Viking Invasion-Chapter 94 — The Iron Chain

Once his plan was clear, Rurik ordered the interrogation of the six thousand prisoners, selecting from them three hundred men connected with Rouen.

Before departure he turned to the interpreter.

"Just these?"

"Yes, my lord."

Rurik nodded without further comment and gave orders for his sixteen hundred troops to load their baggage and prepare to embark.

Suddenly, on the north bank of the Seine, a great crowd appeared — longships cutting the water, rowing fast toward the south.

Before long he saw a tall, familiar figure standing at the prow, flanked by Ivar and Bjorn.

Ragnar.

When the men on the south bank realized their High King still lived, a roar of exultation swept across the shore. Warriors rushed waist-deep into the river to greet him.

For all the fame of Rurik, Ivar, and Gunnar, none could rival Ragnar’s stature. He was the King of Britain, a living legend across the whole Norse world. His presence alone carried more weight than any host of victories.

Leaping from the longship, Ragnar spent half an hour mingling with the men, calling many of them by name — even those he had met only once.

"Eivor, is your brother’s health improving?"

"Visek! Last time in York you drank yourself under the table for a whole day — has your endurance improved since then?"

"Harald, your eldest daughter’s of marrying age now, isn’t she? Once we’ve taken Paris, I’ll give her a gold necklace as her dowry."

After warming his warriors’ spirits, Ragnar gathered his chieftains and began to recount his ordeal of the past two days.

"At first," he said, "I had no intention of storming the Île de la Cité outright. Then that bald little king strutted out from behind his walls, crown on his head, sword in hand — standing there as if to challenge me to single combat.

Well, since it was the grandson of Charlemagne himself, I felt obliged to grant him the honor.

But the wretch had no sense of honor. Instead of fighting fairly, Charles the Bald turned his catapults on me — a sneak attack against the High King of Britain! He’s shamed his grandfather’s memory." 𝐟𝗿𝐞𝚎𝚠𝐞𝚋𝕟𝐨𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝕔𝕠𝚖

The laughter that followed was grim. Ragnar described how he had been struck by jars of burning pitch and forced to flee northward, wandering two days through swamp and forest before being cornered in the bell tower of a stone church.

When the Franks failed to storm it, they piled timber at the base and prepared to set it alight — only for the sky to darken and a torrential downpour to drench the flames. The sudden storm bought Ragnar and his five guards precious time, until Ivar and Bjorn’s relief party broke through the encirclement.

He raised his cup with a booming laugh.

"Ha! It seems Odin still has greater deeds for me yet."

The nobles echoed him, lifting their cups in unison.

"Long live the High King!"

With the council adjourned, Rurik led his own command northward by ship.

Landing on the north bank, he used the three hundred Rouen captives — including the local lord’s son — as leverage to distract the defenders. Meanwhile, assault teams slipped in through the weaker northwestern wall. Within two hours the town was taken.

At the riverbank he found what he had sought: the northern end of the great iron chain that once barred the Seine. Its southern half had been severed days earlier, most of its length now resting on the riverbed.

"With iron so scarce in this age," he mused, "this chain alone would fetch a fortune."

Once order was restored in Rouen, Rurik ordered oxen and horses brought to haul the sunken chain back ashore.

Then, employing a technique he had learned in the east — "ships on dry land" — he had vessels dragged upstream by rollers and ropes. From there, he established fortified camps on both banks and stretched the recovered chain across the river.

At last, the eastern approach to Paris was sealed. Supply convoys from upriver could no longer reach the city. The southern and northern bridgeheads were likewise blockaded.

Every hand now turned to the labor of siege: building towers, rams, and catapults, with plans to launch a full assault by mid-June.

On the city walls, Charles the Bald gazed upriver, his face twisted with fury.

"Damn these Northmen! They use my own iron chain against me!"

Seeking counsel, he ordered two men to attend him — Lamberto, his former minister, and Ælla, the Northumbrian prince.

Lamberto had once been envoy to Wessex and had seen with his own eyes the Norsemen storm Winchester. He knew their methods well.

Ælla, meanwhile, was heir to the throne of Northumbria — a fugitive for two years now. Since fleeing Britain he had wandered across the Frankish lands, begging lords for aid to reclaim his crown. Few listened. His followers drifted away, and in the end he clung pitifully to Charles’s court, mocked by minor nobles as "Fat Ælla."

Soon the two appeared before the king.

"Tell me," Charles demanded, "what do you make of the pagan host beyond these walls?"

Eager to redeem himself after his own corruption scandal, Lamberto spoke first, seizing the chance before Ælla could.

"Sire, by my reports, Ragnar’s three strongest nobles are these: Rurik, Ivar, and Gunnar."

He pointed toward the banners visible across the river — the serpent flag, the wolf flag, the brown bear.

"Rurik is their siege-master, called the Chosen, the Serpent of the North, the Hammer of Walls. He has taken York, Dufflin, Repton, Tamworth, Winchester — and, just this week, Rouen."

Glancing at the king’s expression, he hurried on.

"Ivar, Ragnar’s eldest son, claims dominion over all Ireland. Two days ago he shattered our left flank; his strength lies in heavy infantry.

Gunnar, the last — he has known Ragnar for twenty years. Not famed at first, but his mastery of the horse made him commander of their cavalry. Two days past, he broke through our line — I believe Your Majesty recalls the havoc he caused."

Charles’s face darkened, yet he allowed Lamberto to continue.

"Together, Ragnar and these three — with seven thousand men — can take Paris without much difficulty. I advise opening negotiations as soon as possible."

Charles said nothing for a long while. He had indeed been pressed by many courtiers urging him to ransom their captured kin, yet he had hesitated, mistrusting the Norsemen’s oaths.

Lamberto pressed on.

"Sire, Britain lies in turmoil. Ragnar cannot spare troops to garrison lands on the continent. He must choose peace, else he risks losing his own kingdom."

It made sense.

Charles’s fingers traced the rough stones of the battlement. He sighed, slowly nodding.

"Very well. You will go forth and treat with Ragnar. Tell him I am willing to pay these paupers off — on two conditions:

First, the release of all prisoners.

Second, that both sides swear by their gods not to make war upon the other for five years."