After discussion, Vig and Ivar chose the eastern side of Calais as the main assault point. The new stone outer wall was still unfinished—only a crude wooden palisade stood on that side.
"Forward!"
Vig waved his command flag. Two thousand infantry pushed siege engines slowly toward the wall, while a thousand bowmen and crossbowmen kept the defenders pinned behind the parapets.
Following the familiar rhythm, Vig's troops smashed through the wooden fortifications. At the same time, Ivar led the fleet in an assault on the harbor. By midday, the newly rising town of Calais had fallen.
Word reached Dover, and the long-impatient Ragnar immediately crossed the Channel at dawn. Three hundred vessels of every size left the port and headed toward Calais.
Around noon his flagship entered Calais harbor—now a boiling cauldron of chaos.
Sleek longships and lumbering cogs lay jammed together, masts rising like a forest, sails flapping sharply in the sea wind. The narrow waters were nearly blocked by ships; oarsmen shouted themselves hoarse while struggling to maneuver, and the sound of oars smashing against hulls never stopped.
Sensing the frantic tension outside, the warhorses in the cogs' lower decks grew agitated—stamping, snorting, tugging violently at their halters—adding to the confusion of the landing.
Half an hour later the royal flagship finally docked. Ragnar stepped down the gangplank to find armor, weapons, bundled arrows, and sacks of grain piled chaotically everywhere. Sweating soldiers rushed past carrying loads on their backs. A startled packhorse kicked over stacked wheat bags, spilling golden grain. Starving locals lunged for it, and soldiers whipped them back—yet order could not be restored.
"Make way for the King! Clear the path!"
Royal guards forced a route through the press of bodies. Ragnar left the docks only to find the streets equally disorderly—knights' mail glinting in the sun, looters laughing around barrels of wine, and crowds packed as far as the eye could see.
Seeing all this, a helpless frustration rose in him.
Two-and-twenty thousand men sounded glorious, but his own ability was nowhere near enough to command and coordinate a host this large.
"Never thought I'd be troubled by having too many soldiers…"
Ragnar reached the town lord's residence. A team of clerks were tallying accounts; Ivar lay asleep across a desk, and Vig stood in a corner splashing cold well-water on his face.
"Your Majesty?"
Ragnar waved off the courtesies, impatient. He had them report casualties and missing men.
Roused from sleep, Ivar answered, "Fewer than two hundred dead. The worst part was the landing. My fleet was scattered by storms—six hundred men are still missing. Probably off raiding villages somewhere."
Counting losses, Ragnar still had about twenty thousand soldiers—now all crammed into Calais, unable to advance until supplies were unloaded and reorganized.
Meanwhile, Charles the Bald
Across the Channel, Charles's situation was hardly better. His vassals were notorious for arrogance—evading taxes, ignoring summons, even rebelling. No wonder he'd come to rely on Gunnar, a "barbarian" from the north.
In this regard, Charles envied Ragnar deeply. The Vikings' most outrageous behavior was merely demanding repayment aloud at court.
If only West Frankish nobles were that loyal, he often thought. I'd have unified the Frankish realms already—and maybe marched on Britain and Iberia besides.
"These worthless worms! I ordered them to muster in March—yet they still haven't moved! Do they take me for a fool?"
Charles raged inside the town of Amiens, south of the Somme River. Despite preparing for two months, he had only a little over twenty thousand troops—barely equal to the Viking invaders.
Once he calmed, the steward Lamberto spoke cautiously:
"May is winter-wheat harvest, sire. The farmers are busy. Wait one more month and at least five thousand more men can join your army."
The lord of Amiens immediately objected, arguing that with their cavalry advantage, delay was unnecessary—they shouldn't allow Vikings to ravage the northern coasts.
Charles understood the real message: the man simply did not want to pay to feed and quarter troops.
Other vassals echoed him. With 3,500 heavy cavalry, and after mastering the lance couching technique, they believed they could crush any enemy head-on.
Pressed by repeated persuasion, Charles finally agreed.
Two thousand Frankish troops crossed the Somme via the stone bridge, marching north toward Béthune.
Upon occupying the town, Charles received troubling news: the Vikings had left Calais the previous morning—heading directly for Béthune.
"Good. My fortress at Harfleur has paid off. They can't sail up the Seine to Paris like last time, so they have to come by land."
Charles felt a surge of satisfaction at his own foresight. He recalled the duke of Normandy from the front line and asked him for details of the Viking host.
Learning the northerners possessed two thousand cavalry, Charles's expression flickered. Years of Gunnar and others selling horses illicitly had wildly increased the invaders' cavalry numbers. After this war, those traitorous profiteers would face consequences.
Though murderous intent stirred in his heart, Charles kept smiling outwardly and ordered the army to rest and prepare for battle the next day.
That night, the king held a banquet—then thunder cracked overhead.
A torrential storm roared across the land, wind flinging rain through windows and snuffing out half the candles in moments.
Servants relit them, and the nobles continued eating roast meat and drinking merrily, ignoring the common soldiers drenched outside in the mud.
Storm and Sickness
The sudden downpour also struck the Viking army. They bivouacked in an unnamed village northwest of Béthune, about fifteen kilometers away.
The village was tiny, sheltering only high-ranking officers and some horses. The rest of the men huddled under soaked tents, cursing loudly in the dark.
The rain continued on and off for two days. Soldiers and horses exposed to the weather fell sick—2,500 soldiers, 800 warhorses, and 1,500 draft animals were now incapacitated.
In the stone church on the village's eastern edge, Ragnar convened an emergency council. When he finished briefing the situation, someone whispered a proposal:
"Our condition is poor. Why not withdraw to Calais for now and recover before fighting?"
The suggestion came from Ulf and won broad support. Others even proposed abandoning Paris entirely and raiding Flanders instead.
"Bruges, Ghent, Antwerp… hit them one by one. We'd make at least ten thousand pounds. At least we wouldn't come home empty-handed."
—------------------------------
Pat reon Advance Chapters: patreon.com/YonkoSlayer