The Great Pagan Army Read online

  As Heming pondered his lack of a shield, he wondered how twelve screaming heroes could possibly break through a shield wall. It seemed that all a defender had to do was set himself, take the initial impact and then hew with his sword over his shield or thrust his spear through the gaps between shields. How had any of these berserks lasted long enough to grow beards?

  Grimar clapped him on the shoulder, making him start. “You look glum, Ivarsson.”

  Heming shrugged, struggling to maintain the indifference he saw upon his fellow madmen.

  “Do you fear your luck?” Grimar said.

  “He thinks too much,” growled Bjorn, who sidled near. “Here. Sip this.” He thrust a jug into Heming’s hands.

  By the rank fumes, Heming knew that it was the dark elixir, the berserker’s mead. He shook his head. “I don’t understand. How can we survive a fight without shields? All they have to do is crouch behind their shield, take our swings and then hew us in return.”

  Bjorn’s heavy paw clamped onto his shoulder. Those powerful fingers squeezed. “Fear is the great enemy, Heming. It makes men slow. It makes them do stupid, foolish things. Shields can stop a weapon, aye, but shields are heavy. It is hard to dance and weave while holding a shield. It is a plodder’s tool, although in the right place it is dangerous. That is why we wait here and not with Valgard.”

  Heming strove to understand.

  “Berserks are like cavalry,” Bjorn said. “Few horsemen charge a shield wall. They wait until the shield wall breaks or they hit its flank or its rear. Horsemen are best attacking, so it is with berserks. That being so it is foolish to put a berserk in a shield wall. It is foolish to have him charge one. It is better to wait for the right moment to unleash our kind. That is why I told the hunter that we would charge once the Franks attack Valgard. We will attack the Franks from their rear.”

  Heming nodded slowly.

  “Drink,” Bjorn said. “It is time for the fury of Odin.”

  Grimar cocked his head. “Yes. I hear them.”

  Heming hesitated. He drank all the time now: ale, mead and wine, anything to dull his thoughts. He shook his head. Give him strong drink, yes, but this berserker’s brew… he peered into the jug. The berserkergang mead was black and sluggish, thick like syrup. His thoughts drifted to the old hag, to the shame and horror he had felt killing her. He put the leather nozzle to his lips and chugged once, twice, three times.”

  Bjorn grunted and took the jug from him. “Not so much.” He turned to Grimar. “Watch him. Do not let him give us away.”

  Heming swayed and blinked repeatedly as the mead slid down his gullet.

  Grimar whispered into his ear, “Odin calls, Ivarsson. He summons you to battle. Can you hear his horn?”

  Heming opened his mouth as his eyes watered. His head spun. Heat flushed through him. “I need another swallow,” he said hoarsely.

  “Whisper, Ivarsson. Odin commands it.”

  Heming nodded, and his eyes grew wide as horsemen entered the glade. Big horses carried big men wearing mail-shirts, leather breeches and heavy cloaks. The knights held shields and upright, wicked lances with glittering points. Stallions snorted, spewing mist from their nostrils, and the clop of their hooves mingled with creaking, two-wheeled wagons. Wary-eyed serfs rode the buckboard as their oxen plodded unconcerned. As the company filed into the glade, a throb began behind Heming’s left ear. It beat like a drum and he bit the air.

  “Ah,” Grimar whispered, who numbered the Franks. “I was right. There are no hundred knights, but thirty-eight. I count eighteen wagons. Wine butts fill them, though. Strange.”

  Heming blinked his watery eyes. Time moved oddly. There was a big knight on a big brown steed. The knight wore a splendid scarlet cloak that draped upon his stallion’s hindquarters. The huge Frank swiveled his head and Heming knew panic. The knight wore a helmet with an iron bar jutting down from the brow and over his nose, a nasal guard. One eye was normal. The other was like egg white, hideous, no doubt long ago burned.

  “Odin,” Heming whispered. “Look. Th-That knight is one-eyed like Odin.”

  “I see him,” Grimar whispered.

  Other berserks saw him, too, and whispered it up and down the log.

  “That one is mine,” growled Bjorn. “I claim him.”

  A few of the berserks clutched their lucky totems. The one-eyed knight made them nervous.

  The forty-odd knights on their horses and the creaking wagons crossed the glade. Some instinct must have warned the Franks, for at a word from the one-eyed knight, he with the scarlet cloak, the horsemen readied their shields and shifted the lances to an overhand, thrusting grip. A lad spurred his horse and galloped for the hidden part of the glade, the section around the hill’s corner.

  Heming shook his head as he tried to clear his jumbled thoughts. His hands no longer felt numb. He wrapped them around the haft of his she-troll, his broad axe. A grin split his face. He brought up the iron head of the axe and kissed it. His wet lips froze onto the icy metal. With a sinister chuckle, he tore his lips free. Ah, his she-troll gave him a fiery kiss back. The beat in his skull had become a pounding. Beside him, his brothers rumbled to themselves and swore awful oaths.

  A shout went up from Valgard’s hidden men. The lad, the scout for the Franks, wheeled his stallion as arrows and javelins showered upon him. He went down, spilling red droplets onto the white snow. The one-eyed knight roared orders. The wagon drivers shouted at one another, confused and fearful. Oxen lowed.

  Heming laughed as blood oozed from his torn lips and stained his teeth. A chant stirred him. He had trouble focusing. Time lurched forward. Valgard Skull-splitter and his eighty Vikings appeared. They marched as one with their shields clumped together. The knights charged, but came up short as javelins flew out of the shield wall.

  “Now!” roared Bjorn. “Up, lads, it’s time for the raven’s feast!”

  Heming scrambled over the log with his companions. He heard himself roaring oaths as he leaped and ran across the glade. The knights wheeled their mounts and galloped away. It was sheer cowardice. The one-eyed Frank—Odin in disguise—spurred his stallion fastest of all. There was a blur, another of those odd time changes. Heming looked around and saw dead wagon drivers sprawled everywhere. He couldn’t remember killing them, but his she-troll was drenched with gore and his garments were sodden with hot, steaming blood. Then he lost himself in fury, screaming obscenities as he hacked the dead men into gory little pieces.

  28.

  After a careful examination, the Paris barber gave his professional opinion. Odo had been elf-shot, either that or an evil imp had entered his body when he had sat in the forest in the rain. The barber bled Odo, fed him wolf flesh and kept him in darkness. Wolf flesh disgusted imps and drove them out of a sick man’s body. Darkness insured that elf-shot didn’t mature into a worse malady. Judith had her own ideas. The barber railed against them, but Odo permitted it. By candlelight, she spooned him chicken broth and put boiled linen strips on his forehead and chest. Gozlin sent word that the fever was God’s punishment. Judith must return to the convent or Odo might never rise from his bed. That angered Odo. He threw open the shutters, surprising a starling. The little bird flew to the oak tree, angrily scolding him from the perch of its birdhouse. Odo grinned tightly and poured over De Re Militari. He refused any more half-cooked wolf flesh.

  “I cannot be responsible for what happens next, milord,” the barber said with a sniff.

  Odo nodded and bid the man leave. Afterward, he had Gerold help him into the other room. He glared at the cowhide map. He sat and dipped a quill into ink and scratched out missives. He rolled the first one tight, melted waxed over it and stamped it with his seal. Soon he gave it to a rider, who galloped away to sick Duke Hugh. The letter begged the Duke to marshal the army of Neustria. Odo sent another rider to East Frankland to the Emperor’s court. Then he sent for Robert and Wulf.

  The two young knights swaggered into his study. Robert hooked his huge thumbs in
his knight’s belt. Blond Wulf scratched at a boil on his muscular neck.

  “We must be frank with ourselves,” Odo told them. “We must use our heads.”

  “That’s why you’ve been reading, brother,” Robert said.

  Odo nodded absently. “We don’t have enough men to beat off the Northmen. We must therefore arm the people of Paris.”

  Wulf stopped fingering his boil long enough to trade a surprised glance with Robert.

  Robert spreads his big hands and spoke as if speaking to a simple man. “What good are serfs with sickles? They have no honor and will run the first time the Northmen charge.”

  “Your father beat the Northmen with fighting men,” said Wulf. “Everyone knows that only trained soldiers can face the Danes.”

  Odo had expected this reaction. Robert and Wulf both had glorified ideas about knighthood. If he could win them over, he was certain he could win over the other knights, too.

  Odo said softly, “A rat will snarl when cornered.”

  Robert laughed. “And a dog will rush in and kill it every time.”

  “Not if there are enough rats,” Odo said.

  Robert scowled, perhaps not having a quick rebuttal to that. He glanced at Wulf.

  “Milord,” said Wulf, “other men have thought like you. They armed their serfs and their cities still fell to the Northmen.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Robert said.

  “I don’t say arm all the people,” Odo said. He pulled out a parchment, holding it with his thin fingers as he read. “In choosing recruits regard should be given to their trade. Fishermen, fowlers, confectioners, weavers, and in general all whose professions more properly belong to women should, in my opinion, by no means be admitted into the service. On the contrary, smiths, carpenters, butchers and huntsmen are the most proper to be taken into it. On the careful choice of soldiers depends the welfare of the Republic.

  “Words,” Wulf sneered.

  “Not just words,” Odo said, “but words from a soldier of Rome. They trained huge armies, conquering armies that marched across the world.” He shook the parchment. “These are their secrets.”

  “It is magic?” asked Robert.

  “It is like the Holy Bible,” Odo said. “Only this is a Bible on war. If we follow it, we can become unbeatable.”

  Wulf lifted his blond eyebrows as he stroked his chin.

  “Think of these men like a hound or a warhorse you wish to buy,” Odo said. “Study the men. Look for the signs that show a fighter.”

  “A growling pup, one that bites your fingers usually grows up to be a brave hound,” said Wulf.

  “Exactly,” Odo said. “Find the men who stand their ground if you shove them. Better would be a man who pushes back.”

  “Hmm,” said Wulf.

  “It takes years to make a good swordsman,” Robert said.

  “We’re not going to train them as swordsmen,” Odo said. “They won’t magically become knights or tough retainers like Gerold. What I want are men who will stay on the walls when the Northmen charge. I want those brave enough to drop rocks on their pagan heads.”

  Wulf nodded thoughtfully. Robert just kept looking perplexed.

  ***

  The days passed. Chosen blacksmiths, carpenters and huntsmen soon thrust spears into bales or knocked at each other with shields. Odo listened to reports and gave further instructions.

  One day Gerold ushered a dirty little man into Odo’s presence.

  Odo cried with delight, and despite his cough rose from his bed and embraced the charcoal-burner. He had used them as scouts earlier. These solitary men scoured the forests in normal times, searching for fallen branches and then cooking them into charcoal. They knew the hidden paths better than most men. This small man had ridden with him to the Baron’s castle and beyond, but an incident with Vikings had caused the charcoal-burner’s disappearance. Odo had feared him dead. Now the little man had returned.

  At Odo’s orders, a stool was brought in and the embarrassed charcoal-burner bidden to sit. The charcoal-burner had become gaunt and even filthier than before. He clutched a greasy little hat in his hands, squeezing and twisting the cloth hat with talon-like fingers.

  It had been a week since Bishop Gozlin had given the order that no more sorties were to near the Baron’s castle. The loss of eighteen wagons, their drivers and oxen had deeply bitten into their stores. Unfortunately, because of the lack of sorties, there was little knowledge of what occurred at Baron Aletramnus’ castle. This lack the charcoal-burner now repaired.

  “The Danes have dug a trench around the castle, milord,” said the charcoal-burner.

  “Do the Danes scale the earthen bank and walls?” Odo asked.

  The charcoal-burner shook his head. “They push strange machines near the castle, milord. These machines kick and hurl stones as if they were giants.”

  “Onagers,” Odo said. “Vegetius speaks of such things. Tell me more.”

  “I’ve slipped into the enemy camp, milord. They have slaves and plenty of beautiful women. Some of them lost their hair, but only those with the longest and prettiest locks. Out of the hair, the cunning northern wizards made skeins, milord. The hair is twisted and soaked in oils. In some diabolical fashion, the hair powers these stone-throwing machines. One of the slaves has lived long enough with the Danes to know their speech and told me that these cunning Northmen traveled through the land of Rus to a great Eastern Empire and a mighty city there.”

  “They traveled to Constantinople?” Odo said.

  The charcoal-burner shrugged. “I don’t know its name, milord, but a band of these Northmen has fought this great Eastern Emperor. There they learned the wicked art of those machines.”

  “Did this slave say anything else?”

  “That’s why I’m here, milord. Baron Aletramnus spoke to King Sigfred under a flag of truce. If the Sea King will pledge them their lives and weapons, they will depart the castle in three days time.”

  “To come here?” Odo said with hope.

  The charcoal-burner shook his head and twisted his hat tighter than ever. “They will travel to Beauvais with whatever horses they have, armor and swords. But the Baron must leave everything else in the castle.”

  Odo bent his head in thought, considering the magazines of flour, smoked shad and hanging hams he had seen in the Baron’s castle. “When will this occur?”

  The charcoal-burner touched his gnarly fingers. “It’s probably already happened, milord.”

  Odo felt a chill sweep through his body. “Help me stand. Hurry man! You will be given a cap of deniers for this.”

  “I didn’t do it for gain, milord,” the charcoal-burner said, grunting as he helped Odo stand.

  “Maybe not, but it has earned it for you anyway. And if you desire I will employ you in my household.”

  The ugly little charcoal-burner dropped his eyes. He squeezed his cloth hat and said hardly above a whisper, “Will you give me a spear, milord, and a place on the walls?”

  Odo clapped the small man on the back. He was surprised at the man’s lightness, the feel of sharp bones just under the flesh. He noticed for the first time the dark circles under the charcoal-burner’s eyes, their haunted look.

  “Done,” he said. “Your spirit has refreshed me more than wolf flesh and chicken soup. If the Northmen are finished with the siege of Aletramnus then nothing now stands between them and Paris.” He wondered if before this was through if he and all the citizens of Paris might become as gaunt as this little charcoal-burner before him. It terrified him. Then he drove the weakening thoughts from his mind and leaned on the charcoal-burner as he shuffled into the hall.

  29.

  The first era of Vikings, beginning during the reign of Charlemagne, had been a matter of single ships or three or four dragons from the same steading. The shores of England had first received those terrors. Northmen had sailed from home, looted, and returned home that same season. The second era began as Northmen holed up at river mouths or
built an island camp or in a swamp and remained in the West during the winter. Such bands swelled, until legendary raiders such as Ragnar Hairy-Breeches looted with a fleet. Then the robbers took to conquering, usually in the lower reaches of a river. They became the Loire Vikings, the Meuse Vikings or the Somme Vikings, named for the river valley where they set themselves up as lords. It was during those years that the Great Army came into being. Again, England first felt this horror. These sea kings might like the Angles and Jutes of an earlier age have conquered all England but for Alfred of Wessex, later named ‘the Great.’ These ‘sea kings’ were another manifestation of the second era. They were rulers who gained their incomes not from land but from their raid fleets, and as professional looters became cunning commanders.

  For six years now, the Great Army had ravaged Frankland, first in the east, later up the Rhine and all about the Meuse, Somme and Scheldt rivers. (Odo and the barons of Neustria had disastrously attacked part of the Great Army wintering in Louvain.) Yet it was in this year of 885 that the Great Army bloated to its most ponderous size. Not since the Greeks under Agamemnon, Odysseus and Achilles had such a savage gathering of marauding warbands assembled. They came from the lower Loire region where Odo’s father had died in battle many years ago as he had tried to stem their advance. They came from the Meuse, from Frisia and from the recently conquered Danelagh in England. They sailed from Dublin in Ireland and from the Orkney Isles. A clever band of Rus from Kiev had sailed from far-off Byzantium in the East. Every Northman and crew in the West, thirsting for gold and glory, eager for rapine and mayhem, had flocked to this gathering of sea wolves. As Agamemnon of Mycenae had once dominated the strong-greaved Achaeans, so Sigfred the Sea King captained the Great Army. He had the largest number of longships, and in the linage of Danish royalty, his name shone brightest. He was first among this snarling pack of blood-drunken beasts.