“They are Franks. They are our enemies!” Ragnar shouted. “This is war.”
“Hastein is right, Father,” Ivar said. “This is about our honor. We would not deserve to be called men if we abandoned it, war or not. Burn the town, if you wish. But we cannot kill these prisoners. Breaking our oath to them would be niddingsvaark.” He sighed and shook his head. “The Frankish king’s offer would have cost us nothing. It gave us victory without a fight. I cannot understand why you refused it.”
The argument had been going on all afternoon, ever since we’d returned to the island fort from the parley with the Franks. Hastein had asked me to remain with him, in case the Franks sought to negotiate further.
I thought we were wasting valuable time. It would not be easy to burn a town built of stone. The buildings, especially the larger ones, would need to be filled with combustibles. Our men should be out in the town taking care of that now. Once the Franks attacked, it would be too late. We would have to pull all of our warriors back to the island. But while our leaders argued, our army sat idle.
“I wonder why the Franks have not attacked us yet,” Ivar said.
I, too, was surprised the Franks had not attacked. They had nothing to gain by waiting, and much to lose. Sooner or later, Bjorn and our ships would arrive. The Franks must certainly have seen our fleet moving upriver to join us. Once Bjorn reached Paris, our numbers would be greatly increased, and we would also have the means to escape, if we chose to.
“It is because they fear the fierceness of our threat,” Ragnar snapped. “They do not realize we lack the will to fulfill it.”
“I do not agree,” Hastein said. “I do not think they mean to attack at all, if their king can find a way to avoid it. I do not believe he has the stomach for it. I think the Franks’ King Charles is a cautious man. He will seek a less dangerous way to resolve this.”
“Dangerous?” Ivar asked. “What danger threatens the Franks’ king? He has arrayed thousands of warriors against our six hundred. We are the ones in danger.”
“King Charles faces many dangers,” Hastein explained. “We must look at this as he will view it. A king cannot rule if his people no longer trust him and will no longer follow him. King Charles knows this. But he has been making serious errors ever since we attacked his land. He divided his army, mistakenly believing that the best way to protect his people. He expected us to avoid battle and retreat before his approaching forces. But instead he lost thousands of his warriors when we attacked. Many of his people—the kin of those who were slain, as well as members of the army who lost so many comrades in arms—will now be angry that his ill-considered decision cost so many their lives.
“King Charles also erred by failing to protect Paris. He badly misjudged how quickly and boldly we could strike. If his error were to result in the destruction of the town, and the death of the hostages, including the Bishop of Paris and Count Robert, who knows what his followers might do? Do not forget that there are three Frankish kings now, and they often fight among themselves. If Charles becomes too weak because his followers no longer trust his leadership, one of his brothers may try to take his realm.”
“So what do you think he will do?” Ivar asked.
“I believe he will look to silver to do the work of steel,” Hastein replied.
Paris was quiet that night. Most of its folk, not wishing to be caught in the midst of a battle, had fled to the encircling lines of the Frankish army. We did not have the means to stop them—nor, for that matter, the desire to. If we were forced to try to burn the town, it would be easier to destroy it if its inhabitants were not present to fight the fires.
A heavy screen of pickets, nearly two hundred of our warriors, watched the Frankish army all night from hiding places among the buildings along the outer fringes of the town, guarding against the possibility of an assault launched under cover of darkness. But the Franks did not attack. Looking out at their hundreds and hundreds of cook fires burning on the open fields surrounding the town, I wondered whether the Frankish army’s leaders were arguing like ours over what course they should follow when morning came.
The morning sun had halfway completed its journey from dawn toward noon when a handful of riders headed out from the Frankish lines, bearing a white flag and seeking another parley. Once again I rode out to meet them with Ragnar and Hastein.
The Frankish officer Lothar, who had delivered the Franks’ terms yesterday, was one of the party that met us. Today, however, a different man was clearly in charge. He wore a dark red cloak trimmed with white fur over his mail armor, and his sword belt and horse’s harness were richly ornamented with silver. He wore no helm; instead, atop his head was a heavy-looking crown of solid gold, studded with colored stones and jewels.
As our party reined our horses to a halt in front of them, the crowned Frank spoke to Lothar.
“Which one is Ragnar, their war-king?”
“There,” Lothar replied, pointing at Ragnar. “And this one,” he added, gesturing at me, “speaks for him. He speaks our tongue.”
The Frankish leader looked at me curiously. He had a long face, framed by a carefully trimmed beard—it had been shaved until its width along the line of his jaw was no wider than the strap of a helm. His hair was light brown and sparse on top, and he wore it shorter on the sides than did most of the warriors who were with him.
“My name is Charles,” he said to me. “I am king of these lands and of the western Franks. What is your name?”
“I am Halfdan, known among my people as Strongbow,” I answered. When I said the latter, King Charles’s eyes flicked momentarily to the bow I held in one hand, loosely resting across the pommel of my saddle, then his focus returned to my face. There was something about his manner—an arrogance, a haughtiness—that made me take an instant dislike to him.
“I wish you to give my greetings to the leader of your army,” he said, nodding his head toward Ragnar. “His name is Ragnar, is it not? My captain said his title is war-king. What is he king of? Is he of royal blood?”
I wondered if this Frank would find it more agreeable to deal with a king. Would his pride be too offended to be defeated by a mere pirate?
“Ragnar is the war-king who leads us,” I explained. “He was chosen by our leaders to command our army—to lead us in war. He was chosen for his skill, not because of his family or birth, though he is related by blood to Horik, King of the Danes.”
“Is this the Franks’ king?” Ragnar demanded. “What does he say?”
“This is King Charles,” I told him. “He asks me to give you his greetings.”
“Tell Ragnar I speak to him, king to king,” King Charles said. “Tell him I respect and honor his skill at war. Tell him I wish there to be peace between our peoples. Tell him I need him to leave my lands.”
“It is customary,” Hastein said, when I translated the Frankish king’s words, “when one king submits to another, for tribute to be paid. Ask King Charles if he is willing to pay tribute to Ragnar and our army if we consent to leave.” I glanced at Ragnar, and he nodded his agreement.
“Who is this man who speaks?” King Charles asked when I translated what Hastein had said.
“His name is Hastein. He is one of the leaders of our army. He is a jarl—he rules over many lands and people in the name of King Horik.”
“So this is Hastings,” Charles said, looking at Hastein appraisingly. “I know of him. He has troubled my lands before.”
The king of the Franks looked back at me. “Tribute? Yes, that has a better sound. It is more honorable to pay tribute to a powerful enemy, than to pay ransom to pirates, murderers, and thieves.”
“What is he saying?” Ragnar demanded.
“I think Hastein was correct,” I said. “I think he will pay to see us leave his land.”
12 : A Season of Peace
In the end, the process was not so different from haggling over the price of a horse—although the details were far more complicated. It was understo
od by all, of course, that King Charles was buying the departure of our army from his kingdom. But he needed additional concessions from us in order for his people to accept the bargain he struck.
Ragnar and Hastein agreed that we would release all of our prisoners. No Frank we’d captured, not even the lowest born, would be carried away and sold into slavery. They also pledged not to destroy Paris or Ruda or any of the many monasteries and churches our army had overrun.
In return, our warriors would keep all of the plunder they had already seized, and we would be paid tribute—a vast amount of tribute—in recognition of our victory. In truth, it could not be called ransom, for the sum was too great. The Franks would pay us seven thousand pounds of silver to buy peace.
King Charles explained that it would require time—several weeks at a minimum, and possibly well beyond midsummer—to raise the funds needed to pay such a sum. The king’s coffers alone, we were told, could not pay so great an amount. The churches of the land that we had not already stripped of their wealth would be pressed to contribute, on the grounds that they would be securing the safety of their own. And the nobles and common folk would be taxed.
Until the tribute was paid, we would continue to hold, as hostages against King Charles fulfilling his end of the agreement, our most valuable prisoners: Count Robert, the bishops of Paris and Ruda, and three abbots we’d captured—two from Paris and one from a monastery below Ruda. The other prisoners, including those held at Ruda, would be released forthwith. While we waited, our army would remain quartered at Paris in the island fortress. So we would not have to raid the countryside to find provisions for our men, the Franks agreed to supply us with cattle, ale and wine, and other foodstuffs to keep our warriors well fed—and hopefully content and peaceful—pending their eventual departure.
Hastein and Ragnar agreed that while our army waited to receive payment of the tribute, if any Dane injured a citizen of Paris, or took any of their possessions, they would be tried and fined by the leaders of our army. The fines would be paid to the injured Franks. If a Dane killed a Frank without justification, he would be hanged. The latter was harsh—in our own land, deaths were often settled by payment of wergild, not life for life. But no one wanted random violence to jeopardize the peace settlement, nor the payment of the tribute.
“Besides,” Ivar said when he learned what Ragnar and Hastein had promised to enforce, “Father will be delighted to have the opportunity to impose more discipline upon our warriors.”
Bjorn and the fleet arrived on the evening of the day the negotiations of the peace settlement were concluded. They’d thought they would face battle, or perhaps a hurried evacuation of our forces from the town, for large numbers of Frankish cavalry had shadowed their progress the entire journey upriver. Instead they found us celebrating our easy victory and the wealth we all would be receiving from the Franks in exchange for peace.
I was involved in every aspect of the negotiations of the peace accord, due to the need for an interpreter to facilitate the communications between our leaders and King Charles and his advisors. I found it heady indeed to be a part of so momentous an event. It was enlightening to watch such great men resolve the fates of armies and towns, and of so many people. Only a year ago I had been a slave. Now I was in the company of kings.
Once the negotiations were concluded, however, my services were no longer needed. I found myself with no responsibilities and time on my hands. I did not know what to do with it.
“I am going to make more arrows,” Tore told me when I asked him how he planned to pass the weeks until the tribute was paid. “I lost many of mine in the battle. I have only enough left to partially fill a single quiver. We cannot know when we may need to fight again.”
“I plan to eat and drink as much as I wish to,” Torvald answered when I asked him the same question. “Until I feel full to bursting. The Franks have cheeses the like of which I have never tasted, and their butter…there must be something about the grass here in Frankia that their livestock feed on. And their bread, and the wine….”
“We should come up with a plan to kill Snorre,” Einar proposed, when I spoke with him. “A message has been sent downriver to summon the rest of our ships from Ruda. In a matter of days, Snorre will be here in Paris. We are prohibited by the peace treaty from harming Franks, but Snorre is not a Frank.”
I found Einar’s suggestion the most appealing. Now that the war with the Franks was over, it was time to take steps to fulfill my oath. I intended to raise the matter with Hastein, but an unexpected diversion presented itself only two days after the peace accord was reached that distracted me from my purpose.
I was in the immense palace inside the island fort where Count Robert and his family had lived before the town fell. The town’s garrison had been quartered there, too. Now our army occupied it. Two of its rooms had been claimed as quarters by Hastein and the crew of the Gull—a small room for Hastein himself and a larger one for the rest of us. I was in our new quarters, helping Torvald and Cullain set up the ship’s cooking gear in a deep, stone hearth built into the wall on one side of the room. I found the hearth an amazing thing. A channel to carry the smoke away had been built right into the stone wall above where the fire was laid. I thought it a much better arrangement than merely letting the smoke rise through the room toward a hole in the ceiling. The air inside the room remained much clearer.
A warrior whom I did not know entered our quarters with another man trailing behind him. “I am looking for a warrior named Halfdan,” he called out. “I believe he follows Jarl Hastein.”
“I am Halfdan,” I told him.
“This Frank came to the town-side gate looking for you,” he said, indicating the man behind him. “At least we think he is. We could not understand what he was saying, other than your name and the jarl’s.”
The Frank’s face brightened when he saw me. As he hurried toward me, the guard who’d brought him turned and left. It seemed obvious the Frank recognized me, but the recognition was not mutual. Though he looked vaguely familiar, I could not place him.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I am Gunthard,” he answered. When the look of puzzlement did not leave my face, he added, “I serve Count Robert. I was with the Lady Genevieve when you captured her.”
I remembered him now. He was the Frank I had wounded in the shoulder. The one I had left in the ancient hilltop fort with the servant woman Clothilde. He’d seemed a decent enough man, and brave. I was glad to see he had survived.
“How is your shoulder?” I asked him.
He shrugged and winced slightly when he did. “It is healing,” he answered.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
Gunthard glanced from side to side, then leaned forward and whispered to me in a conspiratorial tone. It was totally unnecessary. Even if he’d shouted, no one else in the room could have understood what he said.
“I have come from the Lady Genevieve,” he told me.
“I see,” I said, but I did not. “Why are you here?” I asked again.
“The Lady Genevieve sent me to give you a message. She wishes to meet with you.”
Now I was truly confused.
“Why?” I said. “When?”
“Now,” Gunthard answered. “She is waiting in the Church of St. Severin. It is just across the river, in the town, just beyond the bridge tower.”
This made no sense to me at all. I had seen the expression on Genevieve’s face when she’d recognized me in the abbey. She had not looked as though she wished to see me again. Not then, nor ever.
It had to be a trick. Someone must wish to lure me off the island and into the town. But who would use this Frank, and the name of Genevieve, to bait such a trap?
I searched my memory, reviewing the ever-growing list of enemies I had made, but only one person seemed to fit these particulars. Genevieve’s brother had sworn he would kill me. He’d seemed impulsive and hotheaded enough to try. I wondered if he was in Paris now. He
’d been angry at me before because I’d stolen his sister and killed his cousin, Leonidas. No doubt the humiliating capture of his father had stoked his anger and offended his haughty pride even more. I could think of no one else who might be setting such a trap. Though I seemed to have made enemies aplenty among our own army, none of them would know of Gunthard or be able to convince him to act on their behalf.
The wisest course would be to not go. But my curiosity—plus, no doubt, the feelings of boredom and impatience that were already replacing the excitement of the campaign—won out over wisdom.
“Wait a moment,” I told Gunthard. I walked over to my sea chest and donned my padded jerkin and mail brynie, then took my sword belt, sword, and small-axe from the chest and armed myself. After a moment’s hesitation, I added my quiver, bow, and shield.
Torvald had been watching me curiously ever since Gunthard had arrived. “What are you doing?” he asked me now.
“I am going into the town,” I said.
“Are you expecting trouble?”
I was, but did not wish to appear the overly nervous type. “Not necessarily. No man should venture from his home without his weapons,” I answered, affecting an unconcerned tone, “because one never knows when he may need a good spear.” It was a saying I’d heard Hastein use before. I liked the sound of it.
“Hmm. Or apparently a bow, either,” Torvald said. “Your spear seems to be the only weapon you are not carrying. I think I will come with you, if you do not object. I am growing bored here.” He walked over to his sea chest and retrieved his own sword from it, but left his armor and shield behind.
“Who is this man?” Torvald asked as we followed Gunthard through the palace. I noticed the Frank seemed familiar with it, certain of where he was going—much more so than I was. I supposed he had lived here before our army had evicted the count’s household.
“He serves Count Robert,” I answered.
Torvald looked surprised. “Where is he taking us?”
The Road to Vengeance Page 18