Viking Invasion-Chapter 70 – Strategy

As they approached the borders of Viking-controlled territory, Theowulf reined in his horse and turned to Rurik.

"My thanks," he said sincerely. "It’s rare to find a man among your kind who keeps his word. In these days, honesty is the truest treasure."

Rurik yawned, the reins loose in his hands. "A good reputation is worth more than gold. I’ve spent half a lifetime building mine—I won’t ruin it over a few cartloads of plunder."

He glanced southward, toward the undulating hills beyond the river. "You’re abandoning the lands your family has held for generations. Where will you go now?"

Theowulf’s expression was calm but weary. "I’ll see what remains. With Tamworth fallen and the royal house in ashes, there’ll be empty manors enough. Perhaps I’ll find one still standing."

After parting ways, Rurik led his men back north to Tamworth to report.

When he entered the great hall, Ragnar was at table. Beside him sat a towering woman—broad-shouldered, sun-haired, and freckled, her arms corded with muscle. She ate with the same appetite as any warrior, tearing meat from the bone and washing it down with honeyed mead.

"You must be the ’Chosen of the Gods,’ Rurik," she said with a grin. "I am Áslaug."

Finishing her drink, she rose, slung her cloak over one shoulder, and strode out with the unselfconscious authority of a shield-maiden born.

Áslaug?

The name sparked in Rurik’s memory. Later tales of Ragnar Lodbrok would speak of a woman by that name—queen, prophetess, and mother of kings. Could this be her?

Five minutes later, he stood before Ragnar, recounting the surrender at Nottingham. The king nodded approvingly, then summoned his captains and counselors.

A tattered map of Mercia was spread upon the long oak table. Ragnar’s finger traced the dark ink lines. "We hold Nottingham, Repton, and Tamworth—the richest belt of their lands. What say you all about the next step?" 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝘦𝘸𝑒𝒷𝓃ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝒸ℴ𝘮

Ulf was first to speak. "Divide the host. Strike at every settlement we can reach. Let no Mercian stronghold remain." His eyes gleamed with ambition. After his recent triumph, he hungered for a new domain to claim.

Ivar, still gaunt from his Irish campaigns, shook his head. "Mercia’s royal line may be broken, but two branches still live. We should crush them before they gather followers and proclaim a new king. End the war swiftly, or we’ll fight these ghosts forever."

He spoke with the weariness of a man who knew too well the cost of endless uprisings.

Then Rurik gave his counsel, calm and grim. "Three years ago we conquered all of Northumbria. Now we hold Tamworth and the Mercian crown lies in the dirt. The other five kingdoms are watching. None of them will sit idle while we grow stronger. Wessex above all—they are the richest, the best armed, and their king, Æthelwulf, may soon lead a holy league against us."

Ragnar frowned. "So what do you propose?"

"We must not scatter our strength. Keep the host gathered here in Tamworth, ready for whatever spring brings. Send word home for reinforcements—and in the meantime, send an envoy to Wessex. Let us test Æthelwulf’s mind before we draw the sword."

At the word envoy, both Pascale and Gudwin stiffened. As Angles themselves, they knew too well what fate awaited Viking messengers if diplomacy went awry.

Then, unexpectedly, a voice spoke from the lower end of the table. "Let me go."

All turned to see Gunnar, commander of the royal guard. Ragnar’s eyes softened with something like melancholy. He understood what his old comrade desired—to prove himself worthy of more than service, to win honor enough for land and title.

"You’ve thought this through?" Ragnar asked quietly.

"I have."

The king nodded. "Then so be it."

He gestured for Pascale to draft a letter. The scribe wrote carefully upon fine vellum, his quill scratching in the hush. When the ink dried, Ragnar rolled the sheet into a scroll, sealed it with red wax, and pressed his gold ring upon the molten drop, leaving the imprint of a lightning bolt.

"Go, then," he said, clapping Gunnar’s shoulder. "Let the Saxons see that the sons of Odin can speak as well as fight."

Within two days, the envoy was on his way. Gunnar rode south with two volunteers and a captured Mercian clerk to serve as interpreter.

The journey from Tamworth to the Wessex capital of Winchester spanned over a hundred miles—five days’ ride along the weathered bones of an old Roman road.

(A note on measure: the "mile" was born of Rome—one thousand paces, roughly 1,480 meters. In this chronicle, it shall be counted as 1,500 for simplicity’s sake.)

As they traveled, the captive clerk filled the silence with tales of Wessex’s rise.

"In the sixth century," he explained, "a warlord named Cerdic founded the realm. Through war and marriage it grew, until, after the death of King Offa of Mercia, Wessex under King Ecgberht crushed Mercia at Ellandun in 825. From then on, Wessex stood supreme among the English kingdoms."

By the third afternoon, the riders crossed into Wessex territory and entered the busy market town of Oxford.

Rurik’s fears, it seemed, were justified. Soldiers thronged every street; yellow dragon banners fluttered above the ramparts. Outside the walls, fields were crowded with hastily built huts for gathering militia.

"They’re preparing for war," murmured Gunnar.

The moment they raised the thunder-banner of Ragnar’s house, guards surrounded them. Rough hands pulled them from their horses and shoved them toward the local lord’s hall.

There, upon a high chair carved with serpents, sat an aging man with a mane of silver hair—Æthelwulf, King of Wessex. His sharp eyes swept over the three Vikings, filled with disgust yet not devoid of caution.

At a nod from him, a servant unrolled the sealed message and read it aloud.

The letter’s tone was measured and formal. Ragnar claimed that he had been provoked by Prince Burgred’s threats and forced into war in self-defense. He promised to occupy only a third of Mercia’s lands, leaving the remainder under the rule of surviving nobles.

"Self-defense?" Æthelwulf repeated with cold amusement. "He plunders kingdoms, and dares call himself a victim?" He crushed the parchment in his fist. "How noble."

His mind turned bitterly to the past. His father, Ecgberht, had once subdued all six English realms and sought to unite them under one crown. But that dream had died with the coming of these northern devils. Wessex had been forced to guard its coasts, its vassals slipping away one by one.

And now—Northumbria fallen, Mercia shattered—the next blow would surely fall upon Wessex itself.

"No," Æthelwulf said aloud, voice trembling with fury. "It ends here."

He tore Ragnar’s letter to shreds and hurled them at Gunnar’s feet. "Tell your master this," he roared. "When spring comes, I will march north in God’s name and cleanse every inch of England defiled by your heathen boots!"

The hall rang with his oath, and outside, the yellow banners of Wessex snapped in the rising wind, heralding the storm that would soon break over the land.