Viking Invasion-Chapter 92 — Along the Seine (Part II)

On the western side of the field, atop the central command platform—

"The infantry haven’t even pressed forward yet—why is he charging so fast?"

The plan had been thrown into disarray. Rurik hurled his two signal flags back into the basket and barked fresh orders to the mounted messengers:

"Tell Ivar’s unit to advance. Break the enemy’s left flank at once and clear the southern line!"

"Let Lennard’s and Theowulf’s units continue their advance, but steadily—no reckless charges!"

"Bjorn’s men have fought hard enough. Pull them back to the rear to rest!"

While Rurik scrambled to adjust his tactics, Gunnar had already smashed into the junction between the Frankish center and left wings—barely three hundred infantry hastily gathered there to meet him.

The horses’ iron-shod hooves tore through the turf, churning up clouds of dust. When the great beasts crashed into the ranks, the Frankish militia went down like stalks of wheat before the scythe.

Charge. Hack. Trample.

To the militia in the rear, the Norman horsemen looked like demons out of hell.

("Norman"—from the Frankish word for "Northman," their name for the Vikings.)

Within moments, the surviving militiamen began to waver. Ignoring their officers’ shouts, one blond youth flung away his rusted axe and battered shield, turned, and barreled into the men behind him. A fissure opened in the line—and panic poured through.

"Leave them! Follow me—forward!"

Abandoning the terrified rabble, Gunnar drove his horse onward, straight for the bright blue banner of the golden fleur-de-lis. Beneath that royal standard stood a young man in a crown, his face pale with alarm. Gunnar spurred harder—but he was too late. The nearby Franks closed ranks in desperation, cutting him off.

His horse reared with a shrill neigh at the sight of leveled pikes, nearly unseating him. Forced to yield the charge, Gunnar wheeled eastward, leading his men through a thinner stretch of the line until they burst clean through the Frankish formation.

Beyond lay open country—only a scattering of low farmsteads, and farther still, the bridgehead on the southern bank of the Seine. Behind the parapets, a crowd had gathered to watch.

"My lord! They’re pursuing us!"

Gunnar turned. A mass of disordered Frankish troops were giving chase. Of the two hundred men who had charged beside him, barely twenty remained.

Outnumbered, he planned to circle wide, shake them off, and return west to the Viking host.

After several hundred meters, he fell behind. Looking down, he saw his horse’s right foreleg gashed open, blood streaming freely.

Moments later, the beast collapsed beneath him with a crashing thud. Gunnar rolled over and over in the dirt. When he staggered up, seven Frankish riders were thundering toward him.

He snatched up his sword and sprinted northward—toward the Seine.

From the bridgehead, the onlookers erupted in laughter at the sight of the bedraggled barbarian running for his life.

"The river’s wide, and our ships control it," someone jeered. "Does he think he can swim across?"

Among a cluster of noblewomen stood Queen Ermentrude herself, watching from the tower’s highest vantage. The sight of the desperate Northman made her laugh aloud.

Her ladies followed suit, their laughter carrying across the water. Amid the mirth, the barbarian reached the shallows—and stopped.

"Has he gone mad?" the Queen frowned.

Her younger brother, William, heir to the Count of Orléans, replied coolly,

"No, Your Majesty. The horses fear water; they can’t charge through it. He’s gone to the shallows to die on his own terms—and take a few with him."

Before long, William’s words proved true. The leading Frankish rider urged his mount into the river, but the animal balked, hooves slipping in the knee-deep current.

Suddenly, Gunnar hurled a smooth river stone. The splash startled the horse backward, forcing its rider to clutch the reins. In that instant, Gunnar surged forward and slashed open the horse’s belly.

The beast screamed and toppled, dragging its rider into the water. Gunnar brought the weighted pommel of his sword down on the man’s helm, then finished him cleanly with a stroke to the throat.

Seizing the fallen shield, he met the next rider’s charge, feinted once, then drove his sword into the man’s flank.

A third, a fourth—one after another—they fell beneath his blade.

Seeing their comrades cut down, the last three dismounted and waded forward through the slippery shallows. One fell swiftly; the remaining two lost heart at the sight of the blood-soaked Northman and fled in panic.

Breath ragged, strength nearly spent, Gunnar sank into the knee-deep water, gasping. His battered sword lay in the current beside him, its edge curled like a saw. Tearing a strip from a dead knight’s silk surcoat, he pressed it to his wound. Crimson tendrils bloomed in the clear river water, paled, and drifted away.

Minutes later, two dozen Viking riders returned, coming to retrieve their commander.

He waved off their hands and pulled himself onto a fresh mount. Grabbing the brown-bear banner from one of them, he galloped to within seventy paces of the bridgehead.

Planting the flag deep into the earth, he bellowed toward the parapets:

"Gunnar of Swordbridge is here! Who among you dares come out?"

"Gunnar is here! Who dares come out!"

From the watchtower above, the nobles couldn’t understand his Norse, but his tone made the challenge clear.

"Let me go down and kill him," said William.

But his sister caught his wrist.

"Too many knights have already fallen to this man. You are young yet, my brother—stay where you are."

The Queen turned to a nearby guard.

"Find Maurice de Montpellier. He should be well enough by now."

The messenger galloped off toward the Île de la Cité, and returned within minutes.

"Your Majesty, Sir Maurice’s illness has worsened. He cannot rise from his bed."

Fearing William might defy her, the Queen’s eyes hardened. She turned toward the archers on the wall and shouted,

"By order of the Queen—shoot that Northman dead!"

Arrows hissed through the air. Gunnar stepped back thirty paces and began cursing the Franks in furious Norse, calling them cowards without honor.

For three full minutes he and his men roared their insults, until he suddenly realized the defenders couldn’t understand a word. Disgusted, he gave up, muttering to himself as he rode southward.

"Seems I ought to study a few foreign tongues. It’s a sorry thing when you can’t even curse your enemies properly."

Back on the field—

Gunnar’s daring thrust toward Charles the Bald’s position had thrown the Frankish army into chaos, every division rushing to rescue the royal host. Sensing the moment, Ivar led his thousand heavy infantry forward. With their allies’ support, they easily crushed the Frankish troops along the southern flank.

"These men are pitiful," Ivar muttered. "Not half as tough as the Angles’ heavy foot."

The first phase of the battle complete, he looked toward the western platform, where Rurik stood waving his flags once more.

The meaning was clear:

Reform the lines. Face north. Advance upon the enemy’s center.