Viking Invasion-Chapter 76 – Expectations

The two armies at last disengaged. The Northmen withdrew into the fortress of Ratworth, taking advantage of the steep terrain and solid walls to fortify their position. On the other side, the forces of Wessex fell back fifteen miles to the south, where they encamped upon the vast grounds of a noble estate.

Though the Viking host had not been utterly broken, the sight of the Frankish cavalry cleaving twice through their ranks filled the Wessex camp with triumph. Four hundred riders — and no more — had shattered over a thousand raiders, cut a path through the encircling foe, and emerged bloodied but alive. It was a victory such as men would speak of for generations. To honor their valor, King Æthelwulf decreed a feast for these foreign knights, whose arms had turned the tide.

At the long table, gazing down at the young warriors below, the old king’s heart was full of thoughts both solemn and exultant.

The longships of the sea-wolves were ill-suited for bearing horses; that alone condemned the Vikings to fight on foot. Their raids had always relied on swiftness and surprise, on the savagery of axe and shield, yet against a wall of charging horsemen they could only stand and die. For years, the men of the Angles had been forced to meet them as equals on foot, lacking the stirrup that gave true mastery of the saddle. But the age had turned. With the coming of the stirrup and the breeding of fine destriers from the continent, the power of the mounted knight had reached Britain. The sea-kings’ proud infantry advantage waned, and with it, perhaps, the long night of coastal plunder.

While he pondered thus, the ealdorman of Oxfordshire broke the silence to ask of the campaign’s next course. Æthelwulf raised his head and spoke gravely.

"Cavalry," said the king. "Now I see it plain — the fate of war turns upon the horse. After yesterday’s battle, we have two hundred riders still fit for duty, and scarcely eighty mounts sound enough to bear them. I have resolved to rest here until more horses come from the rear. When they arrive, we shall march again and meet Ragnar in open field."

"His Majesty is wise indeed," came the chorus of flatterers.

The hall swelled with praise and laughter. Though they camped but a day’s march from the enemy, the king’s steward had contrived a feast worthy of Winchester itself — livestock seized from nearby villagers, loaves still warm from the bakehouse, and casks of ale rolled in from the countryside. Merriment rose to the rafters, yet one man at the table sat in silence, his face shadowed with unease.

At last he rose and approached the king. "Your Majesty," he said, bowing low, "about the proposal I laid before you?"

He spoke twice before Æthelwulf stirred from thought. "Lord Ceolwulf," the king replied, his tone stiff, "I have not forgotten your petition. There is no need to remind me of it each day."

Ceolwulf withdrew with a stiff bow.

Since leaving Nottingham, he had led a thousand refugees southward, carving out a precarious refuge under Wessex’s protection. When news reached him of Æthelwulf’s northern campaign, he saw his chance. Mercia lay in ruin, its royal line broken — the last two heirs debauched, despised, unfit to bear a crown. But Ceolwulf’s wife was of distant kin to that fallen house. Why should not she reign as queen, and he beside her as king? Together they might restore Mercia — under Wessex’s favor, perhaps, but as sovereigns nonetheless.

Ten days ago he had presented this vision to the court. The answer had been evasive.

Five days later he pressed the matter again, and the king promised only to "consider it."

Now, as the feast thundered around him, Ceolwulf felt dread gnawing at his heart. When Æthelwulf brushed him off a third time, he knew the meaning beneath those words.

He left the hall and wandered into the night. In the chill wind, the torches along the palisade flickered like wavering stars. Passing a granary, he caught the sound of laughter within — his own name among the words. Curiosity and fear drove him closer.

Inside were a handful of palace guards, half drunk, huddled about a stolen keg of ale.

"Hah! Ceolwulf’s a fool," one slurred. "Thinks he can crown himself king of Mercia. Does he fancy Æthelwulf spent all this gold for justice alone?"

Another belched and waved his cup. "Aye. Once the Norse are driven out, our good king’ll wear two crowns — Wessex and Mercia alike. And we, my lads, shall have our share — estates for every man that fought beside him!"

Their coarse laughter filled the air.

Ceolwulf’s face went pale. From their drunken chatter, a clearer picture formed: Æthelwulf was courting the Church and the great nobles, offering them confiscated lands in exchange for their voices at the next Witan — the council that would declare him overlord of all England.

The spoils would be vast. So many lords and thegns had fallen at Tamworth that the soil itself seemed heirless. Chester, Worcester, Cambridge — names tumbled from the drunkards’ lips. And then, like a knife between the ribs, one word more: Nottingham.

Nottingham. My land. My hall, my people. Had they already written me off as dead?

The night breeze cooled the sweat on his neck, but it did nothing for the trembling in his hands. Rage gave way to terror. Without his estate, what was left? A ragged band of a hundred loyal men, a thousand wretched refugees, and a wife whose lineage was now a liability. If he had never spoken his ambition aloud, Æthelwulf might have granted him some modest holding — so long as he bent the knee at the Witan. But from the moment he dared claim a crown, he had ceased to be a client and become a rival.

And rivals, in Æthelwulf’s court, did not live long.

He remembered the king’s gaze — calm, assessing, almost tender, the way a farmer looks upon a hen he means to slaughter. Ceolwulf shivered.

"No," he whispered. "He would not dare—"

But the words rang hollow in his ears.

That night he returned to his quarters, pacing till dawn. By morning, his resolve had hardened. He summoned the royal steward, pressed into his palm a necklace of gold — his wife’s last dowry.

The steward weighed it in his hand with a practiced smile and drew him aside. "My lord," he murmured, "what favor do you seek?"

"My wife’s claim to the throne of Mercia," Ceolwulf said, forcing steadiness into his voice. "Has His Majesty reached a decision?"

The steward’s smile did not falter. "His Majesty is still deliberating, my lord. He desires only peace and stability for your realm. Among all candidates, believe me, he holds you in the highest esteem."

Ceolwulf bowed, murmuring thanks, but the words turned to ash in his mouth. He could taste the lie.

That evening, he donned a peasant’s cloak, slipped through the stables, and fled the camp. He did not seek out his followers; what use were a hundred men against a king’s host? Through the night he rode north, avoiding the highways, until by the next dusk the black walls of Ratworth loomed ahead.

When Viking sentries raised their bows, he threw up his hands and called out the only word he knew they might understand — "Rurik!"

They did not comprehend his tongue, but his meaning was plain enough. They dragged him before the gate captain, who eyed the weary fugitive with suspicion and led him under guard into the great hall.

Inside, noblemen dined amid flickering torchlight. At word of an Anglo-Saxon seeking audience, Rurik rose from his seat and went to the door. There he found a familiar figure — gaunt, mud-streaked, trembling.

"Lord Ceolwulf?" he said slowly. "What brings you here?"

Ceolwulf met his gaze. "Surrender," he said simply.

Rurik’s eyes narrowed. "And why now?"

It was a fair question. This was the same man who had defied them for three long months in Nottingham, who had refused every summons of allegiance, choosing exile over submission.

"I sought to claim Mercia’s crown," Ceolwulf confessed, voice low. "But Æthelwulf covets it as well. I fear for my life, and for my wife’s. I come to you for refuge... and for alliance."

Rurik studied him for a long while. There was truth in his words — or at least enough of it to serve a purpose. He nodded to his guards.

"Search him," he ordered. "If he carries no weapon, take him to Ragnar. Let the jarl hear what this man has to say."