The Great Pagan Army Page 31

  “Look out,” he wheezed, the ungainly metal slipping out of his hands.

  For an instant, Bjorn kept the end raised. Then he hissed, letting go and staggering back. The iron clanged as it dropped back into its bracket.

  Franks from all around began to converge toward them.

  “Don’t let them open the gate!” shouted a knight.

  Kettledrums began to roar outside the city. Familiar horns blared.

  “Help us!” shouted Bjorn. “The bar is too heavy. We need all of you!”

  As Franks sprinted toward them, the berserks dropped their weapons and spun around. They put their hands under the bar, all of them in a line.

  “One, two, three!” shouted Bjorn. “Heave!”

  The berserks strained, and they lifted the huge iron bar out of the brackets. A spear sailed, flashing in the torchlight. With a meaty thud it sank into the small of Egil’s back. He crashed against the gate and fell on the bar. He happened to be near the end, beside Heming. Several berserks near Egil sprang away from the bar and lunged for their weapons. Heming, frustrated at letting go earlier, strained to hang on. But with the others releasing their grip and his start at Egil’s grim wounding, it weakened his hold. For a second time, the iron slipped out of Heming’s sweaty grip. The berserks had lifted the great bar out of the brackets, however. Now Heming’s end fell. The tip smashed against Heming’s left foot, crushing three of the toes. Heming howled. The others heaved the bar. It rolled off Heming’s foot and clunked against the heavy wooden gate.

  “Can you walk?” someone bellowed into Heming’s ear.

  Sweat poured off Heming. He crashed against the gate with his back. Agony burned in his foot. His leg throbbed with the pain as he shuddered.

  In began to rain Franks as they jumped down from the walkway above. Others city dwellers charged, wild with desperation and terror of the Great Army. Weapons clashed as they battled the berserks of Odin. Iron sparks flew. Axes shattered shields. Men screamed hideously. The berserks of Odin slew Franks even as spears sank into their bellies and swords hacked into their necks. Enough of the Twelve survived however to roll the iron bar away from the gate. Heming pushed from on his knees as his vision blurred.

  Outside the city, Northmen howled, horns blared and then the vanguard of the Great Army shoved against the great gate. The doors to the city swung inward, and the pagans from the North burst into Paris.

  54.

  Odo awoke to the distant blare of horns, to horrible screams and to the distant, crackling roar of fire. He lay on his cot, in the dark, wondering if he dreamed again of that night after Louvain when the Northmen had burned their Frankish prisoners. That had been a terrible time. Then it struck him as odd that he should dissect his dream like this while dreaming. With an oath, he sat up, realizing that the sounds were real. He must have only slept for two or three hours. He staggered to the window, throwing open the shutters. A red haze glowed from the direction of the Merchant Quarter, the same place from where came the screams and the blaring horns.

  Gerold crashed into the room, his normally bland face twisted with violent emotions and his eyes bulging. “Milord!” he shouted. “The Northmen have broken into the city!”

  The words struck Odo like a blow. He struggled to breathe. How had this happened…?

  A haggard priest clutching a mace followed hard on Gerold’s heels. The priest panted, his tonsured hair plastered against his scalp. “What should we do, milord? We’re doomed, doomed.”

  “Where did you come from?” Odo whispered. He struggled to understand what was happening.

  With his mace, the priest pointed at the Merchant Quarter. “I have watch over the bridge, milord.”

  “What bridge?” Odo said.

  “The Stone Bridge,” said the priest. “The bridge that connects the Cite with the Merchant Quarter.”

  “Yes,” Odo said, his sleep-fogged mind beginning to grasp what occurred. “Tell me more.”

  “A-man-ran-to-us-milord,” said the priest, speaking too fast.

  “Slow down,” Odo said. “Make sense.”

  The priest gulped air. “Danes are in the city, milord. The man told us the Danes have broken in.”

  Odo stared at the fiery glow as weakness seeped into him. Sigfred had tricked them. All that marching and then not marching—how had the Danes broken in? How had this happened? Most of the defenders were in the Merchant Quarter. The pagans were in the city. It was over. It meant death.

  “Milord, milord!” cried the priest.

  Odo stared at the terrible glow of fire, no longer hearing the priest’s quickly spoken pleas. The man spoke too fast. The priest was terrified. The Danes were in the city. How had this happened?

  Odo shook his head. He closed his eyes. He rubbed his face.

  “Milord, milord!” shouted the priest.

  The Danes would loot Paris. They would burn it. They would rape all the women. They would likely take the knights, stuff them into a giant basket, hoist them up into the air and then set them on fire. It was just like Louvain. No one could defeat the Great Pagan Army. The Danes always won. They always destroyed.

  “Milord, milord!” said the priest.

  “Quiet!” Odo shouted. “Stop your blathering!”

  The priest stared at him bug-eyed. “Milord, we’re doomed, doomed. We’re all going to die.”

  Something welled up in Odo. He took a violent step toward the priest and slapped him hard across the cheek. “Shut up! Don’t speak!”

  The priest stumbled backward, thumping against the door. “Milord, milord, what are we going to do?”

  Do? What can we do? The Northmen are in the city. How did it happen? Odo’s features hardened. How it happened didn’t matter. What mattered was what to do now.

  Odo strode to the priest.

  The priest flinched.

  Odo grabbed his arm. “Think, man, use your wits. Tell me what this man said.”

  The priest sucked air, blinking at Odo.

  “God has protected you,” Odo said, wanting to slap the priest again, fear and anger making it hard to think. He had to think. He had to use his reason, his carefully gained Roman knowledge. He spoke deliberately. “You must tell me what this man from the Merchant Quarter told you.”

  The priest nodded. “The Danes have broken into the Merchant Quarter. The man babbled about berserks having climbed the walls to open the gate.”

  Odo thrust away the priest. How had berserks climbed the walls? He shook his head savagely. He had to think! He stumbled to his desk, lifting parchments.

  “What are we going to do?” cried the priest. “We’re doomed.”

  “The Count told you to shut up!” snarled Gerold.

  Odo squeezed his eyes closed. What would Vegetius do? The berserks had opened the main gate into the Merchant Quarter, if this information was even true. The bulk of the defenders were in the Merchant Quarter. If the Great Pagan Army poured into that half of the city, they would surely be butchering those defenders even now. He would no longer have enough fighters to man the rest of the city. The siege was over. The Danes had won.

  “No!” Odo shouted, striking his thigh. He needed to save men. He needed to go into the Merchant Quarter and save fighters. He needed to rally stragglers and lead them to the Cite so they could fight another day. If he did that, he might still defy the Danes. Fight Danes in the open? He quailed at the idea. He didn’t want to die. No! He was the Count. He had to risk his life in order to save Paris.

  Odo whirled around and in several quick strides grabbed the priest’s arm. “Run back to your post.”

  “Milord?” said the priest, his haggard features growing taut.

  “Keep to your post, do you hear? Do not let any Danes cross the Stone Bridge. Do you understand me?”

  “But-but.”

  “Paris is not lost!” Odo shouted at the priest. “You are a man of God. Do you not believe in miracles?”

  “Certainly, milord. I do, I do. But the Danes—”


  Odo shook the priest, his fingers digging into the man’s arm. “Hold your post! Do not let any Danes pass. Do you understand me?”

  The priest nodded mutely.

  “Then go!” Odo shouted, pushing him into the corridor. “Run!”

  The priest stumbled away, turned and ran.

  Gerold stared at Odo.

  “Have you also lost your courage?” Odo said.

  Gerold blinked slowly like ox, but he did it repeatedly, up and down, never stopping.

  Odo jabbed a finger into Gerold’s bull chest. “You once kept your head when my father died. Can you still keep your wits, even though the Danes have broken into the city?”

  The blinking stopped. Gerold scowled. He nodded.

  “Good,” Odo said. “I’m putting you in charge of the Stone Tower.”

  “The Merchant Quarter is doomed. We must hold the Cite.”

  Why couldn’t other men see it? Had reading the Roman book changed him? Odo spoke slowly, trying to make Gerold understand. “To hold the Cite we must hold the Stone Tower tonight. You must hold that tower with priests and monks. You must hold it against all Northmen, only letting Franks pass across the bridge and into the Cite. If the tower falls tonight, Paris falls. If you hold it until I return we may yet save the city.”

  “I do not understand, milord.”

  “You don’t have to understand!” Odo shouted. “Grab your weapons. Go. Hurry! Obey me. The life of the city is in your hands.”

  Gerold turned without another word, lumbering out of the room.

  Odo rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes. He was the one who understood. The others simply needed to obey him. Maybe that was the secret to a good commander. He groaned. The Danes were in the Merchant Quarter. The bulk of the defenders were there, no doubt even now being butchered to the last man. He snarled. Then he raced to his chest, flung it open and grabbed the padding that went underneath his armor.

  ***

  Time moved luridly that night, jumping like shadows. Odo scarcely recalled what happened until he reached the Stone Bridge. He spoke orders calmly, having pushed aside his anguish. A commander must always appear confident. That fed his troops confidence. He even managed a laugh. Twenty hardy knights followed him a-horse, the last unwounded knights left in Paris, unless he could save the others in the Merchant Quarter. Each knight wore heavy mail armor, a shield, lance and a sword strapped to his saddle. The big horses snorted uneasily at the sound of flames and the rancid smell of smoke. Veteran footmen walked ahead of them, the toughest he had. A few held torches and shields. The rest had shields and spears. Odo paused long enough at the Stone Tower to issue commands.

  The Stone Tower was really a pile of mortared boulders at the end of the Stone Bridge. The seawall of the Merchant Quarter abutted the tower on either side. The tower rose much higher than the seawall and higher than the nearest merchant storehouse. A tunnel in the tower connected the bridge to the road in the Merchant Quarter that led to the main gate that the Northmen had stormed this night.

  Odo put Gerold in charge of the tower. Gerold was the only man he trusted not to bolt and run. The monks and priests peered pitifully into the burning Merchant Quarter, flinching at the shouts and roars of wild Northmen.

  “There is nowhere to flee,” Odo told them. “If this tower falls before I return, you will surely die. Now God loves a valiant man. By holding the tower tonight, you guard the holy relics of Frankland. Think of that while you man your post. Northmen will piss on your precious relics and smash them to pieces in praise of their pagan gods. But if you hold here this night you will gain glory in Paradise. What is death to such holy men as you? Where is Death’s sting?”

  “Where do you go, milord?” asked a nervous monk.

  Odo put on his spangenhelm as he sat high upon his warhorse. He took up his lance. “I go to slay Danes,” he said. “And maybe there are some of our knights left who we can help escape here to this tower.”

  The footmen shifted uneasily. Even though they were veterans, tough men, they cast terrified glances at the burning city. Danes raced everywhere. The cries of the dying rose above the roar of fire.

  “Their entire army is in the Merchant Quarter,” said a monk.

  “Hold them in place, Gerold,” Odo said. He forced aside all pity. Tonight he must become as ruthless as his father used to be. A warlord needed to instill fear so that his men obeyed him. He swept the monks and priests with a fierce gaze. Then he addressed Gerold. “Kill them if they try to desert their post.”

  A priest gasped.

  Odo faced his tiny army, his twenty knights and tough band of footmen. He shook his lance. “Remember this, my lads! We are disciplined fighters. Keep your shield wall intact and stay together. The Danes are already looting. They’re running wild, trying to be the first one to find good treasure. A strong group of Franks like ours will frighten them. Now look alive! Bishop Gozlin looks down from Heaven to see if you have the balls to save your city.”

  Odo shook his reins, and using the main road, he marched his band into the burning Merchant Quarter. Smoke hung heavy in the night. Dancing flames made shadows writhe. Danes darted about everywhere. Wood splintered as axes hewed into barred doors. Women screamed. Men bellowed and then shrieked in agony. The Merchant Quarter died this night. Odo’s main hope was that his brother or some other knight had retreated to a church. With such a small band as his, Odo knew he had to strike fast and then retreat. If the Danes blew their horns and gathered their fighting men, they could sweep his pitiful few aside.

  It was about surprise. He had to surprise them. Surely, the Danes weren’t expecting mounted knights in the middle of a sack. What were twenty knights to hundreds, to thousands of Danes?

  “Milord,” shouted a torch-man, a man on foot. “Look! Danes approach.”

  Odo realized that he was about to find out how good his twenty knights were. A knot of Danes marched down the road toward them. These looked like warriors determined to reach the Stone Tower. Maybe those were picked men that Sigfred had sent ahead. They seemed halfway organized. It was time to attack, time to surprise the Danes.

  “Open ranks!” Odo shouted. A terrible tingling began in his arms. Fear clawed in his stomach. Was he a fool? The Danes had won the Merchant Quarter. He should race back to the Cite and keep alive.

  His footman jangled as they parted, half hurrying to one side of the road.

  “Let us kill these fools!” Odo shouted. And before he could reason it all out, before he lost courage because he listened to his fear, he spurred his warhorse.

  Behind him clattered his knights in all their panoply of war. Each of them sat on a prized steed, a pampered stallion trained in the dreadful art of charging. For this moment, Odo had saved his horses. For this moment, he had kept a handful well fed and toned. Odo stood up in the stirrups and clamped his thighs around his warhorse’s barrel body. The big muscles churned. His stallion snorted.

  As warhorses trotted out of the darkness at them, Danes stopped in shock and milled in confusion. They shouted to one another. There was little room to maneuver on this dirt street. Some of the enemy braced themselves. Others looked wildly around.

  Odo shifted his shield as his stallion’s trot quickened. He dropped the gleaming, foot-long point of his lance, aiming it at the nearest enemy. His stallion shifted from a trot and into a gallop, the hooves thundering. Odo did not couch the lance under his armpit, as knights would do in a later age. He held the lance with his right hand, using an over-grip. Most of his knights did likewise.

  The Danes jostled against one another. Two turned and ran. This wasn’t a set block of shield men, but a surprised crowd. Because of that, Odo did not expect cunning feints, a shift onto the other side of his horse so he would have to lance crossways, on the other side of his horse’s head. It was time for brute Frank power, the shock of warhorses against footmen.

  “Saint Germain!” bellowed Odo. His razor-sharp steel sliced flesh. The blow almost numbed his hand. He tor
e a blood-gushing hole in his foe and sent the Dane spinning. Incredibly, the warrior swung his sword, but he had been pivoted so it swished harmlessly. The knight behind Odo speared the Dane in the back, cracking both the lance and enemy bones.

  The knights thundered through the Danes. One Frank tumbled from his saddle, his thigh hewed by an axe. Danes, however, lay stretched out on the road. As the knights wheeled their horses, shouting Frank footmen crashed against the surviving Danes. It was vicious, bloody work, spears punching into flesh. Warriors screamed or gurgled on their spurting blood. In moments, it was over, the few surviving Danes fleeing into the darkness.

  With blood pounding in his ears, Odo viewed the carnage. “Do you see!” he shouted. “We can slaughter the best they have. Now form ranks. Pick up your torches. We have men to save and Danes to kill. First, let me hear you cheer, by Saint Germain. Cheer!”

  They did, raggedly.

  It would have to do. They had to move fast. They had to attack and save Franks before the bulk of the Danes realized what happened.

  Odo shouted until his throat cracked as he reformed his small band, with the footmen in front and with his knights behind. They marched down the street, flames leaping above them. Smoke hung heavily in places, and that aided them, shielding them from enemy eyes. Their band was a mere pittance compared to the Great Pagan Army. Danes looted everywhere, butchering the helpless folk of the Merchant Quarter. The Northmen smashed into buildings. They heaved fiery brands onto roofs and hacked whoever opposed them. Sometimes Danes yelled that Franks were loose in the city. The Northmen were already drunk with easy victory, however. The enemy didn’t sweep through the city as an army, but as pillagers, looters, trying to be first to a place and grab the good treasure. The hard fighting must have already taken place around the battlements and at the gate.

  “Look over there, milord,” shouted a knight. “Those Danes are pointing at us. They’re sending out runners.”

  “Leave them,” Odo shouted. “We—”

  As they rounded a bend and came out from behind a block of buildings, they heard fierce, pagan chants. That sound meant Danish warriors working themselves up to attack. Ahead, fire and torchlight gleamed off packs of Northmen in mail and bearing shields and swords.