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

by Sarah Shannon (epub)

  Off in the distance he could see horsemen surveying a rock ford downstream. He wasn’t sure if the Norwegians were unaware of the crossing or if they had simply lost the will to fight in the face of such a tactic, but he was glad that they had not forced their way across it. He had enough men to hold the bridge, but facing a flanking attack at the same time could have ruined the victory. Hopefully this was the last they had seen of the Norse. As he walked through the camp, a familiar face soon caught his eye – that of his brother, Morcar. He was not a pretty sight since the injury to his mouth, which had been reconstructed as well as the healers could manage.

  “Morcar!” Edwin called as he approached. His brother looked up at him, then glumly returned to sharpening a sword. “Should you be walking? You have not fully healed from your wound yet.”

  “No...but I cannot sit and wait while the war continues around me.” His words were slow and slightly slurred. He smelled heavily of the alcohol used to clean the wound and deaden the pain, but his eyes retained a sharp lucidity that belied his appearance.

  Edwin frowned and thought to reason with his brother, but by the look in his eyes there was not much he could do to return him to bed. “Very well then...but take care of yourself, my brother. I would hate to find myself alone in this war with only Edgar to keep me company.”

  Morcar’s hand flashed out and seized Edwin by the tunic, glaring at him. “Whatever you do...brother...” Morcar seethed. “Do not trust that boy. I have been watching and listening and it is clear he has more motives than just defending England.”

  Although Morcar’s grip was strong, Edwin was hardly a weak man and he wrenched his shirt free of his brother’s hand. “I shall remember that, brother, but be careful how you treat me...I am still the eldest son of Hwicce.”

  To anyone else, Edwin’s younger brother would not have permitted anyone to talk to him that way, but the bonds of family were eternal to the Hwicce. His dour face did not fade, but he nodded slowly in surrender. “Of course, I am sorry Edwin...I am...merely frustrated by his presence and his meddling in our affairs. I fear he seeks to use us for his own gain and give us nothing in return – if he seeks friendship, it must be...a two way road. He thinks he is leading us on, but what his purpose is I do not know. He constantly leads us into fights, despite knowing our odds of victory are slim – I don’t think it is impetuousness, as he’s had plenty of opportunities before now to go to war. Does he want us to throw our armies away? And if so, why?”

  That was a fair point; Edwin couldn’t deny that there was something unusual about the young man’s behaviour and attitude. “You may not be wrong, brother, but let him lead us a little while longer. I want to get to the heart of whatever game he is playing; the boy clearly has a plan, and I suspect he has supporters as well. Sometimes with the way he talks, it sounds more like he’s repeating what another has already told him. It would be wise to find out who is pulling his strings before we take any actions or make any accusations.”

  Morcar grinned as best as he could. “Now you speak words of sense. Let us get to the bottom of this swiftly.”

  Edwin offered Morcar a swig of his cider, and the younger brother accepted gladly, before pulling a disgusted face. “Where the hell did you get this?”

  “Denmark, I think.” Edwin peered at the bottle. “Or at least, it had the King of Denmark’s seal on it before I opened it. I know, I know, if this is their definition of a good cider, I can understand why the Danish folk invaded us so often.”

  The remnants of the bottle were too much for Morcar, who staggered to his feet.

  “Want some more?” Edwin offered the bottle again.

  “Not on your life,” Morcar said. “I’m going to go take a nap, enjoy your piss water.”

  Edwin gave the bottle a swirl and gazed down into the liquid thoughtfully. There were so many things Edgar could want, but he feared it might all come down to one simple truth: Edgar Aetheling lusted for the throne. More than anything, the thought that he would try to seize it frightened Edwin. They would have to tread carefully around the young boy from now on.

  * * *

  The sun had nearly reached its midday zenith when the first horns sounded the arrival of the Royal Host. Great columns of soldiers, both levied fyrdsmen and the thegns and housecarls of England, marched steadily onwards like a relentless tide. Although it was similar in size to what the Norwegian host had been after the Battle for Stamford Bridge, this army strode with a particular purpose: the defence of the Kingdom from an invader. It was an inspiring sight for Edwin’s weary host – finally they had the power they needed to confront the traitor Tostig and his Norwegian patron.

  A hundred paces from the English camp, Edwin rode out with Morcar and Edgar to meet the King. Harold Godwinson himself rode at the head of the army, a figure of tall stature and a chiselled jaw worthy of any King. Edwin had met his liege before many times, but he never stopped appreciating his impressive figure. To his left rode Queen Edith the Fair, his wife by common law and the mother of his children, while to the right rode Princes Godwine and Edmund, the oldest of his brood. The Earls and Aetheling bowed to the King as he approached, but Godwinson just glared at them.

  “Where is Sigurdsson?” the King barked angrily.

  “I do not know, your majesty,” Edwin said before Edgar could open his mouth. “His host was last seen marching northwards after we repelled them from the bridge. They may have been alerted to your imminent arrival and decided to withdraw rather than face a confrontation. We do know that a significant force has gone west towards York, undoubtedly to garrison the city against an attack.”

  “Damn!” Harold spat in frustration. “I need a decisive victory of some sort against these Vikings, but he runs like a coward as soon as I arrive. There’s so little time and he wants to stretch this out even further. Do you have the provisions necessary for my men to make camp?”

  “More than enough, your majesty,” Edgar took a turn to speak. “Their force here sat upon a substantial hoard of gathered tribute in both food and goods. The food, of course, has been put to the good use of feeding our own hungry men and there should be plenty for yours.”

  “Good.” Harold gazed towards the bridge – the smoke had faded but the charred remains of the fields made it clear as day what had happened the night before. “A fire started?”

  “My doing, your majesty.” Edwin bowed his head. “We used barrels of tar to alight the very ground as the Norse advanced on the bridge. Let me just say that I take full respon-”

  Harold cut off him off. “Good work, Edwin. Good work to all of you; thanks to your heroic stand here, our Kingdom may yet survive this war. Let us make camp and rest for the remainder of the day while the scouts ascertain where Sigurdsson leads his men.”

  “What if he’s headed for the ships, to flee here?” Morcar asked.

  “Then we retake York and celebrate our victory, however short-lived it may be.” Harold gave a thin smile. “And if not, we will drive him into the sea and burn whatever ships have not set sail – and then we will take York and then we will celebrate.”

  Edwin didn’t feel as optimistic as his liege, but was not one to question him, especially after receiving such praise. Offering him a smile in return, they led the King towards the camp, discussing what provisions had been recovered, the nature of Harald Sigurdsson’s forces and other relatively trivial formalities. Many of the thegns wanted a celebration and feast, but Harold stubbornly insisted on restricting any revelry until the Norse were totally driven from the realm – a sentiment, at least, that Edwin could agree with.

  * * *

  Later in the evening, as Edwin was just settling down to a bottle of mead, he found himself approached by a soldier wearing the King’s livery. Before he could greet him, the soldier said, “Earl Edwin, his Majesty King Harold requests your presence in his tent.”

  Edwin looked down at the drink a little miserably. All he really wanted to do right now was curl up inside the bottle and disap
pear for the night. Still, when the King ordered you to attend to him, there was no getting around it. He picked himself up, stoppered the bottle and followed the soldier to the King’s tent, tidying his messy hair in the process.

  “His Majesty waits inside...” the soldier bowed.

  Mercia’s Earl entered without ceremony or formality, and found his King looking somewhat bleary-eyed and tired. “Ah, here you are Edwin. Thank you for coming, I was hoping to discuss a few things with you.”

  “Of course, your Majesty. How may I be of service?” Edwin said with all the curt practice his upbringing had instilled into him.

  “Please, Edwin, I don’t have much room left in my bones for formality,” The King muttered and took a swig of his own mead. “My sons bicker over which son should inherit this realm, Tostig and the King of Norway might have escaped my grasp, and there’s worse yet to come...”

  “Worse? But I thought you said we were victorious here, whatever happens?” Edwin frowned.

  “Edwin, I feel it’s fair to warn you...I cannot stay for long. Before three days pass, I must head south – that is at the absolute latest. William the Bastard has landed in Sussex and threatens Winchester and London with his armies.”

  Edwin choked at the words, at the thought of his lands being abandoned to the barbaric northmen at the King’s whim; but there was only one thing a loyal earl could say, and so he said it: “Of course, your majesty. As you wish...”

  “I’m sorry, I know this makes things more difficult for you, but there will be no England left if we don’t return to stop him.” The King rubbed at his brow long and slow before taking another long drink.

  Edwin noticed the long drink, recognising it as a sign of the stress Godwinson was under. “I’ve never heard of you to be much of a drinker, my lord. Truly these times weigh heavily upon all of us. Do you think that we can defeat the Normans?”

  “Maybe, Edwin, maybe...but I’ll never know if we waste all of our time chasing shadows here in the north. Let’s hope Sigurdsson really is taking flight for good, because I’ll need every spare man I can get to fight William.”

  “If he really intends to flee for good, why would they leave so many men at York?”

  Godwinson had no answer for that, and took another long drink of his mead instead. After a long pause, he said, “That is all, Earl of Mercia. Leave me to my drink.”

  Edwin was hesitant to leave, gazing deep into his King’s troubled eyes, but finally bowed and retreated from his tent. “As you command, your Majesty.”

  Chapter 11 – Clandestine Assault

  28th of September, 1066

  The soft glow of moonlight highlighted the walls of York as the clouds broke to reveal a starry night above. Flemish mercenaries patrolled the walls of the city, glowering into the darkness but unaware of the shapes moving at the very base of the wall. Tostig’s force was small compared to the surviving Saxons, perhaps a thousand men at their most pessimistic projections. An assault on the city would normally be unwise, but King Harold Godwinson was insistent that Northumbria must be reclaimed before they marched south if at all possible. For this reason, they had trusted only the best housecarl Edwin could send into battle.

  Osgar raised his fist to halt the group at the base of one of the towers near the gates. A rope ladder tumbled down from the wall and the familiar face of their infiltrator could be seen even through the darkness. Harold had demanded the attack be led and staffed only by Edwin’s finest, and so the housecarls of Mercia were chosen. Osgar was grey in the beard but no one had been in as many battles or killed as many men as he – he was a courageous and strong leader and his comrades felt safe following him into battle.

  One by one they cautiously slipped up the ropes, climbing onto the city walls. The disabled guards lay upon the floor unmoving, replaced by a pair of Saxons who gave them a discrete nod. Osgar nodded his thanks back and helped the rest of his men up, staying low to avoid being spotted by other patrols.

  “Which way to the gatehouse?” Osgar whispered after the last housecarl had scaled the wall.

  “Through that tower and across the way. You’ll probably need to shed blood, but try to keep it quiet. If anyone comes this way, we’ll do our best to hold them off.” One of the infiltrators gave him a toothless grin. “Give them hell for us, I’ll be buying you lads the first drink tomorrow.”

  Osgar did not return the smile, but merely grunted at him. Gesturing for his men to follow, they moved across the wall and up to the door. There was not much room to fight so the veteran warriors had drawn their seax blades and left their heavy shields at home. Only thirteen men now faced possibly the entirety of Tostig’s army – a warband whose exploits would be worthy of many a song or tale in their eyes. Sure that his men were ready, Osgar turned and opened the door.

  The room inside was occupied as a guard post, and several sleepy-looking men were busying themselves with drinks and a game of dice. They did not notice that the men entering were not their fellow mercenaries until Osgar was nearly on top of them.

  “Saxons!” one of them shouted in panic.

  They reached for their weapons, but a combination of surprise and alcohol had dulled their reactions and the housecarls were on them in seconds. A brief, brutal flash of blades was exchanged and the three Flemish soldiers lay dead on the floor. Two more stormed down the stairs from the roof to investigate, but were quickly and suddenly silenced by several housecarls at either side of the doorway. Five dead Flemish; a good start, but killing men was not their objective here.

  Leaving nothing to chance, Osgar cautiously approached the opposite door and peered out of the keyhole. The gatehouse was not far, and he could see a soldier cautiously approaching with spear drawn. He signalled for silence and held his breath, watching as the guard stalked up to the door. The guard let his spear lower just long enough to reach out and open the door. Osgar took his chance, slamming his shoulder into the door to knock it into the soldier and throw him off balance. The enemy was only able to let out a soft cry of pain before the housecarl’s seax sword fell upon him, burying itself deep into his throat. The other housecarls passed him, charging up to the door of the gatehouse and kicking it open.

  Osgar stood just in time to see one of his men fall, skewered through the eye with an arrow. He looked up to see an archer pulling out another arrow. Grasping for something to throw, Osgar’s fingers came to rest upon the hard shaft of the Flemish spear, holding it aloft and taking aim. He slung the spear with surprising speed, but the accuracy left something to be desired; the missile soared past the archer’s head, failing to so much as scratch the soldier. The archer ducked behind the fortifications, at least, and for the moment seemed content to stay there.

  “Quickly, run!” he shouted and waved to the few housecarls still left behind. They dashed forward across the wall, leaving the body of their brother behind. The gatehouse was full of bodies already: four Flemish and one Saxon. More important than the bodies was the large and powerful-looking winch used to open the gates. Two more mercenaries fought with his housecarls on the bridge over the gate and the noise level was steadily increasing. Osgar slammed the door behind him and twirled the seax in his hand, surveying the situation.

  “Edward, Osbeorn, Wilfrid, secure the roof. We’ll finish these men off!” Osgar ordered, closing in on the surviving Flemish soldiers. One of the Saxons fell with a cry of pain, a Flemish speartip buried in his thigh, but he did not fall in vain as his comrade thrust the seax deep into his killer’s ribcage. The other guard died even less gloriously as his spear was wrenched out of his grasp and a weak attempt at surrender was met with a sword to the neck.

  “Sigebehrt, Osmund, stay and help me here. The rest of you check the opposite tower – try to clear the roof if you can. We need to keep the gatehouse clear for as long as possible.

  The housecarls saluted and jogged off across the bridge to the other tower. York’s gatehouse was now almost completely under their control. Osgar moved to the window on the
inside of the walls, peering out and down below; his eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness again, but he was pleased to see the mob of supporters waiting just inside the gates. One of them waved a brightly coloured cloth at him – a signal that the gates had been unbarred and ready to be opened at any time. Everything was going exactly according to plan.

  “The gates are ready, start opening them!” he ordered his men, before looking back out the window. “Get up here you crazy bastards, we’re opening the gates and the traitor’s men won’t be well pleased!”

  The entire building began to tremble slightly as the winch creaked and groaned. The gates were not the largest England had, but they were impressive nonetheless and it took some exertion to turn the winch. Moments later, one of his men returned from the roof. “The tower is ours. What of the gates?”

  “We’re opening them now, signal the army immediately. Once you’re sure they’re moving, join us. The Flemish are certain to try and retake the gates before the King’s men get here.”

  The housecarl nodded and returned to the roof, leaving Osgar in silence as his men slowly turned the gate. Osgar walked towards the window to the outside world. To his right, the door to the tower burst open as a Flemish soldier forced his way in. The world seemed to slow as the veteran soldier turned and raised his seax defensively, but he was too slow to stop the spear that was thrown at him. At such a close range, he had no room or time to dodge and it buried itself deeply into his chest, sending him tumbling back into the wall. He watched with a suddenly blurry gaze as his comrades set into the Flemish soldier with fury, putting him to the sword.

  “How strange,” Osgar groaned as his companions crowded around him, checking the grievous wound. “It doesn’t hurt at all...”