Two hours later, night had fallen. Gunnar ordered the fleet to leave the secluded river bay and head upstream at full speed toward Bordeaux.
Bjorn had described the city as boasting a Roman stone wall some twenty feet high and home to five thousand men. A frontal assault was hopeless, and Gunnar's only hope was to take the city at night.
The moonlight was dim, the Garonne River a bluish-gray glimmer. Twenty-three narrow wooden boats glided slowly along the western bank. The carved animal heads on their prows were immersed in shadow, the outlines of their curved tusks barely visible.
Gunnar personally steered the boats, his gaze sweeping over the dark hazel forests on either side. In the distance, the hills resembled an indescribable monster.
"Keep up the pace!"
he commanded, and the crew pulled hard at their oars. Fifteen pairs of oars alternated, cutting through the water, sending up tiny silvery rivulets of foam as they entered and falling in a cascade of intermittent drops as they exited.
After an indefinite time, the crew's breathing became heavier. Gunnar, realizing that their strength was running out, ordered that the crew be given half an hour's rest before continuing on.
As time passed, a huge shadow appeared to the southwest. Fearing that the defenders would notice them, Gunnar extinguished the dim oil lamp hanging on the boat and ordered the sailors to slow their oars, carefully approaching the dock.
"Put on your armor, gather your gear, and be ready to sail."
As the seconds ticked by, Gunnar's eyes were glued to the city walls, anticipating the expected signal fires. The Viking warriors were wolfing down their rations, and even after they had eaten and drunk their fill, there was no sign of movement from the walls.
"Sir?"
"Keep waiting!"
Gunnar had faced countless doubts since his escape to West Frankish, and he needed an unassailable victory to overcome them. If the walls still did not budge, he was even prepared to use ropes and grappling hooks to retake the city.
The river breeze blew most of the night, and the short clangs of weapons echoed off the walls. A moment later, two lights appeared from beneath the battlements,
flickering back and forth in a steady rhythm.
"They've succeeded! Follow me."
Gunnar rushed to the base of the wall and climbed up the suspended rope. He saw only eight soldiers with bloody short blades.
"Where are the others?" he asked a young man named Charles.
"There is a procession of relics in Bordeaux, attracting a large crowd. All the inns are full. To avoid suspicion, we stayed in three different inns. On the last night, we separated from the other two groups." Damn it!
Had these idiots gotten lost?
Gunnar waited a moment, gathering more than a hundred men-at-arms around him. He led his troops to the eastern gate, killing twenty guards on night duty. Then he opened the gate and let the huge army into Bordeaux.
Charles waved his left hand at the Duke.
"Sir, follow me. The lord's residence is here!"
As he was told, nine hundred armored warriors marched down the street. The clanking of armor rang out in unison, causing the guard dogs to bark furiously.
After racing through three crossroads, Charles fell to his knees, breathing heavily. "The house with the brightest light is the lord's residence. Sir, be sure to divide your forces to cover the rear and prevent them from escaping." "
Understood, boy. You have done well. After the battle, I will knight you."
The rest of the process went surprisingly smoothly until Gunnar's soldiers stormed the residence. A group of nobles were still drinking and having fun, drunkenly cursing the fair-haired barbarian for not knowing the rules.
"Tie them all up, throw them in the cellar and keep them under guard."
After living in Frankish France for almost a year, Gunnar gradually adopted local customs, such as not killing captured nobles, but exchanging them for ransom.
Once Gunnar was sure that the residence was under his control, he left a hundred soldiers to guard it, and he led the rest to the barracks, capturing the guard car while it was still asleep.
Having captured Bordeaux, Gunnar sent his men back to Caen, calling for reinforcements to arrive as soon as possible. He also wrote a letter to Toulouse, upstream of the Garonne, arguing that the southern rebellion was doomed and that if the Count of Toulouse surrendered, the king would continue to recognize his authority after the war.
Surprisingly, Charles, who had delivered the letter, surrendered readily and without hesitation.
To demonstrate his sincerity, Count Friedelon gathered the supporters of Injustice II and sent them downstream to Bordeaux by ship. From that moment on, the power of Injustice II quickly collapsed. It seemed that discontent with his rule had long been felt in various regions, which had submitted letters of surrender to Charles the Bald. When the situation had hopelessly collapsed,
Injustice II fled southwest to Gascony with a few confidants. Along the way, he was betrayed by his servants and delivered to Bordeaux in exchange for a reward. Only a few days later, the second war between uncle and nephew was over.
Having captured Emperor II, Charles did not kill him. Although he wished to damn him, he could not bear the stigma of "parricide" and simply imprisoned him in a monastery.
"Your Majesty, this is not a safe idea,"
said Gunnar, fearing that Emperor II might rebel again. He proposed moving his confinement to the Île Saint-Louis in the middle of the Seine and building a tower there where he could spend the rest of his life.
Charles said: "He is a member of the royal family and should be treated with the most basic respect. Confinement in a monastery is a tradition."
Faced with the hesitation of his new superior, Gunnar lowered his voice and said: "Build some small houses near the tower, surround it with a wall, house two monks and call it the Abbey of Saint-Louis. That should break him."
It seemed to make sense.
Charles accepted the offer and led his army back to Paris. At a banquet, he presented his prisoner to the nobles.
"Gentlemen, this is Emperor II. Like his father, they are both ambitious rebels. I never thought that such a grave sin could be passed down from generation to generation. Alas, I am ready to spare him this time, hoping that he will repent for the rest of his days."
Charles raised his glass and unleashed a furious anger on his brother and nephew, recalling even the events of twenty years ago...
After a long conversation, he changed the subject, praising Gunnar's surprise attack on Bordeaux and, following Roman tradition, awarding him a golden triumphal crown. Karl,
sensing the envy of the other nobles, gloated:
"These scoundrels knew how to do nothing but be lazy, and now they regret it. Ha-ha, it seems these Normans are natural-born cutthroats.
Since we have dealt with Aquitaine, let us rest for a year or two. Then we will attack Brittany in the west and finally put an end to this misfortune. And then, my dear brother Lothair, we must find a way to take away his title of "Emperor of the Romans." Ignoring the
disdainful remarks of the nobles, Gunnar and his knights threw themselves into eating and drinking. By this time they had imperceptibly adopted the Frankish diet and religious customs.
It is worth noting that Frankish wine had an even more authentic taste than Nordic mead, and the taste of their cuisine was superior to that of Britain and Northern Europe. Looking back, it was only slightly inferior to the cuisine of Constantinople, but only slightly.