Crusader Kings II - [Champions of Anglia 01] - A Fall of Kings

by Sarah Shannon (epub)

  “Let’s not be too hasty.” Edwin’s eyes glittered at the thought of free silver. “The fyrdsmen are not cheap to raise, that much money could save us a headache later when their payments are due. What else have you got?”

  “This interests me more, my lord,” Leofric interrupted. A large barrel was rolled up to Edwin, as if to emphasis the point. “Russian tar, used to protect ship hulls from rot.”

  “How does this pertain to me and to the coming battle?”

  “Tar is liquid enough to spread, but catches flame both quick and hot. We have some fifty barrels in the Norwegian stockpile, more than enough to tar a large patch of the approach to the village. With a few carefully placed torches or lit arrows...” Cenhelm grinned.

  Edwin paled at the thought. “You mean to light them all aflame? We are nobles of England, not sorcerers and witches. This sounds like a dangerous path you suggest.”

  “God will understand, this is no devilry or witchcraft and the flames will purify their pagan hearts. Leofric and I both agree, let us strike a decisive blow here and ward them off the bridge!”

  Edgar Aetheling coughed. “I do not necessarily agree that it is fine, but we are in a desperate situation Edwin. The Norwegians outnumber us by a considerable margin and my cousin’s army is still some distance away. What would you have us do, if the Norwegians should arrive tomorrow?”

  That was a point that Edwin could not deny. This was a dangerous situation they had placed themselves into; they could stand and fight or flee, but they did not have the capacity to haul so many supplies at pace. Furthermore their army was still tired and they risked being caught up by the Norse in a less defensive position. There were no two ways about it: they had to defend Stamford Bridge.

  “I...” Edwin felt the eyes of his peers upon him. Swallowing, he finally consented. “Very well, make it so. Spread it as widely on the far side of the bridge as you can. Start immediately, in case they should march through the night.”

  Edgar smiled at him, but it was a cold smile. “Good, I’m glad you can see sense. We will drive the Norse back here and earn victory the hard way.”

  * * *

  Just two days later, Edwin watched in fascinated horror as the Norse piled over the bridge. They slammed into the shield wall awaiting them and the battle turned into a deadly shoving match upon the bridge. The Norwegian army was considerably larger than his own, but it could not bring the necessary numbers to bear with the restrictions of the bridge. Edwin’s bowmen peppered the crossing force with arrows and were likewise fired upon by the numerous archers the Norse had brought against him.

  “Are you ready?” Cenhelm grinned. “I promise you will love the results.”

  Edwin gritted his teeth. “Do what you have to and be done with it, may God forgive us for this horror.

  “Prepare the fire!” Cenhelm barked to the archers. They quickly moved to the barrels of pitch and dipped arrows with tied cloth into it, soaking them in tar. Although the ground on the far side was slick with tar, this had not stopped the enemy from stomping through the area recklessly. “We await your command, my lord!”

  Edwin hesitated and struggled with the decision, before throwing his arm into the air as was his duty. “Ready!”

  A hundred bows sparked as fire lit up the arrows.

  “Aim!”

  The bows were drawn back, their deadly missiles ready to ignite the thick coating of tar that the Norwegians were heedlessly trudging into.

  “Fire!”

  Flaming missiles shot through the air at a low angle, some striking Norse shields, some burying themselves into the tar-soaked earth. For a moment, the archers, Edwin and Cenhelm all held their breath; nothing happened at first, nor was there any particular reaction from the Norsemen. Then the first shouts of alarm came. There was no great torrent of flame, the soldiers caught in the area did not immolate nor were they immediately slain, but it did its job nonetheless.

  “Is it working?”

  “What are you waiting for, reload, relight!” Cenhelm barked at the archers, who had frozen. “Prepare for another volley!”

  Edwin himself watched in horror as the flames began to spread and intensify, licking at soldiers’ feet. Soon there was a mass panic to escape the burning area. Viking bravado and courage vanished as they shoved one another and scrambled for safe ground further from the bridge. Men who had fallen or been trampled into the dirt found their clothes were beginning to smoulder and catch flame. Screams of panic began to echo through the valley and Edwin winced for a moment. This trap was gruesome, but effective.

  “It’s working, they’re falling back!” Edgar exclaimed.

  “Fire!” Cenhelm shouted and another rain of flaming arrows descended on the opposite side of the blaze, increasing the spread and intensity of destruction.

  “Heavens help us,” Edwin muttered under his breath. “We have sinned greatly this day in the name of a small victory.”

  The battle on the bridge remained a gruesome stalemate, and they did not notice the spreading flames until it was too late – they were trapped. Panic set in there as well, but they were pinned in a corner and they fought ferociously to the death. Waves of flame began to devour field and fallen man alike, and by the time the Norwegians had fled out of its reach, many bodies had been left behind. Under a hail of arrow fire and seemingly endless Saxons, the last Norsemen on the bridge succumbed to inevitable death.

  As the hours passed, the sun set fully in the west. The fires had spread and grown into a minor brushfire on the far side of the river, spreading through farmlands and forcing the invaders back even further. The Saxons collected their dead and settled in to a cautious evening rest, wary of the fire but heartened by this victory against all odds. The first two battles of Stamford Bridge had gone in their favour, but there was still much work left to be done in order to win the war.

  Chapter 8 – Sisters’ Fate

  27th of June, 1066

  “Gytha, Gytha!”

  Gytha turned and gazed across the fields of flowers, smiling as the figure ran towards her. His arm outstretched, and she reached out to take hold of it. He was handsome, tall and brave, the perfect figure of a Knight. As they swept into one another’s arms, she held him close in his embrace and smiled in satisfaction. The two held each other for what seemed like an eternity, before he pushed her roughly on her back. She stared up in pain and confusion, but the peace and serenity had been replaced with roaring flames and the thunderous march of thousands of boots as soldiers descended upon them.

  “Gytha...” he smiled at her. “Run...”

  A spear thrust itself through his midsection, splattering blood over her. She screamed and turned to run...

  “Gytha, wake up!”

  She tumbled out of bed onto the floor, twisted in her blankets. A strong hand gripped her arm and pulled her roughly to her feet. She stared at her brother with weary eyes and confusion. “Magnus, what’s going on?”

  “There’s not much time to explain, get dressed and ready to leave. I don’t know how, but the Normans have crossed the river. They’ll be upon the city in a couple of hours.” Magnus averted his eyes both out of distaste and concern for her modesty.

  “N-Normans? Here in London? How?” She trembled at the thought, only made more horrifying by her dream.”

  “I don’t know if they forced a crossing or if they were helped by some traitor, but it doesn’t matter now. I’m going to stay and defend the city as long as possible, I want you to ride north and make for Norwich. Father’s manor there should be relatively safe...”

  “Defend the city? But you-”

  “No buts, Gytha. This is my duty as a man and as Aetheling of the Kingdom. Take Gunhild and get out of here as quickly as you can.” He placed his hands on her shoulders. “You can do this, trust me. If something goes wrong, if the Kingdom should be lost...you must take everyone still loyal to our family and set sail for Denmark. King Svend is a friend of our father’s; he will keep the two of you safe there
.”

  Gytha felt herself well up with tears at the thought of having to leave England. This land was all that she knew, the fair fields and rolling hills were her only safety and comfort. She knew nothing of Denmark or of King Svend. “I...I understand brother.” She wiped at her eyes. “I’ll find Gunhild and we’ll leave as soon as possible.”

  “Good.” He suddenly wrapped his arms around her in a hug, a private gesture for his sibling. “Take care, Gytha. If I don’t see you again...” he said with a tremble. “I want you two to know that I’ll always love you, and I’ll be waiting for you in heaven.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but the words choked in her mouth. Before she could think of a reply, he tore himself away and left the room in a hurry. She had the strength to stand but now lacked the will and collapsed next to her bed, staring down at the floor. Her whole life had been turned upside down – first father had left, and now she had to leave her brother behind. She feared that she would never see either of them again, a fear that tore at her heart.

  After a few minutes, she stumbled to her feet and wiped her tears, forcing them back. She needed to prove that she had as much stomach and strength as any other son or daughter of their lineage. She quickly changed into clothes more suitable for travel and strapped the seax sword to her hip. Taking a moment to fix her hair with a pin and don her headdress, she stared at the room that had been her home for some weeks now. In all likelihood, she would never see it again; there was probably no time to dwell on that, but she could not help it. After a last moment of reminiscing, she took a deep breath, turned, and left.

  * * *

  “What do you mean she’s missing?!” Gytha shouted in outrage. “How do you simply lose the King’s youngest daughter?!”

  The housecarl cringed at the shrillness of the voice. “I don’t know, your highness. She just...disappeared. She was last seen a few minutes before we left London, but no one has seen her since.”

  The convoy of refugees and travellers was three hours out of London and Gytha could scarcely believe that her sister had gone forgotten. No, there was no way that anyone sticking with the group and with armed escort could simply lose their way – Gunhild must have slipped away deliberately. She grasped and tore a little at her hair in frustration and stress, barely resisting the urge to yell out further in anger.

  “We...we have to go back, I promised my brother I’d take care of her.”

  “With all due respect, your highness, the city is likely under siege as we speak. There will be no easy or safe way back into the city, and there is no guarantee that we can find her,” the same housecarl said, trying to reason with her.

  “You think that matters? My sister is in danger, I will not simply leave this be. If she gets caught by the Normans...”

  “I don’t wish to do this, your highness, but your brother gave us strict orders: no turning back. In all likelihood she returned to find your brother and they are together now, but if we turn back then you will certainly be lost to the enemy. We have to go as soon as possible,” he said sternly.

  Gytha opened her mouth to protest, but they were interrupted by a commotion at the back of the convoy. She turned her horse off the main path and tried to peer down the line to see what was happening. She saw movement somewhere far in the distance, but couldn’t tell what was going on. The noise died down, but soon after one of their guards rode up to meet them.

  “What’s going on?” the Housecarl demanded, cutting off Gytha’s prepared question.

  The guard shook his head. “A Norman scout appeared behind us. We tried to catch him but his horse outpaced ours; the Normans will likely know we’re here in a few hours. This road is no longer safe. We must make haste for Norwich.”

  Gytha paled at the realisation and simply stared down at her reins, unsure what to do. Part of her wished to try and pull rank, to convince them to go back, but a great fear crept into her heart. She knew what would happen if the Normans caught them and that scared her even more than the idea of abandoning her sister to them.

  “We move onwards, keep the princess under close escort at all times and watch for pursuing horsemen. With any luck they will keep their focus on London and leave us in peace, but be prepared for a fight if necessary.” The housecarl leaned in to the guard and Gytha only hardly caught the next part as he whispered. “Her highness’ safety is of the greatest priority, lest they use her as a hostage against the Kingdom. Should the Normans come in force, we will have no choice but to take her and ride ahead of the rest. Be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”

  Chapter 9 – Casting of Bones

  26th of September, 1066

  “The pretenders use fire and brimstone to drive us from these shores. “ Harald Sigurdsson spat, scratching at his grey beard. “Tell me Tostig, is this the kind of trick that your brother’s men must resort to, rather than face us in a fair battle?”

  “It seems so, my lord,” Tostig winced. “We have lost many men, but we still outnumber the Saxons and the fires are dying down. If we march on them in the morning...”

  The elderly king peered at Tostig, then looked to the wretched wrack of a man who sat near their fire. “Well, old man? What do you see?” he asked.

  The response was just a low rumbling chant and the sound of bones, rocks and twigs being shaken in the darkness. Tostig and King Harald watched tensely as the ancient seer cast the bones into the sand before him, crying out some unintelligible sounds. As the old man gazed down at them, Tostig shook his head in disbelief at their employment of a foul sorcerous witch.

  “Death...” he finally said. “I see death in our future, lord King.”

  Sigurdsson grunted in acknowledgement and took another swig of mead. “I suspected as much, you know. They still hold that bridge and may be able to spread more tar during the night. Even if we do manage to fight through to them, we’ve lost enough men that your brother would probably defeat us.”

  Tostig visibly reddened. “But we are more than capable of defeating them! Their numbers count for little once we face them in the open! How can you trust this witch’s word so completely?”

  “Watch your tongue, he’s led me to more victories than you could ever imagine, Tostig, and his predictions are the only reason I’m helping you to begin with,” Sigurdsson hissed. “I have no more patience for your excuses and claims, Tostig, now that we’re on the edge of defeat. If you wish to fight the Saxons, you can take your Flemish dogs and fight them yourself.”

  Tostig shook in fear at the threat of the King’s wrath, but Sigurdsson soon calmed. “No...no, this can still be won. I have enough supplies to sail for friendly land, and I know of a friend who will aid us in this fight. I need you to take your men and return to York; defend the city at all costs and we will return in the winter to put a stop to them.”

  “It may be difficult to hold York for that long without our supplies,” Tostig protested.

  “Do it, Saxon whelp. Do it or you will see no more aid from me and your throne shall be forevermore left to the fates of your brother and the Normans.”

  Tostig’s hand tightened into a fist, but he needed the help of the Norwegians; he also lacked the stomach to strike a man as powerful as him. They said that Harald Sigurdsson was the deadliest swordsman in all of the North and while Tostig suspected the claim was overstated, the man’s huge frame and intimidating gaze was not something he was prepared to challenge.

  “As you wish, your majesty...York shall hold as long as possible. Copsig and I will ready the city for your coming.” Tostig bowed. “If I may, where is it you intend to go?”

  Sigurdsson grinned. “Scotland, of course. King Malcolm is no friend of the Angles. Moreover, their family owes me a favour in recent years and will surely accept my summons. We will go to war with a great force of Scots at our back and finish your brother’s forces once and for all. What do your bones say about that, seer?”

  The old wise man collected them up and gave a low rumbling chant once more, gyrating sligh
tly as he moved in rhythm with the chant. After another tense pause, he threw the bones and cast his eyes over them. “I see...success.”

  This stunned Tostig into silence, but Sigurdsson merely grinned. “Then it is decided. I’ll leave you to it, Tostig, our host will march for the fleet tomorrow afternoon. Oh, and if you’re wise, you’ll leave soon before Edwin and Morcar realise that we’re gone. You wouldn’t want to lose that head of yours before we get back, would you?”

  Sigurdsson rose and retired to his tent, leaving Tostig alone and stunned for a moment. The saxon gritted his teeth as anger at the Norwegians rose up within him, anger at their cowardly retreat. How was he supposed to claim the throne now?

  Chapter 10 – Reinforcements

  26th of September, 1066

  It was the morning after the Battle of Stamford Bridge and there was no sunshine to greet them. Clear blue skies had been replaced by a dull grey haze of clouds, threatening rain but failing as of yet to make good on that promise. It was this kind of miserable weather that made Edwin worry, for it felt as if the shadow of God’s disapproval had been placed over him. Another bottle, this one of cider, was permanently clutched in his hands and he drank quietly, trying to forget what he had done and the screams of the dying. Hundreds had perished in the horrific flames he set, succumbing to the sinister trap that had been laid. It was ingenious and he knew it, but still he could not reconcile himself with the way those men had died on his command. There was something about death by fire that was just too horrifying for him to handle.

  The Earl wandered the camp, restless after the recent fighting. The scouts reported that the bulk of the invaders were marching north while a splinter force was making for York. For the moment they could rest and relax rather than face the threat of attack, and Edwin was glad for this; although Harold Godwinson’s men were not far, the morale of his troops had worn thin in the face of such a large enemy force. Whether it was luck, skill, or a little bit of both, he felt like they had survived the worst of it.