THREE
16 September, Lundenburh
The city was in uproar. Every street was a heaving mass of men, women, horses, oxen, carts and all manner of other contraptions, all moving in every direction. It was a seething maelstrom all with a single, common purpose: to be ready to march north. Having travelled through the night, Scalpi, Thurkill and their four fyrdsmen had reached the city shortly before dawn. The gates would normally have been closed at that time of day, but they stood gaping, as the steady stream of men and materiel flowed into the city.
Lundenburh lay just to the north of the great river Thames, within the walls of the old Roman city, built many hundreds of years earlier. Scalpi and Thurkill reached the river at the point where the more recent settlement called Suthweca stood on what had once been a patch of marshy ground. Nowadays, it acted like a funnel, being the one place where you could cross the river, by means of a wooden bridge just wide enough for two carts to pass side by side. Suthweca formed the southernmost defence for the city, having been established to guard the southern end of the bridge into Lundenburh and was – as always – garrisoned strongly.
Their little party was quickly ushered through the gates and on to the bridge, at which point they dismounted to lead their horses across, lest the beasts turn skittish at the unfamiliar surroundings. It was the widest stretch of water Thurkill had ever seen, other than the sea of course. He marvelled at the width of the crossing, counting the paces it took to walk its length as he wondered at the skill required to build it. It was slow going, though; the walkway was rammed with people and carts, mostly heading north to the assembly point. It was a time for patience, though, as there was nowhere for them to go other than to follow the backs of the men in front.
Once on the far side, they followed the road north until they came to Cheapside, one of Lundenburh’s greatest markets where all manner of goods were traded by merchants from all four corners of the known world. There, they turned west, heading towards the church of St Paul’s, which was said to be built on the site of one of the earliest Christian churches in all England, dating back to the time of St Augustine who had been sent from Rome to teach Christ to the English.
The crowds showed no sign of easing; if anything, the press was becoming worse. It seemed as though the whole city had turned out to fill the narrow streets. Ever quick to spot an opportunity, Tradesmen were – despite the hour – already loudly proclaiming their wares from their tightly packed shop fronts on either side. Sellers of bread, cheese and salted meat were doing a particularly brisk business as the more well-off warriors sought to bolster their provisions for the long march north.
“There’s nothing worse than being hungry before a battle, boy,” Scalpi grinned as he handed over a couple of silver pennies for two loaves of bread and a roundel of strong-smelling, hard cheese. The grin turned to a laugh as Thurkill took a sniff of the cheese and wrinkled his nose at the heady aroma. “That’ll help put hair on your chin as well as your chest, you’ll see if it doesn’t.”
After what seemed an age, tramping along the busy thoroughfare, they rounded a corner into a more open space, at the centre of which stood the largest church Thurkill had ever seen. In front of it were gathered several hundred warriors, many on horseback and all in armour with shields slung over their backs.
“I thought the fyrd had been disbanded, father. Surely they cannot have been called back so quickly?”
“Indeed not, for that would be a miracle worthy of our Lord Jesus. This is just the king’s huscarls together with those of his brothers and whatever other great lords are here. I’ll wager there are no more than five hundred men here, but good men and true, every one of them.” Scalpi’s voice caught in his throat, betraying the pride he felt at the sight of the country’s best warriors all gathered in the once place.
“Will that be enough to defeat the Norsemen?”
Scalpi chuckled. “I wouldn’t think so for a moment; even though I don’t doubt that each one of us is worth two or maybe even three of the Viking scum. Remember, though, we have a long march ahead; Harold will have sent messengers north already to muster the men from the counties between here and Eoforwic.” At that moment, Scalpi held up his hand for quiet and then pointed towards the door of the church. “Look, there is Harold now. He is going to speak to us.”
Harold had indeed emerged from the church where he had been praying for victory over the pagan invader. In one easy movement, he swung himself up on to the back of a wagon where he could be seen clearly by all those assembled. The gold band around his head shone in the flickering light of the torches held aloft by those around him; an effect which made it look as if it were a burning halo. Before speaking, he threw back the sides of his thick cloak so they could see his mail-coat and the great sword that was buckled to his waist. He looked every inch the great warrior king and Thurkill felt a sharp thrill of excitement at the thought of following him into battle to defend his kingdom.
Then Harold held up both arms to call for quiet. He had a strong, confident voice that carried easily across the square, so that no man struggled to hear his words. “Countrymen! I had hoped not to have to stand before you on a day like today. I had hoped that our lands would be free from threat at least until the spring; but it was not to be. Once again, the Norsemen have come to our shores as they have done many times before in the time of our forefathers. As I speak, our great city of Eoforwic is under attack from a fleet of more than two hundred ships led by Harald Sigurdsson, King of Norway; he who is also known as Hardrada. What’s more, my brother, Tostig, recently banished from his earldom of Northumbria, is said to be with him. Their intentions remain unclear, but mine is not. I will not have my people threatened or killed by foreign invaders. I will not have my women beaten or raped. I will not have their children left as orphans or taken into slavery.”
A great roar of anger greeted his words, so loud and prolonged that Harold eventually had to appeal for calm. “I share your pain, my friends. We will not allow this insult to go unpunished. Our noble Lords Eadwine and Morcar hold Eoforwic for me and I have sent messengers north to tell them to defend it at all costs, while we march to join them. Today we are few, but we will gather the fyrd from Berkshire, Mercia and Lindsay as we go. By the time we reach Eoforwic, I promise you we will have a mighty army with which to destroy the enemy.”
The shout this time was even louder as men thrust their swords and spears in the air and yelled their support. “Gather your strength now, brave huscarls. You will need it for the fight to come. We ride now and will not stop until sundown. I do not know how long Eoforwic can hold out so we must reach them with all haste.”
With that, the king stepped down and made his way through the crowd towards his lodgings. As he went, men thronged around him to swear loyalty or to call for his blessing. Many knelt before him and held out their sword hilts for the king to touch. As he walked, Harold called out names of those he recognised, greeting them with warmth and humility. It was not hard to see why he, above all others, had been acclaimed king on Edward’s death, Thurkill thought.
Suddenly, Harold was no more than ten paces from where they stood. “Hail, Scalpi, my loyal friend!” Thurkill swelled with pride to see his father so honoured in front of this great gathering. Only then did he realise that his father had knelt before the king. Shamed, he quickly followed suit almost stumbling forward in his eagerness. Harold grabbed Scalpi’s forearm, pulling him to his feet before embracing him warmly. Still smiling, he turned to Thurkill and beckoned him to stand also. As he did so, he saw the surprise in Harold’s eyes as he reached his full height.
“By God’s bones, Scalpi, what manner of beast is this with you? He’s huge.”
Scalpi smiled broadly, pride emanating from every pore. “Lord King, this is my son, Thurkill. He is not yet eighteen summers but is already as strong as an ox.”
“And he looks like he’s eaten a fair few in his time. Are you sure he’s yours?”
Men all around them laughed at the
king’s joke but Scalpi showed no sign of embarrassment. “Either that, Lord, or my late wife was squired by a bear, when I wasn’t looking.”
Harold joined in the laughter. “When we march, I want you two up near me at the front. With your cunning and his strength, I should be safe from all danger.”
Scalpi bowed low in acknowledgement. “Gladly, Lord. You do us great honour.”
FOUR
24 September, Tadcaster
Thurkill was almost asleep in the saddle when they reached the small town of Tadcaster just before sunset. It had been a long hard ride: six days solid, stopping only to rest and water the horses every few hours. Food and sleep had been grabbed wherever possible and everyone, without exception, was tired and hungry. For the most part, the men just plodded on, faces sullen or glum, keeping their thoughts to themselves. Every now and then, an altercation or scuffle would break out somewhere and would be over almost as quickly as it had begun, even before the captains had the chance to wade in and break a few heads to restore order. It was ever thus when large numbers of men gathered together; a wrong glance, an ill-chosen jest or simply knocking into the wrong person could result in a flurry of blows.
The bread and cheese they had purchased had seen him and his father as far as Lincoln but, since then, they had hardly eaten because the supply wagons had fallen a long way behind. Pulled by huge oxen, the heavy carts lumbered along at a much slower pace. On good days, they would arrive at dawn, just as the army was about to set off, causing a mad scramble to fill their provision sacks. But more often than not, they had to make do with what they could buy from the few farms or towns they passed. If they were in luck, they’d find wild bushes alongside the road every now and then, affording them access to handfuls of ripe berries that helped take the edge off their hunger.
Morale had been high when they set out, with much singing among the ranks of horsemen. Some were songs retelling heroic tales of past battles or other great deeds from ancient times; while others were bawdy romps more commonly heard after a night’s drinking in the tavern. Songs that would make the face of many a young maiden blush were they but to be within earshot. Things had taken a turn for the worse at Lincoln though. Not only was food in short supply, but also news arrived that the army of the north under the brother earls, Eadwine and Morcar, had been defeated by the Norwegian king. By the time the exhausted rider had finished relaying the tale of woe, Harold could no longer contain his rage.
“What in God’s holy name did they think they were doing?” He shouted. “My orders were clear: hold Eoforwic until my arrival. But now you tell me they wilfully disobeyed my command and chose to leave the safety of the city walls to go out to meet the enemy?” Throwing his arms wide in exasperation, he continued. “Have I not always said they could not be trusted? Those two bastards never wanted a Godwine on the throne and this just goes to prove I was right!”
“Yes, Lord King.” The rider had kept his head low, unsure how else to respond. “When Earl Eadwine arrived from Chester with the men of Mercia, Earl Morcar felt that together they were strong enough to defeat Hardrada. They had more than five thousand warriors, all well armoured, rested and prepared for battle.”
“And all now dead or dispersed, and Eoforwic lost as well I daresay.” Harold had spat the words while, at the same time, aiming a vicious kick at a nearby pail which splintered under his assault.
The rider had not dared to speak further for fear of being the next target for the king’s ire. Instead, he had been ordered back with all haste with a message to the two earls to meet their king at Tadcaster in two days on pain of death. Harold wanted to hear what had befallen his army and his city directly from the mouths of those responsible.
Now, as they approached the town, Thurkill could see that a small contingent of warriors awaited them on the other side of river. Two of them, both tall with long dark hair and remarkably similar looking, stepped forward as the advanced guard began to wade through the fast flowing, but shallow waters.
“Well met, Harold.” called the taller of the two, bowing to show his respect.
“Hmmph”, Harold snorted, unable to speak for fear of giving vent to his anger. Leaving his captains to oversee the crossing, the king strode over towards where a huge fire had been set, indicating that the two earls should follow.
“You.” Harold pointed to Morcar without ceremony as soon as they arrived. “Tell me all that happened. I want to know what strength you have left to you. I pray God for your sake that it’s more than the few men you brought here to the ford? I want to know how many Norsemen were killed before they routed you. What numbers do they have left to them? Where they are now and what do you know of their plans?”
Morcar began confidently. “Lord, word reached us of the arrival of the Norse fleet several days back. Our scouts brought news that their ships had set course up the Humber and were advancing upon Eoforwic. In council with the other lords here, we determined that our best form of defence would be to confront them as soon as we could.”
“Why in God’s name did you not wait? Did my messenger not make my wishes clear? You were to stay within the safety of the city walls until I arrived.” Harold shouted, unable to contain himself any longer.
“Lord, the walls are weak in several places, following years of neglect under your brother, Tostig. We feared that the enemy would exploit those weaknesses and break through our defences. Besides, have our people not always trusted in the strength of our shieldwall? We fight face to face with the enemy rather than cowering behind walls like frightened children behind our mothers’ skirts.”
“What’s more,” Eadwine interjected, “we had no idea where you were or if you were even coming. And even if we had known, we could never have expected you to cover the distance from Lundenburh so quickly.”
Without warning, Harold sprang to his feet and slammed his fist into Eadwine’s face. To his credit, the earl stood his ground despite the force of the sudden blow which would have floored many lesser men. Nevertheless, blood flowed from his split lip. “Silence!” Harold roared. “I do not recall giving you leave to speak, you young pup.”
Eadwine stood transfixed, his arms hanging limply by his side. But then, as suddenly as it had come, the fire left Harold’s eyes and he slumped back down on the tree stump on which he had been sitting. “Continue.” he barked.
Morcar swallowed nervously, before taking up the tale once more. “We marched out to meet them four days since, on ground of our choosing. The Norse were advancing from the east up the old road that runs parallel to the great river on which the city stands. We chose a good position to block their path just beyond the village of Fulford, a mile or so outside of the city walls. Our front was drawn up behind a small stream with our flank secured against the river.”
Harold snorted. “Well that, at least, sounds sensible. I am glad that your wits had not completely deserted you. Nonetheless, you must have been either brainless or boneless to lose the field from there. How many men did you have?”
Morcar bristled at the criticism but chose not rise to the bait. “We numbered just over five thousand souls, Lord. My brother held the right flank with his huscarls opposite Harald of Norway. I was on the left with mine.”
“And who, pray tell, did you face?”
Morcar hesitated.
“Spit it out, man. Or do you want to feel my fist too?”
“It was your brother, Lord.”
“I feared as much. Ever since we heard that he had gone north to Scotland, I felt certain he would return to haunt me soon enough.” Harold leapt to his feet once more, punching a sack of grain that sat on the back of a nearby supply wagon. “So the traitorous, ungrateful bastard is here after all, is he? And you’re sure of this?”
“Yes, Lord, there can be no doubt. We all recognised him, standing beneath his own banner on the battlefield.”
“Did he survive the battle?” To Thurkill’s ear it was not clear what answer Harold wanted to hear, and from the look on
Morcar’s face, he was similarly troubled by the question.
“I cannot say for certain, Lord, but I believe so. No one told me they saw him fall, at least. When we first saw his banner raised opposite us, there was much anger among the men of the fyrd as they do not remember his rule over them here in Northumbria with much fondness. My captains did their best to restrain them but they surged forward all the same. I believe it was this that was our undoing. But for this our shieldwall would have stood all day long, but once the flank had moved forward, opening a gap between us, our fate was sealed.”
Harold paced around the fire, rubbing his chin as he listened. “Hmmm, it is clear to me now why you lost. When one half of your force abandoned its strong defensive position behind the river, you left your flanks exposed to counter attack. Am I right, Morcar?”
“Initially we made good progress. We pushed Tostig back and many of his best warriors fell beneath our spears. But when we were on the point of destroying Tostig’s warband, Harald of Norway launched his attack. Though we fought bravely, we could not withstand the ferocity and fury of the Norsemen, led by this heathen devil. This Harald is a man like no other, Lord. He towers over all other men.”
Harold scoffed and pointed at Thurkill, who felt his cheeks redden as all eyes turned in his direction. “What? Even taller than Scalpi’s boy, there?”
Morcar looked Thurkill up and down. “Easily, Lord. I would swear on the bones of our Lord Jesus that Harald stands at least a head taller.”
Harold grunted sceptically but nodded all the same, before Morcar continued. “He fought like a man possessed and his warriors followed his example. They drove my brother’s men back before turning to take us in the flank. By now our doom was inevitable; we had no choice but to flee back to the safety of Eoforwic’s walls. Many were lost attempting to cross the river, weighed down, as they were, by their armour. Another group, perhaps some five hundred men, were cut off and surrounded. To their eternal honour, they refused to surrender and fought to the last man. Not one survived.”
Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2 Page 3
