Viking: Master of the Icy Sea

Chapter 218: New Reinforcements

Early the next morning, Wigg led his army into Tamworth. The defending Frankish forces had fled overnight, leaving behind an unguarded town.

Upon inspecting the storehouses, they found golden grains of wheat scattered everywhere across the floor. Over twenty thousand bushels of grain had been left behind in their haste—enough to sustain the army for two months.

In addition, Wigg captured a large quantity of military equipment. Some of it originated from the treasury in Londinium, while the rest came from West Francia.

His direct subordinates utilized standardized gear and had no need for such scrap, but it was perfect for supplying the motley forces of Pascal Jr. and the highland mercenaries.

With this in mind, Wigg dispatched a mounted messenger to summon them to assemble. He also sent an envoy to Mancunium, "Tell Leonard to stop hiding. If I do not see his forces within a week, he need not ever return."

Wigg had a vague idea of what Leonard was plotting. The man was intentionally cowering in Mancunium to bargain for Liverpool on the western coast.

Liverpool had always been barren, a wretched piece of land with little value to squeeze from it. However, that was no reason for Wigg to compromise. If Leonard failed to grasp the situation, Wigg would simply eliminate him first!

Jotting this down in his notebook, Wigg turned his attention back to the battlefield. He summoned Joren and Thorkel, ordering them to pursue Charles along his retreat route.

"It will take three days for Gunnar to receive the news and dispatch reinforcements. Your task is to hound the enemy within these three days and wipe out the routed soldiers scattered across the region. It would be best if you can capture Lutterworth, but it does not matter if you cannot."

Worried about potential ambushes, Joren requested command of the mountain infantry battalions, and Wigg agreed.After the two departed, Wigg called for Shrike and tasked him with persuading his fellow countrymen in Wales to join their cause.

"We have captured over eight hundred sets of damaged armor, along with various supplies. It is more than enough to hire a massive army. Oh, and remember to recruit more longbowmen. If the nobles demand land, fob them off with Cornwall."

"Understood!"

Shrike returned to the Second Infantry Regiment. After handing over his military affairs, he led a dozen guards and rode out toward the mountainous region of Wales in the west.

Years ago, when Halfdan Whiteshirt and Ethelwulf were ordered to invade Wales, Shrike had allied with two tribal chieftains to launch a night raid. They defeated Halfdan's forces, and Shrike even managed to shoot him with an arrow. To avoid retribution, Shrike had led his people to migrate to the Northern Marches, and a full decade had passed since then.

"Alas, how time flies."

The scorching sun hung high in the sky, and the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and fresh grass. Riding a pure white warhorse, Shrike squinted as he surveyed the scenery along the road.

The marshes from his memory, which used to shimmer with water and overgrow with vast patches of reeds and rushes, had completely transformed. In their place lay neatly divided fields. The freshly turned earth was a deep brown, exuding a thin mist under the sunlight.

A towering windmill stood in the distance. Nudged by the gentle breeze, its blades turned lazily, letting out a heavy, drawn-out creak as it continuously pumped accumulated water from the lowlands into drainage ditches.

He roused a farmer napping in the shade of a tree. "How have the harvests been these past few years?"

Awakened by a noble lord, the farmer dared not show any anger and truthfully recounted his experiences over recent years:

"After submitting to Ragnar, the lords gave up any thoughts of raiding eastward and focused entirely on reclaiming the marshes. We owe forty days of unpaid corvee labor each year. The lords send us into the mountains to chop timber, then to build windmills and dig ditches. It leaves us aching all over. Sigh, but I suppose it is for the best. With more and more land being cultivated, we can at least fill our bellies now."

Shrike asked about the size of the farmlands belonging to the farmer and his neighbors. On average, each household had fifteen acres of arable land. During their free time, they worked odd jobs for the lords and gentry, managing to barely scrape by with enough food and warmth.

"What are your thoughts on the recent war?"

The farmer scratched his itchy scalp. "A war between the Angles, the Franks, and the Vikings—what does that have to do with us?"

In the afternoon, Shrike spotted the silhouette of a wooden fort on a distant mountain—Maratfall.

"Finally here."

He dismounted and led his horse by the reins across the pontoon bridge spanning the River Severn. Upon reaching the west bank, a soldier intercepted the riders. "Who are you?"

"Shrike, Baron of Bo'ness and envoy of Wigg of Teyne. I am here under orders to visit Lord Rodri."

Entering the wooden fort, he found a banquet underway, attended by all the prominent nobles from the surrounding area.

Sweeping his gaze across the room, Shrike noticed that Rodri, seated at the head of the table, had aged considerably. A touch of white hair peppered his temples. Three male heirs stood beside him, as well as an infant curled up and fast asleep in a maid's arms. "Shrike?"

Recognizing the visitor's face, Rodri stood up to welcome him and personally poured him a cup of wine. Shrike smacked his lips. The taste was decent. It seemed the financial situation of these Welsh nobles was quite prosperous if they could afford such high-end luxuries.

"My lord, what is your stance on this war of succession?"

Rodri offered an awkward smile and returned to his main seat, waiting for the other nobles to chime in. However, the guests remained utterly silent. Instead, it was his fifteen-year-old eldest son who spoke up first:

"Gunnar is indulging his soldiers in plundering the villages. I believe..."

"Shut up!" Rodri barked, cutting off his son's words. "It is not your time to hold power yet!"

After a brief pause, Shrike delivered the pitch he had been carefully mulling over:

"Since Ragnar's passing, aside from those backwater barbarians skirmishing in Northern Europe, five major factions are vying for the throne: Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye and his mother Aslaug, Gunnar, Ethelbald, Ivar the Boneless, and Wigg.

Truth be told, you know perfectly well in your hearts that, whether in military prowess or the management of internal affairs, Wigg is the most suitable candidate to proclaim himself king."

Rodri replied, "These are the affairs of outsiders. We neither support nor oppose anyone; we simply wish to remain peacefully in Wales."

A mocking smirk crossed Shrike's face. "Remain uninvolved? My lord, you are being far too optimistic. Have you not heard of the secret pact?"

Recently, rumors of a clandestine agreement between Gunnar and Ethelbald had spread far and wide. The most alarming detail was this: after the war, Wessex would annex the Duchy of Mercia, Cornwall, and Wales.

In other words, Wales was about to get another new master.

Observing the expressions on everyone's faces, Shrike deduced that they had already caught wind of it. Raising his voice, he declared, "When the war ends, Ethelbald will inevitably turn his gaze toward Wales. Are you truly willing to pledge your loyalty to him?"

Someone shot back fiercely, "Let him come! We will never submit."

"You plan to cower in the mountains and hold out long-term?" Shrike eyed the speaker's luxurious garments and bulging belly. "Are you willing to abandon your estates and the vast stretches of farmland you have cultivated?"

Over the past decade, Wales had purchased an enormous amount of iron tools and other goods from the Northern Marches. Based on the annual trade volume, Wigg estimated that the local population had grown by fifteen percent.

Should the enemy invade and the Welsh people abandon their fields to flee into the mountains, it would trigger a massive famine. It is easy to go from frugality to extravagance, but difficult to go from extravagance to frugality. The old tactics of passive defense were utterly obsolete.

Faced with Shrike's sharp questioning, the nobles' rebuttals lost all conviction. They exchanged uncertain glances, realizing they had no choice but to pick a side.

A voice called out from the crowd. "What reward is Wigg willing to offer?"

"His Majesty promises that after the war, Cornwall will be divided and granted to the nobles of Wales. Those who contribute more will receive more."

At these words, over two-thirds of the nobles broke into smiles, though a few continued to press the issue. "Cornwall is not enough to go around. Could he offer a bit more?"

Having secured the majority's support, Shrike refused to compromise any further. He stormed over, grabbed the questioner by the arm, and dragged him to the doorway. Pointing down at the newly reclaimed lowlands and the tirelessly turning windmills below the mountain, he snapped, "Counting all of this, has His Majesty not given you enough?"

After a long silence, the ringing sound of a sword being drawn echoed from behind.

Clang!

Immediately following this, a noble knelt on one knee, resting his hands on the hilt of his longsword. With a solemn expression, he declared, "The Cumbria tribe pledges to fight."

"The Carmarthen tribe pledges to fight."

"The Neath tribe pledges to fight."

In less than half a minute, the vast majority of the guests had dropped to one knee. Rodri sighed and motioned for his second son to join them, seeing an opportunity to secure a new branch for their family.

The second son nodded, stepped outside the door, and knelt on one knee. Gazing up at the rolling clouds stained crimson by the setting sun, he shouted in a youthful voice, "Powys pledges to fight!"