The Great Pagan Army Page 35

  Odo laughed grimly. “Now isn’t that strange. This fool has kept you at bay all these months.”

  Sigfred stiffened. “Do you wish to die?”

  “No,” Odo said. “I wish to kill Danes. There’s a difference.”

  Sigfred nodded slowly, and just as slowly, he began to back away, his eyes now on the battlements of Paris.

  The talk was over.

  ***

  Men pulled Odo through the gate. He hurried up creaking stairs as a great hurrah sounded from outside. It was the bull roar of Odin’s warriors. Odo dashed up the last steps, panting as he raced onto the battlement.

  The Great Pagan Army moved. Dragons surged toward the Cite, oars slashing the glittering waters. Arrows rose like hail from their decks, slashing against Paris’s walls, rattling against stone or hissing overhead.

  “They come, brother!” Robert shouted.

  Odo accepted his helmet and mashed it down on his head, tying laces under his chin.

  A sea of Northmen raced against South Town, but Odo had no time to watch them. Arrows flew from the Merchant Quarter, as did springald javelins and hissing onager-slung rocks. Weeks of practice had honed the Danes into deadly marksmen.

  As Odo settled his shield into position, dragon keels crunched onto land. Roaring Northmen spilled out of the ships and raced toward the island’s battlements. They carried ladders or bows, firing up. A hail of Frank javelins, the cast of each defender aided by throwing straight down, mowed the front ranks of Danes like spring hay. City catapults thudded and rocks and clay jars rained upon the packed dragon ships. The rocks crunched wood or crushed bones. The jars shattered, spilling the last of the city’s oil. Fire arrows followed. Whooshes told of lit oil. Northmen screamed. Others trampled through the fire and jumped onto the lips of land, surging toward the battlements. In the teeth of raining javelins, the ladders clattered against stone. Up surged maddened Danes, their eyes wild and sunlight shining off their swords and axes.

  Odo gripped his hilt and tightened his hold of the shield. “Kill the Danes! Sweep them into the river!”

  The clangor of iron on iron, fiery sparks and screams told of the deadly duels along the battlement. The Danes were like demons from hell! From their ladders, they attacked with wild frenzy. Berserks led them and springald javelins from the Merchant Quarter found too many Franks.

  “Saint Germain!” Odo shouted. He slashed at a helmet, cleaving it in half and spilling a Northman’s brains. From upon his ladder, a Northman swung up and his axe clouted Odo’s shield. Odo swung with the fury of despair, determined to reap what souls he could before they captured him and stuffed him into a wicker basket. Beside him, Robert howled.

  Northmen swarmed up the walls. The city faced doom as some Danes leaped onto the battlement, driving back hunger-weakened defenders.

  An onager stone crashed against a Dane ready to hew Odo with his axe. It sent the Northman reeling into him, knocking them both to the plank walkway. The Dane groaned. Odo fumbled for his dagger and shoved it in the warrior’s guts. Then he rolled the Dane off him, climbed to his feet and picked up his heavy sword.

  A howling berserk climbed over the merlons. He swept his long axe, killing the Frank in his way.

  “Heming!” chanted the Danes on the ladders.

  This Heming moved cat-quick, thudding his bloody weapon in a knight’s neck. Then Robert was there, strong Robert. He chopped into Heming’s shoulder. Heming laughed wildly, hewing. Robert’s arm cracked and it hung at a strange angle, broken. Heming kicked Robert aside.

  Odo charged with his shield. He banged the berserk hard, jarring himself and making the warrior stumble. Odo clanged again, grunted from the exertion. Fingers appeared on the shield’s rim, and with a wrench of fierce strength, the berserk tore the shield from Odo. Odo swung wildly, terrified, crunching his sword into the madman’s side. Heming glared at him. Didn’t the berserk feel pain? Sick with fright, Odo lowered his shoulder and rammed him. The berserk bellowed, stumbled backward and then pitched over the battlement. He disappeared down into the sea of howling Danes.

  Odo picked up his sword and slashed two-handed. He shattered enemy swords and smashed helmets. The little charcoal-burner appeared beside him, with a spear in his grimy hands. He thrust it into a Dane’s guts.

  “Clear the walls!” Odo shouted. “Push them back!”

  Robert with his broken arm stood beside him, hewing with his sword. They cleared their part of the wall and began to heave stones down upon the Danes.

  “Milord!” screamed a man, pulling Odo away from the merlons. “Look over there!”

  Danes were on the wall.

  “You, you and you!” Odo shouted. “Follow me!” He thudded across the planks, slashing as he went. Then he and his small band smashed into the Danes. It was brutal fighting. He roamed the walkway, and he saw Abbot Ebolus once, gore on the abbot’s spiked mace.

  Time became one long agony of hot air, the splash of blood and a sword hewn into teeth or banged against an upraised shield. Paris tottered. Arrows showered from the Merchant Quarter, striking Dane and Frank alike, seldom killing, but causing fear as if a swarm of wasps attacked. Women shrieked like banshees as they hefted rocks over their heads and hurled them down on Northmen climbing the ladders. Helmets clanged. Cheekbones broke. Teeth shattered. A springald javelin punched through a woman’s back, sprouting between her breasts. The Danes died, yet still others flowed up the ladders, chanting Odin’s name or calling upon the Thunder God. The fury of months enraged them. Franks died on the battlements, but for every death, ten Danes perished. It was the knights—the last of Paris—that reaped the bitterest harvest. Count Odo stood like a titian on the walls, arriving in time to cut down any Dane who made it over the merlons. The entire while, dragons burned, the fires threatening to leap onto the rest of the packed tight vessels.

  Then—finally—horns roared. In the face of those grim knights, Danes retreated. The wall was simply too high, the number of rocks raining down on them seemingly endless. The fires on the dragons had also become too hot and threatened too many other sound ships. Countless Northmen waded past the burning dragons and clambered onto others. The current took those vessels, floating them away from the bloody ramparts.

  On the battlements, Odo tore off his helmet and wiped stinging sweat from his eyes. Robert groaned as he examined his broken arm. The charcoal-burner was dead, his brains spattered on the merlons. Everywhere, the women of Paris were mingled in death with their men.

  A stooped serf handed Odo a cup. He slaked his thirst as he panted, sweat and blood soaking his mail. His gaze searched out South Town. It had held.

  “I must see the barber about setting my arm,” Robert whispered.

  Odo handed the cup to the serf. “We did it,” he said. “We held.”

  Robert grinned through his pain.

  Odo wiped his face with a clean rag, and he examined the dead littered on the walkway. There was too many dead, far too many.

  “Another attack like that and we are undone, brother,” Robert told him.

  Those nearby perked up to listen, watching Odo.

  He sensed their gaze and their concern. Robert was right. They couldn’t survive another such attack. Odo forced himself to grin. A commander must always appear confident before his men. “Another attack, brother? Surely, you jest. We slaughtered Northmen. They squealed like pigs and fled. No. We have saved Paris this day. Now let us strip the pagan dead of their mail and stack their swords. I want to hand out these fine armor suits as prizes to those who fought the hardest among us. From this day forward, even the footmen of Paris will go mailed into battle.”

  58.

  Peter was terrified as he bounced on his mule, clutching his precious relic. Count Walafrid towered beside him on his great warhorse. Behind them followed nearly two hundred horsemen. Lupus had wisely remained in Tours.

  Peter had spoken to the council of barons, as Walafrid had demanded. There had been vicious debate among the barons, much sh
outing and powerful men pounding their fists on the boards. Some had stood and drawn blades. Churchmen had bravely stepped between those. In the weeks of shouting, it had become clear that most of the barons favored Count Odo—if he could survive the siege. None of those barons, however, cared to ride to Odo’s aid. Finally, Walafrid had challenged them to join him and the monk as they rode to the city.

  That’s when Peter had known he was doomed. He knew why, too. He had not given up his love for Willelda. It gave him restless nights. He had prayed. He had begged God. Finally, he had decided that if he couldn’t have Willelda, he would accept death.

  Now as he bounced along on his mule, he didn’t want to accept death. He wanted to live—and he still wanted Willelda. He glanced back. The band made a brave spectacle. Pennons fluttered, lance-heads gleamed and bright helmets reflected sunlight. Peter shivered. They would never fight their way through the ring of Danes. It was madness to think so.

  The mounted fighters were a strange mixture of hot-blooded youths grown bold by tales of Paris’s heroic defenders. Among them were also hard-bitten horsemen. Many of those had joined because they said they had scores to settle with these, until now, unbeatable Danes. A number of those men had belonged to Duke Hugh’s small army. Perhaps they reasoned that Count Odo as the new Protector would elevate them in status. Two key points had persuaded the barons toward Odo. He was the son of Robert the Strong, the old Protector, and one of West Frankland’s best, and Odo’s long survival in Paris.

  As they jangled through a forest, Peter clutched the bones of Saint Simplicius and began to pray that he face his coming death bravely.

  ***

  Four days through the forests brought them to a hidden glen six miles south of the city. There awaited several young serfs who had sold cabbage to the Danes. Count Walafrid held the father in custody in Tours. These serfs could buy their father’s freedom by guiding them through the Danish lines.

  “You brought too many,” grumbled the oldest serf. “I can’t slip you all past the Danes.”

  “Then we’ll fight our way in,” declared Walafrid.

  Peter crossed himself as he watched the serf.

  The weasel eyes scanned the big soldiers, the strong horses and iron weapons. “You don’t have enough to fight their shield wall and there are too many that we can trick the Danes. Your best chance is hard riding, milord, and hope that you surprise them. But they won’t take to surprise like they used too, I reckon.”

  “What then?” a noble youth asked.

  Count Walafrid slapped his mailed chest. “I will ride scout. I will bring us through.”

  “Is that wise, milord?” asked a scar-faced horseman.

  “Wise?” said Walafrid. “Does Count Odo hold Paris because it is wise? He does it because he is brave.” The old count pointed at Peter. “Did the monk go to Rome for a new relic because it was wise? Peter, show them the relic. Then you will pray for us.”

  Peter slid off his mule and carefully unwound the linen. He lofted the ancient skull of Saint Simplicius. His hands shook, but the horsemen didn’t seem to mind. “Oh Lord,” he said, with a quaver in his voice. “Let us slip past these Northmen. Guide us into Paris that we may help great Count Odo, the killer of Danes.”

  “There you have it,” growled Walafrid. “The saint rides with us. Who wishes to turn back?”

  The hot-blooded youths cheered, while a few older horsemen grumbled. No one accepted the offer, however.

  Walafrid turned to the oldest cabbage seller. “Bring us as close as you dare. After that we trust to our horses and swords and the prayers of Saint Simplicius.”

  The serf swore under his breath, and soon he and his brothers led them along a wolf run. He held up his hand once and motioned them back. Danes patrolled up ahead. He found another route and took them to the edge of the woods. He pointed north with a crooked, nail-less finger.

  “Over that rise you can see their camp, milord. Go west of the vineyards and make sure you thread carefully in the old ruins. On either side of it are horse traps that the Danes dug. After that—gallop. They have scouts posted.” He shrugged. “Maybe you’ll die fast and lucky.”

  “What’s that mean?” said a knight.

  “A joke,” said Walafrid. He swung into the saddle.

  Peter couldn’t stop shaking. Had he made it all the way to Rome and back to die before the walls of Paris? It seemed terribly unfair. He tried to pray. He was too frightened, remembering that night in the abbey when the Danes had surprised them. The awful screams of his burning brothers often tormented his sleep. Yet… Willelda waited in that evil host. He had to ride if he had any hope of rescuing her. He didn’t know how he could rescue her, but surely if God allowed him to reach Paris alive there had to be a way.

  Then Peter clung to the mule’s mane as his small beast trotted to keep up with the horsemen. Ahead were Northmen. Peter moaned, sick inside, his gut churning. He hoped he didn’t throw up. He hoped no Dane speared him in the stomach.

  ***

  Odo paced in his study. Paris no longer had enough defenders. One more attack would see the end of the siege. For days now, he had marched teams of serfs in Danish mail, sending one team down and another up. He wanted to make it seem that he still had as many knights as before. It was a simple trick and he knew that Sigfred wasn’t fooled by it.

  Since the attack a week ago, Danish warbands had sailed away or ridden captured horses inland. They foraged, he supposed, always leaving enough Northmen around to Paris to block it. It was just a matter of time before they assaulted again.

  Would the Emperor never come?

  Odo sat down and rubbed his face. He was so tired, so weary of trying to remain strong. At least he had killed Danes. He had killed many of them before the walls. Why then did he feel so empty inside?

  “Judith,” he whispered.

  He put his arms on the desk and lay his head on his arms.

  A little later, came a knock on the door.

  Odo lifted his head with a start. The door creaked open. He blinked in surprise. “Judith?” he said.

  She wore a yellow dress. She was so thin, yet she was beautiful.

  “Why are you here?” he said.

  She approached him, holding out her hands.

  He rose stiffly, taking her hands in his. He noticed that she no longer wore the iron ring of a nun. “I don’t understand.”

  She came into his arms and kissed him. “Can you forgive me?” she whispered.

  He held her. He held his Judith. She was so thin. He kissed her again. “You must stay with me,” he whispered.

  “Yes,” she said.

  His mind swirled at that. “I mean it.”

  “So do I,” she said.

  “But… what about the nunnery?” he asked.

  “I have left it.”

  “Abbot Ebolus will hold you to your vow.”

  “Will he?” she whispered.

  “Judith,” he said, his arms tightening around her. “You must not toy with my heart.”

  “Oh milord, we only have a few days left, but even if we survived this siege, I will stay with you. Let them call me the ‘count’s harlot’. I am yours and you are mine. I want you more than I want authority or power.”

  “I will give you authority as my wife.”

  She touched a finger to his lips. They kissed, and then a trumpet pealed a call to arms.

  ***

  Peter bounced wildly on the mule. Count Walafrid galloped ahead of them, while all around Peter thundered the two hundred who had come to help Count Odo. Paris’s wall rose before them. Unfortunately, Danes boiled out of a stockade built near the city.

  Church bells began to ring. Trumpets pealed from South Town.

  Peter moaned as Danish killers with shields, axes and others with bows hurried to block their path. Two Danes in particular raced ahead of the others.

  Count Walafrid slashed his sword at the closest. The Dane tumbled from his path. A spear flashed from the other, knocking
the horse sideways so it stumbled and went down. The old knight was still agile enough to jump free, however. Walafrid still held his sword. The Northman drew a big blade. Walafrid charged, and the old knight slashed and parried blows faster than the Dane parried. The old knight limped back to his horse as the noble steed struggled upright. Walafrid remounted, and galloped as the rest of the Danes rushed toward him.

  “Save him Saint Simplicius,” Peter prayed.

  The knights around Peter cheered and spurred their huge steeds, galloping faster. The Danes turned to face them, forgetting about Walafrid. The Danes tried to set up a shield wall. The two hundred horsemen hit them like a wave, smashing through, killing some and a few of them dying in turn. Peter’s mule dashed like lightning, an arrow hissing past his head.

  Then the gates of South Town creaked open. Out boiled a ragged band of serfs and knights led by Count Odo. They, together with the two hundred horsemen from Tours, chased off the guarding Danes. Then they wheeled around and fled before the gathering host of Danes that marched from their main camp.

  59.

  In August, the Emperor entered Neustria, although well north of Paris. As more Frankish knights rode into Laon, Charles the Fat—the Emperor—awaited events at the royal manor of Quierzy-sur-Oise. There the Emperor tasted many new dishes and wrote angry missives to the Pope. At last, in late September, as the last contingents rode in from Lombardy and swelled his ranks, the Emperor warily moved toward Paris. Unfortunately, the time of knightly service was already up for those who had first arrived. Each contingent brought its own supplies. When every ham and flour sack was gone, those knights turned around and headed home.

  At last, in October, the Royal Host appeared below the heights of Montmartre and in sight of the city. Without a fight, the Danes gave up the Merchant Quarter, retreating onto the south side of the Seine, daring the Emperor’s mighty host to try to follow them.

  There was rejoicing in Paris… until men learned that the Emperor had begun negotiations with Sigfred. By November, they settled terms. By royal permission, the Danes could sail upstream of Paris and raid Burgundy that winter. That part of the empire did not acknowledge Charles. The Emperor reasoned, apparently, that Burgundy deserved the hard hand of the Northmen as punishment for their rebelliousness. The agreement also stipulated that if the Danes quit West Frankland by March 887, they would receive 700 pounds of silver as bonus.