“This is it!” Odo shouted, twisting around, his saddle-leather creaking. He had been right. He had known the Franks would rush to the one place they could defend in the Merchant Quarter. Unfortunately, someone in the Great Army had also kept his head.
Danes surrounded the Church of Saint Vincent, one frequented by merchants. It was a stone built church, large and impressive, with stout oaken doors and equally stout oaken shutters. Franks fought at each window. Some hurled javelins or twanged arrows. Already flames roared atop the roof, but that fire hadn’t been going long. Danes bellowed at the Franks to surrender. Danish archers hissed arrows. Up the lane, Northmen dragged two springalds. If they set those up to fire into the church windows, it would drive the Franks deeper into the church. The rest of the Danes chanted and beat their shields, waiting for that moment when the Franks must rush out or die like boxed-in rats in a burning trap.
“What are we going to do, milord?” asked a grim-eyed knight. They were in shadows, still hidden from the Danes.
Odo brushed sweat out of his eyes. The church was big. That the Danes hadn’t taken it yet meant that a goodly number of stubborn Franks still lived. Those Danes were so intent upon their prey that they hadn’t seen his little band. Surprise was all he had, surprise and a little less than twenty knights on horse. Odo whirled on his men.
“Listen to me. Paris needs those men holed in Saint Vincent. If we can’t free them, the city dies. We’re going to charge the Danes. It madness, lunacy, but it must be done. Each footman must blow a horn, wave a torch or bellow with all his might. You must follow behind us and throw yourself at those Danes.”
“We can’t take them, milord. There’s too many.”
“It is night, by damn!” Odo shouted. “Shadows make an unknown man huge. We must chase them away, if only for a moment. We must scare them. They won’t be expecting this, surely not knights on horse. You saw what we’ve done already. Now let’s finish it. Let’s finish it and then get back to the Cite.”
Before they could gainsay him further, Odo lifted his lance, ordered his knights into a line and spoke over his shoulder. “There’s a cap of silver for every footman who follows me and gets back out alive.”
“Silver, milord?” shouted a footman.
“On my word as Count,” Odo said. Odo glanced at the knights forming themselves into position. “This is where a knight earns a barony. There is where a knight gains a name that the minstrels will sing throughout the ages.”
“I’ll hold you to that, milord,” said a big knight.
“I swear it before Saint Germain,” Odo said. “We are the knights of Paris. We are the ones the Danes cannot defeat. Here is where you become a baron. To gain that high honor, however, you must kill Northman!” Odo raised his lance. “Sound the trumpet! Attack!” And as the trumpet blared with noise, Odo shouted and spurred his stallion.
They attacked out of shadow, from the direction no Dane expected any Franks to appear. Dancing, fiery light shone upon them. Shadows made them monstrous. Trumpets pealed. Torches waved as footmen bellowed and followed hard behind the stallions. But it was those glittering lance points. It was the terrifying steeds, almost seeming as if they snorted fire. It was the sparks from iron-shod hooves striking cobblestones. Most of all it was a dreadfully unwelcome surprise.
Danes scrambled to get out of the way, those nearest the knights anyway. Northmen nearest those men saw their comrades take to their heels. That began a reaction all along the line. It was like a blow, a gust of gargantuan wind. Danes shouted in fear, wondering what awful menace had surged up out of the darkness. Less than an hour ago, none of these Danes would have flinched. But the hard killing was over, or so they had thought.
Odo cleared the area around the Church, killing no one, merely chasing off Danes. He soon reined his mount and shouted frantic orders.
Those in the church acted at once. Knights, militiamen, monks and priests boiled out the doors and out the windows. They were much less in number than had first defended the Merchant Quarter this evening; but they more than doubled the number of Paris’s defenders—if they could all get back alive onto the isle of the Cite.
Perhaps if the Franks had stood their ground and fought it out, it might have ended differently. Instead, they marched away on the road. When a number of Danes gained their courage and followed, the knights charged again. Jarls shouted at their men to form a shield wall. Too many slipped away in the darkness to loot for their share of the treasure. Why face a fierce Frank on a monstrous horse and gain wounds when there were women and treasures to find. They could take care of the Franks later.
Surprise, ferocity and speed aided Odo. This wasn’t a thin line of Franks caught by ramping Danes in the city. His kernel of knights and men-at-arms had fought on the walls for weeks. They now fought en masse, under their Count’s eyes. They had warhorses and grim determination to make it to the Stone Tower. The Danes who faced them kept looking over their shoulders and wondering what other treasure fellow Vikings snatched up while they were here fighting Franks. Because of these things, most of the men who had exited the Church of Saint Vincent made it through the Stone Tower and crossed the long Stone Bridge. The others lay dead or dying in the Merchant Quarter.
55.
Several hours before dawn, the last soldiers propped up straw men on the Stone Tower’s battlements, fixing lengths of wood to them like spears. Then they slipped out the tower and raced across the bridge and into the Cite.
The Danes discovered the deception an hour after sunlight, storming the Stone Tower and completing their capture of the Merchant Quarter. Sigfred and his jarls soon climbed the tower, studying the Cite from it. The heavy stone bridge linked the two armored shores.
“Send the berserks across,” rumbled Valgard. “Let them smash through into the island citadel.”
“No,” Sigfred said. “Danes with mantelets and a ram might break the gate, but berserks will never axe their way within.”
“We must keep attacking the Franks as they reel from this blow,” said Valgard. “They have lost half their city, most of their knights and will be filled with despair. Now is the time to finish it.”
“Yes!” shouted a jarl.
“Those are wise words,” Sigfred said. “You and your men shall lead the way to victory.”
Valgard stared at the bridge and at the grim-eyed Franks that prowled the tower that guarded it. “We must strike now,” he said stubbornly.
“We have captured many of their stores,” Sigfred said. “Our warriors are drunk on Frankish wine and ale. We cannot strike now.”
“Let them taste the dregs of famine,” suggested the wizard.
“Yes,” Sigfred said. “We will starve them and make their lives miserable with our catapults. Then… then we shall see.”
“Must we waste our spring and summer here?” asked Valgard.
“Not if you and your men wish to lead the charge across the bridge,” Sigfred said.
Valgard stomped away. Soon the other jarls left.
“Cunning Count Odo saved them,” Sigfred said. “That was a brave deed.”
“It was lucky,” said the wizard.
“A warrior can never be too lucky,” Sigfred said. Then he too left the battlements, shouting orders.
***
The bitter weeks passed in duels along the river walls. Onagers flung rocks. Springalds hissed javelins. It kept Franks wary, but it took few lives. The distance of the Seine was too great here. Those who had survived the siege so far had become accustomed to a blur of motion, which sent them ducking behind a battlement. Sometimes a fiery ball whooshed overhead. Those burst apart with burning cloth. When such fireballs landed on the dirt, people let them burn. When they landed on a house, silo or church, women delegated to the task raced to such scenes and flung dirt on the flames or beat dangerous sparks with old animal skins. Even so, several roofs burned, and the smell of soot lingered in the Cite.
As the weeks passed, the survivors buckled theirs belts
another notch tighter or unknotted their rope and retied it around a shrinking belly. Hunger weakened them and the specter of famine haunted their thoughts. Odo finally slaughtered half the warhorses, and for days people dined on meat. To prop waning hope, he preached about the approaching Emperor. They had to hold until the Emperor’s Host chased off the Danes. It was only a matter of time.
In the Danish camp, the weeks passed with growing monotony. New spring grass pushed itself out of the ground. It was time to move on, said many, time to plunder fresh towns.
The Danes might have hurled themselves upon the Cite. They might have sharpened their swords, piled into the dragons, sailed onto the tiny spars of land on the isle of Paris and set up their ladders. Before, that sort of attack would have faced stones flung from both sides of the river. Arrows and catapulted stones or dropped rocks would have seen the sinking of many a dragon. The seawall of the Merchant Quarter and that of the Cite would have been like sailing up a mountain gorge. Now the Danes owned the Merchant Quarter. Now they could think about a river landing on the Cite. The trouble with the idea… no Dane spoke about this aloud… but most had grudgingly come to recognize that these Franks were tough. These Franks on their stone walls fought with zeal. Now a Dane was tougher and there were more of them than Franks. But to storm the Cite would cost too many lives. That was a battlefield certainty. The Vikings of Sigfred and the Vikings of the jarls hadn’t come to West Frankland to die to gain a stinking pile of stones. They wanted treasure. They wanted beauties. Yet their pride couldn’t let them just sail away from Paris. The Great Pagan Army had sacked many cities much mightier than this little burg. Besides, virgin Burgundy awaited them up the Seine River. That’s why they needed to take the rotten pile of stones: so their dragon ships could pass unharmed on the journey to Burgundy. Surely it was just a matter of time before the Franks realized the hopelessness of their position. They were starving these stubborn bastards into submission. So the Danes waited, fighting boredom by shooting their springalds and launching onager-flung stones.
Not everyone, however, had such patience.
***
Heming shifted upon the bench, his leg thrust out under the table. He swirled a goblet of Frankish ale, moodily staring at the amber-colored swill. His damned foot throbbed. The day after the assault, the wizard had amputated the three crushed toes. Bjorn had pressed a hot iron on the stumps, burning flesh and sealing the wound. For days afterward, Heming had lain in agony, in a fever. Willelda had hourly checked his foot. No black lines of poison had ever shot up his ankle and into his calf. The wizard would have amputated his foot and then his half his leg if it had. Heming had been lucky.
He didn’t feel lucky.
He was Ulfhednar. He was the wolf, the quick berserk, fast in with a lightning attack and then fast to the side, a leap, a spin and then a deadly swing of his beloved she-troll. How was he supposed to do all that with a throbbing foot? How was he supposed to keep his balance with three missing toes?
He sipped the ale, his eyes hooded as Sigfred grumbled about the length of the siege. Warriors threw dice on the table. A spearman sharpened his weapon with long, slow strokes of a whetstone.
The Twelve had dwindled. There were only six of them left, but they were more famous than ever. They were the berserks who had broken into the Merchant Quarter. Warriors considered them beloved of Odin. Surprisingly, despite his ownership of the cup of Attila, despite his captainship of the Twelve and his brutal size and strength, Bjorn was no longer the most famous among them. That lot had fallen to Heming. The reason was simple. Odin spoke to Heming. Odin had given him the plan that had allowed fierce warriors to crawl unnoticed over the walls and open the city gate. The camp warriors recognized Heming, often hailing him. Bjorn had witnessed many of these greetings and had overheard warriors praising Heming, wondering what Odin would show the lucky berserk next.
Bjorn now rolled bone dice onto the table. Men keenly watched the dice jump, tumble and then come to a halt. A warrior laughed. It wasn’t Bjorn. The big berserk snarled and banged a massive fist upon the boards, making the dice jump again and land with new pips showing.
Now Bjorn laughed. His wide face split into an ugly grin. He raised dangerous eyes. “I win,” he said.
“What?” shouted a lean warrior, a Northman from the Danelagh.
“Look at the bones,” Bjorn said.
The lean Northman was one-eyed, with the left side of his face pushed inward, the left cheek long ago crushed by the mace-blow that had split his eye like an egg.
“You struck the boards,” said the lean Northman. “I won.”
“Look at the bones,” Bjorn said, his manner ugly.
The lean Northman reached for the pile of silver coins.
Bjorn dropped a huge paw on the Northman’s hand, pressing the hand down onto the table. “Why do you reach for my coins?” Bjorn said, hatred shining in his black eyes.
The lean Northman jerked his hand out from under Bjorn’s. With an inarticulate shout, the Northman hissed his dagger free of its sheath and slammed the point into the oaken boards.
“You cheat!” spat the Northman.
The warrior sharpening his spear stopped the long, slow strokes of his whetstone. Sigfred stopped speaking as others turned and peered at Bjorn. They also peered at the one-eyed Northman from the Danelagh. The other gamblers edged away from the two. Heming set down his goblet and with his wrist wiped his lips.
Bjorn hunched his shoulders and appeared more like a bear than ever as he stared at the lean Northman. The one-eyed warrior stared right back, outraged.
“Look at the bones,” rumbled Bjorn.
“You look at them!” snarled the one-eyed man.
“Do you say I cheat?” asked Bjorn.
“You banged the table!”
Bjorn lowered his head, leaning toward the one-eyed Northman. The berserk’s wide nostrils flared.
Vikings grew nervous, edging farther away from Bjorn.
“Look at the dice,” rumbled Bjorn, and murder shone in his dark eyes.
The one-eyed Northman had panted throughout the exchange. He glanced around. What he noticed was hard to determine. His gaze flickered to the great pile of coins, to the dice and then at Bjorn glowering before him. The one-eyed Northman gave an inarticulate cry, jerked his dagger out of the table and thrust at Bjorn’s head. It caught Bjorn by surprise, even though the huge berserk twitched fast enough so the razor-sharp blade sliced the right cheek instead of poking out his right eye.
Bjorn roared, and as blood dripped from his face, he smashed his leather-wrapped wrist against the inside of the one-eyed warrior’s arm. The gory dagger spun from the man’s hand. Bjorn lunged across the table, spilling coins and goblets as warriors shouted, leaping out of the way. The one-eyed Northman frantically reached for his sword as Bjorn surged to his feet, dragging the warrior across the table.
“He cut Bjorn!” shouted a warrior.
“Bjorn cheated!” cried another.
Bjorn roared as veins stood up on his neck. Spittle flecked the corners of his mouth. Meanwhile, sword-iron slid halfway out of the one-eyed Northman’s scabbard. Bjorn flung the lean warrior onto the dirt floor. The one-eyed man tried to scramble to his feet. Bjorn reached into the trench that ran past the long table and grasped a stout length of wood, the end burning with fire. He thrust the brand into the one-eyed warrior’s face. The Northman from the Danelagh howled in agony as the stink of burnt flesh sizzled into the skalli.
“Stop this!” bellowed Sigfred.
Two warriors who had been watching leaped at Bjorn, landing on his back and bearing the brute to the floor. Bjorn’s chin struck dirt. He roared with rage.
Sigfred rose from his chair. “Help them,” he ordered. “Hold down the madman.”
More warriors piled onto Bjorn. They were tough Vikings. Some veterans held one leg, others another. They pinned Bjorn’s arms and held down his twisting torso. Bjorn raged as the berserkergang took hold. One Viking wove his fing
ers into Bjorn’s thick hair, keeping the snapping teeth from latching onto any of the other men’s arms or hands.
Meanwhile, the lean Northman from the Danelagh kept howling, clutching his face. “He burned my good eye!” he wailed. “He burned my good eye! I’m blind!”
***
The formerly one-eyed Northman from the Danelagh was Valgard Skull-splitter’s cousin. Huge Valgard questioned those who had witnessed the dice game. When he learned that Bjorn had made the dice jump a second time by banging the table, he went to Sigfred and demanded justice.
Heming sat in the skalli. It was a day after the bloody brawl and the spring sun had made it a hot afternoon. Flies buzzed over half-chewed bones that the dogs had left in a corner. Sigfred sat on his chair in the place of honor, brooding. The Finn wizard stood behind him in the shadows.
“He blinded one of my warriors!” shouted Valgard. The red-bearded jarl stood below the dais, facing the Sea King.
“Your cousin tried to blind Bjorn,” Sigfred said.
“Yes!” Valgard shouted. “He did it after Bjorn cheated at dice and laid hold of my cousin.” Valgard pointed a sausage-sized finger at several uncomfortable Vikings. “They saw it. They will speak the truth.”
“What would you have me do?” Sigfred asked.
“Give us justice,” Valgard said hotly. “Blind Bjorn in turn.”
Sigfred sat up. “Bjorn only burned out one eye.”
“He blinded my cousin!” shouted Valgard. “Bjorn should be blinded in turn.”
The door into the skalli smashed open and Bjorn stalked into the gloomy hall. He wore a helm and a great fur cloak, with his sword belted at his side. He also carried the cup of Attila. Behind him followed the four remaining berserks of the Twelve.
Strong warriors moved aside for Bjorn. Even here in this savage company men feared the bear of Odin.
The Great Pagan Army Page 32
