The Fate of a King, page 19
Harold realised that it was a small opportunity, but he had to seize it while he could.
‘Second wave, attack!’ he shouted and again, hundreds of men raced past him to help out those who had taken the fight back to the Vikings.
With no organised lines on either side, this time, there were no locked shield advances, and no shield walls to attack, just two armies in open battle, each man desperate to survive and kill the man in front of him. Gradually the fighting spread over the field, and into the surrounding wooded areas, with no thought of strategy or formations.
With regained momentum, the English pushed the Vikings back until only a thousand or so were left cornered in a field. Amongst them were Hardrada and Tostig, each covered with the blood of the men they had killed in the battle. Tostig could see that they were losing and looked around desperately for a way to escape, but penned in on all sides, he knew it was futile.
‘We have to do something,’ he shouted, ‘or we all die here.’
Before Hardrada could answer, the sound of another horn filled the air, and the king looked up in relieved recognition.
‘That is a Viking horn,’ he said. ‘Eystein Orre is here.’
Tostig followed Hardrada’s gaze, and his heart leapt at the sight of thousands more Vikings pouring over the ridge of a nearby hill.
‘The gods have answered,’ shouted Hardrada, turning towards what remained of his army, ‘let us end this battle once and for all.’
His exhausted men, buoyed by the sight of the relieving army, summoned up what strength they still had and ploughed forward, squeezing Harold’s army between two fronts.
Yet again, the English army retreated towards the river, but Harold, standing to the rear of his men, could see that something was wrong. Despite their numbers, and heavy armour, the Viking assault was half-hearted, and each surge ended far too quickly to make any impact.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Owen, also shocked at the lack of aggression. ‘They look exhausted.’
‘That’s exactly what they are,’ said Harold, watching as many dropped to their knees to catch their breath. ‘It looks like they have run all the way from Ricall and have nothing left for the fight. Prepare the third wave, Owen. We have to take advantage before they have time to recover.’
‘A few dozen archers have just arrived from York,’ said Owen. ‘Shall I bring them to the fore?’
‘No,’ said the king, ‘this will be finished with axe and sword. Tell them to join the ranks.’
Owen ran back to where their reserves were waiting, and a few minutes later, they marched through to form a refreshed front line. Opposite them, Eystein Orre and his men stared in exhausted defiance. King Hardrada looked over to Harold, knowing that the victor of the battle would be decided in the next few minutes.
‘Hardrada,’ shouted King Harold, ‘yield now, and we will spare you and your men. Continue, and we will bury you where you stand.’
‘It is you who will feel the weight of soil upon your face, Harold,’ shouted Hardrada, ‘for I have never yielded in the many hundreds of battles I have fought. This is still not over, King Harold, the best is yet to come.’ He turned to face his army, now all spread out across the field behind him. ‘If ever you wanted to impress the gods,’ he shouted, ‘then this is the time. Prepare to advance, men of Norway, and let us show these English what it is like to fight as true warriors.’
Owen walked over to Harold.
‘It looks like they are going to attack,’ he said. ‘Shall we form a shield wall?’
‘The time for shield walls is over,’ said Harold. ‘Let us bring this to an end.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Owen.
Harold turned to face his second-in-command.
‘Let us take this battle to them, Owen,’ he said, ‘and end this once and for all. Sound the attack, my friend, and let God himself decide the victor.’
Within moments, the sound of the horn filled the air, and as the sun started dropping towards the western hills, two massive armies raced towards each other for the last time.
* * *
In contrast to the many confrontations over the previous few hours, the final battle did not involve formations, manoeuvres or strategy, it was open warfare across open ground, each man fighting for himself and the man alongside him. Fountains of blood seemed to form a red mist in the air, and the evening was once more filled with the maimed and the dying. Many fell with exhaustion, accepting their fate, but many more sold their lives dearly.
Over and over again, metal blades cleaved open chests and skulls, faces were smashed under heavy boots, and men bled out on the once green meadow grass, many clutching at their chests where pikes and axes had done their deadly work.
Some men had lost their weapons in the melee, but still, they fought on, using whatever they could to kill the man opposite, pummelling their opponent to the ground before ripping out their throats with their bare teeth. Even Harold and Hardrada fought alongside their men, and step by step, the English king worked his way towards the Viking king, determined to face him, man to man, and bring the carnage to an end.
‘Hardrada,’ he roared. ‘Fight me.’
Hardrada saw the English king approaching. Unafraid, he turned to receive a fresh battle axe from Eystein Orre standing at his side, but as he turned back to face Harold, he stumbled backwards in shock, his hand reaching up to clutch at an arrow sticking out of his throat. For a moment, Harold didn’t realise what was happening, but as Hardrada dropped to his knees, the English king knew that he would have to take advantage of the Vikings’ horror at the death of their king.
‘Onwards,’ he shouted, but if he thought the enemy would surrender, he was badly mistaken, and if anything, they fought even harder. Step by step, victim by victim, the English marched forward, killing Vikings by the hundred. Each one stood their ground, determined to die rather than yield, but when Halfdan finally dropped Eystein Orre with his axe, even the bravest of the enemy knew it was over.
Gradually, they retreated into the corner of a field, and as the English army formed up to finish them off, one man walked out to face them alone before wiping the blood from his face.
‘Where is your king?’ he shouted eventually.
‘I am here,’ said Harold, pushing through his men. ‘Who is it that addresses me?’
‘I am Olaf Haraldsson,’ came the response. ‘Son of King Hardrada.’
‘Your father is dead, Olaf,’ said Harold. ‘Are you now in charge of these men?’
‘I am.’
‘Then tell them to throw down their weapons,’ said Harold, ‘or we will spare not one single soul.’
‘We do not know how to surrender,’ said Olaf, ‘and my men would prefer to die in battle than at the end of a rope.’
‘You cannot win this, Olaf,’ said Harold, ‘the day is mine. Have the decency to do what your father could not and end this unnecessary slaughter. It has gone on far too long.’
‘It has indeed been a good fight, King Harold,’ said Olaf, ‘and there is no doubt that you are the victor, but how do we know that you will not kill us anyway? For if that is the intention, at least have the decency to be honest so we can die with honour.’
‘I am tired of all this,’ said Harold. ‘Too many men have died this day. If you agree to surrender your arms, then I give you my word, in front of all my men, that you will be allowed to return to your ships.’
‘And are you a man of your word?’ asked Olaf.
‘I am,’ said Harold, ‘but there is only one way for you to find out.’
Olaf stared at Harold and turned around to face the many men he still had available behind him. Every one of them were true warriors, and he knew that if he asked them to, they would fight to the last man. He drew his axe from his belt and turned back to face Harold. Every man on both sides adjusted their grips on their weapons, fully expecting one final battle, but Olaf knew there were only two choices, fight on and die, or surrender and live. He had also seen enough death, and after taking a deep breath, he cast the axe to one side.
‘So be it, King Harold,’ he said, ‘you have the day.’
Chapter Twenty-two
York, 27 September, AD 1066
Harold sat in a chair in the main city hall in York, naked from the waist up. The minor wound he had received to his side during the battle at Stamford Bridge was being re-dressed by one of the physicians, and when it was done, he pulled a simple jerkin over his head, wincing at the tightness of the bandage around his midriff.
‘You were lucky,’ said Owen from a corner where he had been watching the procedure with a cup of ale. ‘Had you been standing one step to the left, that axe would have cleaved you in two.’
‘Aye,’ said Harold, walking over to pick up his own cup of ale, ‘there is no doubt that God was on our side.’ He took a drink and then looked at Owen. ‘Is there any news of my brother?’
‘Not yet,’ said Owen. ‘The Vikings are still burying their dead, but the feeling is that he ran before the battle ended. He is probably halfway back to Scotland as we speak.’
‘What a stupid man,’ sighed Harold. ‘He had so much going for him, yet he always wanted more.’
‘Don’t we all,’ said Owen, taking another drink.
‘What about you, Owen?’ asked Harold. ‘What is it that you want?’
‘For it all to stop,’ said Owen. ‘The fighting, the infighting, the politics, everything. Just the chance for those of us that are left to go back to our farms and villages and deal with normal life. The harvest in the autumn, Christ’s mass in the winter, spring lambing, and lazy days of plenty in the summer. I miss all those things, Harold, simple things that, from where I am standing, currently seem like heaven on earth.’
‘Aye,’ said Harold, ‘they do, and we will have them back, Owen, I swear we will, but for now, we have to make sure these lands are as safe as we can for all those things to happen.’
There was a knock on the door behind them and Lord Geldson walked in.
‘Your grace,’ he said, ‘they are here.’
Harold nodded, and both he and Owen walked over to stand on one side of a table as their visitors walked into the room.
Olaf Haraldsson and two other men took their place at the opposite side of the table and waited as a servant closed the door, leaving the six men alone.
‘Olaf Haraldsson,’ said Harold, ‘thank you for keeping your side of the bargain. I am told that there has not been even a voice raised in anger these past two days.’
‘My men are tired,’ said Olaf, ‘and need to return home.’ He turned to the two men at his side. ‘These men are Jarls Paul and Erlund of Orkney. They will now command my men while I leave for Norway and speak to my brother about the succession.’
‘How many men do you have left?’
‘Why is that important?’ asked Jarl Paul, with a sneer. ‘You have your victory, now just let us go.’
‘It is important,’ interjected Owen, ‘as we need to know how many ships are needed to take you back. The rest will stay here.’
‘The ships are ours,’ said Jarl Erlund, ‘we will sail them back with skeleton crews.’
‘They are spoils of war,’ said Owen. ‘You will be given enough to get home as well as plenty of supplies, but any more than that will stay here.’
Erlund started to speak, but Olaf put out his hand to prevent the argument.
‘We accept the arrangements,’ he said. ‘We have about two thousand men, including the wounded, so we will need about thirty ships.’
For a moment, the room fell silent as everyone absorbed the sobering information. The original fleet had consisted of at least three hundred and sixty ships, each containing about fifty men, so the death toll on the Vikings had been extraordinarily high.
‘We will give you forty,’ said Harold eventually, ‘to allow space for your wounded and supplies.’
Olaf nodded, accepting the offer.
‘So,’ said Harold, ‘if we are done here, there is nothing stopping you from leaving, but remember this. You have been granted your lives only on the understanding that you will never again land on these shores. If you do, then next time, the whole of England will rise against you, and history will remember you as an oath breaker.’
‘Our journey homeward will be one way only,’ said Olaf. ‘Our people will take a long time to recover, and we have to be careful that the Danes do not seek to gain an advantage. You will not see us again, King Harold, of that you have my word.’
‘In that case,’ said Harold, ‘you are free to return to your ships with your men. Travel safely, Olaf Haraldsson, death has had more than its fill these past few weeks.’
Olaf nodded and, without another word, turned to leave the room along with his seconds.
Once they had gone, Harold turned to look at Owen and Geldson.
‘That’s it,’ he said, ‘it’s over. York is safe for another generation. Give each of our men enough coins to get drunk and tell them they have a week to recover within the walls of York before we head back to London.’
Before anyone could answer, one of the servants ran into the room.
‘Your grace,’ he said urgently, ‘you are needed outside.’
* * *
A few minutes later, Harold and Owen emerged into the street to see a crowd gathering in the market square. At its centre, a man sat astride a horse, motionless and covered with dried blood. Harold and Owen pushed their way through and stared up at the obviously exhausted rider.
‘Who are you?’ asked Owen. ‘And what do you want here?’
‘I know him,’ said Harold, staring at the familiar yet bloody face. ‘Your name is Copsi, my brother’s head huscarl.’
‘I am,’ said Copsi, turning to look down at the king, ‘but I serve him no more.’ He nodded to a horse-drawn cart to one side.
Harold walked over and looked inside the cart. A cloak covered a body, and he pulled it back, expecting to see his brother’s corpse, but the body was too disfigured.
‘Who is this?’ asked Harold, turning back to Copsi.
‘That is Earl Tostig,’ said Copsi.
‘How can you be sure?’ asked Harold. ‘The body has been mutilated.’
‘It is him, your grace,’ said Copsi with a sigh. ‘I know, for I was with him when he fell. Tostig fought as I have never seen him fight before, and though the records will show us as being on the wrong side, you should be proud that he ended his life as a true warrior.’ Without another word, he turned his horse and started to slowly ride through the crowd the way he had come.
‘Wait,’ shouted Owen, ‘where are you going?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Copsi without turning around, ‘but I have done my duty and have returned him to you. Bury your brother, King Harold, and allow him the majesty in death that he craved so much in life. I am done with war, now, leave me alone.’
Owen stepped forward to run after the horse, but Harold grabbed his shoulder and held him back.
‘Let him go, Owen,’ he said, ‘for he, above all others, has seen the worst of things. After all, he is right. We are all done with war.’
* * *
Three days later, Harold and Owen stood on the walls of York, staring out over the fields. The days had resumed a semblance of normality for the people of the city, knowing that even though many of their young men were dead, there were still fields to harvest before the autumn came.
‘Are the men ready to head home?’ asked Harold.
‘Mostly, yes,’ said Owen. ‘Some will have to be put in carts, but their morale is high.’
‘It was a good victory,’ said Harold, ‘and many men will learn from it.’
‘It was a costly victory,’ said Owen, ‘that much is certain. Let us hope that it is an age before we ride this way again.’
‘The north is in good hands,’ said the king. ‘As soon as Earls Edwin and Morcar have licked their wounds, they will be back here to take control.’
‘And you are happy with that?’
‘They would not be my first choice, but England needs strength up here, and they are the best we can get.’
‘What about you?’ asked Owen. ‘Where do you go next?’
‘Actually,’ said Harold, ‘I have some news. While I was in Bosham, I made a deal with my wife about our futures, one that will certainly cause a furore amongst the corridors of Westminster.’
‘And what agreement is this?’ asked Owen.
Before Harold could answer, one of the guards burst through a tower door and out onto the city walls.
‘Your grace,’ he said, ‘a messenger has just delivered this from London. He is almost dead through exhaustion, as is his horse.’
Harold strode over and tore open the sealed message. A few moments later, he looked up, his face ashen.
‘Send word to muster the men,’ he said, ‘we march immediately.’
‘Why?’ asked Owen. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s the Normans,’ said the king. ‘William the Bastard landed his army at Pevensey two days ago.’
* * *
The following morning, the English army was once more mounted and ready to head south. Any wounded would follow later, but Harold knew they had to get back to London as soon as possible. One of the commanders gave the order to move out, and as Harold and Owen watched them pass, Owen turned towards the king.
‘So,’ he said, ‘what was this agreement between you and Edyth Swanneck that is going to cause so much angst in London?’
Harold sighed deeply and continued to stare at the departing column.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said eventually, ‘it’s nothing that will not wait until after we have sorted out William the Bastard. Come, we should get going.’
He turned his horse away and headed towards the head of the mounted column, knowing that there was yet another battle to be fought, but this time, he had no idea how he was going to win it.
