As the distance between the two armies continued to shrink, large numbers of light infantry appeared in front of the Viking lines. They were organized in fourteen-man squads—some equipped with shields and axes, others with two-handed long spears, and still others carrying Welsh longbows.
Relying on their superior range, the longbowmen lobbed arrows toward the Frankish archers on the eastern side of the battlefield. Worried about running out of time, they generally adopted rapid-fire techniques, sacrificing accuracy for volume, harassing the enemy at a rate of over ten arrows per minute.
Because the Frankish archers were packed into dense formations, the Welsh longbowmen's hit rate was fairly respectable. From time to time, Frankish soldiers cried out and fell.
After waiting for more than a minute, the Vikings entered the Frankish firing range. The Frankish archers hurriedly knocked arrows and lost their first volley—yet, unexpectedly, only a few scattered figures fell among the enemy.
What was going on?
Some archers checked their bows and arrows, suspecting faulty equipment. Under their officers' shouts, they lost a second volley, but the results were still unimpressive.
"Damn those Flemish merchants—selling us fake goods!"
Curses erupted among the archers, who felt like stringing up the profiteers who had sold them inferior supplies.
And so it went. After enduring ten consecutive volleys, the black-clad Viking infantry continued advancing at a steady pace. With only fifty paces remaining, the light infantry at the very front withdrew through the gaps between the formations.
At thirty paces, the drums and horns fell abruptly silent. The Viking spearmen halted, and at their officers' commands, the first two ranks leveled their spears.
Tweet—
In the next instant, shrill brass whistles sounded across the line. Countless Vikings roared cries of "Valhalla!" and "Odin!", surging forward in a pike-thrust charge.
The Frankish archers hurriedly released one last volley and fled in panic toward their own lines. They shoved and collided with one another, disrupting the infantry formations behind them.
Moments later, the Viking spearmen slammed into the Frankish infantry, who were also armed with spears. The front ranks strained with all their strength, driving heavy spears forward—thrust, withdraw, thrust again.
Soldiers in the second rank extended their spears through the gaps between the front men to join the stabbing. Those farther back stood ready at all times; the instant someone in front fell, they had to step forward and fill the gap.
As time passed, the center of the battlefield became a vast, slowly churning vortex of death. Dense forests of spear shafts collided, tangled, and snapped. Some Vikings abandoned their spears, crouched low, and crawled forward to fight at close quarters with short axes; the Franks responded by drawing daggers.
Unnoticed at first, Gunnar's core troops were still barely holding on—but the mercenaries and auxiliary contingents from other nobles could not withstand the pressure.
They had never experienced anything this brutal. Pressed relentlessly by the Viking spears, they were driven backward step by step. When morale dropped past a critical threshold, more than half of the Frankish line collapsed outright. The Vikings poured into the breach, striking Gunnar's core troops from the front and flanks, shattering them completely.
Seeing his infantry collapse, Charles de Portigny, positioned on the eastern side of the battlefield, froze in disbelief. He had never imagined the mercenaries and irregulars would be so fragile—unable to last even ten minutes.
"My lord, what should we do?"
The Frankish knights could no longer restrain their eagerness to fight and anxiously urged their commander to attack.
Forced to cover the retreat, Charles committed most of his cavalry. At the sound of horns and the signals of banners, the Viking spearmen in the front line abandoned the pursuit and hastily formed small pike blocks of dozens—or sometimes hundreds—of men.
Faced with dense forests of cold, gleaming spear points, the Frankish cavalry veered away, hunting instead for scattered soldiers who had failed to form up in time. Like a rushing river striking countless rocks, the cavalry charge was broken into innumerable thin streams.
After a while, seeing the Frankish cavalry grow scattered and lose speed, Vig turned his gaze to his own mounted troops.
Including reinforcements provided by Little Pascal and the other nobles, he now commanded seven hundred cavalry—five hundred heavy cavalry armed with lances, and two hundred light rangers equipped with light cavalry sabers.
That would be enough.
He called out Torgil, ordering him to lead all cavalry in a direct attack against the one thousand Frankish cavalry ahead, with strict instructions to tie them down.
"By your command!"
Torgil's force thundered off. Immediately afterward, Vig dispatched over six hundred Highland mercenaries. They were poor at maintaining formations, but in chaotic melee against slowed Frankish cavalry, they could still serve a purpose.
At this point, Vig still retained two infantry regiments, one mountain infantry battalion, and over six hundred noncombatants—cooks, grooms, clerks, and shamans—who had formed a square with supply wagons. It lacked offensive power, but defensively it was more than sufficient.
On the eastern side of the battlefield, Charles de Portigny was left with five hundred cavalry and one thousand heavy infantry. Reports reached him that the enemy's "black clothing" was in fact armor—iron plates fixed between two layers of thick linen, every black coat constructed the same way.
"What a devious tactic."
Had he known the enemy infantry were fully armored, he would never have been foolish enough to fight them in the open field.
Charles shook his head sharply and looked toward the Viking center. What he saw there finally crushed his will—the camp servants sheltering inside the wagon laager were also donning black armor.
"Damn it… where does the Serpent of the North get so much money?"
Left with no alternative, Charles sent messengers ordering all units to withdraw southeast toward Rother Castle. With this defeat, Tamworth was likely lost.
Watching the Frankish forces pull back step by step, Vig let out a quiet sigh. The enemy still had five hundred cavalry uncommitted—a deterrent force that kept his frontline commanders from pursuing recklessly.
At four in the afternoon, the two armies disengaged. Aside from the Highland mercenaries who had vanished in all directions, the remaining units gradually returned to report their casualties.
By evening, the jubilant Douglas led his clan warriors to Vig, boasting that they had captured nine noble prisoners.
"Very well," Vig said. "Have the clerks record their identities. Any ransom belongs to you. Your task now is to count your men."
Including the mercenaries, total casualties in this battle amounted to eight hundred men.
Frankish losses were somewhat higher. Corpses and prisoners left on the battlefield totaled 1,800, not counting the many routed soldiers—some returned to their units, others turned to banditry, and still others fled south in search of ships to take them home.
Vig could not determine the exact numbers, but estimated that Charles de Portigny still had roughly three to four thousand men remaining.
With the battle concluded, Vig sent the wounded back to Repton for treatment. More than seven hundred prisoners were also confined there.
At present, the field medical corps' methods consisted mainly of suturing wounds, boiling herbal medicines, providing clean food and water, and regularly changing linen bandages and undergarments.
In the absence of antibiotics and anesthetics, the corps still achieved an overall recovery rate of about sixty percent—remarkably effective, and far superior to the bloodletting-obsessed practices of their contemporaries.
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