Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 213: Unexpected

Late on the night of May 25th, Paffis incited a rebellion among the Royal Guard, seizing the opportunity to open the eastern gates of Londinium and allowing a massive force of Frankish heavy infantry to flood into the city.

By daybreak, the Frankish army had largely eliminated all resistance.

"Finally back," he muttered.

Gunnar rode slowly through the city gates. His mount was an exceptionally majestic white Arabian horse, its steps brisk and steady, with a fine mane fluttering gently in the morning breeze.

Draped over his shoulders was a wide, pure purple cloak of rare quality, embroidered with intricate patterns in gold silk thread. As the horse walked, the hem of the cloak brushed against its hindquarters, gathering a smattering of dust from the road.

Behind him, countless cavalrymen filed into the city. They wore chainmail, scale armor, and lamellar armor, gripping three-meter lances in their right hands with longswords hanging at their waists. The crisp clatter of hooves, the faint clinking of metal, and the occasional snort of the horses became the dominant sounds echoing through the streets.

Dense crowds of people clad in coarse cloth stood on both sides of the thoroughfare. No one spoke, and no one cheered. Most eyes simply tracked that gorgeously ethereal cloak. Save for an occasional muffled cough, a heavy silence shrouded the entire city.

Entering the main hall of the Royal Palace, Gunnar found an ashen-faced Aslaug. She sat apathetically on the throne, cradling a weak and exhausted Sigurd in her arms, while the ten-year-old Princess Enya stood by her side.

Looking up at the family of three, Gunnar forced a smile. "It has been a long time, Aslaug."

"It has been a long time, Your Grace."Sensing the coldness in her tone, Gunnar kept his smile unfaltering. "From now on, you will remain in the royal court, and your living expenses will be exactly as they were before. Once the situation stabilizes, my family will also move here to join me. Robert is a strong, intelligent boy; you will like him."

Hearing the victor dictate her fate, Aslaug felt completely disheartened. Hugging her son, she turned to retreat to her bedchambers, though before leaving, she made sure to snatch the crown from his head and toss it to Gunnar.

"It is yours now. That thing is nothing but trouble," she declared.

Gunnar caught it steadily. Examining the dozen or so gemstones set into the pure gold crown up close, he found the design rather ordinary. He estimated its total value to be roughly the same as the Eastern Roman purple cloak draped over his back.

Under the watchful eyes of his military officers and the surrendered nobles, Gunnar ascended the steps and sat upon the throne. It felt cold and rigid, far less comfortable than the chairs in his own home.

Next, he tallied the casualties and spoils of the battle. The Frankish army had lost three hundred men, captured fifteen hundred soldiers, and seized two thousand sets of iron armor. There were mountains of iron swords, short axes, yew bows, shields, and feathered arrows, along with enough grain to feed the entire army for half a year.

"Thank you for your assistance, Lord Chamberlain," Gunnar said.

Hearing the call, Paffis squeezed out from the crowd, plastering on a fawning, harmless smile. "To serve you faithfully is my greatest desire."

To soothe their hearts and secure loyalty, Gunnar promised to anoint Paffis and four of his military officers as Earls—another officer had died in battle. "I do not possess detailed maps of Ireland and the Northern Marches, so I cannot distribute territories just yet. However, both regions are vast enough to satisfy all your desires."

According to the plans made before their departure, Ireland and the Northern Marches had to be partitioned. Although Wigg's stance remained ambiguous, Gunnar still considered him his most dangerous enemy. He ranked as the number one threat, surpassing even Ivar, who was currently stationed in Oxford.

He thought to himself, 'Taking Londinium is the first step. Allying with Wessex to finish off Ivar is the second. After that, we deal with the Northern Marches. Wigg, my old friend, I wonder what new tricks you will pull out of your sleeve this time?'

Meanwhile, in Oxford. Upon learning that the royal capital had fallen, nobles like Leonard bickered endlessly, complaining about Oleg's incompetence and Paffis's treachery. Someone suggested retreating to Tamworth, but Theowulf loudly refuted the idea.

"Retreating before we have even fought a proper battle? How will the soldiers view us?"

Theowulf's territory of Mercia was situated right on the front lines. He could not bear to lose his direct holding of Oxford. Once surrendered to the enemy, it would likely take three to five years to recover its vitality.

"Then what do you suggest we do?" Leonard snapped. "Waste away here in Oxford forever?"

The argument dragged on into the dead of night until the crowd dispersed in anger. Theowulf sought out Ivar in private. "Your Majesty, surely you do not intend to adopt Leonard's suggestion?"

Ivar remained seated, his right hand subconsciously pressing against the wound on his abdomen. His initial plan had been to attack Wessex, but he had listened to the advice of the nobles and remained stationed in Oxford to observe the situation. Now that Londinium had fallen, there were only three options laid out before him.

First: retreat to Tamworth. This meant abandoning Theowulf's territory, and retreating without a fight would severely damage the army's morale.

Second: hold the line at Oxford. Doing so ran a highly probable risk of having their retreat route cut off.

Third: take the initiative to crush the main forces of Wessex before anything else. This plan was exceedingly risky, with a success rate of less than twenty percent.

"Your Majesty? Your Majesty?" Theowulf's calls interrupted Ivar's train of thought. The king was in poor spirits, making it difficult to reach a hasty decision. "My lord, allow me a night to consider it."

After Theowulf departed, the residence returned to a desolate quiet. Ivar stared blankly at the moonlight spilling through the window, suddenly overcome with nostalgia for the days of ten years ago.

Back then, their father had not yet grown old. He, Wigg, Gunnar, Niels, and the others had been united. They had continuously defeated a multitude of Anglo-Saxon kingdoms, then landed in West Francia and completely annihilated the main Frankish army on the banks of the Seine, forcing the Frankish king to pay reparations and beg for peace. In those days, everyone was full of vigor and spirit. Bjorn even boasted about marching into Rome. It seemed as if there was no army in the world capable of stopping the Vikings.

"To think that the ones to destroy that future would not be the Angles or the Franks, but a civil war among Viking nobles," he murmured bitterly.

In a daze, Ivar completely lost interest in the crown, feeling nothing but a wave of profound dullness. His brothers had fought tooth and nail, risking their very lives—was it all just to end up like this?

The following day, the nobles surged back into Ivar's residence to discuss their next move. By mid-afternoon, a scout captain burst into the gathering. "Thousands of Frankish troops are attacking the north!"

With their retreat route directly threatened, Ivar suddenly clutched his wound. A thick sheen of sweat beaded across his forehead as he forcefully suppressed the sharp pain to ask, "What is happening? Exactly how many of them are there?"

The scout captain's face was pale. "The enemy has too much cavalry; we couldn't get close. But there are at least three thousand men."

"Impossible! The Frankish army only has two thousand cavalry!"

Theowulf's roar echoed through the room. Ivar furrowed his brows, quickly recalling the rumors from Londinium. It was said that Gunnar had been sending men everywhere to requisition packhorses and draft horses from nearby villages, stirring up widespread resentment among the commoners.

"He gathered a massive amount of horses just to form a highly mobile force of mounted infantry?"

Thinking back to the war two years ago, after Charles the Bald had defeated the main Viking forces, he had dispatched Gunnar to hunt down Wigg's troops. To reach the battlefield as quickly as possible, Gunnar had requisitioned a massive number of packhorses to transport his infantry. Was he planning to replicate those exact same tactics now?