On March 4, Gunnar's army arrived in the Hastings region. The coastline was sparsely populated; the largest fishing village had only a little over fifty households and a crude wooden pier.
After confirming that the area was suitable for landing, Gunnar ordered his soldiers to fell timber and build additional piers, while dispatching ships back to Calais to deliver messages.
The next day, he left five hundred men behind to construct a camp and port facilities, and led the rest of his forces north along the road.
By midday, the Frankish army halted before a river. Captured fishermen called it the Rother River. It was about fifteen meters wide and spanned by a stone bridge connecting the north and south banks.
"Look—there's the Sussex lord's castle."
At the northern end of the stone bridge stood a moderately sized castle. Its outermost defense was a wooden palisade roughly five meters high; inside it stood a six-meter stone wall, and at the center rose the keep. Atop the keep flew Earl Orm's banner—a black stag on a white field.
To block enemies advancing from the sea, Ragnar and the former chancellor Pascal had specifically ordered Orm to build a wooden fort here, which was later gradually converted into a stone castle.
Ulf's family castle in Dover had been built for the same reason, likewise at Ragnar and Pascal's direction—to buy time should continental enemies land on England's southern coast.
"The times have changed," Gunnar muttered. "The nobles are all busy building castles now. Defensive strength has skyrocketed. Life is getting harder and harder for Viking raiders."
Viking pirates relied mainly on light infantry and, in most cases, could not stand up to regular armies. They survived by striking quickly before local forces could assemble. As castles proliferated, suitable targets for raiding grew fewer and fewer. Worse still, British nobles had learned to use stirrups and couched-lance charges, importing tall, docile warhorses from the Continent—giving them crushing superiority over poorly equipped Viking raiders.
After a moment's thought, Gunnar reached a bleak conclusion: the small-scale raids of a hundred men or so were becoming obsolete. The decades-long age of rampant piracy was nearing its end.
Surrounded by shield-bearing guards, he approached the south bank of the Rother and called out loudly:
"Orm! Old friend—on account of our past friendship, let me cross the river. You will be richly rewarded afterward."
From atop the palisade, Orm stared down coldly. He loathed this traitor who had converted to a foreign faith and slaughtered his comrades. If not for Gunnar, Ragnar's main force would not have been defeated, and Orm's two sons would not have ended up with one dead and the other crippled.
"Loose!"
The defenders raised their already-cocked crossbows and fired. The guards on the south bank hurriedly raised their shields, blocking this utterly dishonorable volley. One bolt slipped through a gap and struck Gunnar's shoulder—piercing his gold-embroidered red brocade cloak before being stopped by the mail beneath, causing no injury.
An attempted parley answered with an arrow—Gunnar flew into a rage. He immediately ordered his men to build trebuchets and erect a wooden bridge on the eastern side.
During this time, Orm had archers harass the Frankish troops and personally joined in hurling insults at Gunnar. The two had known each other for over twenty years and were well aware of each other's secrets and sore spots.
"Orm, you were always a brainless fool," Gunnar shouted. "Remember twenty years ago when we raided East Anglia? Everyone bolted as soon as the alarm was raised—everyone except you. You got stuck in the village and hid in a pigsty for a whole day. When you finally rejoined us, no one dared stand near you."
Orm roared back, "Gunnar, you're a piece of shit! Remember that lover of yours—the tall one named Sunberg? She'd rather run off with a slave than live with you. You searched everywhere for her, even went begging shamans for guidance. You looked so stupid we laughed ourselves sick!"
After a long exchange, Gunnar finally snapped.
"Keep barking while you can! When I take that stone fortress, I'll chop your crippled son into mince—worse than how his brother died. Let's see what you have to say then!"
Three days later, more than two thousand soldiers arrived from Londinium—half conscripted militia, half fully armored royal guards.
Gunnar recalled bitterly that he himself had been the first commander of the Royal Guard. He had personally built this army—and now, inevitably, he would personally destroy it. Was this fate's cruel joke?
With the reinforcements in place, even more archers fired on the Frankish troops, desperately trying to stop the construction of the bridge. But the crossing sites were not limited to one location. In the end, Gunnar erected a bridge ten miles west, crossed the Rother there, and led his infantry onto the northern bank.
"Send word to Hastings. Order the cavalry to join us—every last one they can spare."
"Yes, sir."
The messenger rode back toward the beach. The original fishing village was gone, replaced by a vast, noisy temporary harbor. At the perimeter stood a hastily built fence; inside were scattered tents and supplies.
To the south, four piers extended into the sea, accommodating the massive, unwieldy cogs. The sky was leaden gray. Warhorses were dragged and whipped off the decks by rough soldiers, trembling as they stepped onto the slick planks. They whinnied in panic, their bodies shuddering from the terror of the long sea crossing.
Nearby, shallow-draft longships ran straight up onto the beach. Urged on by their officers, soldiers leapt into thigh-deep icy water, slogging through slippery mud toward land as their armor clanged with heavy, muffled impacts.
The cavalry commander, Charles, had grown up in Frankish lands—this was his first time setting foot in Britannia. Upon hearing the duke's orders, he hesitated and pointed at the horsemen leading their mounts along the beach.
"The horses aren't accustomed to rocking. They're exhausted and won't be combat-ready for a while—at least not until tomorrow."
At the same time, Oleg, commander of the Royal Guard, was bidding Orm farewell.
"Our men captured a prisoner while crossing the river," he said. "According to him, Gunnar brought two thousand cavalry. The wooden bridge is finished—the horsemen could cross at any moment. We can't stay here."
The two thousand soldiers under Oleg were the only mobile force left to the crown. They could not be squandered at Hastings. His plan was to retreat to Londinium and use the wide Thames River and stone walls to buy time.
Orm frowned but did not argue.
"Go," he said. "I'll stay here. Whether I live or die is in the hands of the gods."
With the Royal Guard preparing to withdraw, morale in the castle collapsed. Orm did not forcibly stop them. Servants and civilians were allowed to leave; soldiers could also withdraw after handing over their equipment.
In the end, Rother Castle was left with only Orm, his wife, his lame younger son, and one hundred and thirty volunteers—soldiers and civilians alike.
On March 10, Frankish cavalry crossed the wooden bridge but failed to catch the retreating Royal Guard. Gunnar did not waste time or manpower on Rother Castle. He left five hundred men behind to maintain the siege and led the rest of his army straight toward Londinium.
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