Saddle leather creaked as the old knight leaned down toward Peter. “You’ve spoken with Count Odo?”
“Oh, yes, milord,” Peter said. “I copied De Re Militari for him.”
“What’s that?”
Peter paused, wondering if he should talk about it. Most knights frowned on reading and writing as something unmanly.
“Come, come, you can trust me,” the knight said. “I’m one of the count’s friends.”
Peter’s shoulders twitched. It might have been a shrug. God had aided them so far. He must continue speaking the truth. He mustn’t lie. Otherwise, God might not help him get back to Paris and rescue Willelda.
“De Re Militari is an old Roman book of war, milord. I copied it for Count Odo.”
The old knight scowled, looked confused.
“The ancient book was in the Church’s library, milord. It belonged to Bishop Gozlin. It was my understanding that the count wished to use the tricks and tactics taught in the book and use them against the Northmen.”
The old knight laughed, glanced back at the youths on their palfreys. The youths glanced at one another, perhaps not understanding the joke. “Now that is interesting news, monk. It is very interesting. Count Odo has used this ancient, Roman book to great effect. He has obviously become a man of war to have kept the Northmen at bay for so long.” The knight tugged at his moustache. “He has become like his father, Robert the Strong.”
“He means to kill the Northmen, milord,” Peter said. “He means to see them all dead.”
“Does he now,” the old knight said. He grinned. “You must come with me, monk.”
“Milord?” Peter said.
Lupus’s hand strayed toward his knife-hilt.
“Duke Hugh of Neustria died seven days ago,” the old knight said. “It happened on May twelfth. The call has gone out and now many counts and barons ride for Tours to decide upon the duke’s successor. I’m beginning to think that Count Odo might be our man.” The old knight tugged his moustache, grinning down at Peter. “I want you to come to the council. You will speak to the barons of West Frankland and tell them what you told me.”
Peter and Lupus traded glances.
“Milord,” Peter said, “I’m not sure that—”
“I’m Baron Walafrid of Rouen, and I want a Protector who wants to kill Northmen. You will speak to the barons about Count Odo, and maybe you can stir some of them to join you on your pilgrimage to Paris. By my understanding, Paris could use some fighting men. The Emperor gathers an army in East Frankland, but he is slow to face Northmen. Our Emperor is something of a coward when it comes to Danes.”
Peter bowed his head, confused. Knights on horse could not slip into Paris unseen. He had envisioned floating downstream while hiding amongst a raft of reeds. With swaggering knights beside him, the Danes were certain to spot and butcher them before they could reach the city gates. How was he supposed to rescue Willelda then? Had he been wrong about the relic?
Peter cleared his throat, forcing a smile. “I’m sorry, milord, but—”
“Lads!” the old baron shouted to the squires. “It looks as if you’ll have to escort the monk and his serf to Tours.” He gave Peter a hard smile. “I’m going to insist on this. Your pilgrimage can wait until we make certain that Paris doesn’t fall to those sons of Satan.”
Peter wilted. “Of course, milord, it will be as you say.”
“That’s right,” old Baron Walafrid said. “It will.”
57.
Near the end of July and with a sister of the nunnery at her side, Judith stood on the walls of the Cite near the Church of Saint Etienne. Fear twisted her stomach and made her clutch the end’s of the shawl that she’d wrapped over her head. She was stuck behind these walls, a mouse with a thousand hungry cats waiting to devour her. She was always trapped behind walls. Everything had seemed so clear when Bishop Gozlin had died. Count Odo held Paris against the best the Danes could hurl at them. Then those vile berserks had climbed the walls at night and opened the gate into the Merchant Quarter. Silos had fallen, more than half of their food stocks. Too many valiant soldiers had also died that night. According to what she knew, they were stretched too thinly along the walls.
She had grown thinner these past weeks, as despair had gnawed her. She missed Odo. That had surprised her. Stories of his hard fighting, his recklessness had torn at her heart. She was responsible for that, and it ate at her. Now the end approached. She stared at the marshaled might of the Northmen and knew fear as never before. Did the hunger do that? She realized now as she faced death that power wasn’t so sweat as love. She had made a terrible mistake. Worse, she had sworn binding vows. She wore Christ’s ring. It was no longer possible to run into Odo’s arms. She tightened her hold of the shawl.
Why had the Danes taken so long to muster their brutal strength? Had they merely toyed with them all this time? Oh, Paris was doomed. She was doomed. She choked down a sob that tried to wrench out of her throat. She refused to cry. She had made her choice. She had chosen power and authority over love. Her inheritance didn’t seem so important now. It all seemed vain.
“There are so many, madam,” the old sister whispered.
Masses of Danish archers lined the seawall of the Merchant Quarter. They wore bright tunics and stared at Paris like hungry wolves. Weeks of sniping had proved that by yanking a bowstring to his cheek, a Danish archer could send an arrow across the swirling waters of the Seine and to the north wall of the Cite. Such arrows lacked hissing power, however. This Judith knew by speaking with monks who had patrolled the north wall. She also knew that if such an arrow struck unprotected flesh it could still wound. Flights of arrows from masses of archers would find targets, especially if the soldiers of Paris were otherwise occupied. Teams of Danes wrestled springalds into position. Springald-driven javelins had proven a deadly menace these past weeks. They reached Paris with hideous strength, able to pierce the stoutest shield and kill the bearer. Only the battlements and ducking fast enough saved a soldier from those. Onagers also waited to deal death. Judith hated the onagers. Last week, a stone had crushed her dog, killing the little dear before her eyes.
If it were only the archers and springalds that Paris faced…
Downstream of Paris floated a horde of dragon-ships packed with shouting Northmen. Each of those fierce warriors wore mail armor like knights and held brightly painted shields. They waited for the signal to attack, meanwhile blaring horns and acting like eager hounds. Even to Judith it was obvious that they planned a direct attack against the Cite. It’s what Bishop Gozlin had always feared. He had walled the island, but because of the lay of the isle, there were small juts of land where a determined foe might jump ashore and set a siege ladder. The Danes would be vulnerable then, easy prey to Frank javelins and dropped boulders, but there were so many Danes. If the Danes kept coming, surging up the ladders… Judith didn’t see how Paris’s few defenders could stop them.
She’d listened before to Abbot Ebolus speak about Odo, how at times the count had stripped the defenders from one place to bolster another. The Danes must have discovered that clever trick. On the south side of the Seine, facing the walls of South Town waited serried ranks of Northmen. Those tall heathens bore shields, spears and teams of ladder men. Among them waited more hated onagers and many young Danes with armfuls of javelins. South Town’s walls were the strongest, but soldiers still had to man them. Count Odo could not strip defenders from it today. Why, even upstream of the city waited a flotilla of smaller boats. The Danes had carried those on their shoulders, splashing them into the river. Danes hooted and shouted from them now, forcing soldiers to garrison the upstream battlements. Paris faced destruction from every side. The city had its walls manned with hunger-weakened defenders. Every able-bodied priest, monk, serf and cobbler stood on the walls. Their grimy hands gripped spears and shifted battered shields. Every knight left, wounded or not, waited on the battlements. Even so, there were not enough. The women of Paris stood with them
, their task to drop stones on the enemy.
Judith shivered. She didn’t want to die. She wondered why she had thrown away love for authority and position. She had been a fool, but it was too late now, much too late.
Her fingers clutched the ends of the shawl. The arrayed host of the Great Pagan Army had marched or rowed into position early this morning. Then they had waited. The waiting clawed at her. She wasn’t a fighting man, trained to endure this. Yet she suspected that the waiting ate at every defender. The Danes were cruel.
“What’s that over there, madam?” the sister asked.
Judith shook her head, uninterested in anything but her misery. She had thrown away love. She had authority and fleeting power. Her lips thinned. She must use what she had. If she couldn’t go back to Odo, she must survive and see what tomorrow brought. How could she or anyone survive the wolves of the North? Perhaps… perhaps there was a way to survive by being the prioress. Yes, the Danes would likely destroy her nunnery, but nobles and serfs alike gave to nunneries. Maybe after the Northmen left, nobles would help rebuild it. New serfs would eventually drift here and begin to work her lands. Well… work the nunnery’s lands. Yet she would control it.
In her heart, she jeered at her cunning. How was she supposed to forget this awful siege? The city was dying on its feet. Maybe this attack was mercy. Hunger and sickness had shriveled the people’s courage, and death had taken far too many. The graveyard had become more crowded while the churches and houses had grown empty. Crosses stood jammed together in the cemeteries. On many of those crosses were pinned a white lily of Paris. Judith turned bitter. It was incredible that this festering, flea-bitten, smelly burg in the middle of a river had stood so long against the terrible pagans. Why, even if the Emperor raised a host and marched to their aid… could the Emperor beat the proud Sea King? No one was bolder, more aggressive and haughty than a Northman, no one more deadly in battle.
“Is that a Dane?” the sister asked.
“What?” Judith snapped.
“Over there on the bridge,” the sister said. “Look, he’s walking out and he carries a flag.”
***
As Judith stared where the sister pointed, Odo and Robert stood on the western battlement. Each wore mail, with a sword belted at his side. Odo expected the main attack here, from the dragon-ships as they attempted to storm the island, raise ladders against the wall and end the siege in butchery.
“Why didn’t they do this sooner?” Robert asked.
Odo was dazed at their strength, at the sheer number of Danes. Sigfred must have called in every wandering warband. The answer why seemed clear to him. It had to do with those first few days in the half-built tower of the Petit Pont. They had fought off the first attacks. They had slain Danes and gravely wounded others. Siege battles were always the costliest in terms of dead and wounded. Vegetius had taught him that. Walls multiplied strength. Even pitching a javelin ten feet upward stole the missile’s deadliness, while hurling a missile ten feet down greatly added to its ability to pierce shields and smash through armor. Stout walls and brave defenders meant that the attacker had to accept many dead. The Danes weren’t an army of conquest like the Romans of Julius Caesar, but looters and raiders. Looters weren’t ready to accept many dead. Looters wanted to live in order to enjoy their loot.
The siege had lasted too long, however. The looting Danes were finally taking it personally. Maybe they felt insulted that Paris had withstood them for so long. The Danes had half the city. The other half should fall. In their pride and anger, they must have decided that they would storm Paris no matter what it cost.
It was probably that simple.
Odo’s only hope was that he could kill enough of them on the first assault to make them reconsider a second mass attack. It was possible, however, that he killed so many, that the Danes became enraged and sent wave after wave against the walls. Or, of course, the city might fall to this attack.
“What’s that?” Robert asked.
The gate to the Stone Tower, the one in the Merchant Quarter, opened and out stepped a Dane bearing a white flag. He began to trudge across the bridge and toward the gate in the Cite. The sister beside Judith pointed at the herald. Many Franks pointed.
“What does he want?” Robert asked.
Odo nodded shrewdly. “To get us to surrender without a fight.”
Robert scowled. “Should I order archers to shoot him?”
Odo knew that’s exactly what he should order. But he was so tired of it all. He hadn’t any word of the Emperor. He was all alone on this isle and faced the might of the Great Pagan Army. His thoughts drifted as the herald waved his white flag. Dead Gozlin had stolen Judith from him. Why couldn’t he forget that? He should put it out of his mind. But he couldn’t put it out of his mind. He wanted her… maybe even more than he wanted to kill Danes. It was harder these days to remember that old vow. He was hungry most of the time, and the endless siege and losing Judith… it had gnawed at his will.
“Odo?” Robert asked, shaking his shoulder. “What should we do?”
“Count Odo of Paris!” bellowed the herald. He had powerful lungs. “King Sigfred wishes to speak with you. He is willing to meet you in the middle of the bridge, just you and he. Are you willing to talk, Count Odo?”
“Is this a trick?” Robert asked.
Odo knew he shouldn’t speak to Sigfred. He needed to stay hard and show the defenders of Paris how to stand like iron. He wondered, however, if he couldn’t trick news from Sigfred by talking to him.
“Count Odo!” the herald shouted.
“Archer,” Robert said. “Can you send a shaft through his heart?”
“Milord?” the archer asked.
“No,” Odo said. “Don’t shoot. I’ll meet with Sigfred.”
“Is that wise?” Robert asked.
“That will depend,” Odo said.
***
Sigfred the Sea King, the massive barbarian leader, jangled in his mud-colored armor. He bore a huge shield and carried a spear. He wore a ceremonial horned helmet. His huge black beard gave him dignity. He strode toward the middle of the bridge as if he owned the world. He grinned as he eyed the battlements of Paris. He laughed as Count Odo limped toward him.
Odo only limped slightly, but it was there. It galled him. He should have sent Robert. Robert looked so much like their father, their once strong father. Odo sighed. He was slight compared to the huge Dane. Yet his armor gleamed, as did his helmet and shield. At his side swung his knightly sword. Once, it had been his father’s sword. A Dane had killed his father.
I am who I am, thought Odo. That wasn’t terribly profound, he knew. He simply had to use what he had. He hated these Danes and he feared them. Look at the archers lined on the walls. They could kill him in an instant.
I must be brave. The Danes respect courage.
“Count Odo!” Sigfred shouted. He spoke heavily accented Frankish.
The Sea King had stopped, but Odo limped several steps nearer. “It is a fine day,” Odo said.
“A fine day to die?” Sigfred asked.
“There is no good day to die,” Odo said.
Sigfred drew in a deep breath through his nostrils. “Look at my army, Count Odo.”
“I have.”
“It is huge.”
“Yes,” Odo said.
“It will storm Paris this day.”
“Your army will die on the walls of Paris this day,” Odo said. “Then the Emperor will chase the remnants out of Frankland.”
The Sea King ignored the reference to the Emperor. “You don’t have enough knights to defend everywhere at once.”
“I suppose we shall find out if that is true or not.”
Sigfred smiled. “Count Odo, you can save your life. You can save the lives of your brave knights. Why die needlessly? You have fought well. Now you may ride your warhorses, take your swords and armor and live to fight another day.”
The idea hit Odo hard. Why not ride away? Let someone else
worry about these Northmen. Why had it fallen onto him to stop this Great Army of Danes? He knew why. He had been useless all his life. Then the Danes had chased him into a fox’s den at Louvain. The Northmen had burned Franks in wicker cages. He had returned to Paris burned in his soul. That monk had copied De Re Militari. Now he had learned how to fight. If he didn’t stand against the Danes, who would?
“Think of my offer, Count Odo. Life is sweet. Death is long.”
Odo dipped his head. “I will give you silver if you take your army and go.”
Sigfred laughed. “I will take your silver today in any case.”
“Danes will die,” Odo said.
“The weaklings among us will die,” Sigfred said.
“We will burn your vessels as they land on the isle.”
“Bah! You’ve used up all your pitch. You don’t have any left.”
“Of course we don’t,” Odo said. “You keep telling yourself that. I’ve always wanted to burn your hated ships. They’re a curse on Frankland.”
Sigfred eyed Count Odo. “How much silver?”
“Seventy pounds.”
Sigfred shook his head. “We have besieged your city a long time. My warriors want treasure. Seventy pounds of silver—it is not enough.”
“Soon the Emperor arrives.”
Sigfred sneered.
It was either excellent acting, or the Emperor was still far away in East Frankland. That embittered Odo. The Emperor should already have marched for Paris. He should already be here.
“Once I leave this bridge,” Sigfred said, “we shall attack until Paris is dead.”
Count Odo peered at the waiting dragons. He looked up at the Danish archers.
“We shall sweep you from the walls,” Sigfred said.
Count Odo turned back to glance at Paris. He saw Judith up in the battlements. His mouth tightened. He faced Sigfred. “We have stopped you, Dane. We have stopped you for many months. Attack if you wish. I will kill your army on my walls.”
“You are a fool.”
The Great Pagan Army Page 34