by The Golden Horn; The Road of the Sea Horse; The Sign of the Raven (epub)
A few farmsteads were in sight, empty of men. But none were to be seen when they reached the Derwent; here was grassland and the flocks had been driven to safety.
Harald paused for a look at the river. At this point, swollen by the rainy summer, it ran wide and deep between high, reedy banks. Something of remorselessness was in that brown southward flow. It gurgled and murmured around the piers of the bridge—a narrow wooden bridge with a single handrail and the road going on dusty gray beyond. Trees lined the stream, sun-speckled greenness of ash and willow whose shade was utterly black against the light.
"Where are the Englishmen?" asked Harald.
"They should come soon," replied Tosti. "We've moved fast. It's just a little past midday."
"If they don't . . ." Styrkaar's heavy face writhed into a scowl. "We'll lay the whole north country in ashes."
"Time enough for that if they fail us," said Thjodholf sharply.
Harald looked at the trees. "A good sign," he said. "The ash is Odhinn's tree, and he is god of victories."
"He is also god of the dead," muttered Thjodholf.
Harald rode across the bridge. The stallion skittered nervously, planks boomed hollow under hooves. The men followed; it took time to get everybody across that thin span. Many scrambled down the banks to drink, and thereafter re-formed their array.
Tosti squinted along the road, which bent south. "I see a dust cloud," he spoke. "It must be the hostages coming."
"It seems me they come with an almighty haste," said Thjodholf.
Harald sat waiting, holding his mount steady. A light breeze sprang up, and he breathed deeply. It smelt drowsy, of hay and harvest. . . Yes, this was the reaping time. At home they would be carting in the last sheaves, and the old, joyously heathen feasts and dances would be held under torchlight. He remembered them from his youth —merciful Christ, how long ago that was, and yet how swiftly the years had run!
The newcomers approached. Something gleamed in their dust, far off but hurrying closer. A sudden chill went through Harald.
"Those are spears and helmets," he said.
Tosti sat moveless, his handsome countenance gone wooden. At last he ventured: "They would scarce come altogether unarmed."
The river mumbled behind them.
"No," said Harald after a while. "There are too many."
"They may be some more of my friends, come to join us," said the earl.
Styrkaar cursed. A whisper went among the men, and shields were raised.
Now Harald saw the strangers a bare mile removed. They were a huge force, spilling over the fields and down the road—thousands of men, he thought wildly, vastly more than he had, and every one of their leading ranks armored. Through the dust, the light shone off their weapons as though blinking off ice.
2
Tosti started up in his stirrups. "The banners!" he yelled.
Harald nodded. There was a bleakness in him, he felt no fear but he knew that he was overmatched—that he, the craftsman of war, had walked blithely into a trap and it had snapped down on him. "I see Edwin's and Morkar's," he said. "So much for the faith of Englishmen."
Tosti gave him an angry look. "I was never a friend to their house," he answered. "You shall find that Englishmen know how to stand fast." He pointed. "But that great flag in the van—" It was royal blue, fringed with gold, and across it strode the golden form of a warrior. "That is my brother Harold's."
Styrkaar pulled free his ax. "Then you lied to us!" he growled. "All the time Harold lay near!"
Tosti shook his head dazedly. "No," he whispered. "I spoke truth. Who was to know he could come so swiftly?"
Harald laughed, a rattle in his throat. "Indeed my namesake is no weakling—a foe worthy of anyone." He stroked his beard. Under the helmet, his face was long and lean, the nose jutting, the eyes large and cold, one brow lifted as in mockery. "But let us now find a wise rede; for it can't be hidden that battle is at hand, and that with the king himself."
Tosti looked behind him, along the Norse lines. Some of them gnawed their lips, others cursed, most stood with a foredoomed bravery. "Best would it be to get away while we can," said the earl slowly, "back to the ships to fetch our armor and the rest of our men. Thereafter we can take up the fight, and if worst comes to worst we could escape in the ships."
Harald shook his head. A wintry wrath flared up in him; he knew not if it was against the Norns or against his own foolhardiness. "No," he answered. "They would follow and attack our rear. Let three men on our swiftest horses return to the ships and fetch Eystein and the others. The Englanders will bite much grass ere we draw the shortest straw."
Styrkaar nodded his black-thatched head and snapped orders. The bridge boomed under three steeds; their riders were slim youths who could reach Riccall in a couple of hours.
Tosti smiled. "I'll follow your word in this as in all else, my lord," he said. "I myself were not glad to flee."
Harald blew his horn and the Norse grumbled into line. He cantered along their ranks, shouting his commands. What must be done was to hold the bridge while most of the army got to the farther side; he himself would lead the defenders. Once all were across, they could hope to block off the English till help arrived.
His horse stumbled, and suddenly he pitched from the saddle and hit the earth. The shock jarred in him. A groan went up at this sign. Gunnar bounded to help the king to his feet. "Be you hurt, my lord?" he gasped. "The dear saints give that you be well."
Harald looked into the anxious blue eyes and smiled. "No, Gunnar," he said. "I live yet." Rising, he sprang back into the saddle. The stallion reared and whinnied. "A fall betokens good luck!" he cried so many could hear.
Harold Godwinsson was arraying his own army a quarter mile away. He had crossed the Derwent further south and driven his folk unmercifully; but though he outnumbered the foe, he had never seen men more stout-looking. He nudged Earl Morkar. "Know you who that was, the big man who just fell off his horse—he in the blue kirtle and the beautiful helmet?" he asked.
"That was the king himself, my lord," replied Morkar.
"A great and mighty man," said Harold; "but it looks now as if his luck has forsaken him."
He was mounted on a tall chestnut gelding, and well clad in purple and scarlet beneath his mail. Of a sudden, he snatched the plain white shield of a lad nearby, giving his own in exchange. "Keep this for me," he said. "I go to parley."
Twenty mounted Housecarles followed him as he rode across the sere grass.
The Norsemen streamed over the bridge behind the ring of Harald's defenders. They were in hearty spirits, despite the surprise; their king had never failed to snatch victory or, at the least, escape unhurt. But it would take a goodly time to get so many across where only two could go abreast. Landwaster flapped in the breeze behind them, a gash of blood against heaven. Harald sat by Fridhrek, Tosti on his right and Thjodholf on the left, while Styrkaar urged the men in their retreat. The king had shield and sword in hand, he had donned his byrnie and it clinked like scales as he moved.
It was an awesome company which came toward him. The Housecarles were indeed giants, splendidly outfitted, strong and steady as oxen and with an ox-like calm in their eyes. Truly each of those long axes could deal with two ordinary men. There were hundreds of them leading the English levies.
The warrior in the forefront was only of middling height, riding with an easy grace; the nose-guarded helmet almost masked his clean-shaven face. Some herald….
Tosti sucked in a quick breath as the English drew rein, and then clamped blankness over his countenance.
"Hoy!" cried the herald. "Is Earl Tosti here?"
"That cannot be hidden." The outlaw rode forth, to lock eyes with the other man. "Here he is."
The messenger said in a hurried voice: "Your brother Harold sends you his greetings and with them his promise of peace and all Northumbria for you. And rather than do without you in his following, he will give you the third part of the kingdom to rule over with
himself."
The earl's brow darkened. "That's something else from the outlawry and disgrace which were bidden me last winter," he snapped. "Had such an offer been made then, many a man who lies dead today would still be in life, and England's might would stand unbroken." He paused, then having looked down at his saddlebow, and up again, spoke sharply. "But if I accept this, what reward shall King Harald Sigurdharson have for his trouble?"
The herald lifted his head and answered in a ringing tone. "He shall have seven feet of English earth, or as much more as he is taller than other men."
Tosti smiled in a strange wistfulness. Again their eyes met, and the earl said quietly: "Then you can ride back and tell King Harold that he must ready for battle; for never shall it be said among the Norse that Earl Tosti, when he should have fought for King Harald Sigurdharson in England, ran from him to his foes. So liefer the same fate: death with honor or England with victory!"
The herald seemed to droop for a moment, before he straightened and replied: "So be it." He rode back with his guards.
Tosti returned to Harald's side and sat brooding.
"He knew how to use words, that man," said the king. "Who was he?"
"That was King Harold Godwinsson," answered Tosti.
Harald felt a lance of cold in his heart. "Too long did you wait to tell me that," he said softly. "Had I known this Harold was that near my hand, he would never have wrought any Norseman's bane."
Tosti shrugged; his byrnie slithered and clashed. "You are right, my lord," he replied. "It was a bold trick for so great a chieftain, and could well have ended as you say. I knew he had come to bid me peace and a mighty fief, and knew too that had I betrayed him it would have been his death. But I would liefer he should be my slayer than I his."
Harald nodded, staring after his namesake. He felt no anger, not now. Turning to Thjodholf, he remarked: "That was not a big man there, but he sat firmly in his stirrups."
The English horsemen were dismounting and falling into their places under the banners. The Norse chiefs began to do likewise, and Harald heard bows being strung behind him. He remained in the saddle for a bit, thinking of what lay ahead, and then he made a verse:
"Forward go we in the fylking,
without byrnies,
under blued edges;
helmets gleam,
we have no mail:
useless it shines upon the ships."
He smiled crookedly, must try to do better. "That was poorly made;" For a moment Thora's and Ellisif's images drifted before him. Then he spoke again.
"Creep not at the calling
to war 'neath crooked shield rims,
frightened at the fray—
thus spoke the faithful woman.
High she bade me hold
my head in storms of iron
where sharpened steel is swinging
down on skulls and helmets."
He got off his horse and led the stallion aside and tethered him. When he came back, Thjodholf was chanting, beating out the lines with sword upon shield.
"I do not mean ever your heirs
to leave, my ruler,
if the clash should claim you.
(That comes which God has willed us.)
Sunlight never struck on
such a pair of princes: Harald's sons,
like hawks both, unhooded to avenge him."
Yes, thought the king, that much have I done; I may fall, but my house will live. Watch over them, holy Olaf!
3
The English host moved forward, their footfalls shuddered in the earth. Harald stood by Landwaster, the raven gaped and flapped at the warrior. That flag had Ellisif made, oh, many years ago; this very summer had she embroidered it afresh, and woven all her hopes into it. The king had laid a hand on Fridhrek's shoulder. "Take heart, lad," he said. "You shall yet be a jarl in England."
"It cannot fail," said the boy huskily, "not when you lead us, my lord."
Gunnar tossed his ax in the air and caught it again and roared defiance. His shout was taken up by the whole ring. Behind them, their comrades still flooded over the bridge and ranked themselves on the west bank.
Harald had Styrkaar commanding his right wing and Tosti his left; Thjodholf stood near, with other good warriors, their shields making a fence in front of the standard. The whole line curved back to the river on each flank, and spears bristled from it.
Arrows began to fly. Harald felt one strike his shield and stick there, aquiver. He plucked it out. Norsemen fell as their unarmored flesh was pierced, and others sprang to take their places. But a well-shot arrow could go through a byrnie anyhow, thought Harald grimly, and his own archers were replying in kind; it would be when man met man that the lack would tell.
The Housecarles trotted steadily forward, like one, the levies crowding behind them in ranks less orderly and less fully equipped. Harald hefted his sword and waited. As they came closer, he made out faces, here a bearded long-chinned countenance from Denmark, there a broad yeoman's nose, at their point the closeknit little man who steered England. He felt sweat run down his ribs.
"Holy Cross!" thundered from the Housecarles and they broke into a run.
Harald lifted his sword. The burning sunlight poured off it. A remembrance came back, leaping over thirty-six years, and he raised Olaf's cry: "Forward, forward, Christ-men, cross-men, king's men!"
An enemy trooper, nigh as tall as himself, sprang at the shield-burgh. His ax flailed down, a helmet and a head sundered beneath it, blood spouted under the hot bright blue of heaven. The dead Norseman reeled to earth, and Harald trod into his place. Shield by shield! Side by side! Stand fast and smite them!
His sword howled. The Englishman caught the edge on his axhaft. Its tough wood would have turned any common blow, but Harald's clove it in twain. Up whirled the king's brand, and down again, and the Housecarle fell.
Another stepped forth. His great ax swung low, biting into Harald's shield, he felt the fastenings groan. He cut at the helmed head, it bobbed from him and the blade landed on an armored shoulder. The Housecarle wrenched his weapon free and chopped at Harald's arm. The long sleeve of Emma caught that frightful smashing, and numbness burst in the king's hand. Almost, he dropped his sword.
He crammed his shield ahead of him, into the Englishman's face, and felt teeth splinter. The guard lurched. Strength returned to Harald's right arm and he clove the man's wrist. "That for Ellisif!" he shouted. The fellow shook his head and tried to lift the ax again. "That for Thora!" He rolled on the ground, clawed the grass, and was still.
Iron boomed between the ranks. Thjodholf slashed and hacked, gasping out some old battle chant as he fought. Styrkaar lopped and hewed, Gunnar bashed helmets and struck off limbs, Tosti's blade wove a snarl of bane. Landwaster held firm behind the shield wall, and the warrior flag wavered.
Panting, the English withdrew as their charge spent its force. Harald looked to either side. There had been a dreadful toll of his own unarmored men, carles sprawled with sightless eyes, mouths agape, split heads and spitted bellies; crows hovered near, and in the pause flies came to settle on the dead. But the English had paid. A heaped ring of their finest lay as quiet on grass gone slippery with blood, while the wounded sounded forth their anguish.
"Get our hurt across the bridge," said Harald. He breathed heavily through a dry mouth, his lungs seemed on fire.
Gunnar stooped in the ranks and picked up the beer crock he had laid behind him. "Pass this to the king," he said.
Harald drank deep and called: "This shall be rewarded with a shire."
"Enough to have you drink it, my lord," said Gunnar. "When I am a great chief, the sign on my banner'll be a crock."
They heard Harold Godwinsson egg his men on to a fresh attack. He himself led it, ax raised and flag swaying overhead.
Again fury burst on Harald's shield. He struck at the man before him, a burly red man who had a cast in his eye. Never had they seen each other till this day, but now death whipped between
them. Ax and sword, strike forward and hold fast, put down that foe and here comes the next!
The press drove the Norsemen back, tightening their ring, but so many of them fell that they were not more crowded. Thjodholf had a moment's freedom in which to cry out, and it was the Bjarkamaal he shouted:
"The sun is rising,
the cock's feathers rustle,
'tis time for thralls
to tread into work. ..."
Harald remembered the dawn of Stiklastadh, and joined his folk in roaring it forth.
"Waken, warriors, wake ye up. . . ."
Then the attack was on them again so fiercely they had not breath to spare.
That onslaught was also blunted and beaten back. By then the corpses made a wall, four feet of reddened flesh where Norway's dead guarded the living. Harald wiped his streaming face and left a smear of blood. Would Eystein never come?
He looked behind him. Nigh all the host was across the river. It would be ticklish getting the rest over, if the English attacked meanwhile; and somehow the bridge must be held till he could form ranks on the other side. Well . . .
"Give the word and don't garble it," he said hoarsely to those beside him. "Let the ring pull back into a circle touching the bridge, and then let the men at its ends go across, one by one, and tighten the line as they do."
Plain yeomen could not have carried it out; but these were the royal guards, the bloom of the North.