The Great Pagan Army

by Vaughn Heppner

  Men and women ignored him as they stretched imploring hands toward Heaven. They wept for the saints and for God Almighty to take pity on them. Their lamentations grew deafening, frightening, like a storm about to smash the city.

  Odo sheathed his sword and gripped the trumpeter’s arm. “Give me a blast like the Day of Judgment!” he shouted.

  The young man stared at him. Odo felt the youth trembling.

  “Blow your horn!” roared Odo.

  The young man lifted his silver horn and drew a deep breath. He faced the crowd. A mighty peal rose above the cries. Many, with tears streaming down their cheeks, grew silent as the horn resounded with its challenging call.

  Odo began to shout. “People of Paris: you must take heart!” And then he knew exactly what he had to say. “Last night I prayed with Bishop Gozlin. We sought the counsel of Heaven together. Then our dear father turned to me. Oh, we have not always seen eye to eye, but in his last hours I made my peace with Bishop Gozlin. I did so because of what he said to me. I saw such courage in the Bishop’s actions that shame bit me for the times I had argued with him. Do you know what our beloved Bishop did?”

  Dazed people stared up at him.

  “Do you know what Bishop Gozlin did?” Odo shouted.

  A few stirred. “What?” several men shouted up at him.

  “I was amazed at his courage,” Odo said. “I told him he could not do such a thing. I almost forbid it as Count of Paris. But his love for you was so great, so mighty that he told me he must do it.”

  “What did he do?” cried a woman. “Tell us, tell us about our father.”

  Count Odo nodded as the mob edged closer and strained to hear his words. Sores dotted their faces. They were thin and wore ragged clothes. Overwhelming grief cloaked them. Might they tear the platform—and him—to pieces if they found his words displeasing? Odo shoved such fearful thoughts aside. He plunged into his lie, hoping it would give these poor people of Paris the hope they needed.

  “Bishop Gozlin knew that Saint Genevieve sought out the Lord Jesus Christ for us in His throne room in Glory,” Odo shouted. “Gozlin knew that Saint Germain and the Virgin Mary implored the Son of God to save Paris. The Bishop turned to me last night and said, ‘Count Odo, I must see the Lord Jesus myself. I must tell Him face to face how His people in Paris suffer under the Northmen. I must tell Him how brave they are, how they have vowed never to surrender to those pagans from the cold North. I will clutch the Lord’s knee and weep before Him. I know the mercy of God. I know His heart breaks at our plight. O, Count Odo, I know that the saints above will add their pleas to mine. Then, how can it be that Jesus’ heart will remain stony? I tell you, I must go, Count Odo, because of my great and dear love for my flock in Paris.’ Brave People!” roared Odo. “I was moved as never in my life. I he said could not go. The people might surrender in despair if he left. Do you know what he did then? Oh, I could not believe my ears. I was stunned into silence. Do you know what our great Bishop did?”

  “What?” a woman yelled.

  “Tell us, tell us!” shouted a butcher.

  “Do not spare us anything,” pleaded a woman holding a baby.

  Count Odo nodded. “Yes! I will not spare you a thing. You are the people of Paris who have stood off the Great Pagan Army. You are the unbeaten warriors of Frankland. Oh, how the Danes rage against us, but for every trick they try they have faced our swords and our sharp arrows. They have howled like dogs and run every time from us. Who made them run? You did! We did! So I will tell you what the Bishop did when I told him that you might despair at his leaving.”

  Count Odo scanned the waiting throng. Some wiped tears from their eyes. Everyone listened.

  “Our great Bishop Gozlin laughed at the possibility of your surrender. He laughed so heartily and smiled so widely that I was amazed. ‘Surrender?’ he roared at me. ‘My people of Paris will never surrender. They will beat off the Danes and show the world real Franks. However, now I must go, Count Odo. Now I must make the final journey and speak with Christ Jesus, our Lord. But promise me this, Count Odo. Promise me that you will never surrender.’ I looked him in the eye. I held his hands, and in the most solemn vow I could make, with my palm on Holy Writ and the other on the bones of Saint Genevieve, I swore a binding oath. My oath wasn’t just to fight until death. No! I swore to defeat these Danes and make them run!”

  With mouths agape the people stared up at him.

  Odo drew his sword. “And I swore to gather an army. I swore to rouse the barons of Neustria and raise such a host as to slaughter these heathens. I swore to force the Emperor to fight! I am the son of Robert the Strong, and I know now that Bishop Gozlin is in Heaven imploring God to drive these wicked pagans back into the hell of ice and snow from whence they came. This, however, I do not know. I don’t know if you’ll stand with me. If you will stand with me, if you will accept Bishop Gozlin’s charge, then I want you to shout to Heaven so that the Bishop will hear you. Will you do that?”

  “Yes!” shouted a man.

  Count Odo nodded.

  “Yes!” shouted someone else.

  Count Odo waved his sword. “Then shout it out, all of you. Let Bishop Gozlin hear, and then, by all the saints, we shall ring the church bells of Paris and let the heathens know that their hour of doom is at hand. Shout!”

  The bull-throated roar that issued from them startled Odo. They cheered, they cried and they shouted and shook their fists. The frenzy of their emotions frightened him. He almost clamped his hands over his ears and ran down from the platform. Their grief had turned into rage against the Northmen. The transformation unleashed raw emotions that almost swept him away. Then he realized that this is what words could do. It awed him. It left him limp as he listened to their shouts.

  He waved his sword. He pumped his fist. He opened his mouth and bellowed forced laughter. Then thankfully, the church bells of Saint Etienne pealed and drowned out their horrible shouts.

  51.

  It was impossible to hide his grin. Odo wanted to be magnanimous in victory, but these priestly bastards had stolen his woman and now she was to be his again. Judith, dear Judith, how he yearned to hold her again and kiss her again and in the fullness of time—say in a week or less—he would marry her and they would be man and wife. His cavalry boots rang on the stone tiles as he followed Ebolus into the depths of the Church of Saint Etienne. Candles flickered. Wooden statues eyed him with uncanny life. Did the saints chide him for threatening to gut the abbot like a hog if he refused him Judith? He had apologized immediately, of course, but Ebolus had understood his danger.

  Odo checked himself upon sight of her. She knelt by the altar. He savored the churn of his gut and the anticipation of pressing his lips against hers. She wore a nun’s habit, was clothed with it from head to toe. He wanted to laugh at that little ploy.

  Her face lifted.

  Odo tugged Ebolus’ sleeve. The abbot turned sagging features toward him. The siege had eaten the abbot’s fat so loose skin hung from his jowls.

  “Leave us,” Odo whispered.

  “Milord,” objected Ebolus. “She is a nun of the Church. The rules forbid her to be alone with a layman.”

  Odo’s mouth tightened as he turned toward the abbot.

  “Milord,” Ebolus said, “can I stand on the ramparts against heathens—having learned the art of courage from you—and now back down in God’s house?”

  Odo drew his sword, an ominous hiss.

  “No!” cried Judith.

  Ebolus stumbled backwards and reached in his robes, pulling out a cross and lifting it two-handed.

  Odo hesitated. He yearned to hew down the abbot. He quivered like a hound about to receive meat. Yet it would be bad if he slew a priest in a church.

  “Milord,” Judith said. She came toward him. Her beautiful hair lay hidden under her hood, her perfect face surrounded by white linen. Tears welled in her beautiful eyes. Her cheeks glistened in the gloom.

  Odo lowered his sword. Then his sw
ord clashed against the tiles. “Judith,” he breathed. “Beloved.” He held out his arms.

  She recoiled as the tears began to drip. “No, milord, you mustn’t touch me.”

  He ignored those silly words as he strode forward and grabbed her shoulders. How thin they were. Then he crushed her to him, feeling the heat of her body against his. “Oh, Judith, Judith,” he whispered.

  “Dearest,” she said.

  He looked into her moist eyes and with his thumb gently wiped a tear. “You mustn’t cry. You’re mine again. We’ll never be apart, not in this world or the next.”

  She shook her head.

  He laughed, and he kissed her salty lips. She melted against him, and then she stiffened and pulled back.

  “No,” she said. “I cannot. Do not make me sin, milord.”

  He swept his hand toward Ebolus. “Do you fear him, beloved? Don’t. If he so much as preaches a word against me or you I shall float his corpse to the heathens.”

  “Odo,” she said. “How can you say such a thing?”

  “I have turned into a harsh captain of war, my love. It’s these pagans, those Northmen, but don’t fear. I am still the same. I shall take out my lute again and sing you love ballads. You shall be my wife.”

  “I am already married, milord.”

  Odo frowned. He began to feel the first stirrings of real fear. “Gozlin is dead. He cannot threaten you now.”

  “I’m not worried about his threats, milord.”

  The crunch of his gut didn’t feel good anymore. “They kidnapped you, but they can’t do that again. No bishop, no archbishop, not even the Pope himself, will ever tear you from my arms. Don’t you understand?”

  “I do, I do,” she whispered. She struggled free from him. “I have prayed every night for you. I will always think of you, milord. Then I realized… I realized—”

  “No!” Odo shouted. “Don’t say it. Don’t believe their lies.” He clutched her hands. Her knuckles were skeletal. “You don’t have to remain a nun. You have always been a novice. That isn’t binding.”

  “Don’t you understand?” She stroked his cheek. “I decided. I am the new Prioress of the Saint Genevieve Nunnery. I have signed my name to the creed. I have taken the brass ring. I am a bride of Christ.”

  He grabbed her hand and stared in horror at the grim little ring, the brass ring that all nuns wore. “Did they put this on you?”

  “I put it on by my own free will, milord.”

  His eyes grew wide. Then he began pulling at the ring.

  “Milord!” she cried. “Don’t. Don’t make this harder for us.”

  “Let me take you away from here,” he whispered. “They have bewitched you. Let me sing to you at night. Let us dine together. Walk under the stars, dearest, and you’ll see this in another light.”

  “I have prayed,” she whispered. “My prayers saved your life the day the Northmen tried to ambush you. If I hadn’t been praying… you must live, milord. You are the Count who has stopped the heathens. You will be mighty and victorious. And it will be my prayers that helped you.”

  He stumbled away. In a daze, he felt upon the tiles for his sword. When his hand wrapped around the hilt a murderous rage took hold. His lips writhed into a snarl and his eyes alighted upon the abbot. “You did this,” he hissed. “You bewitched her.” He stalked the abbot.

  “No,” Judith said, lifting her skirts and hurrying before the monk. “You mustn’t commit murder in the Church, milord.”

  “Stand aside,” growled Odo.

  She threw herself around Ebolus and looked back at Odo with imploring eyes. “Go, milord. Go and know that my thoughts shall always be about you. Go and defeat these Northmen. Save the kingdom.”

  “Judith,” he said. “You are my heart. They are ripping out my heart. If you won’t be mine, nothing else matters. Don’t you see? Gozlin, that hell-spawned imp of Satan, that drooling idiot, has risen like a fiend from the grave to poison your mind. He haunts us. Oh, how I hope that God roasts his soul in the fires of Hell! He is a devil, a monster. I’d rather call the most wretched berserk my friend than him.”

  Ebolus muttered horrified, pious words.

  Judith hushed the abbot.

  “Don’t break my heart.” Odo sheathed his sword and held out his arms. “Come away with me. Be my wife. Don’t let this cursed religion stand between us.”

  “Please, milord, don’t blaspheme. I do this…” Judith let go of Ebolus and ran into Odo’s arms. She held him with manic strength and kissed him on the lips. The salt of her tears was hot. “I love you, milord. I will always love you. Nevertheless, I am married to Christ now. I am another’s. We can never be together, not while the heathens overrun the land. You must slay them, milord, and I will pray forever for you.”

  “Let us flee together, Judith.”

  She hugged him and kissed him once more, and then she let go and stepped away. “Good-bye, my beloved. Go with God.”

  Odo stared at her. He wanted to cry. Instead, his face stiffened. He took her wrist. “It is this place. I feel Gozlin’s spirit all around us. Once you’re free again and realize they tricked you… Oh, then it will be different. I don’t doubt your sincerity, my love, but their imprisonment shall not stain your heart for long.”

  “You must let her go,” Ebolus said.

  Odo sneered. “You would be wise to keep silent, monk. I spare you in honor of this great day. My Judith was gone but now she has returned.”

  “And what will happen when the people see you dragging a weeping and reluctant nun out of the Church?” Ebolus asked.

  “What do I care?” Odo said.

  Ebolus lowered the wooden cross. “Milord, you spoke most wonderfully this morning. It stirred the people. But if you take this holy nun and commit lust and adultery in your house then the people will know that you lied.”

  “You’ll tell them?”

  “I won’t have to,” Ebolus said. “The gossip of it will rage throughout the city. Then they will ponder your stirring words. Some might recall that olden emperors of Rome were quick-witted and spoke cunning eulogies such as you did today. Their faith will shatter and the Northmen will storm the city. Then you, Judith and all the people will perish. Is your lust worth that much?”

  “Have a care, monk. The people know nothing about the Caesars and the old political games they played.”

  “Surely not, milord, but they will learn.”

  “From you?” Odo said.

  “Me, or any learned cleric who preaches the word of God and has read as you do. Though do not doubt that the people might well ponder it for themselves if they see you taking a nun by force.”

  “Your life is in your tongue,” warned Odo.

  “You have changed, milord, and so have I. I am not the fat glutton I used to be. You are not the young rascal who diced away his life. I have learned courage on the walls. I have held up a shield, been jarred to my teeth by axe blows and in return bashed the heads of pagan warriors with my mace. You have taken on the gravity of your high station and are near to giving these Northmen a defeat that will rankle in their craw more than any battle in memory. However, if the people call you a liar, an inventor of tall tales then their courage will fail and their belief in victory will wither like a yanked weed. You can take Judith by force, and through it forfeit your soul and everything that you’ve fought for. But you cannot have both.”

  “So say you.”

  “You know that I speak the truth,” Ebolus said.

  “Oh, Odo,” Judith said. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never should have fled the convent. I see that now. I learned it so very late. I would spare your heart if I could. Nevertheless, you must go. You must leave me to this life of prayer and good works. I beg you not to think harshly of the abbot or the bishop. They are men of God. Please, my dearest, go and beat back these monsters from the North, and remember that in my heart I am always with you.”

  Odo turned so she couldn’t see his tears. He stumbled away, dead ins
ide, shattered, and with a new, blinding hatred for the Church and its crafty minions. He would make them pay. He would them rue the day they cheated him of his great love. Oh, how he would make them pay.

  52.

  As April lengthened and the signs of spring strengthened, Sigfred became increasingly moody and restless. One night when the ale flowed freely and in the presence of others, he reminded Bjorn about the broken oath.

  “What has Odin told you, Bjorn?” the Sea King sneered as he slouched upon his throne-like chair. They were in the skalli, the shutters thrown open for fresh air, with haunches of swine roasting over the trench-fire. “How will Odin give Paris into my hands, eh? You have yet to tell me.”

  Laughter rose from the tables, the loudest from Valgard Skull-splitter. “It is one thing to charge unsuspecting men,” Valgard told Bjorn, “another to break into a walled city.”

  The skalli grew quiet as Bjorn lurched unsteadily to his feet. He had drunk much mead and his wide face was flushed with anger. “Who here doubts that Odin speaks to me? Let him say so, and then let him meet my axe, if he dares!”

  Valgard surged up. “No one doubts your axe-skills, berserk. But all here know your boasts about Odin and his voice. Very well, you’re so wise. Tell us how to defeat these Franks.”

  Bjorn shook his axe, bellowing, “Meet me man-to-man!”

  “Not until you bring us into the city,” Sigfred said, as drunk as any. “Instead of pushing your snout into the ale cup, speak to Odin. Listen to what he tells you, and then come and tell me.”

  In the firelight of the great log hall, Bjorn’s beady eyes shone with madness. Warriors grew uneasy as he struggled to master his rage. Then he growled low words at his berserks. One-by-one they rose. Heming was among them. They shuffled from the hall, brutish monsters, and stumped into the starlit darkness, following Bjorn.