209. Rules Set by Man, Rules Set by Nature (3).
209. Rules Set by Man, Rules Set by Nature (3).
The mood in Rouen was dreadful.
The downcast gazes of the people scattered across the damp ground as heavy as their spirits, and sighs and laments made the muggy air of the city heavier still.
The women no longer sang, and even the carefree children did not run through the streets, as if their whole bodies were bound in heavy iron chains.
No matter how high the walls or how deep the moat, in the end, a fight was won by the will of the people within.
When the relief force led by Hincmar, Bishop of Reims, was brutally crushed at the eastern gate of Rouen's fortress, the people of Rouen still believed that Imperator would yet come to save them—but now they no longer knew what to place their hope in.
Imperator's army was majestic and clearly strong, but unbelievably, the foe that West Frankia faced was stronger still.
The people of Rouen could not know the exact numbers, but they knew that many of West Frankia's warriors had died before the walls of those Northmen, and, grievously, that many of West Frankia's warriors had sunk before the moat of Rouen's fortress.
Could we still fight?
Should we not simply give them what they wanted and withdraw?
Such questions would not pour forth upon a faction riding a wave of victory.
But West Frankia was unmistakably being pushed back in this war, and the people could do nothing but keep staring up at the high palace where their leader resided.
'The unrest among the people is severe.'
Likewise looking down upon the people's gazes, the ruler of West Frankia, Carolus, had already made up his mind.
"Duke Gauzfried."
"I am here, Imperator."
"My soldiers have fortunately withdrawn to the northern gate of Rouen's fortress, but they are in no condition to contend with the enemy's strength at this moment."
He did not yet know the precise number, but nearly a thousand warriors had died or been wounded in the assault on the enemy's walls, and a little short of a thousand more had absurdly lost or forfeited their precious lives before the moat of Rouen's fortress.
This was the toll of a single day, from only one engagement and the retreat that followed.
In Carolus's mind, his assessment of Helgi Ragnarsson and the North Sea's strength had now settled as the gravest and most extreme of dangers.
The greatest problem for Carolus's army was not the two thousand warriors rendered physically incapable of battle, but the remaining eleven thousand warriors who had taken a massive blow to their morale.
The North Sea army had confidently pushed forward into the void left by the withdrawing West Frankian forces, and now showed no hesitation even about fighting in the open field.
Everyone here would surely feel which way the momentum of battle had tilted.
To overturn it, something different was needed, and time besides—but, regrettably for Carolus, the Fylkir of the North Sea was a commander who knew how to grip initiative with certainty.
In addition to boldly pressing forward, their longships had moved down the Seine and disembarked Northmen from within. The moment he heard the report delivered by the captain of the wall garrison, who had witnessed that scene vividly, Carolus knew the fight here was already over.
And Gauzfried was a nobleman well-versed in reading his Imperator's inner thoughts.
"My Imperator. In my view, since their momentum is fearsome and they are tightly united as one right now, we could fight and win, but I worry about what comes after."
'Fight and win?'
Suppressing the doubt that naturally made his head want to lift, Carolus raised one eyebrow as if intrigued. It was a signal to continue.
Gaining confidence from this, Gauzfried let a sinister light show in his eyes and worked his mouth without pause.
"Every Frank knows that Lothar in the east is devoted to Your Imperial Majesty, but is not the human heart something that sways this way and that like a blade of grass? The voices of treacherous wretches ceaselessly reach his ears, and who knows what reckless act he might commit."
"Duke Gauzfried. It would be best to say no more of Lothar."
"I have been discourteous, Imperator!"
Gauzfried did not yet know the terms that Helgi Ragnarsson of the North Sea had demanded. That was why he made such a blunder, but Carolus recognized that his words contained an uncomfortable truth he had to accept.
'The barbarians of the North Sea— no, they are barbarians no longer. If Lothar, who has even drawn in heathens, could do such a thing, what more could he not do?'
Lothar II's father and Carolus's elder brother, Lothar I, was a man who, by anyone's reckoning, was suited for the throne of the Frankish Emperor.
He fought well, was cold-headed, yet carried a hot flame in his chest.
Unlike such a father, Lothar II might receive praise for the depth of his faith, but Carolus had thought he lacked the nerve to employ such a bold move.
What on earth could have changed that tender and feeble nephew so?
"Heh."
Carolus could only mask the deep sigh he let out in self-mockery with a hollow laugh.
"My Imperator. The army of West Frankia is still strong. There are still many brave and devout men who would gladly give their lives for Your Imperial Majesty. But there is no need for Your Imperial Majesty to cover yourself in blood directly."
Now what was this talk?
Seeing interest stir once more at the corners of his Imperator's eyes, the ambitious Gauzfried worked his mouth again with all his might.
"If they want Rouen, then leave it in their hands for a time. This place has always been difficult to govern, what with the frequent plundering and invasions of the Northmen. Since ancient times, all the strength and wealth of the Seine have flowed into Paris. So long as that place alone can be defended, Your Imperial Majesty loses nothing of substance."
It might sound like sophistry, but this was a concise explanation that encapsulated the anguish of the Frankish kings—the invasions of the Northmen that had begun even before Ragnar Loðbrók, and their struggles to respond.
Indeed, it was a place where governors were dispatched but effective rule was difficult. Even the left bank of the Seine was already contested with the Bretons.
A land too precious to give away, yet too difficult to maintain.
In a sense, the North Sea and its Fylkir might have given the Imperator of West Frankia a reason to withdraw with dignity.
"If they take Rouen, their numbers will make it difficult for them to advance beyond it. If Your Imperial Majesty withdraws to Paris and bides his time, surely a moment will come when they grow weak."
Yes, there was a great difference between facing an unexpected surprise attack by an enemy and facing an enemy whose nature you knew well.
'But that would not be your true intention, Gauzfried.'
Gauzfried, originally appointed Dux of Maine, was a man driven out by Robert, who already ruled the vast lands of Maine and Anjou.
Though he had suffered a great defeat, Carolus himself was still strong, and surely the Fylkir of the North Sea knew this as well.
If they withdrew from Rouen, the front line would become too extended for the heathens to reach Paris even if they did not immediately approve Lothar's divorce.
If the heathen Fylkir grew too greedy and marched on Paris, then they could mobilize all the forces they had left in Flanders, Orléans, Burgundy, and southern Aquitaine to press him from all sides.
But would matters flow that way? Just below Rouen lay a morsel far more appetizing than Paris.
'You intend to use this chance to strike down Robert, Gauzfried.'
Margrave Robert, struggling alone against the infuriating Salomon of Brittany.
Gauzfried, you wretch. You detestable man.
Was it even proper for a brother of the same faith to weave such intrigue and cunning?
Yet Carolus thought the notion was not so bad.
"Gauzfried. From now on, when you refer to them, call them the North Sea. They are no longer the Norsemen we once knew."
"As you command, Impera-Thor, sir."
"You must select someone proficient in the language of the North Sea people and dispatch an envoy. I have spoken before with their Fylkir about meeting again, and they will likely agree."
"...Yes! Impera-Thor!"
Since the Impera-Thor below the sea was to meet the Impera-Thor above the sea, a gift must be prepared. What would be fitting?
If it was only Rouen and the lower Seine, would that fearsome bear hide his fangs?
*****
To the west of the city of Le Mans, ruled by the powerful Margrave Robert of West Frankia, lay a small village called Laval.
This village was adjacent to Bresse, with wide plains and roads built by the old empire.
In other words, it meant a place that was quite good for fighting.
When the flames of war were gradually kindling not only in West Frankia but also in East Frankia and even far away on the Italian peninsula, this place was already being drenched with copious blood.
"Infantry, advance!"
[Bwoooong-!]
"Men of Le Mans do not retreat!"
"Let's kill all those bumpkins from the end of the earth!"
"For our Margrave! For Robert the Strong!"
With the sound of the horn announcing the advance, the heavy infantry shouted a thunderous battle cry and dashed forward as one.
As befitted warriors of the Neustrian March (Maine and Anjou), renowned for their courage and fine equipment, their momentum was far from ordinary.
"Shoot! Kill all those ignorant bastards!"
"Men of Rennes! Warriors of Salomon! Ready your spears! Prepare for impact!"
[Hwik! Hwik-hwik! Pyung! Pyu-pyung! Hwiiik- Shhwaaek-]
Javelins and arrows flew toward the enemy who had already closed the distance, and at the same time, the warriors of Bresse, pressing shoulder to shoulder and packing themselves as tightly as possible, were no less than the Frankish warriors charging right in front of them in terms of equipment quality and the determination written on their faces.
[Dadada-]
"Hyaaaah!"
"Die!"
[Kwang! Kukung! Taeng! Taetaeng- Chaeng! Puk! Kwak!]
"Aagh!"
"Kill! Push!"
"Hold!"
"Stab! Stab!"
"Gyaaagh! My hand...! My hand...!"
When men armed with sturdy armor and fine shields, spears, swords, axes, and the like all clashed at once, it was accompanied by far greater noise and chaos than one might imagine.
Seen from the sky, it was a sight of men stabbing, slashing, crushing, and bleeding along a crooked but single line drawn by the fracture between them. Amidst it, the ranks that pushed and were pushed writhed and howled as if they had no time to worry about the projectiles flying overhead.
Salomon and Robert, the supreme commanders of each side, personally rode hard behind the ranks, urging on their warriors, while their guards, their faces grim as death, frantically followed their commanders and protected them from any possible threat.
The clash of these incredibly heavy and brave heavy infantry would, in truth, continue for hours, pushing and being pushed in a life-or-death tug-of-war until one side routed or both mutually withdrew under tacit agreement.
In the end, the force that could decide this battlefield was likely the cavalry that was even now diligently drawing a wide curve and flanking the field. But their situation was no less dire.
"Comes! The cavalry of those bare bastards ahead!"
"Wretches who know no honor! Cowards! Traitors to the faith, worse than pagans and heathens! Judases!"
For some reason, the cavalry captain, whose anger had shot to the top of his head at the mere appearance of the enemy cavalry and had poured out every curse, swiftly ordered a charge.
Robert's cavalrymen, who had already experienced such things since the full-scale standoff began, urged their mounts onward with fire in their eyes.
"Hya! Hya! Let's go, quickly! Today we must drive those bastards and kill them all!"
"Ride! Riders of God! Ride!"
"Victory is promised to us! Let us go toward glory, brothers!"
[Dugu- Dugu- Dugu- Pureuk! Pureuk!]
Although they were rated slightly below the cavalry of East Frankia, the riders of West Frankia were also respectable heavy cavalry.
The introduction of the stirrup not even a century before had made the training of riders somewhat easier.
The weight of a rider laden with heavy mail, sword, axe, hammer, and even a long spear naturally demanded strain on the horse, but for now there was no helping it.
Unless they crushed the enemy cavalry that was annoyingly hurling javelins and fleeing ahead, there was absolutely no way to end this war.
However, contrary to the fervent wishes of the West Frankian heavy cavalry, the light cavalry of Bresse employed hit-and-run tactics thoroughly, striking and then pulling back, and now they were fleeing with all their might without any thought of turning around.
Beneath a battlefield filled with such ferocity, resentment, and murderous intent toward the enemy, ships with impressive dragon heads were leisurely ascending the Noire River.
These were the longships of Nantes that Louis of Aquitaine had promised to block.