The Great Pagan Army

by Vaughn Heppner

  ***

  The Danes reacted faster. In was in their brigand character to assess a situation on the spot and move that instant to exploit it. They were masters of chaos, confusion and the quick strike. Years as looters and plunderers had taught them these skills and it had given them confidence in acting boldly, and this was a matter of water.

  The raging river confounded the Franks. No one dared those treacherous waters in a fisherman’s craft. If the fierce current swept them away, it would take them straight into the Northmen’s camp. Meanwhile, the tottering sections of bridge that stood made every Paris carpenter shake his head when Count Odo suggested that they throw planks across the gaps. Even as he spoke and even as the sun peeked over the eastern horizon, another piling toppled into the river and took more of the bridge away downriver.

  “Our men are stranded over there!” Odo shouted.

  “Wulf is in charge,” Robert said. “He’ll know to sally out and race for the Merchant Quarter.”

  Odo paced on the small section of bridge still attached to the Cite. Wulf was in the tower and eleven other knights and retainers, twelve warriors oath-sworn into his service and maybe six times that of armed Parisians. Too many of those Parisians were the better archers, and three springalds were there. In the entire city, there were only two more. As he paced, Northmen pushed longships into the river. On land, they dragged onagers into position as the warbands hurried out the mighty encampment.

  “Maybe we could sally out the Merchant Quarter,” Robert said. “What if we gathered all the horsemen and charged into them?”

  Odo stared at those longships. “Archers,” he said. “We need archers, and I need those two springalds.”

  “You sent them into the Merchant Quarter,” Robert said.

  Odo stiffened. He recognized some of the warriors in those dragons. They wore ragged furs, were big, hulking and brutal looking. He whirled on his brother. “Summon all the javelin-throwers you can find. Send them here. And archers, I need archers!”

  “Most of them are in the tower,” Robert said.

  Odo’s shoulders slumped. This was a disaster.

  ***

  Bjorn laughed in triumph. “I swore by Odin we would bring down that bridge.” He shook his axe as the Twelve crowded together on a dragon’s foredeck. “Daring and resolve brought us Odin’s favor. The great Lord of the Dead finished what we began. Now we’ll show all of them what valor can do. Are you ready for battle, brothers?”

  Heming roared together with his companions. He shook his she-troll, and then he guzzled from the flagon in his left hand. His Valkyrie good-luck charm hung from his neck. Ale burned down his throat and the fumes of alcohol and madness fired his rage. For just a moment, however, as he gazed at that grim tower, fear lightninged across his heart. Those stones reeked of Northmen blood. It had mocked the entire host for months. Franks stood upon it. Worse, knights were up there, knights who wielded wicked blades, knights who had slaughtered many brave Vikings.

  Grimar threw an arm around his shoulder. “This is no time to brood, Ivarsson. It is time to kill. Drink up. You’re too sober for this.”

  Heming tilted his head, guzzling, swallowing, swallowing—he pulled away the flagon with a gasp. His eyes burned and his thoughts blurred. Grimar said something about scaling the tower and cutting down the Franks from behind. It was madness, but Heming howled just the same.

  ***

  Odo picked up a javelin and heaved. It didn’t help. The javelin plopped into the raging Seine and out of sight. In helpless rage and despair, he and the javelin-throwers around him watched the longships maneuver toward the broken section of bridge still attached to the Petit Pont Tower. A few of the strongest throwers stuck their javelins into raised shields or studded the planks of the dragons.

  From the landside, Danish onagers sailed their stones upon the tower. Enemy archers showered arrows like a downpour. Sea rovers bearing mantelets dragged hay-bales to the very foot of the tower. The springalds fired at them and took their toll. Frank javelin-throwers and archers on the tower did their best. There was little help from the Merchant Quarter where most of the Bishop’s men stood. Over one thousands Danes waited outside the main Merchant Quarter gate. They waited north of the city by the main redoubt. If those and other city gates opened to spill Frankish men-at-arms, the Northmen would charge.

  The Danes piled hay-bales against the tower, set them ablaze and retreated. Smoke billowed upward, thick, dark smoke.

  “No,” Odo said.

  Dragon-borne Northmen threw ropes onto the broken bridge. Danes scrambled up the wood and onto the small section attached to the tower. Arrows hissed at them from above. Danish shields lifted. Danish bowmen twanged arrows at the tower, and from certain dragons, onagers began thumping.

  Odo picked up another javelin and heaved it with all his strength. It didn’t matter. It didn’t help. The javelin almost reached a dragon before plopping harmlessly into the river.

  ***

  Heming gnashed his teeth. He slobbered. So did his brothers. They crouched behind shields held by others, by warriors careful not to glance into their eyes.

  “Throw up the ladders!” Bjorn roared. “Go! Hurry, by Odin!”

  Dark, smelly smoke drifted up the tower. Flames licked on the landside bales. Franks up there coughed and wheezed.

  Now Vikings raced to the edge of the broken bridge and grabbed ladders handed up from the longships. They shouted, and with practiced speed ran at the tower and clacked the heavy wooden ladders against stone.

  “Go, go, go!” they shouted.

  Grimar was quickest. Without a shield, without drawing his deadly daggers, he grasped a rung and scrambled fast like a squirrel. Heming followed and behind him came Egil. They howled, raved and shouted the name of Odin.

  A Frank loomed up top, dense smoke drifting around him. He held a rock in two hands and heaved it down at Grimar. Grimar laughed dreadfully as the stone struck his shoulder. The rock bounced and thus didn’t hit Heming or Egil. Grimar raced faster, and the Frank shouted for help. Spearmen appeared beside him. Their eyes were wide with fear as they looked down at the raving Grimar. They stabbed. He reached up and though the iron cut his hand, he grabbed a spear and ripped it out of the Frank’s grasp. The other spear-points sank into his neck and chest. Grimar bayed like a wolf. He tore out a spear-point and with a savage twist yanked that spear out of a Frank’s hands. Then the first Frank lifted another rock and heaved it onto Grimar’s head. Neck bones snapped. Grimar lost his grip. Heming braced himself and Grimar’s corpse struck him. Then Heming made a terrible noise, a shout given him by Odin. It struck those Franks staring down at him with fetters of panic, of fear. For an instant, they stared bewildered. In that instant, Heming clambered up six ladder rungs. He charged up the ladder like a cat and leaped upon the Franks. He flung one aside and knocked back the other. He grabbed the handle of his she-troll slung on his back. With a twist, a swing, she hissed in a deadly arc. Blood sprayed. Frankish bones snapped.

  “Berserks!” screamed a knight, a youth with a wisp of a blond mustache. His left eye was a bloody ruin.

  Heming buried the iron of his she-troll in the youth’s skull. Then Bjorn was beside him and Egil. Others of the Twelve scrambled onto the tower. The butchery began.

  45.

  Judith raised her head. The city bells clanged wildly. The peals were crazed. Not even the fiery dragons had brought the bells to such a pitch. It made her heart flutter with fear.

  A great and terrible groan penetrated the walls of her cell. It was the cry of a people. Her heart quickened. More than ever, she wanted out. She longed for Odo’s caresses. She yearned to hear his lute again. Yet, that cunning witch, that old hag of a Prioress had laid a spell on her. Judith was all too aware that the Church wielded great power. It could plague her life and ensure she never married the Count, or with a Papal degree, could turn her marriage null and void. That had happened before to powerful personages. King Lothar II of Lotharingia had once
divorced his wife Theutberga so he could marry his concubine. For years, Archbishop Hincmar of Rheims and two Popes had hurled censures and an excommunication at him until finally the King had humbled himself before Pope Hadrian II and taken back his wife. Judith knew she wasn’t royalty, just a poor, bastard child of a wayward Bishop. A Prioress of a great nunnery—there were worse fates than that.

  A knock interrupted her thoughts. She sat, smoothed her dress, folded her hands in her lap and put serenity upon her features. “Enter,” she said.

  The hinges creaked. Two sisters helped a trembling Gozlin. A third brought a stool, thumping it onto the floorboards. The Bishop’s neck seemed as weak as a baby’s. The head wobbled and threatened to tilt over. His few wisps of hair seemed like his last strands of life. He motioned the sisters away. They looked worriedly over their shoulders before the door thumped shut.

  Judith waited demurely. She knew he hated being rushed.

  Gozlin smacked his lips. Spittle flecked them. Red circled his eyes. “I’m dying,” he whispered.

  “I shall pray for your recovery, Your Grace.”

  “You are kind, child. And yet you must hate me.”

  “You know that isn’t true.”

  He dipped his weak head. She was afraid that if he dipped it too far it might thud against his chest. “The Danes took the north tower,” he said.

  She closed her eyes.

  “They set fire to it,” he wheezed.

  Judith wiped moist eyes.

  Gozlin wheezed painfully. His withered hands flew to his chest.

  “Your Grace,” Judith said in alarm.

  He shuddered and his hands dropped away. Beads of sweat dotted his face. “Nothing,” he whispered. “It was a small ache, but it passed.”

  “You should lie down.”

  Gozlin nodded weakly. “The pagans butchered those of our men who surrendered and threw their corpses into the river.”

  She gave a small cry.

  “They are without mercy,” he said. “That is why Paris must be spared them. Each man, woman and child of the city has sacrificed so that such an atrocity doesn’t occur. We have each sacrificed for Paris. Saint Genevieve knew about such things. My question for you, Judith, daughter of the late great Bishop Engelwin of Paris, is what are you willing to sacrifice to see that all our lives are secured?”

  “What do you mean, Your Grace?”

  “Will you seek your own good or that of the kingdom? Your father wished you a nun. I believe the saints above desire it and that Mary the mother of our Lord Jesus Christ yearns that you give your life to the service of God. Then your prayers will have weight, and that blow might be the one that topples the devil and his minions. Perhaps your sacrifice will be enough to finally drive these Northmen from our walls.”

  “You can’t believe that,” whispered Judith.

  “Count Odo is cunning. He has become a clever war-leader and a hard-hearted captain of battle. The kingdom needs men like him. Maybe he is the man to take Duke Hugh’s place. However, in the end Count Odo will fail if God doesn’t smile on him. You will help your Count more on your knees in prayer than in his arms as his wife. This struggle here is the great trial. This is the battle for the soul of Frankland. Will you help, or will you only think of your Earthly pleasures and positions of power?”

  “You have no right to say that, Your Grace.”

  Gozlin wheezed. He coughed, and afterwards dabbed his lips. “Perhaps you are right. I am an old man. But that is what I believe, and I dearly wish to search under every rock I can in order to save my doomed city.”

  He swayed on his stool and began to cough and wheeze until Judith sprang to her feet and pounded on the door. The sisters took him, and they closed and locked the door behind them, leaving Judith brooding on the cot.

  46.

  The Northmen razed the Petit Pont Tower and demolished the Petit Pont, the small bridge, on their north side of the Seine. The only area of the north bank left in Frank control was the walled Merchant Quarter. The Great Pont, a large stone bridge, linked the north bank Merchant Quarter with the isle of the Cite. The tower that had withstood the Northmen for so many months was gone, together with many of the men who had defended it. In the reaver camp, the fires burned hot as warriors belted out victory songs and as they swilled toasts to Odin and Thor.

  Above the walls of the Cite, high in the Tower of Saint John, two watched the Danish revelry, albeit from a safe distance.

  “You put up a valiant fight,” said Count Herkenger. “No one expected you to hold that half-finished tower for so long. And think of how many Northmen your men slew.” The short Count stood straight as a spear, and as he spoke, he glanced sidelong at Odo.

  “Their hour has come,” Odo whispered. His face was waxen, with dark circles around his eyes. The death of his men weighed heavily on his soul. “Look how they celebrate. Rouen, Rheims, Metz, even Charlemagne’s old capital of Aachen has fallen before this host. These Northmen have sacked every city they’ve besieged. Why are we to be any different? The noose has tightened.” Odo rubbed his throat. “I feel its constriction.”

  “They won a victory, I grant you. They blaze with newfound zeal. But they have yet to breach into the city proper.”

  “Good men died today,” Odo whispered, “too many good men.”

  Count Herkenger’s dark eyes narrowed. “You have done wonders, you and your secret book. This, however, you must still learn, milord. And that is how to beat back despair and rise to fight anew.”

  “We are too few,” Odo said, shaking his head, “and they are too many.”

  “I agree with you, and Bishop Gozlin agrees.”

  Count Odo tore his gaze from the revelry across the river. He blinked slowly. The inability to help his men as they had died, butchered across the river… He found it difficult to breathe.

  “Do not misunderstand me,” Herkenger said. “I do not counsel surrender. Yet we must be honest with ourselves. Given enough time, the pagans can ground us down by sheer weight of numbers. Men say Duke Hugh is dying, and none of his barons dares take Neustria’s ducal host and rides with it to our aid. That is why his Grace has begged me to go seek aid from Duke Henry in East Frankland.”

  “Aid?” Odo said, “Aid from East Frankland? Do you have wings that you can fly out of Paris?”

  Count Herkenger grew earnest. “The Northmen won a great victory today. We see and hear how they celebrate. Now we need two things for Paris to continuing standing like a bulwark. We need help and hope. I am accounted the best lancer in the city, and I have seen to it that Goliard, my fastest palfrey, remain in fine fettle. He yearns to stretch his legs; and I’m willing to bet my life that no Northman can catch him. Abbot Ebolus will lend us fighting priests. Bishop Gozlin has blessed me. Now you must captain my escape. And I vow before Saint Germain to bring Duke Henry back with aid. And do not doubt that my winning free will fan sparks of hope in the breasts of your remaining soldiery.”

  Odo grew thoughtful. Aid. Aid against the Northmen. He squinted across the river, watching the enemy campfires. Look how they danced. Look how they swilled ale, shouted and roared, flushed with victory. An angry look crept upon him. This reminded him too much of what he had seen after the woods of Louvain.

  “Tell me what you plan,” he said.

  Count Herkenger told him. It was daring and dangerous, but Vegetius had said that boldness often brought outrageous rewards. Maybe now was the time for boldness.

  Enemy redoubts circled the city, not in a continuous earthen bank, but before every road and juncture leading into and out of Paris. Each semi-circular redoubt faced the city, a bank of piled and packed dirt with a short, stout wall of wood on top of that. Northmen manned the redoubts night and day. Perhaps as importantly in terms of Count Herkenger’s plan, the Northmen had captured many horses. The sea rovers were not cavalrymen like a knight. They were not mounted warriors, but more than a few could ride well. It would be easy enough for a troop of Northmen to ride down a l
one knight trying to escape the siege. Night riding however was treacherous at best, usually only done if torch-bearing footmen paced a rider. But on a night with a full moon…

  ***

  Two, north-facing gates admitted entrance into the Merchant Quarter. The gates’ hinges were brass, and great iron bars held the gates shut. In the left-most gate was a smaller, man-sized door. Out of that postern gate on the next, moon-bright night filed knights in mail. Behind the grim knights followed retainers holding torches hidden under clay pots. Smoke dribbled out of the upside-down pots and light shone at their feet, but the light didn’t give them away to the Northmen snoring at sentry in the main northern redoubt. The small company (with only real soldiers among them) jogged across the hard ground. Their armor jangled and shield wood clacked against draw swords. To Odo who led them the noise seemed uncannily loud. Each forward step shriveled his scrotum. His wide-opened eyes scanned the darkness. It was impossible that they had surprised the Northmen.

  A knight beside him tripped, dropping his sword so it struck a metallic rock. “Shhh,” hissed others.

  Odo glanced back at the gate. A lone horseman guided his mount through it. A lance lay across the saddle.

  A fierce grip on his shoulder startled Odo. “Brother, are you ready?”

  Odo nodded at Robert’s wicked grin.

  “Now!” shouted Robert, his booming voice making Odo cringe.

  Clay jars shattered. Torches flared, casting lurid light upon them. Robert yelled like a devil, charging around the east end of the earthen bank. The rest of the party followed in a mad rush, with clanking armor and hoarse oaths. Startled Danes looked up. A few rose. Even less reached for their weapons.

  “Remember the Petit Pont Tower!” Odo shouted. “Avenge your fallen comrades!”

  Robert already hacked at a Northman’s neck.

  Behind their clangor of blades hooves thudded. Count Herkenger leaned low in the saddle and trotted past the redoubt. He sped onto the east-leading road. A trumpet blared in the darkness. A Northman more alert than his fellows jumped onto his mount and shouted at Herkenger. The Count brought up his lance, and at a touch of his heels, Goliard broke into a gallop. The Northman fumbled with a shield as Herkenger’s lance tore out his throat. Then the night swallowed up the Count as he galloped away.