The Earl looked around for Morcar, but could not see him in the chaos. His men were bloody and many had been left behind on the field of battle, but that did not mean they were unable to fight further. The Saxons soon reformed the wall, though he noticed several were busying themselves with binding the few Norwegians who had surrendered.
A hand placed itself on his shoulder. Edwin turned and saw the exhausted eyes of his advisor, Leofric. “The fyrd can handle the rest, my lord.”
“Perhaps, but I leave nothing to chance. Take ten men to search for survivors and prisoners. Save as many of our own as you can.” Edwin looked around. “Where’s Morcar?”
“Wounded, my lord!” a housecarl shouted out to him. “A spear tip caught his mouth and ripped it open, but he still breathes. He cannot speak well but he wants to rejoin the battle.”
“I will not have it,” Edwin scowled. “Take him back on my orders and have him brought to a healer immediately.”
There was sound of a mild scuffle, but Edwin soon caught a glimpse of the men carrying Morcar out of the shield wall. Whatever resistance he had offered appeared to have died out. He sighed in relief – the last thing he needed was his brother’s death on this day.
“Prepare to close in and march in support of Edgar’s men, we must put a stop to the-”
As Edwin spoke, the last enemy resistance crumbled before his eyes. Edgar had broken the flank of the enemy and they had begun to flee and race ahead of their tired foes, leaving every man to fend for himself. Most who were caught surrendered rather than face death, and as they watched, the tension of battle evaporated into the elation of victory.
A great cheer echoed throughout all of Stamford Bridge.
Chapter 5 – The House of Godwin
22nd of September, 1066
“Look out!”
Prince Magnus looked up and squawked at the sight of the bag tumbling down upon his head. He had just enough time to raise his arms protectively before the sack struck him, knocking him to the floor. He groaned in pain as the wind was knocked from his lungs and only faintly heard the sound of his sisters’ worry. He slowly dragged himself to a sitting position and tried to force himself to breathe.
“Brother! Are you okay?” Gytha appeared at his side and Gunhild was not far behind. “I’m so sorry!”
“What in the name of God were you thinking?” Magnus finally wheezed out.
“We were going to play a trick on that ratty old priest Benedict. He’s always telling us off for climbing the rafters and playing!” Gytha protested. “We didn’t realise it was you until Gunhild let go!”
“Sorry,” Gunhild said, sniffling.
“For heaven’s sake.” Magnus pulled himself to his feet and looked down at the two girls. At fifteen years, he stood head and shoulders above Gytha and Gunhild, who were two and four years younger respectively. For all the dust, grime and straw they had managed to coat themselves in, their strong jawline and sandy brown hair betrayed them as the daughters of King Harold Godwinson. He could not help but cluck his tongue as he dusted himself off, disappointed in their behaviour.
“This is unbecoming of both of you, I know you have it in your mind that you can do whatever you please, but we are of royal blood. And besides, think of what harm you could have done to poor old Benedict’s frail leg! You embarrass our father each time you act this way – and think of our poor mother, who has been worried sick about you two! Every time she hears about your latest adventure, she looks as if she’s ready to faint on the spot.”
The two looked suitably chastised, but it didn’t take long for Gunhild to try and pass off the blame. “It’s Gytha’s fault, she’s the one who wants to climb up there all the time!”
“You little...” Gytha turned red as a beet. “My fault?! Who’s the one who wanted to get revenge on Father Benedict?!”
“The sack was your idea!”
“You’re the one who wanted to carry it!”
“Yes but I-”
“Enough!” Magnus shouted. “Enough of this! Father wants to see all of us over midday lunch, so get yourselves cleaned up and be glad I don’t tell him what you’ve been up to.”
The two girls bowed their heads and shamefully replied in unison. “Yes, brother.” He watched as they left, not blind to their obvious sulking and whispered frustration. Once they were out of view he sighed deeply and turned back to the sack.
Untying the rope, he was quietly impressed by their ingenuity and wondered how their small frames had managed to get the heavy bag up into the loft to begin with. A quick tug revealed that it was secured up in the rafters, but he did not feel the motivation to climb up the ladder. There were too many important things to do – best to leave a servant’s job to the servants.
“You should try to be more patient with them.”
Magnus jumped and turned to face the voice. It was his older brothers, of course – Edmund and Godwine. Each was two years older than him and the two carried an arrogance and pride that came with being the King’s eldest sons. As ever, Magnus felt himself caught in the middle, virtually forgotten – or so he believed.
“I am patient, but they need to learn sooner or later. Better I deal with them than father; you know, better than anyone else here I wager, how he gets when he is angry,” Magnus frowned. “I would protect my sisters from that.”
“Father’s wrath is only to teach us lessons when we misbehave. If you keep protecting them from him, his anger may eventually turn to you,” Godwine retorted. “Why is it, Magnus, that you always try to make excuses for them and protect them? They need to learn and you are not teaching them anything!”
The youngest son fell quiet. It was very true that they had not seemed to learn a thing from his warnings, nor listened to his attempts to stop them from getting into trouble. They did not fully realise the severity of the trouble they would be in, nor had they ever been properly punished; he could not, however, imagine willingly allowing his sisters to go through the kind of humiliation father had put him through.
Edmund started to laugh. “He has no answer. You know as well as I do, you’re making them feel invulnerable. Let them make mistakes, they will grow stronger from the experience, I say!”
“They could have killed Benedict, or at least hurt him grievously. That was a heavy bag they sent at me,” Magnus protested. “Would you be laughing then? Would father?”
“One old friar would change little, I’m sure. Clear your mind, Magnus, this is not important: father has summoned us to meet with him. You wouldn’t disappoint him, would you?”
Magnus sighed, he had no choice but to accept father’s summons. “As our father wishes, brothers. Lead the way.”
* * *
The midday gathering was a solemn one, and for a while no one said anything. Much of the surviving House of Wessex was assembled, but more than anything this had been called for the sons and daughters of King Harold Godwinson. The monarch gazed down upon them with what could only be described as a suspicious leer, noticing the dirty, unkempt hair and faces of his daughters. Magnus could tell that his father was not impressed, but also that there were more important matters to discuss.
“We are at war,” Harold said bluntly to them. This was not a new or surprising thing to the family; Harold had long fought as both regent and King against many enemies and an invasion by the Normans had been long expected. So far, Wessex had not lost a war under his leadership, and they had no fear of what was to come.
“Messengers reached me from the north two days ago. My brother, Tostig, has allied himself with the King of Norway and sailed upon Northumbria with a great host of Norsemen. He seems ever-intent to gnaw at our borders and to steal my throne. Edwin and Morcar do not have the forces required to defeat this attack alone, and thus I will be marching with every banner I have been able to raise to stop them. Our entire Kingdom is under threat.”
Magnus felt his heart race. Was he now finally old enough to join them in war? The thought of riding alongside his fath
er into glorious victory was exciting to say the least. He had long dreamt of being a great warrior, driving the enemy from their lands by force.
“I have decided that Godwine and Edmund shall ride north in my host.”
Magnus could not hold himself back. “What of me, father?”
“You are a man now, Magnus, but still young. Furthermore I will not have my entire lineage ride into the same battle and risk themselves so. You are to stay here and protect the south with whatever forces should arrive after my departure.”
Try as he might, Magnus could not help but look crestfallen. His father was leaving so soon and the war was so far away, it seemed that once again he would be stuck at home living a life of boredom. He bit his lip, resisting the urge to cry or say something untoward to his father – his King, rather.
“Hold your chin up, Magnus,” King Harold barked authoritatively, and Magnus did his best. “Did you think I would leave you with nothing to do? This Kingdom could depend on your ability to fight. I would wager my crown and all the silver of Rome that William the Norman will set sail as soon as he hears of the Viking attack. Someone needs to be here to ensure that we do not lose our country from one threat even as we defend it from another.”
Magnus though about this. He was unsure if father was telling him this to make him feel better or if it was a genuine concern, but he couldn’t help but swell with pride at the thought. Finally, an important task for him to uphold!
“As you command, of course father! I will make you and England proud if the French dare set one foot on our soil!” Magnus did his best to look positive.
The King rested his chin on one hand. “Good, that is the attitude I would expect from my son. Godwine, Edmund, prepare yourself for war, we leave in an hour’s time.”
His eldest sons rose and bowed promptly. “Of course, we shall be ready. Do we have your leave to go and prepare?”
A simple wave of dismissal from Harold was enough. Magnus fidgeted nervously, unsure what he was to do, before Harold finally spoke again. “Magnus, Gytha, Gunhild; leave me. I need to ready myself as well. There is no time to lose, and an army does not march without its King...”
Magnus rose and bowed in silence. He cast a sidelong glance at his sisters and could tell they were on the verge of tears, realising that their brothers and father were off to war. Without hesitation, Magnus threw an arm around each and turned them towards the door.
“Come on now,” he whispered to them. “Let’s leave father to his preparations. Don’t worry, our uncles and brothers will take care of him. Our cousins will be there too.”
He received only a solemn nod from the two girls as he led them out, casting his gaze back to take one last look at his father. He resolved to fulfil his duty and make them proud of him, whatever the cost. War was a bloody affair, but the House of Godwin did not falter – when the Normans came, he would win.
Chapter 6 – William the Bastard
25th of September, 1066
“Six thousand have disembarked your Grace, but the rest of the ships are lagging behind and it is slow work to unload men and horse. What would you have us do?”
The Duke’s sons Robert and Richard sat to one side, while his favoured son William the Younger sat to the other, all sharing in a bottle of Burgundy brought from the mainland. A vast force was disembarking onto the shores of England and William the Bastard now had all the time he needed to execute his plan. The Duke of Normandy would become King of England and begin a new era of glory for his family; or at least, such was his plan.
“What say you, my sons; which of you feel most ready to wage war, hmm?”
The boys stared at their father somewhat abjectly. Robert, the oldest, was only twelve years of age. The idea of war was both exciting and terrifying to the boys. William’s half-brother, Bishop Odo of Bayeux, did not look upon the idea with the same sort of approval. “They are very young, William. Too young to hold a sword, I still do not agree with you bringing them.”
“Ha!” William raised himself to his feet. “Best they learn the horrors of war at a young age to steel themselves. One day each will be a great warrior of indomitable strength and skill! Now boys, who among you wishes to join me in the ride to Chichester?”
Richard raised his hand almost immediately, followed tentatively by William and after a long pause, Robert. William laughed at Robert’s timid gesture. “What a weakling boy, you are still so afraid to fight? You are a weak excuse for my oldest!” he spat.
“He’s just a boy, Will...” Odo defended him in exasperation.
“I can fight!” Robert protested. “My arm may be short, but I can fight too!”
“You have no stomach for it, Robert. Stay here with Odo and help him, maybe you can be put to some use tending the flock. Come boys, we ride to Chichester for glorious war!”
Robert watched miserably as his father helped his brothers onto horseback, ensured they were strapped in tightly and well guarded. He watched as his father led the column seven thousand strong to the north. The youth looked up to Odo of Bayeux with angry eyes, and Odo returned his gaze with pity, but also with a stern determination to do his job.
“Chin up Robert, perhaps there is no glory for you today, but your father gave you a clear order. The court has taught you numeracy, yes?”
“Aye, uncle...” Robert said quietly and did his best not to look disappointed.
“As the ships come in, each company will report the number of men who made the journey. I want you to write them down for me, and then once we are done we must tally them into one number to know how many soldiers we have to fight with.” Odo looked at him sternly. “Do not look so sad, I know you think this sounds like another exercise, but trust me when I say this is an important part of war. A general must know the size of his force if he is to use it properly.”
Robert tried his hardest, but it was a miserable task nonetheless. He hated numbers, even if he was good at them. He dreamt of war and of being a great general leading armies like his father, but whenever an opportunity to fight came, be it with another boy or even here at his father’s side, he shrank in fear. It was expected that the eldest son should be the strongest, the bravest, the worthy heir to the family legacy. Robert felt like a failure and a disappointment to his father, and his bitterness and anger boiled deep within his heart.
A few miserable hours later, the boy was finally free of his task. The last men were ashore and the sun was already dipping dangerously low into the sky. Uncle Odo was pacing to and fro impatiently as Robert struggled to add the numbers together. After a long pause, he finally whooped in triumph. “I’ve got it!”
Odo snatched the parchment away and gave it a scrutinizing stare. “Sounds about right. Well done Robert, you’ll make a general yet.” He folded his arms tight across his chest. “It’s far too late to move out tonight, but hopefully tomorrow we can catch up to your father.”
“He won’t be impressed by that, will he?” He pointed at the number clutched in Odo’s hand.
“I doubt it very much Robert. What you should be asking yourself is: do I care?” He knelt down and placed both hands on Robert’s shoulders. “You are a strong boy, even if he doesn’t see it. I reckon you will make a fine first-born yet. If William does not see it, perhaps it falls upon me to mould you into the man I know you can become.”
“Leader, uncle?”
Odo smiled, but it somehow it did not comfort Robert; his uncle’s eyes were cold and threatening, like those of a snake. “Yes, Robert, you will be a great leader someday. Come, I shall open your mind to the world as it really is...”
Chapter 7 – Of Pitch and Fire
25th of September, 1066
Evening approached as the sun dipped ever lower into the autumn sky, casting a faint orange glow over the earth. The Anglo-Saxons held the east side of the river with a strong host, but the scouts reported a considerable force of Norwegians approaching from York, believed to be led by the traitor Tostig Godwinson himself. However, not
all hope was lost as a messenger from the south had arrived. King Harold Godwinson was finally on his way north to aid them.
Edwin couldn’t bring himself to feel entirely positive, despite the air of celebration in the camp. They had recovered a huge stockpile of food clearly intended for the Norse army, but also ‘tribute’ collected by the looting Vikings from across Northumbria. The ancient county of Yorkshire seemed to have been picked clean if this pile was any indication and the Earls had gladly dug in to the spoils of their victory.
Sorting the stockpile of goods, however, was a painfully slow process. Live chickens found themselves locked in cage, clucking in confusion at their imprisonment. Enormous mountains of bread and sacks of flour formed the backbone of the captured good, while baskets of fruit, dried and salted meats, and several hundred barrels of foul-smelling preserved fish had been their reward. In charge of the pile was Thegn Cenhelm, a loyal servant of Mercia who oversaw the movement of provisions to the east side of the river.
“It’s no small feat to get this much together at once, my lord,” Cenhelm explained. “They had enough food to feed an army several time our size for weeks – and not just bread, no, there is fruit, fresh and salted meat, beer and cider.”
“Useful, if we can survive long enough to actually get it anywhere. I think it goes without saying that Harald Sigurdsson will counter-attack soon rather than allow us access to this many supplies for as long as we please.”
Cenhelm nodded. “Absolutely...now, what else have we got. Ah, there is of course tribute in silver and gold. A considerable amount of money, rightfully belonging to the people I feel. Perhaps we should return it to them?”
Crusader Kings II - [Champions of Anglia 01] - A Fall of Kings Page 4
