Viking Invasion-Chapter 79 — The Pursuit

Evening shadows had fallen when the commanders of Wessex gathered within the manor’s great hall for supper. The long table gleamed with trenchers of stewed mutton and pewter cups brimming with ale, yet the mood was sullen. The king’s officers, their mail still dusted with the grime of campaign, dined in uneasy silence until a breathless courier brought grim tidings.

The mounted detachment sent north had been ambushed.

"Is the other supply road secure?" one commander asked, setting down his cup.

"I dispatched scouts this morning," Æthelwulf replied. "No word has returned."

The men exchanged glances. Forks clinked idly against bowls. Weariness hung in the air like damp mist. For months they had fought an unseen foe who struck from shadow, plundering villages and melting away before a counterblow could be struck.

They had scarcely resumed eating when the door burst open. A royal guard entered at a run, mud spattering his greaves.

"Sire!" he cried. "The fishing village south of the river was attacked at midday. We recaptured it two hours later, but most of the boats were burned. The rest—" he hesitated, breath ragged— "the rest were taken by Ivar."

A murmur rippled through the hall. Æthelwulf’s hand tightened around his cup until the metal bent. His cautious plan of defense and counterstroke had crumbled utterly. With his lines of supply severed, there remained but one course left to him—battle.

If he could defeat Ragnar in open field, the kingdom might yet breathe again. Victory would let him reclaim the river villages, restore the flow of provisions, and march north with renewed strength to strike the Danes where they camped.

Defeat, however—

No. He thrust the thought aside. There would be no defeat.

That night, Æthelwulf paced his tent long after the fires of the camp had dimmed. When dawn came, he gave the order. The host would march out at first light and offer battle on the open plain.

The armies met upon a wide sea of ripening wheat, the golden stalks crushed beneath thousands of boots. Shield walls bristled on both sides, inching forward with grim deliberation. There were no gallant charges, no thunder of horsemen—only the slow, grinding clash of spear against shield, man against man. The air filled with shouts, with the dull clang of iron, with the smell of sweat and blood.

For a time neither side yielded. Then, as the sun climbed high, the shield wall of Wessex began to waver. Step by step, it gave ground before the roaring Danes.

"Hold the line!" Æthelwulf shouted. Seeing the left wing buckle, he hurled in his reserve—the two hundred men of the royal guard. They fought with the ferocity of cornered wolves, and for a moment the Saxon line steadied. But even as order returned to the left, disaster struck the right.

From the northern wood came a thunder of feet—seven hundred Viking reinforcements pouring from the trees, and among them, two hundred horsemen whose armor flashed in the sun.

The king’s heart turned cold. He had barely four hundred men left in his immediate retinue—one hundred guardsmen and three hundred archers. Gathering them close, he formed a desperate line and advanced to meet the new assault. It was like striking a cliff with bare hands. The Viking infantry smashed them apart.

Yet the mounted Danes did not charge. They stood immobile, arrayed in perfect order, their great steeds pawing the earth. That silent menace was more terrible than any assault. Men whispered that they faced the chosen riders of Odin himself. Fear seeped through the Saxon ranks like frost through stone.

Half an hour later, the army of Wessex broke. The shield wall crumbled, and the field became a rout. Only then did Æthelwulf understand the cruel ruse—the Viking "horsemen" were but a bluff, their steeds untrained for war, their riders no cavalry at all. Ragnar had deceived him utterly.

Swept along by fleeing men, the king turned once more toward the field. "By the Devil!" he cried, his voice hoarse with rage. "We’ve been tricked—tricked by the man with the serpent banner!"

When the slaughter was done, Ragnar gave orders that the fugitives be pursued. Lightly armed bands were sent ranging across the fields, cutting down those who ran. Then he himself rode out to the place where the tall horses stood tethered—great beasts with sleek coats and proud bearing, prizes taken from the Frankish lands.

Swinging from his saddle, he ran a hand along the glossy mane of one, tracing the hard muscles beneath. "Aye," he said softly, "this is what a true warhorse should be. Are these all of them?"

Rurik removed his helmet and bowed. "Aye, lord. One hundred and forty Frankish steeds fit for battle, and sixty lesser nags fit only for burden."

Ragnar smiled—a rare, boyish smile. "Then let every man who rode in the charge take his share." At his signal, the treasure chests were opened, and seven hundred pounds of silver spilled forth in a gleaming torrent. Coins rolled over the grass, glinting like fish scales in sunlight. The warriors gasped. Laughter broke out, rough and exultant. Men flung their helmets skyward, shouting Ragnar’s name.

When the last coin had been claimed, the earl ordered that the captured horse-handlers be brought forward. Pale with fear, they knelt before him.

"You serve me now," Ragnar told them. "Tend these beasts well, and you will live." They nodded eagerly, and one among them—an older man with grizzled hair—ventured to speak.

"My lord," he said, "we came from the royal stables near Winchester. The West Saxon king bought seven hundred warhorses from the Franks after the tournament at Oxford—two thousand and three hundred pounds of silver’s worth. Five hundred more are kept at the royal stud outside the city."

Ragnar’s eyes widened. "Winchester..." he murmured, as though tasting the word. Then he laughed, loud and long. "By Thor’s hammer, the gods themselves have delivered it into our hands!"

That night, he laid plans for a bold new strike. At dawn, after a brief rest, he chose two thousand of his fittest men and set out southward, driving the weary army hard toward Oxford.

Two days later, his column met that of Ivar, who had been raiding along the river. Together they advanced swiftly through the spring fields, taking only what food the land could give. When at last they reached Oxford, they wasted no time. From four directions they attacked, ropes and grappling hooks flying against the stone walls. Arrows rained from above; stones crashed down, splintering shields. More than a hundred fell before the Danes gained the parapet, seizing a narrow breach on the eastern wall.

Like water through a broken dam, the Vikings poured in. The local reeve rallied his militia, but their courage melted before the northern fury. Ivar himself cut the man down, and with his death, all resistance vanished. The Northmen swept through the streets. Oxford was taken.

That evening, Ragnar sat in the reeve’s hall, slumped in a carved chair, listening to Rurik’s report while the fire crackled low.

"No word of Æthelwulf, lord," Rurik said, "but we took many captives—priests, scribes, and young pages, a hundred and thirty in all."

Ragnar sighed. "The king eludes us still. Keep the captives under guard. They may yet serve some use."

He rubbed his temples. The long weeks of battle had worn him to the bone. Ivar entered quietly, his face shadowed by the flicker of torchlight.

"Father," he said, "while they scatter before us, we must not tarry. If I strike south now, I can reach Winchester before they gather strength."

Ragnar frowned. "It is forty miles to the city, and our men are spent. Even the gods rest after conquest. Besides—Winchester was built by the Romans. Its walls are stone and lofty. No rope will scale them. You’ll need engines, and months of work."

But Ivar’s eyes shone with that wild, unbreakable light. "If their walls are empty, I’ll take them by storm. If not, I’ll seize the royal stud and cripple their horse supply. Either way, the blow will end this war."

Ragnar studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Go, then. And may Odin walk with you."

The next morning, Ivar handpicked eight hundred volunteers and turned his face to the south. They followed the old Roman road, its stones long buried under centuries of soil, leaving only the hard-packed earth winding between hills and copses. Spring rain had softened the ground; wheels and hooves sank deep, and pools of muddy water gleamed beneath the grey sky.

"Roads, walls, aqueducts..." one warrior muttered, staring at the moss-grown ruins along the way. "By Odin, what sorcery did the Romans wield to build such things?"

Two days brought them to the River Itchen. Fishermen cast their nets among the reeds; wild ducks rose in flocks as the Northmen passed. Following the river southward, they soon saw the shape of Winchester rising from the plain—a fortress of stone and shadow, banners of the yellow dragon snapping on its towers.

"Faster!" Ivar cried, though his own limbs ached with exhaustion. The Vikings pressed on, some staggering, others falling behind. Still they ran, their eyes fixed on the walls gleaming in the light of the setting sun.

When they came within bowshot, the city gates were still open. Peasants crowded to enter before nightfall. For one breathless instant, Ivar thought fortune smiled. Then the horns blared, the portcullis thundered down, and the gate was shut. Arrows gleamed above the parapets.

"What now, lord?" asked one of his men.

Ivar looked long at the ramparts, at the archers massing there. Then he drew his cloak tight. "We withdraw."

From the villagers they captured nearby, he learned the location of the royal stud west of the city. Without further delay, he turned his column toward it, leaving Winchester’s mighty walls behind.

The hunt was not yet done.