“Two reasons, Lord. Firstly, they appear to have left a good portion of their army back with their boats at Riccall. I reckon they have fewer than five thousand men.”
For the first time, Harold smiled. “So we outnumber them by about half as much again. And your other reason?”
“They appear to be unprepared for battle.”
“What do you mean, man? How can you be sure?”
“I was not close to them, but it was clear to me that many have no mail shirts. Several were lying on the ground with no tunics at all, their skin bare to the sky. There appeared to be much merriment as if it were a holy day.”
Harold turned to his brother. “Gyrth, what do you make of this? What sort of madness has taken hold of them?”
Gyrth grinned. “I can only assume, brother, that they are enjoying a nice walk on a summer’s day in this fair land of Northumbria.”
“What? Speak plainly.”
“Remember, they have no knowledge of our presence. They believe the people in these parts beaten; cowed and fearful since their defeat at Gate Fulford. They’re coming to receive one hundred and fifty of our young folk as hostages. It would seem to me that our foe has grown complacent and has not bothered either to send their whole force, or to make sure they are properly equipped for battle.”
Harold threw back his head and laughed. “It would seem that God may yet be with us this day. Let us go quickly now and show them the full extent of their misjudgement.”
SIX
25 September, Stamford Bridge
They left Eoforwic on the old Roman road heading east; the king’s banners, fluttering noisily in the breeze as they were borne aloft at the head of the column. The men were ready for battle; they carried their shields slung across their backs, but in such a way that they could be quickly pulled into position if required. Each man also carried a long ash-shafted spear, the gleaming points of which looked, from afar, like a forest of ice as they danced in the sunlight.
Thurkill marched along beside his father and their four fyrdsmen; their mounts having been left in the city to rest after the long ride north. Though his anxiety increased with every step, he took comfort from the companionship of those around him. Men told jokes and swapped stories as if they were simply marching from one camp to another, rather than to their possible deaths. He didn’t think he was afraid of dying; after all, he said his prayers and believed what the priest in Haslow said about a life after death. He was more worried about his courage failing him on the field of battle; of embarrassing his father in front of the others. If he were to die, please God let him die bravely. Let him be worthy of his family name and be remembered well by his kin. He closed his eyes briefly to offer up his silent prayer.
His mind was wrenched back to the present by the sound of a shout at the head of the column. Harold had reined in his horse, halting on the crest of a ridge which lay a few short miles from the city. Leaning on his father’s shoulder, Thurkill strained his neck to see what had caused them to stop.
“What can you see, son?”
“By God’s holy bones,” Thurkill hissed in excitement. “It’s them! It’s the Norse army!”
Immediately a great clamour broke out all around them. One of their fyrdsmen shoved Thurkill in the back. “What do you see? Come on, lad, tell us everything.”
“There’s thousands of them – about half a mile away - and they’re heading this way. But they’re not really marching as such.”
Scalpi frowned. “What do you mean, not marching?”
“They’re more like…walking. As if they’ve got no destination in mind, no real purpose. No, wait. They’ve stopped. They’ve seen us and they’ve stopped.”
“This is it, lads. It’s time to dip your blades in Norse blood.” Scalpi’s voice had taken on a hardness that Thurkill had not heard before.
In response to new orders from the king, the Saxon host resumed its march but with a noticeably quicker pace. How that the enemy had sighted them, it was critical that they brought them to battle as soon as possible, lest they try to escape. As they descended the ridge, they had a good view of the enemy. It seemed that confusion now reigned amongst their ranks; men milled about in small groups pointing and gesticulating towards the approaching Saxons.
And the truth of the scout’s words was now revealed; only one man in every three or four was wearing a mailshirt, while many of the others were, indeed, bare-chested under the hot sun. But, as they watched, they could see their captains starting to restore order with liberal use of wooden staves. Rather than withdraw, though, they formed up into a loosely circular shieldwall, apparently waiting for the Saxons to come on and give battle. At the same time, Thurkill noted that three men jumped on to horses before racing off to the east.
“Why don’t they retreat, father? They are outnumbered and many have no byrnie, it makes no sense to stand. Are they mad?”
“One thing you will come to learn about the Norse before this day is done, son, is that they are proud men. They won’t ever take a step backwards if they don’t have to. They will stand and fight us here, you mark my words. Besides, did you see those three riders heading off?”
Thurkill nodded.
“I’ll swear on our Lord’s mother that they’ll be galloping hard back to the boats to gather the rest of their men, as if the very Devil were after them. If those reinforcements reach us in time, we’ll soon know we’re in a fight.”
“In which case,” Thurkill shouted, his frustration getting the better of him, “we should attack them now, before it’s too late.”
“Well said, that man!” Gyrth swivelled in his saddle to look back at Thurkill. “There’s someone with a good head on his shoulders. You see it stays firmly attached there today, won’t you? We need men with your guts, if not also your size!” He then raised his voice to address those around him.
“There they are, lads. It’s like the scout said, they are fewer than us by far and most have left their armour behind. They are ours for the taking.”
Harold heard his brother’s words and laughed. “You are never normally this keen to join battle, Gyrth. You sound more like Leofwine. Before we put spear and sword to work, however, I would speak with them. My brother, Tostig, may be with them and I would entreat him to give up this fight before it’s too late.”
“You are too generous, brother. Tostig has made his choice and he must live or die with the consequences.”
“No, Gyrth,” Harold said gently. “Whatever he has done in the past, he remains our blood. We owe him a chance to atone for his sins.”
Gyrth scowled but offered no further challenge. When they were no more than one hundred paces from the Norse shieldwall, Harold held up his hand to halt the men. “Gyrth, Morcar, bring twenty of the best men and come forward with me. Let us see what they have to say for themselves. We may yet avoid bloodshed and still achieve our victory.”
Moments later, the small group walked slowly forward, making great show that they posed no threat. With Harold, Gyrth and Morcar, were Eadwine, Scalpi, Thurkill and another fifteen of the biggest, most imposing huscarls in Harold’s household. As they drew close, a similar number of the Norse army broke free from the shieldwall to meet them.
As he walked, the king shielded his eyes from the glaring sun. “Ah, I see Tostig among them but who is that with him? Is that Harald? He’s huge. He truly is more than a match for your lad, Scalpi.”
Before Scalpi could reply, however, Harold held up a hand in greeting. “Hail, brother. By God, it is good to see you but I cannot pretend I am not saddened to meet in such circumstances.”
“That is as much your doing as it is mine.” Tostig’s reply was nothing other than surly, like a young boy after having been scolded by his mother.
Harold continued unperturbed. “That may be, but the past is the past and there is no sense in dwelling there longer than we have to. Rather, we should look forward to happier times when we can, perhaps, live in peace once more.”
&nb
sp; “The time for peace is over, brother. Now is the time for war. Eoforwic has already fallen to us and we are of a mind to take the rest of your kingdom too. The force you see before you is but a fraction of our strength; you will not be able to withstand our fury. You should think of your people; surrender to us now and spare them from further bloodshed. Rest assured, if you do so, we will guarantee your safety and let you leave in peace. But you must disband the fyrd and leave this island for good.”
Harold paused, as if to consider the offer. Thurkill looked sideways to his father, concern etched on his face. Surely the king could not seriously entertain such a suggestion? But if Scalpi knew his son was staring at him, he did not show it. He kept his steely gaze directed at the Norseman opposite him.
Thurkill knew that Harold was no coward, but he could not imagine the burden of responsibility that must weigh on his shoulders. Win or lose, many of his followers would die if he chose battle over surrender. It was a decision he was glad he did not have to take.
Finally, Harold responded. “I would make you a different offer, Tostig, if you would but hear it.”
The Saxon raised an eyebrow in response, looking wary of what was to come. “What trickery would you have me fall for now, brother?”
“No trick. I simply desire to put an end to the enmity between us. For the sake of the land and the people, we should be together as a family once more. You, me, Gyrth and Leofwine. We four brothers should be united in friendship. Our kinship should not be cast aside so readily.”
Tostig had lost patience, though, as he threw his arms in the air and snorted his reply. “And how would you propose we do that, Harold? Too much bad blood has flowed under the bridge for me to forget the past that easily. Where was our kinship when you kicked me out of my earldom rather than support me? I’ve had enough of your empty words.”
Despite the venom with which Tostig spat out his tirade, Harold continued in the same calm, assured manner. “Well, if you would reconcile with me now, I would offer you this earldom of Northumbria that was yours once before. Take it back but rule it more wisely and in my name.”
Before Tostig could reply, however, an angry shout came from behind the king. “No! This land is mine!”
Red-faced with indignation, Harold rounded on Morcar. “Be silent, fool! You have no voice here. As king of this land, it is mine to do with as I please. Besides, you forfeited your rights by your defeat not five days since.”
Tostig couldn’t resist a chuckle, only adding to Morcar’s embarrassment. In disgust, the earl spat at Tostig’s feet, turned his back and strutted back to the Saxon host.
Harold turned back to face his brother. “Well? Do we have an agreement?”
Tostig rubbed his beardless chin, as if mulling over the offer. When he spoke, he pointed at Harald who stood by his side, unable to follow the conversation. “What of my noble lord, the King of Norway? If I accept your offer, what would you give him? He has come a long distance in support of my claim. I would not have him return home with no reward.”
Harold looked the giant Norseman up and down. He stood a good head taller than Tostig, who was no small man himself. His feet were firmly planted a shoulder’s width apart; his hands placed, one on top of the other, on the end of the shaft of his huge, two-handed battle-axe, the blade of which rested on the ground. His piercing blue eyes peered out from amidst the huge mass of unkempt blond hair which sprouted fearsomely in all directions from under his iron helm. He seemed to realise that the conversation had turned to him as he squared his shoulders, emitting a low growl, which only added to his menacing aura.
Harold smiled at him before turning back to reply to Tostig, still smiling as if he were offering the Norse king a compliment. “As he is so keen on this noble land of England, I would offer him seven feet of it, all to himself.” He paused to steal another glance at the Norseman as if measuring him, “or as much more as would be needed to hold his body, as I see he is taller than most normal men.”
It took a moment for the full meaning of Harold’s words to sink in, but when they did, Tostig’s face was like thunder. “You would insult my Lord Harald so? Where is your honour?”
“It was no insult, Tostig, merely a promise of what will become of him should he not leave my kingdom, reward or no reward.”
“Enough talk. There can be no accord. We fight!”
The Norse king evidently understood that matters were concluded for he uttered what sounded like a curse at Harold before spitting at his feet. Then he turned and stomped back towards his lines, battle-axe slung over his shoulder with Tostig following like an obedient hound.
Harold sighed and turned towards Gyrth and Eadwine. “Ready the men. We do battle this day.”
***
Thurkill followed his father back to the massed ranks of Harold’s army; back towards the centre of the shieldwall where the rest of the huscarls were formed up; grim-faced warriors standing ready for a fight. As they took their place in the front rank, several called out for news even though it was clear to most what the outcome had been.
“We fight,” Scalpi growled.
As they waited, Scalpi offered some final advice. “Keep your shield up at all times, son, even when you get tired and it feels like it weighs as much as a horse. The shieldwall is only as strong as its weakest link. Let your guard down for a moment and you’ll find a Norse spear in your guts or an axe in your neck. Not only will you be dead, but then the bastards will come pouring through the gap you leave and the rest of us will die as a result. Stay close to me, especially if it all turns to shit. A man running on his own is a dead man. Stick together, come what may, and we stand a chance of getting through this alive. Understood?”
Thurkill swallowed hard and nodded, his mouth suddenly dry, despite all the water he had been drinking that morning. Conversely, his palms felt slick with sweat; so much so that he had to continually wipe them on his trews to stop his grip from slipping. The true horror of his situation had become all too real, now. All the anticipation with which he had awaited his first battle; all those long hour spent wondering what it would be like. It all came down to this moment.
He prayed he was not going to disgrace himself. Live or die, he wanted his father to be proud of him. He was no coward but he was petrified right now; his father had been right, he thought ruefully. He could feel his guts clenching once again; he could only hope he had nothing left to void. He whispered a quick prayer that victory would be theirs, before wiping his hands once more. Then, he spat on the ground for luck, feeling a slight pang of guilt as he did so and checking around nervously to see who had seen him do it. It was an ancient practice dating back to the days before the Christians had come from Rome and he knew some would be quick to take offence.
He was not the only one praying; a few paces to his right – close by to where the king stood - the Bishop of Eoforwic implored God in strident tones to protect Harold and his host and to cast down the pagan Norsemen into the very pits of hell. He could see the king kneeling in front of the churchman, his head bared and his gloved hands resting on the pommel of his great sword, its point dug into the ground. When the prayer ended, the bishop pushed through the ranks to the rear; the shieldwall was no place for a man of God. Harold rose to his feet, donned his helmet once more, and pointed to where the Norse waited in their circular shieldwall on a low ridge, a hundred or so paces to the east. Without waiting a moment longer, he ordered the advance.
The Saxons moved surged forward, keeping an even pace so that their ranks remained unbroken. Thurkill, his heart pounding in his chest, could see the enemy waiting for them. Many of them were brandishing their weapons while yelling curses and challenges in their direction.
They didn’t look much different to themselves, Thurkill reflected. They were just men, with the same hopes and fears as the Saxons. And yet, ever since he’d been a young boy, these men had been spoken of in hushed tones, almost as if they were invincible giants of men. Stories were told in every hall, ho
w the Vikings had terrorised the land for generations. Mothers still used their menace to scare their children into obedience. He had lost count of the number of times his aunt had told him as a boy: Don’t wander off too far into the woods or a hairy Viking might chop your head off. The threat had worked at the time, but now here was a whole host of them, hairy and otherwise, waiting to remove his head from his shoulders.
The Saxons began to chant their own battle cry, drowning out the noise of the enemy. There were no words to it as such, just a single guttural shout that approximated to the word “KILL!” It alternated with the sound of sword pommel and spear haft being rammed against the rear of their shields, in time with each step they took. Kill! Thump! Kill! Thump! To Thurkill’s inexperienced ears, it was nothing short of terrifying.
The two armies were just a few short paces apart now. Several of the enemy looked as if they were straining at the leash to be let loose, like dogs eager to chase down a rabbit. Here and there one or two rushed forward, launching themselves at the Saxons. Whether they were intoxicated on ale or simply overcome with the blood-lust, Thurkill did not know, but he admired them nonetheless. It was suicidal, though: there was no way they could break through their ranks on their own, but it was brave nonetheless, boosting the courage of their companions who howled and spat at their foes.
Then the moment was upon him. He gripped his shield straps even tighter, holding it up like his father had said, so that he could only peer over the rim at the hellish sight ahead of him. Already, the stench of fear had begun to assail his nostrils. Someone nearby had shat his breeches, though he knew not whether Saxon or Viking. Behind him came the sound of a man vomiting, some of the effluent splashing the back of his legs.
But rather than freeze in fear, Thurkill was astonished to find that his mind grew calm. Fear gave way to lucidity as the two shieldwalls closed together. Looking ahead, he set his sights on the bare-chested warrior in front of him. He was a beast of a man, not much shorter than him, his beard twisted to a point and held in place with some sort of thin metal band. In his hands, he held a huge two-handed axe, which he was swinging about his head, ready to cleave Thurkill’s skull. All the while he was hurling abuse in his direction, daring him to come on and meet his doom under his murderous looking blade.
Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2 Page 5
