by C. R. May
Kelvedon’s thegn returned the smile as a dull thud shook the ship, the Thurrock’s mast slid home, and his friend spoke again. ‘Let us go and tell the king that he may not have to recall the army after all.’
Afterword
King Harold stationed the ships of his fleet in the bays and estuaries surrounding the Solent that summer as the army waited for the Normans to appear on the horizon. It was the perfect position for them, easily provisioned and upwind of the most likely landing areas. As summer began to turn to autumn and the invasion threat receded, the king withdrew his ships to their winter berths on the Thames and ordered the seaborne levies of the scip fyrd back to their home ports. Had the winds been favourable there is little doubt that the Norman fleet would have sailed earlier than it did, and a naval battle may very well have occurred.
Æthelric of Kelvedon actually existed and gets a mention in the great survey of 1068 commonly known as the Domesday Book. Here he is said to have fought a naval battle against William in the channel, but took ill and died on his return to London leaving his estates to Westminster Abbey.
Duke William’s ship Mora was a gift from his wife Matilda. It was the largest and finest ship in the invasion force, and I based the description of it from its depiction on the Bayeux Tapestry. This sleek longship’s sailing qualities were such that it did become detached from the rest of the fleet the night before the landing in Sussex, and a beacon was lit at the masthead to act as an assembly point. Despite this the following morning found the ship and her occupants alone in mid channel, but the English ships had already passed through the Dover Straits and were back in their Thames side berths. Not for the first or last time that autumn, fortune smiled on William.
9
A CRUSHING VICTORY
Lincoln - 23 September 1066
The newcomer wormed his way into the group, drawing a growl and a veiled threat from the nearest man as he held his hands out to the brazier. ‘Keep your elbows to yourself friend, or you’ll not be in need of a warming.’
King Harold winked at the men opposite, and their expressions lit up with glee as he followed up with another gentle nudge. The man spun around with a snarl, but his voice trailed away and he gaped like a lackwit as he recognised the figure of the king. ‘I gave you fair warning — now if you don’t….’
The group laughed as their friend’s expression became a mask of horror. ‘I am sorry lord,’ the housecarl stammered. ‘I thought you were one of the men.’
Harold grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I rather hoped I was one of the men.’ His look encompassed the group as he continued. ‘Every man who fights for me in the coming war shall become my brother.’ The king watched in satisfaction as a look of pride illuminated each face in the group. He had always had the ability to inspire fighting men by word and deed, and in truth he greatly enjoyed their company. He had felt humbled that they had returned to his banner in such numbers when he had recalled them so soon after their release from duty on the South Coast. Men were joining them each and every hour as he sped north to confront Harald Hardrada’s Norwegians and those of his own brother, Tostig. He knew that most of them had barely arrived home when his riders had arrived to ask for their spears and shields once again. The blare of the assembly horn had torn them away from harvest and family, and Harold resolved to reward them all handsomely once the crisis had passed.
The first reports of the attacks in the North had reached London five days previously. The coastal town of Scarborough had been attacked and burned, after the inhabitants offered fierce resistance to the Vikings on their journey towards the mouth of the Humber. The town had sent word to earl Morcar in York, and Harold’s brother-in-law had immediately sent a messenger speeding south. The last communication the king had received had told him that the earl’s brother, Edwin of Mercia, had summoned his army and was rushing north to join their forces together to resist the invader. Harold had left London on the twentieth and gathered men as he rode the Great North Road. In two more days he would be in the capital of Northumbria and they would see off this challenge together.
A nagging fear tugged at the king’s mind. The South had been emptied of its best fighting men and his spies told him that duke William had still not dispersed his fleet nor paid off his army of mercenaries, but there was little he could do. He must go north or risk losing the population there. Many were descended from earlier Scandinavian invaders and their allegiance to the southern kings was not so firmly rooted. It was the reason why he had married Edwin and Morcar’s sister early in his reign, so he simply must act decisively.
A clamour drew their attention across to the old Roman gate, and the group looked across as a horseman rode into the square. Despite the gathering gloom the king could see that the rider looked all in, and the lathered flanks and heaving chest of his mount told them all that the horseman had ridden hard to overtake the king. Men were pointing in his direction, and Harold left the fireside as the messenger slid from his saddle and hurried across, pushing down the fear which gripped him at the tale he was about to hear. The worst news he could receive was that the Normans had managed to cross the Channel in the South while he was racing in the opposite direction with the finest troops in the country. If that was the case and he was forced to chase the Norwegians all across the North it would be a disaster. Harold pushed the fears down with difficulty; the chess pieces were in movement and he would have to play the game the best he could. His mind returned from its worrying, and he watched as the horseman hurried across the square. Seeing the king’s expression the messenger painted his face with a reassuring smile as he came up and began to deliver his report. ‘You have a crushing victory, lord!’
The warrior tore the fastening strap from a leather pouch and fished about inside. As the men nearby began to spread the sensational news, the message-bearer dipped his head and passed a rolled parchment to the king. ‘Earl Morcar offers his congratulations and sends this token of your victory, Lord King.’ Harold reached out to take the proffered scroll as the messenger drew a dark bundle from his satchel. The king indicated that he unfurl what looked to be a flag as he picked at the wax seal with a thumbnail, and his face lit up in wonder as the banner fell open to reveal the outline of a swart raven in flight. A gaggle of tough housecarls stood close-by, Danes sent by Sweyn Estridsson their king to help his kinsman Harold in this year of dire threats, and the sight drew an audible gasp from them as they recognised the flag and its importance. Harold looked across. ‘So, this is what I think it is then?’
The Danes nodded eagerly, the joy they felt at witnessing the sight shining in their eyes. ‘Yes, lord. That is Land-waster, the war flag of Hardrada.’ They all shared a look. ‘Of all the races on God’s earth the Danes should know, it has been the bane of our lives since we were bairns.’
Harold nodded as he began to unroll the message, still dazed by the suddenness of it all. The Norwegians and Danes were sworn enemies. Harald Hardrada had come south, raiding the coast of Jutland practically every year during that time in his efforts to deprive the Danes of their independence. As an English thegn pressed a cup of ale onto the grateful messenger, King Harold took himself aside and settled down to read the contents of the scroll by the guttering flame of a nearby brand.
Our King!
Together this day we have met the army of the King of Norway and driven it from your kingdom. Harald the Hard Ruler lies slain and your brother Tostig is in our power. You will be pleased to learn that he is unharmed and awaits your judgement.
Harold rubbed his face wearily as one concern replaced another. He was glad that Tostig had survived, and hoped that they could find a way to live together in peace once this tumultuous year had passed. Perhaps he could bend a little and offer his brother their traditional family power base, the earldom of Wessex, once his position as king was secure. One thing was certain, he was lucky to have been granted quarter by men who had risen against his rule only the previous year. He pushed the thoughts away as
he read on with mounting excitement. Tostig was a problem for another day.
Our scouts shadowed the Norwegian fleet as they followed the course of the River Humber before following the River Ouse as far as Ricall. Here they disembarked and hastened forward in battle array. The combined armies of Northumbria and Mercia advanced manfully from the city to Fulford, and here they set their standards. With their flanks secured by the River Ouse and a deep dyke, the English stood firm as the invaders approached and formed their own shield wall.
Battle was joined and almost immediately the men of Mercia under their earl tasted success. Driving forward they swept into and through the forces commanded by your brother and chased them from the field.
Seeing the disaster unfurl on their right flank the Norwegians, resolute beneath their Land-waster banner, Oðinn’s bird, that hated symbol of heathendom, wheeled and struck the Mercians in their own flank. Many English died as they were forced into the waters, but the army of Northumbria struck back. As the pressure on them eased the men of Mercia rallied. Crushed between our armies, the Norwegians fell almost to a man.
The king lowered the parchment and looked up to find that a ring of expectant faces had gathered at the edge of the circle of light. He beamed at them as he confirmed all their hopes. ‘It is true. The enemy has been routed and chased from the kingdom.’ As cheers rent the cool evening air, Harold calmly ran his eyes through the closing paragraph.
The North is safe and stands firmly at your side. We have assembled a force of two hundred housecarls which will ride south to join with your household troops two days hence. A further force of five hundred mounted bowmen from Mercia have already left for the South and should reach London within the week. Together we will ensure that the Norwegian survivors leave our land and stand ready to support you on the South Coast should the need arise. I have sent Hardrada’s Land-waster flag to you as symbol of your victory and to strike fear into the Norman host should they dare to invade.
Let the Bastard come, and we shall see him off together!
Your faithful kinsmen,
Edwin, Earl of Mercia
Morcar, Earl of Northumbria.
King Harold rolled the parchment and laughed at the ribald antics of the men before him. He really was happiest among fighting men. Harold snorted as a big housecarl tipped a barrel of ale over himself, shaking his locks as his friends offered up cups to catch the drips.
‘Yes…’ he breathed as the yips and yaps of exultant men echoed back from the ancient walls. ‘Let the Bastard come if he dares.’
Afterword
King Harold was forced to retire from the South Coast on the 8 September as his supplies ran low and the men of the fyrd agitated to return home to gather in the harvest. The ships of the fleet left their station at the Isle of Wight and returned to their winter berths in the Thames the same day. That very day, far to the north at Tynemouth, the fleets of Harald of Norway and Tostig Godwinson had come together for their joint invasion of England. Moving south, the fleet of up to five hundred longships harried the coast before entering the River Humber and moving on York.
Earl Morcar would have known of the invasion within days of their arrival off the River Tyne. He called on the forces of his brother, Edwin the Earl of Mercia, to come to his aid and sent word to his brother-in-law, the king. It is estimated that Harold knew of the situation by the sixteenth and he set about recalling his army from the shires. Leaving London on the twentieth, the same day that the northern earls fought the battle of Fulford, he moved north, adding to his army as he went. Five days later, after a forced march covering almost two hundred miles, he fell upon the Norwegian army at Stamford Bridge and destroyed it utterly. Within days the Normans had landed in Sussex and the depleted, travel and battle weary English army hurried back south.
But what if the northern earls had won the first of the great battles that autumn of 1066? No war leader leaves the safety of a walled city to give battle unless he is confident of victory, and although outnumbered the northern earls had chosen an excellent defensive position; their combined army should have been able to go toe to toe with the Norwegian invaders, despite Harald the Hard Ruler’s formidable reputation. With the Norwegians rebuffed and king Harold still in the South, it would have been far easier to recall the men of the levies who had so recently been stood down from their summer long invasion watch.
The spectacular march north of Harold and his men is a clear indication of the power and organisation of the mid eleventh century English State. Even without reinforcement from the North, most continental observers at the time thought that the odds on an English victory were overwhelming.
10
WALLINGFORD BURH
Late November 1066
A gush of hot urine spattered the roadway and the earl jumped smartly away. Looking up, his mouth widened into a grin as the acrid smell of horse piss filled the air. ‘That is enough leg stretching for now,’ he quipped. ‘It should have cleaned the mud from my boots at least — I want to look my best when I go calling on a duke.’ The flow showed no sign of diminishing, and casting a look at the trackway his features became a frown. Every rut, hoof mark and footprint within a half-dozen feet of the steady stream was rapidly filling to the brim, and Waltheof hauled himself back into the saddle before he was forced to paddle across.
Ulfketil Wæcnan flashed him a grin of his own as the earl settled back at his side. ‘That’s good luck lord, or so my brother always said.’
Waltheof widened his eyes in question as he took up the reins. ‘Hereward said that?’
‘Aye, lord,’ Ulfketil chuckled: ‘Hereward the Wæcnan, terror of Bourne. I cannot wait to see his face when he hears the tale of this night!’
The earl nodded. ‘Well, he is the terror of Flanders now I hear. He may harbour strange ideas about what amounts to good fortune, but we could have used his axe this past year.’
The earl’s eyes returned to scan the dark ramparts of Wallingford, the burh walls brooding beneath a leaden sky, and Waltheof’s mind drifted back across the events which had convulsed the kingdom since the old king had died in January as the torrent of horse piss finally petered out beneath him.
The year had started well. King Edward had gone to God on only the fifth day of the new year, nominating Harold earl of Wessex as his successor in the surefire knowledge that it would trigger an invasion by the king’s kinsman William, duke of the Normans. Soon confirmation had reached them that the river banks and shipyards of the duchy were swarming with ship wrights as keels were laid and planking sawn, and as the new king’s brother Tostig had harried the coast the northern earls of England had looked on with wolfish intent as all their scheming had begun to bear fruit.
The unexpected invasion of Northumbria and the defeat of Edwin and Morcar by the king of Norway could have proven fatal to their plans, and Waltheof as earl of Huntingdon had seen no option but to join his forces to those of Harold Godwinson as he sped north to chase the invaders from a kingdom he still thought his own. But in a remarkable twist of fate not only had Harold crushed the threat to their heartlands but Tostig had died in the fight alongside his Norwegian ally, and as the plotters had met to celebrate both their deliverance and the death of the man who had been their earl little less than a year before, word had reached them of the duke’s landing in the South.
Returning home to reinforce their armies the leaders of northern England: Edwin of Mercia; Morcar of Northumbria; Oswulf Eadwulfson of Bamburgh and earl Wulfheof himself had bided their time until Harold was forced to move south to confront the threat without them. Within days the northern earls were in London, where they were greeted by the sensational news that Harold along with his brothers the southern earls Gyrth of East Anglia and Leofwine of Middlesex had been slaughtered by the invaders alongside the majority of the Godwinson supporters. It could only be the work of God that a family whose reach and influence had seemed unassailable little more than a year ago could be all but wiped out in so short a space
of time. But if the Lord was said by some to be an Englishman, events were to prove that he must be a northerner to boot. As the English fleet had scoured the coast of enemy shipping, trapping the invaders and denying them fresh troops and supplies, the Normans had pressed on. With his army withered by hard fighting and dysentery, duke William had gambled on a decisive thrust towards the capital. Rebuffed at London Bridge, the invaders had been channelled further inland until they had reached the ford at Wallingford in their bid to force a crossing of the River Thames; now they would discover that the walls of the town they had thought to afford them protection were little more than a trap.
Stretching before him the Oxford road ran as straight as any spear shaft towards the northern gate, and Waltheof’s eyes fixed upon the portal as he awaited the signal. It must come soon, the dawn even this late in the year was only a short while away, and he was about to utter a curse when he saw the first signs of movement. Within moments the big oak doors were being pulled inward, and the men in the column came alive as they prepared themselves for war. Waltheof flicked a sidelong look at Ulfketil as a dull glow began to flicker on the oaken boards. ‘Godspeed old friend,’ he said. ‘If you can cut the picket lines and drive away the Norman horse, the war will be won within the week.’
The big man nodded, casting a rearward look as his men began to urge their mounts forward. ‘We will not let you down, lord. There are no men better suited to horse rustling than fenland folk.’