The quarrel among the three princes lasted five days before breaking down entirely. Each departed in anger, summoning his own supporters and preparing for war.
To counter the strongest brother, Carloman, the second son Louis the Younger formed an alliance with the youngest, Charles the Fat.
When Charles the Bald of West Francia learned of the turmoil in the east, he was overjoyed. Publicly, he assembled an army under the banner of mediation—as their uncle and emperor, he claimed he would reconcile his nephews.
In reality, halfway through his march, he abruptly turned his forces against the three petty kingdoms that had splintered from Middle Francia.
Londinium
Upon hearing of the chaos on the Continent, Vig was astonished.
"Since the Merovingians, they've divided the realm equally among sons. Every division breeds civil war. Have the Franks never considered changing this?"
He summoned Gwen, head of intelligence, ordering him to dispatch more agents—priority given to gathering information within West Francia.
By mid-May, confirmation arrived: the Frankish kings were locked in fierce conflict.
Vig exhaled in relief.
At last, he had room to deal with Ireland.
The next day, three thousand regular troops departed their garrisons under the command of Shrike, Earl of Bournemouth.
The expeditionary force consisted of:
1st and 2nd Infantry Regiments
A Mountain Infantry Battalion
Two Ranger Companies
Ireland — Dublin
Duke Eamon's situation was dire.
Over the past few years, he had failed to assert control, allowing his three earls and assorted barons to oppress the populace. Rebellion had flourished as a result.
Now insurgents controlled most of Ireland. Of his three earls, one was dead, another wounded. Eamon had repeatedly begged Londinium and neighboring magnates for aid—with little success.
The royal army was tied down guarding against Frankish threats across the Channel. The nobles were colder still—many remembered Ivar's unpaid debts and wished to avoid another bottomless pit.
"All because those fools squeezed the peasants dry," Eamon muttered bitterly, drafting yet another plea for assistance—a daily ritual by now.
"Wise Lord Ulf, forgive the intrusion—"
He had barely written the first line when a servant burst in.
"My lord! The royal army has arrived!"
Eamon rode hard to the city walls and climbed the watchtower.
A vast fleet entered the mouth of the River Liffey: ten twin-masted square-rigged ships and fifty cogs. The cogs varied in quality—many clearly requisitioned civilian vessels.
The largest twin-masted ship docked along the southern bank. A tall figure in a white surcoat over mail disembarked and strode toward the young duke.
"I am Shrike, Earl of Bournemouth. Commander of the regular army."
At first glance, Eamon resembled Ivar—broad-shouldered, pale-haired, sharp-cheekboned like a winter wolf.
But he lacked Ivar's composure and ferocity. Before Shrike and his fully armored soldiers, he appeared uneasy.
Shrike wasted no time on pleasantries.
He demanded maps. His staff laid out their own for comparison. He requested detailed figures: population, mobilized forces, warehouse supplies.
After assessing the situation, Shrike said bluntly:
"I require all your cavalry. We brought only two hundred rangers—not suited for shock charges."
Eamon swallowed.
"Dublin can muster two hundred and thirty cavalry. They're yours. What is your plan?"
Shrike pointed at a dot in central Ireland.
"Athlone. How much grain is stored there?"
"The Earl of Athlone lost early engagements and never consumed his stores. I believe supplies are sufficient."
"You believe?" Shrike stepped forward, causing the inexperienced duke to instinctively retreat.
"Whatever Athlone's condition, you will guarantee supply. Over ten thousand troops are expected to arrive later. If provisions fail, my men will not be as patient as I am."
"Understood."
Needing help, Eamon ignored the slight and invited the officers to a banquet.
During the feast, he noticed the discipline of the regular officers. They drank moderately—unlike his own lords, who wallowed in drunken excess.
That night, collapsing into bed, Eamon muttered:
"If half my men were like them, we wouldn't be in this disaster."
The next morning, Eamon appeared on the balcony, rubbing his temples.
"What are Shrike's men doing?"
"My lord, they rose before dawn. Departed at six. They've marched four hours already. Do you need them?"
"No."
Eamon leaned on the railing, gazing at the fleet along the Liffey, then westward over endless fields.
Relief mingled with a faint bitterness.
Had it been him and his nobles, they would have drunk themselves senseless, slept until noon, feasted again the next evening—departing no sooner than the third day.
"It seems I'd best abandon any thought of the Britannian throne."
Leaving Dublin, Shrike advanced into rolling lowlands and hills.
Ireland had no proper stone roads—only narrow, muddy tracks trampled by livestock, carved with ruts and fouled by manure. Progress slowed.
"We'll arrive a day later than planned," Shrike noted calmly.
From horseback, he surveyed oak and hazel forests, hedged pastures filled with cattle and sheep. In low wetlands, locals harvested peat from bogs, stacking it to dry for fuel.
After three days, Viking settlements grew scarce.
Shrike heightened alert status.
Rangers scouted open ground.
Mountain infantry combed woods and hills along the road.
On the fourth morning, a band of rebels attacked.
A shrill whistle cut through the southern oak grove.
"Form ranks!"
Companies reorganized into tight hundred-man squares. Once formation stabilized, Shrike sent several hundred mountain infantry into the woods.
With superior numbers and discipline, they crushed the would-be ambushers.
By noon, the army reached a small north–south river. The wooden bridge had been burned.
Shrike ordered engineers to construct a replacement.
Meanwhile, over a hundred rebels harassed them from the opposite bank.
The longbowmen answered with disciplined volleys.
Dozens of rebels fell.
The rest fled.
The window of opportunity had opened—and Shrike intended to move swiftly before it closed.
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