XIV
How They Fought at Stamford Bridge
That Monday broke cloudless, and even the early morning was unseasonably hot. Harald awoke in time to see the sun lift out of the east and flash off night dew. Now it shines on Thora, he thought, and Ellisif is at matins to pray for me.
He dressed well, in blue kirtle and breeches, and entered the main room of the house he had taken. His chiefs were already there, and meat and drink on the table. They rose for him, and he took the end of the bench and ate hungrily. The ale was a cool tingle at the back of his throat.
“Well,” he said, “today we get our other hostages. I’ll lead two parts of the host we have thither, and go on to Aldby with them to meet our men there. Do you keep one third here, Eystein, to guard the ships till we can decide what’s to be done next.”
The sheriff smiled. “Thank you,” he said. “This is not weather in which I’d care to travel.”
Harald told off Olaf, Tosti’s boys, and the Thorbergssons to stay behind with the guards, and then let the summons be blown for his men. While they readied, he strolled out to the riverbank and stood under the Fafnir’s dragon head. The sunlight flamed off its gold.
“A good ship,” he murmured. “She’s borne me to two great victories. Eystein, is aught more fair than a ship?”
“Well …” The sheriff’s gaze yearned northward.
Harald laughed. “Wait a bit, lad,” he said, “till you’re my jarl in England.”
“Sometimes I think there are greater riches than gold and land,” said Eystein. He reddened and added swiftly: “But you’ve been like a father to me, and I’ll follow you as long as we both live, and if … aught of evil happens, I swear to avenge you.”
Harald thought of his leman Thora. It was the same quick spirit that lay in her.
His two-thirds of the host were now gathered, spreading up from the river and across the land in a blink of spears and helmets. Because of the heat, few of them wore byrnies. He saw that Gunnar Geiroddsson did, belike because it was such a fine gold-trimmed piece of mail. Since he would be riding, Harald strapped Emma and the padded undercoat to his horse’s back, and Tosti did likewise; but Styrkaar, Thjodholf, and most of the other mounted chiefs did not take the trouble. They had only a peaceful walk to meet a band of broken men.
The king sprang into the saddle, and Kolfaxi reared. His helmet gleamed like a dragon’s hoard.
“Till we meet again!” he cried, and went to the front of his men.
Eystein and Olaf stood beneath the Fafnir’s prow, looking after his towering form till it was lost to sight. “Glad I am that I need not go today,” said the prince. He glanced at the hostage children, where they sat under guard. They had not been ill treated, but most were silent with terror and some had been weeping. “This is an ugly business.”
The sheriff tugged his mustache. “Oftimes men must fight,” he answered.
“Aye … but why to take what is not theirs?”
“A thing is only yours if you’re strong enough to hold it.”
“That’s not right,” said Olaf in a low voice. “Were I king, I’d set the law above myself too.”
“Your father is not such a man,” said Eystein. “He stands above all things. Had the time been a better one, he would have shaped the world as he chose. And still he has the boldness to try.” He yawned and stretched himself. “Come, let’s have some more ale and then, if you like, a ball game and a swim. The river looks cool.”
Harald rode in the forefront of his army, Styrkaar Marshal to the right and Thjodholf and Tosti to the left. Behind them was Fridhrek with Landwaster furled on the long staff; thereafter came a few others on horseback, and then the host, nodding spears and slogging feet under a haze of dust, jokes passing from mouth to bearded mouth and raucous laughter following.
“Did we need to take this many?” asked Thjodholf.
“It’s as well to do so,” said Styrkaar. “We’ve had it too easy since Fulford; the men grow bored and restless. And we must move them to Aldby anyway.”
The sky was a brazen bowl overhead, the sun a molten glare in their eyes as they went east toward the Derwent. Harald felt sweat trickle from under his helmet and down his cheeks.
“When think you my namesake will arrive?” he asked.
“Shortly,” replied Tosti. “He’s a brisk man. It would be deadly to reckon him at less than his true worth.”
The landscape inched away past them, rolling hills and clumps of forest. Leaves hung wilted on the trees, not a breath of air to stir them, and speckled the road with shadow. The grasses rustled dryly beneath men who walked in the fields. Down in the ranks, Gunnar lifted a crock of beer to his mouth.
“How was your little friend?” asked someone.
“Oh, most sweet,” said Gunnar. His round face glistened with sweat, and foam flecked his stubbly beard. “I promised to come back later and marry her. But sith there be five girls in Norway what have the same promise …”
“Haw! Twenty years hence, the whole North will be overrun by freckle-snouted beer-guzzling axmen. I would I knew how you do it.”
“Well …” Gunnar began explaining, as to a child.
“That’s not what I meant, you bullhead! I wanted to learn how to win their willingness.”
“I know not,” said Gunnar, “unless it be the ring I have with Freyja’s sign graven on it.”
“Hm. Will you sell that ring?”
“Nay, not for any price. But I might think me to rent it out.…”
The host fared onward. Harald looked around him in wonder. This was his. Here was land where his house might strike roots and grow till it overshadowed the earth … or could it endure another soil than its own? Heat shimmered on the horizon, and his shirt was sweated to his skin. He remembered what someone—Halldor? No, himself—had said down in Kiev, that it was as if the Northmen were ice giants who melted away when they left their homes.
A few farmsteads were in sight, empty of men. But none were to be seen when they reached the Derwent; here was grassland and the flocks had been driven to safety.
Harald paused for a look at the river. At this point, swollen by the rainy summer, it ran wide and deep between high, reedy banks. Something of remorselessness was in that brown southward flow. It gurgled and murmured around the piers of the bridge—a narrow wooden bridge with a single handrail and the road going on dusty gray beyond. Trees lined the stream, sun-speckled greenness of ash and willow whose shade was utterly black against the light.
“Where are the Englishmen?” asked Harald.
“They should come soon,” replied Tosti. “We’ve moved fast. It’s just a little past midday.”
“If they don’t …” Styrkaar’s heavy face writhed into a scowl. “We’ll lay the whole north country in ashes.”
“Time enough for that if they fail us,” said Thjodholf sharply.
Harald looked at the trees. “A good sign,” he said. “The ash is Odhinn’s tree, and he is god of victories.”
“He is also god of the dead,” muttered Thjodholf.
Harald rode across the bridge. The stallion skittered nervously, planks boomed hollow under hooves. The men followed; it took time to get everybody across that thin span. Many scrambled down the banks to drink, and thereafter re-formed their array.
Tosti squinted along the road, which bent south. “I see a dust cloud,” he spoke. “It must be the hostages coming.”
“It seems me they come with an almighty haste,” said Thjodholf.
Harald sat waiting, holding his mount steady. A light breeze sprang up, and he breathed deeply. It smelt drowsy, of hay and harvest … Yes, this was the reaping time. At home they would be carting in the last sheaves, and the old, joyously heathen feasts and dances would be held under torchlight. He remembered them from his youth—merciful Christ, how long ago that was, and yet how swiftly the years had run!
The newcomers approached. Something gleamed in their dust, far off but hurrying closer. A sudden chill went through Harald.
“Those are spears and helmets,” he said.
Tosti sat moveless, his handsome countenance gone wooden. At last he ventured: “They would scarce come altogether unarmed.”
The river mumbled behind them.
“No,” said Harald after a while. “There are too many.”
“They may be some more of my friends, come to join us,” said the earl.
Styrkaar cursed. A whisper went among the men, and shields were raised.
Now Harald saw the strangers a bare mile removed. They were a huge force, spilling over the fields and down the road—thousands of men, he thought wildly, vastly more than he had, and every one of their leading ranks armored. Through the dust, the light shone off their weapons as though blinking off ice.
Tosti started up in his stirrups. “The banners!” he yelled.
Harald nodded. There was a bleakness in him, he felt no fear but he knew that he was overmatched—that he, the craftsman of war, had walked blithely into a trap and it had snapped down on him. “I see Edwin’s and Morkar’s,” he said. “So much for the faith of Englishmen.”
Tosti gave him an angry look. “I was never a friend to their house,” he answered. “You shall find that Englishmen know how to stand fast.” He pointed. “But that great flag in the van—” It was royal blue, fringed with gold, and across it strode the golden form of a warrior. “That is my brother Harold’s.”
Styrkaar pulled free his ax. “Then you lied to us!” he growled. “All the time Harold lay near!”
Tosti shook his head dazedly. “No,” he whispered. “I spoke truth. Who was to know he could come so swiftly?”
Harald laughed, a rattle in his throat. “Indeed my namesake is no weakling—a foe worthy of anyone.” He stroked his beard. Under the helmet, his face was long and lean, the nose jutting, the eyes large and cold, one brow lifted as in mockery. “But let us now find a wise rede; for it can’t be hidden that battle is at hand, and that with the king himself.”
Tosti looked behind him, along the Norse lines. Some of them gnawed their lips, others cursed, most stood with a foredoomed bravery. “Best would it be to get away while we can,” said the earl slowly, “back to the ships to fetch our armor and the rest of our men. Thereafter we can take up the fight, and if worst comes to worst we could escape in the ships.”
Harald shook his head. A wintry wrath flared up in him; he knew not if it was against the Noras or against his own foolhardiness. “No,” he answered. “They would follow and attack our rear. Let three men on our swiftest horses return to the ships and fetch Eystein and the others. The Englanders will bite much grass ere we draw the shortest straw.”
Styrkaar nodded his black-thatched head and snapped orders. The bridge boomed under three steeds; their riders were slim youths who could reach Riccall in a couple of hours.
Tosti smiled. “I’ll follow your word in this as in all else, my lord,” he said. “I myself were not glad to flee.”
Harald blew his horn and the Norse grumbled into line. He cantered along their ranks, shouting his commands. What must be done was to hold the bridge while most of the army got to the farther side; he himself would lead the defenders. Once all were across, they could hope to block off the English till help arrived.
His horse stumbled, and suddenly he pitched from the saddle and hit the earth. The shock jarred in him. A groan went up at this sign. Gunnar bounded to help the king to his feet. “Be you hurt, my lord?” he gasped. “The dear saints give that you be well.”
Harald looked into the anxious blue eyes and smiled. “No, Gunnar,” he said. “I live yet.” Rising, he sprang back into the saddle. The stallion reared and whinnied. “A fall betokens good luck!” he cried so many could hear.
Harold Godwinsson was arraying his own army a quarter mile away. He had crossed the Derwent further south and driven his folk unmercifully; but though he outnumbered the foe, he had never seen men more stout-looking. He nudged Earl Morkar. “Know you who that was, the big man who just fell off his horse—he in the blue kirtle and the beautiful helmet?” he asked.
“That was the king himself, my lord,” replied Morkar.
“A great and mighty man,” said Harold; “but it looks now as if his luck has forsaken him.”
He was mounted on a tall chestnut gelding, and well clad in purple and scarlet beneath his mail. Of a sudden, he snatched the plain white shield of a lad nearby, giving his own in exchange. “Keep this for me,” he said. “I go to parley.”
Twenty mounted Housecarles followed him as he rode across the sere grass.
The Norsemen streamed over the bridge behind the ring of Harald’s defenders. They were in hearty spirits, despite the surprise; their king had never failed to snatch victory or, at the least, escape unhurt. But it would take a goodly time to get so many across where only two could go abreast. Landwaster flapped in the breeze behind them, a gash of blood against heaven. Harald sat by Fridhrek, Tosti on his right and Thjodholf on the left, while Styrkaar urged the men in their retreat. The king had shield and sword in hand, he had donned his byrnie and it clinked like scales as he moved.
It was an awesome company which came toward him. The Housecarles were indeed giants, splendidly outfitted, strong and steady as oxen and with an ox-like calm in their eyes. Truly each of those long axes could deal with two ordinary men. There were hundreds of them leading the English levies.
The warrior in the forefront was only of middling height, riding with an easy grace; the nose-guarded helmet almost masked his clean-shaven face. Some herald—
Tosti sucked in a quick breath as the English drew rein, and then clamped blankness over his countenance.
“Hoy!” cried the herald. “Is Earl Tosti here?”
“That cannot be hidden.” The outlaw rode forth, to lock eyes with the other man. “Here he is.”
The messenger said in a hurried voice: “Your brother Harold sends you his greetings and with them his promise of peace and all Northumbria for you. And rather than do without you in his following, he will give you the third part of the kingdom to rule over with himself.”
The earl’s brow darkened. “That’s something else from the outlawry and disgrace which were bidden me last winter,” he snapped. “Had such an offer been made then, many a man who lies dead today would still be in life, and England’s might would stand unbroken.” He paused, then having looked down at his saddlebow, and up again, spoke sharply. “But if I accept this, what reward shall King Harald Sigurdharson have for his trouble?”
The herald lifted his head and answered in a ringing tone. “He shall have seven feet of English earth, or as much more as he is taller than other men.”
Tosti smiled in a strange wistfulness. Again their eyes met, and the earl said quietly: “Then you can ride back and tell King Harold that he must ready for battle; for never shall it be said among the Norse that Earl Tosti, when he should have fought for King Harald Sigurdharson in England, ran from him to his foes. So liefer the same fate: death with honor or England with victory!”
The herald seemed to droop for a moment, before he straightened and replied: “So be it.” He rode back with his guards.
Tosti returned to Harald’s side and sat brooding.
“He knew how to use words, that man,” said the king. “Who was he?”
“That was King Harold Godwinsson,” answered Tosti.
Harald felt a lance of cold in his heart. “Too long did you wait to tell me that,” he said softly. “Had I known this Harold was that near my hand, he would never have wrought any Norseman’s bane.”
Tosti shrugged; his byrnie slithered and clashed. “You are right, my lord,” he replied. “It was a bold trick for so great a chieftain, and could well have ended as you say. I knew he had come to bid me peace and a mighty fief, and knew too that had I betrayed him it would have been his death. But I would liefer he should be my slayer than I his.”
Harald nodded, staring after his namesake. He felt no anger, not now. Turning to Thjodholf, he remarked: “That was not a big man there, but he sat firmly in his stirrups.”
The English horsemen were dismounting and falling into their places under the banners. The Norse chiefs began to do likewise, and Harald heard bows being strung behind him. He remained in the saddle for a bit, thinking of what lay ahead, and then he made a verse:
“Forward go we
in the fylking,
without byrnies,
under blued edges;
helmets gleam,
we have no mail:
useless it shines
upon the ships.”
He smiled crookedly. “That was poorly made; I must try to do better.” For a moment Thora’s and Ellisif’s images drifted before him. Then he spoke again.
“Creep not at the calling
to war ’neath crooked shield rims,
frightened at the fray—
thus spoke the faithful woman.
High she bade me hold
my head in storms of iron
where sharpened steel is swinging
down on skulls and helmets.”
He got off his horse and led the stallion aside and tethered him. When he came back, Thjodholf was chanting, beating out the lines with sword upon shield.
“I do not mean ever
your heirs to leave, my ruler,
if the clash should claim you.
(That comes which God has willed us.)
Sunlight never struck
on such a pair of princes:
Harold’s sons, like hawks both,
unhooded to avenge him.”
Yes, thought the king, that much have I done; I may fall, but my house will live. Watch over them, holy Olaf!
The English host moved forward, their footfalls shuddered in the earth. Harald stood by Landwaster, the raven gaped and flapped at the warrior. That flag had Ellisif made, oh, many years ago; this very summer had she embroidered it afresh, and woven all her hopes into it. The king had laid a hand on Fridhrek’s shoulder. “Take heart, lad,” he said. “You shall yet be a jarl in England.”
“It cannot fail,” said the boy huskily, “not when you lead us, my lord.”
Gunnar tossed his ax in the air and caught it again and roared defiance. His shout was taken up by the whole ring. Behind them, their comrades still flooded over the bridge and ranked themselves on the west bank.
Harald had Styrkaar commanding his right wing and Tosti his left; Thjodholf stood near, with other good warriors, their shields making a fence in front of the standard. The whole line curved back to the river on each flank, and spears bristled from it.
Arrows began to fly. Harald felt one strike his shield and stick there, aquiver. He plucked it out. Norsemen fell as their unarmored flesh was pierced, and others sprang to take their places. But a well-shot arrow could go through a byrnie anyhow, thought Harald grimly, and his own archers were replying in kind; it would be when man met man that the lack would tell.
The Housecarles trotted steadily forward, like one, the levies crowding behind them in ranks less orderly and less fully equipped. Harald hefted his sword and waited. As they came closer, he made out faces, here a bearded long-chinned countenance from Denmark, there a broad yeoman’s nose, at their point the close-knit little man who steered England. He felt sweat run down his ribs.
“Holy Cross!” thundered from the Housecarles and they broke into a run.
Harald lifted his sword. The burning sunlight poured off it. A remembrance came back, leaping over thirty-six years, and he raised Olaf’s cry: “Forward, forward, Christ-men, cross-men, king’s men!”
An enemy trooper, nigh as tall as himself, sprang at the shield-burgh. His ax flailed down, a helmet and a head sundered beneath it, blood spouted under the hot bright blue of heaven. The dead Norseman reeled to earth, and Harald trod into his place. Shield by shield! Side by side! Stand fast and smite them!
His sword howled. The Englishman caught the edge on his axhaft. Its tough wood would have turned any common blow, but Harald’s clove it in twain. Up whirled the king’s brand, and down again, and the Housecarle fell.
Another stepped forth. His great ax swung low, biting into Harald’s shield, he felt the fastenings groan. He cut at the helmed head, it bobbed from him and the blade landed on an armored shoulder. The Housecarle wrenched his weapon free and chopped at Harald’s arm. The long sleeve of Emma caught that frightful smashing, and numbness burst in the king’s hand. Almost, he dropped his sword.
He crammed his shield ahead of him, into the Englishman’s face, and felt teeth splinter. The guard lurched. Strength returned to Harald’s right arm and he clove the man’s wrist. “That for Ellisif!” he shouted. The fellow shook his head and tried to lift the ax again. “That for Thora!” He rolled on the ground, clawed the grass, and was still.
Iron boomed between the ranks. Thjodholf slashed and hacked, gasping out some old battle chant as he fought. Styrkaar lopped and hewed, Gunnar bashed helmets and struck off limbs, Tosti’s blade wove a snarl of bane. Landwaster held firm behind the shield wall, and the warrior flag wavered.
Panting, the English withdrew as their charge spent its force. Harald looked to either side. There had been a dreadful toll of his own unarmored men, carles sprawled with sightless eyes, mouths agape, split heads and spitted bellies; crows hovered near, and in the pause flies came to settle on the dead. But the English had paid. A heaped ring of their finest lay as quiet on grass gone slippery with blood, while the wounded sounded forth their anguish.
“Get our hurt across the bridge,” said Harald. He breathed heavily through a dry mouth, his lungs seemed on fire.
Gunnar stooped in the ranks and picked up the beer crock he had laid behind him. “Pass this to the king,” he said.
Harald drank deep and called: “This shall be rewarded with a shire.”
“Enough to have you drink it, my lord,” said Gunnar. “When I am a great chief, the sign on my banner’ll be a crock.”
They heard Harold Godwinsson egg his men on to a fresh attack. He himself led it, ax raised and flag swaying overhead.
Again fury burst on Harald’s shield. He struck at the man before him, a burly red man who had a cast in his eye. Never had they seen each other till this day, but now death whipped between them. Ax and sword, strike forward and hold fast, put down that foe and here comes the next!
The press drove the Norsemen back, tightening their ring, but so many of them fell that they were not more crowded. Thjodholf had a moment’s freedom in which to cry out, and it was the Bjarkamaal he shouted:
“The sun is rising,
the cock’s feathers rustle,
’tis time for thralls
to tread into work. …”
Harald remembered the dawn of Stiklastadh, and joined his folk in roaring it forth.
“Waken, warriors,
wake ye up. …”
Then the attack was on them again so fiercely they had not breath to spare.
That onslaught was also blunted and beaten back. By then the corpses made a wall, four feet of reddened flesh where Norway’s dead guarded the living. Harald wiped his streaming face and left a smear of blood. Would Eystein never come?
He looked behind him. Nigh all the host was across the river. It would be ticklish getting the rest over, if the English attacked meanwhile; and somehow the bridge must be held till he could form ranks on the other side. Well …
“Give the word and don’t garble it,” he said hoarsely to those beside him. “Let the ring pull back into a circle touching the bridge, and then let the men at its ends go across, one by one, and tighten the line as they do.”
Plain yeomen could not have carried it out; but these were the royal guards, the bloom of the North.
Trumpets blared in the English array, and again it rolled down with spears like lightning through the dust. Harald’s blade screamed. He struck the nearest Housecarle to earth ere the man could raise ax. Now … back a step.… Hold firm … back another step. Stamford Bridge resounded under feet.
For many crazed minutes they fought. Then the last few Norse stood before the bridge, their king among them, and hewed so mightily that the foe reeled away.
“Get over!” cried Harald. “Who can hold the bridge awhile?”
“I, my lord.” Gunnar Geiroddsson stood forth. Blood dripped from his byrnie and clotted his shock of bright hair, but little of it seemed his own; his byrnie was beaten to rags, but he held his ax unwaveringly.
Harald gazed a moment at him. “You and I are the only men who could do that,” he said. Gunnar’s eyes glowed. “Withdraw when I sound the horn twice and run to the ranks. But it will take us a small time to ready, and the longer you can ward us the better rested we’ll be.”
Gunnar nodded, grinned, and planted his feet near the English end of the bridge. Harald ran after his men.
“Well, come you,” taunted Gunnar. “Come hither and be split into kindling.”
A Housecarle rushed forward. His ax blazed high, but Gunnar smote sideways and took off his head. “There’s one!” he bellowed.
Two more lunged at him. Gunnar kicked at the right-hand fellow, who lurched and pushed his comrade into the river to drown beneath weight of mail while Gunnar killed him. “Three!” shouted the defender.
A couple of arrows ripped toward him, but they missed and the rest seemed to have been used up. Four troopers lumbered against him in single file. Gunnar’s ax smashed helm and head of the first, took a leg off the second, caved in the breast of the third, and knocked the fourth into the Derwent. “Seven!” he jeered.
A spear whistled toward him and missed. Another he struck down in midflight, and a third bounced off his tattered ringmail. He cupped hands to his mouth and cried aloud: “Come on, you milk-livered toothless whelps, come if you dare! Small wonder I found your wives an easy prey. Thor hammer me if I beget not a race o’ men in this island!”
The Housecarles howled and went against him. His ax rose and fell, slashed, chopped, hewed, and thundered. The Norse across the river began counting with him, calling it out together: “Ten! Eleven! Twelve! Thirteen! Fourteen! Fifteen!”
“Jesu Kristi,” said Harald, “if he holds that bridge long enough, help will come to us.” As two more English sped to meet the Norseman, the king shouted: “Gunnar, you shall have my daughter Ingigerdh to wife, and the greatest fief in Norway.”
Gunnar struck down the two men in as many blows and ran to slay the next.
The dead were heaped before him, nigh two score had been counted. He waved his ax and made rude remarks. Two more attacked. He cut the first down, and his ax haft broke against the second. At once his fist jumped forth; men heard neckbones snap. He picked up a Housecarle weapon in either hand. “Small are these toys,” he cried, “but good enough for the likes o’ you.”
The English drew back. Danes among them remembered Asa Thor and fear struck them. Harold Godwinsson stepped forth. “Will you take peace and lands from me?” he asked.
Gunnar boomed out laughter. “I might take your wife for a whore when I’ve trimmed you down, lad,” he bawled.
Harald Hardrede loomed in his line, watching. “There stands the old North,” he said to Thjodholf. “This day decides if it is to live or not.”
Suddenly he yelled and cursed. Another Housecarle, a giant of a man, was trading blows with Gunnar; but the English king had spoken to a spearman who ran and slid down the riverbank and crawled along the piers.
“Gunnar!” shouted Harald. “He comes beneath you! Run!” He blew his horn twice, cursing himself that he had not done it before.
The defender heard him not. The clang of steel was too loud. He struck down his foe, but at that moment the spear thrust up between the planks.
“Thor help us!” groaned Gunnar. He sank to his knees, pawing at the shaft which bit through him. Harold Godwinsson winded the trumpet, and the Housecarles streamed across the bridge. The first of them slew Gunnar Geiroddsson and the rest passed over his body.
Harald Hardrede had drawn up his ranks in a circle. He himself looked toward the river. There was naught else he could do; so many had fallen that the enemy could flank a line. He felt tired, his bruises throbbed and his cuts stung; a heaviness filled his head.
The English drew into a long row. Harold Godwinsson gave his orders, and they began to throw spears and stones as they went around and around the circle. Such fire was deadly against unarmored men. The Norse crouched behind their shields but the points sought them out. Hallvardh Flatnose fell there, and Arinbjörn Erlendsson whose brother Vigleik lay dead across the river, and Gyrdh, and many more.
A spear plunged toward Harald. He knocked it away and said: “These English know how to fight.”
“And we must stand here and suffer it?” shrieked Styrkaar.
“Aye,” said Harald.
The rain went on. The Norse cast some spears and hammers, but to small good. Now Harald saw a number of men go back across the bridge and gather arrows.
“If Eystein comes not soon, we are done,” he said. He looked to the sun, which was slipping west though the air remained hot. He tried to think of a scheme, but his mind seemed rusty. Visions flashed unbidden through it: a ship on a cold winter sea, the towers of Miklagardh, a time he had held little Maria high above Ellisif. That was in Denmark, when his hopes still lay before him.
King Harold’s trumpet blew, a frost-cold note that sent the crows cawing off the dead. The English wheeled about and rushed down on the Norsemen.
Harald struck out at the nearest. His sword bit an arm, but not cleanly through; it was blunted from use. The Englander screamed and tried to swing his ax. Harald pierced him under the mailcoat. “That for Gunnar!” he shouted, and yanked the sword free and smote at the next.
This was a big man. His blade met Harald’s in a yell and a rain of sparks. The king felt his grasp almost torn loose. He caught the hilt again and sent the brand down in a red blur. The Englishman’s sword spun away. Harald snarled and slew him. Another came leaping over the corpse. Harald took the ax blow on his shield and felt it smash; his own weapon snaked out, sheared through defense and neck.
A triumphant bellow lifted to his rear. Turning, Harald saw an English standard across the circle, some earl’s against Gudhrödh’s. It went staggering back, and the Icelander whooped and rushed after it with his men.
“You fool!” screamed Harald. “That’s a feint.…”
He whirled about to meet the Housecarle who threatened him. They battled for minutes, the ax striking helm and shoulder and remnants of shield, the sword raging around. Harald crashed through the man’s guard and gave him a mortal wound, he fell and the king threw his useless shield atop him.
And meanwhile Gudhrödh and the nearby men had been drawn out. The English assailed them from all sides and they died.
“St. Olaf!” shouted Harald. “Close the ring! Stand fast!” It was Tosti who drew the line back together. And then the storm broke over them, and they met it and hurled it back.
Harald leaned gasping on his sword. “If we’ve done naught else,” he said to Thjodholf, “we’ll be remembered for this day.”
“Aye,” said the skald. “It may be God does not like men who strive for too much.”
“Odhinn did,” said Harald. “I was born either too late or too soon.”
The English had been thrown into confusion by the fury which met them. They milled about some distance off, regathering their ranks. The ground between was thick with dead and wounded.
But now men sped back across the bridge bearing armloads of arrows. “This will finish us,” growled Styrkaar.
“Well,” said Harald with a lopsided smile, “we’ve finished so many in our day that it may be no more than just.” He looked westward, but found no sign of help.
“Let them think they can shoot us at will,” he said, “but rush at them when I blow my horn.” He bent his head. The gilt was gone off his helmet, his sword was nicked and his knees felt strangely weak. “Ellisif,” he murmured, “I should have hearkened.”
The English lines formed anew. Behind the spearmen and the axmen, the archers were taking arrows. Harald straightened himself. This was the moment of victory. He set the horn to his lips and blew.
“Olaf with us! God send the right! Thor help his folk!”
The Norse line swung about, formed a wedge, and charged behind the raven flag.
As Harald ran forward, he felt weariness and despair drop from him. Almost, he was young again, high-hearted, bound forth to take the world. The long blade sang in his hand.
They shocked against the English and the clamor rose to heaven. Ax and sword! Spear and hammer! Drive them into the sea!
Harald’s steel whirred. A Housecarle toppled before him, he sent the mortally hurt man staggering into another, he leaped above them both as they fell and clove a third in the jaws. Two men rushed at him, one from either side. He cut down the left, whirled, met the right and split his shield. Thjodholf darted to help him. Back to back they returned into their ranks.
Hew, sword, hew!
Drunk with battle, Harald hardly saw the men he killed. There seemed to be wings beating over him. His blade rose and fell, smashing down whatever stood before it. A Housecarle chopped at him, he caught the ax on his sword and drove it back and sank edge into bone. Their line was before him; he sent down three who stood side by side and sprang into their ranks. Fridhrek came after, holding the banner aloft. It was Edwin’s standard which faced them, it wavered and Harald came up to the shield wall before it and the English retreated.
The king’s blows belled, and as they fell he began to chant aloud. It was the Krakamaal, the death song of Ragnar Hairybreeks and all the old bold North.
“Swords we were a-swinging!
Sooth, was I a young one
when east in sound of Öre,
all the wolves got booty;
and the yellow-footed
fowl had much to feed on,
where ’gainst high-nailed helmets
hardened swords were singing;
wet with blood, the war birds
waded through the slaughter.”
The English gave way. The Norse took up the verses, striking as they croaked them forth.
“Swords we were a-swinging!
Storm of darts struck shields
and angry dead fell earthward
as we in Northumber’s
morning had no need
to urge the mustered men on,
where the swords were whining
while they sundered helmets—
men did more than kissing
maidens in the high seat …”
The Yorkshire banner fell, and the whole line shook and bent. Harold Godwinsson drew back from the fray and sounded his horn, almost on a note of terror.
“Swords we were a-swinging!
Swart bit brands in shield rims
when the spears were splitting;
swords were raised to Valkyrs.
England’s isle remembers
ages through, how kings
went boldly into battle,
blazing blades before them. …”
The Housecarles heard the trumpet, and those in the rear ranks withdrew. “Bowmen!” cried their king. “Give them the arrows or we’re dead!”
“Swords were a-swinging!
One and fifty slaughters
have I seen where hosts
were hailed by word of arrow.
Among all men I never
found a one more valiant.
(Young of years and early
yare was I for battle.)
Us now Aesir summon
home, and I go deathward.
“I wish now no waiting
War maids sent by Odhinn
from the halls of heaven
homeward to him bid me.
Ale I’ll drink with Aesir
eagerly in the high seat.
Now my life has left me.
Laughing gang I deathward!”
The arrows sleeted down.
Harald did not feel the shaft that smote him. He saw it in his breast and touched it, not understanding at first. Darkness rushed across him and he went to his knees.
He fell and lay on his side while the battle ramped past. A sharp sweet smell of hay was in his nostrils. It brought him back a little. He saw that his head was on Thjodholf’s knees, while more men stood around.
“My lord, oh, my lord.…” groaned the skald.
Amidst the blood that sprang through him and from him, Harald found answer: “I have held up your head long enough; now do you hold up mine.”
Thunder and night rolled over him.
When their king died, the Norse were driven back. The English followed them, striking and striking, as the arrows gnawed them away. Almost had their line broken, then Tosti came at a run and took the king’s banner even as Fridhrek sank beneath an ax. The raven unfurled anew, the Norse rallied, and the English were beaten off.
There was a pause while both sides re-formed their ranks. Not many of the Norse remained on their feet; the English curved around them and pointed spears inward. Thjodholf stood near Harald’s body, tears furrowing the dust and blood on his face, and made a lay:
“Hard has it gone with the host now,
hopelessly are we standing;
for little gain has our lord
led us into the Westlands.
Lying there with his life gone,
he of all lords most valiant,
few has he left to follow.
Fallen our king and our hope now.”
A growling went up from the men. Wounded, lurching in their tracks, garments ragged and weapons blunted, they would not yield.
Harold Godwinsson trod forth. “Tosti!” he cried. “Will you take peace of us?”
“It was never my wont to betray my friends,” croaked the earl.
“You and all with you.”
“No!” The voices lifted together. The Norse felt they could not give in while their king lay dead before them.
The battle began anew.
Eystein Gorcock was seated under a willow by the Ouse, making a verse for Maria, when the three messengers came into camp on spent and staggering horses. The sheriff jumped to his feet. “What is it?” he cried. “What word do you bear?”
“The English have set on us at Stamford Bridge. They have an overwhelming army,” answered the nearest of the riders. “Your help is sorely needed.”
Eystein sped into the house and got his horn. He came out of Riccall’s gate blowing it till echoes hooted.
When Skuli, Ketill, and the Thorbergssons heard the news, they wanted to go, but Eystein told them to stay behind with a small guard for the ships; they were young yet, and untried. Olaf was pulling on his undercoat, a sword at his feet. “Do you stay too,” said the sheriff.
“Christ’s blood!” shrieked the boy. “My father is in danger of his life!”
“And you may be the last hope of his house,” answered Eystein. He would not be gainsaid. Olaf watched him go till tears blurred his sight.
The last third of the Riccall men followed Eystein. They were in armor, and the heat flamed around them. He drove them ruthlessly, no few fainted by the wayside, but the sun was almost down when he reached the bridge.
There he saw the last remnant of Harald’s men, still at war. He rushed ahead with a yell, his folk pouring after him, and cut a way to the raven flag. Styrkaar bore it.
“Where is the king?” shouted Eystein.
“Fallen,” whispered the marshal. “Earl Tosti fell a short while back, Thjodholf, Gudhrödh, your old friend Gunnar—not many are left. Hell take you, couldn’t you have come faster?”
Eystein snatched the standard. “Maria’s father,” he said in his grief. He lifted his voice like the flag: “God and St. Olaf! Forward, Norsemen!”
That charge, the last of the day, again drove the English back. Almost, they broke and fled. Harald Hardrede and his men had felled a good two-thirds of the Housecarles, the shire levies were worn out, and it was a ghastly thing to see the Raven overhead.
Their king rallied them and led the counterattack. “Once more!” he cried. “you ward your own hearthfires!”
So fiercely had Eystein brought his men here that they were nigh dead from weariness. Some burst their hearts in his charge ere ever weapon touched them. The rest met the English, and were scattered. Harold Godwinsson yelled and followed them at the front of his warriors.
Then battle madness came on the Norse, they cast off their too-heavy byrnies, threw their shields at their feet, and struck two-handed. Spears and arrows reaped them, and as the sun went down they broke. Such as still lived, fled; only a shield-burgh around Eystein remained, where Land waster flew above the bloodied helmets.
Them did Harold Godwinsson attack. Eystein fought for a long time, even when all the others had been slain. As twilight stole forth, he dropped on a heap of the dead with a spear through him. Harold Godwinsson cast down the raven flag, and it covered the last of the Norsemen.