“I have heard of him,” Peter said. “I didn’t know he had a daughter.”
Odo poured himself more wine. “In his youth Engelwin was as fiery as you. Only he gave a child to a nun of Saint Genevieve. He attempted to hide this poor daughter in the nunnery, but he failed because he found that he loved her. In his last year, he took Judith out of the nunnery and let her live in his household in Paris. She, who had never known anything but the cloister’s four walls, grew intoxicated by secular life. Engelwin wished her to take holy vows. But then he died, and before Gozlin could have her dragged into the convent, she ran to me.”
“You, milord?” Peter said.
“I took her in.” The smile slipped. “She is beautiful beyond words, brother. I gave her my protection. In my household, she is safe, no matter how much Gozlin storms against it. Never will I give her up!”
“Is this the great change, milord?”
Odo laughed. “No. The old Odo thumbed his nose at Gozlin, at all the abbots and their so-called pious horror. The new Count came to life because of the Emperor. This spring—at his assumption of the throne of West Frankland—the Emperor ordered the Western Barons to march into Lotharingia. We were to defeat the Danes encamped at Louvain. We were to do this before the Great Pagan Army could reunite and assault the empire once again. As I’m certain you know, they have attacked various and different portions of Frankland for the last seven years.”
“What happened, milord?”
17.
Count Odo spread his hands on the table. He had thin fingers and narrow wrists. They matched his lean face. Peter had the impression of a fox, a cunning, quick-witted creature, alert and fast to laugh. Only the Count didn’t laugh now. He rose, and his nimble fingers adjusted the fine linen of his tunic. The garment hung limply, as if there was not enough meat underneath.
The Count began to speak, softly at first:
“We gathered at Compiegne and were slow in arriving. There was no real leader, for the Emperor had taken himself east and had left no single baron or count in charge. He had believed that Duke Hugh would take the affair in hand. Had not the Duke directed late King Carloman’s army? Had not the Duke been the West Kingdom’s premier solder? He and Louis III had won the great victory of Saucourt. The Duke had been war-captain under Louis’ father, the Stammerer, and even under the grandfather, Charles the Bald. Unfortunately, Hugh never showed himself at Compiegne and finally confirmed the rumors. The Lord Protector of Neustria was sick with the red cough. I might have told them that.”
Odo smiled sadly.
“I might have saved us time with my knowledge, but I doubt many would have listened. I was in my element, you see. I feasted nightly. I didn’t feast on roast venison or on platters of sizzling pork. No! I swilled the finest wines. I guzzled like the drunkard I was. Ah, and the games we had!”
The smile sharpened.
“The barons of West Frankland united as we had not under King Carloman. An Emperor summoned us, not just a petty king. Did that not portent great victory for the resurrected empire? Charlemagne had conquered the world. That empire now stood united, as it had not for almost a hundred years. We envisioned mighty deeds, and so, in fine raiment the nobles arrived at Compiegne. Their oxcarts brimmed with hams, flour and barrels upon barrels of wine. They brought their best brunia and swords and most restive chargers. Each decked himself with rings and some with silks and costly furs. For too many years, each miserly baron had kept his men at home in his castles. They had not cared if Northmen despoiled their neighbors, as long as they had swordsmen enough to beat off the rapacious sea rovers. The barons have grown independent and surly toward their lords, but that wondrous moment in Compiegne revived old ways and beliefs. The empire was reformed and everything would become as it once had been under Charlemagne.
“With such wealth to win through wager I went berserk, as the Danes say. I plotted and planned with drunken deliberation. Then I diced with apparent recklessness. You must understand that I was not quite the same youth who the Duke had bearded in Tours. He had neatly trapped me, brought me skinned, as it were, into his chambers and there decided my fate. What I had learned was that a noble, a count especially, needed armed men behind him. I knew even then that I was not a man to inspire confidence, not one whom the fighters of the world flock too. However, I knew one whom they did adore: my brother. Duke Hugh himself had given me the insight. Now Robert and I—they named my brother after my immortal father—have always gotten along. He is big and burly and loves to fight. Donning armor to hunt or to war, it is alike to him. Where he is strong I am weak, where I am strong he is weak. Though Robert is a doughty sword-swinger, in things of the mind he is apt to be simplistic. Notice that I didn’t say simple. He is not daft. Just as I am not completely bereft of strength, so he is not utterly barren of wit. Now I had reasoned it thusly: if the Duke wanted to use my brother to usurp my birthright, why not others to do likewise? I summoned Robert to Paris, and I told him to bring his friends. They were like him: hot-blooded, noble-born and brave to a fault. Each brought his chargers, his brunia of mail and a sword. In Paris I used the wealth my mother had willed me to gift them silver cups and golden spurs. I made them my men and Robert my Master-of-Horse. They protected me in Compiegne, and I was in need of their blades but more of their arrogant boldness. For I wagered great sums and I won even greater. The rattle of dice and shocked amazement as I scooped in the piles of winnings turned me reckless. Do you know why I won?”
Peter shook his head.
“I used clever dice. They jumped to my will.” Count Odo laughed. “In two words: I cheated. I think some of the nobles began to suspect my larceny. Now I’ve said before that I read. Most delightful of all to me has been Suetonius, a historian of Ancient Rome. I have read of twelve Caesars, great rulers of the old world. Most noble of them was Caesar Augustus. He, too, I had learned, loved to dice. He had won from his friends heaps and piles of gold. Often, when they were about to leave in dismay, the olden Emperor had shoved back to them their losses. He wished them to keep playing. Now, I considered this as the barons of Frankland began to murmur in their cups against me. I thereby took half of what I had cheated from them and gave it back to each. Their surprise turned into happy delight. They praised me as the most generous of men, and they realized that such a good fellow certainly couldn’t be using crooked dice. And that, is what I wanted them to think. I tell you this to let you know that I grew rich in Compiegne and to give you an idea of the wealth that freely flowed into the city.
“Unfortunately, Duke Hugh was not coming, so in council, the older counts and barons decided it was time to march. We departed Compiegne and headed north to Lotharingia. Because we lacked a leader, it was as a disorganized mob that we journeyed. By the Emperor’s leave, we collected the customary water, firewood, fodder and straw in this friendly territory. Because we lacked a stern leader, we took more that we should. We pillaged, I’m afraid. Each of us by law brought wine and flour, and grain and spelt for the warhorses, and of course all our arms, armor and tools for our carpenters and blacksmiths. We had clothes, much excess equipment and big tents such as you and I now sit in. We carted all this in our oxcarts, enough to last us three glorious months. Many brought cattle on the hoof and that added herders and their dogs. Perhaps fully half our host was composed of servants: the wagon-drivers, herdsmen, cooks, carpenters and blacksmiths. There was a nightly racket at the anvil and then groomsmen tacked horseshoes onto our steeds. In such a great herd of horse, many shoes wear out everyday. This baggage train trailed off into the distance, some days over four or five miles long. Like a worm, our host crawled, roughly ten miles a day, the pace of our oxen. Merchants also followed and so did camp followers: easy, most splendid women. Some soldiers became so caught up in the reverie that they sold their swords for more wine.”
Odo shook his head. “Surely Charlemagne had never gone to war like this.
“It rained in Lotharingia. The land turned soggy and foggy. Arguments
arose as to the best route to Louvain. Some departed us for their chosen routes. Some straggled far behind. It was then that men began to consider toward whom it was that we marched. These were Northmen, hardened warriors who had harried our land for many a long year. Before twilight each night, debates arose as to the best way to defeat these raiders. Some were for trickery, others a foot slogging attack and others yet suggested that certainly the Northmen had built a fortress. Best, said those, to lay siege and starve the Danes into submission. What happened was this; we learned it from our scouts. The Danes had indeed built a burg, a great encampment of dirt and timber. They knew of our coming, had surrounded their burg with many horse-traps. Upon our arrival, they marshaled themselves into a host just within the woods of Louvain. They challenged us. They jeered. They asked us why we had come to seek them out when they would surely soon come and seek us!
“As I said, some of our barons said this and some said that. There was great debate in the council tent. Outside it, soldiers listened, sometimes shouting agreement or booing at a hated idea. It was no way to command an army. Even I knew that. We divided. We took up sides. Some barons collected under—bah, what does it matter now these names. Many barons and their men dismounted and marched for the woods on foot, arrayed in a phalanx of old. Some stayed a-horse. I listened to Robert, and he said that horsemen gained the true glory. I had no opinion one way or another, but I knew that my foot aches if I walk upon it too much or if the weather is wet. I remember riding with Robert as we rode away from the foot soldiers. They marched singing toward the Northmen in the woods. It was a fine sight and the banners waved proudly. We on our stallions followed Count Ragnold of Maine. We circled wide and then threaded into the forest. Our hope was to take the Danes in the rear and thus by surprise. It had sounded wise in the council tent, a clever stratagem. But in the damp forest, with heavy drops dripping on our heads, we ducked sodden branches and I think lost our way. Roots tangled the hooves of our stallions and often lightening-felled trees blocked the path. Then, while we were in the confines of that bleak world of wood, we heard a great and horrible yell, a bellow like a thousand demons might make. Ragnold urged us on. Robert and his friends shouted. We galloped and crashed through the branches, hewing our way. Finally, we came upon a scene of woe. The great army of Frankland streamed away in full retreat. They hurled aside their banners. Shields littered the ground as well as glittering blades. Horrible men mad as wolves howled and whirled mighty axes over their heads. They bounded like hounds after the Franks and with incredible sweeps of their axes detached heads from bodies. That was the first time I ever saw berserks. They are inhuman, the true children of Satan.
“How our army had been defeated in so short a time I do not know. Robert charged the Danes. It was an act of unusual courage. I hung back. The sight of defeat terrified me. Then Northmen appeared before us as if by witchcraft. Utter terror stole my wits. I fled back into the woods. I thought nothing then about my riches, the furs I had won or the silks and silver, the costly cups and heaps of gems. No, I fled as one who only yearned to save his skin. Life alone worried me. A root tripped my horse. The poor beast broke his neck against a tree, but I pitched into loam and escaped such an ignoble fate. As I lay in sick grief, I heard horns braying in mockery. They came; Northmen hunted. I rose up and fled again, and soon my foot grew swollen and I limped and the horns drew nearer. If you can believe this—I am very thin—I found a fox den hidden in tall grasses and near a great oak tree. I stared at that den in the dark earth. It beckoned in a supernatural manner. I thrust my head into that hole, sniffing. I could not smell the acrid odor of fox. It was an old den, and it was wider than many I’ve seen. Then a horn brayed again. It was dreadfully near and my foot, oh how it ached. I slithered into that den like a snake. Dirt squeezed my shoulders. I panted in fear. I shoved harder and dirt rained onto my hair and slid under my collar. It was horrifying and the air was close and tight. I crawled into the womb of the earth, certain that I was to be swallowed alive but preferring that than being captured by Northmen. It was a long tunnel. I crawled, wriggled and shoved myself deeper in as I blessed all the saints in Heaven that I was thin, so very skinny and sickly all my life. Any fat on any part of me and I’m certain there I would have lodged myself for life, a short and starving life. I came to the living quarters, and it was wider than the tunnel. Somehow, I squeezed myself around and freed my dagger. Deep in that dank den, I lay with my teeth bared and knife ready. I shook and trembled. My teeth chattered until I was afraid I might shatter my molars. Never, never, never had I known how truly frightened a man could be.”
Odo wore a haunted look, perhaps at the memory. He quaffed from his cup, and with the back of his hand wiped his lips.
“I lay there all day. The battle had begun in the morning. I heard Northmen prowling near. They laughed, bragged and herded pleading, begging Franks. Horns blew. Time crawled with infinite slowness. Once, a Northman stuck his head in the den. I knew because what little light shined darkened into nothing. They spoke, and their voices carried swiftly to me. A man shouted down. I lay still. They argued. I’m certain they saw the marks of my passing. A bow twanged, but the arrow could not negotiate the twists and turns as I had. Finally, they left. What Northman wished to crawl down there? I was certain that they had left a guard or a cunning trap. When night came, I slithered out of the fox den. I forced myself to move. Bravery didn’t bring me above ground, but an overwhelming need to empty my bowels. They had left no guard. I suppose they hadn’t cared enough about one lone Frank trapped deep in the Earth. Once I was out, I was horrified that I had dared crawl into it. I set out in the dark, stumbling for anywhere but back in the hole.
“The woods were damp. I was cold, hungry and filled with despair. I heard the roar of a great fire, and from a distance, I spied a sight that will forever burn in my memory. Men had been crammed into a great whicker cage and the cage hoisted into a great tree and under it, a fire lit. The hordes of drunken Northmen cheered and bellowed. Whether the pagans sacrificed them to Thor or Odin, I do not know, but the doomed ones howled and screamed such as men surely sing in hell. The noise sent me running. It was then, I believe, that the change first began.
“How frightened can a man become? I had feared all day in that fox den. I had trembled myself out of shaking. I had no more tears to give, or so I thought. As I ran—or shall I say rather that as I hobbled and hopped—something new entered my soul. At first, I wasn’t aware of it. Then I realized that I shook worse than ever, but this shaking was different from before. I had become… I’m not certain what it was I felt. It was something akin to anger. I had not yet gained real courage to be truly angry, but it was some kind of cousin to rage. Tears wet my cheeks, but these were no longer tears of shame and cowed fright. No, they were tears of frustration: that there was nothing I could do for the captive Franks. They were tears of impotence—my own, I’m afraid. I think that I vowed terrible things. Who can remember what he says during such a wicked emotion? I raved. Some of what I said I remember as if in a dream. I promised, I know not whom, that if I survived I would kill Northmen. I promised to learn how to fight, how to lead men. I pleaded with the night, or maybe God heard me. I swore that if I escaped I would make the heathens pay for burning Franks, for making me crawl into a pit of dank dirt. They had slain my father and probably my brother. Now I wanted Northman blood to soak into the dark loam. I wanted it as much as I had ever wanted a maiden. It became a consuming passion. It gave me strength I never knew I possessed.
“That night I hobbled and stumbled. In the fog of morning, I came upon horses. It was a small herd. Some had saddles, others bridles. They perked up at my appearance. I almost spooked them. I must have looked a sight, but I wooed that herd. With great patience, I coaxed them, until at last I put my hands on a fine stallion. He was braver than the others were. I stroked him and talked with him a long time before I led him to the others. I mounted and led six of those horses with me. One still had a sword strapped to its
side.”
Count Odo rose from his bench. In silence, he stared into his memories. Finally, he regarded Peter and smiled faintly. “What more should I say? I straggled home as so many did and as so many did not. My brother and most of his friends had survived. Ah, my brother, he rejoiced and hugged me when again we met. He is a nobler, better man than I. His friends praised me. I appeared to them with my horses, found armor, sword and a small band of toughened survivors. A grizzled old veteran had schooled me on the trek home. He was no noble, no knight, but a man who had seen many wars, many battles. I had listened countless nights to his collected wisdom. I drank his words as a thirsty desert does rain. He died of his wounds soon thereafter. By feasting on his knowledge, I realized how weak and thin I was in the ways of war. I had become ravenous for this new food. Now—
Odo swiveled his head, staring at Peter. “Tell me, Brother, why do you think I have told you all this?”
“I’m not certain, milord,” Peter said. The sound of his own voice was strange to him.
“You and I are alike. We have both seen the Northmen burn. We have both escaped them. You took up an axe and chased them. I have taken up the sword. You wish back your maiden. I–” A dreadful smile twisted the Count’s face. “I have a maiden, and perhaps I will be forced to sacrifice her. For you see, there is something that Bishop Gozlin has that I dearly, most utterly must have. I think he will give it to me if I give him Judith.”
The Great Pagan Army Page 9