The Great Pagan Army Read online

  Peter shook his head.

  “I believe you spoke earlier about a letter concerning the Emperor. It spoke of Pope Hadrian’s murder.”

  “Yes, so?” Peter said.

  “Enrico is an adherent of the new Pope. He brought the letter from Rome. Unfortunately, during the journey he lost his company, mounts and money to outlaws. They spared him his life and letter because of the Papal seal. He has of course begged Gozlin for men and supplies so he may return home. Gozlin refused. He isn’t concerned about Enrico or Pope Stephan but only about saving Paris. My father knew Enrico. In memory of my father I have taken in the sub-deacon.”

  “You loved your father?”

  “He was a noble man, but the issue, brother, is Enrico. Perhaps Count Odo could be persuaded to loan mules and some coins to the sub-deacon if the sub-deacon could garner men to accompany him back to Rome.”

  “Why should Odo do this?”

  “That will be my concern. Yours, brother, is gathering men.”

  “I can think of one stout man who would go,” he said.

  “Excellent! Three bold adventurers in the service of God should be able to win through to Rome. Before you set out, we will of course make sure that Enrico pledges you his help in gaining this relic. I believe he will be happy to oblige. I happen to know that he is very desirous to leave Paris before the Northmen appear.”

  Peter dropped to his knees. “Judith, you are divine.” Her laugh was as if a silver spoon struck a glass goblet. “Your generosity is overflowing,” he said. “I have never done anything to gain such help from you.”

  “Nonsense, brother, you have warned us about Gozlin’s plans concerning me. My only request is that you take good care of Brother Enrico. He must reach Rome.”

  Peter was quizzical.

  “In honor of my father’s memory,” she said.

  “Ah! I give you my word.”

  “Good. Now I ask you to indulge me and wait here while I go and seek Count Odo’s favor. I will be but a moment.”

  26.

  Peter the Monk left for Rome, leaving Paris to its grim fate. The days shortened. The weather worsened and rumors of the approaching Northmen become terrifying. Finally, Count Odo gathered a small band and rode into the rain, determined to scout out the enemy as Vegetius suggested.

  For three days, Odo scouted the countryside. It rained more, freezing drops that slithered under cloak and padding to slide icily down his back. The winds howled. Hail pelted them. The Count and his small band slept at night wrapped in cloaks, shivering and miserable. Odo also inspected nearby castles and encouraged knights in their wooden-walled villas. Unfortunately, the exposure had Odo sneezing and feverish by the time his palfrey cantered over Paris’s north bridge. His throat was sore and his thoughts were foggy. He headed straight for his house. As retainers ran outside, Odo slid from his saddle, the jar of the fast rushing ground catching him by surprise. Huge Gerold steadied him.

  “Milord, are you well?”

  “I’m fine.” Odo staggered into the house, with mud dripping from his boots. He hurried into his study, sagged at his desk and rummaged through rustling parchments. One military maxim in particular had struck him dumb before. The main and principal point in war is to secure plenty of provisions and to destroy the enemy by famine. He sagged back in his chair. The key to victory wasn’t about the right cavalry charge, the correct moment to attack or even the best enemy-confounding stratagem. No, it wasn’t so glorious and clever. Just stock up on food and make sure your enemy wasn’t able too. His stomach would do the rest.

  Odo flipped pages. He had read another passage pertaining to what he had seen at the Baron’s castle. Baron Aletramnus held the last castle before Paris. If the Northmen stormed it, then Paris would truly be alone. Ah-ha, here it was. Odo re-read the passage, with his finger trailing the words. By force of will, he drove away his torpor and thrust the page into a pouch. Then he stood, and had to sit back down again. His teeth chattered. He clenched them and forced himself onto his feet. He had tonight. Tomorrow… might be too late to help the Baron. He shouted for his servants, stumbled against his desk and began coughing hoarsely.

  “Milord?” Gerold said, as he opened the door, concerning on his thick face.

  “Help me onto my horse,” wheezed Odo. “I have to see the Bishop.”

  ***

  Odo sat in front of Gozlin’s fireplace, with a blanket thrown over his shoulders and a mug of spiced wine in his hands. Stooped Bishop Gozlin read the parchment.

  At the nearby table sat the Bishop’s nephew: Abbot Ebolus, in charge of Saint-Germain-des-Pres Abbey. Everything about the abbot except for his stringy dark hair was puffy. He had puffy cheeks, puffy hands and no doubt under his stained black robe puffy thighs. Now the abbot sat at repast. On a platter lay a spiced fowl that he happily tore apart. Costly, gaudy rings (there was an opal, an emerald and a sapphire) choked each puffy finger, and therein lay the key to the abbot’s soul. Despite a certain native shrewdness, Ebolus did most things to excess. Thus, he now ate with relish. His fingertips and lips were grease-stained, and he quaffed wine from a gemmed chalice with such zeal that red droplets splattered his robe.

  “Yes?” Gozlin said, looking up from the parchment.

  “Baron Aletramnus is beside the Oise River,” Odo said. “So why should he worry about water, eh?”

  “We won’t worry here,” Gozlin said.

  “We’re on an island in the middle of the Seine, Your Grace,” Odo said. “Unfortunately, the Northmen can surround Aletramnus’ castle and cut him off from the river.”

  Abbot Ebolus wiped pudgy fingers on a napkin and signaled for their attention. “Winter is almost here, milord. Aletramnus can scrape up snow to slake his thirst.”

  “Granted,” Odo said. “And when it stops snowing?”

  “Let him dig deep,” Ebolus said. “He’s right by the Oise, as you say. By God’s grace water will bubble up.”

  “And if it doesn’t?” Odo said.

  “Have faith,” chided Ebolus. “We have the mightiest relics in all Frankland. Our prayers must be answered even in this.”

  “Is that what you tell your steward when the cellar runs dry?” Odo asked. “Or do you instruct him to purchase more wine?”

  Ebolus digested that and then lifted an eyebrow at his uncle.

  Gozlin shook the parchment. “What am I suppose to see?”

  Odo shed the blanket and stood upright. Dizziness swayed him, forcing Odo to rub his forehead.

  “You’re ill,” Gozlin said.

  “It’s a mere chill, Your Grace. Notice what Vegetius says: Bad water is a kind of poison and the cause of epidemic distempers.”

  “Yes? Is that all?” Gozlin said.

  “Good water-butts are made out of seasoned wood, Your Grace.” That’s what had Odo upset. In Baron Aletramnus’ hastily built castle, all the water butts were of green wood.

  “What you say is common knowledge,” Gozlin said.

  “Seasoned wood makes for tight water butts,” Odo said. “Green ones slime the water. Or, as Vegetius says, the water becomes a kind of poison. How can Aletramnus defend his castle with poisoned men? Once the Northmen ring the castle, the Baron’s men will only have the drinking water stored in their green barrels.”

  “An interesting point,” muttered Gozlin. “Did you tell this to Aletramnus?”

  Odo’s shoulders slumped. “Your Grace, let us be honest. Baron Aletramnus wouldn’t have listened to me. He’s Duke Hugh’s man, and we all know what the Duke thinks of me.”

  Gozlin became thoughtful. “In all honesty, Count Odo, why should I listen to you?”

  Odo gathered his strength and faced the old man, faced those intense green eyes, the suspicion and dislike. “You’re educated, Your Grace. Surely you can see the wisdom of Vegetius.”

  “I have read him,” Gozlin admitted. “He writes well, and yet he speaks on elephants and chariots and how to defeat them. As I recall, he doesn’t speak about Northmen and l
ongships.”

  “The Romans conquered the world, Your Grace. Charlemagne must have understood that, for he wished his commanders to read Vegetius. In matters of war, I bow to Charlemagne. Shouldn’t any Frank?”

  Gozlin stared at the flames. The words came like pulled teeth. “Your idea has merit.”

  “Then you’ll give me the barrels?”

  “They’re my casks you’re talking about,” Ebolus said.

  Gozlin fingered the silver cross that dangled from his belt. “You saw all these longships? The fleet truly moves?”

  “Yes,” Odo said.

  “This is false bravado,” Ebolus told his uncle. “So he scouts the enemy. The Count has always been a good rider. What he suggests is a matter of sword strokes.”

  “It’s a matter of provisions,” Odo said, “and daring. If we ride tonight before the Northmen march to Baron Aletramnus’—”

  “Risky,” Gozlin said, “fraught with danger. Evil spirits haunt the night, demons. Worse, some Northmen are said to possess wolf-sight, night-seeing.”

  “I’ll chance that,” Odo said, and he sneezed and then shivered until he sat back on the stool.

  “If the water butts must go,” Ebolus said, “maybe Sir Arnulf should see to it. He’s Paris’s most daring soldier.”

  Odo lurched back onto his feet, but he sneezed and coughed until he had to sit back down again.

  Gozlin spoke more soothingly than his nephew did. “You’re too ill to ride. Arnulf should do it. He chafes to be out of the city, and soon none of us will ride free.”

  “He must go tonight,” Odo said. “Tomorrow morning might be too late.”

  “Arnulf is cunning and daring enough to do it at the stroke of dawn,” Gozlin said. He turned to Ebolus. “Go. Choose the casks. Make certain they’re seasoned.”

  Puffy Ebolus scraped back his stool and hurried from the room.

  “I’ll send for your man,” Gozlin said. “When you return home… summon your barber and have yourself bled of these ill humors.”

  27.

  Heming Ivarsson blew into his cupped hands. He rubbed numb fingers, trying to warm them. He crouched with the berserks behind a fallen log in the forest. Snow lay on the ancient trunk, and snow lay on the ground and on the stark, leafless branches of beeches and birches.

  It’s the land of the dead, Heming thought.

  Nothing stirred upon the snow. No breeze shifted upon the trees. Shivering, Heming rubbed his red hands. Back home during winter snow covered pines and evergreens. These Frankish trees with their bare branches—they were like skeletons. They clawed the sky.

  All last night the season’s first snowfall had drifted out of the darkness. Wet flakes had hissed into their torches. They had trudged in the dark from the Viking landing near Baron Aletramnus’ castle. The warbands gathered for battle and Sigfred had sent his Twelve and several shiploads of reavers into the hinterland in the direction of Paris. Bjorn had explained it simply: “The Sea King respects the knights on their stallions. The Franks delight in lightning raids. They delight in setting fire to our siege camps. We’re to make sure that doesn’t happen at the Baron’s castle.”

  Grimar had told Heming horror stories about knights. The warrior Franks were often as big as Danes and just as brutal. The worst was their charge, the thunder of heavy horse as iron-shod hooves drummed upon the Earth. According to Grimar, sword strokes from a knight on a charging steed were invincible. Lance thrusts skewered a warrior like a fisherman gigging frogs. “The secret is to charge them before they charge you,” Grimar said.

  Now they waited in the dawn-light behind an old, fallen log and at the edge of a brambly hill. A snowy glade spread out before them. It was a perfect place to trap any reinforcements coming from Paris. At the glade’s western edge and just out of sight around the hill waited eighty or so warriors of Valgard Skull-splitter, a chieftain from the Danelagh in England and a close ally of the Sea King. Three of Valgard’s hunters had skirted the glade so as not to mar the pristine snow. They scouted eastward along the forest trail, east in the direction of Paris.

  Heming rubbed his numb hands.

  “Stick them under your armpits,” Grimar said.

  Heming did so, and he noticed that the others also shivered. He wasn’t the only cold one. Several berserks drew their furs tighter about themselves. Two hunched lower behind the ancient log. Not even Bjorn was immune. He had taken his matted bear cloak and thrown it over his head so he looked like a crone huddled outside her hut. Berserk breath steamed into the bitter air. Melted snow from their body heat dampened their breeches and increased their discomfort.

  Heming yearned for a fire. He suspected several of the others did also. Yet like them, he would never suggest it. Before his father had been hanged… he would have suggested it. He was however no longer that innocent youth.

  He fingered the chill amulet hanging from his throat. It was his Valkyrie, his new luck, the hag armed with the twin spears of Odin and astride a spirit steed. The Hammer of Thor amulet certainly hadn’t brought him luck. Did his Valkyrie bring him luck? He peered sidelong at his companions, these heavy-handed butchers. They had beaten him, knocked out a tooth, made him murder an old hag and slaughter trembling serfs and now… now they treated him like a brother, like one of them. Other Vikings tread carefully around these Twelve. Sigfred the Sea King spoke respectfully to Bjorn even though Bjorn captained no warband, just eleven vicious killers who never showed fear. Heming’s lips thinned. He would never suggest they start a fire because whatever they did he was going to do better, faster and with greater skill. Before Heming could ponder further, snow squelched underfoot.

  Hoods came off. Men whipped back cloaks. Numb fingers clutched axe-handles and spear shafts. Twelve shivering murderers swiveled their heads.

  “There, to your right,” Grimar whispered.

  Heming squinted into the forest. Three, gray-cloaked hunters glided toward their log. Each hunter clutched javelins in his left fist. The foremost hunter also clutched a hatchet in his right. Moisture dripped from the man’s mustache. He strode to Bjorn and crouched down, panting so mist steamed into the air.

  “Franks approach,” said the hunter.

  “Knights?” asked Bjorn.

  The hunter nodded.

  Unease shifted across the Twelve. Faces hardened.

  “How many are there?” Bjorn asked.

  The hunters glanced at each other.

  “A hundred knights, maybe more,” said the first hunter.

  “So there are probably fifty, more likely forty knights,” Grimar said.

  “It’s a hundred I say,” spoke the first hunter. “We all saw them. They guard carts.”

  “Carts?” Bjorn said. “What do they haul?”

  “Wine,” said the hunter.

  “What foolishness is this?” growled Bjorn. “Are they merchants?”

  Two of the hunters shrank back from Bjorn. Heming had seen that happen before this. Bjorn was trollblooded. People sensed his difference, or maybe they sensed his bloodlust. The berserk champion chilled people. He stole their courage by his demeanor, maybe by the terrible intensity of his small black eyes. He had eyes like a snake, flat and eerie and… evil. However, the first hunter was unlike his companions. He scowled at Bjorn and held his ground.

  “I say it is wine,” the hunter said. No doubt he prided himself on his tracking skills, prided himself on how well he scouted for Valgard Skull-splitter. “Each cart is loaded with many wine butts. There’s enough for the Great Army to guzzle a week. Maybe it’s a peace offering.”

  “How far back are they?” Bjorn said.

  The hunter shook his head. “Not far. They’ll be here soon. I must tell Valgard. The trail leads through the glade.”

  “Don’t walk across the new snow,” Grimar said. “Don’t let them see your footprints.”

  The hunter angrily wiped his dripping mustache. “Do I tell you how to sharpen your knives? Do you hear me telling you how to howl like a wolf?” />
  Grimar laughed, holding up his hands. “Peace, Tracker. I am rebuked.”

  “Go!” Bjorn said. “You have done well. Tell Valgard… Tell him we will rise up after these hundred knights have hurled themselves upon his shield wall. Then we will fall on them from behind.”

  “It’s a hundred knights,” said the hunter. “There are only twelve of you.”

  “Odin will give them into our hands,” Bjorn said. “Now go. Tell the Skull-splitter my words.”

  The hunters glanced at each other. Their faces spoke eloquently: these twelve are madmen. It made several berserks grin. They were jealous of their reputations, proud of the fear and bewilderment they formed in others.

  The hunters trudged away, working across the base of the brambly hill. Out of sight around the hill, Valgard and eighty stout Vikings waited.

  Heming found it difficult to swallow. A hundred knights: mail-armored killers on horseback. This wouldn’t be like the times they had snuck up upon sickle-armed serfs or defenseless women and children. Knights were the best warriors of Frankland. Suddenly all the talk about Odin, furious courage and racing upon the enemy without a shield or helmet seemed like wildest lunacy.

  All of Valgard’s waiting warriors had shields. It was the main defensive armament of a Viking band. Lime wood made the best shields, not layered like plywood, but with planks riveted together. A proper shield covered a warrior’s torso and upper thighs. Wooden or metal bands strengthened the back of a shield. An iron boss held the center and thick leather or rawhide circled the shield’s edge. Alder and poplar also made good shields, but lime or linden wood was best. Such timbers were light, not dense like oak. Oak made horrible shields; such were too heavy to shift quickly and prone to split under the hammering impact of swords and axes. Linden wood was also best because the fibers in the wood bound the blades that struck them. Some warriors, Heming knew, referred to shields as a ‘net of spears.’ Heming considered it likely that Valgard would order a shield wall as Bjorn had suggested. In such an array, some front men would crouch and set the bottom edge of their shield against the ground. Others would stand beside them and hold their shields above those. Spears poked out of a shield wall. Breaking such a formation of tough, determined men took courage, usually more warriors than the defenders had and time to wear them down.