The road began to climb. As I entered the outskirts of the town, I was surprised to see many of the buildings I passed looked abandoned and in poor repair. Others, though, were clearly inhabited.
Even the ruined buildings were imposing. Paris was not at all like Hedeby. Besides being much larger, most of the homes and structures here were not built of timber or of wattle and daub, nor the roofs of thatch. It was a town built of stone—even the streets were surfaced with it.
Ahead, beside a doorway leading into the courtyard of a large house, a dog tethered by a chain began barking and growling as I neared. My horse’s ears twitched nervously at the uproar it made. My first impulse was to shoot an arrow and silence the beast, for the din it was making would surely awaken everyone inside the surrounding buildings. But I forced myself to ignore the savage-looking hound’s snarling threats and its lunges toward me that were jerked short by the chain. I rode on, affecting an unconcerned air. Somewhere a door creaked open and I could feel eyes peering at me as I passed. Then the watcher slammed the door shut with a curse, though whether it was directed at me or the dog, I could not tell.
Within the town, most of the streets appeared to be laid out in a regular grid. The road I was on, which had approached the hill at an angle, was an exception, but it ended a short distance inside the town’s boundaries, at an intersection with a broad, straight thoroughfare that climbed steeply up the side of the hill. I followed this new road, the clip-clopping of my horse’s hooves on the stone paving echoing loudly in the empty street.
As I approached the top of the hill, the road passed a long, towering structure—a massive building larger than any I had ever seen before. It dwarfed even the count’s palace in Ruda. At first I hoped it might be the Church of St. Genevieve, the building I was searching for. But when I drew nearer, I could see that much of its upper levels were in ruins. Down along the street, recessed into its outer wall, were a series of shallow stalls, many containing wooden benches or tables for displaying wares. I realized that this was probably the town’s marketplace. What must it have been like in its glory, when the Romans still ruled this land? What sorts of wares had been sold here then? I marveled again that so great a people, so vast an empire, could fall.
At either end of the enormous market square, broad, straight roads ran parallel to each other down the hill toward the river. As I crossed the second of these I saw that it led directly to the bridge, and the island fortress.
In the time it had taken me to reach the town and ride up the hill to its center, the darkness of night had faded away into gray dawn. Somewhere nearby, a single bell rang, its peals echoing off the stone walls, signaling the approach of the morn. Cocks crowed, as if in answer. The town was beginning to awaken. I feared I was running short of time. I did not know how soon the Franks would come to the Church of St. Genevieve to offer their Easter feast prayers.
There proved to be four of the Christians’ temples among the many buildings atop the hill, and I saw what looked to be others down along its slopes. I thought the Franks’ zeal for building so many temples excessive, especially considering they worshiped only one God. They’d have been wiser to have expended their wealth, labor, and stone on a wall to defend their town, for their God would not protect them this day.
Fortunately, only one of the temples I found was connected to a monastery-like complex. I felt certain it must be the church and abbey of St. Genevieve. I wondered if Genevieve was sleeping in one of the buildings that lay before me. Once her father ransomed her, I had thought I’d never see her again. I had forced myself to put her out of my mind. Had the Norns now chosen to weave the threads of our lives together again?
“There is a road that approaches the town from the south,” I told Hastein and Ivar when I returned to where they were waiting with their men. “It will not take us long to reach it from here if we cut across country. It is the same road I left the town on.”
“Why circle around to the south?” Ivar asked. “Why not just ride straight to the town from here?”
“From this direction, once we clear the edge of the forest, the land between it and the town is all flat, open ground,” I explained. “Now that it is daylight, we would be seen long before we could reach the town. We would lose the element of surprise much sooner. But to the south, the land rises. Our approach from that direction will be through wooded hills. And along the southern road, once we draw close to the town, there is a vast burial ground. It is a very strange place, and looks to be very old. The Franks—or perhaps it was the Romans—have built stone houses there for their dead, and there are also many stone monuments honoring them. There are enough of the death houses, and they are large enough, to provide cover for you and your men to hide among, right at the very edge of the town, until it is time for you to attack.”
“And the rest of us?” Hastein asked.
“I found the temple Genevieve described,” I told him. “It is in the center of the town, atop the hill, as she said. Those of us who are disguised as Franks will need to continue on into the town as soon as we reach it and get closer to the temple. Once the Franks realize they are under attack, those worshiping there will probably try to flee to the safety of the island fortress. We must be close enough to stop them.”
“How will my men and I know where to go?” Ivar demanded.
“The road you will be on—the road that approaches the town from the south through the burial ground—runs straight through the town, up over the top of the hill, and down to the river. It is the road that leads directly to the bridge that crosses to the island, and the fortress upon it.”
Just as we reached the burial ground south of the town, dozens of bells began ringing. I feared we had been discovered, and our plan was doomed.
“Have they seen us?” I exclaimed. “Are they sounding the alarm?”
Hastein shook his head. “No,” he said. “I do not believe so. I have heard this before. Many of the Christians’ temples have bells. Though sometimes they do use their bells to sound an alarm, I think they are ringing them now to summon the folk of Paris to worship. I think we have arrived just in time.”
The front of the Church of St. Genevieve looked out over a broad open courtyard, paved with square-cut blocks of pale stone. Hastein and I approached cautiously on foot along a side street and peered around a corner into it. The rest of Hastein’s men—fifty warriors disguised as Franks—waited on horseback out of sight around a bend in the road.
As we watched, the bells began pealing again. Hastein had been correct. Some of the ringing sound was coming from a square, stone tower attached to the church in front of us. Other bells from other temples across the town joined in, filling the air with a deafening clanging. I would not like to live in this town. I did not understand how the Franks who did could stand the noise.
The square before us was crowded with folk hurrying toward the open doors of the church, answering the second summons to worship being voiced by the temple’s bells. Most were on foot, but a large party had apparently arrived only moments before on horseback. They were now dismounting near the stone steps that ran across the front of the building.
“Look,” Hastein said. “That man there, with his arm in a sling—the one helping the woman in the red gown dismount from her horse. Do you see him?”
I nodded. I did see him, and I recognized him. “It is Count Robert,” I said. I wondered if his arm had been injured in the battle. I wondered if the woman by his side was Genevieve’s mother.
“The Count is not wearing armor,” Hastein said. “Few of the men here are. They are dressed in their feast-day finery. It will make our work easier.”
Some of the men, the count included, were wearing swords. But as Hastein had observed, most were not dressed for a fight. Only a small guard of five warriors were wearing armor and carrying shields.
The count and his party waited until everyone else in the square had entered the church. Three Christian priests wearing ornate robes stood just outsid
e of the church’s open doors, greeting all who entered. One of the priests, the most richly dressed of the three, was wearing a very tall and awkward-looking hat and holding a staff with an elaborate, curved top that shone in the morning sun as if it was made of gold.
“That one is a bishop,” Hastein whispered to me. “A high priest of the White Christ. He must be the Bishop of Paris. The prisoners we take here will be rich prizes indeed.”
As the bells finally stopped ringing, the count and his party climbed the steps of the church. The five armored warriors remained with the group’s horses. Count Robert and the bishop bowed stiffly to each other. Then the count, accompanied by the woman in the red gown, walked into the church at a slow, measured pace, followed by the rest of their party. When all had entered, the Bishop and his priests followed.
“Come,” Hastein said. “Let us get back to the horses.”
When we rounded the bend in the road, we found Tore with a bloody sword in his hand, standing over the bodies of three dead Franks—two men and a woman.
“What happened here?” Hastein demanded.
“They came from down the street,” Tore answered. “At first I thought they were going to just pass us by. But then one of the men began babbling something at me. I did not know what he was saying. I feared he would become suspicious when I did not answer, so I thought it best to make sure he could not raise an alarm.”
I walked closer to where the dead Franks lay sprawled on the pavement. Neither of the men was armed, and by their dress, all three looked to be common folk. The woman had been cut down from behind. She must have been trying to flee when Tore had killed her. I wondered if she had cried out in fear, or had tried to call for help, when Tore had attacked the men folk. The bells would have covered the sound of her screams if she had.
They had doubtless been on their way to worship at the Church of St. Genevieve. Their piety had cost them their lives. What, I wondered, had they been planning to ask their God for, this feast-day morn? To protect them and their town from the Northmen?
“Do not just stand there,” Tore said to me. “Help me drag them into this alley so they will be out of sight.”
I did not move. I just glared at him.
“What?” Tore demanded, scowling back at me.
“Leave them!” Hastein barked, as he swung up onto his horse. “To your mounts. We must go.”
We rode in a double column out into the square, directly toward the guards. They watched our approach curiously, but without alarm. Their shields and spears were slung on their saddles, and they were squatting in a circle, throwing dice.
“Have you come from the army encampment?” one of them called out, standing up as we drew near. Perhaps he recognized we were not from the town’s garrison. “Who is your captain? What scara are you with?”
Hastein drew back his arm and hurled his spear into the Frank’s chest. As he fell back, other Danes spurred their horses forward, riding over the startled Franks, stabbing down at them with their spears. It was over in moments.
“Tore,” Hastein said, “take twenty men and circle the church. Post warriors on all sides, at every door. Let no one escape. The rest of you men, dismount and form a line here.” After he’d finished giving orders, Hastein raised a horn to his lips and blew a single long note. It was the signal for Ivar, telling him we were in position. A moment later, Ivar’s horn answered, acknowledging that he had heard.
The church door opened and a man peered out. The horn and the noise of the brief struggle must have drawn him. At the sight of the dead bodies, he slammed the door closed again. A short time later, the bells in the church tower began ringing furiously.
It took time to persuade the Franks in the church to surrender. Count Robert, who led the negotiations on behalf of those inside, quite reasonably suspected that to do so might merely substitute one danger for another. “How do I know you will not just slay us if we surrender?” he demanded. “As you did my warriors who surrendered to you after the battle downriver? Our scouts told us what you did. If I am to die, I would rather die fighting. At least I may kill some of you before I am slain.”
“In his place, I suspect I would feel much the same,” Hastein told me, when I translated the count’s words. “Ragnar’s sacrifice will likely cause problems in our dealings with the Franks for years to come.”
At first, the count was unmoved by Hastein’s promise that if those in the church surrendered, he would personally swear an oath upon his honor guaranteeing their safety. But in the end, Hastein’s powers of persuasion won the day. It seemed to be his threat to set the church afire and burn alive all who were in it that finally swayed the count. He walked out of the church, laid his sword upon the ground, and surrendered.
Soon messengers arrived, and told us Ragnar and his men had, with little difficulty and few losses, captured the tower on the north side of the river that guarded access to the bridge leading from that bank to the fortified island. The stone tower guarding the bridge leading to the island from the Seine’s south bank fell even more easily to Ivar’s assault. Only two Frankish guards had been manning it. They had left the tower’s gate open, awaiting the return of Count Robert and his party from their morning worship. The fortress’ gates on the island sides of both bridges were closed, however, and Frankish warriors from the fort’s garrison, manning the ramparts of the walls above, hurled spears and shot arrows at our warriors when they’d ventured out along the bridges to try and inspect them.
By the time I arrived there with Hastein, Ragnar and Ivar had already felled trees to use as rams. They were hauling the trimmed trunks onto the ends of the two bridges in preparation for a coordinated attack against the island fort’s gates.
We had brought Count Robert and the Bishop of Paris with us. Ivar greeted us as we rode up. “Tell the count to order the garrison to surrender,” Ivar said. “He commands the Frankish garrison in Paris, does he not? They are his men. Tell him to tell the warriors inside the fort that if they do not surrender, we will kill the count and the bishop here in front of them, while they watch.”
“So much for the oath and honor of Northmen,” the Count sneered when I translated Ivar’s instructions to him. “So we will not be harmed if we surrender? I should have known better than to trust you. I will not do so again, and I will not help you trick the warriors in the fort into surrendering.”
Hastein sighed. “Tell him we will not really kill him,” he said. “I have given him my word he will be safe. I will not break it. But the warriors in the garrison do not know that.”
“I will not lie to my men,” the count snapped, when I explained.
“We are wasting time with this,” Ivar said. He turned to one of his men. “Find me a rope,” he ordered. “Long enough to reach down to the bridge from up on top of the battlements of this tower.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked him.
“One of the two guards who manned this tower resisted us and was killed, but we took the other alive. No one has made any promises to him.”
I turned to Hastein. “If the garrison on the island surrenders, will you guarantee their safety, as you did those in the church?” I asked him.
“I will,” he answered.
“Let me try to persuade them,” I said.
I walked out onto the bridge. I was carrying my shield and kept it in front of me, but even so stayed far enough back from the island fort’s walls to be well beyond range from any but the hardest thrown spear.
“I wish to speak to the commander of the garrison,” I shouted. I could see the helmed heads of several Frankish warriors who were watching me from the wall above the gate.
“Who are you?” a voice answered. “I am the captain in command.”
“My name is Halfdan,” I called out. “I am a Dane. I speak for the commanders of our army.”
“Speak, then,” the voice said.
“We have captured the town,” I told him. “We have taken many prisoners. Your leader, Count Rober
t, and the Bishop of Paris are among them. You can see them there.” I turned and pointed back toward the tower on the south bank. When I did, Hastein and three other warriors marched the count and the bishop out into view upon the bridge.
“It is their wish that you surrender and avoid further bloodshed,” I lied. Behind me, I heard the Count exclaim indignantly.
“Do not…” he shouted, then cried out in pain. I turned and saw that Hastein had clubbed him down with the hilt of his sword.
“I do not believe you, Northman,” the Frankish captain said. “Count Robert clearly does not wish us to surrender.”
“We will kill you all if we are forced to storm this fort,” I argued.
He laughed. “We will take our chances.”
This was not going well. Behind me at the tower, Ivar’s man was lowering a rope from the battlements down to the bridge. A noose had been tied in its end.
“I told you we have captured many prisoners,” I said to the Frank. “We will hang them, one by one, from that tower wall, until you surrender. You will have to listen to them plead for their lives. You will have to watch them die. We will hang the Bishop of Paris and Count Robert himself, if we must.” The latter was not true, of course. Hastein had given his word. But though Count Robert might refuse to lie to his men, I felt no compunction about it—particularly if my lies might save lives.
“I do not believe you, Northman!” the Frank shouted, but his voice did not sound as certain as before.
Ivar wrestled a Frankish warrior whose hands were bound behind his back out onto the bridge below the tower rampart, and slipped the noose over his head.
“Quickly!” I cried to the Frankish captain. “It is in your power to save this man’s life—to save many lives. This man is one of your comrades. Do not make him die needlessly. You and your men will not be harmed if you lay down your weapons and surrender. We swear it. If you do not surrender, he and other prisoners will be killed, and eventually you will be, too.”
The Road to Vengeance Page 16