“Who is that, milord?”
“She is old Bishop Engelwin’s daughter. I love Judith, and in time, she shall love me. Can I dare give her up? Has my passion for…” The smile became bitter. “I want revenge. If I must move heaven and hell I will attempt it, just let me see the Danes howl in defeat. Let me see them bleed in a ditch and beg me to spare them. I will not spare them. I will slay every last one of them if it is ever in my power to do so.”
Peter would have crossed himself at such blasphemy, such ferociousness, but he feared the Count.
“Listen, Brother, I have a proposal. You want your woman. I will attempt her rescue if you will attempt a thing for me.”
“What thing is this, milord?”
“Bishop Gozlin has a book, De Re Militari. Have you ever heard of it?”
“I have, milord. It is an old treatise on war by a Roman author, by Vegetius.” Peter became thoughtful. “I believe Hrabanus Maurus wrote an abridged version. He retained only what was relevant to modern warfare.”
“Perhaps that is so. I have never heard of this Hrabanus. What I do know is that certain of Charlemagne’s commanders read and learned from this book. Copies survived. I know that Lothar II of Lotharingia received one and years later so did Charles the Bald. Gozlin was intimate with old King Charles, was often at his court and helped him in matters of high policy. I have learned that a copy was made of Charles’ copy. That copy is in Paris. I mean to read it. Better yet, I mean to have it.”
“I see,” Peter said.
“Not yet you don’t. You, Brother Peter, are a scribbler of rare talent. Would not Bishop Gozlin desire such a monk as you? I believe so. Our good Gozlin sends letters in a hundred directions. He is always in need of a talented penman. And if while in his good graces—”
“Milord,” Peter said in a rush, “I could not steal this book for you.” He trembled at his boldness, and he knew that the Devil tempts a man where he is weakest. Oh Willelda, sweet Willelda, how do you fare?
“I have said nothing about theft, brother. I want you to copy this book.”
“But, milord… copying takes time. And how could I gain access to the book?”
“You write well, and I suspect fast. You must pen the pages of Vegetius and feed them to me. I hunger for real knowledge of war. I have learned in my readings that the Romans were the masters of this bloody art. They conquered the world. Charlemagne was the greatest Frank, but he only faced half, maybe only a quarter of the foes the Romans defeated. I must have this book, brother.”
“But, but, milord, if you give Gozlin the girl…” Peter fell silent at the Count’s scowl.
“Do you wish me to damn myself?” Odo asked.
“No, milord,” Peter said.
“That is the price you’re asking me to pay.”
Peter was about to say the same thing for himself.
“Is it a sin to copy words?” asked the Count.
“Of course not, milord,” Peter said.
“I will save your woman, brother, if you do this thing for me. Even more, you will help save Paris, perhaps the kingdom itself. For I believe this host, the Great Pagan Army, means to sweep us away and install itself in our place. Do you wish for the pagans to slaughter Christians?”
“No.”
Count Odo limped around the table and gripped one of Peter’s hands. “Help me in this, brother. I beg you. The barons and counts of West Frankland tremble at the thought of Northmen. They hide in their castles, hoping the sea rovers will not sit outside their gates. Few dare to stir themselves and face this terrible menace. The one who does dare to stir—me—he is in sore need of the deadly knowledge of the Romans. Say yes, brother. Say yes and help me in my hour of trial.”
Peter swallowed painfully. He recalled Willelda slung over a Northman’s shoulder. He recalled her small fists beating his back. He recalled a sweet time in a hut… and the thought of Willelda in that raider’s cruel embrace—he nodded sharply. “I’ll help. But you must swear to help me.”
“Done,” the Count said. “Now listen closely, brother, here is how we shall do this thing.”
18.
Heming dragged his bruised and battered body toward a trickling stream. He clumped through cool forest shadows as squirrels chattered overhead. His ribs ached from the latest beating. With his tongue, he ever so slightly shifted his two front teeth. Fool! He darted his tongue away from his teeth. Let them settle. He was certain they had been looser yesterday. He prayed to Freyja they would not drop out. Oh, how he dreaded loosing teeth. Two hard blows to the face yesterday, from knuckled fists, had shattered his nose and almost knocked out the two front teeth.
He leaned over the stream and shuddered at what he saw: bruised and darkened flesh all about his face, puffy lips and blood-caked nostrils. The nose itself didn’t look crooked, but then it was still much too swollen to tell. He splashed cold water onto his nose and flinched at the pain. The terrible berserks slew him by inches. When they glowered his way or laughed at his expense, his bowels turned hollow and he dreaded that he might shit himself. He knew that they might beat him to death if he did that. They hated any hint of cowardice. They boasted and bragged all the time and expected him to do the same.
They hanged my father. He had nightmares about it. He remembered the way Ivar’s legs had kicked as they had hauled him higher and higher.
How he yearned them dead, but time with them had taught him how brutally strong they were, how swift, cruel and given to feats of battle. They weren’t ordinary warriors. Oh, he knew the oath he had given Ivar Hammerhand, a warrior among warriors, his own father. He knew it was his duty to avenge his father’s death. Yet against twelve, eleven of the most deadly fighters in the Great Army… no, it couldn’t be done. The beatings had taught him that he wasn’t made of the stuff of heroes. Nor did he have any luck.
He tested his nose and forced himself to splash more water onto it. As he did, lean Grimar strode up.
Grimar was the berserk who had tripped him in the apple orchard. The killer wore an old tattered wolf’s head for a cap. The beast’s eyes were dull and lifelessly black, the ears pricked upward and the snout hung over Grimar’s forehead. Grimar was fast. He sprinted fast, used a long wicked knife with lighting reflexes and joked fast. Unlike the other berserks—most of them were thick like bulls—Grimar had gaunt limbs, a narrow face and a thin cruel smile. He never used an axe, spear or sword, but always a razor-sharp dagger. “Killing is close work,” he said or, “killing is best done at kissing range.”
Grimar blew snot out his nose, squatted beside him and cupped water in his narrow hands, rubbing his face.
Heming kept still and silent.
Grimar glanced over. Heming flinched.
“Nay, Ivarsson. That’s no good.” Grimar scooped another handful of water, slurping it and then rubbed his face again. “A berserk mustn’t fear, or if he does he must hide it. Bjorn weighs you as the others play their little games. They test your mettle.”
Heming tested his two front teeth and quickly darted away his tongue.
“We are a brotherhood, Ivarsson, a band of heroes. Aye, you drank the dark mead and howled like a beast. The fury lies in you, but it is more than that. You must have courage and will and you must be tough and fearless.”
“Fearless?” Heming dared say. “Is that why three or four of you at a time attack me?”
Those thin lips broke into a grin. “I know the worth of my brothers, Ivarsson. Each was tested and forged into a deadly fighter. Each is a champion. But I don’t know your worth. I don’t know how tough you are.” Grimar spit into the stream. “Are you your father’s son or not?”
You bastard, thought Heming, although he kept his face impassive. You hanged my father.
There was shrewdness in Grimar the Knife. Cruel mirth twinkled in his eyes. “Are you afraid, Ivarsson, that we’ll hang you in the Odin Tree?”
Heming tried to remain impassive, but the threat loosened his bowels.
The smile
left Grimar’s face. “Only brave men are hanged in the Odin Tree, Ivarsson. Only courageous men become berserks.” He rose, and Heming rose with him, trying to still his quaking knees. Grimar said softly, “Brave men do not let others beat them.”
“You expect me to fight three or four of you at a time?”
Those thin lips drew tight as Grimar pushed his face near. “I expect you to try, Ivarsson. Aye, that’s what we all expect.”
***
Heming pondered the advice, and he wondered if in the dead of night he could crawl where Bjorn slept, bash out his brains with a rock and then flee these madmen. His luck however was horrible. He didn’t trust his rotten luck.
They never approached villages, towns or Viking camps. They had no tents, only cloaks. The berserks wrapped themselves in their cloaks and slept as hounds curled in the dirt or on leaves. He found that some of them tracked as well, perhaps even better, than he did. At times, they murmured strange tales about kings and long-forgotten heroes. He came to understand that they viewed themselves as a privileged company of dedicated warriors. They had devoted their lives to battle and to Odin the Slayer. In many of the tales, berserks reproached kings for their cowardice. They took merciless vengeance—as Bjorn had done against his father. They challenged champions and even monsters. These horrible men kept alive old lore, ancient tales and fighting wisdom from the time of the great migrations when heroes had marched upon the mighty Roman Empire.
The next evening when four of them shoved him against a beech tree and began a beating, Heming shouted half in terror and half in memory of what they had done to his father. He fought back wildly, failing, shouting and praying silently to Freyja they didn’t bash his mouth again and knock out the two front teeth. He expected Bjorn to rap out orders and have him hanged in an Odin Tree. Instead, rock-hard fists smashed into his chest, gut and clipped him on the forehead and his right ear. He fell into a senseless heap and bit his lips to keep from groaning. When one of the front teeth moved, he roared with anguish and tried to rise and attack. They picked him up and pitched him into a stream. When he crawled out wet and terrified, a berserk shoved him. He almost curled into a ball and whimpered for mercy. The pain in his muscles, the twists to his joins and the ache in his jaw—he charged bellowing with his head down. A man tripped him and he crashed onto the dirt. They let him lie there as they jeered and spit on him. He struggled to rise. In his mind’s eye, he focused on Ivar Hammerhand swinging in the Odin Tree. “Bastards, you bastards,” he mumbled past mangled lips. Then he collapsed as nausea overwhelmed him.
The next three days they left him alone. Moving hurt. A front tooth fell out. Heming raged at that and swore dire oaths against them. The other tooth’s roots stiffened and held its place. He had headaches. Oh, his head pounded. He realized now that he had to become harder than they were, tougher, faster and more cunning. He must trick them. Yes, he would trick them, become a master of guile and then if he gained any kind of luck—
“I will serve the god who gives me luck,” he vowed.
The fourth night they piled branches into a great heap. When the moon rose, Bjorn hurled a torch upon it. The flame spread and soon writhed madly. Heming stared mesmerized at the fire.
Bjorn lifted a leathern jug with an image stitched on the side of Sleipnir, Odin’s eight-legged horse. (Grimar said it was the symbol of four men carrying a dead man’s bier.) The stitched horse had a terrible red eye, a tiny stone embedded in the leather. Bjorn called out to Odin and swilled from the jug. Then he tossed the mead to Grimar. One by one, the company guzzled and shed their garments, raised spears and axes and danced before the flames. They roared songs about Odin and legendary kings. They grew frenzied and sweaty so their faces shone in the firelight.
Heming crouched to the side. He wanted them dead, but wasn’t yet warrior enough to do it. Would such a day ever come? Then a hand crashed onto his neck and lifted him to his feet. Bjorn breathed heady fumes. That strange wide face leered. Those small beady eyes bored into him.
“Watch, Ivarsson. You must learn.”
A nearby berserk contorted his slick face. Firelight glimmered from the sweat caught in his beard. One eyebrow went down and the other shot up. He reversed their positions and made terrible grimaces as he hunched his shoulders. The berserk shivered, groaned and began to foam at the mouth. Then those vacant eyes locked onto Heming. It was like peering into a whirlpool. The man was like a troll, a monster out of dark legends.
Bjorn jerked Heming out of the berserk’s sight and pointed at a boulder.
The foaming berserk howled, spraying spit. The boulder was obviously too big to lift, but the berserk ran at it and wrapped his heavy arms around stone. He heaved. His thigh muscles quivered. Sweat poured off his skin as his muscles rose like cables. He straightened his legs and lifted the stone out of the earth so dirt dribbled from the exposed bottom. Another berserk charged a tree. Wood chips flew as his axe-blows thudded in a responding rhythm.
“Odin long ago won the mead of inspiration,” slurred Bjorn. He kept hold of Heming’s collar while resting a forearm on his shoulder. “Suttung the giant had stolen the mead from its guardian dwarfs.”
Around them howling berserks lifted boulders, wrestled with trees or bounded swiftly into the forest like deer.
“The mead was made from Kvasir’s blood, a wise giant from the beginning of Creation. The dwarfs had mixed Kvasir’s blood with honey and brewed it. The mead Suttung stole and this mead Odin journeyed forth to win. He tricked the giant’s brother, who bored a hole into the mountain where Suttung stored the wonderful drink. Odin the shape-changer slithered through the hole as a serpent. Inside the mountain was Suttung’s daughter. For three nights, Odin slept with her, pleasuring the daughter as only the god of ecstasy can. In payment for the three nights, he asked for three sips of mead. She agreed. In three swallows, Odin drank it all. Then he changed into an eagle and flew to Asgard. There he spit the mead into a vessel before Suttung, also in eagle form, could capture him. Odin gives this mead to skalds, intoxicating them so they can form matchless verse. And this is the mead he gives to berserks, addling our minds and robbing us of weakness.”
Bjorn shook Heming. “You slink here and there and watch us with your scheming eyes. Who doesn’t understand that like a wretch you would grab a sword or spear and stab us from behind?”
Heming shook his head. (A man of guile practiced lies.)
“A liar and a coward!” roared Bjorn. “You are doubly damned.” Those drunken eyes blazed, and as Bjorn held him with one hand, the huge berserk used the other to grope for his dagger.
Heming shouted and ripped himself free. They were all mad. He dove at an axe in the dirt. His fingers curled around the haft. I would have killed them, father. I wanted vengeance. I really did. The fear roiled in his belly and made him sick. Heming bellowed to drown out the terror, rolled, leaped up and spun around.
Bjorn grinned. “So,” he said, drunk slowly. “The pup has fangs, but do you have balls?”
Heming licked his lips. Bjorn hadn’t drawn his knife—yet.
“Set down the axe,” rumbled Bjorn, “and you will live. Or do you truly wish to hang from the Odin Tree?”
The bestial howls all around him raised Heming’s nape hairs. He was sick of his terror, sick of this torture and mockery. He charged as he shouted. He swung at the grin, at all those big teeth. The world spun. Heming thudded onto his back. His breath whooshed out of him, and the axe flew away as Bjorn loomed over him.
“You do have courage. Good. I can do nothing with a coward. Remember: fight with your manhood and not with your cunning. Do you understand?”
Heming couldn’t even breathe. How had Bjorn done that?
“Do you understand?” roared Bjorn.
“Yes,” Heming whispered.
19.
Heming passed the courage test. His first test had been gaining the fury the night they hanged his father. The training now began in earnest. Grimar tied a sack of iron onto his bac
k. To its clack and clank, Heming trotted through the forest. As he dodged branches and avoided hidden roots, Grimar loped beside him and pointed out features and creatures. He showed him how berserks of old had defeated foes lost in the woods.
When the others rested, Bjorn taught him the axe. His father had also taught him and Ivar Hammerhand had been a master. Bjorn was a wizard.
There were three types. The skeggox or ‘bearded axe’ had a blade on one side and a spike on the other. There was also the hand axe, a farmer’s tool, which was really a hatchet. Lastly, there was the breidox, the ‘broad axe.’ It was a two-handed instrument of death, with a crescent edge of sharp steel welded onto the wedge of iron. Warriors gave swords noble names, but broad axes received the names of she-trolls.
The broad axe’s power and terror was the whirling overhead swing. A skilled blow could cut the head off a horse or sheer through a rider’s helmet and skull. Such a blow, however, should it miss, left its wielder open to counterattack. The broad-axe man bore no shield. His weapon and its assault was his protection. The broad axe needed room to wield, however. It was not a weapon meant for warriors standing shoulder-to-shoulder, but for an axe man standing free. One trick was the feint: the battle cry given, the shoulders twisted and the war whoop of victory sounded, but the axe never moved. It remained ready. The feint, when it worked, drew a cautious foe out from behind his shield. When the foe attacked, then the broad axe struck. There was the one-armed loop: a dangerous swing that whipped around a defender’s shield and cut the enemy’s shield-arm or shoulder. A low, sweeping blow cut out a man’s feet. A counter to that was a tremendous leap over the whirling blade and a downward stroke upon the foe’s head.
The Great Pagan Army Page 10
