Nestling amongst the overhanging trees, however, was a boat, probably belonging to a fisherman from the nearby village. It was this that Thurkill had seen from his vantage point atop the log. Working in tandem, they pushed the small craft down the bank and into the water. Thurkill threw a spear into the boat before wading in alongside it, the water soon coming up to his knees. Then he climbed in and lay down at the bottom to ensure that he was hidden as much as possible. Meanwhile, Scalpi was gently pushing the boat out into the middle of the water. Slowly, he slipped deeper under the surface, crouching down until only his face was visible. Holding on to the stern, and keeping his head out of sight as much as possible, he began to direct the little fishing boat downstream towards the bridge.
As they drew closer, the sounds of fighting grew louder. Silently, they floated slowly along with the current, keeping as close to the bank and the undergrowth as they could. At any moment, Thurkill feared they might be spotted, bringing their enterprise to a premature end; but their luck held. Eventually, they arrived beneath the wooden structure, Thurkill holding up his hand to signal his father to hold the boat in position. The bridge had been constructed from half a dozen roughly hewn logs lashed together as tightly as possible. The uneven nature of the trunks meant that, here and there, there were gaps through which Thurkill could see the cloudless blue sky. A pause in hostilities appeared to have occurred for the warrior was standing with his axe head resting on the bridge, breathing heavily. It seemed he had some mastery of the Saxon tongue, and he was using it to hurl insults at the Saxons who now stood back from him, deriding them as cowards, no better than womenfolk, daring them to come forward to meet their deaths.
“Are none of you man enough to take me on? I have killed twenty of you at least and not one of them was worthy of my blade. Come on, what are you waiting for? My axe is thirsty for more of your Saxon blood.”
Meanwhile, Thurkill waved his hand gently to the right, letting his father know he needed to move the boat further towards the middle of the river. While he waited, he offered up silent thanks that the current was slower here, helping to keep the boat steady in the water. He raised himself on to his knees, careful to avoid tipping the boat too far. His father, holding on to the sides, did his best to help keep the swaying movement to a minimum.
Just as he was about to grab hold of the spear, a huge splash not two feet away from them soaked him as another Saxon met his end at the hands of the axeman. The waves caused the boat to rock wildly, making him forget the spear and grab on to the sides to stop himself from being thrown into the water.
As soon as the motion had died down, Thurkill braced his knees against the edges of the boat and grasped the spear in both hands. Peering upwards, he positioned it carefully between two of the logs, gathering himself for what was to come. As he waited, another huscarl chose that moment to attack. The Norseman took a step forward to meet his assailant, opening his stance as he did so. Thurkill knew he had to seize the chance he had been given. Gripping the shaft of his spear as tightly as he could, he launched himself upwards, thrusting the tip through the gap in the logs as hard as he could. Almost immediately, he felt the point hit home. The scream that came from the Norseman’s lungs was the most terrifying thing Thurkill had ever heard. The blade had penetrated his unprotected groin and had proceeded to lay waste to his bowels as it continued its death-bringing journey. Blood and entrails splashed down the shaft, onto the bridge, even splattering on to Thurkill’s upturned face. The defender’s axe fell with a clatter onto the bridge as he grasped his riven gut with both hands. With a triumphant yell, the next Saxon in line hacked his sword down on to his neck, ending his heroic defence for good.
Released, the Saxon host lost no time running forward across the bridge, the first of them shoving the fallen warrior unceremoniously over the edge so that he plummeted into the water just to Thurkill’s side. Despite his elation, he felt a pang of guilt as well. The man had fought bravely and with honour; he did not deserve to die by such foul means.
Vaulting out of the boat, he waded over to grab the body, dragging it to the far bank where, with the help of his father, he hauled the lifeless form out of the water and up on to the grass. He straightened the legs, hiding the cruel wound as best he could. Taking a discarded sword, he arranged the warrior’s arms across his chest, folded over the blade. He would at least meet his forefathers in the afterlife, weapon in hand. Then, bowing his head briefly, Thurkill uttered a quick prayer to speed the warrior’s soul to its final resting place.
EIGHT
25 September, Stamford Bridge
Looking back across the river, Thurkill could hear Harold, Gyrth and the other leaders urging the men of the fyrd to hurry across the bridge. Much time had been lost to the lone defender; time enough for what was left of the enemy host to regroup on the far side. And yet, crossing the narrow structure remained a slow business, merely adding to the king’s frustration. Even now, he was gesticulating furiously, shouting at anyone who caught his eye and - every now and then - slapping the flat of his blade across the rump of any warrior he deemed to be moving too slowly.
Scalpi stood alongside him on the muddy riverbank, looking up at the bridge. “The longer this takes, the more likely it is that their men will arrive from Riccall. Come on, son. Let’s get back to the rest of the lads. Your deeds here will have won you great renown; there’ll be many a song sung about you around the fireside for years to come, you mark my words. But only if we win.”
Climbing up the steep bank, they joined with the rest of the huscarls as they made their way towards the ridge on which the new Norse shieldwall now stood. Though it was smaller than before, it looked no less formidable for that. It would not be an easy nut to crack.
They halted at the base of the ridge. The slope was not steep by any means, but an uphill attack would still sap what remained of their strength. Looking up, Thurkill could see the massed ranks of the enemy, gathered around Tostig. The king’s brother stood in the centre of the line, under King Harald’s raven banner, which hung limply from its staff, next to his own, in the breezeless afternoon.
Once again, Harold strode forward, alone this time. When he was within earshot, he halted.
“You have fought well today. But your king is dead and there is no need for further bloodshed. Honour has been satisfied. Lay down your arms so that you may retrieve his body and leave this place in peace. All that I ask is that you return to your ships and sail from these lands, never to return.”
A growl greeted his offer. A huge bear of a man stepped forward, challenging Harold to fight him, but the king dismissed him with an imperious waft of his hand; it was beneath his rank to engage with an ordinary warrior in such circumstances.
“Think of your families. Think of your homes. You don’t have to die here, far away from your wives; you can leave now; you can go home with no impediment. I swear it in the name of Almighty God. But be aware, if you refuse my offer, I shall show no mercy. Your bodies will lie here, unburied; to serve as a permanent reminder to all those that would invade my lands and lay waste to my people. They will be food for the crows, picked clean until there is just the white of your bones left. Your souls will be left to wander the earth in perpetual torment, excluded from the heavenly realm for eternity.”
When Harold finished speaking, Tostig shouted back. “We fight on, brother. We will not turn our backs on the enemy. You may retreat if you wish to avoid further death and destruction, but we will not leave this ridge while there is one among us who yet lives.”
Harold paused briefly, a look of profound sadness flitting across his face, before sighing. “So be it.” He turned abruptly to walk back down the slope to the shieldwall, which parted to allow him passage.
Moments later, the Saxon host began its advance. The sun had at last begun its slow descent towards the horizon, but there was still plenty of heat in it. Many of those around Thurkill were already panting with the effort of climbing the slope. Although many had slak
ed their thirst from the river as they crossed, they were still tired, nonetheless. Long hours of fighting under the blazing sun had taken its toll on both sides. But now that the enemy had refused Harold’s offer of quarter, it would be a brutal fight to the death.
The two armies clashed for a second time with a cacophony of noise; screams intermingled with the sound of metal striking metal or wood. Straightaway, the Norse were pushed back. They had been outnumbered from the start, and the losses they had suffered on the western side of the river had only served to exacerbate the situation. They fought bravely and sold their lives dearly but their shieldwall was visibly shrinking as more and more men fell, either through wounds or exhaustion. For the Saxons, however, their fatigue seemed to lessen as every step took then closer to victory. They spurred each other on to greater efforts, ignoring the pain from which they suffered.
A great shout went up to Thurkill’s right. “What’s happening?” He yelled as he thrust his shield forward to block another blow.
A voice came back. “It’s Tostig. He’s down. Dead, I think.”
“Surely they will surrender now?”
“Don’t count on it, son”, Scalpi replied, his face a mask of sweat and concentration. These fellows don’t know the meaning of the word, surrender. We won’t see the last of this fight for a while yet.”
Sure enough, there was no let-up in the ranks of the Norse army. Though they were being pushed back all the time, they were still steadfast in their defence. But their losses were taking their toll. They no longer had the numbers to match the Saxon shieldwall, allowing the latter to start to envelope their flanks. Much more of this and they would be encircled before the sun went down.
Thurkill, his father and their four fyrdsmen were now gathered on the far left wing of the Saxon line. It was a miracle they all still lived. Two of the fyrdsmen had been wounded, though not seriously. Ubba had a gash to his cheek from which blood still dripped, while Halfdan had a piece of cloth, ripped from his tunic, wound tightly around his right forearm. It had stained red where the blood had seeped through, but it appeared to be doing the job. “A lucky spear thrust while I was off balance,” Halfdan scowled ruefully, more in embarrassment than pain. Neither wound appeared to be affecting their agility, though, as they both hacked and stomped their way forward against the opposing line.
But just when they thought that the enemy must be on the point of collapse, they were suddenly thrown back on to the defensive by a huge surge. Immediately, they began to yield ground, step after step, slipping and sliding in the guts and blood of the fallen. All around them, men looked at each other in horror; they had been on the point of victory after all.
“What in God’s name is happening?” Scalpi yelled above the tumult.
Thurkill pointed with his sword. “Look, father. The rest of the Norse army has arrived at last.”
King Harold must have also realised the threat, for he arrived at that moment with a party of huscarls taken from the centre where the battle was less intense. Immediately, they threw themselves into the thick of the fighting, with the king shouting encouragement to all those around. “Hold them! Hold them! Do not let them steal your victory.”
Thurkill had no concept of how long this last phase of the battle went on, but it was – without doubt – the fiercest it had been all day. The fresh warriors, in full armour, fought with the desperation of men who knew that they stood but one pace from annihilation. Their leaders were dead, they had suffered grievous losses in their ranks but there was no other option for them but to stand and fight. There could be no retreat. They fought for honour, glory and, above all now, revenge. They fought so that those who came after them would sing songs of their deeds around the hearth in every great hall across their homeland. The knowledge lent them an extra ferocity that was terrible to behold and which gave them the strength to cut huge new swathes through the Saxon host.
Everywhere he looked, Thurkill was confronted with cruelly twisted and misshapen bodies from both sides littering the field. He had long since passed the point of exhaustion; his body moved through some will of its own now, independent of his fatigued mind. His thirst was almost overpowering now; he was no longer even sweating. He felt as if every last drop of moisture had been leeched from his body. He had so little strength left, he knew it was only a matter of time until he fell; either at the hand of an enemy or from sheer physical breakdown. His father still fought alongside him, shouting encouragement every now and then, but clearly also at the limits of his endurance. Three of their fyrdsmen were still by their side. All save Halfdan; his wounded arm limiting his ability to fight, to such an extent that he was finally cut down by two Norsemen working in tandem, despite the best efforts of those around him.
When he thought he could stand no more, Thurkill suddenly found that where there was once a snarling, cursing Norseman in front of him, there was now a gap. Dumbstruck, he turned to the left and right, wincing at the pain in his aching neck muscles. It was the same story on both sides. Here and there the odd duel continued, but there was now an unmistakably huge sensation of space where, only moments before, there had been an intense sprawling press of men, hacking and hurling abuse at each other. Did he dare hope? Was it true? Had they finally had enough?
It was true, he realised, relief flooding his soul. Already the few remaining Vikings were streaming down the slope away from the slaughter, heading east towards their boats.
A handful of Saxons pursued them but, for the most part, the victors slumped to the ground where they stood. Like many around him, Thurkill dropped to his knees. A wave of nausea swept over him, causing him to turn his head to puke his guts on to the churned up soil around him. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve before collapsing on to his back, still sufficiently sentient to avoid the mess he had made. Scalpi squatted next to him and tousled his hair, perhaps finding it hard to let go of the child and accept the man his son had become that day.
“I’m proud of you, boy. You’ve fought well and brought honour to our family.”
Thurkill smiled thinly, but his father’s words warmed his heart nevertheless. He could not have hoped for more from the day.
“Why did they give up like that? I thought they had us beaten at the end there.” His voice was weak, croaking for lack of saliva.
Scalpi wiped his sleeve across his forehead and sighed wearily. “I don’t rightly know. I can only imagine they were even more spent than us. Losing both Harald and Tostig must have taken its toll as well. There’s only so much you can do without strong leadership.”
“But they had all those fresh warriors. They were pushing us back.”
“They were, that’s true. But remember, too, that they had come all the way from Riccall; a good few miles away from here. They must have run most, if not all, of the way. On a hot day like this, in full armour, that’s going to take a lot out of a man.”
Scalpi stood and reached out his hand to pull Thurkill to his feet. “Come on. Let’s go find Harold and see what’s happening.”
***
Every step they took brought ever more gruesome sights. Bodies lay everywhere, in many cases hacked and stabbed to the point of unrecognisability. In those places where the fighting had been fiercest, they lay so thick on the ground that they had to chart a course around the bodies lest they tread on them. Thurkill glanced at his father; his face was ashen with shock.
“I’ve been in a fair few fights in my time, as you know, but this is the worst I’ve ever seen”.
Thurkill said nothing, not wishing to disturb his father’s thoughts. He too was shocked to the core by what he had seen and done that day. It was as if someone had reached into him and wrenched his childhood out in one brutal, gut-wrenching movement. There could be no turning back, now; he had joined the ranks of men, like it or not. Though he was sickened by what he had seen and done, at the same time his heart was bursting with a mix of excitement and pride. He had fought his first battle and survived. Not only survived, but played his
part well by his own reckoning, if not also by his father’s.
But alongside those feelings, somewhere deep inside, a part of him was scared of what he had become. He had found an enjoyment in the act of killing his enemy; seeing them fall before him, faces contorted in a rictus of pain. Did that make him evil? Would he go to hell? Surely, he had been doing nothing more than the king’s bidding? Following orders he had been given?. Did that not also make it God’s work? Besides, any one of those he had killed would have done the same as him were they but quicker or more skilful.
He resolved to go to see the village priest when he got home. Would it help him to talk about it, seek some assurance that he was not damned for eternity? The thought of home also made him wonder what Edith would think of him if she could see him now, covered in blood, standing over the broken forms of those he had killed. Would she be proud, or would she recoil in horror at what he had become?
“Hail Scalpi, well met! It brings me joy to see you still alive, you ugly troll.” Harold strode forward to embrace him warmly. He looked to have come through the battle without a scratch, despite being covered almost head to foot in blood; a testament to his having been in the thick of the action throughout.
“Aye, Lord. It will take more than a few hairy-arsed Norsemen to finish me off.”
“Ha! I’m glad to hear it, old friend. Though there are many who have paid dearly for today’s victory all the same. We must honour them in time, raise a cup of ale in their memory.”
Harold then turned to face his son. Though he was much taller, Thurkill still felt small in the presence of the warrior king. Harold stood silently for a moment, looking the boy up and down as if measuring his worth.
“Now then. What do we do with you, lad?”
Thurkill blushed and looked down awkwardly at his feet. Words did not come; he had no idea what Harold meant. The king chuckled at his discomfort, while Scalpi grinned stupidly, his face beaming with paternal pride.
Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2 Page 7