North Sea Dawn

by Susan Amund

  “Face forward! If you can’t mount, lay across his back, I’ll keep you from falling off.” Apparently the archer could sense his doubt without seeing his face, “You are no use to me dead, sailor,” came the wry whisper. Paul awkwardly clambered up onto the stump and from there onto the horse. He felt as though he were about to slide off, one way or the other, until the archer vaulted up. A flat hand was pressed into his back to keep him from slipping and the horse began an uncomfortable journey.

  “Who goes there?” A gruff man’s voice rumbled.

  “It is I,” came the soft reply from the horse’s back. “Keep your voice down, I have important news. Where is my Lady?” Julia stepped from Duncan the butcher’s cottage to see Sarah on the back of an enormous warhorse, a young man slung before her.

  “I am here, although you should report to Ulrich, he is in charge of the defense.” Julia leaned back into the cottage and motioned the man-at-arms outside. He came with a cup of steaming broth in one hand and his sword in the other.

  “Who is it?”

  “Sarah,.” Julia examined the young man’s bound hands, “And she appears to have a prisoner.” Ulrich and Duncan pulled Paul off the horse while Sarah related everything she had seen and heard on the beach.

  “Thirty men, you’re sure?” Ulrich demanded, “No more?”

  “I can only count to fifteen, sir,” Sarah blushed in the early morning night. “But there were twice that number.” Julia nodded in contemplation while she checked her supply of bolts and secured her crossbow on her belt. She looked to the boy kneeling on the ground before Duncan. With a quick stride she bent before him, forcing him to meet her gaze.

  “Is her count correct, young man?”

  “I doubt he’ll cooperate, m’Lady,” Duncan spat into the dirt, splattering the prisoner with spittle and dust. “He may have been stupid enough to let the girl capture him, but he’s Norman, sure enough. Even if he speaks English, I doubt he would help his enemy.” Sarah burned to give the old man a sharp retort, but Ulrich interceded.

  “How many sailed with you?” He asked in slow French. Paul studied the warrior; he was broad shouldered, stocky and kept his sword close. The Lady was clearly in charge, but she dressed like no lady he had ever seen. Her over tunic was knee length, with a shorter under tunic and long trousers that tucked into soft leather shoes. She carried a crossbow and short sword and her face was direct and honest. The old man was strong as well, and smelled of fresh meat. A tanner’s implements stood to the side of his cottage. The girl, for he could tell in the morning light that his captor was a girl, had thrown back her hood to reveal white-blonde hair and bright blue eyes. She was the most beautiful person Paul had ever seen, and she had killed a trained knight and pushed his own head in the mud.

  “Twenty-five,” he answered in heavily accented English. “Her count is correct, and that includes Sir Robert, their leader.”

  “And the horses?” asked Ulrich, in English this time.

  “They brought ten, nine now,” he nodded towards Sarah and her mount.

  “What of this army, do they mean to land at Lowestof? How did you come to land here?” They were all gazing at him intently, especially the girl, Sarah. Paul had to remind himself of what happened the last time he tried to impress a pretty face. He blew out a long breath and answered as truthfully as he could,

  “Duke William intended to land at Hastings, whether or not the rest of the fleet made it I cannot say. We lost sight of them almost immediately. I am not a sailor, but was given the handling of the boat, as I have some small experience. We started out too far to the east and the wind combined with a current to pull us here.” He paused for a moment, and laughed without any real humor, “I don’t even know where here is.”

  “How do we know you aren’t lying?” the old man kicked Paul none too gently. The Lady quelled him with a glance and squatted in front of Paul.

  “I don’t suppose you can know,” he said quietly, to her. “You have no reason to trust me, but I must tell you that I have no love for the Normans, this group in particular. My father was a merchant from Saxony.”

  “They did treat him very poorly, Sir Ulrich,” Sarah spoke up. “The one I killed-”

  “You shot one?!” Duncan interrupted with incredulity.

  “Was the body in the open?” asked Ulrich.

  “Sort of,” Sarah looked from one adult to another, “he is in the marsh, a few paces from the woods. No one would be able to see him unless they were nearly upon him.”

  “Which they will be as soon as they miss them and the horse, stupid girl,” Duncan cursed and spat again. Sarah blushed beet red from her hairline down into her tunic.

  “It doesn’t matter now, what’s done is done,” Julia stepped between them, hands raised. “What is our next move, Ulrich?”

  “Take your mount and spread the news to the others, Duncan can wait for John and Matthew to return from patrolling the bay while I go to scout the landing party.”

  “What of the boy, sir?” Duncan moved to kick him again, and thinking better of it, he spat instead.

  “I would not leave him unguarded,” said Ulrich thoughtfully, “but we are thin enough as it is. I could kill him now,” Paul paled and prepared to run if it came down to it. “What say you, Lady Julia?” She stood and untied her horse from the old tree next to the cottage.

  “Sarah can watch him. She took him down before, I am confident she could do it again. He can help her move the villagers to the monastery. It is not as secure as the keep, but it is closer. I will meet you back here with the others in one hour, Ulrich. Sooner, if I can.” She wheeled her horse and was off into the dissipating mist. Ulrich swiftly cut the boy’s bonds and helped him to stand.

  “Your name, sailor?”

  “Paul, sir.

  “Paul, stick with Sarah and do as she says. I have your word that you will help us?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “If I find that you have gone back on it, I will kill you. Sarah,” he turned towards the girl, “good work. Now get the villagers to the monastery. Brother Simon and the Abbot are expecting them, but the tide will be in soon, so make certain you get everyone across the sand bar quickly, understood?”

  “Yes, uncle.” Sarah led Paul away from the cottage to mount the stolen warhorse. “You sit behind, you’re taller. But I will knock you to the ground if you try anything.” She narrowed her eyes, and Paul tried not to think about how pretty she was. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. She mounted and he climbed on behind her. She held the reins, so he was forced to wrap his arms around her waist to keep from falling off. Her quiver mashed into his chest, but her bottom and thighs snuggled tightly against him. She was quite a bit shorter than him, and the top of her head was level with his chin. He caught a faint, sweet scent from her hair as she urged the horse into a gallop. He tried to remind himself of the last pretty girl, who couldn’t hold a candle to Sarah. And she got you sent to sea to make war with the Normans, he thought wryly.

  September 27 th Near midday, the North Sea, off the East Coast of England

  The sun was blazing overhead and unusually hot for late September. The wind that blew in the men’s faces did nothing to relieve the heat and humidity. Eric had ordered the men to switch off at the oars, and only every third pole was manned, while they took turns resting and checking their bandages. Jens had finally stopped talking; his incessant chatter had begun to wear on the nerves of the younger sailors, but Eric was more concerned that it had ceased. Pale grey had flooded the man’s face, even his lips were ashen. His eyes were still open, but the once bright blue looked glassy. His breath came in a harsh catching wheeze and he seemed unable to focus. His chest appeared to have stopped bleeding, but it was difficult to tell under the dirt that clotted the links of his mail armor and stained his tunic.

  Eric took a quick assessment of the long ship, stretching his aching muscles for the first time in more than fifteen hours. Two more men had died, and young Amund Svenson was
no longer groaning in pain. His face was resolute and he nodded to the sailors that were still rowing, instilling in them his belief that they would live. Secretly he was screaming. He had called up all of his friends, his comitas, to fight with him for Hardrada. The King himself had promised him lands and a hall of his own, on the coast, and a wife of his choice from among the English nobility. These men might have fought with others, or stayed home, if he had not believed Hardrada’s promises:

  “Any woman you wish boy, or more than one if you desire.”

  “The woman I can find myself, what of the land?”

  “You will have it, first choice behind my own sons.”

  “Hardrada the Relentless has given out many such promises.” Eric had kept his voice carefully neutral, but the insult was in the words. Hardrada was out of his chair, sword drawn in an instant.

  “You call out my honor, boy?! You would be nothing without the skills I have taught you!”

  “No, your majesty,” Eric remained unmoved, unblinking, “I would be a fisherman and trader like my grandfather. Although I wonder where you would be, had I and my men not fought beside you so many times...without the compensation we have long been owed.”

  “Do not dare to presume I owe you! You who would have been nothing!”

  “Harald Hardrada the Clever, the Relentless, King of Norway, you have offered me much in exchange for my arm and weapon, and I have fought beside you proudly. I would willingly die in honorable battle beside you, to sit in the Hall of the Dead with my King. I understand that there are many that press their claims more strongly with you, and so I and my men have fallen lower and lower when rewards are handed out, until there is nothing left. I do not blame you; you cannot answer to those who do not speak. But I am speaking now, and if I fight with you in England, I want your blood oath, before your Council, that I will receive my own hall and lands.” During Eric’s speech, Hardrada struggled with his temper, unwilling to kill a valuable sailor and warrior outright.

  “Do you decline to fight me? Eric Vandalsson apologizes for his insult?”

  “I will fight you to the death here and now, Hardrada, if that is your wish. But you will find it difficult to conquer England from your funeral pyre.” Hardrada raised his sword again for a moment, then let out a bark of laughter that was heard far outside his hall.

  “Your boldness would have pleased the old gods, Eric. And your skill with the blade pleases me. I will give this oath to you, that when I conquer England you will have first choice of land, halls, and women before even my own sons. I will swear this in blood on the Holy Cross.” He sat back in his chair, inwardly wondering if he could have taken the young man. Eric was a warrior in his prime, perhaps the best of all the men he had fought with in Denmark, maybe even in Rus or Byzantium. And Hardrada was no longer a young man at over fifty. He flexed his arms and felt the strength still there, comforting him that sailing to England would be the quick victory that the traitor Tostig had promised. “Go Eric, bring me sixty men and your long ship.” Eric gave a short bow and turned to leave the hall, he was nearly at the door when Hardrada called after him, “You should not poke an old dragon like me, next time I might snap you in half!”

  “Thank you for the advice, my King. Next time I will bring a longer stick.” And Eric had left the hall with gales of laughter following him.

  He remembered Hardrada’s laugh well as he returned to row over the protests of his aching arms and thighs. The ship was quieter now than it had been at dawn, there were fewer moans. Eric knew that those men were not sleeping, but still he rowed. There was no going back, that way lay only slaughter. Any attempt to sail home with the crew in their current condition would be suicide. There were only two options: forward to an island he had not seen in years, to tread on an old trading alliance, or to lie down and wait for death. Eric Vandalsson called to the other rowers and began a chant to stir their hearts and muscles, and keep them in time. He would make death work hard this day.

  The Battle for Aurelius

  Eric could see the island clearly before the ship. High cliffs rose in the north, and the land descended in rolling hills to the east and south to wrap around a sheltered bay. As the longship crept closer, he and the men still capable of rowing could see the small village nestled next to the bay. Further out to the south lay the tiny, rocky bluff of an island on which the monastery had been built. Eric pointed the prow straight at the village, he had no time to look for a good landing on the monks’ island. His men were ready to drop on the rowing benches, and none of the injured lying in the center of the ship made any sounds. Eric did not spare a glance to Jens as he called to the men to row harder; his old friend had closed his eyes some time ago.

  They were nearly upon the rocky beach when Eric noticed the fighting. Two figures, both on horseback, had their backs to the bay as they fired arrows into the village. A burning cottage kept their horses skittish and pinned them on the beach. A small half-circle of men to the north were holding off three mounted knights and a dozen more men on foot. The two trapped against the bay continued to pick off shots into the enemy lines, he watched another man go down, sword raised to attack what appeared to be an extremely elderly man who wielded no sword at all, but rather a huge tanner’s knife. They were nearly close enough to pull the boat ashore, and Eric could feel a flood of adrenaline rushing through his veins when he saw one man break through the lines and charge at the mounted crossbowman. A tall thin man slid off the back of the second horse and ran to attack. He caught up with the knight, but not before the enemy took a deadly swing at his target. The horse screamed and bolted, throwing the crossbowman into the water.

  Eric roared and those men who could still fight answered back. The people of the North were known throughout Europe as ferocious warriors, and Eric Vandalsson and his company had been singled out by King Hardrada himself as the elite. They charged the shore, four men securing the longship behind them. Eric roared again for the glory of the fight, and felt, if only for a few minutes, all the pains and aches of the last few days melt away behind the fury of his axes and his own mounting battle rage. He kept the presence of mind to pull the downed crossbowman from the water as he charged the line. The defenders parted quickly once they realized that reinforcements had arrived.

  Eric brought his left axe down hard on the first man he met, sinking it down through the tough muscle and tendons of the shoulder to crack against the bone. The enemy dropped his sword in a scream of agony and fell, becoming dead weight on the blade of the axe. Before he could work that weapon free, another man approached - aiming to drive his sword point first into Eric’s exposed belly. With a tightening of muscles developed from years of hard rowing and killing, Eric met the blade with the shaft of his second axe, the force of the motion nearly throwing the man sideways. Using the energy to his advantage, Eric reversed his grip and swung in a horizontal arc, taking the man full in the chest. He freed his left axe, but the right was hopelessly entangled in the dead man’s ribcage. He leapt the body and ran nearly bent double for the mounted man directing the battle.

  Sir Robert was caught by surprise. His force had nearly driven the English peasants into the bay when a longship appeared out of nowhere. Huge barbarian warriors, some not fully clothed, all crusted in blood, charged from the ship before it was beached, mowing into his men. The wounded and confused English fell back to a supporting position under their knight’s guidance while the newcomers slaughtered his men. Before he could decide to press forward or draw back, the fiercest among the Vikings had felled two of his men with powerful swings of twin axes. The berserker was charging Robert even as he tried to turn his horse, too low for Robert to put any force behind a strike of his sword. And then time seemed to halt as the weight of the huge Viking combined with his charge to drive the horse over, crushing Robert’s leg beneath it.

  Eric dismissed the injured man trapped beneath his horse and turned to take stock of the battle. His men had things under control now, as most had finished off t
heir combatants. Abjorn had left his weapons in the ship and was quickly crushing his opponent’s head into the rocky beach with his bare hands. Two of the attackers were fleeing on horseback, and Eric’s men were clearly losing the burst of adrenaline that had allowed them to charge the beach. He launched his remaining axe, end over end, and it struck his target in the head, dragging him to the ground. At the same time, the other rider abruptly pitched forward, and slid gently out of the saddle.

  Julia lowered her crossbow and wiped her wet face with an even wetter sleeve. Water seeped out of the leather cowl that protected her head and neck. She took in the scene on the beach. Her small force had numbered only six by the time they retreated through the village to the shore, drawing the Normans away from the last of those retreating to the monastery. Two of the defending islanders lay among the cottages. Another man and his son had been felled somewhere in the fields between the creek and the village. Not a single villager had been harmed, although three cottages had been set on fire and were still burning wildly.