Harold turned to his men and ordered them to ride to York.
Just outside the city, Harold and his men passed through Fulford Gate. There were bodies everywhere; in the marsh, on the roadside and along the riverbanks where they had fallen, their weapons and valuables taken from them.
The English army rode into York and on Harold’s orders, some of his housecarls raced through the streets to close the rest of the city’s gates. No one was to leave town. The King was greeted with a rapturous applause. He dismounted from his horse outside the great hall and strode in, demanding to see Edwin and Morcar. A man shuffled forward, apologetically.
‘I’m sorry, my Lord, the earls are elsewhere.’
‘Elsewhere?’
‘After the battle, some of the survivors came back here; the rest ran off, my Lord. They were afraid, you see. King Harald had won such a handsome victory so quickly and so easily; what chance did we have against him?’
‘I suppose you’re right. So what happened to Edwin and Morcar?’
‘I’m sorry to say when they heard Earl Tostig was looking for them they left to join the others.’
‘The others who had run away?’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘So what happened then?’
‘We had a meeting with King Harald where we promised to be obedient to him, just as if he were our king. To prove we meant it, we had to hand over hostages. They’re all the sons of the foremost men of the city. Earl Tostig told us himself who they were to be. We are to hand them over tomorrow at Stamford Bridge, my Lord.’
‘Thank you. Who are you?’
‘I’m Thored and I’m an ealdorman, my Lord.’
‘Well, Thored, for the time being you’re in charge here.’
‘It’s an honour, my Lord.’
‘Arrange accommodation for my men and their horses. And arrange for a feast to be served here in the hall as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘And arrange for a bigger feast for tomorrow night.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Yes. To celebrate our victory over the Norsemen.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ replied Thored with a smile.
Stamford Bridge
Sunrise, and the city of York stirred. Horses were saddled and chain mail byrnies donned, ready for the clash with the Norsemen. Through the streets of York the army hurried, with Harold and Gyrth at its head, old friends and comrades like Azur and Ansgar at their side. The army was twice the size that it had been when it left London. All along the Great North Road, riders had been sent out to gather volunteers; every man was needed. From towns and villages along the way, many men had joined Harold. And on this sunny morning, many volunteers from York, out for vengeance or to restore their pride, attached themselves to the King’s army.
By the most direct route they headed to Stamford Bridge. With the sun beating down on his head, the creases in the back of Skalpi’s neck showed white against the red- brown of his sunburn. Sweat ran down his neck, where damp hair clung to his hot skin. Sweat stained leather and cloth alike.
‘Aren’t you worried the men might be too tired for this, Harold?’
‘We have the element of surprise, Gyrth. Sigurdsson doesn’t know we’re anywhere near here. By the time he realizes what’s happening, it’ll be too late. We have him where we want him and his forces are split. We might not get another chance.’
‘Shouldn’t we be more cautious? They say he is a great warrior; the Thunderbolt of the North, they call him.’
‘Thunder box, more like. If Sigurdsson is such a great a warrior, why has he never beaten cousin Swein?’
‘He won many battles for the Byzantines.’
‘That was all years ago.’
‘My lords,’ it was Thored of York, accompanying them as guide, ‘We are approaching Stamford Bridge.’ He nodded towards the top of a ridge in front of them, beyond which the land fell away.
In the Viking camp at the side of the river, the Norsemen were in good heart, enjoying a glorious late summer’s morning. The scene was bathed in a golden light that lifted the spirits. The earth was still dry and cracked, even so late in the year. Most of the men had finished breakfast and were waiting for the hostages to arrive. Some of the soldiers were playing board games, some idly chatting and exchanging banter. A small group gathered on the riverside were throwing stones at a washtub which had jammed itself in some reeds on the far riverbank, upstream from the bridge.
‘King Harald, after we have the hostages, what do you intend to do?’ asked Tostig, chewing on the last of his bread.
‘We’ll take them to Riccall, and then we’ll go to London.’
‘When you’ve ….’
‘What’s that,’ Harald interrupted, ‘on the ridge up there?’
Tostig looked across the river to the top of the valley. There on the skyline, underneath a cloud, he could see bright flashes and glints.
‘Does that look like ice to you, Tostig?’
By now most of Sigurdsson’s soldiers could see what their king was looking at but none could make it out.
‘No, it’s sunlight catching on something,’ said the earl.
‘It looks like ice.’
‘It can’t be; it’s much too hot. It’s metal. It’s the sun catching on metal.’
‘That cloud is dust. That’s the dust kicked up by an army. The sun must be catching on their swords and armour. This means trouble, Tostig.’
‘Well, it might be trouble but then again, it might not.’
‘That’s not very helpful, Tostig,’ growled Sigurdsson, glaring at him.
‘It might be some of my kinsmen come to welcome you. The word must be out that York fell easily into your hands; perhaps they’ve come seeking mercy and friendship.’
The Viking camp looked full of statues as everyone stopped and stared at the horizon; as they did so the vision on the ridge grew bigger.
‘King Harald,’ said Tostig, looking concerned, ‘I think that’s the English army. Why don’t we retreat to the ships at Riccall?’
‘I didn’t come all this way just to run away at the first sign of trouble. We can handle this lot. What we’ll do, Tostig, is send three men on our fastest horses to Riccall to fetch help. It’ll be the Englishmen who’ll have the biggest surprise of the day.’
‘It’s your decision,’ Tostig said. ‘I’ve no wish to retreat, either.’
Sigurdsson gave him a cutting look, then ordered three men to ride to Riccall and a dozen more of his finest berserkers to cross to the York side of the river to defend the bridge. While his men donned their armour, Sigurdsson planned to cross the river to pay King Harold a visit.
The horses were brought up and Tostig mounted effortlessly; Sigurdsson lost his footing in the stirrup and fell to the ground with a thud. Embarrassed but unharmed, he rose to his feet and with his second attempt climbed into the saddle. With a small troop around them, he and Tostig made their way across the bridge and rode boldly to where the English army lay poised on the ridge.
On his side of the river, Harold saw Sigurdsson fall from his horse.
‘Does anyone know who that man is, the one in the blue tunic wearing the fancy helmet?
‘That’s Harald Sigurdsson himself,’ answered the ealdorman.
‘He’s certainly a big man,’ said Harold, ‘but I don’t think this’ll be his lucky day.’
He then rode out in front of his army with a dozen men, close enough to the Norsemen to talk to them.
‘Is Earl Tostig in your army?’ he shouted across the gap.
‘What if he is?’ someone answered.
‘I’d like to talk to him, if I may.’
‘You can find him here.’
Tostig came forward; the two men confronted one another.
‘Your brother sends you greetings,’ Harold said, without giving away his identity. ‘He offers you peace and an earldom. Rather than have you refuse and give battle, he’d make you a gift of a third of the kingdom
.’
Tostig replied, ‘Well, that makes a change from the trouble and disgrace of last winter. If I’d had this offer then, many a man who is now dead would be alive and England would be a better place. I thank my brother for his offer but I have a question to ask before I can accept his generosity.’
‘What would that question be?’
‘If I accept, what will my brother offer King Harald for all his efforts?’
‘Your brother says something about that, too,’ Harold replied. ‘He offers him six feet of English earth, or a bit more as he is so much taller than most men.’
‘Then King Harold must be ready for battle,’ Tostig said. ‘I can never have it said that Earl Tostig deserted his friend King Harald in the face of a fight. We shall stick together; die with honour or win England by victory.’
He turned his horse and rode away; Sigurdsson, who understood very little English but read expressions very well, followed after him.
‘Who’s that who spoke so boldly?’ enquired Sigurdsson.
‘That was my brother, Harold.’
‘If I’d known, I’d have killed him on the spot.’
‘I could never be the murderer of a brother who had offered me friendship and an earldom. If one of us had to die, I would prefer it if Harold killed me.’
Sigurdsson gave Tostig a sceptical look, then grunted and remarked rather patronisingly, ‘King Harold stands very well in his stirrups for such a small man.’
Once they had returned to their side of the river, King Harald had his standard, the Landwaster, set up, a black raven on a red background. Tostig had his, a black leopard on a red background, placed beside it. The horses were sent packing and the King and Tostig took their places next to their banners in the centre of a circle of Norsemen, while the rest of the men struggled to dress for battle.
King Harald called out a few words to his men. ‘Fight well today, men, and you will be rewarded richly: if you live, with land and gold; if you die, with a place in Valhalla.’
The English army advanced at a steady walk towards the bridge. Harald’s berserkers steadied themselves.
‘Let my men take the bridge, will you, Harold?’ Gyrth called out. ‘They’re all keen to prove themselves.’
‘Very well, Gyrth. Good luck.’
Gyrth gave the signal and a hundred of his housecarls broke into a steady run, moving ahead of their comrades. As they approached the bridge, they heard one of the berserkers, the biggest one standing in front of his comrades, call out, ‘Good morning, Englishmen. Welcome to Stamford Bridge.’
No one replied and the battle to take the crossing began. It was a bloody affair. The Norse vanguard was there to give Sigurdsson’s men time to put on their armour and to form a respectable defence. Each Viking knew from the moment he set foot on the bridge that this would be his last day on earth and by nightfall he would be feasting with the gods.
Gyrth’s men, knowing this, ran screaming wildly at their foe, hoping their ferocity would see them though. It did not. In less than two minutes forty-three of them were dead, hacked and slashed to pieces, some of them cut in two by the deadly axes of the berserkers, only one of whom remained standing. He was the one who had welcomed them just a short while ago. At seven feet he towered above everyone and now, drenched in the blood shed by his double-headed axe, he looked even more formidable. No one in the English army was keen to make his acquaintance.
‘What do you want to do now, Gyrth?’ asked Harold.
‘Get some archers and shoot him. I don’t think we can afford to risk any more men.’
‘We can’t do that; it’ll bring dishonour upon us. Let’s offer him clemency.’
‘Very well, then. It can’t hurt.’
‘Gauti!’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘Go down there and offer our warrior friend clemency. Tell him it’s a mark of our admiration for his valour. Tell him he can either leave the bridge and rejoin his friends or go home. Tell him he can do whatever he likes as long as he gets out of the way and lets us pass. If he fails to comply, tell him we’ll kill him.’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
Gauti turned and walked down the ridge toward the berserker, who was waiting for him with a grin on his face and an axe in his hands. He wore his ginger beard and hair long and in plaits. His helmet was of blackened steel with polished brass trimmings and nose guard. Over his chain mail he wore a black leather sleeveless tunic, covered in brass studs. A giant of a man, he made an impressive sight standing amongst the dead. Everyone’s eyes were on him; those that were not were on Gauti. No one noticed Bondi slip quietly away down to the riverbank.
Gauti stopped a few feet short of the berserker, well out of range of his axe. The berserker was still waiting at the end of the bridge, axe in hand, smiling.
‘My king sends you a message.’
The berserker continued to smile.
‘He says, as a mark of his admiration for your valour, he is willing to show clemency. You may leave the field if you choose or you may rejoin your comrades.’
The berserker remained motionless, his manic expression fixed.
‘If you don’t leave the bridge, you’ll die.’
The berserker’s grin broadened and he beckoned Gauti towards him, inviting him on to his axe.
‘I take it your answer’s no?’
The berserker beckoned, reaching out with his left hand, palm upward, welcoming Gauti on.
‘I’ll see you later,’ said Gauti, taking a few paces backward before turning to walk back up the hill.
Upstream, still unseen, Bondi had climbed into an old washtub.
‘What did he say?’ Harold asked Gauti.
‘He didn’t say anything.’
‘What, nothing?’
‘Nothing. I think he’s more interested in his place in Valhalla.’
‘Send twenty men down there to deal with him, then.’
Gauti ordered twenty housecarls down to deal with the lone Viking. They made their way cautiously towards him. The English looked on. Sigurdsson’s army on the other side of the bridge was still preparing itself.
The housecarls fanned out, planning to attack their foe from all sides simultaneously, but the berserker attacked them. Like a whirlwind he spun this way and that, his deadly axe finding its mark and leaving its mark with every swing. His superhuman strength and energy were too much for ordinary men, too much even for the housecarls. One after another was slain. The vicious, thin-lipped axe bit deeply into many a man, swung with such force it smashed shields and tore through byrnies as though through naked flesh. Screams echoed round the shallow valley. How the berserker enjoyed his work, playing like a puppy with a bone.
There were now only three housecarls alive and in one piece. The crazed warrior laughed again and beckoned them down for more, taking his place on the bridge as before. As they moved forward toward him, he remained perfectly still, grin fixed on face, axe in hand. He had done just what Bondi hoped he would; stood on the bridge focusing his entire attention on his enemy. As his washtub floated beneath the bridge he thrust his spear up through a gap in the planks, deep between his enemy’s legs. The berserker let out an almighty scream as he was skewered and squirmed on the spear. The English army let out a cheer and Harold gave the signal to attack. The three housecarls charged forward as one and chopped up the Berserker with hefty blows from their axes.
It was not until the heat of noon that the English rushed across the bridge, in so much of a hurry to engage the Norsemen that a few of them ended up in the river, forced there by the crush. Under the Golden Dragon of Wessex and Harold’s own banner, the Fighting Man, they charged straight towards Sigurdsson. Furious hand-to-hand combat followed. As housecarls led the attack, the English archers let fly a volley of arrows which crashed down into the Norse army just as the mighty warriors reached them. After the housecarls came the King’s thanes and the earl’s thanes and finally those ordinary, decent men of the fyrd who had been called out or voluntee
red on the way north. In the thick of it were Harold and his bodyguard. Outnumbered and many still without their armour, the Norwegians began to fall back but were soon surrounded, dying in their hundreds and with nowhere to go except their graves. Soon, they would dwell in Odin’s great hall but for now all they could hear was the thud of sword against shield, war cries and death screams, the clash of steel against steel, axe against helmet. These were the sounds that filled the air around a riverside more used to the call of bleating lambs and birdsong. All the while the grass turned red.
After an hour of bloody fighting, Sigurdsson’s shield wall was breached and Gauti led a wedge of housecarls through the gap, isolating a group of about six hundred.
‘Take that lot, Gyrth,’ yelled Harold, as he used his axe to clear a way toward Sigurdsson and Tostig.
Sigurdsson was enraged and attempted to lead a counter-attack to save his beleaguered forces but a keen eyed English archer shot him in the throat. Clutching the arrow, the Norse king fell to the ground. Desperately he tried to struggle to his feet to continue the fight but soon realized the futility of his actions. Resigning himself to his fate, he stayed on his knees, a wide-eyed, pale-faced miniature of himself. Around him the battle ceased as two armies, aware of the forthcoming demise of a great leader, waited to see what would happen next.
Sigurdsson beckoned his scribe to come closer.
‘Remember this, my last great poem,’ spluttered the dying king.
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘We march forward in battle array without our corselets to meet the dark blades.
Helmets shine but I have not mine,
For now our armour lies down on the ships.’
Sigurdsson looked to his scribe for approval. The scribe looked blank.
‘You’re right, that was a bad poem,’ he croaked with a strained voice. ‘That’ll never inspire the men. Try this.
We do not creep in battle under the shelter of shields before the crash of weapons;
This is what the loyal goddess of the hawks had commanded us.
The bearer of the necklace told me long ago
To hold the prop of the helmet high in the din of weapons
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