The Great Pagan Army

by Vaughn Heppner

  “Do you expect trouble, milord?” asked a knight.

  “Certainly,” Odo said.

  “Then why are we here?” asked the knight.

  “We’re matching wits with the Northmen,” Odo said. “The Sea King desires us to give up the city. Now I give him another option to mull over. Let us sap his will as he tries to sap ours.”

  “I see movement by that mound over there,” Robert said, pointing with his chin. The redoubt was the largest obstruction, but there were several other mounds, heaps of dirt, flanking it on either side. The one Robert pointed out was sixty feet away.

  “What sort of movement?” Odo said.

  “I’d swear I saw a man peek over the top,” Robert said.

  Odo’s stomach tightened and his mouth grew dry. He felt so exposed out here. Was he being a fool? Yet what else could he do? He had to try and match the Bishop’s weakened resolve by weakening the Northmen’s will.

  “The Sea King gave us his word,” Odo said. “Do you think he is without honor?”

  “I think he’s a murdering Dane,” snarled Robert.

  “Hail, Count Odo!” shouted the lead Northman of Valgard’s party.

  The Northmen fanned out in a semi-circle as Odo drew rein. Ten feet separated them. Two of the horses pawed the ground. One snorted, not liking the scent of Northmen.

  Odo licked his lips and forced himself to grin. He must appear confident. He hardened his voice. “You are the Sea King’s herald?”

  The massive Dane waited for the interpreter. The horn-helmeted Northman with the outrageous red beard soon nodded and spoke rapid Danish. The interpreter listened and then took another step nearer Odo. “Valgard speaks for Sigfred, who is the leader of this mighty host. You have fought well, Count Odo, but now it is time to realize the uselessness of holding out. You must—” The interpreter halted his speech as Odo held up his hand and barked out words.

  “Listen to me!” Odo said. “I hold the city. None will ever take it. Even now, the Emperor marshals the hosts of Frankland and Lombardy. Duke Hugh has sent me word and the Neustrian barons are ready to ride. In the interest of my people, I am willing to recognize that you are strong. I will pay Danegeld to any who swears before his gods to leave my land. Yet this you should know. I swore before my father never to give up what was mine. Paris will never fall. This I swear before God and all the angels of Heaven.”

  The interpreter studied him. Then he turned toward Valgard. As he did, two Danes of the parley party cast nervous glances toward the nearest dirt pile.

  Odo caught it. So did Robert, who loudly cleared his throat. The other knights grew wary.

  Massive Valgard listened to the interpreter. The huge Dane with his ceremonial horned helmet thought a moment, also studying Odo. Then he began to speak to the interpreter. At that moment, frothing, wild-eyed berserks leaped onto the mound where they had obviously been hiding, the mound Robert had pointed out. The giant of a berserk led them, his men equally terrifying and savage.

  “Treachery!” roared Robert. He jabbed his spurs into the flanks of his stallion. The huge warhorse leaped in pain and rage. The two Danes who had been eyeing the mound now brandished daggers and shouted war cries. Robert viciously and expertly swung his lance. The foot-length of steel slashed the throat of the foremost Dane. The other stumbled back as the warhorse crashed his shoulder against the Dane. The other Northmen, including Valgard, staggered backward, bellowing in surprise.

  Odo heaved his lance at a Northman, throwing it hard, and then he savagely yanked the reins of his warhorse. He, too, spurred his stallion, but not at the enemy. His steed nickered in pain and bolted back toward the city. It was inglorious flight. The only salve to his honor was that every other knight galloped as fast as he could toward the open gate. Even Robert had wheeled his warhorse and fled before the racing berserks. Spit foamed from the mouths of those demonic warriors. The berserks screamed insults and their eyes were crazed. Even worse, they leaped and bounded across the ground almost as fast as the horses.

  “Javelin men!” roared Odo. “Javelin men, skewer those mad dogs! Kill every last one of them!”

  Odo dreaded the berserks. They were demented, and yet, maybe this was for the best. The wisest way to deal with such ferocious warriors—fighters who sneered at armor—was to hide behind a wall and shower their flesh with arrows and javelins.

  “Get ready!” he bellowed up at the men on the battlement, and then he thundered through the gate, drawing rein and with difficulty turning his steed.

  One, two, three, four, the other knights galloped through the opening. Then Robert was through the gate. Militiamen heaved against the massive gate, slowly swinging it shut.

  “Now!” a captain shouted from upon the wall.

  Franks threw javelins. They grabbed more and kept throwing, heaving. Some of them threw almost straight down.

  Odo slid to the ground, bracing himself. The other knights did likewise.

  “Hold!” the battlement captain shouted a few moments later. “That’s good enough, lads,” he said from upon the walkway. “We made those monsters run.”

  “I stuck one of them,” boasted a lad. “Did you see it? I made him bleed.”

  Odo dashed up a ladder. The militiamen at the gate heaved the great iron bar onto its brackets, working the bolts into place. Odo wondered what this meant that Sigfred the Sea King was an oath-breaker. He began marshaling arguments to use against Gozlin’s desire to hand over the city to these treacherous pagans.

  49.

  Sigfred raged. The proud Viking leader strode back and forth before the flickering trench-fire of his skalli. The skalli was a log-constructed feasting hall that he had ordered built many months ago. Massive log tables lined both sides, with a trench-fire dug down the center. Sigfred wore a black cloak and wore his byrnie of mud-colored mail. His great black beard bristled and it almost seemed as if sparks flew from his eyes. He clutched a heavy spear, stopping every so often to glare at Bjorn. The other berserks sat behind their leader, Heming among them. They were weary, since most earlier had entered the berserker fit as they had tried to slay Count Odo. Now they suffered the withdrawal that always came after the fury of Odin.

  “You are my man!” thundered Sigfred. “I am not yours! I gave my oath to the Count. You broke it.”

  Bjorn sat on a stool, his eyes downcast.

  “Do you challenge my right to rule?” Sigfred said.

  Bjorn raised his monstrous head. “You are royalty,” he rumbled, “of the line of kings.”

  “Then you admit that I am the master,” Sigfred said.

  “I am your man,” grunted Bjorn.

  Sigfred’s eyes narrowed. He stepped nearer the champion. He pointed the spear at him. “You broke my oath.”

  Bjorn’s wide nostrils flared. “You are of the line of kings, descended from Odin himself. You rule, not I. Yet I am Odin’s man, O King. He gives royalty such as you berserkers like me so we may charge with fury and slay the king’s enemies. Sometimes, though, when temptations come, it is the duty of Odin’s man to do the right thing.”

  Sigfred eyes burned with passion. “Do you dare to pit your will against mine?”

  Bjorn shook his head. “I am your man. Yet I ask you to consider this, my King. Nowhere have the Franks been able to stand against us. For years, we have marched undefeated in battle. Whenever they marshal in strength, there we have destroyed them. Now two hundred Franks, two hundred real warriors have holed up in this pile of stones. They have thumbed their noses at us. They have shit on our axes. If we accept Danegeld now and leave… men will say that they have defeated us.”

  “That will be a lie!” snarled Sigfred.

  “A lie or the truth, men will say it,” rumbled Bjorn. “Maybe it will give other Franks and Saxons the courage to stand against us. No! We must break this burg and crush it utterly, my King.”

  Sigfred breathed like a bull. His voice grew ominous. “Who rules here?”

  “You rule,” Bjorn said. “Y
et an honest man gives his lord advice. I have spoken to Lord Odin. I have communed with him, O King. Ever since winning Attila’s cup, I have heard the words of Odin with greater understanding.”

  Sigfred grew uneasy. He lowered his spear and plucked at his beard. “Valgard says you are a wild man, a foaming hound who knows neither friend nor foe.”

  Bjorn laughed darkly. “Did I swing at him? No, none of us did. I know who is friend and who is foe.”

  Sigfred looked hard upon Bjorn. After a time he nodded. “Hear my rede, berserk. You speak with Odin. Good. Ask him how to gain the city, for your life hangs upon that knowledge.”

  “What do you mean?” growled Bjorn.

  “I mean that my bodyguard will not break my word!” roared Sigfred, slamming the end of his spear against the floorboards. “Take the cup of Attila, swill blood if you must and then beg Odin for a revelation. I do not care how you do it, Bjorn, but since you say Odin demands that we stay here, than I demand that you give me the city or die. You must buy back my sworn word with blood, with rapine and the death of every Frank in the city. But Odin help you if you fail.”

  “I will not fail,” rumbled Bjorn, his small beady eyes burning afresh with fanaticism.

  ***

  As Bjorn sought his Odin answer, pestilence swept through Paris, knocking more defenders off the walls than any Danish attack. Word of this gave the Sea King hope, for despair obviously sapped the Parisians. He could see it in the faces of the defenders on the walls. In an exchange of words, the nitpicking Bishop dropped his most frustrating demands. Perhaps Count Odo ran the defenses, that cunning bastard. The Bishop, however, ruled the city’s heart. The Sea King agreed to every of Gozlin’s conditions but one. Sigfred then sent his wizard into the city to parley. In a small room adjoining the Church of Saint Etienne, the old Bishop wavered, desperately clinging to a single point: Sigfred had deceived Count Odo earlier. The Sea King had broken his word. How could he, the Bishop, now trust Sigfred’s word? The wizard explained that berserks were like wolves, better than hounds at hunting, but sometimes not as trustworthy. The wizard assured Gozlin that the berserks would stay outside the city. The wizard, his rat-like eyes aglow, then pointed out that Paris’s saints had deserted the city. Why otherwise did plague strike the defenders but not the besiegers? Gozlin paled, his wrinkled hands trembling. He asked for one more night for prayer and consideration. He would give an answer on the morrow. The wizard agreed and confidently strode out of the domed town.

  It was April 15, 886.

  The next morning on the 16th, Bishop Gozlin lay dead in the Church of Saint Etienne. By an odd set of circumstances, the Northmen learned of the death before the Parisians. To the north gates, Sigfred sent heralds who announced the grim news. Exhaustion, shock and the enormity of the Bishop’s death leeched the people’s courage. Wails of despair soon echoed off the walls loud enough that Danes waited outside in expectation.

  “The Bishop’s death will help us more than his surrender would have,” prophesied the wizard.

  Clad in his black byrnie of mail, Sigfred towered over the Finnish wizard. They stood in an earthen redoubt opposite an enemy gate. The Sea King kept muttering, “So close. So very close.”

  The small wizard with his wisp of a beard urged Sigfred to good cheer and ticked off his gnarly fingers as he gave the reasons why. “One,” he said. “Everyone knows that Count Odo never was a warrior. He plays a lute, spends hours reading old parchments, and word is he pines for a woman.”

  “He’s the son of Robert the Strong,” muttered Sigfred. “And you know how often the Count has bested us.”

  “As a figurehead only,” said the wizard. “He was a tool in Gozlin’s hands.”

  “Odo and Gozlin hated each other.”

  “An illusion,” said the wizard. “By it they made it seem as if the Count was his own man. I suspect Gozlin used him as a counterweight in his bargaining with us. Now that Gozlin is gone, the Count will wilt. If that stubborn old Churchman lost his fire, the poet cannot long keep his?”

  The Sea King angrily turned on the Finn. “Have you watched him on the walls, the way Odo swings his sword?”

  “Poets are actors just like our skalds,” the wizard said in a soothing voice. “The Count is a straw man. Gozlin’s will kept those farmers on the walls. That iron will is now gone. Hear them wail and take heart, O King. Paris will soon be yours.”

  Sigfred grunted, with his lips pressed hard together. He hated Paris. He hated this burg of stone. He was sick of besieging it, and yet, he didn’t know how to leave gracefully, how to leave without losing face. If Bjorn failed him… Sigfred’s features hardened as he thought about the berserk champion. He would have to be careful with Bjorn. Bjorn was like a bear, his bear today and kept on a chain. Yet even chained bears could turn and rend you to death. Bjorn had caused his kingly word to be broken. Sigfred well realized that it was a challenge to his authority. He could not let that stand. The trouble was that he feared Bjorn. Sending men to kill the berserk might get those men killed. Trying to kill Bjorn himself, might get Sigfred the Sea King killed.

  The big, sea king of the Great Army chewed his beard, weighing options, wondering what course to choose.

  50.

  Count Odo heard the same wails of despair as Sigfred. Worse, he saw the dejected faces, the fear-filled eyes. Men tore their tunics. Women pulled their hair and scratched their cheeks. Many people wandered aimlessly on the streets. Those on the walls patrolled with slumped shoulders and pale features. He had won himself more time and now he alone ruled Paris. Now, however, he had to give the city new heart, a reason to keep fighting.

  Odo returned to his house, deep in thought. He soon banged a fist onto a table. He had to act fast. Vegetius had said as much. Vegetius had said that morale depended on a commander’s resolve and infusing that resolve into the populace.

  Robert barged into the house as Odo pinned on his best cloak. “We’re doomed!” shouted Robert, his thick hair sprouting in many directions, as if he had just woken from sleep. “The people are soulless, brother. It’s pitiful. Let’s saddle our stallions and break out while we can.”

  “Flee?” Odo asked, shocked to hear his brother say so.

  Robert flung his arms into the air. “I know your book speaks otherwise. I would keep fighting if anyone else had the balls to do so. But why should we die uselessly?”

  Odo fingered his cloak, staring at the floorboards. Hearing Robert speak like this, knowing that his brother had lost heart… his brother had been like a rock during the siege. He had leaned on Robert and taken great comfort from him. If even Robert had now lost—Odo clutched his cloak. He shook his head and looked up at Robert.

  “I cannot flee,” Odo said.

  “What?” Robert blinked at him. He ran a big hand through his hair. “You’ve gone mad reading that book. Yes, yes, I agree it’s given you battle cunning. But, Odo, look at the people. They can’t fight looking like whipped curs.”

  “You’re right,” Odo said. “That’s why I must speak to them.”

  “Speak?” Robert said. “What can words do?”

  Odo quelled the queasy stir of his gut. The people despaired. They had lost their rock. Gozlin spoke to heaven. Gozlin had the ear of the saints and through them the ear of God.

  What can I give them that will fire their hope just as strongly? I must give them hope. I must fill them with courage.

  First, he needed it himself.

  Odo donned black gloves, giving himself time to think. He soon nodded brusquely and forced himself to speak sternly. “Comb your hair. Dust off your best cloak. And wipe that look of fear off your face. Are you afraid of Danes?”

  Robert slapped his chest. “I’ve killed more Danes than anyone.”

  “Then stand up straight and square your shoulders. I’m not finished fighting. Come and show the people that you’re not finished either.”

  “To what purpose?” Robert asked.

  “Let us go and find out.”


  ***

  Odo and a handful of his most stalwart knights shouldered through the milling masses packed into the market square. People cried out upon sight of him. They plucked at his garments as tears streamed down their cheeks. They asked him what was going to happen to them now. Others begged him to ask the Northmen for mercy.

  “We’re lost without our father!” wailed a man.

  Odo noticed that the priests weren’t here. They probably prayed in the churches for Bishop Gozlin’s soul. He thought briefly about Judith. Before this day was through, he would press her against his flesh again. Then he shoved the pleasant thought aside for this more vital matter.

  “Make way!” Odo shouted.

  His knights took up the cry, roughly shouldering people out of the way.

  “Tell me how you can fight Northmen with men like these?” Robert shouted into his ear.

  Odo grabbed a trumpeter, holding the man close as he shoved and pushed toward the hangman’s platform. He pushed the young man up the stairs, following close behind as he gave orders to his knights to let no one else onto the wooden stage. Then Odo looked out upon the sea of people. He hadn’t expected this. It curdled his stomach. What could he say? They had loved Gozlin. Now they were like helpless children. If he couldn’t cure them of this fear, the Northmen would no doubt coming boiling over the walls. He had to lance this despair now. How, that was the question. Doubt filled him. Who was he? For years, he had drunk wine and gambled. He had played the lute and read Latin verse.

  At his side, he balled his gloved fingers into fists. Maybe reading Latin verse was just the thing. He had read the great speeches of Julius Caesar and others. They had swayed the multitudes. Priests swayed men by words. Why couldn’t he sway them? Odo took a deep breath. Yes, he should keep doing as he had done learning from Vegetius. Today it was time to take a page from the great commanders of the past. He drew his sword. Before this surging sea of weeping, wailing, hair-pulling humanity, he waved the sword, trying to gain their attention.