Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 185: Deep in the Mire

After some discussion, Wigg and Ivar decided to focus their main assault on the eastern side of Calais. The stone walls there were still under construction, leaving only a rudimentary wooden palisade for defense.

"Attack!"

Wigg waved the signal flag. Two thousand infantrymen slowly pushed forward with various siege engines, while a thousand crossbowmen and archers suppressed the defenders behind the battlements.

Following familiar procedures, Wigg directed his soldiers to breach the wall. Simultaneously, Ivar led his fleet in an assault on the port. It took a mere half a day to seize the growing town.

When the news reached Dover, an already impatient Ragnar crossed the sea the very next morning. A fleet of three hundred ships, both large and small, departed from the port and sailed across the channel toward Calais.

By noon, Ragnar's flagship arrived at the port of Calais, which had long since become a seething melting pot.

Slender longships and massive knarr ships were moored haphazardly. Masts stood as thick as a forest, and sailcloth snapped wildly in the sea breeze. The narrow stretch of water was nearly choked by the sheer volume of vessels. Oarsmen shouted themselves hoarse trying to adjust their positions, and the rhythmic clatter of oars striking hulls echoed endlessly.

Sensing the frantic atmosphere outside, the warhorses in the lower holds of the knarr ships grew highly agitated. They stomped fiercely on the wooden planks and desperately strained against their tethers, adding to the chaos of the landing.

Half an hour later, the flagship finally docked. Ragnar strode down the gangway into a scene littered with piles of armor, weapons, bundles of arrows, and sacks of grain. Sweating soldiers, carrying loads on their shoulders and in their hands, wove through the crowded boardwalks. A startled packhorse reared and whinnied, kicking over a stack of wheat sacks. Golden grain spilled across the ground, instantly drawing a swarm of starving locals who scrambled to grab it. Soldiers cracked their whips to drive the mob back, but the pandemonium was difficult to quell.

"The King is here! Make way!"The palace guards used brute force to shove a path through the throng. Ragnar left the docks, only to find the town's interior mired in just as much disorder. The chainmail of knights gleamed under the scorching sun, while raiders sat in circles around ale barrels, laughing boisterously. As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but a cramped sea of bodies.

Witnessing this, he felt a profound sense of helplessness. An army of twenty thousand sounded magnificent, but his own logistical capabilities were far from sufficient to command and organize such a massive force.

"I never thought I would be troubled by having too many soldiers under my command," he muttered.

Ragnar arrived at the lord's manor. A group of administrators was busy processing accounts. Ivar was slumped over a desk, fast asleep, while Wigg stood in a corner washing his face with freezing well water.

"Your Majesty?"

Ragnar waved off their salutes impatiently, signaling them to return to their tasks, and then called for Ivar and Wigg to tally the troops.

Awakened from his slumber, Ivar replied, "Our casualties are under two hundred. The biggest headache was the landing. My fleet was scattered by gale-force winds, and as of now, over six hundred men are still missing. They probably wandered off to raid nearby villages."

Excluding the attrition, Ragnar's army still numbered twenty thousand. All of them were currently crammed into the port of Calais. Until their supplies were fully unloaded, the army was temporarily stripped of its offensive capabilities.

Meanwhile, Charles "the Bald" was faring no better. His vassals had always been exceptionally unruly. Delaying taxes and ignoring orders were everyday occurrences, and occasionally, they would even raise arms in open rebellion. If it were not for this, he would never have had to rely on a Northern European barbarian like Gunnar.

In this regard, Charles deeply envied Ragnar across the channel. The most outrageous behavior from a Viking noble was simply demanding debt repayment in public. If the nobility of West Francia possessed even a fraction of that loyalty, he would have unified the Frankish Kingdom long ago, and perhaps even marched north to conquer Britain or south to subjugate Iberia.

"Those damned parasites! I ordered them to assemble in early March, and they still haven't marched! Do they really think I am that easy to push around?"

Currently stationed in Amiens on the South Bank of the Somme River, Charles cursed furiously at his court. Despite preparing for two months in advance, his army only numbered a little over twenty thousand—roughly the same size as the Viking force that had just crossed the sea. Waiting until the King's anger had subsided slightly, Lamberto whispered an explanation, "May is the wheat harvest. Peasants everywhere are busy bringing in the winter wheat. If we wait just one more month, at least five thousand more men will be able to join your army."

Lamberto's suggestion immediately drew a sharp rebuttal from the Lord of Amiens, who insisted that since they held the cavalry advantage, there was no need to delay and watch idly as the Vikings ravaged the inhabitants of the northern coast.

Charles easily understood the vassal's underlying meaning. This man simply refused to shoulder the burden of feeding and housing twenty thousand soldiers; he just wanted to shoo them away as quickly as possible.

After the Lord of Amiens finished speaking, the rest of the vassals echoed the call to attack. They boasted over three thousand five hundred cavalrymen. Having mastered the couched lance charge, their combat effectiveness had surged, making them more than capable of crushing any enemy in their path.

Persuaded by the incessant urging of his vassals, Charles agreed to deploy. The twenty-thousand-strong Frankish army crossed the stone bridge over the Somme River and marched north toward Béthune.

Upon settling into the town, Charles received news from the frontlines. The Viking barbarians had left Calais the previous morning, and their target was precisely his current location in Béthune.

"Excellent. The Harfleur Fortress I built at the mouth of the Seine River is doing its job. The Viking army can no longer sail straight down the river to strike Paris like they did last time. They are forced to march by land."

Charles breathed a long sigh of relief, feeling deeply validated in his brilliant decision. He issued an order to recall the Duke of Normandy from the front lines to inquire about the composition of the enemy army.

Hearing that the Viking barbarians possessed two thousand cavalrymen, a flicker of emotion crossed Charles's eyes. In recent years, nobles like Gunnar had aggressively sold warhorses for profit, causing a sharp increase in the number of steeds in enemy hands. After this battle, he was determined to hold those traitors accountable.

Though murderous intent steadily brewed in his heart, Charles maintained a pleasant smile. He ordered the entire army to rest in Béthune and conserve their energy for the decisive battle the following day.

That evening, the King hosted a grand banquet. Suddenly, a deafening crack of thunder shook the hall, and a torrential downpour unleashed from the heavens. Howling winds carrying the metallic scent of rain blasted into the building, instantly extinguishing more than half the candles.

Once the candles were relit, the feast resumed. The lords freely indulged in roasted meats and fine wine, sparing not a single thought for the lowly soldiers left suffering in the freezing rain outside.

This sudden storm had an equally severe impact on the Viking army. That night, they made camp in an unnamed little village located about fifteen kilometers northwest of Béthune.

The village was incredibly cramped, able to shelter only the high-ranking officers and a fraction of the warhorses. The remaining soldiers huddled miserably in their tents to weather the storm, cursing loudly in the damp, unforgiving darkness.

The rain fell intermittently for two straight days. The soldiers and beasts exposed to the elements fell ill in droves. In total, two thousand five hundred soldiers, eight hundred warhorses, and one thousand five hundred draft horses succumbed to sickness.

Inside a stone church on the eastern side of the village, Ragnar convened an impromptu war council. After he finished outlining their current situation, someone quietly suggested, "Our army is in poor shape. Why don't we temporarily fall back to the port of Calais, rest for a while, and march out again later?"

This proposal came from Ulf, drawing immediate agreement from most of the nobles. Someone else even suggested abandoning the march on Paris entirely and instead redirecting their attack northeast toward Flandre.

"Bruges, Ghent, Antwerp... If we pillage them one by one, we can rake in at least ten thousand pounds. At the very least, we won't take a loss on this expedition."