210. Rules Set by Man, Rules Set by Nature (4).
210. Rules Set by Man, Rules Set by Nature (4).
The Loire River drove into West Frankia's left armpit.
The Loire was a great river that stretched past Orléans all the way down to the Mediterranean Sea.
It passes Orléans, which meant it ran straight through Le Mans, the base of Margrave Robert.
While Louis of Aquitaine lay conveniently bedridden with a sudden illness (?), Hásteinn of Nantes sailed leisurely up the Loire without the slightest hindrance.
For that sort of deception, intrigue, and rear-area harassment was precisely the specialty of Hásteinn, who had survived between West Frankia and the Bretons with nothing but his own body.
Of course, Robert was not so soft a man, and he had left a garrison at the sturdy fortress of Le Mans—but that could not stop Hásteinn and the two thousand troops from Nantes from making their landing.
[Sururuk—chwak! Sururuk—chwak!]
"Right—let's go!"
"Let's see what Robert's got hidden behind his foul backside!"
"Cut the chatter and pull on those oars!"
One bank of the Loire, where a light rain the previous day had filled the dim morning with mist.
The fleet of fifty longships moving in a tight column split the current like an arrowhead and soon ran their prows up onto the soft grass.
"None of you forget! Don't break ranks for no reason, and keep a close eye on my banner. Remember, our purpose is to draw their gaze!"
"Yeah, yeah—understood, captain!"
"If you understand, can't we bloody move out already!"
"Great and large Jarl, Odin is waiting—shall we get going now, perhaps?"
Irritating bastards!
After he'd tried to act all serious for the first time in a while, Hásteinn's warriors, who'd spent their whole lives doing this same shit with him, were utterly unimpressed.
The veterans who had been moving hand in hand with Hásteinn since they'd entered the Mediterranean with Björn were especially bad. In a warrior society like the North's, where hierarchy was usually ironclad, this was unmistakably the peculiar character of those serving under Nantes and Hásteinn.
"You know damn well that if you fall behind I've got no choice but to leave you! Take care of yourselves! Now, we move out!"
"Let's go, you bastards! It's time for plunder!"
"Grab everything that glitters! Steal everything on four legs!"
"Sound the horn!"
[Booooooong—!]
In a raid, the most important thing was, above all, your life. If you let greed get the better of you or did something stupid and reckless, you could end up heading for that Odin and Valhalla you so desperately wanted.
That was why bands of warriors always craved a leader who was strong and, more than anything, sharp-witted. And Hásteinn was particularly famous for his good luck.
"There! Doesn't it look like there's something in that village!?"
The warriors of Nantes, who had been jabbering back and forth and blowing on their horns and swilling thick ale as if they were on a picnic down a green footpath, would instantly change stance the moment Hásteinn at the head pointed at a target, and they raced across the fields howling like beasts.
"There! There's silver in that place!"
"Ao-ooooooooo!"
"Let's go! Brothers of Nantes!"
"If we're late, the greedy Jarl will have stripped it clean!"
[Dadadada—]
For all their light attitude and flippant manner of dashing forward, they numbered fully two thousand, and their armament was, unexpectedly, that of proper heavy infantry.
In other words, the raiding specialists, Hásteinn and his warriors, showed hardly any visible order at first glance, yet they moved unmistakably according to a certain system.
"Wh-what!? Northmen! The Northmen are coming!"
"Ring the bell! How many are there!?"
"That's— that's too many...!"
[Dengdengdengdengdengdeng—]
Because of the great war being fought against the Bretons in the west, every able-bodied warrior registered on the church rolls had already been conscripted from the villages around Le Mans.
The only people left to defend the village were the women and old folk who had entered the sowing season and were straining to scatter seed and till the fields with insufficient hands, along with children and a handful of monks.
To put it another way, a ferocious wolf—always sharp-fanged, huge-bodied, and savage to the core—had gotten so distracted by a fight that it had left its soft belly completely exposed.
[Iyaaaaaa! Odin! Tyr!]
[Booooong—!]
Raising a tremendous roar and momentum, the Northmen drew near and, with another blast of the horn, swarmed up against the village palisade while its defenders could not even collect themselves.
[Puk! Kkak! Puk! Puk!]
"Axes! You bastards with the big axes, step forward!"
"Chop all this down!"
"Anyone with a free hand, throw a rope up and climb! We'll push from down here!"
Hásteinn, who had been combing his shaggy beard and flicking away the tiny insects caught in it, saw the white flag rise above the palisade of the little village not long after the Nantes warriors had worked themselves into a fervor of premature lumberjacking.
"Good. They're surrendering. Sound the horn twice."
"Aye, Jarl! You heard the Jarl's words, didn't you?"
[Booooong—! Booooooong—!]
The booming horn rang out twice and spread across the space filled with commotion.
The Nantes warriors, who had been absorbed in their work, set down axes and ropes or took off their helmets to wipe away sweat, all turning their heads as one toward where Hásteinn stood.
[Srrreung—]
"Let's go."
Of course, Hásteinn paid no mind whether his men were looking or not. He deliberately drew the large greatsword he had purchased to imitate the Fylkir, rested it against his left shoulder, and strode toward the firmly barred wooden gate.
"Do you think the captain can even swing that thing properly? He's getting on in years—it worries me."
"When the real fighting starts, he'll fight with the axe at his belt. Fighting without a shield is something only the Fylkir can do—blokes like us can't."
"How many silver coins did he say he gave for that? How many cups of Árós honey wine would that much money buy?"
Savoring his men's envious, jealous mutterings, Hásteinn watched the head that had been peeking over the palisade hurry back down.
And before long, the sound of a bar being lifted came, and the gate opened.
The one who greeted the imposingly standing Hásteinn and his followers was an old man with a wrinkled face and a pure white beard.
"Warriors. Our village is a small settlement at the mouth of the river. There is no one here but old folk like me and half-starved women and children, withered from want. Take everything you need, but only spare our lives."
He did not spill useless tears or grovel with an appeal to emotion. After all, if they'd resisted at the palisade and shed a drop of blood in the process, the already worked-up Northmen would burn the village to the ground, and if he started preaching to heathens about the love and grace of God, he'd be lucky if an axe did not sprout from the top of his head.
So the old man had simply begged them to do as they pleased, pleading only for his life, already seeming resigned to death. His trembling body, layered over his wrinkled face, made him look all the more pitiful.
"Listen here, old man. We are people in a hurry. We've no wish to shed blood needlessly, so gather your folk in the center of the village. If any man tries to save himself by hiding in some house, I cannot protect him. I can't say I have full control over all my men, you understand?"
Hásteinn had already been dwelling in this land for well over ten years. Naturally the Frankish tongue posed no great obstacle to him, and the intent behind his words—leaning in slightly, speaking in a weighty voice with a heavy gaze—was conveyed precisely to the brave and quick-witted old man.
"Of course I'll do so. I'll do as the warrior says. I will!"
The old man's eyes, half wonder and half joy, widened, and as he turned at once and ran into the village, his voice soon rang out loudly.
"Come gather quickly—! Leave your offerings and all gather! Must we not save our lives!"
Watching this quietly, Hásteinn turned toward the subordinate commanders and old comrades who had already gathered around him.
"The master of this river-mouth village has surrendered. Grab a few goats or chickens, and plunder the large buildings with crosses on them first. Don't waste time digging through houses for nothing."
"Understood! Jarl!"
While most stood with indifferent expressions, only one man answered briskly.
"What, is it your turn this time? Go in and get your share. I'll say it again, don't stir up pointless trouble."
"Of course, Jarl! I'll finish it in a flash, like Thor's lightning!"
The warrior, having swallowed dryly under Hásteinn's fierce gaze, soon wore a mischievous smile as he hurried through the gate and entered.
"Kyaaah!"
"Shh! It's all right! Quiet...!"
"This the place? Is this a cross for sure?"
"Yeah, this is it. Let's go in."
"Kak— Tweh! Now, everyone step aside! Hyaap!"
[Jjeok! Jjeok! Jjeong! Kwajik! Kok!]
"Hey—! Anyone here!? If there are any of you ridiculous tonsured fellows, come out!"
Soon, amid the villagers' faint screams and anxious murmurings, the 'workers'(?) of Nantes, with practised movements, hacked down the church door with axes and entered at once.
The sight looked so natural that one might almost suspect that, in their daily lives, they also hacked down their own doors when entering their homes.
Immediately, the Northmen who had streamed in one after another began to emerge one by one, tucking something into their clothes.
Golden candlesticks, silver vessels, a wooden box stuffed with something, a thick tome flipped through in rough Norse hands, and even an awkward bald monk dangling from a Northman's shoulder.
The villagers who saw this shrieked again and trembled, but the warriors of Nantes, who hadn't the slightest thought of daring to disobey the Jarl's command, proudly presented their spoils to their Jarl.
"We've plundered everything!"
"Truly, there wasn't much! These folk are poor!"
"What shall we do with this funny-haired fellow!"
Though they said there wasn't much, the volume was considerable for the warriors to carry themselves, so Hásteinn, who had merely poked his head out from the village centre to keep an eye on the place, gestured to the old man.
The warrior who had carried the monk like a piece of baggage, still with the monk draped over his shoulder, asked.
Looking closely, the awkward bald human showed no movement, as if already unconscious.
'The Fylkir captured a priest from... Reims? Rennes? Somewhere like that, didn't he?'
'If the Fylkir, who hated slavery, took them prisoner personally, it clearly meant these bastards had value.'
"Y-you called, warrior lord."
The old man's tense voice scattered Hásteinn's reverie, and Hásteinn spoke to the old man.
"Old man. I thank you and this river-mouth village for your cooperation. Lastly, you must provide me with the best horse or donkey and a cart in this village. And do you happen to know where the nearest village lies?"
He grinned—
Pleased that matters were unravelling so smoothly, Hásteinn gave the brave and cooperative local elder a refreshing smile, and soon the old man trembled all over like a quaking aspen and nodded his head.
*****
"What, what in the world does that mean? How did they cross the Loire! The area around Le Mans is being plundered!"
[Kwang!]
Robert's voice, as he kicked his seat and rose, filled the enclosed space of the command tent.
"What about Louis? What in God's name is that damned Louis of Aquitaine doing! How did they cross the Loire?!"
That voice now carried not only fury but even grief.
Robert's subordinates shuddered before their lord's wrath, like that of an angry lion, even as they likewise raged at the despicable Northmen, the faithless Salomon of Brittany, and the impotent Aquitaine.
A lengthy moment of pain-filled silence, in which even the wind held its breath, stretched on. Robert, bracing himself on the table with both solid arms to keep from buckling, soon growled in a low voice.
"I must pull the army back to Le Mans. And send a messenger to that Louis of Aquitaine across the river. I must see with my own eyes what the hell that bastard is doing."
When Robert lifted his head again, his eyes, though filled with anger and disappointment, still blazed with a flame that had not yet been extinguished.
He already knew that Salomon of Brittany and Hestein of Nantes were no easy opponents; if things went badly, it would simply mean adding the Stammerer of Aquitaine to the list, wouldn't it?
Unconsciously, Robert himself had probably already known. That matters could come to this. So great was the power of the March of Neustria, which had swallowed all of Anjou and Maine whole.
Yet one more variable that Robert had not yet perceived was crossing the Seine and heading south.
☆☆☆☆☆Reference Material☆☆☆☆☆
No machine-readable author provided. MatthiasKabel assumed (based on copyright claims)., CC BY-SA 3.0 <http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/>, via Wikimedia Commons
The Loire River—sweeping past Nantes, Tours, and Orléans in a sharp curve and stretching all the way to the Mediterranean...!
You can see Le Mans above it, and to the left of Le Mans is Rennes...!
Robert and Salomon are clashing on the plains near the village of Laval between Rennes and Le Mans...!
Really, looking at Europe, there are so many waterways huge and small in every direction...!!! Whenever you compare it to East Asia, this is one reason why there was no unified European empire after Rome...!!!
Kmusser, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons
The Loire and its tributaries.