After wading across a small stream, the Viking army made camp on the grassy ground along its northern bank.
The soldiers of the core regiments followed regulations to the letter. They methodically dug trenches, piling the excavated earth into low embankments, then driving in wooden stakes to form a temporary palisade. (During marches, the baggage wagons were responsible for carrying these stakes.)
Once the trench was finished, soldiers scattered iron caltrops outside it and hung small warning bells along the inner edge as an early-warning measure.
With the outer defenses completed, dusk gradually settled in, and the men hurried to pitch their tents.
Each squad shared a single leather tent, with a central aisle and sleeping rolls arranged on both sides. Thanks to standardized components, setting up a tent took no more than fifteen minutes.
After pitching camp, each squad leader went to the company quartermaster to collect a full day's rations:
Three pounds of wheat flour per soldier (here using the Anglo-pound; three pounds is roughly one kilogram). The flour was used to make hardtack—an old Roman legion recipe the Duchess had found in a parchment manuscript. It tasted terrible, only marginally better than the old hard bread, and was a constant source of complaints.
In addition to the staple, squad leaders also received portions of cured meat, hard sheep's-milk cheese, and onions. Since there had been fighting during the day, smoked sausages and some light beer were specially issued to boost morale.
At first, Vig had intended to imitate Roman military tradition by adopting a vinegar drink known as posca as the army's standard beverage. This idea was met with fierce resistance. The soldiers had grown up drinking cheap, decent beer before enlistment—there was no reason for them to tolerate something sour, harsh, and inferior.
Urged on by the quartermaster, squad leaders filled in their names and ranks on the supply forms, then hoisted the rations back to their tents. Bonfires were already burning in the open areas ahead of the tents, and the soldiers skillfully baked hardtack while grumbling about how dry and tough it was.
After distributing the light beer, the squad leader sat cross-legged by the fire, cradling his own cup and sighing.
"Be grateful. This afternoon, a company in the neighboring regiment botched a formation change. Their entire unit is stuck eating barley tonight."
Traditionally, poorly performing soldiers were issued barley as punishment. Hearing that their comrades had gotten into trouble, the men immediately perked up, crowding around the squad leader to demand more details.
The Central Command Tent
After the tactical meeting, the commanders stayed for their customary shared meal. Their food was noticeably better: fresh meat, honey bread, smoked sausages, and a ration of wine.
Halfway through, Utgard grew inspired and pulled out his bagpipes, playing a tune from his homeland. When he finished, Little Pascal plucked the strings of his lyre and began singing a passage from Beowulf:
The harp was struck, the song was sung,
The tale told by Hrothgar's poet.
He sang of the world's beginning, of mankind's creation,
Of the shining plains ringed by water,
The grass brushing the cheek, the fragrant trees,
And the bright, pale circle of the moon—
A time before ancient feuds and wars,
When harmony alone filled the world.
Seated on a folding stool, Vig listened to the banter and laughter, silently finishing his meal. He waved off Leif's attempt to refill his wine.
When the gathering ended, he personally assigned the night watch and solemnly warned the officers in the tent:
"Supplies are running short. Gunnar has no choice but to withdraw. Tonight is his last chance—and our final test. You must hold against this attack."
In the second half of the night, Vig woke groggily from the heat. He poured some water to wash his face, lifted the tent flap, and climbed the hastily built watchtower.
The entire camp lay silent. Along the palisade, a sentry stood every few dozen meters. Suddenly, several dark shapes flickered along the northern wall. Shouts erupted, and countless torches flared outside the camp as the enemy surged forward like a tide.
"So, they finally came."
After waiting a moment, messengers from various units arrived one after another. Vig ordered them to assemble their troops and defend their assigned sectors, strictly forbidding any unauthorized counterattacks.
Before long, the enemy breached a short section of the northern palisade—only to be met with blanket fire from crossbows and bows. Forced to advance behind raised shields, their momentum slowed drastically.
After some time, the northern defenders gradually regained the initiative, steadily forcing the attackers back out of the camp.
Just then, thunderous shouts erupted from the western wall. The noise was overwhelming. Countless fire arrows streaked out of the darkness like a rain of flame, igniting dozens of tents in moments.
Leif spoke urgently, "Uncle, this is their main force! Should we send reinforcements?"
Vig shot him a sharp look. "Make the feint look real, make the real look false. What's the panic?"
The camp perimeter was held by Vig's five core infantry regiments. He trusted these carefully trained troops to hold for at least an hour.
Continuing to observe, he noticed that the fighting on the western side was not particularly intense. The enemy was mainly launching arrow barrages and sending small assault teams to seize sections of the palisade, using them as footholds to skirmish with the Vikings.
Before long, the attackers exhausted their supply of fire arrows, and the fighting on the west gradually subsided. Meanwhile, the northern assault suddenly intensified. Frankish heavy infantry pushed forward under heavy casualties, capturing large portions of the Third Infantry Regiment's camp area.
"Now's the time."
Vig dispatched the mountain infantry battalion to reinforce the Third Regiment's front, helping them stabilize the line.
He then turned his gaze to the Highland mercenaries waiting nearby. More than thirty percent of them wore hastily repaired iron armor, and every man was itching for battle.
They had already proven their bravery. Their weakness was poor discipline. Worried they might disrupt his own formations, Vig stroked his chin for a long moment, then ordered them to circle around and attack the enemy from the rear, operating independently.
"Your Majesty, wait for good news."
Their leader, Douglas, let out an excited, almost feral shout and led the mass of mercenaries charging off.
With two waves of reinforcements committed, the Third Infantry Regiment finally stabilized the situation. At this point, faint fighting noises also appeared on the eastern side of the camp, accompanied by the whinnying of many horses.
"Hah—what is Gunnar trying to do? Scare me with horses?"
In darkness, charging horses could easily break their legs; night cavalry combat was virtually impossible. Gunnar was clearly just trying to draw Vig's forces away.
After more than ten minutes, the northern assault failed to break through. The enemy gradually melted back into the darkness, leaving behind a devastated camp perimeter.
The Next Morning
Vig convened a meeting and assigned units to clear the battlefield. Little Pascal asked about the next move. Vig lifted a bowl of salted oatmeal porridge and replied casually:
"Barring surprises, the Frankish army is retreating. What do you think?"
He scanned the faces in the tent. Sparrowhawk and Thorgil looked thoughtful. Leif seemed eager to speak but held back. The rest shared much the same reaction—nearly all of them were calling for pursuit.
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