The Great Pagan Army

by Vaughn Heppner

  “What happened to the villagers?”

  “They fled. They’re not witless like a bunch of monks.”

  “So why are you here?”

  “Why not here?” Lupus said. “The countryside is thick with Northmen.”

  “Is Willelda alive?”

  Lupus shrugged.

  “Do the Northmen have any women in the village?”

  Lupus shook his head.

  “What are your plans?” asked Peter.

  Lupus gave a low laugh. “Surviving, making it through another few days.”

  Peter wrung his hands. “I have to find Willelda.”

  “Good luck. I doubt even a pack of hunting hounds could find her. The elder was no fool. He knew raiders were coming. So he and others scouted around and picked themselves a good hidey-hole.”

  That made sense. “What do you suggest?” Peter asked.

  “Now you’re thinking. Trust the serf who has more lives than a cat. Usually I run alone, but you obviously have powers. You’re an idiot—or you act like an idiot—one moment and then the next you use your magic to weasel out of trouble. I say we make a pact. One man sleeps and he’s vulnerable. With two, one man sleeps and the other guards.”

  “Where would we go?” Peter said.

  “You’re a thinker, and that’s the question. A walled city is one choice and far, faraway from here is the other. Let’s say either place. We head for a walled city first and then if we can we try and get far away from here.”

  “Would Rome be far enough?”

  “Rome?” Lupus said.

  “It’s a joke. Yes, a pact, I agree, with the proviso that we help Willelda if we find her.”

  Lupus grew wary. “One thing at a time is how you survive, Irish. Forget the girl. If you have an itch, you find another hussy to scratch it. The world’s full of eager women.”

  Peter regarded Lupus with his muscles, his thick neck and confident air. The serf had a filthy mind, but perhaps the very coarseness was his strength. Peter slipped a hand behind his back and gently crossed his fingers; the bottom nail was tender.

  “Yes, I fully agree.” With the proviso that I help Willelda if I can, Peter added silently. “Let’s shake on it.”

  Lupus did so, grinning.

  Peter couldn’t help but return it.

  11.

  Peter knew the histories and that once this country had thrived under the Romans. There had been good roads, cities and cultivated land. It was not so anymore. Over the centuries—with the barbarian invasions and the breakdown of civilization—humanity had become scarcer and coarser. The roads were ruined and the cities shrunken so the largest only held a few thousand people. Even there, the fields, pastures and gardens crept upon the houses like overgrown vines. The wild lands, the forests, scrub and dunes grew larger each year, advancing over the once cultivated areas. Thus, even in the heart of Neustria it was easy to hide.

  For two days, they crept through the woods. Lupus set snares, skinned squirrels and charred the meat over small fires. They cracked acorns from the sack-full Lupus had gathered to bring as a present to the abbot. Far too often, they heard the barbarous tongue of Northmen. The armored reavers drove cattle, sheep, pigs and village beauties south toward the Seine. They were a plague, a pestilence and a devouring curse.

  On the third morning, Peter’s nose ran and his throat itched. Toward evening, they hiked up a wooded hill. Lupus claimed he smelled water and a hint of cooking fires.

  “We must be near the Seine,” Lupus said.

  Peter had no idea where they were.

  Lupus patted a tall maple tree. Higher up a hollow knot held a spider web; the eight-legged arachnid patiently hung in a corner with a fly in its grip. “Why don’t you climb it and have a look?”

  “I’m too tired,” Peter said, sorry he had told Lupus how he had escaped the Northmen by climbing an ancient apple tree. “You do it.”

  Lupus shook his head. “Never was much good at climbing. Don’t like heights much either.”

  Peter raised his eyebrows. It was the first time this Lotharingian had admitted something frightened him. Peter tucked the lower part of his habit into his rope belt and began to climb. Twigs snapped and old bark flaked off. He slid his palm through sticky sap, branches scratched his legs and he almost knocked over a hidden nest. Feathery tufts lined it.

  Lupus called up. “What do you see?”

  Peter hoisted himself upward until he tucked a branch under his armpit and craned his head. The Seine was far away, a great ribbon of blue in a broad valley. Narrow ships sailed it with red-and-white striped sails. Beside the river was a grassy area with a horde of white tents and campfires threading smoke, and corrals filled with a thousand milling animals. There was a mass of longboats pulled onto shore. It awed Peter, and for the first time he had a sense of the Sea King’s power.

  He began his descent.

  With compressed lips, Lupus listened to his report. “Did you see a stockade?”

  “I saw fences and herds of cattle and horses,” Peter said.

  “That’s not what I mean. A stockade, a fortress: the Northmen build them out of timber. I heard a horse lord say once that it’s one of the Northman’s tricks. It’s what allows them to march unmolested deep into our territory.”

  “When did you hear a baron say that?”

  Lupus peeled bark off the tree, crumpled it in his hands and threw the crumbs onto the loam. “Our horse-lords are such piss poor fighters that one of them once thought to gather all his serfs together. That happened to be my old master. He gave us spears and sent some of his retainers to teach us how to shove the iron into someone’s guts when the time came. The time came sooner than my master expected. He summoned us and we followed him and his pretty knights onto the battlefield, least that’s what he called it. He led us toward a band of Northmen.” Lupus shook his head. “They wore iron and their weapons glittered like silver. I knew then it was going to be bad, but I was too trusting back then to slip away and get a head start. I was a proud fool. Thought I’d be a hero. Anyway, my master lined us up and he tried giving us a speech from high up on his horse, except he kept glancing over his shoulder at the Northmen. Every one of us could see he was ready to wet his breeches. The Northmen began hooting and hollering, jeering us, calling us cowards and worse. They also began to march.” Lupus snorted. “I’ll give my old master this. He wheeled his horse and faced the enemy and shouted for his boys, and all reluctant like they rode to him. He waved his sword over his head, shouting encouragement no one could understand, and they charged. It was a brave sight. I cheered. So did those beside me. You could feel the pound of their hooves in your feet. I didn’t think anyone could face them, certainly not dirty old Danes. I knew none of me and my cousins could have. Those Northmen quit advancing, so that was something, but they locked their big shields together and poked out heavy spears. It was like a wall. I laughed, waiting to see our horsemen smash through them—except they didn’t do any such thing. No. Our riders slowed, as they got close. Horses neighed wildly and a few of them bucked. By the time our lord and his retainers reached the shield wall, they had all but stopped. My master swung down a time or two, so did some of his men. They clouted the upraised shields. Sounded like a bunch of carpenters building a church. Then Northmen began shouting and roaring. Several jumped out of their crowd. Those spit and slobbered like a mad dog and swung giant axes. They murdered horses and knights fell onto the earth.” Lupus laughed. “You should have seen those axes. Thud, thud, and our fallen men were crow meat. One of them madmen chopped off a knight’s head. Well, you can imagine that my master had seen enough of that. He threw down his sword, yanked his reins and spurred his stallion. Those of his bullyboys who could did likewise. They left the battlefield to us poor bloody sods standing stunned. We blinked at each other. I remember how pale my cousins were, how some began to shake. Then the Northmen laughed again. I’d never heard a sound like that. It was a laugh full of confidence, full of the power of Odi
n and Thor. In a great clatter and clank they charged across the field.” Lupus shook his head; he had a distant look in his eyes. “I was scared, but I gripped my spear even though my knees knocked—except my cousins and uncles starting pitching aside theirs. They lit to their heels and tried to follow our master. He was out of sight by then. He had a fast horse. I kept my spear, and I didn’t run with them. I’ve always been my own man, my own thinker. I knew those Northmen would run down the main group. I shot off to the side. I sprinted into the brush and they never found me. My cousins and uncles and all the other fools who my brave horse lord had trained, you can guess what happened to them.”

  “They died,” Peter whispered.

  “Now there’s a nice word for you. No, they got their brains bashed out. They got their stomachs ripped open, their backs sliced apart and arms and legs hacked off. Those Northmen are murderous with their giant axes. Let me tell you something, monk. Northmen know how to fight. They been taught since they were runts. They know how to fight together. That’s what really counts. You can’t just shove a spear into a serf’s hands and call him a soldier. It doesn’t work like that. But you can’t tell a horse lord that, and you can’t expect them to stand up to these Northmen either.” Lupus spat at the ground. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  12.

  They ate Peter’s herring and cheese because the squirrels grew wise and avoided Lupus’s snares. Peter was used to hunger: the gnawing in his belly, but he had never been so filthy. His habit was torn; the worst was a hole over his left buttock where a pimple had grown. The habit scratched like a hair shirt. His skin itched, and a rash on his neck and one just above his groin made him miserable. He had scratched himself one night until blood oozed.

  “Chew on this,” Lupus said. They threaded between trees in the gloom of the forest, searching for a path.

  Peter frowned at the bark Lupus put in his hands. “You want me to eat this?”

  “You’ve never been through a famine?”

  “We never ate bark,” Peter said.

  “I have, boiled first, of course. Chew it thoroughly and then swallow fast. Just gulp it down like you would ale.”

  Peter broke off a piece and began to grind it between his teeth. It tasted awful, and even worse, it made his stomach growl.

  “See,” Lupus said. “Your body knows you’re hungry.”

  “The body always tries to betray us,” Peter said. “That’s why we must pray and gain God’s help.”

  Lupus peered through a bush and into a large glade where a stream trickled. “Keep quiet, eh.”

  At Lupus’s tone, Peter dropped onto his belly and slithered under the bush. His heart quickened. On the other side of the glade, Northmen marched into sight, three dozen, maybe a few more. They wore soft leather caps, tunics and breeches, big, bearded men with linden-wood shields on their backs. The colorful shields had brass hoops on the rims and bronze bosses in the middle. Each marauder carried a spear, axe or kept a long sword on a leather belt. Cattle lowed, rope-led by younger raiders. Sacks clattered metallically on those poor beasts. Women staggered into view. Each had a rope wound around her neck knotted to a heavier rope that kept them single-file.

  Peter’s eyes bugged. He recognized one of the stumbling women. He recognized her long dark hair, the haunted, black-circled eyes and the jut to her chin. She had a torn shrift that exposed one of her lovely hips.

  “Willelda,” he whispered, her name catching in his throat.

  “Forget her,” Lupus whispered.

  Peter frowned. He had never heard crueler words. He gripped his Danish axe as his heart thudded painfully. The Northmen had twisted a coarse rope around her neck. The skin there was red and raw. Peter clenched his teeth. He ground his molars against each other.

  “What?” Lupus hissed into his ear. “Are you going to charge them with your axe?”

  Peter glared at his heartless companion. “You’re the tough one. You’ve killed a Northman before. How can we save her?”

  “We can’t.”

  The finality of the words struck Peter like a blow. Tears leaked into his eyes. “Then we have to follow them.”

  “We do and we’ll be dead before morning.”

  “We can’t leave her a captive,” Peter whispered.

  “Look at them, Irish. Those are Northmen. They’re killers, murderers. They won’t kill her, though, if that’s any help to you. Willelda’s in no danger of losing her life.”

  Peter’s face burned. If felt as if ants bit all over his body. “You’re talking about them raping her.”

  “I’m taking about life,” Lupus said, and he spoke earnestly now, no longer with his brutal indifference. “She’ll live, mostly on her back, but that’s better than a sword sticking in her guts, which is what will happen to us if we don’t slip away from here.”

  Dizziness swarmed onto Peter. He found it hard to think, to concentrate. “What if we tracked them? Slipped into their camp at night and freed her?”

  Lupus gripped his arm and blew hot breath as he whispered, “See that tall Dane over there with the forked beard? He has a silver scabbard. Bet his weapon is some stolen knight’s sword. He’s the jarl among them, the chieftain. He’s the one giving orders. You go ask him for Willelda. That’s a better idea than your stupid plan.”

  A horrible emptiness made Peter’s stomach ache. Leave Willelda? He would never see her again. He would slip away like a coward while she entered hideous captivity.

  Lupus tugged him. “Let’s go.”

  “Wait…” Peter wiped sweat out of his eyes. “They’re stopping.”

  Lupus poked Peter hard in the ribs. “Listen. They might have scouts or tracking hounds. You had a roll with Willelda and figure there will never be a girl like her again. Well, you’re wrong. The world’s full of women, even women for monks.”

  Agony stole Peter’s words, stole his wits.

  Lupus dragged him to his feet. “Are you an oath breaker?”

  “No, no. I was thinking… maybe if we followed them and found their stockade, then we could tell—”

  “Haven’t you learned anything? Armies are deathtraps for us. I’m leaving, and so are you.”

  Peter nodded slowly. It knotted his gut. He peered one last time through the bush. Cattle slurped at the stream. The captured girls sat down, Willelda on an old fallen log. A Northman stood among them and threw crusts out a sack. Willelda crammed the bread into her mouth. The forty or so warriors sat on the ground. Two had splashed across the stream and studied the woods.

  Then a horn shattered Peter’s thoughts and caused Lupus to run back and slide down beside him.

  A Northman farther away blew the horn, a low, flat note. His hairy cheeks were puffy and spotted with dots of red. The warriors jumped up and swiveled the big shields off their backs. They thrust their left arms through the bindings. Some drew shiny swords. None had time to don armor, for bursting out of the trees charged iron men on stallions. There were less of them, maybe thirty, but they towered on those big steeds. The iron-linked shirts gleamed with oil. The knights hefted round shields, held wicked lances with crossbars jutting just below the foot of razor-sharp steel. Franks! These were Frankish knights. A bright red flag flapped in their midst.

  The fork-bearded jarl roared orders. His warriors didn’t scream in terror or act bewildered. They jostled together and raised their big round shields into a wooden wall. Then they lifted spears and long-handled axes and shouted at the Franks.

  The horsemen thundered at the forming Northmen. Thirty feet before reaching the shield wall, the cavalry split in halves. One half went right and the other left. They galloped past the Danes and toward several who hadn’t been fast enough to make it into the shield wall. The Franks slaughtered those unlucky few. They did it with neat thrusts from their lances. A Northman parried with his shield, deflecting the spear points, but they were too many lances, too many galloping horsemen. One knight slashed with his lance and punched a lug, a sharp metal crossbar, into
a Dane’s cheek.

  The jarl bellowed orders. His warriors swiveled around and once again slapped the edges of their shields together, facing the new direction of the Franks. Well past the Danes, the thundering knights wheeled. Peter had never realized they could do it so quickly and with such precision. Two raiders roared barbarous oaths and charged out of the shield wall. The jarl bellowed at them. The Franks spurred their steeds. Stallions dug their hooves into the sward and charged anew. The knights yelled as the red banner fluttered and snapped. The knights swept around the two, rash Northmen. When the last rider passed, the two raiders twitched on the grass, prey to the tricky lance tactics. This time the knights didn’t split apart, nor did they charge directly at the opposing shield wall. They circled the Danish formation and jabbed down with their long lances. The shields held, but sometimes a lance snaked past, and the knights were unerring with their jabs. The Danes lacked body armor and took a multitude of wounds. After two complete circuits, a trumpet pealed. The knights broke off, galloping back for the tree line where they had first emerged. The trumpet blew again and the knights wheeled once more. Their stallions heaved. Necks glistened with sweat. The Franks cheered, waving bloodied weapons.

  The fork-bearded jarl had been barking orders throughout. The Northmen retreated as a group, dragging their wounded. A few dead or dying marauders littered the glade.

  “Let’s go,” Lupus said.

  “The Northmen aren’t headed at us,” Peter said.

  Lupus dug his fingers into Peter’s shoulder. “Are you putting the Evil Eye on the Northmen? You’re staring so hard. Are you giving them bad luck?”

  The Frank captain shouted and spurred his stallion. It was a big white horse, proud and strong. The steed broke into a gallop, with the others thundering beside him.