The Great Pagan Army Page 20

  “I don’t understand,” Gozlin said, his face pinched.

  “We must build a six-foot scaffold onto our tower. We’ll brace it, build thick parapets and add flooring. Six feet may not seem like much, but then instead of twenty feet up, a shot is twenty-six and a climb is twenty-six, maybe with the added parapet twenty-eight or twenty-nine feet. That’s almost thirty feet, almost twice the distance. That will give the Northmen pause, I think.”

  “Can such a thing be done in one night? For you cannot build half an extra tower.”

  “Agreed,” Odo said. “Yes. A scaffold and boards nailed around it and flooring, I’m certain with all the carpenters we can build it tonight.”

  Gozlin nodded slowly as he gazed upon the Danish encampment. Northmen roared in song around their campfires. Slaves cooked oxen on mighty spits. The Bishop regarded him. “I implore you, Count Odo, have mercy on the city.”

  “Your Grace?” Odo said, perplexed.

  “You ask me for carpenters and lumber. I ask you to give up your sin and return Judith to Holy Mother Church. Which do you love more: your lust or your city?”

  “Your Grace, there are many sins among us. Why do you choose mine in particular?”

  “Not yours, Count Odo. I’m considering Judith. She is Bishop Engelwin’s child. He was Bishop of Paris. Now I am Bishop. She is therefore my ward, my concern. As the spiritual head of Paris, I must lead a pure life. As long as you hold her, her sins stain me and my prayers will surely lack enough sanctity to move the saints of Heaven. By keeping her, Count Odo, you bring doom upon us.”

  Odo was exhausted and he knew that he had a long night ahead of him. He said, “If you truly believe that, Your Grace, then set this test. Give me the means of defending the tower and pray for victory. If we lose, I will concede that you were right.”

  Gozlin’s features never changed, although in some manner they become bleaker. He turned away. Finally, he said over his shoulder, “I will give you the means, Count Odo. On my soul I swear it.” Soon thereafter, he took his leave.

  It was only later that Odo recalled how easily the Bishop had given in to his request. It should have been a warning.

  ***

  Torches burned throughout night as Franks worked like frantic termites. Along the length and breadth of the tower top, carpenters laid heavy boards snug against the battlements. To that frame, they nailed thick beams. Those six-foot timbers rose all along the tower. Although it was hasty construction, the carpenters labored with a will and keen understanding of what the scaffolding had to endure. Many of them had hurled rocks and javelins today. Many of them had faced wild-eyed Northmen bearing swords and axes. Too many had seen lifelong companions cut down and murdered by those hated sea rovers. They intimately understood what a higher tower would give them. They also feared that a wooden tower made in one night might be too weak to withstand the onagers and axe-wielding Northmen. Thus, they built the scaffold strong. Six feet up from the tower-top floor, they added a new plank floor, and onto that, they built a sturdy wooden parapet. They braced this skeleton of wood with crossbeams and they hammered other boards across the scaffold’s front and sides, but not the rear. The rear faced the Petit Pont, the vital bridge that linked them with the Cite. As sunlight painted the morning, weary carpenters filed off the tower. Guttered torches lay everywhere. The hastily made wooden addition added half again as much height—at least to Danish archers and ladder-borne assaulters.

  As the sun rose, Northmen appeared who gaped at the improved tower. Soon Danish horsemen rode out. Chieftains in splendid armor and cloaks approached and studied the tower, talking among themselves.

  “We’ve surprised them,” Odo said. His eyes burned and this morning’s beer and bacon sat like lead in his gut.

  Perhaps thirty minutes later the chieftains rode back to camp.

  “Does our tower baffle them that much?” Robert asked.

  Odo said, “I quote: Novelty and surprise throw an enemy into consternation; but common incidents have no effect. The Northmen thought as they went to sleep last night that this morning they knew how to defeat us. Now they must reconsider.”

  That reconsideration meant hours of hammering from the reaver camp. Toward noon, the Northmen were ready. As they dragged out the onagers and assembled the host behind them, other Northmen lugged massive wooden shields. These shields looked two to three times thicker than an ordinary shield and were the height of a full-grown man, nor were these shields round, but rectangular. They were much too large for any one man to wield. Perhaps a giant like Goliath of Gath, a ten-foot monster, might use such a shield. It took three reavers apiece to lug one.

  “Ah,” Odo said, “those are mantelets, siege shields. I suspect they’ll use those to protect the archers from our angons.”

  Soon the kettledrums boomed. The awful noise thundered as it had yesterday. Franks on the heightened tower gripped their weapons. Many began to tremble.

  “They’re training us to fear,” Odo whispered. “Every time those drums play we know they will charge. Soon we will all cringe at that sound.”

  The horrible sound grew, thrumming through them. Then a mighty hurrah burst from the assembled lungs. Groups of northern warriors staggered toward the tower, three to a siege shield. Behind them ran archers and shield-men.

  “They don’t have any ladders!” shouted Ebolus.

  The squat, blue-cloaked Siege Master shouted orders and waved his baton. Onager-arms rocketed upward, flinging stones. Desperate Franks crouched behind the wooden parapet. The fist-sized stones crashed against the reinforced boards, but no timber splintered or cracked.

  “Our new tower holds!” shouted Robert.

  Bows twanged from below. Like yesterday, the archers aimed high so the arrows flew almost straight up, arched and rained down upon them. Under his shield, Odo was certain that the arrows didn’t strike as hard as they had yesterday, but he wondered if that was simply his imagination. He peeked over the parapet and at this increased height felt a greater sense of safety. The charging, bellowing Northmen lugged the mantelets closer than he expected. They carried them toward the foot of the tower.

  “Dart-men!” Odo shouted.

  Battle-tested Parisians rose up and heaved javelins. They rattled as harmlessly off the mantelets as Danish arrows did off the Frankish linden-wood shields.

  “Milord!” shouted a man. “They’re immune to us.”

  “Target their archers!” Odo shouted. “Use rocks against the mantelets.”

  Northmen lifted their siege shields and set them at a cunning angle. Mallets sounded.

  “I think they’re setting posts under them,” Robert said.

  Rocks bounced off the siege shields. The rocks rolled and thudded upon the ground.

  “Hurl the rocks!” Ebolus shouted. He implored heavenward: “Saint Germain aid us! Crush these heathens and rip out their pagan souls!”

  Franks exposed themselves as they rose and heaved rocks straight down. Arrows and onager stones hissed and whizzed past. A few hit Franks crumpled. Knights heaved angons at the Danish archers. Others showered javelins. The Danish bowmen retreated. At that moment, from below, picks struck stone. Underneath the mantelets, Northmen hammered at the very tower, at the stones. They attempted to make an entrance into the tower.

  “If they burst in we’re dead!” wailed a man.

  Odo knew what they had to do, but he didn’t like using up their few surprises. Odo sent a man running below with orders. Then he whirled and shouted, “Try the wagon wheel!”

  Robert, Wulf and two other men wrestled a huge wagon wheel, a heavy, iron-reinforced thing. They grunted, heaved it up over the battlement and let go. The huge wheel plummeted and crushed a mantelet in a crash of noise. It pinned a yelling reaver by the legs. Three javelins ended his misery. Other exposed Northmen leaped under the still standing mantelets. Soon, even under a hail of rocks and javelins, a new siege shield rose in place of the broken one. All the while reavers picked at the stone.

&
nbsp; A half-hour later huffing, sweating serfs ran up onto the tower. Each carted a steaming bucket from the kettles below. In them bubbled wax and hot oil. Odo motioned. All the Frank bowmen and javelin throwers peppered the Danish archers. Then, amid the whoosh of onager stones, the serfs poured the deadly mixture. The scalding liquid hit the mantelets and slid between the cracks. Northmen howled in agony. The picking stopped. More wax and bubbling oil struck the giant, now smoking siege shields. Northmen shrieked, and the sweet, pork-like odor of burning flesh drifted upward. Reavers sprinted away, a few with their hair ablaze. They staggered and clawed at their eyes or tried to tear off their armor.

  Javelins throwers and rock heavers watched spellbound, their mouths agape.

  “Throw!” Odo shouted. “Kill them!”

  The Franks jerked awake and flung their missiles.

  A last wave of oil and pitch gushed from the tower. The last reavers ran or crawled pathetically. Those without hair dove into the Seine. It was a rout.

  35.

  Judith woke from slumber and heard shouts within the house, the sounds of scuffling and the yells of pain. Terror filled her. The Northmen were here! They must have breached the walls while she slept and now rampaged throughout the streets. She drew a dagger from under her pillow. It was razor-sharp. As she dug knuckles in her eyes, forcing herself awake, she rifled through plans. She had a bag nearby of easily found loot to lull looters from looking for the true treasures. She poised the dagger. People said that Northmen loved courage. Perhaps if she slew the first raider to enter her room the others would believe her a witch woman or a woman of high character, one worthy of a chieftain. It would not be wise to fall into just any Dane’s hands.

  A heavy body struck the door.

  She should have escaped to Tours. She should have insinuated herself with Duke Hugh there. The Northmen wouldn’t besiege his town. She snarled silently and slid her bare feet onto the floor.

  Wood splintered. A huge man staggered, tripped and sprawled onto her rug. Her hands trembled and she hesitated. Killing wasn’t so easy. She was supposed to stab this into his flesh. Ugh! Then surprise and a new horror make her arms go slack. The huge man had a burned face, half of it scarred from treacherous flames. The left eye was parboiled, a milky, unseeing white.

  Sir Arnulf scrambled up and dusted his fine red cloak. “Milady, you are to come with me.”

  She screamed in rage and launched herself at him. He twisted. He was fast. She shoved the blade hard. It snapped against his mail. He roared, grabbed her and slammed her against the wall. She slid down dazed.

  Bishop Gozlin stepped into the room. Serenity gave the old priest dignity. “She’s no lady, Arnulf, but a bride of Christ’s.” Triumph shone in Gozlin’s eyes. “Come, Judith, it is time to return home to the convent where you belong.”

  ***

  That night the warbands burned their slain on giant wooden pyres. Dark smoke belched into the winter skies. The stench of death, the stink of burnt bones made more than one Viking rub his nose and scowl at the heap of stones piled before them. In the morning, the Franks still stood on those walls. The city soldiers dared not cheer, but they held grim watch as they gripped spear and shield.

  Several hours later, Sigfred, Valgard Skull-splitter, Mad Hastein of the Loire Vikings and others met in council by the shadows of the beached dragons. There Sigfred raised a leather awning and set out hot baked bread, pork and ale casts on a trestle table. The sea kings and jarls sat at the benches, eating little but quaffing much. Heming watched the proceeding from behind Sigfred’s back. There the Twelve stood in the background, the bodyguard to the Sea King.

  Old Hastein, a white-haired warrior of legendary fame—Ivar Hammerhand and he had long ago made that mad, three-year voyage into the Middle Sea and back—suggested an outlandish assault. His voice was gruff. Years ago, he had taken an arrow in the throat and it had poorly healed. With that gravely voice, he wove a web of words. Feint at the tower. Marshal many before the wooden walls of the Merchant Quarter. Then rush upon the island in selected longships. Beach the dragons under the very nose of the walls, throw up ladders and storm into the Cite. All the best Franks would be elsewhere. The old warlord snapped his fingers. His wrinkled face broke into an infectious grin. “Paris falls,” he said hoarsely. “This farce is over.”

  Valgard Skull-splitter shook his head. He was massive and spoke slowly and his great red beard impressed many. It hid his mouth even as he spoke. Unlike Hastein, he made no gestures, no sweep of his hands and strike of his fists. The hiding of his mouth and stillness made his solemn words like a stone oracle, a speaking statue of Frey.

  “Paris is small,” said Valgard, “hardly a market for goats or turnips. I left my hearth in the Danelagh to loot, not storm up bitter walls of stone. It’s silver and gold I desire, not hard knocks on the head and missing fingers.”

  Old Hastein had lost two fingers… no one knew how many years ago, more than ten, certainly.

  “At least I still have my balls sewn on!” roared Hastein.

  Valgard’s great red beard hid the twist of his lips. He neither shifted on the bench nor shrugged his shoulders nor reached for his famed axe ‘Skull-splitter.’ “The Franks want Paris,” Valgard said slowly. “Let them have it—after they pay us to leave. Then let us sail elsewhere and plunder cowards and priests as we’ve done before.”

  “Paris blocks the path to Burgundy,” Hastein said hotly. “That’s where we want to go, yes, into virgin territory? So sweep this heap of stones off the board and then let us be on our way.”

  There was further argument, a few jarls favoring Hastein’s idea, perhaps twice that siding with Valgard.

  At last, Sigfred rapped his knuckles on the trestle board. “The snow is already on the ground and Yule fast approaches,” he said. “The days have grown short. If we were at home few of us would stir outside our halls. It would be long nights of dicing and drinking and listening to the howl of the north winds. The sun shines a little longer here in Frankland and it is not quite the bitter cold as home. Even so, now is the time to scrape and re-caulk the hulls, to repair our armor, forge spears and fashion new shields to replace the old. Why not do those tasks here? Let us admit to ourselves that these Franks, at least, have found their valor. These few have found it late, and do doubt that’s due to the excellence of their walled isle. Very well, a few Franks have valor and one or two of them have learned to lead. Remember that we’ve razed their lands all summer and autumn. Now at Yule we’ll rest. We shall build a fortified camp, entrench along their roads and ring then with onagers and archers. Let these brave Franks learn what it means to despair. While we rest and refurbish, they will daily endure a hail of darts and stones and wonder when next we shall launch an assault. Meanwhile, let the specter of disease haunt and then weaken them. Let them feel the hunger gnaw their bellies while we grow fat on their land.”

  “What if Duke Hugh or the Emperor marches to Paris’s relief?” asked Valgard. “As long as we strike and move fast they cannot gather a host to face us. But if we remain in one place too long eventually the Franks can gather a host large enough to face us.”

  “Duke Hugh I don’t fear,” Sigfred said. “After their many drubbings this past year these West Franks will never assemble a host brave enough to face us in the open field. Their courageous leaders are either sick or dead. As to the Emperor, he is far away in Italy, and do not forget that three years ago at Elsloo, he had the assembled hosts of Lombardy, Bavaria, Alemannia and Saxony with him and still he paid us Danegeld to leave rather than face our wrath. So do not trouble our council with phantom hosts, Skull-splitter. We will crack Paris given a little time and then be on our way as we plunder elsewhere.”

  Sigfred grinned as he picked up a silver chalice that had once been the prized communion cup in a Rouen church. He swilled wine and then raised the chalice. A Frankish beauty, a ravished nun with long, unbound hair, poured and hung her head in shame as the Sea King rested a paw on her person. “Gozli
n and his nephews think to stiffen the people’s spine against us, eh? Well, I’ve a gift for him so he may count the cost of this defiance. They ply their magic, their cries to this slain god of the Cross.” Sigfred laughed. “It is said that Charlemagne once chopped down the Yggdrasil Tree of the Saxons when they still served the old gods. So now I, in retribution, will defile one of their holiest shrines.”

  “How?” asked Hastein.

  “Bjorn!” shouted the Sea King.

  The leader of the Twelve lumbered to the trestle boards. The sea kings and jarls grew silent and watchful.

  “I will unleash the beasts of Odin against the Christian’s holy shrine,” Sigfred said. “This champion of the berserks, I think, will best know how to defile it.”

  36.

  The Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Pres stood about the distance of a double onager shot from the southern bank of the Seine and was just a little west of the Petit Pont Tower. The abbey was thus well outside the walls of South Town. South Town was a thin sliver of land hugging the southern bank and contained mostly church-owned barns and silos. A wooden bridge linked it to the Cite. Saint-Genevieve Abbey was farther east and even farther from South Town than Saint-Germain, and built on higher land. Both abbeys were among West Frankland’s richest and most famous. Perhaps only the abbeys of Saint-Denis and Saint-Germain-Tours held a higher place in the hearts of the West Franks.

  During the reign of Childebert I, the Merovingian son of Clovis the Conqueror, men had built the original church of Saint-Germain-des-Pres from 556 to 558. At the time, men called it the Saint-Croix-et-Saint-Vincent. Saint Germain, a Paris bishop at the time, founded the adjacent Saint Symphorien monastery. It was presently the Saint Symphorien chapel. In 756, the Church canonized Saint Germain, and sometime later, the combined church and abbey become the Benedictine Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Pres. The abbey held the tunic of Saint Vincent, long ago gained from the Holy Land. It also had the bones of King Childebert I and the relic (bones) of Saint Germain. At first, they buried Saint Germain’s relic under the church’s portico and only later set in a protected inner sanctum. (Before the Great Army’s arrival, Abbot Ebolus had wisely removed all those relics and taken them safely into Paris.)