Viking Invasion-Chapter 95 – The Treaty

The soil of West Francia was rich, its climate gentle—its natural bounty far surpassed that of any other European land. So long as peace could be secured, Charles the Bald was not one to begrudge a handful of silver.

Standing nearby, Ælla’s face betrayed no emotion. Though he loathed the Norsemen encamped beyond the walls, as a destitute exile living on his host’s charity, he had no right to question the king’s decision. He could only bide his time and wait for fortune to turn.

News soon spread that Lambert had been chosen to parley. Before long, a throng of noblewomen gathered at his door, their eyes red and desperate, begging him to inquire after their captive husbands and sons.

Perceiving that their grief was about to boil over, Lambert straightened his posture and assumed the expression of a righteous envoy.

"Ladies," he declared, "I shall make our intentions clear to Ragnar. He will treat your noble kin with the dignity they deserve."

After extricating himself from the crowd, Lambert rode across the bridgehead on the southern bank and continued on foot to the Viking encampment.

To his surprise, the guards posted at the gate offered no resistance; it seemed they did not object to talks with the Franks.

After a brief wait, he was led to the largest pavilion in the camp—a grand tent whose walls were painted with serpents and ravens. Within, a broad-shouldered man wearing a crown sat reading a book, a young interpreter standing respectfully at his side.

The interpreter conveyed his lord’s words in Latin: "Be seated."

Lambert sat upright, voice solemn, and relayed King Charles’s proposal—withdraw the army, and neither side shall attack the other for five years.

Before long, the interpreter gave Ragnar’s reply: thirty thousand pounds of silver and one thousand warhorses. Only then would he cease the siege.

"Your Majesty, we cannot possibly raise such a sum," Lambert pleaded, his expression pitiful. "Even if you take Paris by storm, you’ll find no treasure to match it. And should you fall in the assault, the nobles will simply crown another king, and the war will drag on until your men are spent. You would, in the end, be forced to retreat to Britain."

From the reports he had gathered, Lambert knew that Ragnar—who had seized Winchester the previous year yet spared King Æthelwulf—was not some blood-drunk barbarian, but a calculating leader. If nothing went awry, there was a fair chance—seven in ten, perhaps—that peace might be reached.

By midday, the first round of negotiations concluded. The gulf between their offers was too wide; Lambert lacked authority to compromise further and so took his leave.

Before departing, he was granted permission to visit the southern prisoner camp. Once a humble village, it had been fenced in with palisades; the captives were compelled to build huts within its bounds. Yet their condition appeared decent enough—hardly the image of cruelty. 𝘧𝘳𝘦ℯ𝓌𝘦𝒷𝘯𝑜𝑣𝘦𝓁.𝒸𝘰𝓂

As they walked, Lambert suggested that the nobles be treated with greater courtesy. The guard captain snorted.

"Ha! They should be grateful for gruel. Don’t push your luck. You think Ragnar cares about such trifles?"

"Oh, he will care," Lambert replied coolly, "for it concerns his profit—and the profit of every warrior in this camp."

Then he explained the Frankish custom:

Captured nobles were to be treated with dignity and had the right to ransom themselves, the payment typically equaling two to four years of income.

(Note: In 1193, King Richard the Lionheart of England was captured and ransomed for one hundred and fifty thousand marks—about thirty-four tons of silver, or ninety-seven thousand pounds sterling—draining three years of royal revenue.)

"The peace is already in motion," Lambert added. "If one of these nobles were to die by your negligence, you’d bear the blame—and I doubt your chieftains would be merciful."

"You—you’re bluffing," the captain stammered, but doubt crept into his eyes. Recently, one earl’s nephew had indeed perished from abuse, and two others had died of their wounds.

Now that could be a problem.

Knowing such deaths might cost him dearly once silver was involved, the captain anxiously dismissed Lambert and sat for a long while in the shade before finally confessing everything to Ragnar.

Meanwhile, Lambert returned to the Île de la Cité and relayed the Norsemen’s terms.

"Your Majesty," he said, "Ragnar has no desire for our lands. He merely wishes to profit handsomely—thirty thousand pounds of silver and one thousand warhorses."

Pfft!

Charles spat out his wine, crimson drops staining his beard. "That’s it? These Norse beggars have no ambition! For so little, they’ve tormented me without rest!"

Grabbing the silk kerchief offered by a maid, he dabbed his mouth carelessly and flung it aside.

"Go back tomorrow," he ordered. "Don’t agree too easily—haggle a bit first."

"As you command."

The next morning, Lambert returned to Ragnar’s tent. With all the zeal of a merchant at market, he insisted that the royal treasury could offer no more than ten thousand pounds of silver and five hundred horses, with the nobles’ ransoms bringing perhaps another six or seven thousand pounds and a few hundred horses more.

Ragnar studied the short, flushed Frank before him, frowning. Could Charles truly be that impoverished, that even this paltry tribute is beyond reach?

He dismissed the envoy and summoned his captains for counsel.

Ten minutes later, he looked around the near-empty tent and asked in disbelief, "Where is everyone?"

"Nils and Orm are hunting nearby; Ivar is out intercepting reinforcements; Theowulf’s praying in some country church; Gunnar’s training horses; and Rurik is scouting the forest twenty miles southeast," came the reply.

In short, two-thirds of his commanders were off shirking. Ragnar could only shake his head. With the few remaining, he finally settled on reducing the ransom to twenty thousand pounds of silver and fifteen hundred warhorses.

Far to the southeast, in a grove of oaks, Rurik was at that very moment inspecting a circular clearing under a local villager’s guidance. A crystal spring shimmered at its heart.

"So this is Fontaine Belle Eau—Fontainebleau?" he murmured.

He dipped his hand in the water, finding nothing remarkable, then sighed and took out his parchment to sketch the scene.

"A wasted journey. Nothing but time lost."

When he returned to camp and heard of Ragnar’s bargain, he raised an eyebrow.

"Your Majesty, why not demand more?"

Ragnar tossed him a crumpled letter. Rurik skimmed it, then exhaled sharply. "Halfdan defeated? That’s—" He caught himself—Halfdan was Ragnar’s son, after all—and swallowed the rest of his remark. "Well, so be it. There’s much to manage back home; the sooner we return, the better."

In truth, for less than two months of campaigning, they had reaped a fortune far greater than the wars in Mercia and Wessex combined—especially the fifteen hundred Frankish steeds. By his reckoning, Rurik’s share alone might reach a hundred.

Quietly calculating his spoils, he bowed and withdrew to resume writing his Chronicle of the Frankish War.

Before he reached the tent flap, Ragnar called out, "At the walls of Paris, we crushed the main army of West Francia. Such a feat will be sung for generations. I intend to raise you to the rank of duke. Tell me—how would you like Wales?"

Before the assembled nobles—Pascal and the others looking on—Rurik instinctively refused.

"I am better suited to the northern climes. The Picts still raid my villages; I would rather subdue the north and end their menace for good."

Ragnar nodded, pleased by the modesty. Thus Rurik became Duke of Tainburg, nominal ruler of the northern frontier.

A shrewd decision—rugged, cold, and plagued by wild tribes, the northern lands were hardly a prize. Yet the empty title cost nothing and bought loyalty.

Ragnar then promoted Ivar to Duke of Dublin, nominal overlord of Ireland.

Ivar accepted the honor with his usual nonchalance. To him, duke or earl made little difference—titles alone inspired no obedience, and the next war would come all the same.

When the ceremony ended, Ivar mused privately:

"Too much time among men like Sola, Pascal, and Godwin—our father grows craftier by the day. Who knows what new tricks he’ll conjure next?"

Over the following days, Rurik secluded himself to complete his Chronicle of West Francia. Just as he penned the final lines, a messenger burst in:

A fleet was sailing upstream—its sails black against the dawn, bearing the axe-and-sword banner of King Erik.