In the main hall a wide map lay spread on the table and many nobles crowded around it, arguing hotly. At Ragnar's approach they all bowed.
Merchants had reported that Charles the Bald was preparing for war too. After discussion Ragnar decided they would set out tomorrow and cross the Channel before the enemy could finish mustering — the landing point would again be Calais.
With the army swelling to twenty-one thousand, Ragnar divided it into three parts, to be commanded by himself, Ivar, and Vig respectively.
A murmur rose: "What of Gunnar?"
Ragnar's face hardened. He nodded to Horst. The foreign minister hurriedly produced a letter from Gunnar and read it aloud.
In the letter Gunnar renounced his fealty to Ragnar for two reasons:
First, Gunnar accused the king of gross partiality — of spoiling his third son Halfdan. When Halfdan had just come of age he had been sent to campaign in Wales with a promise of a ducal title if successful, but the expedition ended in failure and others (Vig and Theowulf) had to clean up the mess. Sent to Gothenburg, Halfdan's misrule led to the great northern expedition and half a year's wasted effort; the crown fell into heavy debt and long-delayed payments to the nobility followed.
"Why," Gunnar wrote, "must others always pay for the prince's mistakes?"
Second, Gunnar declared he had converted to the Roman Church and would not join pagans in striking a ruler who was of the same faith as himself — not least because Charles the Bald was his liege.
"This is the last time I shall call you 'Your Majesty'," the letter concluded. "From now on you and I are enemies. Farewell, my brother."
When the reading finished the hall erupted.
For years Vig, Ivar, and Gunnar had been Ragnar's most formidable commanders. Gunnar's skill with cavalry was rare among the Norse — without him they lacked a competent cavarly leader.
Rattled discussion dwindled and Ragnar announced the stripping of Gunnar's title, Earl of Cambridge. "He has sided with the Franks and is no longer our brother," he said.
Fourteen-year-old Ubbe muttered under his breath: "Why not have killed him earlier? There were ample chances."
Horst beside him explained, "Gunnar has been the biggest smuggler of warhorses these last seven years. If we killed him, where would our cavalry come from?"
Indeed, a seven-year illicit trade in horses had multiplied the kingdom's mounted units; the muster now mustered some two thousand horsemen — a sizable increase over previous campaigns.
Ragnar cleared his throat and began assigning contingents, but the hall grew more chaotic. Many vassals refused to serve alongside old enemies: Ulf quarrelled with Renaud; Horst disliked Niels; Halfdan could not get on with certain Swedish lords. The wrangling continued for an hour before assignments were settled.
Vig's command counted six thousand men: his own direct two thousand six hundred, Ulf's one thousand, young Pascal's seven hundred, and another seventeen hundred Swedish light infantry.
Vig straightened. "You all know me and my rules. If you will not obey, go and join His Majesty's force or Ivar's at once."
Ulf had served with Vig long enough to know his methods and would be loyal. Young Pascal, aged eighteen and unlike his father not a fighter, simply wanted to see the war through safely. The seven Swedish lords simply wished to avoid Halfdan's company; that was enough.
Late into the night the council broke up. Vig yawned and wandered the palace grounds, noticing his nephew chatting with palace guards.
"Leif!"
The boy ran over. "Uncle, when do we cross? My sword thirsts for enemy blood."
Vig sighed. He had the boy draw his blade and gave him a quick lesson.
"Draw!" he barked.
Leif did as told. A black shadow flashed. A strike landed on his forearm and he loosened his grip. Then another strike drove him flat; he lay staring up at the glittering stars, dazed. "Who am I? Where am I?"
It took two minutes for him to haul himself up. Vig had used only the scabbard, but the boy's confidence evaporated.
"Remember," Vig said coldly, "those guards pamper you not because you can fight but because you are my nephew. Tomorrow the army moves; curb your foolishness. I cannot babysit you on the field."
Back at the camp Vig summoned the quartermaster Sebert "Stormwind" and placed the whole logistics burden on him.
"Across the host many nobles cannot command; they are illiterate and never learn from experience. I sense our supply lines will be the real disaster in this campaign. You and your clerks must be meticulous — never let the front go hungry."
"Understood," Sebert replied with weighty nods and took the thankless task.
Vig snuffed the lamp, wrapped a thin blanket and slept until dawn.
The embarkation order was clear: Ivar's seven thousand cross first, Vig next, and Ragnar with his eight thousand main force last.
Sunlight cut through the clouds and a cool breeze rustled the camp. Low-ranking officers shouted:
"Straighten your gear! Eat quickly!"
"Whose shield is that, take it away!"
"Third company, form up!"
Vig's two thousand six hundred direct troops formed two pike regiments of a thousand men each, led by Ylorn and the Starling. Two mountain infantry companies were under Baron Viper. Cavalry came under Thorgar who also commanded the horsemen from Ulf and young Pascal — three hundred and seventy in all.
They packed and waited in the camp until noon, but no trumpet sounded from the city.
Where was the embarkation order?
Vig rode to the southern wharf and found Ivar's first wave still unmoved. The quay lay choked with a mass of vessels, masts tangled, hulks pressed together; the whole harbor had become a confused flock without a leader.
"We're ruined — twenty thousand men blocked in Londinium. What a disgrace."
Ragnar summoned his commanders. They resolved to send Vig's contingent overland to Dover. "There are sufficient ships there. Sail once you arrive — do not wait on Ivar," Ragnar ordered.
"Understood," Vig replied.
He led his six thousand men across the stone bridge over the Thames and rode along the Roman road through Kent. On the third evening they reached the port of Dover.
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