The Fate of a King, page 16
‘We have lost thousands,’ said Edwin, anticipating Geldson’s thoughts. ‘Good men, Mercian and Northumbrian. They answered the call, but we were found wanting. We have to regroup and see what we can do to muster another army.’
‘You will have to do that without me,’ said Geldson. ‘I have to get to York before these heathens get there.’
‘You do not have the men to defend York,’ said Edwin.
‘I do not go to defend it,’ said Geldson, ‘but to see if there are arrangements to be made to stop any slaughter.’
‘You mean to surrender?’ asked Edwin. ‘After all this?’
‘Most of York’s young men are laying in pools of their own blood down there,’ said Geldson, nodding towards the battlefield, ‘and the city is populated with only the old and families. There is no way we can even begin to resist, so we have to do whatever we can to stop any more killing. If that means surrendering the city, then so be it. We tried, Earl Edwin, but now it is time to seek other solutions.’
‘I understand,’ said Edwin, ‘but there is yet hope for if Harold is the sort of king he claims to be, then help is on its way.’
‘I hope so,’ said Geldson, ‘for I will tell you this, if he cannot stop this swarm of inhumanity, then England is surely lost.’
* * *
Just outside London, Harold and Owen rode along the road towards the head of the column assembled to ride north. Each rider had a spare horse carrying enough food and water for several days, which would be used to share the load in what was expected to be a hard drive. Hundreds of foot soldiers had been despatched days earlier, as well as hundreds of wagons containing supplies and spare weapons, but there was no doubt that the horsemen would reach York first, probably passing the infantry before the following day’s sun had set.
‘Are we ready?’ he asked Owen as he rode.
‘As ready as we will ever be,’ said Owen. ‘Every landowner from here to Tadcaster will have received word of your coming by tomorrow night, and we will pick up their fyrds as we pass.’
‘Then we shall waste no more time,’ said Harold. ‘Let us get out of here.’ He nodded to his signaller, and after the sound of the advance filled the air, Harold dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and galloped out onto the northern road, its strong foundations laid by a different invading force almost a thousand years earlier.
* * *
In Bosham, Edyth Swanneck emerged from her manor accompanied by her lady-servant. The wagons had been loaded, and her house staff were all mounted, ready for the arduous journey to London. Since Harold had left, her mind had never been clearer, and even though she knew he would be long gone by the time she arrived in the family manor in Southwark, at least she would be there to greet him when he arrived back from the north.
‘Are you sure about this, my lady?’ asked Greenway for the third time that morning. ‘If there is to be war, then I would suggest that London is a far more lucrative prize than Bosham, and I think you would be far safer here, at least until it is all over.’
‘My place is at my husband’s side,’ said Edyth, ‘and though I baulked at the situation, God has cleared my mind. I have no doubt that he will return victorious, and when he does, I will be waiting for him. Now mount up, master steward, there is a long road ahead of us.’
A few moments later, Edyth Swanneck and her household, protected by the few huscarls still at Bosham, set out towards London, determined to display their absolute support for Harold Godwinson, King of England.
Chapter Eighteen
Tadcaster, 24 September, AD 1066
Four days after the Battle of Fulford, King Harold rode his horse at the head of his huscarls through the gates at Tadcaster. They had made good time on the well-kept northern road, riding deep into each night to get there as soon as they could. Behind them, stretched over several leagues, was his ever-growing army, its numbers increasing with every village they passed.
The wooden palisades surrounding the town were fully manned by the residents living there, but the many pitchforks, homemade lances, and scythes on view showed they would be no match for any army that might try to gain entry.
As he passed through the gates, a delegation walked forward to greet him, having recognised the royal banners as they approached.
‘King Harold,’ gasped one of the elderly men as Harold reined in his horse, ‘thank God you are here.’
‘We came as soon as we heard the news,’ said Harold. ‘Who is in charge here?’
‘That is me,’ said the man, ‘my name is Swanworth, and I have been appointed temporary constable while our masters are away.’
‘Where have they gone?’ asked Harold, fearing the worst.
‘They joined Earl Edwin as he took his army to fight the heathen, your grace. That was four days ago, but alas, we have received news that they suffered a heavy defeat.’
Harold looked around at all the frightened faces peering down at him from the palisade.
‘Have you seen any of the enemy?’ he asked, turning back to Swanworth.
‘They have not come here yet,’ said the old man, ‘some say they headed straight up to York, but we are afraid to leave.’
‘I need somewhere to stay for tonight,’ said Harold, ‘and my men and horses will need shelter and food. Do you have enough to share?’
‘Whatever we have is yours,’ said the man. ‘I will make the arrangements. In the meantime, there is room in the market hall for you and all your huscarls.’
‘Good,’ said Harold. ‘Are there any men here who survived the battle?’
‘No,’ said Swanworth, ‘for I am told there are Viking patrols behind every tree and every bush. I believe those that did survive are still with Earl Edwin, wherever he may be.’
‘Shame,’ said Harold, ‘I could have done with some first-hand reports.’
‘There is one man,’ said Swanworth, ‘but he is known as a scoundrel around here, and we wonder how it was that he escaped while many good men did not. We suspect cowardice.’
‘Once the horses are settled, bring him to me,’ said Harold.
‘As you wish, your grace,’ said Swanworth. ‘Please follow me.’
* * *
An hour later, Harold, Owen, and some of the king’s huscarls sat on a bench at a trestle table, eating bowls of simple but hearty potage. The room was busy as servants ran back and forth, trying to feed as many of the men as possible. Outside the hall, more men arrived by the hour, and the demand grew greater the longer the evening went on.
Up on the palisades, the locals had been replaced with Harold’s men. They watched out over the fields for any surprise attack from the Vikings. The townspeople were relieved that there were men of war prepared to defend them.
Before the meal was over, Harold saw a man enter at the far end of the hall, his head wounded and bandaged, and he limped heavily.
‘Is that him?’ Harold asked, pushing a piece of bread into his mouth.
‘It is,’ said Swanworth, and he beckoned one of the servants to bring him over.
‘What is your name?’ asked Harold as the young man approached.
‘Eric Millerson, your grace,’ said the young man. ‘My father baked the best bread in the north but marched with Lord Edwin to fight the Vikings.’
‘If he had half the bravery of his father, he would have died alongside his fellows,’ scowled the constable.
‘There is no bravery in dying for no reason,’ said Harold. He turned back to the young man.
‘So, did you also fight at Fulford?’ he asked.
‘I did, your grace,’ came the reply, ‘and I fought hard, I swear I did, but there were just too many of them, and when everybody ran, so did I. I’m sorry, your grace, but they were killing everyone. Many threw themselves at the feet of the attackers, begging for mercy, but they were cut down without quarter, and if I had stayed, I too would now be dead.’ His face lowered, and he stared at the floor, thinking he was going to be punished for his cowardice.
‘I think he is lying, your grace,’ said the constable, ‘and seeks only sympathy.’
‘Show me your wounds,’ said Owen getting to his feet.
Millerson started to unwrap the dirty bandage from around his head. A few moments later, he revealed the injury, a huge bruise, and a large part of his scalp missing on the side of his head.
‘Were you hit with an axe?’ asked Owen.
‘I was,’ said Millerson, ‘but I ducked just in time and threw myself into the morass.’
‘You were lucky,’ said Owen. ‘That blow could have cleaved your head in two. What about your leg?’
‘My knee is swollen as big as a pig’s head where I was kicked,’ said Millerson. ‘Do you wish to see?’
‘No, we have seen enough,’ said Harold. ‘Have you eaten today?’
The man glanced at the potage in the centre of the table.
‘I had some bread and cheese yesterday,’ he replied, ‘but my father’s place has been locked, and I cannot get entry.’
‘Why is this?’ asked Harold, turning to the constable.
‘As I said,’ replied Swanworth, ‘his father was a man of good standing, but we suspect this man of being a coward. Until his father returns, we will reserve judgement.’
Harold stood up and ladled scoops of meat-rich potage into a bowl before turning back to the young man.
‘Join us,’ he said, ‘and eat your fill. I would rather have one man like you by my side than a hundred who did not even try.’ He turned back to Swanworth. ‘Once I have finished with this boy, have his wounds dressed with clean bandages, and return his family’s property to him immediately.’
‘But, your grace,’ said the constable, ‘you do not know him as we do. He has been nothing but trouble since the day he could walk.’
‘I know that he fought against the Vikings in my name,’ said Harold, ‘and that is enough for me. If he ruins the family business, then so be it, but for now, he enjoys my favour.’ He turned back to Millerson. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘I want to know everything you saw.’
* * *
For the next few hours, Harold and Owen questioned the boy about everything he had seen. Within minutes it was obvious that he had been there as there were many details about the Vikings that he could never have known. Once done, they sent him on his way and turned back to the matter at hand.
‘Tell me,’ said Owen to Swanworth, ‘up on the palisades, there were quite a few fighting men spread around the defences. Why did they not go with Edwin?’
‘They were tasked with staying here to protect the ships,’ said the constable.
‘What ships?’
‘There are many moored on the River Wharfe,’ said Swanworth. ‘Edwin and Morcar keep them here so they are easily accessible if they need to sail out into the Humber.’
‘And they are still fully manned?’
‘Yes, though at the moment, the crews are helping us on the palisades.’
‘Why would he leave so many men here,’ asked Harold, ‘instead of adding them to his ranks?’
‘I believe he intended them to sail down river and cut off the Vikings’ escape route once they had gone further up the Ouse, but that did not happen as the Vikings landed at Ricall a few leagues downstream and went overland.’
‘We could use them to aid us,’ said Owen, turning to the king. ‘It’s about time they earned their bread.’
‘I agree,’ said Harold, and he turned back to Swanworth. ‘You will pass the word for those men to muster at the city gates at dawn, as will any other man capable of wielding a weapon. Any able man that does not turn up will be hunted down and hung. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, your grace,’ said Swanworth.
‘Good, we are done here for now. If I think of anything else, I will send for you. You are dismissed.’
‘Thank you, your grace,’ said Swanworth, and he left the hall to return to his home.
‘What do you think?’ asked Owen when the constable had left.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Harold, ‘there is so little information to go on. For all we know, York is now occupied by a vast Viking army, and there is no way we are able to take a defended city.’
‘There is only one way to find out,’ said Owen, ‘and that is to send scouts.’
‘No,’ said Harold. ‘If we do that, and any are captured, we will lose the element of surprise. I would rather take the whole army, and if God is with us, we may even gain an advantage. How are our numbers?’
‘Our sergeants tell me we will have all our stragglers here by dawn,’ said Owen. ‘They will be tired but fit to fight.’
‘Good,’ said Harold, ‘in that case, I see no point in further delay. At first light, we march on York, and may God help us.’
Chapter Nineteen
York, 25 September, AD 1066
Harold and Owen rode slowly towards the gates of York, visible in the distance, their army spaced out in a spearhead formation behind them. Since leaving Tadcaster a few hours earlier, they had made slow but sure progress, but there had been no sign of any Vikings. Now they were nearing the city, and if there was to be a fight, it would probably be here.
‘There is no smoke,’ said Owen, ‘that is a good sign.’
‘I suspect the city surrendered,’ said the king. ‘They had already thrown the best men they had at the Vikings and they came up short. Why face even more death when the battle was already lost?’
‘I agree,’ said Owen, ‘but where are they?’
‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ said the king. ‘Look, the gates are opening.’ He held up his hand, and the army came to a stop. Everyone anticipated a huge Viking army to emerge, but instead, two mounted men bearing the banners of York rode out towards the southern army. A few minutes later, they came to a halt in front of the king.
‘Your grace,’ said one of the riders, ‘thank God himself you are here. We thought our days were over.’
‘Who are you?’ asked Owen.
‘My name is Lord Geldson,’ came the reply. ‘I served alongside Earl Edwin when he defeated your brother at the Humber River and again at the battle four days ago at Fulford. Alas, the latter was a defeat like I have never seen before.’
‘I heard as much,’ said the king. ‘Where is Edwin now?’
‘Returned to Mercia to lick his wounds,’ said Geldson. ‘The Vikings were rampant and gave no quarter. Never have I seen such slaughter.’
‘Where are they?’ asked Owen. ‘In the city?’
‘They are not,’ said Geldson. ‘There is not a single Viking within the walls, they have camped a few leagues away on the River Derwent.’
‘Why would they do that?’ asked the king. ‘They had just fought a great battle to secure York.’
‘I believe it was the influence of Lord Tostig, your grace,’ said Geldson. ‘I think he persuaded Hardrada that York was essential in his campaign to defeat you, and he needed it intact and on his side.’
‘And are you on his side?’ asked Owen.
‘Of course not,’ snapped Geldson, ‘and though there are only a handful of us left able to carry weapons, we will join you if it should come to a fight.’
‘Yet you surrendered,’ said the king.
‘There was no other option. We wanted to keep the women and children safe and prayed as hard as we could that you would come. Hostages have been exchanged, but they are waiting for more from further north. I believe Lord Tostig is arranging those, and they are due back here in a few days. Now you are here, our prayers have been answered, and our hearts lifted. You have our pledge, your grace, for I would rather die under your command than live under Viking rule.’
Harold looked back over his shoulder at his waiting army before turning to face Geldson.
‘What is the quickest route to the Viking camp?’
‘You could go around the city,’ said Geldson, ‘but the quickest road is straight through the heart of York and through the northern gate. On the other side, there is a road that leads straight to the river.’
‘Then that is the way we shall go,’ said the king.
‘You are going there now?’ asked Geldson.
‘Why wait,’ said Harold, ‘we have come all this way to face this Hardrada, so we may as well get it done. Can you lead us there?’
‘It will be my honour,’ said Geldson.
‘One more thing,’ said Harold, ‘this place where Hardrada has made his camp, does it have a name?’
‘It does,’ said Geldson. ‘They call it Stamford Bridge.’
* * *
On the River Derwent, Hardrada and Tostig sat against a fallen tree, an empty skin of wine between them. The last couple of days had been peaceful and had given their men a chance to recuperate after the hard-fought Battle of Fulford. Now, warmed by the late summer sun, the mood was high in the camp, and everyone took the opportunity to rest.
All around them, men lay sleeping on the grass or in the shade of the still leafy trees surrounding the glade. Others took the opportunity to bathe in the slow-moving river. Others threw themselves off the bridge into the deeper pools, laughing for the first time in weeks.
Those with serious wounds had been sent back to the ships at Ricall, while others had their injuries dressed by their comrades. The victory had been overwhelming, and already some of the men were writing odes and ballads about what had happened.
‘I can see why these lands were coveted by my ancestors,’ said Hardrada, reaching for a fresh flask of wine, ‘the sun is warm, the rivers cool, and the soil deep and loose. A man would be very happy bringing up his children here.’
As he spoke, some of the men in the river let out a cry of excitement as one of their number flicked a large trout onto the riverbank.
