After a night of rest, Joren led five ships out of the harbor. The vessel with the damaged mast remained in Dover, to return to Tyne once repairs were complete.
The humid southeast wind brushed past his ears as Joren thought to himself:
Torsion ballistae are extremely accurate—perfect for naval warfare. Once we return to Tyne to replenish fire oil and other supplies, we can sail south again and completely sever the enemy's supply lines.
On overseas campaigns, logistics matter more than anything. The Frankish army can plunder grain and livestock from the countryside, but armor, weapons, arrows, and warhorses all depend on rear-area transport. The longer this drags on, the weaker they'll become.
With achievements like this, my title could be raised to another rank. Hmm… which fief would be suitable? The north is too cold—better to choose land farther south.
A sailor's shout abruptly broke his train of thought.
Joren turned his gaze westward and saw a massive number of Frankish ships pouring out of the Thames estuary, charging straight toward his raiding fleet.
"Prepare for battle!"
At this moment, the Frankish ships were sailing west to east, while the Viking fleet was moving south to north—perfect broadside alignment. Ten torsion ballistae aimed at the leading vessels and hurled stone shot, effortlessly sinking one oared longship.
However, the Frankish fleet seemed endless. They had been waiting here specifically to ambush the raiders returning north.
Soon, more and more longships and knarrs closed in on the Viking square-rigged ships. Frankish sailors drew bows and crossbows, trading fire with the Vikings. As the distance shrank, they hurled heavy iron grappling hooks attached to hemp ropes. Some hooks caught the sides of the square-riggers, others snagged the rigging, and a few even punched straight through the hull planks!
"Haul them in—pull!"
The Frankish soldiers strained to drag the enemy ships closer, while Viking fighters hacked desperately at the lines. Amid the ominous creaking of stressed timbers, two ships were dragged together. More hooks flew, until the hulls were locked tight against each other.
The most brutal and bloody phase of battle erupted—the boarding fight.
"Deus adjuva!"
(God, help me!)
The Frankish soldiers roared their battle cry. Led by officers and knights, daggers clenched between their teeth, they scrambled up the ropes—only to be met by forests of thrusting spears, viciously cleaving axes, and swords stabbing through shield gaps.
The Viking marines, clad in padded armor and holding the high ground, fought desperately to repel boarders. Sailors abandoned bows and crossbows, joining the melee with swords and daggers. Blood flooded the deck, staining the surrounding sea a dark red. The screams of those falling overboard and thrashing in the water never ceased.
With the situation critical, Joren suddenly remembered the sealed lime jars stored in the hold. He ordered several sailors unskilled in close combat to hurl them at the knarr on the port side.
The jars shattered on impact, releasing clouds of white powder that engulfed the knarr. Large numbers of Frankish soldiers clutched their eyes, screaming in panic, temporarily blinded and incapacitated.
The sailors quickly switched targets, hurling lime jars at the longship to starboard. Seizing the moment, the marines hacked through the grappling lines with axes, freeing Grey Parrot II from the entanglement.
"Now—shake them off!"
There was no time to breathe. The crew maneuvered Grey Parrot II away from the enemy, though allied ships behind them were still under heavy attack. Cursing aloud, Joren ordered the flagship to hold at a distance of one hundred meters and provide covering fire with ballistae and bows.
Five minutes later, two square-rigged ships barely managed to escape, moving to a relatively safer distance to support the remaining allies.
Realizing the enemy was trying to break away, the blood-mad Franks ordered the launch of fire arrows—not at the hulls or the Vikings themselves, but at the massive sails.
The main and fore sails burst into flames. The remaining two square-rigged ships were doomed. Some crew seized two enemy longships and rowed desperately toward friendly vessels. Behind them, the burning sails sagged and collapsed, spreading fire across the entire ship.
"They've gone mad—completely mad," Joren muttered bitterly as he watched the two square-rigged ships burn, fleeing in disarray before the southeast wind. By then, the Frankish rowers were exhausted and abandoned the pursuit.
By mid-July, Joren's battle report reached Tamworth. After reading it once, Vig passed it along to the others.
"The navy performed well," he said. "Not only did they burn vast amounts of supplies, they also shattered enemy morale. I expect mercenaries and minor nobles are already clamoring to run. Gunnar doesn't have much time left."
Vig was correct.
Two days later, Gunnar persuaded Æthelbald to renew the siege of Oxford. Sensing an attempt to lure him south, Vig considered carefully and kept his main force stationed at Tamworth.
Ceowulf still had a thousand soldiers, ample grain, and two hundred sets of armor as reinforcement. With the city walls, he could hold for at least two months.
Moreover, Ceowulf and Æthelbald had irreconcilable hostility. Ceowulf was, in name, Duke of Mercia. Though his prestige among the populace was low, after more than a decade of effort he controlled only Oxford—and would never surrender it.
To Æthelbald, however, Oxford had always been West Saxon land, with no room for compromise.
Given the circumstances, Gunnar sent envoys urging Æthelbald to yield a step—only to be flatly rejected.
"Oxford and the surrounding Mercian lands must be mine. If I give that up, what was the point of joining this war?" Æthelbald said coldly. "Tell your king that if he's willing to give Ceowulf a territory of equal output, I won't interfere."
Gunnar could do nothing. His own army was massive and likewise required vast lands to settle its followers. During this period, he drafted a rough plan of distribution:
His younger sons and bastards would divide Ireland.
The Northlands, along with the lands of Leonard, Ulf, and others, would go to his direct retainers.
He himself would retain York, Nottingham, Tamworth, Cambridge, and Londinium as royal demesne.
If I persuade Ceowulf to surrender, Gunnar thought, he'll demand a duchy of equal value. If I satisfy him, what will I have left? Just Londinium? Did I fight and bleed for all this, only for one county?
Irritated, Gunnar slammed the table and abandoned all thought of negotiating with Ceowulf.
As a result, over four thousand West Saxon troops were tied down in Oxfordshire, leaving Gunnar to face Vig's enormous army alone.
"So be it," Gunnar muttered. "After half a year of struggle, it's time we settled this."
At this point, Gunnar commanded over ten thousand troops. After persistent lobbying, he even borrowed four hundred cavalry from Wessex—sieges didn't need them anyway. His mounted forces expanded to 2,500 cavalry, plus 1,000 mounted infantry.
—------------------------------
Pat reon Advance Chapters: patreon.com/YonkoSlayer