IT WAS OVER before Magnus could do or say anything. His father let go of Tostig’s hair and Tostig slowly fell forward. Magnus was stunned, and couldn’t tear his eyes away from Tostig’s corpse, half expecting him to jump to his feet and laugh. But Tostig stayed where he was, and Magnus looked up at his father.
“What did you think would happen, Magnus?” the king said. “Tostig would have done the same to me if he and Hardrada had won the battle – and to you too.”
Magnus suddenly felt something dark and dreadful inside him, a fury that writhed in his guts like a wild beast that wanted to eat its way out of his flesh. He was still holding his sword, and he gripped the hilt tightly and took a step forward. But Hakon grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides and swinging him round. “Easy now, Magnus,” the housecarl whispered in his ear. “Calm yourself.”
Magnus struggled for a moment, but eventually he gave up and sagged. Hakon released him, and Magnus stumbled away, barging through the silent housecarls. He kept walking until he came to the riverbank. There he threw down his sword and pulled off his helmet, hurling it to one side. Then he fell to his knees and was sick, his stomach heaving and churning until there was nothing more for it to expel.
He sat for a while, and dimly heard cheering, his father’s army celebrating their victory. He knew that Hakon had followed him and was standing nearby. But his mind was full of Tostig’s last moments, the images repeating over and over again until it was as if nothing else existed. Then at last there was more noise, men calling out, and the ground shook beneath him as it only does when warriors march.
“Is that the rest of Hardrada’s men?” Magnus muttered, rising to his feet.
“It seems so,” said Hakon. He was looking east, beyond the battlefield.
The Vikings were advancing, a solid mass of chain mail and shields, and the Saxons were re-forming their shield-wall and moving forward to meet them. Magnus took a deep breath and let it out slowly, the taste of vomit and bile still filling his mouth, his throat raw. Then he picked up his sword and started running, past Hakon and towards the new battle. Hakon cursed and hurried after him.
There were more Vikings this time, and they fought bravely, but they were just as doomed as Hardrada and the others. They were outnumbered, the men of the North felt invincible, and Harold’s housecarls were as coldly ruthless as ever. Magnus grabbed a shield from a corpse and joined the shield-wall, but he didn’t stay in it. Instead he pushed forward, screaming a challenge for anyone to fight him.
One Viking stepped up to take the challenge, and Magnus swiftly cut him down, then he did the same to another, and another, and yet another, until the whole Viking shield-wall seemed to melt away in front of him and there was nobody left to kill. Magnus stood alone, head back, blood dripping from his sword – and he roared his rage at the sky until his voice vanished and he could roar no more.
But the darkness was still inside him.
Hakon dragged him from the battlefield, but by then it was all over. The other half of Hardrada’s army was defeated, most of them dead, the survivors begging for mercy. Harold granted them their lives, on condition they went home to Norway and swore never to invade England again. They wouldn’t need seven hundred ships for the return journey. Magnus heard there were barely enough Vikings left to fill thirty. But many Saxons had died too, their corpses tangled with those of their enemies.
It was too late to return to York, so Harold’s army made camp for the night. The men lit fires and sat by them, speaking of shield-brothers who had died and tending each other’s wounds, or laughing as they wiped blood off weapons and mail shirts and arm-rings they had looted from Viking corpses. Some, like Magnus, simply sat in silence, hoping the flames would burn the day’s images out of their minds. A housecarl had been sent to find him, but Magnus had refused to go to his father’s tent. He wanted nothing from his father, and he had nothing to say to him.
“You must eat,” said Hakon, offering Magnus some bread and sausage from his saddlebag. “You need to keep your strength up.”
They were sitting by the fire Hakon had made against the cold of the autumn evening, the red and yellow flames leaping to the stars in the dark sky above.
“I’m not hungry,” said Magnus, pulling his cloak more tightly around him.
Hakon sighed, and bit into the bread himself. “I know everything seems black to you now. You saw a terrible thing happen today, but you cannot let it destroy you. Men fight each other, and they die. You know this. Life goes on.”
“Not for Tostig,” said Magnus, shaking his head. “And that’s my fault.”
“You can believe that if you like.” Hakon bit off a big chunk of sausage. “Or you could be easier on yourself. Most men would say Tostig made his own fate. It was always going to end this way for him, whether you were part of it or not.”
“But I was part of it, Hakon. I know that, and Tostig knew it as well.”
Silence fell between them, and they both stared into the flames. A wolf howled somewhere nearby, calling its pack to feast on the corpses that covered the battlefield. As far as Magnus knew, his uncle had been left where he fell. “Your father had no choice, Magnus,” Hakon said at last. “Such a challenge cannot go unpunished, even if that means killing your own brother. He would have been seen as weak if he had spared Tostig. Now everyone will know just how strong a king he is.”
Magnus looked at him, then lay down on the cold ground and drew his cloak over his head. He slept badly, his dreams full of slashed throats and spurting blood, and he woke with a start just after dawn to a world of pale light and white mist. Moments later a man came riding down the road from York with a message for the king.
Duke William had landed with his army on the Sussex coast.
Magnus’s father marched his army back to York, where another messenger was waiting for him with more news. Men came and went in the great hall, but Magnus stayed with his troop, avoiding his father. By late morning the order to return to the South had been given, which was no surprise. Two hours later Magnus’s father led the column of warriors through the gatehouse and out of York.
It was a much shorter column than the one that had arrived in York two days before. Hakon told Magnus that the battle of Stamford Bridge – for such was the name the fight had been given – had cost the lives of three hundred of the king’s housecarls, and another hundred or so were too wounded to ride. Edwin and Morcar had lost many men as well.
“Yet they can hardly stop smiling,” said Hakon. He and Magnus were riding at the rear of the column, as far from Magnus’s father as possible. “It meant they had an excuse not to give your father any men – they claim they need those they still have to defend the North. They are just waiting to see who will win the coming battle.”
Magnus didn’t comment. He wasn’t sure he cared any more, about that or anything else, although he did feel a pang of worry for his mother and sisters in Sussex. He was so tired he could barely stay in the saddle, and every part of his body ached. His heart ached too, but after a while he managed to empty his mind, and from then on all he saw was his horse’s mane and his own hands holding the reins.
His father left him alone for the first few days on the road, concentrating on driving the column on, pushing his men even harder than during the journey to the North. Then one cold night the king came looking for his son. Magnus was lying by a fire, wrapped tightly in his cloak, unable to sleep, Hakon snoring beside him. Magnus heard footsteps approaching, and he knew who it was before his father spoke.
“Stand up, Magnus,” he said quietly, and Magnus did as he was told. His father stood on the other side of the fire, the dying flames only just keeping the surrounding shadows at bay. “I have given you enough time to mourn your uncle,” his father went on, his face hard and stern. “But tomorrow you must take your place at my side again. Or do you no longer wish to help me in the fight for our kingdom?”
Magnus thought for a moment, his eyes fixed on his father’s. “I will help you,” he said at last. “But now there are two things I can never forgive you for.”
His father gave a hollow laugh. “Only two? I suppose it could be worse. And stop pretending to be asleep, Hakon – I know you are listening. We ride at sunrise.”
Four days later they arrived at Thorney, and Magnus’s father called a council of war. Scouts reckoned William had brought an army of eight thousand men, many of them mounted warriors. He had re-fortified the old Roman castle at Pevensey to use as a base, but he had also sent out war-bands to ravage the countryside, looting and killing and burning farms – particularly those belonging to Harold Godwinson.
“William is trying to provoke you into attacking him before you’re ready,” said Stigand. “Your men need to rest, and the Fyrd hasn’t fully assembled yet.”
Magnus’s father was sitting on the throne that had been Edward’s, staring into space, tapping his lips with a finger. “Well, he has succeeded,” he said at last.
They rode out of Thorney the next day, Magnus beside his father, the great silver serpent of housecarls following, weapons and armour glinting in the dawn light.
Magnus wondered how many would meet death at the end of the road.