by Jorvik- A thrilling tale of Viking Britain (retail) (epub)
‘Pig’s snout!’ yelled Sigurd. It was not an insult but an instruction. A number of his men formed themselves into a wedge-shaped pack and edged forth to try and break through the English shield-wall, the man at the tip of the wedge intending to hack a breech which would then be widened by others in the wedge. But this time it did not work. Mounted skirmishers rode out from the English line to encircle and harass the pig’s snout with throwing spears until it crumbled and fell apart – and then the English charged with sword and spear and battle-axe, mouths yelling, eyes wild with hate and fear.
Under sheer weight of numbers the Norwegians were forced to give ground, but did so by the inch, trying to let those behind them get across the bridge and form a shield-wall around the leaders. Hardrada cursed himself for underestimating the strength of his opponent and watched from his horse with growing unease as the two sides clashed. Already the English were pressing the vikings back towards the bridge – that all-important bridge, for once the army had crossed it the Norsemen were considerably disadvantaged.
The battle screamed on for hours. Men were disembowelled, decapitated, destroyed, pushed backwards, ever backwards… Asketil was on his feet now, watching Sigurd’s practised strokes hack through English flesh and bone. The old man had the merry air of a butcher at his trade, face alight with resolution, cleaving joints and steaks and tripes, but the Norse wall around him was crumbling fast. Asketil grew concerned and knew at once that Sigurd was about to die. I should have made peace with him: I cannot let him die alone. He turned a haggard face on Mildryth, who guessed instinctively what he was about to do.
‘Do not be a fool, Til!’ With one arm, she fought to hold him back, riving at his tunic. ‘Think of your son!’
‘And what is my son to think of me if I watch my own father die and do nought? I have to help him, Mildryth.’ He kissed her long and hard – ‘God bless thee, lass!’ – then wrenched himself away, pelted over silvery-green cushions of moss and exploding thistleheads to where the meadow was slippery with gore. Mildryth had no second thoughts; she laid her baby amongst the ferns and chased after Til.
There were hundreds of weapons abandoned by the dead. Til paused only to grab a sword and raced headlong into the fray, lunging at the row of unsuspecting backs. Sigurd’s muscles begged to let go of the heavy axe whose twelve-inch blade arched back and forth, keeping the English at bay. Groin and armpit burnt with sweat, noseguard chafed and rubbed flesh raw, spine and shoulder groaned for mercy, yet the foe demanded more – and then here was a shoulder-comrade whose blade slashed energetically to right and left! Not a word passed his lips when he saw it was his son but the joy was evident in his eye and in the renewed vigour of his fighting. The faded dragons on his arms gained new power, lifting the axe again and again, crunching, splintering, rejoicing in the battle frenzy.
A woman’s scream rose above the grunts and snarls and roars, not a frightened cry for help but a scream of angry intent. Mildryth had picked up a spear, and used it to jab a passage towards her husband, caring not where it met the body, only that it did its job.
‘Go back!’ Sigurd and Asketil yelled almost in unison, but Mildryth came on, teeth bared – ‘Demons! Villains!’ The English could not know that she was not with the enemy and treated her as such.
‘You must get her away, Til!’ yelled Sigurd, maintaining his rhythmic axe-swing. ‘The English shall beat us. If you do not fall in battle you shall both be killed as traitors. Get her back across the bridge and away to my ship, it is your only hope!’
‘Mildryth can go but I will not leave you!’ shouted his son – just as an English sword caught Mildryth on the arm. Red bloomed upon the material of her sleeve and she dropped her weapon to clasp her limb.
‘Back! Back!’ With Til occupied Sigurd beat a maniacal path to Mildryth, shielded her with his body whilst she recovered then with rampant axe gaining safe retreat piloted her towards the bridge. ‘Take your husband and go, damn thee!’
‘We cannot go!’ cried Mildryth. ‘I have left my baby over this side!’
‘Then I will fetch him to you after the battle!’ panted a wild-eyed Sigurd. ‘He will be safe enough over there – but go! Go, I say!’
Til grabbed his wife and tried to jostle a way through the confusion on the bridge – every viking was attempting to get across at the same time, eager to join their fellows to regroup. Somehow, by pushing and shoving they eventually escaped from the stinking tangle of male flesh and found themselves on the other side where Hardrada waited to inflict a second wave of violence should the English break through.
Every viking was across the bridge now and streaming up the hill on the other side – all save one. Asketil marvelled how the old man could produce such berserk energy to maintain that deadly swing of blade. The bridge was the only feasible method of crossing the river, its waters too deep for men to wade across; the obstruction had to be removed. Ten, twenty, thirty men fell under that great curved blade; Sigurd was euphoric.
Upriver, an enterprising Englishman found a swill-tub. Whilst his fellows risked their lives against the threshing axe, he devised an easier method of removing the obstacle. Dropping the tub into the water he jumped inside it and began to drift towards the bridge.
Imbued with such energy, Sigurd felt he could last forever. Mildryth! Mildryth! chanted his brain. He glanced over his shoulder to see if she and Til had got away, saw her blonde hair fluttering about her anxious face as she stood on the far bank, hypnotized by his brave performance. ‘Get you gone!’ he yelled, knowing that when the English broke his hold she would be trampled. ‘Go!’ But his voice was lost on the manic roar. He raised his axeblade one more time – then grunted, shivered from head to toe, lips pursed, eyebrows raised.
In the split second that the old warrior had removed his concentration from the battle, a swill-tub drifted underneath the bridge. With calm precision the Englishman inserted his vicious winged blade up through the chinks in the wooden planking and with one mighty lung of its ashen shaft, impaled the brave old man where he stood. Til cried out in horror and anguish, Mildryth too, their voices merging in the battle-madness. Sigurd hung there, balanced on tiptoe, the lance skewering bowels and belly, unable to fall, nor move. Then the look of indignance faded to opacity, his dead weight wrenched the spear from the Englishman’s hold, there was the creak of splintering wood from the bridge as he went crashing down. Asketil, crouched in agony, felt the barbs rip through his own guts, turned and retched…
The English poured over the bridge in a wave of triumphant yelling, trampling the hero underfoot, and the battle continued on the other side – continued throughout the afternoon. Low in the sky, the sun lost its heat and cast long shadows, turning the struggling figures to giants. In adjacent pastures the lowing kine wended their way home, eager for the milkmaid’s touch. Seeing his army dwindling to nought Hardrada went berserk and in a last burst of passion killed dozens before this great warrior, too, fell to an English arrow.
The battle came to a lull; it appeared that Harold Godwinsson was about to offer his brother peace – a desperate Asketil prayed that this were so, for on the far side of the river a baby cried. But the Norsemen were far too enraged to allow any quarter and at this precise moment reinforcements arrived from the ships. Breathless though they were from having run all the way in their mail, they waded into the quagmire of destruction. A weary Tostig picked up Hardrada’s fallen standard and battle began anew.
Towards evening Tostig died, adding to the thick pile of carrion in the glistening meadow. With their leaders fallen the soldiers were honour-bound to avenge those who had given them protection, and so fought on. Now that Sigurd was dead, Asketil felt no commitment to either side and with Mildryth had removed himself to watch and listen to the carnage from afar. They held each other tight and wondered did the baby sleep or was he dead.
‘Oh, God!’ Mildryth’s dusty face was streaked with tears, her wounded arm bound with a rag. She tore at her hair and rocked back and for
th. ‘Will this bloody battle never end?’
Hollow of heart and eye, Asketil could only hug her more tightly, staring through the failing light at the crumpled pile of bodies upon the bridge, one of which was his father.
The battle that had started in the morning ended at dusk, the pulverized ranks of Hardrada’s army breaking away to flee the battlefield. They were hounded all the way back to their ships where some were drowned and others burnt to death. Under cover of darkness Asketil waded through the bloody malodorous fields where bloated flies escaped the evening chill in the cavities of those upon whom they had gorged throughout the day. Pausing on the bridge to kneel by Sigurd he touched his father’s hair. The brow was icy, the eyes not sparkling in the night as were his own, but dull with grit. Amongst the litter of splintered shields and bent swords he picked up Sigurd’s axe, distinctive with its fine tracery of coiled snakes upon the blade. A baby cried, reminding Til why he had come here. Using his palm to wipe away tears and mucus he crept on towards the English camp, hiding the axe before he arrived and following the sound of the ravenous Elfin.
He found the babe – in an Englishman’s arms. The troops had come across the squalling infant and adopted him as mascot. They were not so well-disposed towards his father.
When Asketil did not return in what seemed like hours, Mildryth could wait no longer and, disturbing feasting vermin, hurried through the grisly meadow to find him. Thus, both were taken captive by the English, accused of fighting on the side of the enemy and threatened with death. But Harold Godwinsson was not a man to glory in unnecessary carnage. Acquainted with Asketil and Mildryth’s sorry plight he allowed them to remain in his camp without fear until morning, when Hardrada’s son Olav came to give himself up with the two young Earls of Orkney, who had escaped only because they had been left in charge of the ships. Instead of killing them, Harold extracted a promise that they would never attack England again and in return allowed them to take what ships they needed to get the survivors home.
Asketil, Mildryth and the baby were accorded the same mercy, but Til was to lose his rank, his house and land and be sent into exile. He considered it a small price to pay for their lives, but did however ask one more boon of Harold. ‘Great King, can I prevail upon your kindness to lend me a horse so that I may carry my father’s body home for burial in Jork?’
When informed who Til’s father was, Harold breathed recognition. ‘Ah, the mighty Sigurd. Would that he had fought on our side. We might have suffered fewer losses.’
‘Would that he had never fought at all,’ murmured Asketil. ‘Then I would not be burying him today.’
Harold nodded. ‘I will give you a wagon to transport your dead hero to Jorvik.’
Numbed by immense grief and the horrors they had seen, few words passed between Asketil and Mildryth as the wagon carried Sigurd to his final resting place. The moment they reached Jorvik Asketil gave a last order to his servants, telling them to dig a grave whilst he rushed off to buy a fitting headstone for such an heroic warrior.
As he and Mildryth knelt to pay their last respects he found the courage to smile. ‘My father would think it amusing – here is the King thinking he does me great hurt by sending me into exile when all my life I have wanted to live elsewhere!’
A tearful Mildryth smiled too. ‘We must hurry if we are not to be left behind.’
Til nodded and rose with purpose. One last grieving look at the stone cross, and he was on his way.
There was nothing to load upon the borrowed wagon, only themselves, the baby, and as much food as they could carry. A mood of urgency accompanied them all the way to Richale – would the ships be gone without them? But urgency could not lend speed to the heavy-limbed horse who insisted on going at his own pace. Following the route of the river, they passed a host of captured dragonships being rowed by the English back to Jorvik. The victors cheered and waved to them. They retained an air of reserve, looking straight ahead and earning curses from the insulted soldiers.
At Richale they feared that they were too late. The only occupants of the river were coot and waterhen. But Asketil’s blood was up. ‘We cannot be that far behind them!’ he urged his despondent wife. ‘Let us try to catch them up – we must catch them up or swim to our destination!’
Miles, they travelled along that riverbank. Elfin started to cry and even after being fed kept up his insistent wail until a despairing Mildryth rubbed her throbbing head and sighed, ‘It is no good, Til! It will be dark soon. You must accept that they have gone. We can always return to Jorvik and find a ship to take us.’
‘What fool would take us in autumn?’ demanded her angry husband, venting his pique on the horse by whipping its fat rump, but failing to speed its gait. ‘I shall never return to Jorvik, never!’ – and then he rose in his seat and pointed excitedly. A serpent was just disappearing around the bend in the river! Cursing the horse Asketil jumped down and raced along the bank. More bowed sterns came into view, around two dozen in all – twenty-four ships out of three hundred! Til began to hail Olav and his pitiful survivors – ‘Hey, wait for us!’ – and ran, heedless of the briar and thistle that tore at his garters. The pilot of the last in line, a cargo ship, looked round, saw him and hauled into the bank to wait, whence Til made frantic summons at Mildryth to hurry with the wagon. It would prove useful for their new life, and King Harold could spare it.
When the cart was dismantled and stowed on board, the oarsmen coaxed their dragon to follow the pack. Sharing a look that was a mixture of relief, sorrow and excitement, Asketil and Mildryth were on their way, bound for the glorious fjords with their son Elfin who would beget a gentler breed of Norseman, leaving Jorvik to one who had loved it: Sigurd – the last viking.
Author’s Note
Although Harald of Norway was not known by his nickname Hardrada until well after his death, I have used this name in order to more easily distinguish him from Harold of England. Similarly, I have employed the Old English title of ealdorman rather than the Danish eorl to avoid confusion with the higher rank of earl. Apart from Jorvik, most of the place names are in the Anglo-Saxon form.
Place Names
Ӕgelsburg – Aylesbury, Bucks.
Assandun – Ashingdon, Essex
Bathum – Bath
Brytland – Wales
Conyngstrete – Coney Street, York
Corcaig – Cork
Dyflinn – Dublin
Dyflinnstein – lost place in York, situated north of North Street
Earlsburh – residence of the Northumbrian earls, on which site was later built St Mary’s Abbey
Eochaill – Youghal
Elrondyng – the Multangular Tower
Fuleford – Fulford
Gœignesburh – Gainsborough, Lincs.
Gleawanceaster – Gloucester
Grenewic – Greenwich
Hedeby – lost market town in Denmark, replaced by Schleswig
Humbre – Humber
Jorvik – York
Lindissi – Lindsey, Lincs.
Nidaros – Trondheim, Norway
Osboldewic – Osbaldwick, York
Oxnaford – Oxford
Richale – Riccall, Yorks.
Sœfern – Severn
Skarthaborg – Scarborough
Stiklarstadir – Stiklestad, Norway
Stanfordbrycg – Stamford Bridge, Yorks.
Steinngata – Stonegate, York
Tathaceaster – Tadcaster, Yorks.
Temes – Thames
Treante – Trent
Use – Ouse
Varangian Sea – Baltic
Wœringwicumshire – Warwickshire
Walbegata – Walmgate, York
Weorgornaceaster – Worcester
Wintanceaster – Winchester
Glossary
The following list is a mixture of Old Norse, Old English and Irish terms
biarki – little bear
brok – breeches
bryd-guma – bridegroom
drengr – brave, worthy man
ealdorman – king’s representative acting between monarch and people
finn-gall – fair foreigner
fostri – foster father, foster son etc.
fyrd – the King’s militia
gemot – meeting
hnefatafl – board game
hersir – a landed nobleman
jarl – earl
kerling – old woman
kotsetlan – cottagers owing service to their lord
langskips – longships
lochlannach – men of the land of lakes and rivers
morgengyfu – morning gift
nithing – a man without honour
shire-reeve – sheriff
skald – poet
skoari – cobbler
skyr – porridge
sokemen – superior landowning peasant
thegn – nobleman owning more than five hides of land. A king’s thegn owed duties to the monarch and might have thegns of his own
thrall – slave
ves-heill! – a salutation meaning ‘Be in good health!’
wapentake (vapnatak) – a subdivision of land, also the legal assembly of that subdivision
wealas – foreigners
witan – council
Bibliography
P. Brent: The Viking Saga (Weidenfeld & Nicolson)
J. Bronsted: The Vikings (Penguin, 1960)
J. G. Campbell: The Viking World (Windward, 1989)
D. C. Douglas: William the Conqueror (Eyre and Spottiswood 1964)
C. E. Fell: Jorvikinga Saga (Cultural Resource Management, York, 1984)
G. N. Garmonsway, trans.: The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle (Dent, 1972)
R. Hall: The Viking Dig (Bodley Head, 1984)
