By March, the North Sea storms had finally begun to subside. From across the northern coasts, longships gathered one after another—countless Viking crews converging for what would become a raid unlike any before.
With troops plentiful, Vig sent a letter to Ragnar, requesting command over 1,200 men.
When permission came, Vig selected the best of the raiders and absorbed them into his own ranks, bringing his total force to two thousand. He organized them into two phalanxes, each composed of six hundred spearmen, two hundred shield-and-axe infantry, and two hundred archers and crossbowmen.
Weapons and provisions were abundant. Vig threw himself into training, drilling the two phalanxes relentlessly until April 10, when Ragnar himself arrived in Londinium at the head of the royal host.
The land beyond the city was now covered in a sea of tents. The banners of every noble in the kingdom fluttered proudly in the spring wind.
Ragnar looked around and asked the approaching Vig,
"How many men in total?"
"Including those who came with you, Your Majesty—ten thousand. And if we wait a bit longer, more raiders will surely arrive."
"Ten thousand…" Ragnar's eyes gleamed. The number far exceeded his expectations. For the first time in years, he felt an intoxicating surge of confidence.
"Then the Franks must already know we're coming. The longer we delay, the more time they'll have to prepare. Are the ships and supplies ready?"
Vig gestured for his shield-bearer to hand over a bundle of ledgers.
"Everything's in order, sire. We can depart whenever you give the word."
Ragnar laughed heartily, slapping Vig's shoulder.
"Good! We sail south in three days!"
But just before departure, troubling news arrived from Mercia—
the Welsh were raiding the western countryside, plundering grain stores.
"Those mountain bandits dare to strike first?" Ragnar's brows furrowed. His gaze swept across his assembled vassals, lingering on Ivar, Vig, and Gunnar. Before he could speak, his third son stepped forward.
"Father," said Halfdan, "they're nothing but forest thieves. Let me deal with them. The Franks are far worthier foes for you and the great lords here."
Halfdan knew his own limits—his skill, cunning, and fame were not yet equal to Ivar's or Vig's. If he joined the Frankish campaign, he would likely be assigned some trivial duty.
But if he could lead an independent campaign in Wales, victory would earn him real prestige—and perhaps a fief of his own, away from the stifling shadow of the royal court.
"You wish to lead an army?" Ragnar looked his son over, startled. Somewhere along the line, the boy had become a man—and Ragnar had failed to notice.
Lagertha… your son is grown now. The one you worried about the most.
A pang of melancholy struck him. Taking a long breath, he turned and unexpectedly called out another name:
"Æthelwulf! You will lead the campaign against the Welsh. Halfdan will serve as your second."
The hall fell silent.
It was a calculated move—Ragnar didn't trust Æthelwulf enough to give him free rein, so he ordered Æthelwulf's three sons to remain at court as royal hostages and accompany Ragnar himself to Francia.
"As you command, sire," Æthelwulf bowed, his face expressionless.
Halfdan clenched his jaw, hiding his disappointment, and followed suit.
Given his son's limited experience, Ragnar granted him only a thousand men. Wessex could easily muster another thousand local levies; together, two thousand would be more than enough to crush the Welsh raiders.
April 13, dawn.
At the Londinium docks, the Vikings held their sacrificial rites. When the priests' chants faded, Ragnar boarded the largest longship in the fleet and raised his arm to signal departure.
The fleet set off—five hundred and thirty longships in total, including two hundred heavy transports loaded with supplies and horses. From afar, they looked like a floating city of masts and sails.
Above the mainmast, the weather vane whirled and clattered. Ragnar glanced upward.
"A northeast wind," he grinned. "The gods favor us today."
The wind filled their sails. The armada slipped down the Thames estuary and hugged the English coast until they reached Dover, Britain's southeastern tip.
Across the channel lay Calais, just thirty kilometers away—the narrowest point of the strait. With favorable wind, the crossing could take six to eight hours; against the wind, it might stretch to days.
After resting overnight, the fleet launched again at dawn on April 14.
The morning mist lifted as the sun rose from the sea, gilding the chalk cliffs of Dover in shimmering gold.
"So this is Dover's White Cliffs…" Vig stood on deck, gazing at the five-kilometer stretch of shining cliffs, each a hundred meters high. "Who would've thought the most beautiful place in Britain would be here? Ulf's luck is truly enviable—getting this as his new fief."
The steady northeast wind carried them smoothly across the Channel. By sunset, the Viking fleet made landfall on the beaches of Calais.
On a distant hill, a small wooden keep stood alone, its bell tolling the alarm. Ragnar dismissed it with a wave.
"Ignore them. Keep west along the coast."
He knew full well that nine thousand men were far from enough to conquer all of West Francia. His true goal was to raid Paris, bleed Charles the Bald, and force him to sign a treaty—one that would guarantee peace for at least five years.
The fleet followed the jagged coastline, advancing cautiously. After four days, they reached the mouth of the Seine River.
Suddenly, smoke rose from the northern bank—first one column, then another, then a third.
"Signal fires…" Vig muttered. His fears had come true.
Before the invasion even began, some Anglo noble had betrayed them to the Franks.
Vig's thoughts sharpened.
"Æthelwulf," he whispered. "No one else gains by warning the Franks. If Ragnar's host were destroyed, Æthelwulf could rally his army, seize undefended lands, and declare himself king of all the Angles under the banner of 'driving out the Vikings.'"
He clenched his jaw.
"Foolish, reckless king… He should never have left Æthelwulf behind. Even with his sons as hostages, that man won't sit idle."
Fighting upstream against the Seine's current, the oarsmen strained at their benches while the faint northeast wind nudged the ships along.
After two days' sailing through the river's winding bends, the fleet came to a halt.
A massive iron chain stretched across the river, blocking their path. On the northern bank stood a fortified town with five-meter stone walls—Rouen. On the southern bank, a small wooden fort sat unfinished, its watchtower still under construction.
"An iron river chain?" Vig frowned. "That's… quite the trick."
Forging such a barrier required enormous effort and skill. Clearly, Charles the Bald had learned of the invasion months earlier and had spent the better part of a year preparing for this defense.
"This complicates things."
Vig took a small boat to Ragnar's flagship. After a brief council of war, the nobles reached a decision:
They would attack the southern fort first.
It was smaller, weaker, and unfinished—far easier to take than the walled town across the river.
~~--------------------------
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