197. The Crow Caller (3).
197. The Crow Caller (3).
It must have been the worst possible outcome.
The relief force never even entered Rouen Castle. All the supplies they had hauled in wagons remained intact—and fell into the hands of our Norse army.
"Look at this! Is this bread!?"
"Don't touch the spoils carelessly!"
"Hey— keep your hands off, I said!"
"These fellows' swords look a lot like ours? Maybe I'll swap one out while I'm at it?"
"Agh—! My tooth...! What is this, it's so hard! My tooth!"
On the road a little way from the east gate of Rouen Castle.
The scene of Tostig's marines—no, the savage warriors of the Kingdom of the Isles—scuffling with the supply column of the southern Britons over the untouched spoils was quite comical.
"...For now, let's grab this and run!"
"Alright!"
"What do you mean 'alright'! It's a camp no matter where you go, so put it down!"
Somehow, the warriors of the Kingdom of the Isles, who were already looting plundered goods from their own allies, and their commander Red Tostig inspired less indignation than pity.
Their wretched habit was likely born of necessity—they'd never survived unless they looted.
'Though honestly, half the time it feels like they do it just for the fun of it.'
In any case, they were my people now, so I had to take good care of them. Weren't they my own, even if I hated them?
[Clatter— clatter— creak— creak—]
"Ugh—"
Just like this precious prisoner beside me, perched on a rattling cart and groaning in discomfort.
"Bishop Hincmar of Reims. Are you feeling unwell?"
Hincmar, who had been shifting on the cart with faint groans, started at my voice and straightened his posture and tone at once.
"Fylkir Helgi. I thank you for your kindness. It is only the ache of a wound received in the recent fighting—nothing you need worry over."
Hincmar's voice was remarkably composed, considering he had been captured along with a handful of followers after suffering near-total losses.
On the surface, at least.
"I am glad to hear it. Once we return to my encampment, you and the brave prisoners of Reims shall receive proper treatment. You and the wounded will be cared for and will be under my good will. Should any discomfort trouble you, do not hesitate to speak."
As if he simply could not grow accustomed to the fluent Latin flowing from my lips,
his eyes became those of a man beholding something impossible, and at last, deep in those pupils, he revealed a terror hidden in their very depths. Hincmar quietly lowered his head and voiced his thanks for my kindness.
[Clip-clop— clip-clop— clip-clop—]
The sound of hooves and the rhythmic turning of cartwheels passed through the north gate of Rouen Castle. Meeting no resistance at all, we soon crossed the west gate and took the road toward the encampment.
Of course, only direct resistance was absent. Many gazes from atop the gate were fixed unmistakably upon me and Bishop Hincmar.
What sort of thoughts, I wondered, crossed the minds of the lord of Rouen and his people as they looked upon the warriors of Reims and Bishop Hincmar—men who had risked their lives to save them and had been utterly destroyed?
They were unlikely to be pleasant thoughts. Perhaps they were hoping for a miracle?
That kind of miracle—where winged angels would descend from those blinding shafts of light in the sky?
They would probably watch our Norse army's movements as we withdrew once more to the camp beyond the west gate, and when at last they were certain there was no trap, they would send another envoy.
Then who would come next?
Having butchered the relief force from Reims, would Paris be next?
The lords and generals of the Franks could not be that lacking in intelligence.
'Choose, Carolus. If you do not come, you will lose Rouen as well—and face the Norse sea surging south across the Seine.'
[Caw— caw— caw—]
Far up in the sky, black-winged birds appeared.
Crows were gathering, one by one.
*****
"Hincmar has been captured?"
When a person confronts something preposterous, the first thing that happens is a momentary blankness of the mind.
Is what I just heard—or saw—real? Is this some trick of a lurking demon or a fairy? One glances around, and then, eventually, accepts it.
After that, reactions diverge by disposition, but the response of Carolus, Imperator of West Frankia, was not rage, frustration, or despair.
"That means everything Burgred of Mercia told me, and all the rumors that have crossed the sea, were true. Helgi Ragnarsson—bold, meticulous. Strong, very strong indeed."
Carolus gathered his words in a low mutter, sorting out his tangled thoughts. His reaction could best be described as extreme wariness, extreme caution.
[Crackle— crackle—]
Carolus tossed the expensive parchment into the fire without a second glance. The gesture seemed to speak for the Emperor's stance toward Hincmar and the men of Reims, and the lords of West Frankia assembled in Orléans all bent their heads, breaking into a cold sweat.
"Gauzfrid of Rouen is appealing to me for Fylkir's aid, while my son in Aquitaine and Robert of Le Mans have already engaged in battle against the impious Salomon of Brittany. If we shed blood in battle against the mighty Fylkir of the North, the beasts encircling West Frankia will rise against us in an instant."
By beasts, he meant chiefly the Saracens to the south, Brittany to the west, the Norse to the north, and above all, his own kinsmen to the east.
No one present could fail to grasp Carolus's chilly metaphor, so they lowered their already-bowed heads just a little further.
The Emperor himself spoke casually of the blood-soaked rivalries among his own kin, but for his subordinates, it was nothing less than the disgrace of the empire and of Christendom, so they could only shrink back.
Whether they did or not, Carolus rose briskly, brushing himself off, and went on speaking.
"This Fylkir of the North is a man of culture and refinement, rare among Norsemen. He will willingly talk with me."
More precisely, he would have to be made to talk.
Rouen Castle had not fallen; only Hincmar's slightly premature response had turned to failure. Yet even the lords of Burgundy—Carolus's most stalwart stronghold in West Frankia—were visibly shaken.
Even his own kinsman from his mother's line was rolling his eyes about with an anxious expression.
'With this, how can I dream any greater dream?'
"Send an envoy to Bødvind of Flanders. Tell him I wish for him to move and join forces at Rouen."
Concealing his true thoughts, Carolus looked upon the lords who rose after him and gave his command.
The first was to set Bødvind in motion—the man he had once thrust into a death seat, who had since proven his ability and was spreading his influence across northern West Frankia.
"Convey to my son in Aquitaine that he is to use Burgred of Mercia to keep the Saracens' movements in check, and that he himself, together with Robert of Le Mans, is to strike Brittany from the west and the south. The objective is to bring down either Nantes or Rennes—one of the two."
"Yes, it shall be conveyed. Imperator."
Carolus regarded the castle steward—who was already transcribing his orders to be swiftly passed on to his subordinates—with a trusting gaze.
If only everyone would faithfully do as they were told, like this man.
Around Carolus there were too many brimming with ambition. Robert, his two sons, his brothers and nephews, and even his own daughter.
'I am weary. But this must be what my father meant by the weight of the empire.'
And now, the Emperor of West Frankia must face a man who was hundreds—thousands—of times more dangerous than those ambitious souls.
A man who, though no one could quite say how he did it, had united the rough, foolish, unclean barbarians from beyond the sea under a single banner.
What could this man possibly want?
'In the worst case, if I cede Rouen, can it be recovered later? Is there a way to substitute silver? A way to save face before my vassals?'
Though the war had only just begun, Carolus's thoughts were already reaching toward its end, growing ever more tangled.
"Those of you assembled here, let us proceed to Paris together, and from there, to Rouen. Inform the steward of Paris that Orléans will be on the move."
"Yes, Imperator. It shall be done."
"Yes! Imperator!"
Carolus surveyed the Frankish lords as they answered in unison with a satisfied look, then moved first, leaving the vast and beautiful hall behind. The lords of Burgundy hastily followed.
At last, the nobles' attendants and the castle steward also emptied the chamber, and through the widening crack of the two carefully closing doors, the cross hanging high above could be glimpsed for a moment.
[Creeeak— boom!]
But the cross, visible only for an instant, soon vanished into the shadow, and beyond the tightly shut door-gap, it was seen no more.
*****
"Advance!"
[Baaaaaam—]
[Bwoooooong—]
"Whizz—! Whizz—!"
"Twang—! Twang—!"
"Hyah!"
[Pffft! Pft!]
[Dugu— dugu— dugu—]
"Loose!"
"Now!"
"Wheel around!"
[Hihihihi—!]
[Fwit! Fwit! Shweeek— shweek—!]
[Dagak— dagak— dagak—!]
The eastern plains of East Frankia.
The Magyar movement had at last been detected by Carloman, King of Bavaria.
Soon after, Gerhard, Carloman's commander, having set out from Salzburg, confronted the Magyar host as it swept across the plain in a broad formation.
[Swaaak— swaaak! Pak! Pabak!]
"Shields up tight!"
"You goat-dung bastards!"
[Fwit! Shweek!]
"Conserve your arrows! There! Cease fire! Wait for the command!"
"Steady your hearts! Their arrows cannot pierce our shields!"
"Stand like a rock! The Franks do not waver before such attacks!"
The easternmost front of the Frankish Empire, already thoroughly versed in the ways of the nomads and their tactics.
The warriors of the Kingdom of Bavaria showed supreme patience against the Magyars, who drifted in and out of arrow range as if it were their own backyard.
[Pabak! Pabak!]
[Flutter! Flutter!]
"The order has come down! Everyone ten paces forward!"
"Ten paces forward!"
[Tatat! Tatatat!]
The advance was not a blade-sharp, unified march, but it moved in faithful response to the command.
[Pak! Pabak!]
Likewise, the fire was not a unified volley, and that made the arrows falling in staggered rhythm all the more troublesome. A few blind shots struck limbs the shields could not cover, but the Bavarian army did not halt its advance.
"Now. Return their fire."
"Yes! Send the signal! Everyone, return fire!"
[Flutter! Flutter!]
[Bwoong— bwoong— bwooong—]
"Loose!"
"Empty every arrow you have!"
[Fwit! Fwiffwip! Fwifwifip!]
Gerhard, the Grand Lord of northern Bavaria, possessed a temper like a volcano and a build to match. Yet his reputation as Carloman's most trusted sword was well-earned: the big Frankish commander watched the wide-open battlefield with chillingly cold eyes.
[Swaaak— swaaak—!]
[Pak! Pabak!]
[Dugu— dugu— dugu—]
[Hihihihi—! Pabak! Flump! Pft! Aagh!]
A few Magyar riders, their attention captured by the advancing infantry and straying too deep into the Frankish archers' range, toppled over. Shortly after, a band of horsemen, having gathered their wits, wheeled their mounts sharply and fled in disorder.
Yet both Gerhard of East Frankia and Árpád of the Magyar host knew well that, given the scale of the two forces, none of this fighting represented any great gain or loss.
"He was testing how long I'd hide and hold out—rather quick to react, isn't he?"
Commander Gerhard of the East Frankish army had his gaze fixed intently on one man.
Árpád, whose helm was adorned with all manner of brilliant plumes so that he could be recognized at a glance even from afar, looked upon the valiant Magyar tribesmen as they repeated advance and withdrawal, and upon the East Frankish army that, without wavering, slowly devoured the space before them.
"Does it not seem that the village we saw near the foot of the mountains was a fake—a decoy, I mean? Gyula."
Beside him, Kurszán—Árpád's close friend and a superb warrior who had already fought one engagement—removed his helmet to wipe away sweat as he spoke.
Árpád nodded quietly, as if the words made sense, his demeanor full of composure despite the ferocity of the ongoing battle.
"Yes. It seems their main camp lies beyond this place."
After all, the fighting of nomads was no different from hunting. And hunting, at its heart, meant seizing and devouring the weakest prey.
There was little to be gained by pressing the spot they were defending so stubbornly.
Others might have turned aside at once, but not Árpád.
'Shall I test them a little more?'
Árpád was ever the one who looked farther ahead. He wanted to see the cavalry that stood silent and unmoving amid the falling arrows, holding their ground.
"Kurszán. Do you still have strength left?"
At Árpád's question, accompanied by a wicked grin, Kurszán snorted back.
"What battle was that! I merely rode out for a stroll! Just give the order, Gyula!"
Árpád watched him with an easy laugh, then abruptly kicked his horse's flank and sprang forward. A band of horsemen surged after him.