After confirming Princess Enya's situation, Gunnar looked up at the overcast sky, took several deep breaths in succession, and murmured to himself:
"So be it. She is."
Gunnar's eldest son, Robert, was six years old this year—roughly the same age as Princess Enya. Gunnar decided to march on Londinium, seize it by force, and then arrange a marriage between his son and Enya, thereby strengthening the legitimacy of his rule over the Kingdom of Britannia.
"Just in time Charles the Bald has gone on pilgrimage to Rome. He can't stop me from assembling an army. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."
With his mind made up, Gunnar began mobilizing for war.
Relying on the immense wealth he had accumulated through the horse trade, he recruited a total of eight thousand men, including two thousand cavalry. Five hundred of these horsemen came from his own demesne, while the remaining fifteen hundred were drawn from across the Frankish realms. Lured by Gunnar's lavish pay, they had come specifically to earn a quick fortune.
Each mercenary cavalryman received a base wage of three pounds of silver, was entitled to five times the standard share of loot, and—should his mount be killed—Gunnar would compensate him with a replacement horse.
Of the six thousand infantry, nearly half came from neighboring nobles' lands and were hired outright with cash. Cavalry and infantry combined, the wages alone amounted to 6,500 pounds. Adding provisions, weapons, and the cost of chartering ships, the total expenditure skyrocketed to 9,000 pounds.
In March of 858, Gunnar's army arrived at Calais. Upon hearing the news, the local lord readily handed over the port, allowing these madmen to cross the sea to Britannia without resistance.
At dawn, two hundred vessels of varying sizes carpeted the sea, sailing in succession toward Dover. As far as the eye could see, masts stood like a forest, swollen sails blotting out the sky.
Gunnar stood at the prow of his flagship, preparing to deliver a speech—when a sudden wave smashed against the hull, spraying salty mist across his face. Soldiers turned away to avoid it, cursing under their breath. Gunnar wiped his face, tasting the brine on his lips.
"That familiar feeling… it's back."
His excitement surged. Blood boiled in his veins as his eyes fixed on the sea ahead.
A strong, steady wind blew from the southwest, filling the massive square sails. The taut canvas pulled the heavy cogs forward, carving broad white wakes across the water. Sailors clambered nimbly among masts and rigging, shouting commands, curses flying now and then.
By afternoon, the clouds broke apart and sunlight intensified, bathing the entire fleet in a near-sacred golden glow. The thin mist hanging over the sea vanished, as though an unseen hand had drawn back a vast curtain.
In the distance, the White Cliffs of Dover shimmered faintly yellow in the slanting sun. Atop the cliffs stretched rolling green fields, where tiny figures could be discerned—likely scout riders.
"They've spotted us!"
A ripple of unrest passed through the fleet. Soldiers tightened their grips on weapons; some licked cracked lips, others clutched the crosses on their chests, whispering prayers for divine protection.
At three in the afternoon, Gunnar's six thousand infantry landed on the beach. Guided by local fishermen, they marched westward along the coast, arriving at the outskirts of Dover's harbor.
Under the cover of shield-bearing guards, Gunnar approached the palisade and called out loudly for Ulf. Before long, a voice answered from behind the battlements:
"Gunnar—what do you want?"
"I hear Aslaug is looking for a marriage alliance. My eldest son Robert is the same age as Enya—clearly a match made by the gods. Old friend, open the port and let my remaining forces land. You will be richly rewarded."
As he listened, Ulf gazed at the six thousand troops outside the walls. Among them were two thousand heavy infantry, their armor flashing blindingly in the sunlight—an intimidating sight.
"Two thousand heavy infantry… more than the royal guards," he muttered, swallowing hard as his courage ebbed.
"Is he mad?"
Weighing the pros and cons, Ulf was about to accept—when a thought struck him.
"A few days ago, merchants told me something," he said. "They claimed thousands of Frankish troops had gathered in Calais, some calling for the purification of Britannia's evils, calling themselves holy crusaders. What do you make of that?"
Gunnar's expression did not change. He swore that he would treat all Vikings kindly, noble and freeman alike.
After a few moments, Ulf ordered sailors to shout in Frankish:
"You must swear in the name of your god that you will never harm Vikings on the grounds of faith."
At this, an uproar broke out among the troops outside the walls. The accompanying priests reacted most violently, loudly inciting the soldiers. Gunnar dared not oppose these fanatical Franks and responded to the garrison's demand with silence.
Ulf's heart sank.
"What does this mean?" he asked hoarsely. "You can't control your Frankish soldiers?"
With age, Ulf's ambitions had long faded. As long as he could live in wealth and comfort, he did not care who wore the crown. But judging from the soldiers' mood outside, their hatred of pagan Vikings was unmistakable. If Gunnar became king of Britannia, would he defy his troops' sentiments to protect Viking nobles like Ulf?
The answer was obvious. Gunnar cared only for power; he would never undermine the foundation of his rule.
Ulf gripped the battlements to steady himself, his voice unsteady.
"In that case… I cannot accept you as king of Britannia."
In the peaceful years past, three nobles had grown rich through trade.
Vig had poured his profits into the production of padded armor, stockpiling it in secret warehouses.
Gunnar had locked his silver away in castle vaults, amassing an enormous war chest.
Ulf had spent part of his earnings on luxury, stored part in his cellars, and invested the rest in expanding his family castle.
Negotiations collapsed.
Gunnar surveyed the harbor town and sighed deeply.
Candlekeep Castle stood on a low hill a hundred meters west of the port. Its outer walls rose ten meters high, with tall watchtowers at intervals. Behind them stood an inner wall, and at the core loomed a massive keep. Judging by its size, it could easily house five hundred soldiers.
"This is troublesome."
Gunnar calculated grimly. He could seize Dover's wooden town palisade—but Ulf could retreat into Candlekeep and hold out for a year or more on stored provisions. Worse still, the castle mounted several trebuchets capable of hurling flaming oil jars at ships in the harbor, effectively blockading it.
"Damn him," Gunnar muttered bitterly. "Was it really necessary to build such a turtle shell?"
Left with no choice, Gunnar led his army past Dover and marched southwest. He had to find a port capable of accommodating heavy cogs to receive the remaining two thousand cavalry and vast quantities of supplies—otherwise, this war could not be fought at all.
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