Aksel picked the ropes up, slinging them over his shoulder, but then paused again.
‘Aksel!’ Harald shouted, irritated. ‘Move!’
Aksel looked down the slope at him and Harald saw raw dread in his eyes – Halldor’s eyes. For a moment he was in Miklegard again, a young man fighting with his friends against pirates, and then the lad’s shout ripped through his warped mind: ‘Soldiers!’
He blinked. Soldiers? It couldn’t be. There were no soldiers left in the north, or none ready for fighting at least. They were all face down in Fulford’s marshes.
‘Soldiers!’ came Aksel’s cry again, then, ‘A banner. ’Tis, ’tis . . .’
‘’Tis what?’ Harald snapped, though he could see it for himself now – a white banner with a black warrior picked out upon it, sword raised: the fighting man, the standard of Harold Godwinson, once Earl of Wessex and now King of England. ‘It cannot be,’ he muttered.
‘Sire, ’tis the king.’
‘It cannot be,’ he said, louder. ‘He is in the south waiting for Duke William.’
But there was no doubting the banner, nor the gilded armour, nor the huge host at the man’s back. Was he a magician to have brought so many so far? And how had he evaded the guard outside York? Were those poor men dead already? There was no time to think of them now and Harald’s mind raced into action, seeking advantage. If this was truly Harold Godwinson, his men would be tired. They would be no match for his own troops, rested and ready and . . . He glanced back to the armour, strewn carelessly across the hillside. Never had Harald been caught so unprepared and he felt panic surge through his big body before, swift on its tail, the hotter rush of battle-anger.
‘To arms!’ he cried, snatching up the landwaster and leading the way himself. ‘Man the bridge. We must keep them back long enough to form a wall.’
He ran up the hill, flinging mail at men as he went so that it clashed and tangled in their legs. Harold Godwinson had caught him out with barely half his warriors and they were unarmed and sluggish with sun and ale. Ulf would never have allowed this, he realised with a bitter pang. He had been a fool and now he had to move fast.
‘Did you know about this?’ he hissed at Torr, grabbing the man’s collar as he tried to dart past.
‘No, Sire, truly. I have no idea how he has done it.’
‘Well he has,’ Harald said grimly, ‘and now we will have to fight as we have never fought before.’
Already the English were streaming out across the pasture, some fighting on horseback like Pechenegs, cutting down the Viking cattle rustlers in swift, easy strokes.
‘Send to the ships,’ Harald commanded one of his best riders. ‘Take horses and ride hard. Tell Otto he must bring troops now.’
The man nodded, looking fearfully back at the English as they drove through the Norwegians still caught on the far bank.
‘Sire, ’tis twelve miles.’
‘I know, you fool. Ride hard.’
The man ran for his horse, leaped in the saddle and was gone, up through the trees towards Riccall. Otto would come, Harald knew, but not for some hours. They would have to defend as they had never defended before.
‘Men!’ he roared into the autumn air, planting the landwaster into the ground. ‘To me! We knew we would have to fight Harold of Wessex to win England and it seems the time has come to do so. He has spared us a march, bless him – so let us welcome him in true Viking style!’
His men let out a huge roar and Harald thought he saw the English line falter across the pretty river between them. Good. He had not picked this time nor this place but he was ready. He had always been ready – let them come.
Elizaveta felt she had not laughed so much in weeks, certainly not since Harald had sailed for England and perhaps for a long time before that. Everything had been so bound up in the invasion, as if normal life had ceased and all Norway had been hunkered in a dragon boat pointed west. She had breathed battle plans, drawing them in from Harald with every snatched kiss, and all else had seemed somehow frivolous. Today though, perched up on the Brough of Birsay, avoiding the shadow of the ancient broch, she felt as if she had been gifted life again.
She sat back on the woollen rug laid out on battered leather hides to keep the September damp from seeping through, and watched as Filip, hands clutched around his ankles, leaped across the grass before them. She had finally told them of the toad, his namesake, and how Maria had smuggled him into the great hall at Oslo, and now he was acting out the scene, eyes forced wide and cheeks blown out as he croaked his way across the cliff top.
‘Ah!’ Greta screeched, throwing her hands up to her cheeks in mock horror. ‘It’s so ugly!’
‘And so slimy,’ Mina cried at her side.
‘And so warty,’ Ingrid added.
‘Oh no,’ Maria objected, hands on her heart, ‘I think he is beautiful and I shall make him a lord.’
She jumped up and ran over to Filip, seizing her precious sword from the food basket and holding it before him. Elizaveta watched the amber hilt glowing golden in the dipping sun and prayed Harald’s sword, too, was glowing gold, not red.
‘Swear fealty, Lord Toad,’ Maria commanded.
‘Never,’ Filip cried in a croaking voice, trying to leap back and tangling himself in his own fool’s grip. ‘I will only swear,’ he went on from his position on his back in the grass, ‘to the King of England, King Harald.’
‘King Harald Hardrada,’ Elizaveta said quickly.
‘Of course,’ Maria agreed, just as swiftly, ‘what other Harald is there?’
‘None,’ Filip called, ‘save he be a toad like myself.’
It was a brave jest but the laughter had gone out of the scene and all eyes turned to the sea. It lay a benign blue before them – the colour of hope, Tora had called it, and Elizaveta seized at that now.
‘Who would like an apple tart?’ she called brightly, reaching to the servant for the basket.
The children tumbled towards her but Maria did not move, save to step towards the cliffs. Elizaveta handed the basket to Greta and went to her eldest girl.
‘Maria? You are cold?’
Her daughter’s skin, exposed where she had pushed back her sleeves in the game, was as dimpled as gooseflesh. Maria snatched the fabric back into place.
‘A little. It is late in the year after all, Mama, for eating outdoors.’
Elizaveta refrained from pointing out that the whole jaunt had been Maria’s idea.
‘It is time, perhaps, to head for home,’ she suggested instead but at that Maria shook her head.
She was turning her little sword over and over in her hands, staring at it as if she might gaze right into the heart of the steel and suddenly she said: ‘I want to see.’
‘See what, Maria?’ Her daughter did not reply, just moved to the broch and put a hand on its rough walls. ‘No!’ Elizaveta darted after her. ‘No, Maria, please. You cannot see England even from the top. You know you cannot.’
‘I might.’
‘And even if you could, what then? Papa is at least three days’ sail away – you will hardly pick him out from here.’
‘I might,’ Maria said again, her face set. ‘I feel him, Mama – in here.’
She pressed her hand to her heart and tipped her head back to fix her eyes on the topmost stones of the broch.
‘Maria,’ Elizaveta begged, ‘you cannot climb. Your skirts . . .’ But now Maria was setting her sword against the base of the broch and unclipping her shoulder brooches. Elizaveta hastened to stop her but as the skirts fell to the floor she froze. ‘You are wearing hose.’
‘I am not a fool, Mama.’
‘Not a fool,’ Elizaveta allowed, ‘but foolish all the same. Maria, it is dangerous.’
‘So is sailing to England but if Otto can do that, if Papa can do that, then I can climb this.’
‘It does not work that way,’ Elizaveta insisted. The others were gathering around now and Maria was grasping the first stones. Elizaveta grab
bed at her waist. ‘There are no omens, Maria, no deals to be made with God. This is but a tower, a collection of stones; you cannot reach Harald this way.’
Maria looked down at her.
‘Mayhap not, but I need to try.’
Elizaveta stilled. She knew that feeling. It was a feeling that had sent her, canoe above her head, up the steep riverside path in Kiev and then again in Oslo. It was an itch in the soul and it seemed her daughter had caught it from her. She took first one hand and then the other from Maria’s waist.
‘Take care,’ she told her softly and then, standing back and taking Ingrid’s arm, watched her elder daughter start to climb.
Harald felt as if he were on an endless upwards struggle. His limbs screamed, his head pulsed. He slashed and parried, blocking blows with his shield and casting them with his sword. Deep within the shield wall he was sheltered from the ferocity of the full attack but his men were falling away like moths in a candle flame, and the English were driving fervently on towards them.
Stuck on open hillside he’d had little choice but to form a shield-wall in full turtle formation around his banner with his men in an arrow shape, the best fighters on the two longer sides protecting the softer rear. He and his personal warband were a little back from the tip, supposedly commanding the movement of the battle but in truth there was no command to issue save: ‘Hold!’
Already the field was littered with bodies, most of them Norwegian. On the bridge poor Tomas had abandoned his cow and, fighting alone with a sword flung his way by a comrade, had held off the entire English host for wave after wave, buying Harald the priceless time needed to arm and group the core of his warriors. Finally he had fallen but with unending courage and Harald vowed he would see him honoured. Once the reserves made it from the ships and sprung the English from behind to secure the victory, he would see him honoured. He just needed to last out a little more. He was not a natural defender – already he felt cramped, tied in by his own battling men – but he could do it. He would do it.
Harald set his feet more firmly in the soft ground but then a sharp cry told him that the left side of his wall had split. Looking over he saw the English driving into the central section, soldiers pouring in like ants onto honey, only with murder in their eyes. For a moment all seemed helpless but then he glanced back up the hill and saw a flash of steel in the dipping sun. Otto was come! Otto was come and not a moment too late. He need stand here, penned in, no more.
He looked out across the battlefield and his heart soared. This was him. He was Harald Hardrada – Viking, Varangian, King. He wiped sweat from his brow and swept his eyes around, taking in the ferocious shield-push of his men, the chaos of the English, and the sparkle of his own reserves roaring down the hill, swords high. There was no battlefield plan now, no calm command, no space for manoeuvre. There was just one thing left – spirit. Glancing to his landwaster he saw his raven, wings triumphantly wide, sewn with the loving, believing stitches of his wives. Planting his feet, he drew in a deep breath. He would fight as he had fought all his life and he would not end this day beneath a bush. He threw back his head, raised his sword and roared a single word – ‘Charge!’
The world had concentrated, focused down into one tiny figure, dark against the soft sandstone of the broch as the sun dropped behind. It seemed as if there was no time any more: Elizaveta was listening to her mother’s stories and feeling trolls clutching at her ankles; she was riding up the banks of the Ros, resettled foreigners cheering her in; she was on her childbed, wreathed in agony; then cresting the rapids, spirits as high as the tumbling waters. And there was no place either: she was on the walls of Kiev, ice in her face; riding up to a royal farmhouse, fighting disappointment; ordering architects to spin a city from half-remembered plans; then plunging into a steaming pool beneath a fire-riven land.
She was watching Maria and seeing Harald, his blonde hair entwined in their daughter’s dark locks as it had for so long been entwined in her own. She felt Ingrid at her side and Greta behind, and sensed little Filip, so like Aksel as her young squire, fighting to go after Maria.
‘No,’ she heard Greta say, ‘not this time.’
The words were picked up on the rising wind and thrown around the broch – not this time, not this time. Elizaveta threaded her hands together, driving her nails into her palms, and willed Maria on. The girl was feeling her way so, so carefully, picking the widest stones and the deepest gaps to plant her feet and grip with her dainty fingers. They were leading her round the broch, towards the cliff side, spiralling upwards, and all their eyes followed. A cloud crossed the dying sun and was gone again as if God had winked. A gull dived in, screeching its protest at a human striving so high, then whirled away, plummeting towards the sea in search of easier prey. And still Maria climbed.
The point of the wall split before Harald as if his soldiers, like him, were eager to throw up their shields and fight like men. Harald felt as if his body were filled with blood. It surged through his veins and sang at his temples and pushed at his limbs, forcing them forwards. He was not simply in the battle; he was the battle.
The reserves were entering the fray. In the fading light he could see them beyond the English, cutting into the rear, and he thrust forward, slashing men from his path to meet them. Let these Englishmen, like the last, pave his way to victory. Somewhere out there was Harold Godwinson. If Harald could find him, he could kill him and this would all be over. He cut again and again but these Englishmen were stubborn. Their limbs were tough and their eyes fierce and now they were fighting on two fronts, turning back Otto’s men who seemed to be crumbling like soft cheese or, perhaps, like men who had run twelve miles in full armour.
‘You might lose.’
Harald heard the thought but cut it away with a slash of his sword. He would not lose. He could not lose. Elizaveta was waiting. Elizaveta was waiting to join him on his throne. He stepped forward, cutting a man to the floor with a single swipe of his sword, then felt pain rear, like an out-of-control stallion, across his arm. He stared at the ripped flesh, then at the man who had attacked from his side and who looked almost as astonished as he.
‘No!’
Harald swung again, slashing the man to the ground, though pain rode high on every sinew of his flesh and his eyes saw red, nothing but red. He blinked furiously as the silk of the land-waster clapped in the sharp wind above him and there was Tora, stood in the doorway of his pavilion, throwing back her cloak with a heavenly mix of shyness and audacity to reveal her nakedness beneath. Then Lily, his Lily, dragging him onto her boatbuilder’s bed and ripping his clothes from him as her eagle-prow looked on – the eagle-prow that had crested the waves to England.
‘Do not die in bed,’ Ulf had told him and he had been right to do so. Valhalla might not live in the skies but it lived in Harald’s heart. He cast around again for Harold Godwinson, but the battlefield was a mass of swords and spears, and however hard he strained, even at his great height, he could not find him. He stretched out, his sword still swinging and his shield still pushing men aside. The battle consumed him and he knew that whether he won or he died, either way would be glory.
He did not, in the end, feel the arrow as it pierced his throat. He just felt a searing stab, like the arousing anger of a beautiful wife, and he fell gratefully before her.
Maria did not call. She did not, as Filip had done, crow when she reached the top of the broch and threw her hose-clad leg over the sill. She said nothing at all. Neither did she stand but sat, demure as the maiden she had professed herself to be, hands tight on the stone either side of her as she looked out to sea.
‘Can you see it?’ Ingrid called when no one could bear the silence any longer. ‘Can you see England?’
Still Maria did not speak but Elizaveta saw her lean forward a little, as if catching a cry on the wind. She saw her dark hair lift and watched, caught on the edge with her first-born, as she raised a hand to the skies.
‘Maria,’ she wanted to call, �
��hold on,’ but she dared not break the spell holding her daughter to the top of the ancient tower.
‘I see nothing.’ Suddenly Maria’s voice came down to them, clear and sad. ‘I see nothing, Mama. ’Tis a fool’s errand.’
‘As I said,’ Elizaveta thought but she shored up the words, a painful ball inside her throat as, praise God, Maria turned and dropped one foot down to find a hold.
‘Go back,’ she threw at a servant, ‘go back and heat water. She will be chilled.’
She saw again Maria’s purpled flesh beneath her thin sleeves and prayed her daughter’s cold fingers did not lose their grip. She saw one foot find its step and the second move across the broch, slowly, carefully.
The stone snapped as if whipped from the wall. It tumbled down and ricocheted off another where the wall turned outwards, spinning into the air and tumbling over the cliff. Maria’s foot dangled a moment, suspended on the clouds, but somehow she found a hold beneath.
She paused against the wall and glanced down, safe, and Elizaveta breathed again. Their eyes met and Maria half-smiled before something, some sound in the sky Elizaveta did not catch, drew her to look upwards and she seemed to jerk. She put a hand to her throat, her eyes twisted in their sockets, then her knee turned and her leg crumpled. Her hands scrabbled helplessly at the broch but its ancient stone gave way in her frantic grasp and, in a shower of darkness, she fell – a stark, wingless angel.
She hit the earth with a thud and a crack of bone, her foot catching her sword and sending it flying into the air. It spun once, the amber hilt flashing red in the setting sun, and then dropped over the cliff and was gone. Maria lay as still as the rocks around her.
For a moment Elizaveta was frozen too, but then she was running, clasping her daughter into her arms and shaking her limp, cracked body in a desperate attempt to free the life that had beat so vitally within it just a moment before. How could she be gone? Surely a gull had just snatched her spirit, taken it for a mischievous dive into the waves. It would be back. Maria would breathe again.
The Constant Queen Page 38
