The Wolf and the Raven

by H A CULLEY

  ‘The White Christ? What are they doing there?’

  ‘I gather that they live there because they seek solitude away from the world in order to worship.’

  ‘How do they live, if there is nothing but ice there?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps it’s only a name?’

  By this time they had reached the hall and sat down with Olaf and Eirik at a table in one of the many alcoves that lined both sides of the hall. Two thralls, a boy and a young girl, brought them four horns of ale and platters of bread and cheese. Osten leered appreciatively at the girl, who couldn’t have been more than twelve.

  ‘Forget it, Osten. She’s too young and she’s my property in any case,’ Ragnar told him, noticing the lust in his eyes.

  ‘Will you seek him and my niece there?’ Osten said, returning to the original topic.

  ‘Perhaps, but not yet awhile. After Paris I’ve got a score to settle with a Northumbrian called Edmund whose men killed my son, Fridlief.’

  -℣-

  ‘I can’t hire any more carts or knarrs, Lord Edmund,’ Amalric, his agent in Paris, told him with a note of despair in his voice.

  The news that the Vikings had reached the Seine estuary had engendered panic amongst the population of Paris. Whilst Edmund was fairly confident that the defence measures he had eventually persuaded the Count of Arras to adopt would stop the Vikings from getting as far as Paris, he wasn’t taking any chances. All of his wealth was now tied up in his warehouse or on his ships out at sea.

  Furthermore he had borrowed from business colleagues to expand his trading operations. If he lost the goods in his warehouse to the raiders he would owe more than the cargo currently at sea was worth. Consequently he would be bankrupt. It was imperative that he transported his merchandise to safety, just in case the worst happened.

  ‘Take the most valuable goods to Châlons-sur-Marne and then get the knarrs to return to collect what else they can. They should have enough time for two trips, if not three, before the wretched Vikings can get this far - if we can’t defeat them first, that is. The carts won’t have enough time to return but the knarrs can carry more in any case.’

  The confluence between the Seine and the River Marne lay near Paris and was the start of the navigable route to Châlons. It lay one hundred and twenty miles away and Edmund was sure as he could be that the Vikings wouldn’t stray so far away from their target of Paris. It had cost a considerable amount to rent a warehouse there in the present situation, and to hire men to guard it, but it was money well spent if it enabled him to save the majority of his goods.

  The scene on the quayside was chaotic as merchants constantly outbid each other for the services of labourers to load their ships and carts. Men would start to load one ship and then abandon it as soon as someone offered them more. However, that wasn’t a problem that bothered Edmund. The men loading his ships were from the warband who had travelled with him from Northumbria; they’d been in his service for years and he was as confident as he could be of their loyalty. Nevertheless, Edmund thought it prudent to offer them a bonus, payable once the cargo was safely under lock and key in Châlons.

  Not all his warriors were employed loading goods; many a fight had broken out between rival gangs of workers as merchants tried to get their hands on various means of transport by fair means or foul. Edmund therefore had his best fighters arm themselves and dress in chainmail byrnies and helmets. Just the sight of them looking for a chance to blood their spears was enough to deter anyone from chancing their arm.

  Three days later a messenger arrived to tell Count Louis of Arras that the Vikings had reached Rouen and had besieged it for three days. Rouen was well defended, unlike Paris which depended on the river and defensive gateways at the end of its bridges to keep out attackers. The Seine was seen by the Franks as a line of defence, not as a weakness.

  Having sacked the surrounding countryside, the raiders had moved on and were now no more than a day away from the little surprise that Edmund had in store for them.

  ‘It won’t work,’ Count Louis had told him contemptuously.

  ‘I see. What is your plan, count?’

  ‘To shadow them on land and prevent them landing.’

  ‘To do that you’ll have to split your forces to cover both banks. You have, what? Eight thousand men in total, most of them farmers and tradesmen with a spear. Split in two, your four thousand will face some three thousand Vikings, if your scouts are correct. Your men won’t stand a chance.’

  Louis glowered at him before stomping out of the room in a rage. Edmund sighed. He needed at least fifteen hundred men, principally archers and crossbowmen, if his plan was going to work; and he also needed all the ships he could get his hands on. Without the count’s support he was helpless.

  -℣-

  Ragnar was concerned. His supplies of food and ale were running low yet he risked a battle if he tried to plunder the countryside through which the Seine ran. Two and a half thousand men and several hundred ship’s boys defecated daily into buckets that were tipped over the side into the river; that same river from which the ships later drank. It wasn’t surprising that an increasing number of those on the rearmost ships now suffered from dysentery.

  He cast a jaundiced eye at the thousands of Franks trudging along both banks keeping pace with his longships. He could see that many weren’t that well-armed nor did they have proper protection. Nevertheless there seemed to be a lot of them and they were accompanied by hundreds of mounted warriors.

  Finally they came to a section where the road alongside the river diverted inland for a while and Ragnar decided to seize the opportunity to disembark his men unopposed. There was a length of shingle between two low hills which could take ten ships at a time and, as one went to anchor mid-stream, another took its place until all his warriors were on dry land; although dry wasn’t quite the word as rain was falling and it wasn’t long before the whole bank became a sea of glutinous mud.

  Count Louis watched the Viking disembarkation impotently through the rain from the other bank. There was nothing he could do to warn the other half of his army as the enemy set off at a slow trot, heading inland.

  Ragnar’s scouts didn’t take long to locate the marching column of Franks. They were trudging along with the horsemen in the lead and the baggage train at the back. Osten and few of the others were all for a straightforward attack all along the length of the column but, luckily for them, wiser counsel prevailed.

  It was the Danish jarl, Grimulf, who suggested cutting the column in half, using a shield wall of a thousand men to keep the front half of the Frankish army at bay whilst their main force slaughtered the rest and captured the much needed provisions in the carts. Ragnar nodded his agreement and grinned wolfishly at Osten.

  ‘You and your men can have the honour of holding off the vanguard and the horsemen. Do you think that you can manage that?’

  The young Swede scowled. He knew that, being outnumbered two to one and fighting against cavalry was the most dangerous part of the plan. He could lose a lot of men in the process, but to demur would make him look like a coward. Reluctantly he nodded but he vowed to himself that he would get even with Ragnar one day.

  The road, such as it was - more of a muddy track in reality - emerged from a wood onto a meadow that sloped down towards the river half a mile away. About two hundred yards above the track there was a dip before the slope continued up to the ridgeline. The last of the Vikings made it into the dip just as the leading horsemen emerged from the trees. They made a brave show, two counts, three viscounts and a dozen barons led with their banner men immediately behind them. Resplendent in knee-length byrnies with splits in front and rear, polished helmets, gaudily painted shields and lances with fluttering pennons, they looked invincible.

  Behind them came a long column of riders, some wearing chain mail, but most in stout leather jerkins or padded linen gambesons. All wore helmets, mainly pots with a nasal guard, and carried shields. They were armed with a
n assortment of spears, long-handled horsemen’s axes or just swords. The leading footmen were similarly attired and equipped, presumably the lords’ personal war bands, but they were followed by hundreds and hundreds of men wearing everyday clothes and carrying an assortment of weapons from crossbows to hunting spears and from swords to woodmen’s axes.

  Most had a shield of some sort but only about a tenth had the expensive lime wood shields banded in iron or bronze with a metal boss that every Viking carried. Many were made of woven wickerwork or looked as if they had been made from an old door or table.

  They walked in ranks of five or six, although there was no real order to them. Some walked in pairs and there were gaps between various groups. None looked about them, intent on keeping the rain out of their eyes, and there were no scouts out as far as Ragnar could see.

  He waited until he thought that perhaps two thousand had passed him, then he and the young warrior carrying his raven banner stood up. Ragnar nodded at the youth and he waved the banner to and fro. At the pre-arranged signal the Vikings emerged from their hiding place almost as one. They ran down the hillside, sliding and skidding on the wet grass, yelling and waving their weapons in the air, quickly closing the gap between them and the Frankish column. A few lost their footing and took a tumble, but not enough to affect the charge.

  The noble in command gawped at the thousands of Vikings hurtling towards the column some half a mile behind him and was so stunned he couldn’t think what to do for a moment. The delay was fatal. By the time he had collected his wits, Osten’s Swedes, reinforced by Grimulf’s Danes, had sliced the column in half, killing a hundred Franks in the process, and formed a shield wall four deep across the track. He watched in horror as the rest of the Vikings proceeded to attack the half-trained tradesmen and farmers that formed the rear of the column.

  Leaderless, the Franks found themselves being slaughtered until at last someone managed to organise them. Crossbowmen and a few archers raced away from the track and formed up, sending a hail of bolts and arrows into the Vikings. This enraged the latter and they turned their attention to the bowmen.

  Whoever had taken command knew his business. Whilst one third of the crossbowmen kept up a steady fire the rest laboriously reloaded their crossbows. The next third stepped forward and fired. This, coupled with the archers, who could get off four arrows to every crossbow bolt, produced a steady rate of fire which slammed into the Vikings as they tried to get to grips with them.

  Of course, it couldn’t last and the Franks broke and ran once the Vikings got close. Some made it to the safety of the woods but the majority were cut down as they fled; not just cut down but butchered. The furious Norsemen killed the wounded and hacked at the dead bodies, mutilating them by beheading them and cutting off limbs and genitals.

  The blood soaked ground turned to pink as the rain diluted it. The Vikings had killed four hundred Franks but they had lost half that number of their own in the process. Furthermore, their preoccupation with the crossbowmen had left Ragnar with a mere seven hundred men to tackle twice that number of Franks. He soon came to the conclusion that this wasn’t going to be the easy victory he’d envisioned.

  Meanwhile, the Swedes and Danes faced charge after charge by the horsemen in their centre whilst their flanks were attacked by the Franks on foot. Osten calmly waited for the first horseman to reach him and, as the rider leant forward to aim his spear point at the Swede’s eyes, Osten calmly thrust his spear into the horse’s chest. It toppled sideways, spilling its rider onto the ground where he was quickly dispatched by an axe blow from a Swede standing a little further down the line.

  However, Osten didn’t have time to extract his spear before the next horsemen was upon him. He threw up his shield in a panic and yelled in relief as he felt the point glance off the boss. He fumbled for his sword and managed to draw it before his adversary stabbed at him again. He slashed wildly at the horse’s head and felt the jarring blow as the blade connected with it.

  In pain the horse reared up, its fore hoof catching the rim of Osten’s helmet. He felt as if he was choking and then the pressure eased as the strap holding it in place broke and the helmet went spinning away. Osten was congratulating himself on surviving when the other fore hoof struck his temple, cracking his skull.

  Word that their leader had fallen spread through the Swedish line like wildfire. The next time the Frankish horsemen charged they managed to break the shield wall in the centre and poured through the gap. However, the Danes, who had been relegated to the rear of the Swedish line, were ready for them and moved to meet them, chopping at the horses with their axes. The tactic was so effective that the gap was soon plugged with dead animals and the Danes set about slaughtering their dismounted riders.

  The remaining Franks withdrew and regrouped. The number of horsemen had been halved and their commander now sent his footmen forward again. Grimulf and his Danes advanced clear of the pile of dead and he signalled for the Swedes to do likewise. They hesitated for a moment or two, then one of their jarls led his men forward and the rest followed. Now the combined force formed into one long shield wall three deep. They were outnumbered by the Franks, but not by that much, and the Vikings were experienced fighters, whereas less than a third of the Franks had fought before.

  The Franks battled away against the shield wall but they couldn’t make much impression on it and they suffered significant casualties. Eventually they lost heart and the Vikings started to advance, a movement that became relentless. Gradually their enemy began to slip away until the number fleeing became a flood. The Franks’ rout was complete when the horsemen turned and followed the rest back towards Paris.

  Ragnar surveyed the scene of his victory. Any euphoria he might have felt was tempered by the scale of his losses. Whilst the Franks at the rear of the column had been defeated fairly easily and he had captured the baggage train, putting paid to the immediate need for provisions, the other part of the column had put up much more of a fight. The Franks had lost over a thousand men and, although his losses were perhaps only half that, it wasn’t a rate of attrition he could sustain for long.

  He had also captured over a hundred prisoners.

  ‘Kill them,’ Olaf urged him. ‘They are only more mouths to feed and if we keep them they’ll need to be guarded.’

  ‘No, I want them kept alive for now.’

  ‘Why? They are common soldiers, no-one will pay a ransom for them. What’s the point in keeping them as captives?’

  ‘I’m not sure but I have a feeling that they may be useful to me.’

  Olaf shrugged and went off muttering to himself.

  Although the Franks on this side of the river had virtually been destroyed as a fighting force, four thousand Franks remained on the opposite bank. However, although his losses had been significant, he took some comfort from the fact that one of the dead was Osten.

  He suspected that the Swedish prince would have proved even more troublesome in the long run, but without him the rest of the Swedes might decide to return home. He racked his brains trying to think how best to convince their jarls that they should remain. The most influential of their number was now Esbjörn, the current Jarl of Gotland – the very island his two eldest sons had invaded. He thought that he wouldn’t be inclined towards co-operation, but he was wrong.

  To his delight, Esbjörn agreed to remain and the other jarls had followed his lead. Ragnar might have been less sanguine about retaining him and his men if he had known his motivation. Esbjörn’s younger brother had died in the battle on Gotland and the Swede had been furious when Eystein had let Eirik go free. The jarl was determined that, if the Franks didn’t kill Ragnar’s son, then he would do so himself.

  Chapter Fifteen – The Capture of Paris

  Summer 845

  Having effectively lost nearly half his army, Louis of Arras decided to let Edmund have the men he needed. True, the Viking army had been weakened by the battle on the left bank of the Seine, but the rout of their co
mrades had disheartened his own men and they were convinced that the Vikings were invincible. Consequently, he daren’t risk meeting Ragnar in the field again.

  However, if he allowed the Vikings to capture Paris, the king would never forgive him and he would most probably be executed.

  ‘Let the Northumbrian try,’ one of his aides had suggested. ‘What have you got to lose? If he succeeds you can take the credit and if his plan doesn’t work you can blame him for failing to defeat the Vikings.’

  A broad grin lit up the count’s face.

  ‘You’re right. Send for him straight away.’

  -℣-

  Ragnar was standing at the prow of his drekar with his arm around the base of the dragon’s head as it rounded yet another bend in the Seine some forty miles from Paris. At that point the river ran in a large U shaped loop and, although the wind would have helped them along one part of the bend, it was against them for the rest so the men had to row. It was early afternoon and they were getting tired, however the light wind would be almost behind them once around the bend and the ship’s boys prepared to raise the sail. The sight that greeted them as they cleared the bend made Ragnar swear and Olaf came running forward to see what had happened.

  The river had narrowed and now it was blocked by an assortment of ships tied together gunwale to gunwale so that they stretched from bank to bank. Near the bows of each vessel the Franks had built an ungainly wooden superstructure. Ragnar could see men standing behind a parapet at the top of this tower, for want of a better word, protected by wickerwork shields spaced so as to leave a narrow gap through which archers and crossbowmen could fire.

  ‘Cease rowing,’ Ragnar called out as soon as he had recovered from his surprise but, of course, the ships behind him couldn’t yet see the barrier and the whole fleet started to bunch up, some ships crashing into others before their rowers could back water and stop.