Thurkill gripped his spear tightly and raised it above his shoulder. He would need to be quick to make sure the Norseman did not have time to hack the shaft in two. Three paces, two paces, lunge! He put all the strength of his right shoulder and upper body into the thrust. At the same time, he ducked and raised his shield; just in time as he felt the rush of air as the axe swung harmlessly above his helmeted head. But then he felt the point of his spear connect. There was a momentary resistance before the it broke through the skin to plunge deeply into his neck. Exhilarated by the thought of his first kill, Thurkill kept pushing until the spear protruded a good foot’s length from the other side, blood spurting in all directions from both entry and exit wounds. Death was instantaneous; the axe dropped harmlessly from the man’s lifeless hands and the body crumpled in a heap. The sudden realisation of what he had done shocked Thurkill so much that he forgot to hold on to the spear shaft. Before he could react, the weapon was wrenched from his hand as the man fell.
“Sword, boy, draw your sword. Quickly!”
His father’s warning came not a moment too soon. Looking up from the prostrate body of his first kill, Thurkill saw that another Norseman, just as large as the first, had stepped into the gap and was already raising his axe ready to crush his skull. Still, he did not panic. Instinctively, he knew there was neither time or space to drag his sword from its scabbard; he would be dead long before he released it from the fur-lined sheath. Instead, he chose the only option left to him. In one movement, he dropped to his knee, lifting his shield over his head at the same time. Almost immediately, he felt a paralysing blow as the axe landed with a dull thud, its sharpened iron edge biting deep into the layered wooden board.
The shock reverberated all the way along Thurkill’s arm, up to his shoulder. There was a short burst of intense pain which made him fear that his arm might be broken. Panic flashed into his mind; without his shield, he would not last more than a few heartbeats. But, as quickly as it had come, so the pain receded, leaving nothing more than a dull ache in its place. Meanwhile, his snarling, sweating enemy had dropped his own shield so he could grasp the shaft of his axe in both hands, desperately trying to free it from the shield. With a surge of adrenaline, Thurkill saw the man was now defenceless. Using all the strength in his tree-like thighs, he pushed himself up and forwards into the Norseman. The metal boss of the shield caught him squarely in his unprotected face, sending him down with blood and snot gushing from his crushed nose. Without thought or mercy, Thurkill moved to end his life. Lifting his boot, he stamped down as hard as he could on the exposed throat. If the Norseman had been wearing his armour, he might have survived, but with nothing but a woollen shirt to protect him, his fate was sealed. Thurkill felt the crunch of bone and cartilage breaking under his heel as he killed his second man in as many moments.
“Bravo, lad!” He turned his head to see his father standing next to him. Though Scalpi was grinning at him, a strange look had – nevertheless – come over him. It was as if he was shocked to see the man his son had become. The day had now dawned when childhood had been put aside for good; his son was now a warrior. But more than that, his son was a killer with neither pause or scruple.
Meanwhile, the battle raged on around them; men on both sides falling, limbs and torsos cruelly hacked, crushed or otherwise broken. The noise was horrific, something he had not expected; men screaming in pain, others calling for their mothers, still more begging for an end to their agony. Part of him wanted to give in to the terror that surrounded him; wanting to curl into a ball like a startled hedgehog. The longer it went on, the more he wanted to shut his eyes tight and stuff his fists into his ears to block out the sights and sounds that threatened to engulf him. Everywhere he looked, men were slashing and stabbing at each other, their faces twisted in hate and fear. By now, the ground was slippery with blood and entrails, making it hard to keep a sure footing. On more than one occasion, Thurkill felt his leading foot slide away from him as he stepped forward. He gave thanks to God each time he managed to avoid falling, for that would have been the end of him for sure.
In the thick of the melee as he was, it was impossible to know which side was winning. All he could do was stand firm and keep fighting along with the rest. The men on either side relied on him, just as he relied on them. Though, his shield arm was growing tired he dared not let it slip. His father’s warning still rang in his ears. Keep your shield up or we are lost.
The sun beat down mercilessly as the afternoon wore on. Pressed up against the enemy, surrounded by warriors in front and behind, there was no relief from its glare. And little in the way of breeze to cool their bodies, either. Sweat poured down from his head, dripping into his eyes, making it ever more difficult to see what was going on around him. His lips were dry and cracked, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth; he could feel the energy slowly sapping from his limbs as the battle wore on. He had no idea how long they had been fighting, but it seemed like for ever.
After the initial clash, the two shieldwalls had stabilised. Now, as men tired, fewer blows were exchanged as the two sides resorted to pushing and shoving against each other instead. Every now and then, someone would spot a gap between, above or below a shield – an exposed arm perhaps, or a neck or leg – and a blade or spear would flick out to take advantage. Often, the target reacted in time, closing the gap or parrying the blow, but many times, the weapon would find its target. A scream, a gout of blood and the man was out of the fight. If he were lucky, and the wound not too bad, his friends would drag him back from the front line to rest and have the wound bound up with cloth strips. More often than not, however, the man fell where he was, beyond help. If he were not dead already, he would soon be trampled underfoot or gutted by some wicked blade darting downwards to finish him off.
Suddenly, through the fog of his fatigue, Thurkill realised he had taken two steps forward without having been pushed back. To his front, a man collapsed, a gaping wound where his neck had once been, but his place was not filled. By his side, his father – veteran of many battles – realised what was happening. “They’re breaking, lads. They’re breaking. Push on. Push on!”
Shouts of encouragement went up all along the Saxon line. Exhaustion was forgotten, thirst ignored. Now was the moment to seal victory. If they could but break the Norse shieldwall, they could be slaughtered as they ran. Despite their lack of numbers and armour, the Vikings had put up a staunch fight, but now the weight of the greater Saxon force was beginning to tell. If they could rout them now there would be no escape, penned in as they were against the fast flowing river that ran several yards to their rear.
Thurkill joined in with the shouting, stepping forward in unison with those around him. Everywhere, the enemy had begun to pull back in confusion. It was the tipping point his father had spoken about; the moment when one side gained the upper hand and the fate of their opponents hung in the balance. One more effort and they would surely break and run. No sooner had the thought entered his mind, however, than his hopes were cruelly dashed. Just as it seemed the Saxons were about to triumph, they were hit by a new and sudden onslaught. Had the reinforcements arrived from Riccall already? Surely, there could not have been time?
The new attack struck the Saxons right in the centre of their line, a few paces to Thurkill’s right. And there, right in the middle of it, was Harald Sigurdsson, towering over all those around him, laying waste on all sides with his huge, two-handed war-axe which he swung in wide, looping arcs so fast and so ferociously that few dared come within its range to attack him. Those that had now lay dead or dying at his feet. Even shields offered little protection as his strength was such that the wood simply splintered on impact.
Having been so close to victory, the Saxons now found themselves on the back foot. Almost all the ground they had gained had already been ceded. Here and there one or two warriors were even showing signs of wavering in the face of the new onslaught. The king had timed his intervention to perfection. Even though fewer t
han fifty men were with Hardrada, they had stopped the Saxon advance in its tracks, giving the rest of the Viking host valuable time to reform their shieldwall.
Once again, Thurkill found himself fighting for his life, side by side with his father and the rest of Harold’s huscarls. Blows were raining down on his shield relentlessly – like the heaviest winter hail storm; it was all he could do to ward them off. His shield was pitted heavily around the edges as strike after strike tore splinters of wood from it. His sword arm was numb from the effort of stopping strike after strike, while his left still ached from the earlier blow. Only the thought of not letting his comrades down kept him going. It was now, though, that the long hours of incessant training paid off. The huscarls stood firm, their shields overlapping with that of the man to the right, soaking up the pressure as best they could. Men fell; it was inevitable under the ferocity of the Norse counter-attack; but the gaps were quickly plugged. But still, the fate of the battle hung in the balance, though their shieldwall had bent, it had buckled, but it had not been broken.
But then the Norse king overreached himself. With a furious roar, he smashed his way through the shieldwall, hacking the head clean off the huscarl in front of him as he did so. But before his men could follow him through, the gap was sealed off, cutting Harald off from the rest of his men. Yet he refused to yield, roaring his defiance, daring all to fight him. None would accept his offer, though, and soon a small clearing had grown around him, as if he were a boar cornered on the hunt, a forest of spears pointed towards him Then, without warning, Harald’s huge axe suddenly dropped to the ground, landing with a mighty thud. The king’s hands shot up to his neck in shock, gripping the shaft of an arrow that had pierced his throat; its white goose feathers now streaked red. He was choking, the blood from the mortal wound flooding into his lungs. He dropped to his knees, still clutching the arrow, trying to pull it free. The surrounding huscarls stood in awe, each looking at the other wondering what to do until, finally, one of their number seized the courage to step forward to thrust his sword into the his heart. Harald watched his fate approaching and met it with dignity. Lowering his arms, he stared defiantly at the Saxon. His mouth moved as if he were trying to curse his executioner, but no sound came but for that of his lifeblood gurgling in his throat.
The king’s death ended the attack as abruptly as it had begun. Without their talismanic leader, the Norse warriors fell back in confusion. Like a rudderless ship in the midst of a great storm, they floundered until, finally, they streamed away.
The Saxons, too tired to follow, were content to let them go for now. The scene they left behind was one of unspeakable carnage; corpses lay everywhere, piled on top of each other with blood-spattered limbs twisted grotesquely or severed from their bodies. Scores more lay wounded, close to death. For the time being, however, the Saxons had not the strength to go to their aid. There was little that could be done in any event; those that could not walk were likely to die sooner rather than later. For now, it was all that they could do to slump to the ground, or lean heavily on shields or spears, blowing hard trying to recover their breath as best they could.
Thurkill turned to his father with a look of triumph despite his fatigue, animated by a sense of relief at having survived his first battle. “The field is ours. The Norse are defeated!”
SEVEN
25 September, Stamford Bridge
Grimacing, Scalpi pointed down the slope towards the river. “I fear not, son. There’s no victory yet. We have but won the first encounter. Look,” he panted. “They retreat in good order; there is no panic. Tostig has raised his banner; he has rallied them. My guess is they will cross the river to reform on the other side.”
Standing nearby, Gyrth overheard them. His face was covered in blood, the result of a wicked-looking gash just under the rim of his helmet. “Your father is right, boy. They cannot bear the taste of defeat. I’d say they will hold out until their reinforcements arrive.”
“So we must destroy them before that happens.” Harold strode up to them, sweating profusely but otherwise looking as fresh as he had at the start of the day. “Gyrth, rouse the men. We must press home our advantage. There is much slaughter still to be done before we can call the day ours.”
Gyrth spread his arms wide, taking in the expanse of warriors on both sides. “Look around you, brother. The men are exhausted. They need rest from this furnace-like heat.”
“I know, Gyrth but there is no time. If we tarry too long, the Riccall men will come and then their two forces combined may be too strong for us. We must attack them now.”
Scalpi intervened. “Their king is dead, Lord. Perhaps the fight has gone out of them? Maybe they will seek terms?”
“They will only come back again next year with a new leader and more ships. Besides, Tostig is still with them. I will not have him free to roam where he will, causing trouble. Not while Duke William threatens us in the south. He is a warrior of renown and too proud to ask for a truce. I should know; it’s a trait that runs in the family.”
Gyrth continued to press the case. “Nevertheless, Lord, the men need time to recover. To attack now would be folly.”
“To wait for them to be reinforced, or allow them to escape, would be a greater folly. Get the churls to bring up water skins and ale. Pass out whatever bread and other food we have. They can eat and drink as they march.”
Slowly, the Saxons began to follow the retreating enemy down the slope. Already, a good proportion of their host had been herded across the bridge as fast as its narrow span would allow. But with only two or three men able to walk abreast, it had become a vast bottleneck. Many Vikings still swarmed around its entrance, waiting for their turn to cross, all the while looking anxiously over their shoulders at the advancing Saxons. Some, in their desperation to escape the coming slaughter, had chosen to swim, but the river was wide and fast-flowing, so only the strongest swimmers could make it. Several men had been swept away by the current, arms thrashing ever more weakly as they struggled in vain to stay afloat.
By the time Harold’s advance guard reached the river, most of them had reached the other side or had drowned trying. Those few that were left were swiftly put to the sword after little more than token resistance. With those few souls dispatched, Harold immediately began to harangue his captains and thegns to cross the bridge.
Thurkill and his father were near the front, a few ranks back from the riverbank, but it soon became clear that the way forward was blocked. No one was moving, though there was much shouting, cursing and shoving from those in front and behind.
“Boy, can you see what’s happening? Why is no one moving?”
Thurkill spied a fallen tree trunk nearby. Clambering up, he looked ahead to the bridge. “There’s a Norseman on the bridge, father.”
“What? Just one?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand. Why in the name of God does someone not kill him?”
“I don’t think it’s as simple as that. You should see him. He’s as tall and as wide as their king and twice as angry by the looks of it. He has one of those massive war axes and knows how to use it from what I can see. What’s more, he’s one of the few that’s wearing a mailshirt.”
“Surely it can’t be that hard to kill him?”
“Several have tried and failed already, father. There’s bodies everywhere on the bridge, and still more in the water. Oh!”
“What?”
“There goes another one.” As Thurkill spoke, they heard a short scream followed by a heavy splash as another huscarl fell from the bridge, his right forearm left behind on the bridge, still gripping his sword.
Moments later, Harold arrived shouting up to Thurkill for news. “Send for the archers. Shoot him down,” he ordered as soon as Thurkill had explained the situation.
“That is not possible, brother.”
Harold’s face flushed bright red with indignation. “Don’t presume to tell me what can or can’t be done, Gyrth. Fetch the ar
chers up here now!”
“It is not possible, Lord, because they are not here. They have loosed all their arrows, so we left them back on the field to forage for spent shafts. It will take them a good while to arrive.”
Harold roared in anger and stormed off towards the bridge. “Swarm him then. Kill him, now! We cannot delay any further.”
Another wave surged forward on to the bridge in response to the king’s demands. The result was the same, however, as the width of the wooden span played into the hands of the defender. Though it was wider enough for two, maybe three, men to walk side by side, there was only really space for one to properly wield a weapon. The bodies on the bridge only made matters worse by impeding the next man’s attempts to close in on the Viking axeman.
Two more huscarls went forward, working as a pair. The first man moved in close with his sword held in front of him, while the second stood back, seeking the opportunity to thrust his spear point into any exposed part of the body. Such was the Norseman’s skill, however, that even this failed to dent his defiance. Thurkill had to admire the man’s ability. He had settled into an easy rhythm – parry and strike, parry and strike – and showed no sign of tiring. And all the while the Saxons were held up here, the remainder of the enemy host had ample time to form a new defensive line a few hundred paces beyond.
As Thurkill watched, growing more and more impatient, something caught his eye, giving him the germ of an idea.
Grabbing Scalpi’s arm, he led him fifty paces up stream before making their way down the pitted slope to the edge of the water. It was an area thick with undergrowth, shielding them from sight.
Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2 Page 6
