Cathryn had occupied his thoughts. Her strong faith intrigued him. She’d talked about forgiveness, about the son of her god dying for the sins of others. Bryk had a multitude of past sins preying on his mind. He regretted the marauding barbarian he had once been. Would Cathryn’s god forgive him? He was certainly repentant.
Alfred’s voice brought him back to the present. “I thought the long days of rowing had strengthened every muscle in my body,” his brother complained, rubbing his biceps. “But I was wrong.”
Bryk stretched his arms to ease the ache in his shoulders from wielding an axe for hours on end. “I know what you mean.”
The air rang with the sounds of hammering as men pounded rivets pulled from one of the less seaworthy longboats.
“I’m certain this racket has alerted the people of Chartres to our presence and our purpose,” Alfred said.
Bryk shrugged. “It can’t be helped. Hopefully they won’t be expecting a sambuca to arrive, bringing men from the water over the walls.”
Stripped to the waist, they sat on the grass, sharing a waterskin, watching the completion of the platform that joined two of the boats together. It would form the base for the four foot wide sambuca that lay ready on the bank next to the boats.
Bryk stretched out on his back, squinting at the sun. The breeze felt good on his bare skin. It was the perfect day to be lying in the grass with Cathryn in his arms, or jumping into the river to cleanse his body of the sheen of sweat that coated his skin.
“I still think you should attach some sort of cover over the ladder,” Alfred said. “Otherwise the Franks will pick the men off with arrows as they ascend.”
Bryk dragged his thoughts back to the dreadful reality they faced. “No time. We’ll have to carry shields with us,” he replied reluctantly, aware his brother had no shield and no armor. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re not in the vanguard.”
A shout from downstream drew their attention. Alfred came to his feet, shaded his eyes and scanned the river. “It’s Hrolf returning from raiding.”
Bryk rose. “Let’s hope he’s had success and that he’s pleased with our progress.”
As they watched their chieftain’s longboat approach, Bryk noted the look on Hrolf’s face. It was one he knew well. It spoke of a bloodlust satisfied. The surrounding countryside had been laid waste. The siege was about to begin.
SPRIG
Cathryn was confident in her skill, but the Archbishop’s intense scrutiny of her work was unnerving. He insisted on watching over her shoulder while she tried to repair a faded illumination.
He had fallen into the habit of visiting the library every day and seemed fascinated by the process, asking what seemed like a thousand questions.
It was bothersome that the queries weren’t always about illuminating. She’d been shunned by her fellow Franks, yet was suddenly of immense interest to his Grace. She preferred the anonymity.
“Mater Bruna tells me you were a foundling at the abbey convent.”
Perspiration trickled down the back of her neck, but she continued the careful quill stroke. “Oui, your Grace. I was left on the threshold in a basket.”
“Hmm.”
Hands behind his back, he strolled over to inspect what Javune was doing at the other escritoire. The rapid beating of her heart slowed, but then he glanced up at her sharply. “What year was that?”
She didn’t dare look at his face. “I have almost nine and ten years, your Grace.”
“And no one has any idea whose child you were?”
It was something she’d never considered until she’d met Bryk, a man full of proud tales of his ancestors.
“Non, your Grace,” she replied wistfully.
“I see,” he intoned gravely. “I see.”
He paced back and forth for a few minutes, then left abruptly.
“Strange bird, that one,” Javune observed. “I don’t trust him.”
Cathryn was inclined to agree, but it flew in the face of everything she’d ever been taught to decry a cleric. “He’s an Archbishop. A servant of God.”
Javune snorted. “You have noticed how well this servant of God lives, and yet I doubt if he has offered you payment for your work. He’d be hard pressed to find a better illuminator.”
She warmed at the praise, but it dawned on her she’d never given any thought to such an idea.
“They can be the most untrustworthy, these men of God. Look at Sprig.”
The mention of her attacker’s name sparked fear in her heart. “But he is safely confined at Jumièges.”
He shrugged, a look of pity in his eyes. “No, he isn’t. He persuaded the Abbot you enticed him. Don’t forget they are both from Neustria. Sprig was the Abbot’s protégé at Vézelay Abbey. That’s how he came to be at Jumièges.”
Indignation soared up her throat. “You saw us together. I never did anything to encourage his attentions.”
“I know, but Sprig played the part of the penitent sinner very well, and you are a mere woman after all, a daughter of Eve.”
She spluttered, her mind a maelstrom of confused thoughts concerning Sprig. “Neustrian. No wonder he speaks the Frankish tongue with inflexion.”
Javune nodded. “The Abbot is sending him back to Vézelay. He accompanied me to Rouen.”
An icy fear crept up her spine. “What? He’s here? Where is Vézelay?”
“About six days south, but he had to travel through Rouen and then follow the Eure.”
“Isn’t that the river that flows through Chartres?” she said hoarsely.
Javune seemed not to have heard her. “Besides,” he continued, “the Abbot didn’t consult me. My father has led him to believe I’m a ne’er do well. He thinks as the youngest son I should be happy to spend my life in God’s service.”
She took a deep breath, determined not to look away. “But you would rather be with Kaia.”
The wretched desperation in his blue eyes reassured her that his feelings for Kaia were true. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know what it is to be separated from someone you love.”
Javune scowled. “But at least you have gained your freedom. I am entombed and will never be free. You can walk away from here. I cannot.”
She had once felt the same, but it struck her full force how fortunate she’d been to find Bryk. Her rescuer was a strong, determined man who would protect her with his life. If Javune left the monastery he would be a penniless outcast, fated never to marry Kaia.
The thought of Sprig being free and spreading lies about her right here in Rouen filled her heart with dread. She felt Bryk’s absence keenly.
“If Sprig is a threat I should mayhap seek refuge in the Viking camp by the river,” she murmured, knowing she wouldn’t be welcomed with open arms. But they would protect Bryk’s property.
A strange light lit his eyes. “Perhaps I should accompany you,” he replied.
SIEGE ENGINES
The Vikings had spent an extra day building a railing on either side of the ladder, then heaved it into position so its foot rested across the sides of the two vessels lashed together.
It had taken fifty men to hold it with the other end protruding beyond the prows while the foot was hammered into place.
Beyond exhaustion, Bryk had slept the sleep of the dead, despite the battle that loomed. Everything was in readiness. In the pre-dawn darkness Hrolf gave the signal.
Rowers took up the oars on the outer sides and pulled the two vessels upriver to the walls of the town. They’d been picked for their strength; once the boats turned to face Chartres they had to keep them steady across the swift current.
Standing at the base of the ladder, legs braced, ready to lead the charge, Bryk held his breath. Many things could go wrong. He glanced up at the pulleys at the top of the masts, feeling the weight of his helmet. He hoped the ropes they’d made from the inner bark of trees would hold. They’d strengthened them with elk hide rope from their ships. He’d had to guess at the length of the ladde
r since he hadn’t had the opportunity to properly view the fortified walls.
The prows of the longboats came close to the walls. “Up!” he yelled to the ten men standing on the sterns who then heaved on the ropes attached to the head of the ladder. Hand over hand they strained to raise the apparatus with the aid of the pulleys. Others on the prows assisted with the lifting of the machine, keeping it steady with long poles while the boats tossed beneath their feet.
Bryk slung his shield on his back and began the long climb as the ladder was being hoisted. Three men followed. The plan was to overpower the first defenders and secure the ladder once they reached the platform at the end.
The men behind him grunted with exertion as the climb became steeper. A hue and cry broke out above them when the enemy perceived the Vikings’ tactic.
He looked down at the muddy shoals of the river Eure, and wished he hadn’t. He inhaled deeply to settle his roiling belly. He’d never liked heights. Even harvesting apples made him dizzy.
The ladder lurched as the main body of attackers began the climb. He was confident the wooden structure would hold the weight, but the ropes were another matter.
He fixed his eyes on the top of the wall. It still seemed a long way away. His heart sank. He’d made the ladder too short.
~~~
Hrolf pouted for two days, pacing back and forth outside his tent while they labored to extend the ladder. He snarled at anyone who dared speak to him. Bryk decided it was better not to bother.
No mention was made of the sneering laughter of the town’s defenders that had followed them as they withdrew the Sambuca.
Finally the chieftain came down to the water’s edge. “We’ve put all our hopes on one siege engine. That was our mistake. The men can finish this job. I want you to build me a catapult, and a battering ram. We must leave nothing to chance.”
It came as a relief that Hrolf apparently didn’t blame him for the shortcomings of the sambuca, but a catapult would have to be built in full view of the town, and Bryk had never seen a battering ram, let alone crafted one.
Hrolf raised his hand. “I know. I’m asking a great deal. But if any man can accomplish this, it’s you. Now let’s get started.”
CATHRYN SAILS WITH VIKINGS
The Viking sentries at the camp on the banks of the Seine recognized Cathryn and didn’t challenge her, but were adamant Javune couldn’t pass through the compound fence they’d constructed.
“He’s a friend,” she said gently, indicating his robes. “A man of God.”
One of the sentries spat into the dust. “Vite Krist!” he exclaimed, impatiently beckoning Javune to move inside with her.
The encampment, normally filled at this time in the afternoon with the noise of children playing, bustled instead with activity, people rushing here and there.
“Something’s going on,” she told the young monk. “We must hurry to find Hannelore.”
She’d feared Javune’s habit would draw hostile glares, but no one paid attention to them as they pushed their way through the busy throng. Everyone seemed to be heading towards the river, laden with bundles and chests. “I have a terrible feeling they are leaving,” she confided to her companion.
Javune looked afraid. “Mayhap they’ve lost the battle for Chartres and are fleeing back to Norway?”
Her heart hammered in her chest. The camp consisted of mostly women, children and thralls. “They would never make it back to their home country alive, and why would they want to without their men?”
The import of her words struck her full force. If Chartres had been lost—
By the time they reached Hannelore’s tent, Cathryn was breathless and frantic. Her sister-by-marriage took her hands, looking worried. “What is wrong, Cathryn?”
It cheered Cathryn’s heart that Hannelore had spoken, albeit haltingly, in her language, but she couldn’t hide her consternation. “Are the Vikings leaving?” she asked.
Hannelore frowned. “Some leave. Go Chartres.”
“Chartres?” she cried. “Why? What has happened?”
“Talk Poppa,” Hannelore replied.
Cathryn looked to where Hannelore pointed. Chin tilted to the sky, hands fisted on hips, Poppa stood beside a longboat, surveying the activity around her as if she was Commander-in-chief of a mighty army. More astonishing was that she was clad in men’s attire. Since Hrolf’s clothing would have swamped her, and the leggings and tunic seemed to fit perfectly, Cathryn had a momentary notion the outfit belonged to Poppa.
“What is the arrogant woman doing?” she muttered to herself, already on her way down the riverbank.
Poppa waved when she saw her. “Cathryn!” she called huskily.
Was it her imagination or had the Frankish woman’s voice deepened? Although relations between her and Hrolf’s concubine had warmed over the past sennights, she was surprised by Poppa’s apparent happiness at seeing her. “You’re going to Chartres?” she asked.
The smile left Poppa’s face. “The news from Hrolf is not good. They need more men.”
Cathryn was afraid to ask about Bryk. She had to trust Poppa would tell her if he had perished. “But the warriors Hrolf left behind secure the town. We are mainly women in the camp,” she pointed out.
“And hundreds of thralls. They are men. They can fight. I myself will lead them down the Eure.”
Cathryn thought of Torstein. “What if they don’t wish to risk their lives for their masters?”
Poppa looked at her in disbelief. “Then they will die in this foreign place. We are their protection.”
Cathryn scanned the longboats, noting for the first time that thralls were indeed stowing their meager belongings, claiming their places. A desperate notion seized her. “Take me with you,” she begged.
It was lunacy. She’d be sailing down an unknown river with hundreds of thralls heading for a town where military confrontation loomed large. But it would bring her closer to Bryk, and take her further from Sprig.
Poppa frowned at her in disbelief, but then softened her gaze. She eyed Cathryn from head to toe. “You will need different clothing. Go to my quarters. Padraig will see to it. Tell him I sent you. If the monk comes he’ll be expected to row.”
Cathryn had forgotten Juvane. She swiveled her head to see him standing uncertainly on the bank, his sandaled feet mired in the trampled mud. Surely he wouldn’t want—
He nodded.
She turned back to Poppa who smiled. “Tell Padraig he’ll need clothing also. The thralls will deem it an ill omen if he boards wearing that outfit.”
Grinning broadly, Cathryn turned to run back to the camp, but Poppa caught her arm. “What of Bryk’s apple trees?”
Panic lasted only until she saw the glint of amusement in the concubine’s eyes. “I’m killing them anyway,” she said, jubilant her husband still lived.
DISASTER
In the three sennights that Bryk and his crew labored to make the two siege engines, Hrolf attempted to seize the town with the sambuca three times.
The first time the top of the ladder reached the wall, the inhabitants cut down the four men on the platform after a brief skirmish and threw them off. If they weren’t dead when they hit the water, they were by the time they were fished out of the river downstream.
The decision was made to fashion wicker shields woven from willow saplings to three sides of the platform. These would protect the four in the vanguard until they could be unfastened and thrown open to allow the attackers to secure the rampart. Bryk deemed it an ill-advised plan, but was told in no uncertain terms by an impatient Hrolf to keep his mind on the new weapons.
When the ladder reached the wall the defenders were ready with bundles of blazing twigs, which is exactly what Bryk had foreseen. They set the wicker shields on fire and four screaming human torches fell to their deaths.
Following this catastrophe, arrows rained down on the rest of the raiders on the ladder who were then forced to retreat.
These failures added
to Hrolf’s fury and increased the demand on Bryk to complete the other siege engines.
Apparently emboldened by the successful use of fire, the defenders poured pitch on the platform the third time the ladder reached the wall, then set fire to it, resulting in the destruction of well over half the apparatus and the deaths of twenty-five men.
That same night, Hrolf’s worried captains gathered around a brazier. The summer heat was sweltering, but the glowing embers warmed Bryk’s chilled heart.
The mood was somber. It was a long while before Hrolf made the speech they’d expected. “The sambuca isn’t going to work. I know the Romans are reputed to have used it with success, but Chartres evidently isn’t Syracuse.”
Bryk leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees. He knew what was coming so decided to take the offensive. “The battering ram is ready, but the catapult will take a few days longer.”
Hrolf stroked his beard. “We cannot afford to have this siege go on much longer. It’s possible the Bishop of Chartres has already succeeded in getting emissaries through our lines. A relief force may already be on the way. I want to be inside those cursed walls when they arrive.”
TORSTEIN
The longboats bobbed in the shady shallows, the tired crews enjoying a respite from the midday heat. Javune accepted the heel of bread from Torstein, broke it in two and offered half to Cathryn. She nodded her thanks to the thrall, aware they would have gone hungry without the slave’s resourcefulness. The corners of his mouth edged up into a hint of a rare smile. He evidently considered himself her property in the absence of his master.
He’d secured a place in the boat for Javune and taken the young Frank under his wing, showing him how to row with the least wear and tear on his hands.
He’d miraculously produced a small chest for Cathryn to sit on amidships. She wondered what was inside and if he’d stolen it. She’d only ever seen him with a small haversack on his back that presumably held all his possessions.
“What would your Superior say if she could see you now?” Javune teased. “All dressed up in men’s clothing.”
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