Ch 92: Seine Riverbank
West side, high platform of the center army.
“The main infantry hasn’t pressed forward yet, why is he charging so fast?”
The plan was disrupted. Vig threw the two banners into the wooden crate and quickly issued orders to the messenger riders:
“Inform Ivar’s troops to advance, quickly crush the enemy’s left wing, and clear the south side of the battle line.”
“Leonard’s troops and Theodulf’s troops advance normally. Let them be safe, don’t charge too far forward!”
“Bjorn’s troops have endured a hard battle and will temporarily retreat to the rear.”
Just as Vig hastily changed tactics, Gunnar had already charged to the junction of the Frankish center army and left wing, where there were only over three hundred infantry hastily forming ranks.
Iron hooves rolled through the pasture, swirling smoke and dust. The moment the tall horses crashed into the crowd, the Frankish militia fell like wheat stalks.
Charging, hacking, trampling—facing these Norman riders who seemed like madmen, the militia in the rear were shocked, as if they saw demons from hell.
（“Normans,” meaning Northerners, was the Franks’ term for the Vikings.）
Soon, the surviving militia retreated unanimously, ignoring their officers’ shouts. A blond youth suddenly dropped his shield and rusty iron axe, turned around, knocked over his comrades behind him, and a gap in the rout was torn open from here.
“Forget about them, follow me and keep charging!”
Abandoning these low-combat-power militia, Gunnar charged at full speed towards the dazzling blue and gold fleur-de-lis flag. Below the royal banner stood a young man wearing a crown, looking flustered. Unfortunately, he was a step too late; the nearby Franks gathered desperately, blocking this small group of cavalry.
Hooves thudding.
Seeing the dense spear points ahead, Gunnar’s warhorse reared, almost throwing its master to the ground. With no choice, he didn’t stay long, leading his troops to charge towards the weak area on the east side, until piercing through the entire French army formation.
At this moment, there were no more enemies to the east, only some scattered low farmhouses. A short distance further on lay the bridgehead on the south bank of the Seine River. Many people seemed to be watching the battle from behind the battlements.
“Sir, the enemy is chasing!”
Turning around, Gunnar saw a large group of disorganized Franks pursuing them. He looked around; most of the two hundred men who had charged with him had scattered, leaving only twenty or so riders.
Outnumbered, he planned to circle around to shake off these people and then return to the Viking main force on the west side.
After running hundreds of meters, Gunnar gradually fell behind. He looked down at his warhorse’s body and saw a large gash on its right foreleg, blood gushing out.
After running for a while, the warhorse’s heavy body collapsed. Gunnar rolled on the ground several times. When he came to his senses, he saw seven Frankish cavalrymen rushing towards him.
Picking up his longsword from the ground, Gunnar fled towards the Seine River in the north. Seeing the Viking barbarian’s pathetic appearance, the people watching the battle at the bridgehead burst into joyous laughter.
“The Seine River is wide, and we have our ships. Why does he think he can swim to the other side?”
Surrounded by a group of noblewomen, Queen Ermentrude stood in the watchtower with the clearest view, amused by this desperate barbarian.
The Queen laughed heartily, and the noblewomen echoed her laughter. In the lingering cheerful atmosphere, the barbarian ran to the shallows and then stood still.
“Is he mad?”
The Queen frowned.
The next moment, her younger brother, and also the eldest son of the Earl of Orleans, William spoke: “No, the warhorse is afraid of water, and the cavalry cannot charge, so he deliberately ran to the shallows, intending to kill a few more before he dies.”
Not long after, William’s judgment proved correct. The leading cavalryman charged to the riverbank; his warhorse was pacing anxiously in the shallows, and the knee-deep current caused its hooves to slip constantly.
Suddenly, Gunnar grabbed a pebble and threw it, splashing water that startled the warhorse, causing it to retreat. The rider had to grip the reins to steady himself. Taking advantage of the enemy’s brief distraction, Gunnar rushed forward and slashed the horse’s belly.
In severe pain, the mount struggled desperately, and man and horse plunged into the water. Gunnar used the counterweight of his sword hilt to strike the enemy’s helmet, neatly severing his neck.
Picking up the shield that fell into the water, Gunnar and the following riders exchanged a few blows. After a feint, he thrust his sword into the enemy’s abdomen.
Having killed two, the third, fourth, and so on followed in quick succession, and were slain by him.
Seeing this, the remaining three riders chose to dismount, stepping through the slippery river stones to rush forward. After one was killed, the remaining two were terrified by this blood-soaked Norman devil, dropping their weapons and fleeing in a panic.
His stamina greatly depleted, Gunnar had no heart to pursue, collapsing in the knee-deep river water, gasping for breath. His longsword, used in a long battle, lay at the bottom of the water, its blade curled like a saw. He tore off the silk robe of a dead rider to press against his wound. The bright red blood continuously spread in the clear river water, fading, and finally disappearing.
After a few minutes, more than twenty Viking riders returned to assist their commander.
Pushing aside his confidant who tried to help him, Gunnar mounted his horse, snatched his Brown Bear banner, and charged to seventy paces from the bridgehead.
Planting the flagpole firmly into the ground, he shouted at the garrison behind the battlements:
“Gunnar, Lord of Cambridge, is here! Who dares to come out?”
“Gunnar is here! Who dares to come out!”
At the top of the watchtower, the people didn’t understand his Norse, but they roughly guessed that he was proposing a duel.
“Let me go down and kill him.”
As soon as William finished speaking, his wrist was tightly grasped by his sister. “Several knights have died at this man’s hands. You are young; you are not suitable for going into battle.”
The Queen ordered a court guard, “Find Maurice de Montpellier, his condition should be better now.”
Receiving the order, the guard rode at full speed towards Île de la Cité and returned to report a few minutes later:
“Your Majesty, Sir Maurice’s illness has not subsided; he cannot even walk.”
Hearing this, she worried that her brother would insist on going out, so she hardened her heart and shouted to the archers, “In the name of the Queen, I order you to shoot this Norman!”
Facing the arrows shot from the city walls, Gunnar retreated twenty or thirty paces, cursing the bridgehead, berating these Franks for their lack of martial ethics.
After cursing for a full three minutes, he suddenly realized that the other side didn’t understand Norse, feeling a sense of listlessness, and walked away muttering towards the south.
“It seems I need to spend more time learning foreign languages in the future, otherwise I can’t even curse properly; it’s too frustrating.”
The perspective returns to the battlefield.
Ever since Gunnar had taken advantage of the situation to attack Charles the Bald’s position, various French troops had rushed over to rescue him, resulting in great disorder. Taking advantage of this precious opportunity, Ivar led a thousand heavy infantry to launch an attack and, with the cooperation of friendly troops, easily crushed the Frankish infantry on the south side of the battlefield.
“These people are too easy to beat, not at all comparable to the Anglo-Saxon heavy infantry.”
Having completed the first stage of the battle objective, Ivar looked towards the high platform on the west side. The figure was waving a flag, with a meaning roughly as follows:
Reorganize the formation, face north, attack the enemy’s center army.