On the early morning of the 20th of September in the Year of Our Lord 1066, Eorl Morkere and his brother led our army to Fuleforde near Eoforwic. On the plain between the river Use and the dyke with the wide marsh behind it, we waited for the wælwulfas. The two eorles had brought their huscarles and many sworn followers but also mercenaries hoping for rich rewards for their service. Their army was complemented by ðegnes like my father, who brought their own warriors to protect the north while the king was at the ready in the south.
While we were waiting, I helped my father put on his chain mail and helmet with nose guard, then gave him his sword, spear and the big round shield. In the light of the rising sun, he was a truly magnificent sight, a warrior who had proved himself a worthy fighter for his country in several battles. A mixture of pride and fear came over me. In a few years, it would be me sitting on a warhorse and going to war for Eorl Morkere and the king – if God so willed that I would become a warrior and that there would still be war then. For so long, Norþmenn and Englishmen had lived peacefully together, and suddenly, they would once again battle each other for a land they both called home.
On the other side of the plain, the Norse troops were gathering around their king. But only when the sun was almost highest in the sky had the waters of the Use receded enough for the battle to begin. Eorl Morkere led the first attack.
The roar of the warriors rushing towards each other was deafening. Soon, the first men fell, struck down by axes and pierced by swords. The two armies mingled into a uniform mass moving back and forth, and rising, wave-like, where warriors stepped over dead men.
Whenever the battle lines changed, we handed the exhausted warriors something to drink and, if necessary, new weapons before they plunged back into the fray. Together, with other youths, a few women with healing skills and a priest, we also took care of the wounded. Some of them, we were able to save, but with most, we were less lucky. They died as we were still pulling them to safety or succumbed to their injuries shortly afterwards. As I looked at one of the dying, I saw again the image of my father in his polished, shining armour. By now, it would be smeared all over with blood and bearing witness to the blows of the enemy’s weapons through the broken chain links and dents in the metal. Nothing would be left of the splendid impression he had made before the battle. And yet that was what mattered to my father. “He who does not fight is worth nothing.”
A piercing sound made me hark. Was someone sounding the charge? One of the older warriors, who was taking a sip from a water bottle, paused. A dull rumble, followed by shouts and screams, approached on the flank where the eorl’s brother was positioned with his men from Myrce. More and more men dragged themselves back to us from the thick of the fighting, badly wounded, but we only saw the reason for this when the first Norþmenn appeared in the midst of our army. Wielding their mighty two-handed axes, they drove a wedge between the English warriors, breaking them up and closing down on each group they had cut off from the rest. The hosts of the two eorles were separated, and while one part was able to hold off the Norþmenn in the narrow ford, the Norþmenn pushed Eorl Morkere and his army further and further back and northward, like a pack of wolves driving a flock of closely huddled sheep.
“Wiþertrod! Wiþertrod!” shouted a warrior running towards us.
I began to tremble. Retreat? Was this a ruse on our part, or were the Norþmenn really more than we could handle?
I stumbled a few steps while the fighters were swaying to and fro like waves. But just as the tide flows inexorably onto the beach, these waves too washed their load unerringly in only one direction – and that was the one in which we were standing. Where was my father?
Not far from us, I could hear the roar of the enemy hordes, through which Ulfgar’s voice came to me as through a mist. “Teng recene, Oswulf! We must hurry back to the horses.”
Reluctantly, I averted my eyes from the battlefield and ran after Ulfgar. “Have you seen my father?”
“How could I?”
True, it was impossible to make out a single man among the thousands of warriors. But how could I not see my father anywhere at all? As we were fleeing across the marshland and past the scattered weeping willows, I continued looking for him, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Unflinchingly, the Norþmenn pursued the retreating Englishmen, and whoever reached a horse, mounted and galloped off. Yet for the slow ones amongst us, there was no escape from the enemy axes.
Father’s horse was prancing when we reached it. I yanked the reins loose and had trouble holding it.
“Father?” I asked myself rather than the men approaching. My heart was pounding. I saw the image of my father sitting proudly on his horse this morning, fading into the dreadful sight of the bloody, filthy, mutilated dying and dead scattered across the battlefield.
“There he is!” Ulfgar pointed to a cluster of men rushing towards us.
I recognised his brown shield with the four flaming stripes I had painted myself and breathed a sigh of relief. Father had come back! Alive. “Quick, Father!” I shouted unnecessarily.
We jumped into the saddles and spurred the horses on, just wanting to get away from the wælwulfas as quickly as possible. I was close to tears. This had been my first battle, and the English army had failed miserably. We were defeated and fleeing from an enemy who had crushed our forces and was now free to enter the gates of Eoforwic. Like rabbits, we ran away, eorles, huscarles, ðegnes and all their warriors – or at least those who had survived the slaughter. Being the son of a nobleman certainly may have sounded good to a peasant and undoubtedly had many advantages, but it also had its dirty sides, and this was one of them.
I prayed to God that word about our losses would not reach Ledlinghe. My mother and siblings would fear the worst. I didn’t dare think about how Godgifu would receive the bad tidings. Should our happiness here on earth really have been so short-lived? At least, Ulfgar and I were still alive. But what was to happen next?
Disheartened and exhausted, I returned to our tents with Ulfgar and the rest of the warriors and helped tend to the wounded.
Our scouts reported that the Norse king had sent messengers to Eoforwic to give the scirgerefa the choice of surrendering the city with or without a fight. We were so close, but our army was scattered in all directions. For a long time, it looked as if neither of the eorles would be able to gather all the warriors together again. and that we would simply have to stand idly by as the Norþmenn took Eoforwic. But the Almighty had mercy on us and sent us a messenger from the south on the third day.
“I bring good tidings,” said the messenger. “The king and his warriors left for the north two days ago and will reach Tatecastre tomorrow.”
The warriors cheered. I leaned towards my father. “Where is Tatecastre?”
“Southwest of Eoforwic, less than half a day’s walk or a couple of hours on horseback.”
“Do you think the king will arrive in time to save Eoforwic from the Norþmenn?” The thought of another bloodbath made the hairs on my arms stand up.
“Hard to say. The Norse king will not wait forever for an answer from the scirgerefa.”
Soon, scouts were on their way to look for the surviving stragglers of our army and tell them to gather in Tatecastre.
The next day, on the 24th of September in the Year of Our Lord 1066, I caught sight of the king and his huscarles arriving at Tatecastre with a sizable host of warriors. A messenger, who had told the scirgerefa of the king’s arrival, reached us a few hours later.
“The scirgerefa has sent word to the Norse king that the inhabitants of Eoforwic will freely submit to him and that he, the scirgerefa, will hand over the city to him. They will meet with the Norse king and some warriors at Stanfordbrycge to decide who is to rule Eoforwic in the name of the Norse king.”
King Harold listened carefully, then he rose, looked at his huscarles and said in a firm voice: “Six feet of English earth I will give him. Nay, seven feet he shall have, for they say he is a great man.”
The men raised their fists in the air and cheered for the king. Everyone standing around us joined in the cheering, and Ulfgar and I also got carried away.
“Beo ðu hal, leof cуning!” I shouted, and the others joined in, repeating my words. At that moment, I understood again why I wanted to be a warrior, perhaps, no, most certainly a huscarl. Here was a brave, fearless king, determined to defeat our foe and restore peace to his land. That’s what I wanted to fight for!
* * *
It was the 25th of September in the Year of Our Lord 1066 when King Harold and his men marched through Eoforwic without the slightest resistance from a Norþmann. About a mile before the bridge over the Deorwente, beyond which the Norse were waiting, King Harold slowed down his men and ordered them to get ready for battle on this side of the river. The huscarles dismounted and handed the horses over to us youths.
My father handed me the reins of his horse. “It is time, Oswulf. Today, we must defend the honour of the king and this country. This day decides the fate of us all. Be proud to be here at this moment to support your king and your country. You are still young and inexperienced in war, so stay back. Beware of the Norþmenn! They fight without regard for their own lives, for their greatest glory is to die in battle and go to Valhǫll. If anyone stands in your way and challenges you to fight, fight like a man. You want to become a huscarl of the king one day, but only the bravest will reach that goal. I know that one day, you will be one of them. I’ve seen you fight. I know what you can do. Prove today that you are not only brave, but also wise!”
It will not be enough to defeat them. I will have to kill them if it comes to it.
I swallowed. “I will, Father.”
“God þin feorg freoðie, min sunu.” He turned and followed the other warriors who lined up behind the huscarles.
Not a word was spoken. When the men stopped advancing, I climbed a tree to see what was going on. Two men were riding towards each other: King Harold and a man from across the river. The latter carried only a sword – so he was neither a huscarl nor a Norþmann. King Harold greeted him and seemed to be talking to him. The other listened to the king’s words without moving. In the end, he answered curtly, turned his horse and rode back across the bridge.
The time for words was over. The battle began. Our warriors set off with determined steps. My heart pounded as I followed them with Ulfgar. Once again, we were fighting Norþmenn, those men who had brought a shameful defeat on us four days ago. But this time, they were up against the king’s finest warriors. This time, I was sure, the fortunes of war would be on our side.
My hands trembled with excitement while our warriors, after an initial halt, poured across the bridge to the other side of the river and attacked the shield wall of the Norþmenn. I stayed on the south side of the bridge with Ulfgar and with part of the army to guard the horses and look after the exhausted and wounded.
“What if the Norþmenn cross the bridge to our side?” I asked Ulfgar.
“That won’t happen any time soon,” he replied. “Did you see how they ran when they saw us? They were expecting a handful of harmless citizens of Eoforwic, and what do they get instead? A host of warriors in full battle dress. Archers, spearmen, swordsmen, huscarles – there is something for everyone. Most Norþmenn don’t even wear armour or a shield.”
“And if some do make it to us?” At Fuleforde, I had seen how the two-handed axe of the Norþmenn cuts through metal like a hot knife slices through butter. If one of them came straight at me and lashed out with his axe, my new chain mail would offer me no protection whatsoever.
“Then we have to fight.” Ulfgar looked at me. “You and me. The two of us together.”
I nodded. “For Englaland and for Godgifu.” Thinking of my beloved gave me strength. When all this was over, I would return to her, and we would live in peace, get married and have children.
High in the sky, the sun burned down mercilessly on the warriors, already steaming with heat. While urging our men on, it paralysed the Norþmenn. Our entire army had made its way across the river, leaving behind a scene of destruction. The trampled grass had turned dark red where it was not covered with dozens of bodies of fallen warriors. The sight of all that blood turned my stomach. This was a hundred times worse than watching a pig being slaughtered and more gruesome than in Fuleforde, where we had only seen a small number of the slain as we retreated. Slashed or pierced bodies, severed heads and limbs covered the ground so densely that we were sometimes forced to take several steps on the dead to quickly get to any wounded or weakened fighters and pull them out of the fray and back to safety.
The enemy shield wall finally broke, exposing the remaining poorly protected foes.
A cry of triumph rang out that the Norse king had fallen, hit by an arrow from our archers. Our men pressed forward and heckled the remaining Norþmenn who were desperately trying to stand their ground. It looked like an easy victory for King Harold today.
Far and wide, I could see no more foes trying to sneak behind our battle lines or approaching Ulfgar and me to steal horses or weapons. I put the spear down for a moment, took a breath and wiped the sweat from my forehead. My clothes stuck to my skin, my hair was so wet, I could not shake it away, but had to wipe it out of my face.
Ulfgar joined me, his ochre curls hanging down limp and dark, his face bright red from the heat and exertion. “They’re not as lucky this time as they were at Fuleforde.”
“Thanks be to the king and his men.” I looked at the fighting in front of us wearily and ridden with guilt, for I had long since lost sight of my father at whose side I should have been. But I was too exhausted and too disgusted by the horror that was unfolding before our eyes. “My father is in there somewhere.” I swallowed, but the lump in my throat wouldn’t budge. “Maybe alive. Maybe dead.”
“Tell me, Oswulf,” Ulfgar squinted southward. “Are we expecting any guests today?”
Dryhten min! Fewer than two miles from us, a host of warriors in full battle dress was advancing. “Someone must have sent word to their camp at Richale. How could those traitors escape our archers otherwise?”
Ulfgar raised the spear. “We’ll think about that later. The guests are here, so we must take care of them.” He eagerly beckoned those around us at the far end of our army. “We need more men! There are more Norþmenn coming!”
The battle lines split. A large number of English warriors swung sideways and pounced on the new arrivals. The noise of fighting swelled as the two armies clashed. My skull hummed from the crash of weapons and shields, the swings of axes, the whir of arrows seeking their target in the tumult from above. The screams of the dying mingled with the gasps of the exhausted fighters who had been standing their ground since this morning or thrown themselves into battle as soon as they arrived after a hasty march from Richale. My father had always said that I was tough, but this was only my second major battle. I was sixteen winters old and nowhere near ready for such sustained fighting. My arms and legs were heavy, my back ached, my throat was parched. All I wanted was to sit down and rest.
“Where are you going?” Ulfgar called to me as I walked towards a group of trees near the battlefield.
“I can barely hold the spear.” After making sure that everything was safe, I sank down on the ground, exhausted, and my friend sat next to me. To my surprise, I noticed a person standing in a southerly direction, far away from the hustle and bustle, watching the events unfold. Something bothered me about the figure. I stood to get a better view.
“Don’t tell me you see more Norþmenn!” said Ulfgar.
“Not more, just one in particular.” I kept an eye on the battlefield as I cautiously took a few steps forwards.
“One in particular?” Like a stork in a swamp, Ulfgar stomped beside me over the bodies lying on the ground.
I kept glancing at the fighting next to us to make sure that no one attacked us by surprise.
From the looks of it, all the newly arrived Norþmenn were now involved in the fight, except for a few who stayed out of the battle and watched the noise and clamour from a safe distance – and one of them was the lonely figure I was approaching.
“Isn’t that Stígandr?” I waved at the man, but he had his eyes firmly fixed on what was happening before him.
“I didn’t know he was coming,” Ulfgar said.
“What is the son of a shoemaker doing in the middle of a battlefield?” I waved again and quickened my pace.
Now, he turned his head in our direction, but instead of waving back or walking towards us, he looked around searchingly.
“He hasn’t recognised us.” By now, I was trotting as fast as my strength would still allow me. “Stígandr! It’s us, Ulfgar and Oswulf!”
“Doesn’t look like he wants to talk to us.” Ulfgar panted beside me.
Our Norse friend stared at us as if the Fiend was approaching him personally. Then he took a few steps back before turning and running.
“What’s he doing?” I asked. “He can’t just run away. There may be more Norþmenn on their way here from Richale, and he’s going to run right into them. Stígandr!”
“Perhaps he has secretly joined our host and is now afraid that he will be sent back to his father.”
Ulfgar’s breathing was heavy, and I was also finding it harder and harder to run.
“Why is he even here?”
“Maybe he wanted to find out if his uncle is still alive.” Ulfgar groaned as much as his breath would let him. “I’m knackered. Why are we running after him anyway?”
“You’re right.” I stopped, aimed and threw my spear. It whirred into the air and landed some ten paces near Stígandr, who startled and stumbled. With all the strength I had left, I hurried to him and threw myself on top of him. “Stay here, Stígandr! It’s too dangerous out there.”
“Let go of me!” He tried to shake me off, but I wouldn’t let go.
“Only if you keep still and don’t try to run away.”
He swung at me and tried to wriggle out of my grip. “Let me go, I said!”
A paw snapped at his wrist. “That’s enough now!” Ulfgar pulled him to his feet and clasped him tightly until he held still. “There are enough men fighting on this battlefield already.”
I struggled to my feet. The noise of battle roared behind me, so although we had stopped fighting physically, we continued shouting at each other. “What are you doing here?”
Stígandr’s face was red with anger. “That’s none of your business!”
“Why did you run away from us? How did you get here in the first place?”
“Are you afraid that I will rob you of your glory on the battlefield?” Stígandr’s pointy chin beard quivered. “That I will tell at home how our highly praised eorles and their brave warriors ran for their lives at Fuleforde?”
I froze. “Who told you that?”
Stígandr hesitated a moment too long for me to believe his answer. “Rumours.”
“You’re lying!” I stepped closer. “You’ve been spying on our army, isn’t that right?”
“So what? I don’t see why it should matter to you.”
“You have no business here. This is a battlefield for warriors.”
“Then what are you doing here, Osfriðson? Neither do you.”
“Not yet, but you never will.”
“Good, so we’ve talked about everything you wanted to know.” Stígandr looked up at Ulfgar and bared his teeth. “Now, perhaps you can leave me alone.”
Ulfgar and I glanced at each other. He nodded and released his prisoner. Stígandr straightened up and ran his finger along the inside of the neckline of his tunic as if he needed to free himself from a collar that was too tight.
I picked up my spear and waved to the two. “Come, let’s go back.”
Ulfgar picked up his spear and wanted to follow, but Stígandr made no move.
“What is it?” I asked him.
“I’ll stay here. I don’t want to disturb you.”
“Come on. We’re all over there. Who can tell if more Norþmenn will show up here?” I paused. What had I just said?
Stígandr dismissed my worries. “You go ahead. I’ll keep well away from the battlefield and walk along the river to the bridge.”
Ulfgar and I exchanged a long look. Was he thinking the same as me?
“You’re behaving very strangely, Stígandr,” I said. “You appear on the battlefield out of nowhere, you won’t tell us what you want and how you got here, you refuse to go back to our side with us. What’s going on?”
“I don’t see why this is strange at all.” He looked at me in a decidedly innocent way.
“So, you also don’t think it’s strange that you’re standing on the side from which the Norþmenn approached, do you?”
“I didn’t want to get in your way.”
“Really? Then what are you doing here? Did you happen to stroll by and think: ‘Oh, there’s a battle going on. I’m going to see who’s fighting whom.’ Are you trying to make a fool of me?”
Stígandr turned his gaze to the battlefield. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You didn’t happen to meet a Norþmann on your way to the battlefield, or perhaps several? In Richale, for example?”
“Leave him alone, Oswulf,” Ulfgar said. “We have to go back.”
I snorted. “I thought you were my friend, Stígandr. That you were one of us.”
“Maybe we were once.” Stígandr looked to the side as if none of this concerned him. “Until your father put it into your head that you must become a huscarl. Since then, I have just been the poor shoemaker’s son to you, and you the soon-to-be master warrior. Suddenly, you were something better than me.”
“That is not true. We are all part of a God-given order in which everyone plays their role. Mine is to fight. Yours is to make shoes.”
“My uncle succeeded in breaking out of this rigid order. He has become a huscarl with land and property.”
I pressed my lips together and took a deep breath, but I couldn’t stop myself. “Because he cheated my father and stole from him. Your uncle does not deserve his rank. He is a liar and a thief.”
“You cannot bear that others are better than you and your father. That is why you make up stories to stain other people’s names and deeds.”
How dare he! “At least I’m not sneaking around any Norþmenn.” I dropped my spear and threw myself at him. “Out with it! There is no sensible reason why you should be here. So, what were you doing on the side of the enemy? Where have you been all this time? I haven’t seen you in any of our tents.”
Growling and barking like two dogs in a fight, we rolled across the ground, hitting each other.
“Get off me! I don’t owe you an answer!”
That was enough. I drew my scramasax.
“Oswulf!” Ulfgar grabbed my arm just in time before I could put the knife to Stígandr’s throat.
“Hlafordswica! You’re lucky Ulfgar is holding me back, or your head would be rolling across this field right now, even though you’re not taking part in the battle.”
With widened eyes, Stígandr stared at the knife hovering over him. “Wait! I can explain. Don’t let go of his arm, Ulfgar! Let me speak, Oswulf.”
I looked at Ulfgar, who nodded briefly but did not let go of my arm, just to be sure. “I’m listening. But be quick, before Ulfgar gets bored and releases me.”
Beads of sweat rolled down Stígandr’s face. He looked frantically back and forth between Ulfgar and me. “They forced me.”
“Who is ‘they’?”
“The Norþmenn. They made me warn the men in their camp at Richale.”
“When?”
“When they saw King Harold and his army.”
“They didn’t even know then that there was going to be a battle.”
“They didn’t want to wait for an attack.”
“How could they force you to do this if you were not amongst them before? At no point have our warriors crossed the path of the Norþmenn.”
Stígandr swallowed. “They… they caught me while we camped outside Eoforwic.”
“Was that before the battle at Fuleforde or after?”
“After it. They cut me short.”
“Why didn’t they just kill you like everyone else who couldn’t flee fast enough?”
“I begged for mercy.”
“You’re lying. They slaughtered everyone they could lay their hands on.”
“They spared me.”
“Probably because you have such a pretty face!”
“I offered them my services. In their language.”
“You shamelessly offered to spy on us for our foe?”
“They would have killed me otherwise. What would you have done in my place?”
I pondered. “So you have been their watchman since the battle at Fuleforde?”
Stígandr nodded hurriedly. “Exactly. Because they made me do it.”
“What did you tell the Norse king?”
“They threatened me to tell them everything. How many warriors King Harold has and where he will lead them, when they would get there, everything.”
“You’re a liar.” I pushed my scramasax towards him, but Ulfgar held onto my arm.
“It’s no use killing him, Oswulf,” Ulfgar said. “We already have enough dead and injured to take care of.”
“Can’t you see that everything he says is a lie?” I asked. “He has not been caught and forced to spy on us at all.”
“But it is true. Believe me.”
“Well, let’s assume it is as you say. So, after Fuleforde, you told the Norse king all about our army.”
“Yes exactly, that’s how it was.” A few teeth appeared in Stígandr’s lower jaw.
“You told him that the rest of our troops were waiting at Tatecastre for King Harold, who would then pass through Eoforwic with a large army of battle-ready warriors to attack the Norþmenn at Stanfordbrycge.”
“He knew that through me, exactly.” The whole row of teeth shone out at me from Stígandr’s lower jaw.
“You seem proud of your betrayal.”
The smile disappeared. More beads of sweat ran down Stígandr’s forehead. “What? No, no, quite the opposite! I am so ashamed of what I have done because I betrayed my homeland. But now, you know why I am here and that I was forced into this and that we are both fighting on the same side.”
“No, we don’t.”
Stígandr frowned. “I don’t understand.” He looked at Ulfgar as if for help.
“Then let me explain it to you, Stígandr. You’re a miserable liar, and even when you have a knife at your throat, you lie.”
“But I am telling the truth!”
“Really? Let’s suppose King Harald knew indeed how large the English army was and that they were going to attack him and his men. Then why did he only bring a few of them here, and most importantly, why did he show up dressed only in a tunic and helmet instead of arming himself and his followers to the teeth? Perhaps because he knew nothing at all? Because someone who was caught at Fuleforde would have been unaware of the approaching English army? For we heard about it only on the day after the battle.”
“Oswulf.” Ulfgar’s grip on my arm tightened.
“Let go of my arm, Ulfgar!” I tried to wrench my hand holding the scramasax free.
Stígandr squirmed to get rid of me and the blade flashing rather too close to his throat. “Don’t do it, Oswulf! You would regret it.”
“My only regret would be not cutting your throat right now, you wicked liar.” I snorted and tugged at my arm, but there was no escape from Ulfgar’s pincer grip. So instead, I tried to throttle Stígandr with my other hand.
He grabbed my hand and pushed it away. “No, Oswulf, wait! That’s not all.”
“Do you want to tell me more lies?” I wrestled and writhed as Ulfgar pulled me away. “Hlafordswica! You’ll rue the day you came here instead of helping your father at home in the workshop.”
“And you?” Stígandr’s voice cracked. “Will rue the day you failed your father in battle. They will attack the huscarles. Kill them. Then the king and Eorl Morkere. And your father, too.”
I froze. My father! I was wasting time with Stígandr while my father was possibly fighting for his life and desperately needed me. “I must find him.” I jumped up and fastened the scramasax to my belt. “You’re getting away today, but I’m not finished with you yet.”
I grabbed my spear and ran like mad towards the battle. Ulfgar shouted after me, but I didn’t listen nor look back, I dashed forward. Without a shield and armed only with a spear, I was completely unprotected, but I did not care at that moment.
It was late in the day, and there were more dead than living warriors on the battlefield. Not tripping over the bodies was more difficult than shunning an enemy weapon. I looked around in all directions and at last found my father. Holding the spear ready to stab, I picked my way between the few fighting men towards my father.
I was only twenty paces away from him when he stepped on a shield that had long since ceased to be of any use to its bearer. Flailing his arms, he stumbled sideways as his adversary’s two-handed axe came down on him. “No!” I roared, pulling up the spear and throwing it at the Norþmann.
My father screamed and thumped backwards onto the ground. His adversary jerked and slumped down, my spear stuck in his back.
I rushed to my father and stared in horror at the huge pool of blood that formed where his shield hand had once been. The axe had severed it along with the shield. “Father! You have to hold on! I’ll get help. I’ll take you home.”
Ulfgar appeared out of nowhere, cut a long strip off a dead man’s tunic with his dagger, put it around my father’s upper arm and pulled it as tight as he could before tying it with a knot. When I looked at him questioningly, he shrugged his shoulders. “I once saw a physician do it.”
My father moaned and tried to sit up. Ulfgar reached under his shoulders and carefully lifted his upper body. “You must not move, Osfrið! You need a physician urgently. Oswulf will fetch your horse. Hurry!”
Afraid that my father would die in my friend’s arms and before my eyes, I had stood there, petrified and listening to Ulfgar’s words, until I awoke from my stupor. I set off running to fetch Father’s horse, and all of a sudden, an eerie silence seemed to descend over the battlefield. The fighting noise died away. Instead of the clang and clank of weapons and armour, moans and shuffles filled the air. Dead bodies lay everywhere, spears, axes, helmets, severed limbs. Those who still had enough life in them stirred and cried out for help. Survivors wandered around, looking for brothers-in-arms, alive or dying, for rings or coins they could secretly put into their pouches, for swords and chainmail to replace their own that had been lost or damaged in battle. It reeked of sweat, blood and destruction. And in the middle of it all, my father lay with a mutilated arm, while his son was paralysed by the experience of his second battle. I didn’t even know if we had won or lost. I grabbed the reins of our horse and galloped him to where Ulfgar was still holding my father in his arms.
We lifted him onto the back of the horse, holding onto him so that he didn’t slip down again. I climbed into the saddle behind and held him tight. As we rode slowly past the fallen and surviving warriors, the royal standard with the dragon of the kings of Westseaxa swayed gently in the midst of a group of warriors.
“The king is alive.” My voice trembled as tears welled in my eyes. “I see the king, Ulfgar. King Harold is alive. We have defeated the Norþmenn.”
“I hope they have had enough now. I, for one, certainly have.”
I took a deep breath. “Me too, Ulfgar, me too.” On my left arm, I felt my father’s heart beating faintly but distinctly. “Do you think he’ll make it?”
Ulfgar regarded my father. “Osfrið has been through other things. Nothing will knock him off his feet so quickly. Especially not a Norþmann.”
While some of our warriors chased the last few fleeing Norþmenn towards Richale and those who remained cheered our victory, my father groaned.
“He needs a physician, Ulfgar, or he will die.”
I didn’t know if Ulfgar had understood me over the noise around us, but he nodded and told me to wait. Then he weaved his way through the crowds.
I held my face close to my father’s ear. “Father? Do you hear me?”
He showed no sign of life.
“Father? Father!” I began to sweat, even though the sun was low on the horizon and the air was cooling noticeably. “Can you hear me? You must not die. Not yet.” A low humming in my ear made me look at my father’s face. “Father?” I whispered.
His right eye opened a crack. His mouth twitched almost imperceptibly as if he were trying to smile.
“Father, you must hold on. Ulfgar is looking for a physician who will help you. Promise me you won’t die!”
The eye closed again. Father’s chin fell on his chest.
Terrified, I ran my hands all over his chest and held my breath. I felt a very gentle movement, a shallow but rhythmic lifting and lowering, accompanied by a throbbing that felt surprisingly strong. My father was alive. Still. I breathed a sigh of relief and looked impatiently around for Ulfgar.
A short time later, he returned with a horse in tow. “There is a place called Cattune not far from here, barely half an hour’s walk south. They have no physician, but a very knowledgeable healer.”
I hesitated. “But he needs a physician! Let’s take him to Eoforwic. There’s bound to be several of them there.”
Ulfgar mounted his horse. “It will be dark by the time we get to Eoforwic. It’s too far.” He grinned and stroked his short beard. “Maybe the healer in Cattune is pretty?”
“She can be ugly as night for all I care, as long as she can nurse my father back to health. Come on, we have to go!”
We followed the old Roman road far too slowly, but more than a fast walk was not possible, given the state my father was in.
“Why did Stígandr lie to me?” I asked.
“Hard to say. Maybe because he wanted to get rid of your scramasax at his throat and therefore told you what you wanted to hear?”
“Do you think he really worked as a spy for the Norþmenn?”
“If so, he was not very successful.”
“He must have lied. He probably wasn’t even there in Fuleforde but heard about our defeat from a travelling minstrel or a messenger.”
“You should not worry too much about it, Oswulf. It doesn’t matter whether Stígandr lied or not. We won the battle, and hopefully, we have seen the last of the Norþmenn here in Englaland for a long time. Their king is dead, Eorl Morkere’s brother too. The wolves and ravens will take care of their dead warriors at Stanfordbrycge. I don’t know how many of them are still in Richale, but they will go home with far fewer ships than it took them to get here. It’s over, Oswulf.”
“At least we won this time, that’s true. But at what price? Many warriors have lost their lives in these two battles.” I felt for my father’s heartbeat. The throbbing was weak but regular. “It will never be the same again when we return to Ledlinghe.”
“Probably not, no.”
“I wonder if Stígandr will return to Ledlinghe with our men?”
“I would think so. A shoemaker from Englaland is not what Vikings usually bring home from their raids.”
I could not help a grim smile. They probably couldn’t even sell Stígandr as a slave for a decent price, and I doubted that they were in need of shoemakers in Norweg. So most likely, we would all meet again in Ledlinghe. Just as before. Except that nothing would be as before. We had defeated the Norþmenn, but across the water, the French were waiting for the wind to shift so they could finally set sail for Englaland.