestion drawn from Frankish custom.
"Your Majesty, in the Frankish feudal order, the title of earl—or 'count'—is common among the nobles. But above them stands another rank, one you could create here."
He picked up a charred stick and wrote a word on the ground: dux.
"Dux, from late Rome—meaning a military commander, a frontier defender. Charlemagne adopted the Frankish form duc for his border provinces—Bavaria, Aquitaine, and the like. A dux outranks all counts, enjoys near-autonomy, may levy taxes, mint coins, and enact local laws. It fits our situation perfectly."
Ragnar fell into long contemplation. None dared interrupt. Vig, listening nearby, recalled that dux was the ancestor of the English word duke.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Ragnar made his decision.
"Æthelwulf shall be Duke of Wessex. He will cede the northern borderlands—including Oxford—keep his army small, and yield Southampton's customs to us."
"Thegn Theowulf," Ragnar continued, "shall be Duke of Mercia. His wife carries royal Mercian blood; the people will accept him more readily. His duchy will cover western Mercia and the newly ceded Oxfordshire—half the realm it once was."
"As for Edmund of East Anglia—he surrenders willingly but is too weak to be made a duke. He will remain as Earl of East Anglia."
Bound by circumstance, Æthelwulf emerged from the palace with his family and knelt before Ragnar in submission.
Theowulf, on the other hand, was elated to accept his new title. He even toasted Ragnar as 'the Charlemagne of Britain', drawing an inward smirk from Vig:
"First Eric was the Charlemagne of the North, and now Ragnar is the Charlemagne of Britain. How many Charlemagnes does this world need?"
The ceremony of homage complete, Ragnar smiled mildly at his eager nobles.
"Who comes first?"
"Me! I'll go first!"
Ulf stepped forward before anyone else. "At Tamworth I slew Prince Burgred. Liverpool's too barren—grant me a better fief!"
Ragnar was about to consent—but a memory rose unbidden.
After the fall of York, seven nobles had jointly rejected Bjorn's petition for a title. Stung, Bjorn had left Britain altogether, choosing exile in Iceland over life among the ungrateful.
"My own son," Ragnar thought bitterly, "and he no longer calls this land home."
His eyes hardened. "Very well, Ulf. You'll have new land—Kent, on the southeastern coast. If the Franks invade, you'll be the first to meet them."
Having dispatched the greedy Ulf, Ragnar turned to his loyal men.
Nils was granted Nottingham.
Gunnar received Cambridge.
Orm was given Sussex, south of London.
To honor the Anglo-Saxons, Ragnar elevated Godwin as well—Earl of Suffolk, northeast of London.
London itself—Londinium—and the royal heartlands of Tamworth and Repton would remain under direct royal rule.
When the dukes and earls had been appointed, Ragnar still did not rest. Over the next two days, he knighted more than three hundred warriors for valor—one-third based in York, one-third in Tamworth, and one-third in London.
By instinct, he trusted his Norse knights far more than Anglo lords. Ringing the three royal centers with loyal estates would, he believed, keep rebellion in check.
The ceremonies ended in days of wild celebration. The high command feasted in Winchester Palace itself.
Halfdan and the others gawked at its luxury—gilded tapestries, carved ceilings, silver chalices. When Æthelwulf met their awe with the faintest trace of scorn, Halfdan bristled.
"Yes, you're rich," he snapped, "but what good is wealth when you've still lost?"
Æthelwulf merely smiled.
"This? This is nothing. The true riches lie across the sea—in West Francia. That land is fertile and overflowing with gold. Its wealth surpasses all seven Anglo kingdoms combined. If you—no, if we—turn our swords westward, we would gain far more than here."
The Vikings, drunk and flushed, roared their approval. Talk of vengeance filled the hall—of avenging their humiliation at Lothere, where Frankish knights had ridden them down like cattle.
Ragnar, woozy with wine, sought Vig's counsel.
"Vig… Vig?"
Only after a moment did he remember—the man was still outside the city, managing the camp.
Looking around, Ragnar saw his nobles slumped in their cups. No one left to think, no one sober. Alone amid the din, he whispered to himself:
"The Franks sent aid once—they may come again. Better to strike first than wait for the blow.
If next year I can raise fewer than three thousand men, we'll raid the coast in reprisal for Bald Charles' meddling. But if I gather a true host… we'll sail up the Seine itself—
and take Paris."
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