Two hours passed. Night descended. Gunnar ordered the fleet to slip out from the sheltered bend of the river and row with all their might toward Bordeaux.
According to Bjorn's account, the town still possessed a six-meter-high Roman stone wall and housed five thousand inhabitants. A direct assault was hopeless—only a night raid offered any chance of success.
The moon hid behind shifting clouds. The surface of the Garonne shimmered with a cold gray glow.
Twenty-three long, narrow longships hugged the western bank, drifting forward like shadows. The carved beast-head prows were half-submerged in darkness, their twisted fangs barely visible.
Gunnar stood at the stern steering, eyes sweeping over the pitch-black hazel thickets lining the riverbanks. Farther inland, the undulating hills loomed like the back of some nameless monster.
"Maintain speed."
At the order, the oarsmen dug in.
Fifteen pairs of oars bit into the water, each stroke lifting a spray of silver droplets, each pull falling back in dangling chains of beads.
Time stretched. The rowers' breathing grew ragged. Knowing their strength was nearly spent, Gunnar ordered a half-hour rest—then pushed them onward again.
Eventually, a vast shadow rose ahead in the southwest: Bordeaux.
Fearing detection, Gunnar extinguished the dim oil lamp hung at the stern and ordered the oarsmen to slow their stroke, inching the ships toward the docks.
"Armor on. Check your gear. Be ready to move at any moment."
Minutes crawled by. Gunnar stared at the battlements, waiting for the prearranged signal.
The Vikings chewed their dry rations in silence; even after they'd eaten, the walls remained still.
"My lord?" someone whispered.
"We wait."
Since pledging himself to West Francia, Gunnar had endured endless suspicion. He needed a flawless victory to silence every doubter.
If the infiltrators failed to signal, he was prepared to scale the walls with grappling hooks.
A cold river wind blew for half the night.
Then—metal clashing.
After a moment, two lanterns dipped out from behind the crenellations, swaying left and right in the agreed pattern.
"They did it. With me!"
Gunnar dashed to the base of the wall. Ropes dangled down. He climbed swiftly—and found eight men waiting at the top, short blades dripping blood.
"Where are the rest?" he asked the young Frank named Charles.
"Tonight Bordeaux held a relic-procession festival. Too many visitors. No single inn had enough rooms. We had to split up into three different inns. When we made our move, the other groups… got separated."
Damn idiots—did they get lost?
He waited until over a hundred armored warriors had assembled. Then he led them straight for the eastern gate, cut down the twenty night guards, and flung the gates wide to admit the entire host.
Charles waved his arm urgently.
"My lord, this way! The lord's manor is in that direction!"
Nine hundred mailed soldiers thundered down the streets behind him, their armor clattering so loudly that watchdogs in every courtyard began howling.
At the third intersection, Charles stopped, panting hard.
"The brightest house ahead—that's the lord's residence. My lord, be sure to send men around back. Don't let anyone escape."
"I know. Good work, lad. After the battle, I'll make you a knight."
What followed was almost laughably easy.
When Gunnar's troops burst into the manor, they found a group of nobles still drinking and carousing—drunk enough to scold this "blonde barbarian" for barging in.
"Tie them all. Throw them in the cellar. Guard them well."
Nearly a year in Francia had changed Gunnar. He'd learned their habits—nobles aren't killed, only ransomed.
Leaving a hundred men to hold the manor, Gunnar marched the rest to the barracks and captured the sleeping garrison without a fight.
With Bordeaux seized, he dispatched messengers to Caen urging the king's reinforcements to hurry. He also sent a letter upriver to Toulouse, declaring that the southern rebellion was collapsing and promising that, should the Count of Toulouse surrender, the king would confirm his titles.
To Gunnar's surprise, the count submitted instantly—without hesitation.
To prove his sincerity, Count Friedrun immediately arrested dozens of Pippin II's supporters and shipped them downstream to Bordeaux.
With Toulouse gone, Pippin II's power structure collapsed almost overnight.
Everywhere, lords who had always disliked his rule rushed to offer surrender to Charles the Bald.
Cornered, Pippin II fled toward Gascony with a handful of loyalists—only to be betrayed and delivered to Bordeaux in exchange for reward money.
Within a few dozen days, the second war between uncle and nephew was over.
Charles did not execute him. As much as he despised the boy, he dared not bear the stain of "kin-slayer."
He merely sent him to a monastery.
"My lord, that might not be wise," Gunnar warned.
He feared Pippin might rebel again someday.
"Better imprison him on Saint-Louis Island in the Seine. Build a high tower, let him spend the rest of his life staring at the city through its windows."
Charles hesitated.
"He is royalty. He should retain some dignity. A monastery is tradition."
Gunnar leaned in and murmured:
"Then build a few huts around the tower. Enclose them with a wall. Station two monks there. Call it the Monastery of Saint Louis. Everyone will accept it."
That… made sense.
Charles accepted the idea and marched triumphantly back to Paris.
At the celebratory feast, he dragged out his prisoner and boasted before the nobles:
"Behold—Pippin II. Like his father before him, born with rebellion in his blood! Alas, I am merciful. He shall have the chance to repent the sins of his wretched lineage."
He ranted for a long while about old grudges stretching back twenty years.
Then he abruptly shifted tone, praising Gunnar's raid on Bordeaux and—following Roman custom—awarding him a golden laurel of triumph.
Jealousy rippled across the hall.
Charles hid a smirk.
Look at these parasites squirm. They did nothing and now they regret it. Hah… These Northmen truly are born hounds of war. Once Aquitaine is settled, we'll rest two years—then crush Brittany, wipe out that nuisance, and after that… my dear elder brother Lothair. I must find a way to seize that ridiculous "Emperor of the Romans" title for myself.
Ignoring the nobles' muttering, Gunnar and his knights focused on eating and drinking.
They had grown accustomed to Frankish food and Frankish rituals.
Truth be told, Frankish wine put northern mead to shame, and their cuisines far surpassed Britain and Scandinavia.
Only the dishes of Constantinople were better—and only by a little.
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