Tostig spent the long summer brooding in Scotland. And meanwhile he sent embassies across the northern sea.
During the summer Godgifu had glimpsed Harald the Ruthless, King of Norway, several times. Aged about fifty he was tall enough to tower over most of his troops, and yet he wore his hair, beard and moustache carefully trimmed. Some even said he dyed his hair. It was an affectation he might have picked up during his long and exotic career in the east.
Aged only fifteen he had been exiled by Cnut. Harald had served in the Varangian Guard at the court of Constantinople, and fought in Sicily, Africa, Greece, Italy, and the Holy Land. He became known as lucky and brave – and ruthless, famous for hauling captive women to his ships in chains. He had returned, extremely wealthy, to claim the crown of his home country, and had immediately launched a war on the Danes that lasted sixteen years.
By the time Tostig contacted him this summer, seeking an alliance, Harald was flat broke, drained by war. But he had a claim of sorts on England, for, he said, he had made a treaty with a son of Cnut. And he had an army fabled across Europe and hardened by sixteen years of war. In Tostig's plea he saw an opportunity. If he was ever going to strike at England, now, in the opening months of Harold's raw new reign, might be the time.
Three hundred ships crossed from Norway. As their coastal towns burned, the people of England knew that nearly three centuries after Lindisfarena another invasion by Northmen had begun, under Harald, who they called the last of the Vikings.
Harald joined his forces with Tostig's, and things changed for Godgifu. The Norse were not like the English; even stone cold sober on a Sunday morning they were a rapacious lot. So Godgifu took the advice of Estrith, who had befriended her, and retreated to this camp of the women, hundreds of them, mostly English, banded together for safety against their husbands' allies. You were removed from the fighting here, but there was plenty to do. And if all else failed you could pretend to be a Norse wife and sit spinning sail-cloth.
The Norse had sailed upriver and marched on Jorvik. The northern earls, Morcar and Edwin, made a stand on an estate owned by Morcar – and once by Tostig – at a place called the Foul Ford, where they could bar the road and the river, and their flanks were protected by marshes. It was a good site, but a hasty engagement. Maybe the earls should have waited for reinforcements from Harold – but they hoped to keep the Norse out of the walls of Jorvik.
They lost their gamble. Though the earls themselves had survived, the English forces were crushed. Soon leading citizens of Jorvik came to meet with Harald the Ruthless, offering their allegiance.
Feasting on the spoils of the victory, Harald and Tostig had relaxed. Harald could have stayed within the walls of Jorvik, but he moved his army east to a place by the river, at Stamfordbrycg, between his fleet and Jorvik. It was a useful site, a place where roads converged, with easy access to both city and fleet. And it was a good political choice, recommended by Tostig, being at the junction of several hundreds. Here they waited for hostages to be surrendered from the shire.
Stamfordbrycg, however, was not a good place to fight a battle. But it didn't need to be. Here on this stretch of marshy farmland by the river, the Norse hadn't built any fortifications. They had even split their forces, between the bridge and the fleet. Some of their mail and heavy gear was with the fleet too.
Why not? King Harold had spent the summer camped on the south coast, waiting for an invasion by the Normans which had never come. Now, Harold didn't even have an army. The fyrd could be called out for just two months; that was the law. Harold had extended this to four months, but by early September, running out of food, he had been forced to let the fyrd disband.
From the Norse point of view Harold was at the wrong end of the country, with no army, and no time.
And yet Harold was here, with an army, just five days after the defeat of the northern earls. Five days.
The women, with a few children, older men and wounded, were beginning to form up into a loose caravan, a stream of women, carts, horses and baggage. They were going to head east, towards the ships – always the first refuge for Vikings.
And, Godgifu saw, less than an hour since they had first reached the bridge, the English were on the move again. His efforts at diplomacy evidently rebuffed, Harold wasted no time. The English moved in a mass. The front rank had their shields locked together in a wall, and they marched in step, thousands of men together. And they drummed on their shields, yelling, 'Ut! Ut!' Out! Out! Despite the blood she had already seen spilled, Godgifu felt her pulse race at the chanting of the men, the drumming of their shields, the glitter of their spears.
She knew that the Norse looked down on the English as a bunch of farmers armed with rusty swords and a scythe or two. In fact, Godgifu had learned, the English were well equipped and decently trained. The core of Harold's army was his housecarls, full-time professional soldiers. And as for the fyrd, yes, they were raised from the ranks of farmers. But the land army had come a long way since the days of Alfred. A complex system of levies and taxes ensured that one in every six or seven healthy men in England was properly equipped and trained to fight, when called upon. Each of them had a conical helmet, a shield and sword and axe, and many of them even had mail coats like the housecarls. Thus Harold had thousands of soldiers available, dispersed across the country, trained and ready to be called out at a few days' notice.
And today they looked more than ready to be tested against the might of the Norse.
As the English advanced from the bridge, Hardrada made the best of a disastrous position. That raven standard was thrust into the ground, with the standard of Tostig alongside it, and Godgifu could hear the thin calls of horns. Men with shields, some still pulling on mail coats, lined up in a rough circle. Hardrada's purpose was to form a fortress of shields, so that the English could not turn his flanks even on the open flat ground. It was an ingenious strategy, and a brave one. But the skjaldborg was patchy, the men strung out thin.
And the English closed. The shield walls clashed with a sound like thunder, a sound that had echoed across English battlefields for centuries.
Before the advancing wave of English the Norse fell back, and that neat circle was flattened – but it held. Swords and axes hacked down over the shield line, and again blood splashed. Godgifu could smell it, a stink like hot iron-and she smelled fouler stenches too, the sewage spilled from the guts of dying or terrified men. The roar was continuous, a merger of yells, insults and screams from six, seven, eight thousand throats.
'Come on.' Her sleeve was plucked. It was Estrith. Godgifu knew Estrith meant well – that she was trying to save her life – but Godgifu shook her off. Estrith gave up. 'Suit yourself.' The baggage train moved on, leaving Godgifu standing alone on her ridge.
The Norse line broke. The English roared and surged forward, and for a moment the battle dissolved into chaos. But the raven standard pulled back from the melee, and to brisk shouting and the thin song of the horns, the Norse front-line troops withdrew to form a fresh wall. The English fell back too. As both sides receded from the heart of the battlefield, pulling back like a tide, they left a ground covered by fallen and mutilated bodies – some of them moving, crawling like slugs.
The English ranks churned as the men in the front line were replaced by fresher bodies. The Norse closed up their circle once more, but it was noticeably smaller than before. But there was a new cry, as more Norse approached from the east: reinforcements from the ships.
Harold gave the Norse no more time. Again the English line hurled itself forward; again the shield walls clashed, and again the bloody froth of death poured over the ground. It didn't last long. The Norse fought with spirit, but their lines shrank until they were reduced to a knot battling around the raven standard. The reinforcements, exhausted after running miles in their heavy armour, were easily dealt with.
Surrounded by his war band the last of the Vikings did not die easily. But at last the raven standard fell – and Hardrada and Tos
tig with it.
Godgifu looked for the sun. No more than two hours could have passed since the English lines had first advanced.
A weight crashed into her back, and she was pressed face down into the mud. A voice whispered in her ear, 'Don't struggle.'
For an instant she was shocked into immobility. How could she have been so stupid? Now her life would end here, unfulfilled, childless; she would be raped and raped again, and then murdered if the rapes didn't finish her.
But she had a knife in her belt.
With a mighty effort she got her hands under her chest and lifted herself up. She heard a body hit the mud, and a winded grunt. She found her knife and held it before her, coming to a crouch.
Sihtric lay on his back in the dirt. 'It's me! Your brother! For the love of God-'
'Sihtric?' She had not seen him since Westmynster. 'What are you doing here?'
'Looking for you. I knew you wouldn't be far from the action. Perhaps you could help me up. I seem to be stuck in this mud…'
XVI
Harold Godwineson entered Jorvik.
Harold took over the great minster cathedral, which had blossomed out of the foundations of the old Roman legionary headquarters on the site of King Edwin's tiny chapel. Here he mounted a feast for his housecarls, thegns and fyrdmen, a celebration of services and prayers, songs and banqueting that threatened to go on all through the night. The leading citizens, who yesterday had been ready to crown Harald Hardrada, came to welcome the victor of the battle of Stamfordbrycg, and begged him to bring home the hundreds of hostages taken by the Ruthless one.
Under Sihtric's wing Godgifu was brought to the feast. She had nowhere else to go, but, scared that somebody might recognise her as an ally of Tostig, she sat in a corner with Sihtric, and ate sparingly and drank less. Amid the feasting Harold and Gyrth, the Godwines, looked dark. After all they had been responsible for the death of their brother. Tostig's body, Sihtric told her, had been found on the field, had been decently wrapped, and would be buried here at the minster.
Sihtric the priest marvelled at the capabilities of Harold the soldier. 'Harold was in Lunden when word came of the Norse landing. You have to understand the position. Harold had had to disperse the fyrd from the south coast. But it was already autumn, and the threat from the Normans had surely receded for this year. Harold thought he could see his way to the end of a difficult first year on the throne. And now, this – the news of an invasion not from the south but from the north.
'And yet he didn't hesitate. He immediately formed up his housecarls and marched north. We came up that Roman road like a storm, sixteen riders abreast. And he sent riders ahead, calling out the fyrd for a third time this year. So we rode on, a gathering crowd of us, like pilgrims converging on Rome. It was marvellous to be a part of it, even though I knew I wouldn't have to fight.
'And even as we marched Harold sent envoys and spies ahead of the column. That was when he heard of the disaster that befell the northern earls.'
'The battle at the Foul Ford – I was nearby.'
'That doesn't surprise me,' Sihtric said dryly. 'Actually Harold believed the earls had been right to try to contain the Norse before they took Jorvik, and at least Hardrada had been held up. At the news of their failure Harold marched on, undaunted.
'And so we came to Stamfordbrycg. We had marched since dawn, and I thought the English might rest. But Harold fell on the enemy immediately. Surprise, and the decisiveness to make use of it: those are his strengths. And there at Stamfordbrycg, as the day wore on – well, you know the rest; you saw it. The Norse were exhausted. You can win one battle; it's hard to win two.
'And Harold saw Tostig cut down. I believe it broke his heart. But he would do it again,' Sihtric whispered. 'Yes, he would do it again.'
Impulsively Godgifu touched his arm. 'Don't get too bound up in the glamour of war, Sihtric. Remember you're the King's priest, not his housecarl.'
Sihtric smiled. 'Perhaps I am becoming addicted to the stink of blood. What sport, though! When you get close enough to it you can see why men will always wage war.'
'And what of the prophecy?' she asked. 'After all that has happened, is the Aryan empire still achievable?'
'I think so,' Sihtric muttered, and his eyes glazed as he receded into a private world of calculation. 'I think so, yes. Tostig was a rogue element. Harold should have cut him down when the Northumbrians rebelled. If Tostig had not lived, he would not have stirred Hardrada to mount his opportunistic invasion. And then Harold and his forces would not have had to endure this battle, win this victory. Indeed if Harold had been able to make his alliance with the Norse, as I urged him, his own forces would be stronger, untested – and he might, conceivably, have Hardrada's Norse at his side, rather than lying slain over muddy Northumbrian fields…'
'If, if, if.'
'Yes. There's nothing to be done about it now.'
Messengers came into the hall. They whispered to the housecarls, who urgently spoke to the King. Harold stood, his face thunderous, and stormed out of the hall.
Sihtric was slightly drunk, and was confused. 'What's going on?'
'Can you not hear what is being said? A message has come from Harold's brother Leofwine, in Lunden. William has sailed.'
Sihtric was wide-eyed. 'It is October. I thought we were safe for the year-'
'Evidently not.'
'Then Harold will go south again – and so must I.'
Sihtric joined the crush to leave the hall, and Godgifu hurried after him.
XVII
On the day of the crossing, Orm had woken to a murmur of excitement outside his tent. Hastily pulling on his tunic and leggings, he went outside to find a clear blue sky, air unseasonably warm for October – and the breeze, though soft, blew from the south, at last.
Already the horns blew, summoning the Christian warriors to mass.
Orm hurried to find his lord, Robert Count of Mortain, who was tense, excited, relieved. 'God has granted us the weather,' he told Orm and his men, 'and a moonless night to boot.'
'So we go,' murmured Orm.
'William has willed it; God has permitted it.'
And they shouted together, 'We go!'
The intention was to sail at night, but embarking in the dark would have caused chaos. So William's plan was to launch at high tide that afternoon, form up his fleet off the coast, and sail for England overnight.
The morning was one of frantic loading. In long chains the men passed bales of clothing, weaponry and provisions to the ships. It took two men to carry a hauberk, a heavy mail coat, strung on a pole. The horses were tricky, and every last one of them had to be soothed, coaxed, bribed and bullied to climb the timber ramps to the ships and settle down in its covered stall. At last, as high tide approached, the men clambered aboard. They hung their leaf-shaped shields along the gunwales as the Normans' Viking forebears had always done.
To cries from the captains, a clanging of bells, a blowing of horns, and blessings from the priests, the ships pulled away. Oars splashed, their blades glittering as they cut in their ancient rhythms into the water, and the sails, brightly coloured, billowed as they caught the soft southerly breeze.
The dragon ships spread out over the flat water, mist-drenched, like images in a painting. Each of them bore a snarling animal's head at its prow. William's own ship, a gift from his wife, was called Mora, and at its prow was a finely carved figure of a child with a bow, and an effigy of his son Robert. Orm had sailed all his life but never as part of such a fleet as this. After so many weeks stuck on the Frankish shore, Orm relished the swell of the ship on the sea, the fresh salt of the breeze. Even the earthy stink of the horses was blown away.
The ships were rowed to their muster point not far from the coast, where the water was shallow enough for anchoring. As the dark gathered the crews lit lanterns in their ships' mastheads, one by one, and the fleet became an archipelago of yellow lights, stretching as far as the eye could see. Orm lay down under his cloak, his
head resting on his helmet, his stiff mail coat at his side. Listening to the lapping of the water against the clinker-built hull and to the voices of the crews as they taunted each other in the dark, he imagined he was a child, safe in his father's ship, on the way to Vinland.
In the darkest hour there came a horn's soft note. When Orm sat up, he saw that his ship was underway once more, the sail unfurled. The crossing proper had begun. Though they still hugged the Frankish coast, already the men had begun to speak in whispers, as if King Harold in Lunden might hear.
In the dark, Odo came to Orm. 'Quite an expedition – don't you think, Orm Egilsson?' His eyes shadowed, Odo's face was a mask, like his brother William's and yet not, with that hint of oily subtlety, that slyness.
Orm had no excuse to get away from Odo's uncomfortable conversation. He said cautiously, 'The greatest expedition to cross this water since the Romans, they say.'
'Well, true. In fact we come third, according to the histories I've read, after Claudius a thousand years ago, and Caesar a hundred years before him. But then the Caesars had the resources of an empire to call upon, and William only has a duchy.'
'As yet,' said Orm dutifully.
'As yet, indeed. That might change soon, if we prevail. Tell me – you're a military man – how do you see our chances?'
Orm shrugged. 'It's late in the season, that's our biggest gamble. We need to bring the English to battle quickly, and to win decisively. And yet-'
'Yes?'
'If we hadn't sailed now, the momentum would have been lost. We could never put this lot back together again next season.'
'Yes. I think you probably know William has drained the duchy to pay for this expedition. A man like William doesn't have long to achieve greatness. He has already outlived Alexander by a decade or more. Life is brief, Orm! Especially for a warrior prince. And this may be his last chance.'
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