by H A CULLEY
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Ragnar stood with Olaf, Lagertha and the Danish jarl, Grimulf, on the bank of the Seine looking across at the island called the Île de la Cité on which Paris was built. There were only two bridges which gave access to it: one from the right bank and one from the left. The bridge on their side of the river was defended by a small fort at their end and a gateway with a tower on each side of it at the far end.
A couple of arrows had landed a few yards short of them when they had first appeared, but the garrison in the fort didn’t waste any more once they had established the fact that the Vikings were out of range. If they were out of arrow shot, they would certainly be too far away to reach with crossbows.
‘We need our ships,’ Olaf grumbled.
Indeed it did seem that the only way into the city was from the river, unless he wanted to lose a lot of men trying to capture one of the bridges. Then Ragnar had a stroke of luck. Four knarrs appeared from upriver and, evidently oblivious to the presence of the Viking army on the far bank, moored alongside the Paris quayside. Immediately men appeared and proceeded to load the four merchant ships with cargo from one of the warehouses.
‘Olaf, go and pick out two dozen strong swimmers.’
‘You want to cut the knarrs out tonight and use them to ferry our men across the river?’ Olaf guessed.
Ragnar nodded.
‘They are to only take their daggers. This needs to be done quietly. If the alarm is sounded they will be killed before they can row the ships over here.’
Olaf, even at thirty seven, was one of the strongest swimmers there was and he decided to lead the foray. He didn’t tell his friend because he was certain that Ragnar would forbid it. He’d been Ragnar’s right hand man from the day they first met and, although they weren’t as close now as they had been, the Viking leader depended on his advice and delegated much to him.
Of course, Ragnar had been generous when it came to lavishing rewards on his friend, but, apart from a small farm near Arendal, these gifts had always been hack silver and arm rings, just like any other warrior. Officially he was still a bondi whilst others had been rewarded with promotion to jarl. Officially jarls were elected by those they led, but if Ragnar supported someone it would be a foolish man who opposed his candidate.
He knew why Ragnar had refrained from making him a jarl; it would take him from his side. Well, that was too bad. Some jarls had already fallen during this summer’s campaign and more would do so in the taking of Paris, of that he was certain. After he brought Ragnar the ships he needed to make the crossing he determined to ask to be made jarl as his reward.
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Æthelred had disagreed with his father increasingly as he grew older. Now Eanred and he had argued violently. The Strathclyde Britons had invaded Cumbria once more and this time they had captured most of it. Rædwulf, its ealdorman since the death of his father, had fled south into Luncæstershire and was trying to raise an army to retake his shire. Of course, he had appealed to Eanred for help, but the king had done nothing. He seemed content to lose Cumbria from his kingdom, something that had appalled his son.
‘Why aren’t you at least summoning the Witan to discuss the situation?’ he almost yelled at his father in his frustration.
‘Don’t shout at me, you impudent boy,’ Eanred had replied calmly. ‘I am doing something. I pray to God daily to keep the rest of the kingdom safe. What you don’t seem to understand is the precarious position we are in. Beorhtwulf of Mercia has forged an alliance with Wessex because of the Viking raids on both their coasts and Northumbria stands alone in England as an independent kingdom. Æthelwulf of Wessex is the dominant partner and he’s made no secret of his desire to unite all of England under his rule. We need to keep our men ready in case of trouble on our southern border.’
‘That’s all you think about – Deira. What about Bernicia and the rest of your kingdom. Letting the men of Strathclyde run amok in Cumbria sends the wrong message to the Picts. They may have been quiet in recent years but now that Drest mac Uurad has won the struggle for the throne, he may well be tempted to invade Lothian to match Dumnagual of Strathclyde’s advance in the west.’
Eanred shrugged. ‘The Lothian nobles are an unreliable lot. They still oppose my choice of Anson as Ealdorman of Islandshire. Let them guard the north against the Picts. At least, it’ll stop them plotting against me.’
‘Expelling Edmund of Bebbanburg and putting Anson in his place was a stupid idea, and all because you tried to exhort money from his brother and failed. I’m not surprised that they feel little loyalty to you. Especially as you have never visited the northern part of your kingdom, nor given them anything in exchange for the taxes they pay you. I’m just surprised that they haven’t deposed you from the throne of Bernicia and re-established it as a separate kingdom once more.’
‘Be very careful what you say,’ his father hissed at him, rising from his chair, purple in the face with rage. ‘Most would regard that as treason. By rights, I should have you thrown into a cell until you learn some respect.’
‘Respect has to be earned and you have failed in that regard for many years, now, father.’ Æthelred spat back. ‘Perhaps it’s time you retired to a monastery. After all, you spend most of your time in the one here or at Whitby. You should have been a monk, not a king.’
Eanred raised his hand and slapped his son hard across the face. The young man looked shocked for an instant. He lifted his fist to strike the king down but recovered control over himself just in time. The penalty for striking the king was death, though he doubted that the Witan would impose it in his case. He abruptly turned on his heel and strode out of the room and through the hall beyond, calling for his gesith to saddle their horses.
‘Where are we going, Æthelred?’ the captain asked, alarmed at the look of fury on the ætheling’s face.
‘North, to raise an army to defeat Dumnagual and recover Cumbria.’
This announcement was greeted by cheers and several of the other warriors in the hall rushed to get ready to accompany Æthelred. No one thought to ask if the king had sanctioned war against the invaders or, if they did, they refrained from voicing the question. His failure to act had lost Eanred most of the support he’d enjoyed hitherto and, though he might continue to sit on the throne, it was Æthelred that the warriors of Northumbria now looked to as their leader.
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Olaf swam slowly and silently towards the far side of the Seine, his movement through the water scarcely making a sound as he led his twenty men towards the four laden knarrs. He’d been afraid that they might leave when the labourers had finished loading them just as dark fell, but their captains had evidently decided to wait until dawn before sailing.
The clouds obscured the moon and it was only thanks to the candles and oil lamps inside the few taverns along the quayside that silhouetted the knarrs partially against the darkness that guided him in the right direction.
Each of the men following him was tied to the next man by a thin cord to make sure no one went off course. As each man reached Olaf as he trod water under the lea of one of the ships, he untied the cord.
Olaf swam to the wooden pontoon to which several small boats were tied. From there some wooden steps led up to the quayside. A few minutes later all his men joined him and lay flat on their bellies on the cold cobbled surface of the quay. Once he was satisfied that there was no one around, apart from the few men keeping watch aboard the laden knarrs, he sent his men off in small groups to capture the ships.
He slithered over the gunwale of the knarr he had picked and landed on the deck, crouching down, his eyes darting about him. The ship’s guards were huddled together aft playing some game of chance under the light of the storm lantern mounted on the stern rail. They were so intent on their game that they didn’t hear the five Vikings moving slowly towards them until a cry from another ship alerted them.
By then it was too late. Olaf and his men seized them and cut the throats of the four men bef
ore they could add to the cries of alarm from the other knarrs. Olaf cursed and had to think quickly. The noise would soon bring the city watch running to see what was amiss and men were already spilling out of the tavern a hundred yards away.
One of the unfortunate Franks had been armed with an axe and Olaf now pressed this into the hands of one of his men.
‘Cut the mooring lines of all the ships, quick as you can. Then go and row the small boats tied to the pontoon out into the river and tow the knarrs over to our side. Now move!’
Luckily for the Vikings only one of the ships had put up a fight. Although normally four seamen would be no match for five Vikings, the odds were against the latter - armed as they were with just daggers - once the Franks had picked up their weapons and shields. One enterprising soul threw a rope around the bow post of the ship on which the fight was still raging, then he and his friends towed it away from the jetty.
Olaf’s ship came alongside it and he leaped onto it carrying a Frankish shield and a sword he’d picked up from the deck of the ship he’d captured. In the darkness the Franks thought that his shield meant that he was one of them, which made it easy for him to cut the first man down. By this time two of the Vikings had been killed and another was seriously injured. However, they had also killed one of the Franks, which evened up the odds a little.
Two the Franks tried to spear the remaining Vikings whilst the third turned to face Olaf. He was armed with a heavy axe and, once he had tried to chop Olaf down and failed, his fate was sealed. The Viking thrust his sword through the base of his throat whilst he was still off balance. He collapsed onto the deck, where his blood stained it black under the yellow light of the lantern.
The outcome was now a forgone conclusion. The two Franks threw down their weapons but Olaf didn’t have time to deal with prisoners. The Vikings threw the two of them over the side, together with the dead bodies.
Now that all four knarrs were nearing the far bank the boats let go the towing cables and those on board laboured at the oars to propel them the last few yards. Olaf collapsed as he felt the keel ground on the shingle of the far bank, partly from effort, but mainly with relief.
The next morning the captured knarrs, filled to capacity with warriors, made the return trip. As soon as they had discharged their human cargo they returned to bring the next few hundred across.
Ragnar had expected resistance to his landing but the city remained ominously silent. He led the first few hundred men into the city but found it virtually deserted. Those who had remained after the initial exodus had fled as soon as they heard that the Viking horde had captured the four knarrs.
However, some poor souls were unable to flee. As Ragnar threw open the door of the first hut he came to his nose was assailed by a stench which he couldn’t identify at first. Then he made out the dead family of five lying on their cots in the gloom. It wasn’t until one of his men lit a torch so that he could see better that he realised that the corpses were of a couple and three small children; all bore the unmistakable buboes and blackened feet and hands that characterised bubonic plague.
Chapter Sixteen – From Disaster to Victory
Paris 846
After the hasty abandonment of the city, Ragnar ordered it to be burned to the ground. However, a few of his men had already been infected by the dead and dying and the plague began to spread amongst the others.
The one positive occurrence was the discovery that the monastery of Saint Denis to the north of Paris hadn’t been abandoned. Some of the monks put up a futile resistance and were slaughtered but many, including the abbot, were captured. Such was the latter’s faith in the protection of Christ that he hadn’t even bothered to send the monastery’s treasures to a place of safety.
However, the spread of the plague amongst the Vikings, coupled with the dysentery that some still suffered from, vindicated the abbot’s belief in the retribution of God. Unsurprisingly, Ragnar was worried that the abbot’s incessant preaching about the White Christ and the vengeance he was visiting upon the heathens was undermining his men’s morale. He therefore threatened to cut out the old man’s tongue unless he kept his mouth shut.
The warning seemed to have little effect; indeed the abbot seemed to relish the thought of suffering for his beliefs. Ragnar was about to carry out his threat when news arrived about the advance of the Frankish King, Charles the Bald, with an army six thousand strong towards the Viking camp on the Seine just to the north of Paris.
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At just fifteen Jarl Edda had been proud to have been chosen by Ragnar to look after things at home; though he would far rather have been allowed to accompany the raiders to Paris. Like many youths, he had a greater faith in his own abilities than was warranted. When the Swedes who had managed to escape made it safely back to Uppsala a few months earlier, they had maintained that Ragnar’s campaign had ended in failure. Of course, they made it sound worse than the reality to explain why they had fled. They maintained that Ragnar was dead and most of his warriors with him.
Edda’s first reaction had been panic. Most of the bondis and their sons over the age of sixteen had gone with Ragnar, leaving mostly boys and old men to defend Adger, Alfheim and Jarl Grimulf’s lands in Northern Denmark. However, he soon came to see that this presented him with a golden opportunity. The eldest of Ragnar’s surviving sons, Ivar the Boneless, was not yet nine and far too young to rule. As the only jarl left in Adger he saw himself as the new king.
‘You’ve heard the rumours?’ Bjorn said to Ivar and Sigurd.
‘Tales spread by treacherous Swedes,’ Ivar replied, spitting onto the earthen floor of the king’s hall in Arendal. ‘They deserted him; there is no proof of father’s death. For all we know he has captured Paris and will return a hero laden with treasure.’
‘I overheard Edda talking to the old bondis. He seems to believe the stories are true,’ piped up Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye.
This was said tentatively in his high boy’s voice. At only six his two elder brothers tended to ignore him, classing him with the youngest, five year old Halfdan. At this Ivar’s eyes narrowed.
‘If he really thinks that father is dead, that would leave him as the ruler of Adger.’
‘What difference does that make?’ Bjorn asked. ‘Father left him in charge anyway.’
‘Yes, but if he doesn’t think that the king or any of the other jarls will return, he may well seize the throne and promote his friends to replace the missing jarls,’ Ivar explained impatiently.
‘But if father isn’t dead, he’ll come back and depose Edda, so what’s the problem?’ Bjorn asked, puzzled by Ivar’s evident concern.
‘We are growing older day by day and Edda will want to get rid of us before we grow up to challenge him; that’s the problem.’
‘Oh, you think he plans to kill us?’
‘Well, I would if I was in his position,’ Ivar replied bluntly.
‘So, what do we do? Flee before he can murder us?’ Sigurd asked, his eyes wide with fright.
‘No, we kill him first.’
That night Edda crept into the chamber at the back of the king’s hall that the four brothers shared. Three of his closest friends, all of whom he had promised to make jarls once he was king, followed him in. Silently they stood above the four sleeping boys, who lay under wolf skins to keep them warm, their eyes on Edda. When he nodded, they stabbed down with their swords. The points sank into the boys and, in their trepidation at what they were doing, they stabbed again and again until it occurred to them that the bodies were remarkably unresistant.
Edda pulled back the skins covering the boy he’d been stabbing to find nothing underneath except a couple of rolled up sheepskins. He cursed and whipped around as the door crashed open.
Torgny the lagman stood there with Ivar and Bjorn standing on one side of him and one of the elderly warrior who guarded the king’s hall on the other. Behind them Edda was vaguely aware of other old men carrying spears and shields.
‘Jarl
Edda you are accused of attempting to murder...’
He got no further as Edda launched himself at the two boys with a scream of rage. The jarl raised his sword, intending to bring it down on Ivar’s head but Bjorn was too quick for him. The young boy thrust a long dagger into Edda just under his belt and the jarl doubled up as the shock of the abdominal wound momentarily paralysed him. His momentum knocked Bjorn from his feet and he fell with the fatally wounded jarl on top of him. Edda would die in due course, and a stomach wound was a painful way to go, but in the meantime he was still dangerous.
Edda struggled to get up but, before he could regain his feet, Ivar thrust his own dagger into the young jarl’s right knee, causing his leg to collapse under him. The savage glint in the young boy’s eye was a good indication that he hadn’t finished with his attacker, but the men who’d entered with Torgny pushed Ivar and Bjorn to one side and two of them grabbed Edda.
Others swiftly disarmed the other three without further injury and they and Edda were dragged outside. Edda was left to die in excruciating agony whilst his accomplices were thrown into a pit to await judgement by their fellow bondis at a meeting of the Thing.
The next morning the Thing was quick to condemn the dead Edda and his three friends. Their status as bondis was revoked and they would become classed as thralls. However, their sentence was deferred for twenty four hours. If they were still in Agder at the end of that period they would be enslaved. Perhaps their fathers would have pleaded for a lighter sentence, but they were all away taking part in Ragnar’s raid on Paris. They had kept their lives, but little else. Inevitably they became exiles with no means of existing except as mercenaries.
With Edda dead that only left two other jarls, and both were Swedes who lived in Alfheim. With the memory of Froh’s rule still in their minds, few of the Norse bondis wanted to appoint one of the Swedes to replace Edda as ruler of Ragnar’s three kingdoms. Whilst the fate of the other would-be assassins was quickly decided, it took the Thing over three hours to decide who should rule them pro tem. In the end they appointed Ivar and Bjorn to rule jointly with Torgny the lagman. It wasn’t a satisfactory long term solution, but everyone hoped that Ragnar had survived; everyone, that is, except the ambitious Ivar.