1066

by G. K. Holloway

  When the Valkyrie’s ice met the skulls of men.’

  ‘That was excellent, my Lord.’

  Before the scribe had finished his reply, Harald Sigurdsson, the last great Viking warrior king, fell dead. An awed silence fell over the battlefield.

  Without their leader, the Norsemen were at a loss as to what to do. While they hesitated, Harold stepped up to his standard. Seizing the opportunity to avoid further loss of life he addressed the Norsemen in their own language.

  ‘Listen, all of you. You have fought bravely here today and brought honour on yourselves and your king. It will never be said that any of you is anything less than a hero. But your king, Harald, is dead and his dreams have died with him.

  ‘You have done for him everything that any king would hope for from loyal followers but for you, the fight is lost. So I say to you, leave the field with honour, for there’s nothing for you to gain here this day.’

  ‘Only if we lose!’ yelled Tostig, standing proudly, waving the Landwaster defiantly. ‘You know it’s you who’s beaten, Harold. As I speak, men are rushing to our aid. So why don’t you leave the field or would you rather spend an eternity here, buried beneath the grass?’

  Tostig’s men roared their defiance and the Norwegians joined in support. Every man prepared to fight to the death. Tostig saw the Crown of England within his reach, never to be so close again.

  ‘So be it, Tostig. But remember, it was you who offered up these men’s lives to satisfy your own vanity and selfish ambition.’

  ‘Harsh words for someone prepared to see his own brother live in exile if it meant he could wear a crown; a crown that is rightfully mine.’

  ‘You can’t believe that.’

  ‘It won’t be your crown much longer. Enjoy it while you may. Let battle commence!’

  A roar went up from Tostig’s supporters.

  Harold raised his axe high in the air for all to see. On the signal, they charged on the group of men who had surrounded their dead king’s body.

  As Sigurdsson had done just a few days before, the English did now with equal skill. Housecarls and thanes forced the Norwegians back towards the river. Desperate, the Norsemen tried to force their way back to the bridge; it was their only means of escape. During fighting that was bloodier than ever, the Viking army lost nearly all of its men to the blade or the water but they made the English pay a high price for their victory.

  Falling back on the bridge, the Norwegian survivors put up a gallant defence; their leaders stayed in the thick of it even when they knew they would surely die. And die they did. Gyrth hacked down Tostig. The brothers fought with such passion, such fury, they were blinded. Not until the fatal blow was struck did Gyrth recognize his own brother. Not until the ice-cold instant before death did Tostig recognise his slayer.

  In Wilton, in the nunnery where Queen Edith now lived, as she walked along a corridor, she felt a pain in her heart in the same instant that Tostig fell to the ground.

  There were few Vikings left to fight now, so few that many a man on the English side sat down to rest in whatever shade he could find out of the heat of the sun. Content to let the remnants of the Norse army escape across the bridge, Harold gave the order to his men to stand down and take a rest. As the last of the Vikings made their way up the side of the valley, those of Harold’s men who were still fighting broke off to recover, wherever they could find a welcoming place. Now in complete possession of the battlefield, the English relaxed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Harold,’ said Gyrth, looking down at Tostig’s corpse. ‘I didn’t even know it was him until I’d dealt the final blow.’

  Harold looked down at his dead brother; there was a deep wound from his neck down to his chest, where Gyrth’s axe had struck, chopping him almost in half.

  ‘Would it have made any difference?’

  ‘I don’t know, but it feels like I’ve committed a dreadful sin.’

  ‘It was his choice, Gyrth. What alternative did you have? You were fighting for your king and country. You were defending yourself and your lord.’

  ‘I know, but …’

  The conversation was interrupted by war cries. From behind them, Eystein Orri was leading a charge of the Norsemen, just arrived from Riccall.

  As soon as Sigurdsson’s message had arrived from Stamford Bridge, Eystein Orri had given the order to his troops to don their chain mail coats. In the sweltering afternoon sun he marched his men at the double to Sigurdsson’s aid. It took them over three hours to cover the distance. His men arrived exhausted, only to discover they were too late to help their king but not too late to avenge him. Even though they were tired to the point of exhaustion from the long march and the sweltering heat, the Norsemen launched their fearsome charge, catching the English by surprise.

  ‘Form the shield wall!’ bellowed Harold to his troops.

  He need not have bothered; even as he shouted the command, housecarls were taking their positions.

  The initial attack almost succeeded in breaking Harold’s men but the English stood firm and the line held. After that, the dreadful battle continued until late afternoon, by which time Eystein Orri and his commanders were all dead. The several hundred Vikings left on the field, realising they had nothing left to fight for, began to break away and run for their ships at Riccall.

  ‘Gauti! Take the housecarls. Follow them; hunt them down. I’ll go with the rest of the men for the horses.’

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  As the housecarls chased the remnants of Sigurdsson’s army one way, Harold, accompanied by Gyrth, his thanes and the volunteers raced back for their horses. Within fifteen minutes they had caught up with Gauti and the rest of the housecarls. All along the way a trail of dead bodies lay.

  ‘We’ll take over now, Gauti. Go back for your horses. We’ll finish off the rest. Take your time. We’ll see you at Riccall.’

  ‘Very well, my Lord.’

  ‘And Gauti ...’

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘Well done. This has been a fine day’s work.’

  The English army, once mounted, pursued the Norsemen without mercy, ruthlessly cutting down any stragglers they encountered. By the time Harold arrived at Riccall, Gauti and the housecarls had rejoined him. As the sun set at the river junction, they found a panicked Viking army trying to make off in their longships. Half a dozen were moving quickly and quietly down river. Tired men, made strong by fear, pulled heavily on the oars.

  ‘Fire the ships,’ called out Harold.

  Just as soon as they were ready, flaming arrows shot through the twilight air. First one ship, then another was consumed by fire.

  As Skalpi and Gauti raced toward one of the stricken ships, Gauti was shot in the arm with an arrow. It struck high, almost in the shoulder and although his byrnie absorbed a lot of the force, the arrow had still penetrated an inch or two into him. It was enough to make him yell in pain and fall to his knees. Skalpi looked up to see a golden-haired youth staring down at him from the deck of the ship. He looked as fierce as the dragonhead prow of the ship.

  ‘Keep away or I’ll kill you all!’

  ‘You can’t take us all on, lad.’

  ‘That’s what you think. Come up here and get me if you dare.’

  ‘All right, I will.’

  Skalpi glanced around and called some men to him, keeping an eye on the Viking archer all the time.

  ‘Spread out and on my command, rush him.’

  The archer fired off another arrow, which harmed no one. Skalpi gave the command and the housecarls rushed the ship; he arrived on the deck to find a dozen men standing around the archer, who was leaning back against the prow, his eyes filled with tears.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Look,’ said Whitgar, son of Guthrum, who had so recently entertained Harold and Aldytha when they had needed shelter from the rain. Whitgar nodded down to the youth’s feet. They had been cut off.

  ‘What happened?’ Skalpi asked the youth.

  ‘They l
eft me to guard the ship and to keep you away long enough for them to escape. They chopped my feet off to stop me running away.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Won’t you help me?’

  ‘What do you want us to do?’

  ‘Finish me off quickly. Do it, please. Just let me die with a sword in my hand. I won’t give you any more trouble, I promise you. I just want it over with.’

  Skalpi looked from one man to the next; none of them looked keen to be the executioner.

  ‘Come on, one of us ought to put him out of his misery.’

  Skalpi looked at the young thane’s sword. It was still unbloodied.

  Noticing the glance from Skalpi and anticipating the housecarl’s next question, he responded with a simple, ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Good. Then you’ll have drawn blood.’

  ‘No, I forbid it.’ It was Guthrum, the young thane’s father.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He should kill his first man in battle. There’s no honour in this.’

  ‘There’s no honour, father, I’ll grant you, but at least I’ll draw blood.’

  ‘Will you lot just get on with it?’ cried the wounded warrior.

  ‘I’ll do it now,’ said Whitgar.

  ‘Very well,’ his father replied.

  The Viking turned on his knees, falling on all fours, his hair falling over his face.

  ‘Don’t cut off my hair,’ he pleaded, pulling the golden locks off his neck.

  ‘Why are you bothering with your hair at a time like this?’ asked Whitgar, baffled.

  ‘Just don’t cut it off.’

  ‘I’ll hold it out of the way,’ volunteered Guthrum.

  The old thane gathered up the Viking’s hair and pulled it up over the youth’s head, away from where his son’s sword would strike.

  Now the business was at hand, Whitgar looked pale; he shook like a leaf from head to foot. The young Viking on the deck was mumbling frantically. Whitgar raised the sword in his trembling hands and took aim at the warrior’s neck. He guessed they were the same age. Gathering his strength he brought his sword down, closing his eyes as he did so. There was a deafening scream as the sword struck. It continued even as Whitgar’s sword rested with its point on the deck. Something was horribly wrong; he could still hear the Viking talking. He opened his eyes, expecting to see the decapitated head of the Norseman cursing him as it rolled on the deck but what he saw was much worse. His father writhed in agony; it was he who was screaming as he stared in horror at the stumps of his arms where his hands used to be.

  There was commotion all around as the housecarls tried to deal with Guthrum. The Viking was moaning and begging to be dispatched into the next world. Skalpi brought his axe down with a well-aimed blow, sending the young man on his way. When his head came to rest on the deck, a lock of golden hair floated down beside it.

  Skalpi looked around to see Bondi and some others racing toward a burning ship. When they got there all Skalpi could see was a silhouette reaching for a burning piece of wood before racing back to put it to Guthrum’s stumps, sealing his wounds forever.

  The young Viking was the last man to die at Riccall. Once he realised fighting was futile, the fifteen-year-old Olaf Haraldson, who was now in command of what was left of the Norwegian army, begged for terms. Harold, aware that the Norsemen no longer posed a threat, allowed Olaf to depart in peace with what ships he would need for the journey. In his turn Olaf promised that Norsemen would never again set foot uninvited on English soil. He sailed home with his men. They had needed three hundred and thirty ships for the outward journey; they were sailing home in twenty-four.

  Harold and Gyrth, mounted on their horses, watched them leave.

  After the battle, many of those who made it back to York were content to sleep, preferring to postpone celebrations until the following night when the stragglers and the wounded would join them. Tostig’s body had been brought back from the battlefield for burial the next morning in the grounds of York Minster.

  The following evening, Harold sat at the high table with his brother Gyrth, Ealdred, Archbishop of York, Merleswein, Sheriff of Lincoln, Azur and Ansgar. Once they had heard York was safe, Edwin and Morcar arrived to join in the celebrations. A guard announced their arrival.

  ‘Won’t you join us?’ welcomed Harold, in a tone a little less than civil.

  ‘Thank you, brother,’ they replied in unison.

  Harold asked people to make room for them on the benches.

  ‘Are we not to sit on the top table?’ asked Morcar.

  ‘As you can see, the dais is crowded and there’s no room. We are celebrating our victory over the Norseman; the top table is for the heroes of Stamford Bridge.’

  ‘We ran them a decent fight at Fulford Gate,’ replied Morcar. He was feeling most indignant now.

  ‘Against my orders, you took them on in a head-on clash, lost most of your men then surrendered York.’

  ‘We didn’t surrender York.’

  ‘So you weren’t even here for the surrender. Where were you, exactly? And come to think of it, where have you been since?’

  ‘We had to tend to our wounds.’

  ‘I see no wounds.’

  ‘I meant the wounds of our men,’ replied Morcar, rather feebly.

  ‘Why weren’t you and those of your men who weren’t wounded with us at Stamford Bridge?’

  ‘We had other things to do.’

  ‘Other things to do? What, exactly?’

  Morcar was suffering acute embarrassment. He could make no convincing account of his whereabouts. He remained in a sullen silence. His brother came to his rescue.

  ‘It’s as we said; we had the wounded to treat.’

  ‘I am your lord and you will address me as such.’

  ‘We had the wounded to treat, my Lord.’

  ‘That’s not your job. Your duty is to protect your people. I didn’t see you at Stamford Bridge and in the morning we will meet and you will tell my why. Until then, you will sit down on the bench there and enjoy our hospitality or you may leave.’

  Edwin wondered glumly at his future. Looking about the hall, he could see heads together talking in whispers; the odd glance shot his way. He knew very well what they were saying; if he and Morcar could not defend them, what were they doing here? Harold’s arrival had been warmly welcomed, so he understood. He also knew Harold’s standing in the North was now higher than that of any English king, including even the great Athelstan. If he and Morcar were to maintain their positions in Mercia and Northumbria, they would have to think of something to rescue their reputations very quickly. While Edwin sat and dwelt on matters, the hall rang with celebration. As the feast livened up and soldiers boasted of their exploits, Harold and Gyrth talked quietly at the high table.

  ‘What are you going to do about Edwin and Morcar, Harold?’

  ‘Nothing, for the time being.’

  ‘But they’re a liability.’

  ‘I think even they might realise that.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘For the time being, nothing; there’s still the threat from William to consider.’

  ‘He won’t invade now, surely.’

  ‘For all we know, he still has his fleet gathered on the other side of the Channel.’

  ‘You’re right there. He must know Sigurdsson invaded and if he doesn’t, he soon will.’

  ‘Now is the perfect time, in some ways.’

  ‘The Channel is too unpredictable, though. Would you take an army across the sea at this time of year?’

  ‘No, but I’m not William. I’m uneasy about this, Gyrth; William has no option but to invade. It’s highly unlikely he’d be able to reform his army next spring and there’s no chance of his ships still being serviceable after the winter.’

  ‘Do you think he was waiting for Sigurdsson to attack?’

  ‘It clears the way very nicely for him. Whoever won the battle would have depleted forces. If William lands on the
south coast and bides his time, the victor will have to go to him.’

  ‘Perhaps we ought to get back to London as soon as possible.’

  ‘We’ll have to stay here for a few days to celebrate while the men and the horses recover.’

  ‘So, what about Edwin and Morcar?’

  ‘I thought they could stay here for the moment. I don’t think the time is right to deal with them just yet.’

  ‘You trust them, then?’

  ‘Well, they can’t do too much harm up here. I thought I’d leave Merleswein here to keep an eye on them and if William tries his luck they can come down and give us a hand. It’s the least they can do after Fulford Gate.’

  Harold announced his intention to cut short his stay in York on Thursday evening in the crowded great hall.

  ‘Men, I have something to tell you all. We have taught the Norsemen a lesson they will never forget. We need never fear them again.’

  A cheer went up from the assembly.

  ‘Although we need no longer fear the Norsemen, we still have an enemy who even now may be preparing to launch an assault against us.’

  A murmur ran through the hall.

  ‘In order that we are ready to respond to any attack, I shall return with my housecarls to London tomorrow. Those of you who joined me on the march north are welcome to accompany me on my journey south. Any of you who choose are welcome to come with me to London, where you will be accommodated at my expense, until the threat of invasion is over.

  ‘As we must make all possible haste, there’s no time to distribute any of the plunder captured from the Norwegians. All the plunder so far gained will be entrusted to the care of Archbishop Ealdred, until such time as our gains can be divided. And let me assure you, all the heroes of Stamford Bridge will have their fair share of the spoils.’

  Another murmur ran through the hall, this time one of dissent.

  ‘In my absence I will leave Merleswein, the Sheriff of Lincoln, to organize things. Follow Merleswein’s instructions; he has my authority in everything he does.’

  Edwin and Morcar exchanged glances. They would have words with the King later.

  ‘For the time being I suggest you continue to enjoy the celebrations.’

  As Harold sat down, the din of hundreds of men exchanging their opinions filled the room as each and every one discussed the King’s speech with his companions.