Viking Invasion-Chapter 87 – Londinium

At dawn the following morning, Rurik rode out to the cavalry field beyond the city gates. The air was sharp with frost, and the grounds thrummed with the noise of training. Four hundred horsemen had gathered there, among them Gunnar, whose voice carried above the din like the crack of a whip.

Given that few of their number possessed any real mastery of horsemanship, Gunnar had elected to focus on a single art—the couched-lance charge. Each rider bore a shield upon his left arm and a three-meter spear gripped firm beneath the right armpit. With the improved high-arched saddles and long stirrups recently introduced, the swaying of the rider’s body during a charge had been greatly reduced, lending far greater precision to their strikes.

Rurik watched in silence from the field’s edge as twelve mounted men arrayed themselves into a single, gleaming rank. Sunlight slanted across the pale winter sky, flashing along their spearheads.

"Walk forward!" came the order.

The leading rider tucked his training lance beneath his arm and touched his spurs lightly to his mount’s flank. The horse snorted and began to move, hooves thudding rhythmically upon the packed earth.

After a short distance, the officer’s voice rang again: "Trot!" 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝙚𝔀𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝒐𝒎

The twelve horses broke into a brisk run, raising a cloud of yellow dust that sent sparrows fluttering from the fence posts. The ground trembled under the gathering rhythm of hooves.

When only a hundred paces remained between the line and the row of straw dummies, the leader shouted with all his might: "Charge!"

The sound that followed was thunder unbound—iron-shod hooves drumming like a storm. At thirty paces, all the lances leveled as one; and in a breath, the twelve riders struck. The targets exploded under the impact—straw bursting into the air like a scattering of gold dust.

A gray-haired officer stalked forward to inspect their work.

"Five hits true," he barked. "Three astray, and four—missed entirely!"

"Fools! Idiots! Blockheads! Dolts!" he roared, delivering a resounding slap to each of the four offenders in turn. The blows rang loud enough to make the bystanders blanch.

"With this pitiful skill, how will you ever face the Frankish knights? His Majesty grants you manors and honors—is this how you repay him?"

His tirade continued for several minutes until the next squad took their places. Again came the rhythm of hooves, the thud of lances striking home—and again, the inevitable storm of curses. Across the entire training ground, the air was thick with the sounds of anger and discipline, Gunnar himself descending now and then from his horse to deliver harsher punishment when the results were abysmal.

Rurik could not help a faint, rueful smile.

"Perhaps my own temper is too mild," he murmured to himself.

Yet the progress was undeniable. In only half a year, they had reached a level fit for battle. With Gunnar commanding the cavalry, their chances in the coming war had increased—if only by a small but precious margin.

Leaving the field, Rurik resumed his journey southward. As his company passed through the lands of Mercia, he noted with satisfaction how the heavy iron ploughs had become ever more common; nearly every prosperous farmer owned one now. In several estates he saw also the beginnings of the three-field system—a novelty here, though destined to spread across England in time.

"If left to the people’s will," Rurik reflected from the saddle, "it would take more than ten years to see such methods everywhere. But once the three-field system is common, the prices of oats, barley, and peas will fall—while wheat shall rise."

He resolved at once to write to Helgifu in Tynburg, bidding her hold the granary’s wheat for now and buy more if possible. A prudent delay could mean profit when the harvest turned.

By late afternoon, they entered Oxford, where the watchtower flew Theowulf’s blue banner, its center embroidered with a crimson camellia in bloom. Out of courtesy among peers, Theowulf invited his guest to a banquet that night.

"Any tidings from York?" he asked over the wine.

"The queen Aslaki bore twins—a son and a daughter. His Majesty was elated, held a grand celebration, and even promised to remit the city’s taxes," Rurik replied.

"Then let us drink," said Theowulf quickly, raising his cup. "To the health of the royal infants!"

A cautious man by nature, Theowulf had survived by surrendering early. Among the Anglo-Saxon lords, his name carried little honor, and he knew that his safety rested wholly upon Ragnar’s favor. So long as the king chose to shield him, none of his vassals dared rise in rebellion.

"Last month," Theowulf added, "I purchased two fine gemmed necklaces—just enough for both of the newborns."

Rurik gave no comment. Such gestures might indeed endear one to Ragnar and Queen Aslaki—but they risked provoking Queen Sola, who though quiet of late, would one day contend for influence, both for her own pride and for her son Ubbe’s claim to succession.

For his part, Rurik’s alliances were clear. Ever since his campaigns eastward with Ivar and Bjorn, his bond with the former had only deepened. Now that Bjorn had fled to the distant isle of Iceland, renouncing all thought of kingship, the path ahead was drawn sharply: when the time came, Rurik would have no choice but to stand beside Ivar.

He sighed.

"Battles to fight, lands to govern, bandits to root out, the tongues of the Angles and the Romans to master—and every word to the royal family weighed like a blade upon my throat. Gods, what a life."

Theowulf, misreading his tone, thumped his chest with earnest zeal.

"If you need anything—ships, tools, men—say the word! I will prove to His Majesty that my loyalty is as steadfast as any lord’s."

"Your goodwill is noted," Rurik said simply.

Departing Oxford, they followed the Thames eastward. The river wound gently through the lowlands, gathering tributaries until it swelled broad as a lake. By the time they reached Londinium, its waters stretched several hundred meters from bank to bank.

"What a desolate sight," Rurik murmured.

This was not yet the bustling capital history would one day know. The city of the Thames was but a shadow of its Roman past—a weary town clinging to the remnants of greatness. The old stone walls, raised by Roman hands centuries ago, still stood sentinel, guarding the inhabitants from the occasional sea-raider. Inside, the ruins lay silent: the public baths long fallen, the amphitheater a heap of shattered marble where children now played among weeds that pushed between the paving stones.

"The ruins say nothing, yet they speak of rise and fall," Rurik mused aloud. "Broken tiles and empty arches—remnants of an age of light. Give it a century or two, and even these bones shall be dust."

At the city’s heart, in the governor’s hall, he presented Ragnar’s sealed letter, declaring that he was henceforth to oversee Londinium and all its operations. This place would serve as the staging ground for the coming campaign, and soon the warehouses would overflow with supplies sent from every corner of the realm. Rurik’s charge was to restore them, organize the stores, and maintain strict order among the swelling host of soldiers.

Ragnar’s command had been unambiguous:

"Londinium is royal ground, and the future seat of our realm. Let not a single stone of it suffer harm."

Rurik took the words to heart. He spent the following days inspecting every record and ledger, and then set out to tour the city in person.

At the southern gate, beyond the crumbling streets, he found life and motion. The wooden piers stretched out over the clear, green water, where more than thirty merchant vessels lay moored. Laborers, their backs glistening with sweat, carried sacks of grain and wool along the gangplanks, their breath rising in pale white clouds.

The dockmaster’s books told their tale plainly: Londinium traded chiefly with the Flanders coast, exporting wool, salted fish, and hides, while importing glassware, wine, and the metals of iron, copper, and tin.

Yorlen, Rurik’s aide, leaned close and spoke in a low voice:

"My lord, shall we detain these merchants? Best not let them carry tales abroad."

Rurik rubbed his eyes wearily. "No doubt Wessex has already whispered word of our movements to the Franks," he said. After a moment’s thought, he nodded. "Still... do as you suggest. Better late than careless."

And with that quiet order, the gears of the war began to turn.