Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 210: Crossroads of Destiny

On March 13th, the Frankish army arrived on the southern banks of the River Thames.

Even at this moment, Gunnar still harbored illusions, dispatching an envoy into the royal palace of Londinium to persuade Aslaug.

Stripping away the pleasantries and embellishments, Gunnar's underlying message was remarkably simple:

Sigurd won't be parading around for much longer. Without the little king, you lose your legitimate claim to govern the state. Over this past year, you've offended more people than you can count. Your future is destined for a grim end. If you agree to marry Ynja to my eldest son, you will remain the Queen Mother. You can stay in the royal court, enjoy your riches, and your lavish lifestyle won't be reduced in the slightest.

Despite the hopeless situation, Aslaug appeared exceptionally composed. Leaning lazily against the throne, she spoke with a mocking sneer. "If Sigurd dies, there's no point in me guarding this broken throne. I've been sick of this wretched place for a long time anyway. Get lost."

With negotiations broken down, Gunnar began pondering strategies to attack Londinium.

The River Thames stretched an expansive three hundred meters wide. A long stone bridge spanned its waters, and a small bridgehead stood guard on the southern bank.

He had no desire to launch a frontal assault on the bridgehead. Even if they took it, his army would be forced to bottleneck along the narrow stone bridge to attack the northern bank. They wouldn't be able to spread their formations, let alone lay siege to the city walls.

"Conscript the nearby commoners. Make them dig trenches outside the bridgehead to blockade the enemy," he ordered.

Unfortunately, the skies suddenly unleashed a torrential downpour. Left with no other choice, Gunnar scattered his troops to garrison within the various settlements along the southern bank to shelter from the rain, waiting for the gloomy weather to pass before attempting a river crossing. However, he still spread word that he would protect the fiefdoms of any great Viking nobles who surrendered.This declaration conveniently omitted the minor nobles and Viking landowners within the directly administered territories. They could easily guess the underlying reason. If Gunnar was to become King, he would inevitably need to reward the soldiers beneath him. Since the earls' territories wouldn't see much change, he would definitely carve the meat out of other groups.

After a fierce debate, they dispatched envoys to Ireland, formally inviting Ivar to ascend the throne.

Dyfflin, the Duke's estate.

It was a rare sunny day. Ivar lay reclined in a chair, basking in the sunlight. His abdomen was wrapped in plain linen, emitting a faint scent of blood mixed with herbal medicine.

According to the doctrines of the Teyneburg Order, one shouldn't consume alcohol after suffering physical trauma. Thus, Ivar was forced to temporarily forsake his mellow wine, leaving him idling away in Dyfflin with nothing to do.

War, conquest, rebellion, and suppression—these had consumed the past decade of his life. The local nobles fought, lost, and fought again. Even after being driven into the western hills by well-equipped Viking cavalry, they refused to yield. At the slightest opportunity, they would launch aggressive raids, harassing his forces to no end.

"When exactly will these days come to an end?" he murmured.

That afternoon, an attendant delivered a roll of parchment. Its contents were clear: the Viking nobles and gentry of Londinium were unanimously inviting Ivar to inherit the throne. A dense cluster of signatures and thumbprints filled the bottom.

'These bastards. They didn't come looking for me before, and now they expect me to head over there and risk my life?'

Ivar closed his eyes in thought for a few minutes before summoning a clerk to dictate his response.

The recipients included powerful nobles like Leonard, as well as the sheriffs of York, Nottingham, Tamworth, and Cambridge. He urged them to pledge their loyalty and unite with him to defeat the Frankish army.

Half an hour later, the clerk rubbed his aching wrist. "My lord, it seems you missed Teyne?"

"There is no rush. I haven't figured out how to phrase it yet."

Thanks to a series of turbulent events over the past year, royal authority had plummeted, leaving almost zero restraint over the powerful nobles scattered across the realm. Recalling Wigg's recent actions, Ivar could faintly sense the swelling ambition in his old friend. He couldn't help but let out a heavy sigh.

"What on earth was father thinking?"

As the eldest son, Ivar possessed more than enough strength and prestige to take over the entire kingdom. The nobles and his younger brothers would never have dared to step out of line. Unfortunately, his father had lost his mind and allowed the youngest, Sigurd, to ascend to the throne. Suddenly, he recalled a long-circulating rumor—that Aslaug and the palace steward had conspired to forge the royal testament. Thinking it over, it actually seemed highly plausible.

"Once I occupy Londinium, I will definitely launch a thorough investigation into this matter."

Over the following week, Ivar's envoys visited various noble estates. One of them traveled to Teyne, urging Wigg to march his troops south.

"The troops are currently undergoing intensive training. Give me another two months."

"Two months?" The envoy stared in disbelief, assuming the Duke was merely making excuses to shirk his duty. "Are you absolutely certain you want me to reply to His Majesty with those words?"

Wigg remained silent for a few seconds before heavily repeating, "Yes. I am currently unable to deploy my troops."

After dismissing the envoy, Wigg leaned back in his chair, staring blankly ahead for a long time.

First of all, he truly was busy organizing his army and had no time to participate in this impending battle.

Ever since he caught wind of Gunnar's impending attack, Wigg had begun mobilizing and training his forces in early February. He had conscripted a total of eight thousand soldiers. Seventy percent of them were Vikings. With their deeply rooted martial traditions, the Vikings boasted higher mobilization rates, physical fitness, and morale compared to average commoners. The remaining portion consisted of Angles, Welsh immigrants, and Highland mercenaries made up of Gaels.

The quality of the recruits was passable; the real issue lay with the military officers. The advantage of Wigg's implemented structure—divided into regiments, battalions, companies, platoons, and squads—was its strict organization. It allowed for effective control over the troops and much faster execution of military orders. The fatal flaw, however, was that it required a massive number of officers. Because of this, Wigg was running himself ragged.

To speed up the process, he had dismantled his original standing army. Veterans were promoted to squad leaders, and existing squad leaders were elevated to platoon leaders, followed by a period of centralized training.

Because some of the illiterate soldiers couldn't read military orders, maps, or soldier rosters, Wigg even drafted most of the junior high school students from Tynefort Academy to serve as military clerks. A total of seventy-five students were assigned to the battalion and company headquarters.

Finally, his reasons for staying out of the war included his own selfish motives: once Gunnar occupied Londinium, and perhaps even more territories, Wigg could march south under the guise of a savior. The benefits he would reap then would be far greater.

Upon receiving the replies from across the realm, Ivar felt a mix of joy and anxiety. The majority of the nobles and sheriffs had agreed to join the fight, though their conditions varied wildly.

For instance, Leonard of Mancunium demanded Liverpool, which lay west of his territory. The sheriff of York demanded a grand grant of nobility... and so on. They were like a pack of wild dogs fighting over a rotting carcass.

Even worse, Ethelbald of Wessex and Wigg of Teyne flat-out refused to join the battle immediately, requesting more time.

Ivar could clearly sense their wariness and alienation. The one who disappointed him the most was Wigg. If he had a choice, Ivar truly didn't want the two of them to end up slaughtering each other on the battlefield.

"A King is destined to be lonely. Heh, father was right. Perhaps this crown won't bring me any joy, but I simply have no choice," he muttered.

With a Viking immigrant population of only forty thousand in Ireland, Ivar managed to scrape together five thousand soldiers. He still had to leave two thousand men behind to garrison Dyfflin to prevent the territory from falling to the rebel army.

At the end of March, Ivar's army arrived in Liverpool by ship. They sailed upstream along the River Mersey, eventually disembarking at Mancunium, where he issued a sweeping call for the regional armies to gather and assemble.