Crusader Kings II - [Champions of Anglia 01] - A Fall of Kings

by Sarah Shannon (epub)

  Edwin took another drink of the bottle and then waved to Leofric. “We’re done with the map; you may pack this up again.”

  Edgar seemed a little confused by their conversation. “You think they would march on us before they have gathered enough supplies?” he asked.

  The servants rushed to and fro, returning everything to the Earl’s personal supply cart as quickly as possible. One of the servants offered to take Edwin’s mead, but the lord shot her a dark look and held it close to himself, warding her off. Taking another comforting sip of the burning liquid, the Earl of Mercia allowed himself to return to the conversation with reluctance.

  “Why would they turn down an opportunity to strike at the last army in the area capable of resisting them?” Morcar growled. “If they realise we are so few compared to them, then they will attempt to take advantage of our vulnerable situation. They don’t need many supplies to march on us, so we have to be ready to move and fast.”

  “Agreed, we’re vulnerable as long as we’re in the north. That’s why I want to know the moment any Norwegians try to get behind us. There’s no way I’m letting those bastards sneak up on me in my own backyard,” Edwin sounded disgusted by the very idea.

  “What are we waiting for, then?” Morcar clambered back onto his horse. “I’ll have my host march as the vanguard, if you don’t mind. I think more than a few of my men want revenge for Fulford Gate, and it’ll be quicker than waiting for you to pass.”

  “Help yourself, Morcar. It’s good to see you again, brother. Don’t get yourself killed up there.” Edwin looked up at him seriously.

  Morcar donned his helmet again and nodded down to Edwin. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll smell any ambushes from a league away. I’ll see you later tonight.” Turning the horse, he rode off to rouse his column back into a march.

  Within minutes, the Earl of Northumbria’s banners had turned about and they began the long march back north. Edwin felt a smile creep onto his lips at the sight of his brother’s host ahead of them. Finally they had the strength to put up some kind of resistance against the Norse, and now that the brothers were reunited Edwin felt that there was nothing they could not achieve.

  Chapter 4 – Crossing into Yorkshire

  22nd of September, 1066

  Dusk fell upon the sleepy village of Sutton-on-Derwent, sun obscuring the advancing columns of men. Whether by the grace of God or sheer luck, they appeared to have crept up to the very doorstep of Stamford Bridge and York without detection. There had been patrols, of course, but Morcar’s vanguard had done an excellent job of catching and silencing them. His own scouts had reported a relatively large force of five thousand men at Stamford Bridge, but they seemed to be relaxed and unprepared for combat.

  Nonetheless, Edwin’s mind was far from battle. It had been a long journey and he needed to lie down and rest his sore legs. It was a cold evening, as they so often were in autumn, but that did not stop him from kicking off his boots and enjoying the sense of wind on his toes. Relaxation was a rare chance on campaign and he was prepared to take any opportunity he could get.

  Tomorrow he knew he would kill someone, probably more than one. He would likely never learn their name, nor would he know anything about their life, but it was the inevitable truth. They had invaded his home, willingly or not, and they had to die. In his mind he was racing through scenario after scenario, trying to figure out how he would outfight or outwit the Norse. The truth was that there was probably not much he could do other than to march upon them as hard and fast as possible.

  The weary faces of his men revealed much to him. After several days of marching across the countryside, they did not look ready for a fight, let alone a fight against superior numbers. Sigurdsson’s forces would likely be well-rested and fed and by their reputation they relished fighting. Would he be able to beat them? Much as he hated to admit it, Morcar’s impatient desire to march through the night had some merit. If they marched into Stamford Bridge at dawn, the morning sun would be at their backs and the enemy still asleep.

  “If only the King was here...” he groaned, leaning his head back.

  Footsteps led Edgar Aetheling to his side. “I finished counting our forces like you asked. We have four-hundred and fifty-two thegns and housecarls present and around two-thousand seven-hundred fyrdsmen.”

  “That’s fewer noblemen than I’d thought...an attack with just us would be suicidal. Best to bring the entire army or none at all. If we head in without the fyrd we’ll probably be overwhelmed by their numbers.”

  “Still worried, Edwin? Sleep it off.”

  “No time, Edgar. Morcar’s right, much as I don’t want to admit it. We need to march through the night and rush them at dawn. They will not be ready to fight and the sun will be at our backs, blinding them to our approach.” Edwin rubbed at his eyes. “Much as we could all use some rest, it’s probably our only way to catch them by surprise and have a chance of winning. They outnumber us nearly two to one by most estimates. I’ve ordered everyone to walk our horses for the remainder of the trip, but we’ll need a lot of luck if my plan is going to work.”

  “It’s a bold move, I’ll give you that.” Edgar thought about it for a moment. “Don’t worry, it’ll probably work. There’s no point marching on an empty stomach, so you should get something to eat. Stamford Bridge is not so far, we can make the march in a few hours. Get some food and we will descend upon them tomorrow like the hammer of God himself.”

  Edwin was slightly amused at the young Aetheling giving him orders, but rose to find some food anyway. Even for the nobles, victuals were unappetising: bowls of barley soup and a small handful of dried fruits and nuts marked the best that could be mustered for the Earl of Merica. The fyrd had received far worse and while some brought food from their personal larders, most were restricted to communal bread and water. Inevitably, Edwin turned to mead as his last resort, taking a long draught of the alcohol before filling his stomach with as much soup as he could scrounge. The army faced empty bellies and the prospect of a long march through the night, and with that in mind Edwin settled down to try and get a brief nap before battle ensued.

  * * *

  Edwin first realised how terrified he was as they exited the small copse of woodland and began the advance on Stamford Bridge. As expected, the sun was still obscuring their approach with bright dawn sunshine; it was nearly a full minute after his host began the rapid descent towards the village, that the first watchmen finally noticed their advance. Cries of alarm went out, yet there was still little motion in the Norse camp.

  “We’re spotted, brother. I cannot believe it took them this long.” Morcar pulled on his helmet and carefully threaded the leather strap into place. “Are you ready?”

  “Be glad the skies are clear this morning. I’m ready as ever.” He had fought before many times, but it never got any easier, each time fear crept into his heart and he battled against sense and reason to lead into battle. He could not be seen as a coward in front of his men, but that did not make the coming battle any less terrifying.

  Drawing his blade, Edwin looked to his housecarls and thegns with a grim, forced smile. Armoured all in fine long hauberks of iron chain layered over thickly padded wool, they bore the colours of Mercia and Northumbria as well as the royal red of the Kingdom. With sword, spear, axe and shield they were well armed and prepared for any confrontation: and most importantly, they had the horses they needed to get them to battle faster.

  “All thegns, ready!” Edwin finally bellowed. He was met with a roar of confirmation and so swung his sword forward, pointing it in the direction of the bridge and the scrambling Norsemen. “Advance! Take the bridge!”

  While the bulk of Edwin’s army advanced on foot across the open flood plains, some five hundred horsemen broke into a full gallop. Fighting from horseback was not a natural state of being for Anglo-Saxons, but Morcar had proposed it and Edwin agreed that it was the best plan they could muster up. He did not like fighting on horse – it was a
decidedly un-Saxon way of war, after all – but he acknowledged as did his men that this was the only way they could make it to the far side of the bridge before the Norse could organise a shield wall.

  Panicked vikings scattered from the few buildings on the near side of the crossing, seeking the far side of the river and the safety of the main force. Most had time to escape, but a few stragglers were caught as Edwin’s mounted force struck the village like a fierce storm. Some fought, others continued their flight; a rare few hid, hoping to escape the notice of the terrifying charge.

  It was unclear how many Norwegians were cut down in those opening moments of gory battle, but Edwin had only seen one of his own men lost. Within a minute of striking the village, the first Saxons were crossing Stamford Bridge and bearing down on the west bank of the river. A single determined Norseman with an axe struck down a horse and one of Edwin’s housecarls, but was caught himself by its tumbling death throes. Whatever heroism he had planned was ended as he was trampled by some five hundred horse storming across the bridge.

  The west bank was relatively clear of buildings, but housed a large camp and numerous unfamiliar tents brought and pitched by the Norse. It was an odd thing to notice as they burst into the open ground, but Edwin’s eyes were nearly entranced by the intricate pagan designs stitched into the larger tents and by the fluttering banners of the raven. Though the Norse looked like ordinary men, they held strange and blasphemous traditions that few Englishmen could understand or identify with. They were alien. They were the enemy.

  Blind charges were not going to win this battle just yet; the Norse were rapidly attempting to form blocks of infantry, even though many were not properly dressed and lacked armour. Edwin quickly surveyed what he could see of the battlefield; many of the foes were still moving from tent to tent, undoubtedly shaking off sleep or inebriation and seeking their arms. He had not seen one man wearing anything more protective than a leather jerkin and the Norwegians appeared to be struggling to organise. Two large mobs had begun to take shape not far downstream, but neither had formed ranks yet. Edwin reckoned their leaders were trying to establish a shield wall using the river to protect their flank – they would not be allowed that chance.

  “Form up! We advance to the right flank, strike them along the bank before they can form a shield wall!” Edwin shouted over the noise.

  Morcar looked mortified. “That’s madness, Edwin! If they trap us against the banks, we’ll have no escape!”

  “Outnumber us they might, Morcar, but Edgar won’t be long with most of the army behind him!” Edwin raised his sword into the air. “Form up! Ready yourselves!”

  A few arrows whistled overhead and one of the thegns behind him let out a cry of anguish. Edwin paid no attention, gritted his teeth and eyed up the ranks. The Norwegian bows had a long reach, but thankfully only a few had managed to gather themselves into a proper fighting unit. Another arrow slipped past Edwin’s own ear and mercifully buried itself into the ground between the horses. He wished that the housecarls’ shields were small and nimble enough for use on horseback, but they remained strapped across their backs for the rest of the ride.

  A few more arrows whistled down and another housecarl slumped in death. There was no more time to lose, and Edwin threw his sword forward again. “Charge!” he shouted as loudly as he could, kicking his horse forward. Hundreds of massed horse erupted forward. The Norse were still attempting to figure out a plan and had not had time to establish a proper shield wall. Spread into a loosely organised mob, their leaders shouted and attempted to raise something resembling a defence, but there was no time left.

  Edwin swung his sword and though he did not realise it, he had the honour of claiming the first kill in the charge. He brought his sword into another swing and yet another man fell. The entire mounted host collided with the scattered vikings, cutting down and trampling many of them as they attempted to flee; hundreds died in the opening seconds of the collision, most of which were Norse. Many of the foes turned their gaze to the attack but the sun continued to frustrate their vision, ruining bowman’s aim and confusing leaders.

  Finally, mercifully, the slaughter ended as the remaining stragglers scattered. Edwin called for the charge to cease and ordered them to return to formation. Many of the Norwegians were organising into actual shield walls further from the river banks, and they still outnumbered the Saxons. They had denied the safety of the river and killed many more. Edwin spared a glance back across the river, pleased to see Edgar’s host was nearly upon the village – their plan was working.

  “Dismount, all men dismount! Lead horses to the rear and keep them in line, form a shield wall!” Edwin barked the orders out as hastily as he could. The Norwegians were ready for them now and it was about to turn into a far bloodier mess. The arrows were becoming more numerous – although no more accurate – and several more Saxons found themselves struck.

  Within minutes the Saxons had formed a shield wall of their own, with a few mounted men leading the remaining horses back towards the village. A lump formed in Edwin’s throat as he wondered if it was wise to leave them so vulnerable, but the arrows seemed content to let them escape. It seemed even the Norsemen were not insane enough to try and shoot down valuable horses unnecessarily.

  Arrows buried themselves into the Saxon shields; the force was no longer as exposed. Interlocking shields saved them from the worst savagery that the volleys could bring. Edwin tried to look back at the bridge, but it was no longer visible through the massed throng of men. “Someone check the bridge – where’s Edgar and the fyrd?!”

  Most of the men behind him were holding their shields in the air to protect from arrows, but a few looked back. One of his housecarls shouted back to him, “They’re starting to cross the bridge now, a large number of them. It looks like they’ll still be a few minutes!”

  “They’ll be too late for the glory, you mean,” one of the lesser thegns joked.

  Morcar laughed further down the line. “Leave it to us to do the hard work. Our sons and wives will long remember this day when the scops and gleemen sing of us!”

  “Ready yourselves!” Edwin exchanged his seax sword for a longer spear and took a deep breath. The Norse were still struggling to form anything more organised than a thin and shaky line. If they could break it with a quick and vicious attack, the Norwegian morale would likely disintegrate and the remaining vikings would probably flee rather than face death.

  “Advance!” he raised his sword into the air again and the Saxons began to close the gap. Where the fyrd might have faltered against such superior numbers, the thegns and housecarls of England felt only confidence and blood-thirst. Each was a professional warrior and each now held a desire to prove himself great in battle.

  Arrows and thrown spears continued to rain down upon the Saxon line. Most had no effect, sticking into shields or clattering off helm and mail. Occasionally one pierced the lines and wounded or slew a Saxon, yet it was only a minor loss; the real battle would be decided when the shields clashed. As the lines closed in, Edwin had little time to think or worry about his own life, and the euphoria of battle now flowed through his veins, leaving fear far behind. All that mattered to him now was victory over the pagan.

  “For God and England!” Edwin bellowed as the shield walls clashed.

  He thrust his spear into the unprotected face of a Norseman and nearly found himself on the receiving end of a similar attempt. The fields of Stamford Bridge soon became stained red as men on both sides slew each other mercilessly. Those who fell to the ground were unrelentingly trampled by friend and foe alike, unable to show care in the tightly packed confines of battle.

  Edwin struggled against the weight of a man a head taller, pressing his shield with all the might he could muster and trying to angle the spear to get at him in some manner. The arrows had stopped, but the bloodshed was only growing more intense by the moment. Only now, so close to them, did he realise how tall the vikings actually were – most outmatched thei
r Saxon opponents in both height and girth, attempting to dominate them with raw strength and power. Shield walls, however, were never as simple as just raw force, and slowly but surely the difference in armour began to show. Where the Saxon blows would incapacitate or kill a man, Norse blows struggled to both round the shield and pierce the armour. Saxons did fall and in great number, but the invaders were falling far faster.

  Edwin successfully planted his spear into another Norseman, but felt it wrenched out of his hand as the dying viking pulled and fell away, leaving it stuck within his chest. Drawing his seax again, he realized that the centre of the Norse formation was growing thin and they were struggling to reinforce it. The line was about to break.

  “Fight on! Victory is within our grasp!” Edwin bellowed.

  “Death to the pagans, let them drown in their own blood and meet the devil in hell!” Morcar’s distinctive voice replied across the line.

  Edwin felt a sharp pain in his shoulder as a Norse axe got enough of a bite in to pierce his mail, gouging a shallow cut and deeply bruising him. He stabbed at the offender but had no luck in claiming his life as the cramped melee defied his reach. They struggled with the locked shields for a moment before the thegn behind Edwin pierced the viking’s leg with his spear. He collapsed to one knee and his shield fell long enough for the Earl to swing his sword down into the man’s neck, ending his life almost instantly. Edwin’s eyes shot up to meet his next opponent, but found only empty grass and bodies waiting before him. Only a handful of men remained behind the centre of the line, and they quickly realised the folly of continued battle.

  Norse lines began to collapse as the Saxons cut down man after man. Realising that their comrades were fleeing, more and more turned tail until at last the entire shield wall was in flight or dead. The Saxons gave the fleeing Norse chase for a minute or so, but were soon content to enjoy their victory. Horns blasted across the landscape and Edwin saw that the bulk of the Viking force was in full retreat, abandoning whatever arms and supplies they had left at their camp to the Saxons. Only a small force remained to oppose Edgar’s rapidly approaching fyrd, outnumbered at least two to one.