The Great Pagan Army Page 25

  “Speak to us your plan, Bjorn,” said the Sea King. “I grow weary of riddles.”

  Bjorn strode to the bonfire and dashed the blood into it. The thick gore hissed, sizzled, belched dirty smoke and made a wretched odor. “There is your answer, O King.”

  The jarls glanced at Sigfred.

  “Explain,” growled the Sea King.

  “Fire,” Bjorn said.

  “Fire?” asked the wizard.

  “Fire that quenches blood,” Bjorn said. “Fire that only berserks dare handle.”

  “Handle and use where?” Sigfred asked angrily. “Cease with these riddles.”

  “Aye,” agreed Valgard. “Tell us your plan.”

  Bjorn grinned. “I will bring fire to the place that will make the tower fall.”

  “We’ve already tried that,” said a chieftain.

  “You have not,” Bjorn said. “But tomorrow I and my brothers will give you the tower. This I swear by Odin’s beard.”

  ***

  Thick morning fog drifted across the Seine. The sun was a cold lump; though the fog it seemed more like the moon than a fiery disc. The icy mist made mustaches droop and beards sag. It crawled under byrnies and wetted clothes. Despite his quaffing a skin of warmed morning wine, Heming shivered as he listened to the river lap among the nearby reeds.

  Beside him, Bjorn cupped his massive hands and shouted into the fog, “Drop a boat.”

  The heavy mist masked three dragons creaking in midstream. Their shadowy outlines were phantasmal. They almost seemed alive. Heming knew that at dawn’s light (as he’d swilled his breakfast wine) the longships had been laden with pitch-soaked straw, wood shavings, resin-coated cloth and other combustibles. The sails dripped with oils.

  “Strip down,” Bjorn said.

  The berserks doffed furs, leathers and boots until they shivered in the February cold. Only a loincloth protected their flesh. To their starkly white skin, each buckled a knife-belt. Women stepped up and from baskets cupped gobs of rabbit grease, smearing and rubbing it over their goose-pimpled limbs and torsos. It was a Finnish trick, told them by Sigfred’s wizard. Heming nodded. The grease lay heavy on him, but it stole the cold’s bite. The wizard had told them it would keep them warm enough in the river long enough so they wouldn’t drown from shock.

  “Be careful around flames,” warned Bjorn. “You’ll burn like a torch if lit by more than a spark.”

  Heming motioned his team and then waded into the shallows. Mud squished between his toes.

  “Take the farthest ship,” rumbled Bjorn.

  The rabbit grease worked. Heming waded up to his waist without shouting at the freezing cold. He climbed into a rowboat as three other berserks crowded in. Fur-clad warriors took up the oars and by thumps and creaks propelled them to the farthest waiting dragon.

  “You’re crazy,” grunted a rower. “They’ll pierce you all with arrows and javelins.”

  “We seek glory not safety,” Heming said. The wine had comfortably dulled his thoughts. He was in the state where such statements made sense.

  Two of the berserks laughed in agreement. That made the rowers uneasy and they spoke no more.

  Soon Heming and his three brothers boarded the dragon, a longship from Sigfred’s own fleet. Heming recalled briefly the trip from Jutland to Rouen—when Ivar Hammerhand had still been alive. Many times his father had let him steer in the open ocean. Heming had learned how to thread a ship such as this through mighty waves. He now bid the three berserks to tighten that rope, move this one and loosen another over there. Then they waited as a breeze thinned the fog.

  In time, a horn lowed. Heming squinted. Grimar blew it from the middle ship. “Lift the anchor,” Heming said.

  The breeze caught the tightened sail. The cloth cracked and boomed and the heavily laden dragon lumbered toward Paris. Heming fingered his Valkyrie amulet. There would be no berserker mead for this feat. He could not retreat from his fears into madness or slobbering drunkenness. Their act was berserk-like, a wild charge, but done with a ship instead of with flesh and blood.

  “Ready the shields,” Heming said. “Then gather around me.”

  The three picked up big, heavy shields, outlandish in size, almost half the size of a mantelet. Heming leaned into the steering oar. Their dragon picked up speed as water lapped around the hull.

  A thrill of terror now swept into Heming. They rounded the bend as the breeze picked up, as the fog drifted into mere haze. Paris hove into view, the church steeples rising above the walls. The stonewalled city was like a rock. It sat midstream and blocked the Great Army. It dammed their advance upriver. Heming pushed the steering oar and heard the rush of water against the pine blade. The dragon tacked several degrees north. He aimed for the bridge that linked the lone tower to the isle of stone.

  City bells clanged. They rang wildly as they often had throughout these long months of siege. On the bridge, breaking sunlight gleamed off spearheads and shields. The Franks were ready.

  “Good,” said a berserk. “We have many witnesses to our valor.” Another chuckled, but it sounded forced.

  Heming traded places with a brother and grabbed the coal box. He threaded down the dragon’s aisle, holding the box well away from his body. If these coals touched his greased flesh… He opened the box and flung hot coals left and right. Oily straw caught with a crackle. Flames spread and wood began to burn. Heming ran back and took his place at the steering oar. Their dragon pulled ahead of the other two. He aimed for a spot between two stone pilings. He aimed for the darkness of an arch that would bring them under the bridge.

  “Odin!” shouted a berserk.

  “Look out!” yelled another. A springald-javelin flew from the north tower. It splashed much too near the longship.

  The next few minutes were like a dream. “Shield wall!” shouted Heming. The three berserks raised the heavy shields. Heming peered between two of them. The bridge loomed near. Bow-armed Franks swarmed the railing. They aimed high as they yanked back their bowstrings. Arrows hissed in an arc and struck shield wood or plunked into the river, raising little geysers.

  Fires raged upon the dragon and licked the sail. It caught in a moment and billowed with flame. The heat was intense. It beat upon them and made the air hot. Each smoky breath hurt the inside of Heming’s throat. The shields helped, but Heming worried that a stray spark might land on their rabbit-greased flesh and burst them into living torches.

  “Be ready to leap overboard!” he shouted.

  “Let’s go now,” yelled a berserk.

  “Soon,” Heming said. “We have to steer her under the bridge.”

  The longship blazed. Heming craned his neck and squinted against the heat, trying to see where they were going. A horrible blur flashed through the flames. It was a springald-javelin! It tore through a shield and impaled one of the heroic Twelve. The dead berserk thumped against Heming, the dead hand slapping him in the face. Heming staggered, but held tight to the steering oar. The bridge towered over them. The dragon was almost to the arch. Terrorized, screaming Franks yanked their bowstrings, firing almost straight down. Others heaved javelins and angons.

  “Now!” screamed Heming. “Dive overboard!” Heming turned and leaped. His brothers flung their shields into the water and dove after them.

  The current flowing through the arches struck the blazing dragon. Heming no longer stood on deck to fight the river with the steering oar. The prow shifted and the longship crashed against a stone piling. It missed the shadowy under-arch.

  Heming surfaced, gulped air and plunged back underwater as arrows plinked all around him. When next he bobbed, the second dragon crashed against a piling. No one was aboard as fires blazed. He knew immediately that the current rushing through the arches drove the longships right or left. Without a steersman to take the ship through those arches, the dragons merely piled against the stone. Already Franks poured barrels of water onto the fire ships. The city men laid planks against the parapets and pushed up boulders, dropping
them onto the ships. The splintered wood sent flames and sparks flying.

  Heming fought and floundered against the current, gulping cold water as he struggled to keep his head up. Other berserks swam for shore or held onto their shields and kicked. They had tried, but the bridge still stood and no doubt so would the hated tower for many more weeks.

  43.

  Judith picked at her meal. It was a wooden platter of dry crusts, a limp pickle with damp spots and a cup of watery beer. Her nun’s cell contained a hard cot, a table, candle and a folio of the life of Saint Genevieve and the Epistle of Saint James. She had read both many times, prayed with various visiting sisters, each of them bowing their head upon her cot. She had also spoken with Bishop Gozlin. He never preached. Usually they talked about her father. The last time, Gozlin had opened his heart and spoken about his fears concerning the siege. He had aged. She believed because of guilt. He had also praised Count Odo and given examples of his martial exploits.

  She gulped the beer.

  She had become paler during her stay, with a shadowy tint around her eyes. It heightened her beauty, although no one had told her. Sometimes, however, the sisters slipped within and brushed her long, golden hair. They had been doing that ever since she was a little girl.

  She paced, turning around every third step. She chewed the dry bread and swallowed the pickle in chunks. She hated its taste. Then she stopped. A key rattled, the door swung open and in shuffled the old Prioress. Nuns closed the door behind them.

  “Madam,” Judith said, in way of greeting.

  The old dame was bent like a witch and with as warty a nose. She wore a severe black habit and with her veil pinned down tightly to her eyebrows. The old dame shuffled to the cot and sat with care, with her gnarled hands clasped onto her cane. Only then did she spear Judith with that knowing gaze.

  Judith hated it, and she made no pretense about it now.

  “You’ve been very busy since you left us,” the Prioress said in her old woman’s wheeze.

  Judith folded her arms, waiting.

  “What, no words of flattery for me? Will you not do me the honor of cajoling me into your finely woven schemes?”

  “I’m not giving over my inheritance, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Of course you aren’t, nor will I ask you to hand over those bags of treasure you stole from your father’s house.”

  Judith made a face.

  “Ah, Judith, Judith, you’ve spun such a fine web that you’ve become trapped by your own beauty. I knew it would happen. I tried to warn you.”

  “Please,” Judith said. “Spare me your homilies.”

  The warty chin moved up and down. “Yes, you’re very busy here. I shan’t waste your time or mine. Nor will I waste time appealing to your loyalty to Mother Church or to the vows you took.”

  “All made under duress,” Judith said, “and therefore not binding.”

  “Nor will I quibble with you or parse phrases and innuendoes. I will show you rather a thing you have overlooked.”

  Judith began to tap her foot; she knew that irritated the old hag.

  “First, your Count Odo may not survive the siege. Given that, neither would your ‘inheritance’ survive a thorough sacking. Second, it may be very difficult for Count Odo to recover you. Third, he may not want to recover you, because either the political cost would be too high or after weeks out of your control, he may find that he likes thinking for himself. Fourth, once you’re married this inheritance will revert to his control. Oh, I know you think you can string him along, but wealth does strange things to men. It may not always be possible to smile and beguile your way all the time. Fifth, if you became Prioress after me you would run the convent as you saw fit. You would have your own room, visit whom you wished and have run of the nunnery’s properties and serfs. Sixth, well, sixth is I doubt if you’ve ever considered the fifth. And seventh, you must stop that infernal foot-tapping or I shall summon the sisters and give you a good sound thrashing.”

  “What do you mean: ‘When I become Prioress’?”

  The old dame grinned, exposing her three yellow teeth. “I’m noble-born, as you know. So are you, even if you were born out of wedlock. None of the other girls is noble-born. None of the other girls has the aptitude for running the convent. After these Northmen win or are chased off, Saint Genevieve Nunnery will need someone clever to restore it. I’m too old. My days are as numbered as Gozlin’s, but you, dear, have the makings of a prioress. You could restore the nunnery to greatness.”

  “What about a husband?” Judith asked.

  “I will counter your question with one of my own. Who interferes with me? Oh, some bishop pokes his long nose into our affairs from time to time and spouts a few sayings. Then he’s off and away, leaving us to our devices, meaning that I keep running things how I see fit. I know you, dear. You mean to rule. For a few years, you’ll do it with your smile. But as your beauty fades, you’ll have to use guile. You have your share of guile, no doubt, but if you desire to rule, you would have that as prioress and all within the color of law. Ponder that, my dear, as you read about Saint Genevieve. Pray, and I warrant the saints above will give you new guidance. And if you’re wondering why I tell you this, it isn’t for your good, but I wish to see the convent grow and prosper after I’m gone. And that’s something I’m certain you can achieve.”

  Judith frowned.

  “Now there is a matter of virginity,” the Prioress said. “Unkind people name you the Count’s harlot.” She stared levelly. “Are you still a virgin?”

  Judith waved her hand. “Yes, yes, of course.”

  “I want no flippant answer, my dear.”

  Judith sighed as she thought furiously. “The matter is easily proven,” she said, meeting those hard eyes with peaceful serenity. She had become an expert liar.

  The Prioress nodded slowly. Then she pushed on her cane and grunted as she stood. “I will leave you to your thoughts, my dear. You have much to consider.”

  ***

  By candlelight, Odo paced in his study. The window was open. Stars twinkled above. He held a missive from Ebolus. It began My dearest Count Odo, Protector of Paris:

  Was that an allusion to Duke Hugh’s title: Protector of Neustria? Did Ebolus offer his backing in case he (Odo) ever desired that exalted post? His father, Robert the Strong, had once been Protector of Neustria. According to rumors, Duke Hugh was near death. Was that why no army had marched to their rescue?

  He kept reading.

  I am saddened that our two parties hold such ill feelings towards each other. As our Lord Jesus Christ once said: ‘A house divided cannot stand.’ We must reunite our efforts, milord, and work in unison again, as we drive these heathens from our realm. As you know, they looted and pillaged the Saint-Germain Abbey. Tales have reached me of what occurred when the heathens sacked it. One fell from the pinnacle, as many in Paris witnessed. One was struck blind as he gazed at a forgotten relic. One cut himself with his sword as he used it to pry open the saint’s tomb.

  My dear Count, such miracles must stir us. Let it stir us so that it fires our zeal—much as their zeal for their gods is stirred beyond reason. I propose a sally. You and your paladins shall join Count Herkenger in this assault. I, too, will join the fray. Many of my brothers have wielded maces on the walls for many long months. We have learned the hard art of war and shall sweep these heathens from abbey land, I assure you.

  Sir Arnulf shall not join us. I know you hold him responsible for a deed most loathsome in your sight. Let us, for now, put those things behind us. Let us first save Paris, my brave Count. Let us wait and see what the Lord brings afterwards. Perhaps not all is as lost as you believe. Perhaps if we work as one the rewards that Heaven shall shower upon us will make our hearts sing again with joy.

  Yours in Christian Love, the Most Humble Abbot Ebolus of Saint-Germain-des-Pres Abbey.

  Odo rubbed his chin. Ebolus spoke of rewards. Did he mean Judith? Then why not come out and say so? Unless�
�� How well was Gozlin? Men he said aged before their eyes. Odo heaved a great sigh and sank into his chair. He poured from a flagon and swirled the goblet. The wine had a lovely aroma. He set down the goblet, crossed his arms and lay his head on the desk.

  What seemed moments later came a pounding at the door. He raised his head. It was dark. The candle had guttered out. A fist banged anew. Count Odo leaped with a shout, befuddled with sleep, certain that he stayed again in Hugh’s palace at Tours and that the Duke’s knights came to shave him a tonsure.

  “Milord!” shouted Gerold.

  Odo dug sleep from eyes. “Enter,” he said.

  The door opened. A robbed Gerold with a lantern stepped in, and stopped short at sight of the drawn sword.

  “Never mind that,” Odo said, sheathing the blade. “You have news?”

  “It’s the bridge, milord. The bridge is groaning. Your brother thinks it’s about to fall.”

  44.

  Warmer weather for the past few days and melting snow had raised the height of the Seine. It flowed faster, harder, with dangerous undercurrents. The easterly Grand Pont dammed the water slightly and thus hosed it under the arches. The water rushed that much harder at the Petit Pont downstream.

  Water boiled past the stone pilings there. Whitecaps and foam surged under the arches. The bridge groaned as the dammed water (made worse by the sunken dragons) dug into the pilings. Men and women with torches stood on either side of the bridge. Those on the Petit Pont Tower looked down at their only link with the city. Those on the Ill de la Cite looked on at the outer fort that had held the Northmen at bay for so many months. Shouts of fear mingled with groaning, tortured wood. Then, in the cold starlight of February 5, 886, the raging river did what the Northmen had been unable too. In a terrible grinding and groan, wood splintered and screamed, and huge stones as in a rockslide knocked, collided and splashed into the raging Seine. Geysers shot up as stones sank to the river bottom. Wood splinters rained down and vast sections of the bridge floated away like a shipwreck.