Viking Invasion-Chapter 97 – Wales

Ragnar studied the map for a long while, his eyes tracing every ridge and valley. At last he summoned Æthelwulf, appointing him as Rurik’s lieutenant. As Duke of Mercia, Æthelwulf’s lands bordered Wales—making him the natural choice for such a post.

Outside the command tent, Æthelwulf advised, "We should recruit more men."

Rurik nodded. "Since the royal treasury is covering all expenses, I plan to expand the force to four thousand. Absolute strength will crush them before they can resist."

After more than two months of campaigning, his own corps had withered to fourteen hundred men.

When the spoils were divided, only a thousand chose to remain in service.

Counting the militia Æthelwulf could raise from his own estates, Rurik intended to recruit two thousand more.

The two men then took ship up the Thames to Oxford, where Halfdan and his four hundred battered survivors were resting.

The air inside the house next to the manor was thick with the scent of herbs. Halfdan lay upon a bed, eyes closed, his left arm swathed in heavy bandages. Two maids stood silently at his side.

"What happened?" Rurik dismissed the attendants and demanded an account of the campaign.

At the sight of them, Halfdan understood that they had come to relieve him of command. He answered listlessly:

"There’s little to tell. Æthelwulf and I led twenty-five hundred men into the mountains to suppress bandits. The enemy refused a pitched battle, harassing us day after day with arrows. Then one night they launched a full-scale assault. I broke out through the chaos, but an arrow struck my arm."

"A night raid? How many were there? Did Æthelwulf betray you—leak your plans and collude with the Welsh?"

Halfdan barely stirred.

"The darkness was too thick to count them. As for Æthelwulf—he’s a decent man. Had he not covered my retreat, the Welsh would have finished me where I stood."

Rurik almost laughed aloud. Remarkable—betrayed, and still he speaks well of his betrayer.

He stifled the urge to smile and urged Halfdan to rest, then went to question the common soldiers about the enemy’s tactics.

At the mention of the Welsh, the men shuddered. One officer summed it up grimly:

"Bows and arrows—nothing but arrows. They came from every direction. Blink once and you’re dead."

Sensing the skepticism in Rurik’s and Æthelwulf’s eyes, the officer ordered ten captured yew-wood bows to be brought in, each between one-and-a-half and one-point-eight meters long.

"My lords, their archers are fearsome. Six arrows a minute with aim—twelve without. Range, power, accuracy—everything surpasses our bowmen."

Rurik picked up one of the yew bows and drew it. The pull was astonishingly heavy—few ordinary men could bend it.

Judging by its strength and construction, he realized this "yew bow" must be the ancestor of the English longbow.

In later centuries, the longbowman would become England’s most famous warrior—capable of both direct fire and high-arching volleys from behind the lines. The weapon’s killing power was immense, though its training demanded years of labor.

Rurik ordered thirty Welsh prisoners to be brought before him. At a glance he picked out five longbowmen: their spines warped, left arms thickened with muscle, right-hand joints grotesquely enlarged.

"How long does it take to train a longbowman?"

The oldest among them, hearing the question through the interpreter, lifted his head proudly.

"Five years to learn the basics and harden the body. Ten years to master it. Looking at you fools, I’d say twenty wouldn’t be enough."

Rurik nodded slightly. The man was not wrong—training such archers was an art of patience.

Centuries later, King Edward I of England would issue the Archery Act of 1363, commanding every man to practice archery on Sundays under penalty of heavy fines. Thus was forged England’s legendary corps of longbowmen—effective, but hardly suited to the present campaign.

After a long silence, Rurik sighed.

"The longbow and its heavy shafts are formidable—but ten years is too long a wait."

Back at camp, he selected a small detachment and sent them with the treasure and horses back to Tynborough.

"Tell Kardel that every forge is to turn out crossbows—nothing else—until this Welsh war is over."

He also wrote a long letter to Ragnar, requesting at least six hundred suits of iron armor.

"What in Odin’s name do you need so many for?" Æthelwulf asked.

Rurik explained his plan: to pit armored crossbowmen against the Welsh longbowmen.

The idea was inspired by the most famous mercenaries of the later Middle Ages—the Genoese crossbowmen. They fought in mail and plate, bearing large shields and wielding the crossbow in two ways:

They loaded with their backs to the enemy, then turned to shoot.

Or they planted their heavy pavise in the ground, crouched behind it, and fired from cover.

"Crossbows against longbows?"

Æthelwulf neither approved nor objected, focusing instead on securing supplies.

By July, the troops and baggage trains had assembled. Rurik began drilling his crossbowmen. After three weeks, eight hundred of them could shoot with serviceable precision.

In addition, the army had over five hundred bowmen. Rurik ordered some to be outfitted with iron armor and built dozens of hand-pushed carts—each fronted with a great shield—to advance under cover while the archers and crossbowmen loosed their bolts.

During the training period, Rurik made discreet inquiries among the traders. From them he learned that the two greatest powers in Wales were the Kingdom of Powys in the east—bordering Mercia—and the Kingdom of Gwynedd in the northwest.

His plan was to crush Powys first, then march on Gwynedd, using that momentum to compel the remaining lords to submit.

At the council of war, he issued two guiding principles to his officers:

"Build strong camps, fight steady battles;

To conquer cities is secondary—to win hearts is paramount."

"In my experience, the common folk are seldom loyal to their lords. So long as we do not plunder their homes, they care little whose banner flies above them."

To curb looting, Rurik sent a letter to Londinium, requesting that Ragnar allocate funds to pay every soldier’s wage.

"Pacify and punish in turn; use armored crossbowmen against longbowmen; pay the army from the treasury..."

Ragnar rubbed his temples in frustration.

At the moment, Ivar had returned to Dublin to deal with the endless Irish unrest, and Gunnar was entangled in negotiations with the Franks.

Aside from those two and Rurik, no other noble had the skill for such a task. Ragnar could, in theory, lead the Welsh campaign himself—but doing so might unsettle the entire realm.

He sighed for a long time, then finally accepted Rurik’s plan.