Viking Invasion-Chapter 90 – The Isle of Cité

When the interrogation was done, Ragnar walked alone toward the riverbank to clear his thoughts. The air there was thick with smoke and sweat; men crowded about the heavy chain that spanned the river, that great barrier the Franks had forged to bar their passage. The chain was fastened to the shore with massive stones, each link thick as a man’s thigh. Around it gathered scores of warriors, arguing over how best to destroy the thing.

At last, someone fetched a heap of firewood and drenched it in five barrels of oil. The flame took greedily. Under the steady heat, the iron began to glow a dull red, and one giant of a man raised his axe high and struck again and again. When his strength gave out, another took his place, until sweat ran down their arms like rain.

Hours passed. When the moon was high above the river, a final stroke split one of the rings. The great chain sagged, then, with a noise like thunder, the hundred-meter length gave way and sank beneath the current, vanishing as though it had never been.

The obstacle gone, the fleet advanced upriver. By dusk on April twenty-fifth, the prows of the longships reached the heart of the Seine—Paris.

In these years, the city sat upon the Île de la Cité, a rocky island girdled by water and joined to both banks by two bridges. On the northern shore lay a scatter of crude huts and open markets; to the south, near the bridgehead, stood a stone-built monastery ringed by a palisade of timber.

Before they had set out, Rurik had gathered what he could of Latin writings about the place. From them he had learned that, in the time of Rome, two stone bridges had once spanned the Seine. Afterward, when the Franks took the land, neglect and ignorance brought the bridges low—only the piers remained. The new craftsmen, less skilled than their Roman forerunners, laid wooden roadways atop those ancient pillars, and so had the present bridges come to be.

According to the priests’ accounts, the city housed some eight thousand souls. If every man fit to bear arms were called forth, perhaps fifteen hundred could stand in its defense.

Rurik climbed the mast to see for himself. From that high perch, the whole of the island lay before him. Thanks to the spies who had betrayed them, the Franks had been given time to fortify. Beyond the Roman walls a fresh wooden rampart had been raised, and behind its battlements stood no fewer than two thousand soldiers, their helmets glinting in the pale light.

"This will be troublesome," he muttered. "Curse those wretched traitors."

He dropped back to the deck, lost in thought, weighing how such walls might be broken. Then from ahead there came a roar—a thousand voices shouting "Valhalla!" The cry rolled over the water like storm wind. He looked up just in time to see Ragnar’s flagship driving straight toward the outer palisade of the island.

"What madness—he’s attacking already?" Rurik shouted, aghast. "Not even a signal?"

He had no time to act before the Franks answered. Over the walls arced thirty blazing globes of pitch. The air filled with the stench of burning oil.

"Catapults!" Rurik realized with horror. "The spies even told them of those!"

He snatched up his red signal flags and waved frantically, ordering the fleet to halt and turn downstream. But before the command could ripple through the ranks, a second volley came. One firepot struck Ragnar’s own mast—flame blossomed skyward, devouring the sails.

And then came worse: from upstream drifted a line of fire-ships, each piled high with brushwood and tar, carried swiftly by the current toward the trapped Norsemen.

"Steer south! To the shallows!" Rurik’s voice tore through the confusion. "Form lines on the shore—prepare for cavalry!"

The longships scraped against the mud of the southern bank. Men leapt ashore, dragging shields and spears, forming ranks on the open flats. Two hundred meters away, on a low hill, Frankish horsemen watched them, hesitant shadows against the setting sun.

To the Franks, the Viking lines must have seemed ragged and thin, easy prey for a mounted charge. Yet dusk had thickened; the ground by the river was soft and treacherous. No horse could gallop there without sinking to the fetlocks. The riders waited, then, after long hesitation, wheeled their mounts and rode back toward the bridgehead.

Night fell. Still the burning hulks floated by, their light glimmering on the dark water. Among the Norse nobles, grim councils were held.

Rurik looked about and saw no sign of Ragnar. His voice shook when he asked, "Where is he?"

Bjorn’s face was ashen, his strength spent. "The flagship was struck again and again," he said dully. "It drifted north. Before the fire consumed it, I saw a few figures leap overboard. That was the last."

"And afterward?" Rurik pressed.

"Five Frankish ships closed in," Bjorn whispered. "They chased the survivors into the marshes." 𝐟𝚛𝕖𝚎𝕨𝗲𝐛𝚗𝐨𝐯𝐞𝕝.𝐜𝗼𝗺

When he finished, a heavy silence fell. For a long half-minute none of them spoke. Then Ivar rose to his feet.

"Whether our father lives or not," he said, his eyes burning, "we must uphold the honor of our people. Better to meet the enemy head-on than to be hunted down like beasts."

Rurik nodded grimly. "He speaks truth. Even if we fled to Britain, the Angles would sense our weakness and rise in rebellion. Only a victory beyond doubt can keep them cowed. Otherwise, we shall never know peace again."

Gunnar added, "If we run, our warriors will despise us. To keep our gold and our heads, there is but one path—fight to the death."

Their words rekindled the fire in every heart. The nobles dispersed to muster their men. When the count was taken, they found themselves still eight thousand strong. Enough to make a stand.

At dawn, the Vikings broke their fast until their bellies were tight as drums. Each man tucked a scrap of hard bread into his tunic—a small comfort for the long day to come. Battle, after all, devoured strength faster than hunger ever could.

By order of the chieftains, they formed along the southern bank. Lessons learned from the slaughter at Rátvoss had not been forgotten. Every lord placed spearmen in his foremost ranks and on both flanks, long shafts angled to meet the coming charge.

Across the river, the Franks were stirring. Equal in number, they began to cross from the island by way of the bridges, file by file, until they too stood on the southern shore.

From a soldier’s view, the wiser course for the Franks would have been to stay behind their walls and let time and hunger grind the Norsemen down. But King Charles—Charles the Bald, as men called him—was beset by troubles. Not only the Norse; to the south, his nephew Pippin of Aquitaine had crowned himself king, while in the west, the Bretons were rising again.

He could not afford delay. To him, time itself was the enemy.

"Foreign raiders, rebellious kin, grasping bishops—by God, what a crown I wear," he muttered, rubbing the bare dome of his head. "There is no rest for a king."

Half an hour later, nearly a thousand Frankish knights left their bridgehead. To spare their horses’ strength, they walked beside them, leading the beasts by the reins until they reached a meadow two kilometers from the Viking lines. There they sat upon the grass, waiting while the sluggish levy of peasants formed up behind them.

It would take hours; it always did.

Between the two armies stretched the quiet of noon. The sun climbed higher. Then, out of sheer restlessness, one reckless knight spurred forward, shouting for single combat. He was met by a laughing Norseman who strode out to answer.

Their clash rang across the field like hammer on anvil. Blood stained the earth. Others followed—their duels rising and dying in turn—until at last the Frankish levies were in place and the calm before battle was gone.