novelraw Chapter 183: Severed Ties
Chapter 183: Severed Ties
Inside the main hall of the Royal Palace, a multitude of nobles argued vehemently around a massive map. Upon noticing Ragnar's arrival, they immediately ceased their bickering and bowed in respect.
According to merchant rumors, Charles the Bald was also preparing for war. After much deliberation, Ragnar decided to set out the very next day, aiming to cross the sea and make landfall before the enemy could fully assemble their forces. Their destination remained Calais.
Given that their army had swelled to twenty-one thousand men, Ragnar chose to divide the host into three separate forces, commanded by himself, Ivar, and Wigg.
A murmur of confusion rippled through the crowd. "What about Gunnar?" someone asked.
Ragnar's expression darkened. He shot a meaningful glance at Hrolf, and the Minister of Foreign Affairs quickly produced a letter from Gunnar, reading it aloud for all to hear.
In the letter, Gunnar declared that he was renouncing his feudal allegiance to Ragnar. He listed two primary reasons for this drastic decision.
First, Gunnar accused his monarch of profound unfairness and excessive favoritism toward his third son, Halfdan. When the boy had barely come of age, Ragnar had commissioned him to conquer Wales, fully intending to crown him the Duke of Wales upon his success. The campaign had ended in utter disgrace, leaving others, namely Wigg and Theowulf, to clean up the disastrous mess.
Even after being granted the fief of Gothenburg, Halfdan continued his reckless behavior, dragging an army of tens of thousands into a futile expedition across Northern Europe. They had toiled for half a year and gained absolutely nothing, plunging the royal family into massive debt and leaving the nobles with long-overdue payments.
"Your Majesty, why must everyone else suffer the consequences of your family's personal matters?" the letter challenged.
Second, Gunnar confessed that he had converted to Roman Catholicism. He refused to aid heathens in attacking a ruler of his own faith, especially since Charles the Bald was technically his liege lord."...Your Majesty, this is the last time I shall ever address you with that title. From this moment forth, we are enemies. Farewell, my brother."
The moment Hrolf finished reading, an uproar erupted across the hall.
For the longest time, Wigg, Ivar, and Gunnar had been the three most capable commanders under Ragnar's banner. Gunnar possessed an exceptional talent for horsemanship, making him an incredibly rare cavalry commander among the Vikings. Without him, they could not even find a suitable replacement to lead their mounted forces.
As the heated discussions gradually subsided, Ragnar formally announced that Gunnar was stripped of his title as the Earl of Cambridge. "He has defected to the Franks. He is no longer our brother."
Suddenly, fourteen-year-old Ubbe muttered a quiet complaint. "If that is the case, why didn't we kill him sooner? We clearly had plenty of opportunities."
Hrolf, standing nearby, leaned in to explain. "In recent years, Gunnar has been our biggest warhorse smuggler. If we had killed him, where would we have gotten so many cavalrymen?"
Thanks to seven long years of warhorse smuggling, the cavalry numbers in the Kingdom of Britain had surged dramatically. They had managed to muster two thousand riders for this campaign, marking a significant leap in military might compared to their previous endeavors.
"Ahem," Ragnar coughed, interrupting the murmurs, and began to assign the various units to their respective commanders. To his dismay, the scene only grew more chaotic. The relationships among the vassals were intensely complicated, and many loudly protested against fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with their sworn rivals.
For instance, Ulf refused to work with Leonard, Hrolf clashed with Niels, and Halfdan was at odds with several participating Swedish nobles.
After a grueling hour of relentless shouting, they finally finalized the chain of command. Wigg was assigned a total of six thousand men. This included his two thousand six hundred direct subordinates, along with Ulf's one thousand men, Pascal Jr.'s seven hundred, and over one thousand seven hundred Swedish light infantry.
Clearing his throat, Wigg spoke with utmost gravity. "I am sure you have all heard of my reputation. I have many rules. If you are unwilling to obey them, I suggest you join His Majesty's or Ivar's forces while you still have the chance."
Ulf was an old acquaintance who had long since adapted to Wigg's combat style; he knew that following him would never lead to a disadvantage.
Pascal Jr. was only eighteen this year. Much like his father, Pascal, he had no talent for martial prowess and only wished to survive this war in one piece.
As for the remaining seven Swedish nobles, they had few demands. As long as they were kept far away from Halfdan, they were perfectly content.
The strategic discussions stretched late into the night. Yawning, Wigg finally departed the Royal Palace. Glancing around, he spotted his nephew loudly bragging and chatting with several palace guards.
"Leif!"
The young man hurriedly jogged over. "Uncle, when are we crossing the sea? My sword is thirsting for enemy blood."
Sighing heavily, Wigg ordered his nephew to draw his weapon, deciding to teach him a preemptive lesson. "What did you say?" Leif asked, confused.
"Draw your sword!"
Leif complied. Suddenly, a dark blur flashed before his eyes. A sharp strike hit his right wrist, forcing him to reflexively drop the hilt. Before he could react, another dark blur slammed into him, sending him crashing stiffly to the ground. He stared blankly up at the brilliant starry sky overhead. 'Who am I? Where am I?'
After two full minutes of recovery, Leif struggled to pick himself up from the dirt. Realizing that Wigg had completely defeated him using nothing but a scabbard, his boastful excitement instantly deflated.
"Remember this," Wigg warned coldly. "Those guards only flatter you because you are my nephew, not because you are actually capable in a fight. The army marches tomorrow. You had best drop this foolish arrogance. There are far too many uncontrollable variables on the battlefield, and I will not have the energy to watch over you every second."
Upon returning to the encampment outside the city walls, Wigg summoned his chief quartermaster, Seaxburh, tasking him with coordinating all military supplies for the upcoming campaign.
"Look at the state of our army. The command capabilities of many nobles are completely inadequate. They are illiterate and refuse to learn from past mistakes. I have a strong premonition that logistics will be an absolute nightmare this time around. You and your civilian officials must pay close attention. You must deliver the supplies to the frontlines on time, no matter what!"
"Understood," Seaxburh nodded firmly, accepting the exhausting and burdensome task.
With everything settled, Wigg blew out the oil lamp in his tent, wrapped himself in a thin blanket, and fell into a deep slumber that lasted until the following morning.
According to their marching orders, Ivar's seven thousand men would cross the sea in the first wave, followed by Wigg's forces in the second, and finally Ragnar leading the eight-thousand-strong main host in the third.
Golden rays of sunlight pierced through the clouds, casting a warm glow over the earth. A cool morning breeze swept through the camp, carrying the booming shouts of low-ranking officers from every direction.
"Fix your armor! Hurry up and eat your breakfast!"
"Which idiot left their shield here? Move it, now!"
"Third Company of the First Regiment, assemble!"
Wigg's two thousand six hundred direct subordinates included two pike phalanxes of a thousand men each. They operated under a regimental structure, commanded by Joren and Butcherbird, respectively.
Additionally, there were two mountain infantry companies under the command of Baron Viper. Thorkel served as the cavalry commander. Furthermore, he was also placed in charge of the mounted units belonging to Ulf and Pascal Jr., bringing his total cavalry force to three hundred and seventy riders.
After finishing breakfast, Wigg's direct troops packed their gear and waited quietly in the camp. By the time noon rolled around, there was still no sound of a war horn coming from within the city.
'What is going on?'
Mounting his horse, Wigg rode down to the southern docks, only to discover that Ivar's first wave had yet to depart. As far as the eye could see, the entire harbor was choked with an endless sea of ships. They were tightly packed, violently bumping and scraping against one another, completely immobilized like a massive, chaotic flock of sheep that had lost its shepherd.
"This is a disaster," Wigg muttered. "Twenty thousand men stuck in Londinium, unable to even leave the port. We are going to be a laughingstock."
Left with no other choice, Ragnar summoned the high command for an emergency meeting. They decided to reroute Wigg's second wave over land to Dover. "There are plenty of ships waiting there," Ragnar instructed. "Once you arrive with your men, disregard Ivar's situation. Just cross the sea and head straight for Calais."
"Understood!"
Wigg returned to the camp. Amidst the grumbling complaints of his soldiers, he led his six thousand men across the stone bridge to the southern bank of the River Thames. Following the ancient stone-paved roads left behind by the Roman Empire, they marched straight across Kent, finally arriving at the port of Dover at dusk on the third day.