New Title 1

by Helen Hollick

  Drawn to the excited shouting, he paused to watch the two cockerels. The larger of the two, a solid bird with green plumage round its neck, seemed to be gaining the advantage over the lighter, younger bird. ‘I wager a silver coin on the younger!’ Tostig declared, slamming his coin down on the betting barrel. ‘He may have less experience, but I reckon he has more stamina.’ He pushed his way to the forefront of the yelling circle of men. ‘Come on, my son! Fight him!’ The younger against the elder – aye, as it would be for him and his poxed brother!

  It was soon over. As Tostig had predicted, the younger bird possessed greater strength. His spurs, long and sharp, raked through the older bird’s chest and it was done, finished, in a splatter of gore.

  Gloating, Tostig collected his winnings and strolled the last few yards to the river to rinse his hands. Oh, for a hot day like this earlier in the summer! More men in the mood for a fight might have rallied him had the weather been more pleasant. Had that happened, this thing between him and Harold would have been finished by now, with the ease and finality of that cockfight. He would not have had to go begging for help from Hardrada – nor would he then have to dispose of the foreign bastard. Once the crown was on his head, Normandy would have no claim on England. Duke William’s contest was with Harold, for the breaking of a sworn oath. The Duke had no cause for disagreement with either him or Edith.

  The river reeds grew in thick clumps along this, the eastern bank. He knelt, bent forward and dipped his head into the water, savouring the coolness as it swirled through his sweat-greased hair. He was almost tempted to wade in for a quick swim. When these essential concessions had been wrung from the poxed Northerners, he would return to York, to the comfort of his palace. Enjoy the luxury of a bath. He tilted his head back, eyes closed, trickled water down his throat and under the sweat-stained collar of his leather tunic.

  Something made him open his eyes, some sound, some inner sense of alarm. He was looking across the sky-reflected blue water towards York. At the rising incline of land. A glint of something metallic along the brow of the hill, the sunshine reflecting on . . . on...

  Tostig screamed. He scrabbled to his feet, began running. The war horns from the sentries were sounding the alarm. Men, confused and startled, stared around, uncertain what was happening, saw, with dawning horror, the shuffle of movement no more than one mile distant, their shouts drowning Tostig’s own cries as he ran. Waking from sleep; board games tipped and scattered; women with their skirts dragged up, breasts exposed, abandoned. Hardrada’s army lurched for their weapons and armour. Cursed their stupidity at leaving most of it behind at Riccall.

  ‘Harold!’ Tostig gasped as he burst into Hardrada’s tent. ‘My brother Harold is here!’

  Hardrada had already been roused by the activity and noise from his own quick-snatched sleep. He frowned with aggressive annoyance at Tostig. What nonsense was this Englishman raving now? Hardrada was a giant in stature and reputation, had the strength of a bear and shoulders of an ox, a chest as deep as a whale’s and stood a full two hand-spans more than six feet. With his bushed beard and mass of curled red hair, he epitomised the warrior Viking king, who certainly did not panic at such nonsense. ‘Do not be an imbecile! Your brother could not have come so swiftly from London.’

  Angrily, Tostig crossed the space between them in two strides and confronted Harald, his fist clutched around the pommel of his sword, his legs planted wide, the effect subdued by having to glare up at the formidable face towering above. ‘Come look for yourself, then! Harold’s army is massing on the hill beyond the river – then think of calling me an imbecile!’

  A man, alone, carrying a green branch in his left hand, rode within an arrow’s distance of the wooden bridge that spanned the twenty or so yards of somnolent, deep-running river. He halted his stallion and hailed the man who stood beneath the Norwegian banners that fluttered in the light breeze on the far side of the water. ‘Tostig Godwinesson!’ he called, using the English tongue. ‘There is no need for this insanity between us. Englishman ought not to fight Englishman. We will offer you a return from exile, the land you own in your own right and a guarantee of peace, if you but furl that banner of war and lay down your sword.’

  ‘What will there be for my ally? For Harald Hardrada?’ Tostig shouted back. ‘He looks for English land also – and what of my earldom? Will Northumbria in its entirety be once again my earldom?’

  ‘No, not your earldom. That is held by Morkere.’

  Tostig sneered. ‘But I have already taken it from him! Have you

  not heard of Fulford? It is mine by right of victory, since Morkere ran away with shit sculling down his backside!’

  The man sitting relaxed on the stallion on the eastern bank shrugged. ‘Then it will be taken back from you. As for Hardrada, he will be granted only enough land to cover his body in a grave.’

  Tostig made a dismissive cutting motion with his hand. ‘Then I see no point in our talking.’ He drew his sword to emphasise his statement. ‘It seems we fight.’

  The stallion’s rider let the branch slide from his fingers, raised his sword hand to his war cap in a salute of acceptance and wheeled his horse round, setting it with his spurs from a stand to a gallop. As it plunged, the animal’s hooves mangled the leaves of the peace branch.

  Tostig translated the exchange to Hardrada who, watching the horseman gallop back to the ranks of the mounted English army, nodded his head in approval. ‘And who was the messenger?’ he enquired. ‘You know him?’

  ‘Oh, I know him.’ Tostig answered derisively. ‘That was my brother. Harold, King of England.’

  Absently Hardrada ran his thumb along the blade of his twoheaded axe, his gaze remaining on the horseman. ‘That is a fine stallion. He rides well, your brother the King.’

  ‘Who gives a damn how well he rides?’ Tostig barked with annoyance. ‘It is how he fights that is of consequence!’

  Raising the axe head into his line of vision, Hardrada squinted along the wicked-looking edge, taking pleasure from its perfection. ‘And how well does he fight, then, my friend? As well as he rides perhaps? Better than you?’

  Tostig scowled. Harold could do everything well. Always had done, damn him. Then he remembered, suddenly, the cockfight. ‘The elder is often the slower. And it is not I alone whom he opposes. Harold may be good on a horse and in a fight, but he is wrong if he thinks he is a greater warrior than Harald of Norway!’

  Hardrada let the axe head fall through its own weight down to the grass. ‘Then we had best set about showing him his mistake, had we not?’

  Although he would not let Tostig see, Hardrada was angry. Harold Godwinesson had made a fool of him – but then who would have expected the cursed man to march so quickly from the south? How had he done it? God’s justice, but that had taken some doing! Angry, also, that he had not heeded his own instincts. What had happened to Tostig’s ‘loyal’ Northumbrian men? Those men who were supposedly so keen to serve him once again? Either dead or had altered allegiance to Harold – not one had ridden with news of the English.

  This was not a good situation: caught unawares, poorly armed and with only half his full strength. As he issued orders to deploy the men he had, Hardrada sent two riders, at the gallop, to fetch up those from Riccall; all who could run and hold a sword. ‘Tell them Harold of the English holds the route from Gate Helmsley – they are to ford the river at Kexby.’ It was a longer route, rougher going, but there was no choice. ‘And for your love of me and your God,’ Hardrada called as they mounted, ‘tell them to hurry!’

  The English were advancing, mounted men in the centre, the infantry – formed of the fyrd of Northumbria and Humberside, those who had survived that first battle – to right and left. Harold had decided not to dismount, but to make use of cavalry in this open country, presuming correctly that Hardrada would employ the obvious tactics of the solid line of a shield wall. The most important thing was to delay. The longer the English could be held, the more chance of th
eir reinforcements coming to their aid. The best course was to keep Harold on the far side of the river; he would not be able to swim either man or horse across without casualties. Hardrada’s first priority was, therefore, the bridge.

  His men were brave and strong warriors; those dispatched to hold the wooden structure of the bridge fought long and well, but the English force of numbers was overwhelming and, within the hour, Harold was across, his housecarls thundering over the planking on their sturdy warhorses, man and beast as fresh as if they had been out on naught but a summer stroll, rather than a forced march of more than 200 miles in six days.

  The Viking line was drawn up 300 or so yards behind the river, on rising ground, a wall of shields, glinting axes and death-bearing swords. Banners flew proud, voices bellowed the war cry – and the clash of battle joined rang through the valley. Determined, their bloodlust raised, the English hammered forward at the gallop time after time, the mane-tossing, foam-flecked, sweat-drenched horses charging and reining away to re-form and return, again and yet again. The infantry, fighting for their own land, for their personal freedom, struck with savage vehemence at right and left flank, archers sending their flights of arrows singing into the ranks to maim and kill, to make the shields drop.

  Hardrada bellowed at his men, cheering them on, bullying, entreating and intimidating. He urged those in the rear forward as men in the front fell or dropped back from exhaustion – and then his booming voice fell suddenly silent. Nothing but a choking gurgle issued from his mouth as he staggered backwards, his hands clawing at Tostig, who stood, open-mouthed in horror. The arrow shaft thrusting from the giant’s throat quivered, dark blood oozed, Hardrada sank, slow and ponderous, to his knees. Fell on to his back, eyes open. Dead.

  The noise continued, swooping and tumbling: horses screaming in anger and pain; the crash of metal upon metal or wooden shield; the sobs of the mortally wounded, the exultant cheering of the successful. Tostig heard none of it. Saw none of it. Stood in disbelief, staring at the body of Harald Hardrada at his feet. Exiled by Cnut from Norway, he had sought service as a mercenary in Bulgaria and Sicily, become the champion of the Varangian bodyguard of the Eastern Emperor, been rewarded with titles and rank, had accumulated a wealth of booty and experience in battle. After the death of Magnus of Norway he had fought and bullied and bribed his way to becoming king in his place. Harald Hardrada, the Thunderbolt of the North. Dead. Killed by an English arrow lodged in his throat.

  Word was spreading. ‘Hardrada is dead!’ The solid line began to waver – several horses burst through, their riders screaming triumph, swords cutting, axes splitting through bone and sinew . . . Tostig came to life. He would not admit defeat, would not lose his earldom! He sprang across Hardrada’s stiffening body, seized the Norwegian banner and ran forward, his own housecarls and those of Hardrada running with him.

  ‘To me!’ he shouted. ‘All men to me! We shall avenge his death! We shall avenge!’ He thrust the banner into the standard-bearer’s hands, lifted his sword and joined the mêlée of warriors hacking at the cavalry riders who had broken through the line, beating them back, stabbing, slaying and wounding. Horses fell to their knees, hamstrung, blood rushing from opened veins, slashed bellies or cut throats. Dead men, dying horses. Where there had been grass and a scattering of late summer flowers, there was now nothing except churned, bloodied mud and death.

  A stir on the left flank, a flurry of activity. Renewed, fiercer savagery of fighting. Word running from mouth to mouth . . .

  ‘Eystein Orre has come! The men from Riccall are here!’

  It was a brave attempt, but most of those men had been left behind in camp at Riccall because they were not fit for fighting: had received injuries at that other day’s battle, were exhausted from their frenzied march to help their beleaguered comrades. ‘Orre’s Storm’ the final onslaught was later to be called, but it was no use to Tostig Godwinesson, for it came too late.

  Tostig never felt the axe blade that took his head from his shoulders.

  15

  Saint-Valéry-sur-Somme Mathilda stood at the river edge, heedless of the mud that was sliming her boots, and the cold of the evening penetrating her thin cloak and dress. With the dawning of this day, the twenty-seventh of September, the wind had swung lazily to the south and the rainclouds had miraculously evaporated. The sun shone with warm strength.

  Embarkation of men and horses had been swift and organised; stores and weaponry, armour and the timber for the construction of wooden fortifications were already aboard. Before the evening tide turned and the ebb began to empty the Somme estuary, leaving the sandbanks exposed, the fleet was assembled offshore, making ready to sail. The Duchess watched the oars of her husband’s ship swing out and dip into the red-gold sunset-reflecting water. The sail would not be unfurled, not until the rest of the flotilla were at sea.

  With that last disaster, she had come to hope that this year of madness was ended. Morning and night had she prayed that her husband would abandon this cursed attempt at crossing the sea to invade England. But these last weeks he had pursued it with a frenzy of determination; had alternately raged like a bull or wept like a child; pleaded, cajoled, threatened and sworn at the men who had tried to dissuade him from pursuing this obsession. He would have none of it.

  Somehow – in God’s good name from where did he find the strength? – William had marshalled the scattered ships, the disappointed and disillusioned men, to the estuary of the Somme river, to here at Saint-Valéry. Had revived their enthusiasm, had convinced them that they could succeed, that England could become Normandy.

  The lantern suddenly blazed yellow from the masthead of her husband’s ship. The Mora. Mathilda had been proud to present him with that gift, but resented her generosity now. Merde, but that was childish! With or without that ship, William would be going across the sea this night. With or without his wife’s blessing.

  Winding her fingers together, the Duchess strained her eyes to see the figures on board, but could make out nothing, for the distance was too great. Men had died on that first unsuccessful crossing. Ships had sunk, been rammed and burnt at the hands of the English scyp fyrd. And that was just at sea. What would happen when – if – they reached the English coast in one piece? Perhaps the menfolk, because of their stupid pride, would not admit it, but Mathilda knew! Assurément, Duke William’s wife knew all too well. The English fyrd, with Harold as their king, would cut the Normans to pieces, would slaughter them as they struggled over the shingle and the sand.

  She had said nothing of her fears to William. Had hidden her trembling under pretended enthusiasm, had given her support as, in a matter of days, not more than a week, he and his advisers had assessed the damage from that encounter at sea, made repairs to the ships that had come into the harbour and rekindled the affection and determination of his men. Those drowned bodies that were washed ashore were buried in secret along the beaches; the loss of ship – either wrecked, burnt, sunk or deserted – accounted for by the unpredictable nature of the wind. A wind that William had waited, with such uncharacteristic patience, to change. He had pretended that all was well – and got away with it.

  With the sun set, the vibrant colours began to fade. Many lights were bobbing at stern, bow or mast; the sea was turning blacker than the panorama of the sky. Mathilda gasped as the trumpets suddenly sounded. Voices, every word clear, drifted in with the lazy lap of the waves, the creak and groan of rope and oar, the flap and crackle of sail.

  They moved slowly at first, so many of them that it was difficult to see how they could all make way together. Only when she realised she could no longer distinguish the distinctive shape of the Mora’s prow, or the lantern at the mast, did she understand that William had gone and that this time, this time, unless he conquered England he would not be coming back.

  At the first misting of daylight William found himself alone out on the sea. Mora, unladen by cargo, troops or horses, had outpaced the fleet during the night. Around the Duke was
nothing to be seen except mist, sea and sky, and a lone gull, gliding solitary on the wind. Unperturbed, putting his trust in God, William ordered his breakfast brought to him, and sat on the afterdeck, enjoying a meal of cheese, bread, honey and fine wine.

  Like ghosts, the foremost keels slid from the blanketing mist, ship after ship emerging into the daylight one mile from the coast of England. Together as a fleet and unopposed, the Normans beached at the place called Pevensey, running their flat-bottomed keels into the shallows. William stumbled as he leapt from his craft, going down on to his knees in the white churn of surf, his hand stretching out to break his fall. He winced as a stone cut into his palm. From those on board the ships nearby a disconcerted murmur rippled – a bad omen? The murmuring swelled into a babble; soon word would run from ship to ship, panic spreading among those whose nerves were already jumping as if riddled by fleas.

  William fitz Osbern ran to his Duke’s side, dropped to his own knees and raised his hands in prayer. ‘May God be our witness! My Lord Duke William grasps hold of England with his hand – is it not ours for the taking?’

  A cheer swept up. William hauled himself to his feet, using his good friend as a support. Grinned. ‘That was quick thinking, Will. I thank you and vow that you shall be well rewarded – soon. As soon as may be.’

  Fitz Osbern inclined his head. He wished that he could answer that he sought no reward, but it would not be the truth. If they had not come to take land and riches, then why had they come at all?

  Pevensey, however, was not where William had intended to make landfall. They were too far west, but no matter. Scouts secured their immediate safety; the masts were unstepped, horses unloaded and a portable fortress erected in a matter of hours within the compound of the old Roman defences. On the following day, as dawn crested the eastern sky, the Norman army moved, by ship and land, to the more suitable harbour of Hastings.

  One thing concerned them. Where were the English? The men of the fyrd?