by C. R. May
Finn shrugged. ‘None said it would be easy, the men of Trondheim never did shrink from a fight. But the Danes have all but cleared the first row of ships — once their flags are seen aboard the king’s dragon it should go quickly as the rest lose heart.’
Under attack now from three directions, the men on the ships immediately before him were beginning to show the first signs that they thought the day, barely birthed, was already lost. Allied to his own attack, the threat of encirclement was now very real as the outflanking Hallanders to the east began to pour volleys of spears and arrows onto the rear of the defenders, and Finn watched gleefully as the rearmost of king Harald’s ships began to hack through the ropes which bound them together and prepared to flee.
The captured dragon was filled with his men now, with more crowding the bows of his own ships as they too sought to carry shield and spear against the foe. The attack had to be followed up quickly and the jarl filled his lungs, raising his sword to the brightening sky as he bellowed the words which would unleash them again:
Onward! Onward! Freemen!
The battle cry was the sign for those following on to unleash a barrage of spears at the defenders. The darts flashed overhead in a blur of movement to bury themselves in the opposing shields with a hollow thunk, and the moment he knew that the last had been released Finn was leading the charge across the deck. The volley had caused havoc among those lining the side of the next longship in the defence, and the jarl saw the panic and indecision in the eyes of Hardrada’s men as they wrestled with the conflicting needs to remove the spears from their shield faces and brace the great board to receive the attack. In truth they had no time to act before the leading attackers were upon them, and all along the line men were stomping on spear shafts to open up the defenders. As the boards were dragged forward and down by the action, others were already moving in to stab and thrust at the now exposed faces and upper bodies of the defenders. Thorvald Helgison was just ahead of his lord, and as the blade of his war axe came down Finn made ready to strike. The beard of the axe hooked a shield rim, and as the board was tugged down and away Finn’s sword flashed to transfix its first victim that day. Before the man could fall Finn was leaping the wales, crashing to the enemy deck as his sword continued to hack to left and right. A spear point hardened from the scrum and he made to duck, but the haft of an axe came up to knock the blade up and away before it could pierce his neck and Finn knew that Thorvald was back at his side.
As the rest of his guardsmen leapt aboard to widen the breach, Finn snatched a quick look along the line. The enemy shield fort had been pierced in several places, and the defenders were moving back to back in their desperation to survive the onslaught. Already the next wave of attackers were channelling through as they kept up the momentum of the attack they called the Snow-slip. All men of Norway had witnessed such a thing on the steep sided slopes of home; starting off as barely a ripple in the snow cover high on the mountainside, the fall quickly gathered strength as it moved downhill until very soon it became a roaring wave which swept all before it. By leapfrogging forward even before the first enemy deck had been cleared of foemen, Finn’s assault quickly developed into such an unstoppable force. Men who thought themselves safe in the rear only moments before found to their surprise and consternation that the enemy were already upon them, and as the attack snowballed resistance to it grew increasingly ragged until it collapsed completely.
The familiar sound of spearpoints thudding into shield faces dragged Finn’s attention back to the front, and as the jarl watched the wide boards were dragged down and sword and spear blades danced again. In moments the second wave were over the side, forcing their way aboard the next longship in the fighting platform as they drove the attack forward. Finn opened his mouth to call his fighters together, but a glance told him that the struggle here was already over and the men were set to go. The jarl’s sword jabbed the air again, but the exiles did not wait for his lead as the war cry came again and they set off across the deck.
Men were still locked in death-duels as Finn and his crewmen came over the side, but they were ignored as the fighters pushed their way past and fixed their eyes on the next ship in line. Already Finn could see that the Snow-slip was working as the number of enemy shields facing them began to lessen with every deck cleared, and he spied a breach as the javelins hissed overhead once again and led his men towards it. Again his sword came down as he leapt the gap between the ships, the blade lopping off the top of a skull before his victim had time to raise his shield to ward off the blow, but there was no time to watch the man fall as a flash of movement caused him to drag his own shield upwards. Faster than a heartbeat the crack of splintering wood filled his ears as a powerful strike knocked him sideways, and although stunned by the force of the blow years of experience caused the jarl to throw his shoulder into the back of the board as he sought to close with his attacker. With the side of his face now flattened against the back of the shield Finn felt a kick of relief as he saw the toe of an axe blade little more than an inch before his nose, and he twisted the board to trap it there as his feet scrabbled for purchase on the wallowing deck. He could sense the desperation of his attacker through the boards of his shield as the man worked to free the weapon, but Finn’s sword was already coming up, sawing back and forth as he worked the blade around the rim to stab where his face should be. An agonised roar cut the air the moment the enemy blade came free, and Finn took a backward pace as his housecarls flowed around him. Thorvald, his axe blade dripping with gore bustled to his side, and the reason for the unexpected disappearance of his opponent became obvious the moment that Finn glanced down, the fist still gripping the axe and the shattered stump of a forearm all that remained in sight of his assailant.
As the last defenders were driven back and javelins were raised to open the assault on the next ship in line, the jarl grabbed the opportunity to raise his head and look beyond it. His eyes widened as he did so, and he came to realise just how close the headlong rush had carried them in such a short time. There, three hulls distant, lay the prize that everyman in the fleet was fighting towards, the longship containing king Harald gleaming like a newly hammered nail in the soft August light canting from the East. Constructed the previous winter on the strand up at Nidaros, the Ormen was a giant of thirty-five oar benches — seventy rowers all-found. As befitted her name the prow was surmounted by a gilded dragon head above a gilt bow, the golden sides streaked red with the blood of axe and spearmen telling the tale of the desperate fighting which had taken place that night. Upriver the ship’s stern curled into an enormous dragon tail, and beneath it Finn saw the bear-like figure of the Norwegian king for the first time in a year or more beneath Land-waster, the hated raven war flag of Oðinn, the false god of their ancestors.
Egil spoke, echoing Finn’s fears as they watched the fighting reach its climax. ‘King Sweyn is aboard the Ormen lord,’ he said sadly. ‘It looks as if we will have to content ourselves with witnessing the tyrant’s fall from afar.’ Finn looked and knew in his heart that his banner man spoke truthfully. The war flag of king Sweyn was already amidships, every foot of decking between the dragon headed prow and the mast fish crammed with the white shields of Denmark. He was about to reply when Egil spoke again, the shock in his voice profound. ‘Jarl Hakon has men cutting the ropes binding him to the Ormen!’ As Finn switched his gaze to the steering platform of the Trondheim ship, Thorvald Helgison voiced his disgust. ‘Hakon Ivarsson abandoning his lord at the time of greatest need.’ The huge housecarl spat. ‘What more can you expect of Tronds?’
Finn was about to say his piece when he saw the reason for the assumed betrayal. ‘No,’ he said as an arm came up to point. ‘He has taken young Olaf Haraldsson on board, he means to save the boy.’
The trio looked on as the ship finally managed to break free from the ropes which bound her to the king’s dragon and began to pull upstream. As the northern ship moved away Finn spoke again: ‘Egil?’
�
�Yes, lord?’
‘Sound the horn to end the fighting. We cannot reach the Ormen now that the jarl’s ship has removed the bridge: we are killing fellow Norwegians for no gain.’
As the falling note filled the air and the two sides backed away, both sets of fighting men turned their heads to the North, awestruck that they must soon bear witness to the death of the man who had always seemed indestructible. The Danes were closing in as more and more of king Sweyn’s housecarls swarmed aboard the Ormen and fought their way aft. The ship on the far side of Hardrada’s had already been cleared of Norwegian defenders, and a knot of Danish bowmen were gathered at the stern loosing shaft after shaft at the outflanked king’s guard. With a final surge the Landøyðan went down, blades flashed in the morning light, and hoarse cries of victory mixed with the lamentations of defeat as they saw the king was dead.
Finn’s mind wandered back over the years as a wistful mood gripped them all, and his gaze drifted across to the slight figure of the king’s son as jarl Hakon’s ship burst through the final Danish defences and pulled for deeper water. As a younger man Finn had followed Harald’s half-brother Olaf into exile among the Rus: returning together they had fought to reclaim his throne in battle at a place called Stiklestad. Olaf had been killed, but young Harald Sigurdsson had fought alongside them and got away with his life. That Harald’s treachery had made them enemies he regretted, but the blood feud was over, the tyrant dead, and peace could return to a northern kingdom now set to be ruled by a twelve year old lad.
Afterword
Most who have any knowledge of the events leading up to the battles in 1066, know that Harald Hardrada made his reputation and fortune in the service of the rulers in Constantinople. However few realise that he returned from the South fully twenty years before he finally met his death fighting against Harold Godwinson’s army outside York. These were years of constant warfare as Harald sought to bring the Danish kingdom under Norwegian rule following the collapse of Cnut the Great’s empire, which had included not only Denmark and Norway but England too. All the main protagonists in the above story were well known to one another, sometime friends and allies; not only had the kings Harald and Sweyn campaigned together against the previous king Magnus the Good, an illegitimate son of Harald’s half-brother Olaf, they were in fact uncle and nephew. It would take a full size book to tell the story of those years and this is not the place, but suffice to say that Harald Sigurdsson earned the nickname Hardrada, Hard-ruler, during this period of his life by being the meanest snake in a nest of adders.
The battle at the River Niså happened largely as told in the tale above. It seems that the date and time had been arranged between the two kings for a final showdown, and that either by accident or design the Danes arrived late. Harald had by then sent home the half of his fleet composed of the bondaherrin of the regional levy, retaining only his senior men and full time warriors as he prepared to harry king Sweyn’s kingdom as he had practically every summer for almost two decades. Outnumbered two to one and trapped in the bay, Harald roped his ships together and waited for the Danes to attack. In the real battle Harald either stationed his second in command Hakon Ivarsson of Trondheim on the southern wing of the formation or held him in reserve, while king Sweyn kept his own second, Finn Arnason, close by in the centre of the battle line, perhaps to ensure the loyalty of the Norwegian exile who was not only married to Hardrada’s niece but a one time staunch supporter of the king. They fought throughout the night, but as daybreak approached and the Norwegians began to give way, a boat was sent to Hakon ordering him to launch his attack. The Norwegian ships were generally larger and their occupants seasoned veterans, and when they came upon the weaker Danish ships they quickly rolled up the line. King Sweyn escaped, but Finn Arnason refused to flee and was captured.
By switching the dispositions of the opposing fleets I was able to reverse the result of the battle for my reworking of history. With the Norwegian leaders now concentrated at the centre of the fighting and unable to react to changing circumstances, the superior Danish numbers are decisive. Finn Arnason now leads the outflanking force, moving around to crush the weaker ships on the Norwegian wings. Already outnumbered and having fought through the night, Hardrada’s fleet is overwhelmed and the king killed.
In reality the Danes and Norwegians realised that they had fought each other to a standstill, the two kings concluding an unconditional peace treaty two years later in 1064. By this pact both kings recognised the other as rightful ruler in their respective kingdoms, foregoing any claims to reparations of land or treasure and exchanging prisoners. Without an enemy to fight for the first time since his early teens the warlike Harald Hardrada would become a magnet attracting disaffected nobles looking for heavyweight support to repair their fortunes; within two years Tostig, the ousted earl of Northumbria and brother of the English king Harold Godwinson, duly arrived in Oslo.
In our timeline Harald Sigurdsson’s son, the twelve year old Olaf who was present at the battle, becomes king on the death of his father at Niså, just as he did in 1066 after Harald’s death in England. With the boy who was to become known to history as Olaf the Peaceable already on the throne in Norway any threat to Northern England is removed, and free from Norwegian raids king Sweyn of Denmark can confidently send even greater numbers of Danish troops to aid his kinsman Harold Godwinson than he did in reality. William of Normandy would have faced not a tired and depleted force at Hastings, but the full might of an English army fighting on home soil, reinforced by large numbers of elite Danish housecarls.
2
THE EXILE
London - April 1057
Edward sighed with contentment and stretched out, wedging a foot to lever off one riding boot after the other. Turning aside he took up a stoup and toasted his friend in the unfamiliar tongue: ‘Wæs hæl, biscop!’
His companion chuckled with delight, before making the customary reply to the English salute with a gleam in his eye: ‘Drinc hæl, Éadweard! Heahgeweorc!’
The pair shared a knowing look, and Edward shook with laughter as the older man translated the latest addition to his slowly increasing vocabulary into Magyar: ‘Heahgeweorc! — Excellent!’
Edward Edmundson shook his head in dismay. ‘I do not even know my own tongue, bishop.’ He took a sip of wine and sighed. ‘I would be lost here without your guidance. You have the heartfelt gratitude of myself and my family for accompanying us to our homeland.’
The conversation was cut short as a shadow fell across the pair, and the ætheling glanced up to see that one of their Hungarian servants was hovering at his side. Edward indicated that she should speak with the flick of a finger.
‘Lady Agatha sends her apologies, lord. She asks if Bishop Beneta could spare a few moments to help with the food we have been served.’ The ætheling’s eyes widened in question and the woman explained. ‘The children are reluctant to try most of the dishes….’ She hesitated before settling on a reason which she hoped would cause as little offence as possible; in time her master looked set to become the king of this land after all. ‘They are unfamiliar with many of the ingredients and the manner in which they have been prepared.’
Edward caught a fleeting look of resignation flash across the face of his friend and pulled a sympathetic smile. As one of the few people in that distant land who was fluent in English, he had been the natural choice to accompany the party when the invitation had arrived from the Confessor’s court. His sense of duty had compelled him to make the journey from Rekavar, but at nearly seventy years of age his old bones deserved a rest.
Edward regarded the servant as the bishop prepared to rise. ‘Tell my wife that he will be along as soon as he feels refreshed.’
The woman hesitated and pulled a face.
Edward chuckled. ‘Not good enough?’
The maid winced and shifted uncomfortably. ‘The lady was rather insistent, lord.’
Bishop Beneta pulled a wry smile and began to lever himself out of the ch
air. Patting the prince on the arm for his efforts, he shuffled off with the grateful looking retainer.
Left alone, the man the English were calling Edward the Exile settled back and sipped chilled wine as the waters of the River Thames flowed by beneath him. From his vantage point he could see the great span of London bridge which linked the city to the burh of Southwark. He had marvelled at its great size as they had crossed into the city from the southern bank only that morning, and had eagerly searched for signs of the desperate fighting which had occurred there during the wars of his father and grandfather. It was a mark of that chaotic time in England that the bridge had been defended that day by spear Danes. Forty-three years previously the English king, his own grandfather Æthelræd, had stormed the crossing as his ally the Norwegian Olaf Haraldsson had attacked the bridge from downriver. The central span had been destroyed in the attack, and Edward smiled as a rhyme he had heard in Kiev celebrating the fighting that day drifted into his mind:
London Bridge is broken down,
Gold is won and bright renown,
Shields resounding,
War Horns sounding,
Hildur shouting in the din.
Arrows singing,
Mail coats ringing,
