As he neared the edge of Norse-controlled territory, Theowulf bid farewell to Vig.
"Thank you for keeping your word. Among the Norse, such integrity is rare."
Yawning in the saddle, Vig replied, "Reputation is a treasure. I've no wish to ruin a lifetime's credit over this scrap of land."
Gazing across the hills on the far bank, he asked, "You've abandoned your ancestral fief. Where will you go now?"
"That depends," said Theowulf. "With Tamworth fallen and so many lords dead, I may yet find some unclaimed estate to settle."
Once the Mercians were escorted away, Vig returned to Tamworth to report.
Inside the governor's hall, he found Ragnar dining beside a striking figure: a towering Norsewoman. Her features were bold, her scarlet hair loose about her shoulders, her arms corded with muscle, her palms calloused from years of labor.
"You must be the so-called 'Chosen' Vig. A pleasure. I am Aslaug."
She finished her meal, seized a jug of mead, drained it in great gulps, and strode out without the slightest ceremony.
Aslaug?
Vig rifled through memory. In later sagas of Ragnar, there was mention of a woman by that very name.
Could this be the one destined to become his third wife?
Five minutes later, after Vig recounted the surrender, Ragnar nodded his approval and summoned a war council.
He spread a tattered Mercian map across the long table.
"We hold Nottingham, Repton, Tamworth—the richest heart of Mercia. What say you of the war to come?"
Ulf spoke first: "Divide the host, seize every settlement in the north, make Mercia ours entire." He, flush with pride from his recent exploit, dreamed of choosing a new and fertile fief.
Ivar countered: "The royal line may be broken, but two cadet branches remain. Strike their estates first. Extinguish every ember, lest they crown a pretender and drag us into endless war."
The hardships of Ireland had left him wary—better to end matters swiftly, so men could return to reap the winter wheat.
When Vig's turn came, his voice carried a sober weight.
"Three years ago we conquered all Northumbria. Now we've slain Mercia's princes. The other five kingdoms are no fools. They will not sit idle while we grow. Above all, Wessex—the strongest of them—King Æthelwulf may well rally them into a great host against us."
Ragnar frowned. "And your counsel?"
"Do not scatter our strength. Keep the host united at Tamworth. Call for reinforcements from home, and prepare for the war of spring."
Faces around the table darkened. Seeing it, Vig added, "It is only a possibility. Better we send envoys to test Æthelwulf's mind."
At the word envoys, Pascas and Godwin stiffened. As Anglo-Saxons, they were the natural candidates, but if Wessex chose execution… what a wretched end.
"Let me go!"
All turned toward the voice—it was Gunnar, commander of the king's guard.
Ragnar studied his old comrade of twenty years. He understood: Gunnar craved merit, hoping to climb into the ranks of true power.
"You are resolved?"
"I am."
There was no reason to deny him. Ragnar sighed, ordered Pascas to draft a letter, and when it was finished, sealed it with wax. Pressing his ring into the soft surface, he left the mark of a thunderbolt.
"Go then. Show them the spirit of a Norse warrior."
He clasped Gunnar's shoulder, watching him stride into the cold.
With supplies in hand, Gunnar rode south with two volunteers and a captive Mercian scribe, following the old Roman road. From Tamworth to Winchester, seat of Wessex, lay over a hundred miles—five days by horse.
(For ease of reading: one mile = 1,500 meters in this tale.)
Along the way, the scribe sketched Wessex's history.
In the sixth century, a chieftain named Cerdic had founded the realm. Through the centuries it grew, and after King Offa of Mercia died, King Egbert of Wessex defeated Mercia in 825, seizing its hegemony. Since then, Wessex stood as the mightiest of Britain's realms.
On the third afternoon they crossed the border and reached Oxford.
"Vig was right," Gunnar muttered. "Wessex is raising an army."
The town was bustling. Above the walls snapped the yellow dragon-banner of the royal house. Farmsteads outside overflowed with levied militiamen. Soldiers soon spotted the Norse thunder-banner and rushed to confront them.
Learning they bore the king's letter, the guards dragged the four roughly from their horses and shoved them toward the central hall.
On the dais sat an aging man, hair white at the temples. He regarded the Norse envoys with loathing—and a hint of unease.
The letter was unrolled. Word by word, King Æthelwulf read it. Ragnar's tone was solemn, almost plaintive: he claimed Prince Burgred had forced his hand, that the assault on Mercia was defensive in nature, and that he sought only a third of the land, leaving the rest to native lords.
"Defensive?" Æthelwulf barked a laugh. "As though Ragnar suffers injustice—what mockery!"
Memories seethed. His father, King Egbert, had sought to bind the six realms beneath Wessex. But then came the Norse, raiding coasts, draining armies, and shattering his dream of unity.
Since Æthelwulf's own reign began, he had known nothing but endless pirate attacks. Now the Northmen held Northumbria, now Mercia's heart. In two years, when they had regained their strength, would not Wessex itself be next?
"No more. It ends here!"
He tore the parchment to shreds and hurled it at Gunnar.
"Filthy Norse savages, dreaming to seize Anglo-Saxon soil? When spring comes, I myself shall lead the host north—and cleanse every inch your foul boots have trod!"
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