Almost three years had passed since the death of King Harold, and it seemed that our country was slowly calming down under the French rulers. Where travelling minstrels and merchants had previously talked about rebellions in Norþ-Walas, Eastengla and Norþhymbre, they now only mentioned the few people who continued to travel to Scotland or to the great ports to leave the land and seek their fortunes elsewhere, across the water. Even the last two great English eorles, Eorl Morkere and his brother, had submitted to the king shortly after the coronation and had been living at Willelm’s court ever since – even if many doubted that this was by choice and that it would last.
An eerie calm settled over the land, and in Ledlinghe, too, life had fallen into its ordinary way. Stígandr had taken over the workshop after his father’s death at the end of the winter and had hired two apprentices. Since he was constantly travelling to the ports and big markets to get leather, orders and tools, we rarely saw each other. I also saw Ulfgar less, even though we continued to hunt together while we still could. The new king had started to ban hunting in many of the woods in the south, and those who were caught doing so faced harsh punishments.
For a year, I had been married to Godgifu, but the duties of a ðegn, which my father was slowly handing over to me, and the daily weapons practice to become a warrior, left me little time to spend with my sweet wife. I loved Godgifu, but after my failure at the battles of Fuleforde and Stanfordbrycge and my shameful judgements on Kjetil, the herb women and Stígandr, I had vowed to become an exemplary and brave warrior, excelling both on the battlefield and at the manor house – worthy to become a ðegn like my father and, eventually, a huscarl of Eorl Morkere or the king. For that continued to be my greatest wish, and my father encouraged me in it, probably because he noticed how his strength was increasingly failing him.
When he wasn’t teaching me in matters other than physically fighting, I spent hours working on each and every skill I needed as a warrior: strength, endurance, speed, cunning fighting moves and ruses, but above all the handling of weapons of all kinds, whether spear, one-handed or two-handed axe, short or long sword, bow and arrow, dagger, even slings, clubs, sticks, fists and whatever else seemed usable as a weapon, I used everything and anything against very different opponents, and soon, there was no one near or far who could seriously threaten me. All my deeds and desires were guided by my hope for the one day that was sure to come at some point. It was only a matter of time before the wheel of fortune would turn for us. And it did, in the middle of the harvest season.
The peasants were in the fields, harvesting the crops before the rain and cold of the coming autumn could destroy them. A team of oxen with a cart rumbled along the road into the village, bringing the bundled sheaves of wheat. From the yard in front of the granary, the dull thudding of the threshing flails could be heard as the men beat the grains out of the ears. Women and children eagerly gathered the grains and sifted them into a bucket or threw them in the air to separate out the chaff. Two children held up a sack made of coarse cloth while two others poured in the buckets of sifted grains.
Ulfgar and I were returning with our catch from the nearby pond when the clatter of horses’ hooves caught our attention. We barely had the time to move to the side before a group of riders in full battle dress trotted past us and headed for the front of the church.
“Earnest visitors, methinks,” Ulfgar murmured, glancing after the riders with narrowed eyes.
“Come, let’s hear what they have to say!”
We hurried to the small gathering that was forming around the riders. Mostly old men who took care of mending tools and equipment while the young ones worked in the fields or with the cattle came wandering over to hear the tidings.
“Greetings, men of Ledlinghe, from our lord, Gospatric, Eorl of Bernicia,” called the foremost horseman, gazing over the crowd of old and young men, children, dogs, three pigs and a few chickens. “Englishmen, the day has come for us to take back our freedom. Willelm of Normandig, who wrongfully seized the crown of Englaland three years ago and bloodily crushed all resistance, has oppressed us long enough. Eadgar Æðeling, the last descendant of the kings of Westseaxa, the only one with a true claim to the English crown, fled from his captivity to Scotland a few months ago.”
The elderly cheered cautiously. Eadgar Æðeling was younger than me, maybe eighteen winters old – far too young for someone who wanted to enforce his claim to the throne against a man of about forty winters who seemed determined to hold onto the English crown by any means necessary.
“He heard of the unrest in his beloved homeland, where brave men, whose king he is supposed to be, are fighting to shake off the French yoke. Eadgar Æðeling is determined to wrest his land from the greedy hands of the French.”
The cheering got louder. I listened up. My heartbeat accelerated. He wants to fight for his right? Was this the opportunity I had been waiting for these past three years?
A blurry image shifted before my eyes, becoming clearer and clearer with each detail I saw. With King Harold’s standard in his hand, Eadgar Æðeling stood on a pile of dead French horsemen, while the surviving ones fell on their knees before him, whimpering for mercy. From the right approached the English Archbishop of Cantwarebyri, the crown of Englaland in his hands. Eadgar Æðeling knelt down, and the archbishop solemnly placed the crown on his head. The crowned man rose to the cheer of his countrymen.
Tears came to my eyes. Had we passed the trial God had imposed on us through the French? Had the time finally come to chase them, too, from our land? My stomach was tingling. I could hardly wait to pack my weapons and go to war. At long last, I would be able to stand out in battle before the eyes of the future king.
“At Richale, on the banks of the river Humbre, lies a fleet of nearly three hundred ships which our future king has assembled with his allies in Scotland and Denmark to defeat the French together.”
Some of the bystanders began to murmur with a worried look. The image of an English victory that I had just seen so clearly burst like a pig’s bladder that had been filled with water and then pricked with a needle.
“Of all people, the Danes and the Scots are to save our country from the French?” I murmured to Ulfgar. “What happens if we win? How can Eadgar Æðeling be sure that they will actually put him on the throne and not one of themselves?”
“That would be nothing new,” said Ulfgar. “We’ve already had two Norse kings, but I’m sure the Scots wouldn’t mind either to rule over Englaland. It would save them from constantly pushing their border back and forth.”
The foremost horseman continued. “The people of Norþhymbre also stand together behind their future king and have joined the revolt against the bastard from Normandig. Eorl Morkere and his brother, who have fled from Willelm’s court, are leading their warriors to strengthen their ancient claims to Myrce and Norþhymbre. With a common army, united under Eadgar Æðeling, they have already surprised the French at Dunholm.” The rider had to speak up, as the cheers got louder. “They have killed the new Eorl of Norþhymbre, the Frenchman Robert de Comines, and completely destroyed his entire following.”
The shouts and clapping of the bystanders became so loud that the speaker had to pause. Fists were raised in the air. The fighting spirit was beginning to rise again in the men, and I too pushed my fists in the air and roared out my elation about this English victory.
“Not a single one of them survived to bring the tidings to the French bastard in Wincestre.” The horseman almost shouted and raised his hand to continue speaking. “But he will hear from us, for Eadgar Æðeling and his army are on their way to Eoforwic to besiege the city and free it from its French rulers. I ask you, men of Ledlinghe, are you ready to go into battle with your future king against the French niþingas?”
An loud cry of approval went through the men. Hands, fists, brooms and other tools were waved aloft.
Ulfgar clenched his fist and roared, “Ða Frenciscan sculon deaþe sweltan!” Then he turned to me and grinned. “Eadgar Æðeling has learned well from the French.”
“What do you mean?”
“The French army is in the south, so he stirs up trouble in the north to make it come to him – like the French did with King Harold, just the other way round. And we know who won there, don’t we?”
Ulfgar was right. Except that the French had devastated whole swathes of land after their arrival. Eadgar Æðeling’s men, on the other hand, only seemed to attack the French, but not to murder and plunder as they pleased. Their deeds were laudable forsooth, but would it be enough against warriors as ruthless as the French?
* * *
So, Ulfgar and I were soon part of a large crowd of keen warriors eager to join their rebellious countrymen in the revolt against the foreign rulers. All hopes rested on the young shoulders of the only living descendant of the mighty Ælfred of Westseaxa. Just as that brave king had once snatched Englaland from the Viking hordes at the very last moment, so this time, Eadgar Æðeling was to free Englaland from the invaders and ensure that the land of the English fell back into English hands.
What a motley band of fighters we were, riding towards the largest city in the north of Englaland! In the two battles I had witnessed, at Fuleforde and Stanfordbrycge, an English army had battled against an army of Norþmenn. Today, we were on the same side, as if it had always been like that. And there were not only Englishmen and Norþmenn, but also the Scots, whom Eadgar Æðeling had brought with him. Three peoples who had been at war with each other for centuries were marching together to Eoforwic to…
“What do the Scots and the Norþmenn actually expect from driving the French out of the city?” I asked Ulfgar as we drifted along with the crowd.
“Perhaps they’re hoping to extend their southern border into Englaland. If they help Eadgar Æðeling with his claim to the English crown, he might reward them generously with land in the north.”
“Possibly, and what about the Danes? What do they get out of supporting him?”
Ulfgar shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Gold, honour, the chance for a bloody fight?”
“Why are they here anyway? Didn’t King Harold drive the Norþmenn out of our land for good?”
“That was the Norþmenn. These are Danes.”
“I have a bad feeling about this, Ulfgar. This is a huge army. There are enough warriors who will go into battle for Eadgar and his claim to the throne and who will keep the French warriors busy. The Danes have no reason to risk their lives for him. They will stuff their pouches while we are fighting and then sneak away rather than support us to the end against the French.”
“You are still as suspicious of the Norþmenn as you were three years ago. Let them line their pockets if only they help us take Eoforwic as quickly as possible.”
I swallowed the foul taste that formed in my mouth and tried to think of something else.
A little further ahead of me, riding with the experienced warriors, was my father, who did not want to miss this opportunity. He was convinced that this was one of the last chances to put an Englishman on the throne of Englaland again – and the last time for him as a ðegn to fight for an English king once more.
While I was indulging my thoughts in the rhythmic ups and downs of my striding horse, someone came to ride beside me. I glanced to my left and saw the bared lower teeth of an obviously good-humoured Stígandr.
“I see that you too have decided to support the pretender to the throne from the north.”
I frowned. “Eadgar Æðeling is not from the north. He is one of us, a descendant of the great King Ælfred of Westseaxa.”
“Oh, right, right. A blood relative of the learned Ælfred, who is known for his good relations with the Danes. Fortunately, the æðeling can count on the support of the Danish and Scottish armies,” Stígandr strained in his seat to look around, “because he obviously hasn’t been able to persuade many Englishmen to join him.”
“How do you know how many there are? Besides, all that matters at the moment is to get Eoforwic back into English hands. For that, Eadgar Æðeling doesn’t need to call together the entire fyrd and the army of huscarles and ðegnes.”
Stígandr looked ahead, bored. “The latter would also be difficult. As far as I know, the huscarles and most of the nobles did not survive the battle at Hæstinga. The peasants don’t care who they have to pay taxes and dues to anyway, be it to an Englishman, Norþmann or Frenchman.”
“What are you trying to say, Stígandr? That Eadgar Æðeling does not deserve the crown? That the English are cowards who shy away from doing their duty?”
Stígandr clicked his tongue and looked at me pityingly. “Not at all! What are you thinking? I’m just observing and stating what I see.”
I snorted. “I don’t know why you’re coming along at all if you think nothing of the æðeling’s undertaking anyway.”
Stígandr spread his fingers over his chest. “You know, I pondered for a long time whether I should really leave my workshop in Ledlinghe, but then I said to myself, Stígandr, do it! For the good of Ledlinghe and the glory of Englaland! As a dutiful and proud Englishman, you owe it to the rightful ruler of this land.”
I frowned. Memories of the battle at Stanfordbrycge came back to me. Stígandr had suddenly appeared there too, without any real reason for his presence. I tried to push the thoughts away. My suspicions of that time had turned out to be wrong and unjust. I couldn’t make the same mistake again.
Stígandr’s face tensed, exposing a long row of teeth in his advanced lower jaw. “Are we not all English on this day? United in a single army with a single goal before our eyes: to take Eoforwic and destroy the French?”
There was a diabolical glow in his dark eyes that made me shiver, even in the warm summer air. What he said was all well, but how he said it made me think. Taking Eoforwic might have been the common goal, but did everyone want to achieve it for the same reason? What would happen if we really defeated the French and claimed Eoforwic? Would the city then belong to Eadgar Æðeling? Wouldn’t the Danes and Scots want a reward? What would he give them in return? What if the Danish king did not agree with Eadgar Æðeling or if he suddenly decided to claim the city for himself? What would Eadgar have to oppose him with? And last but not least, what would King Willelm do when he heard that Eoforwic had fallen?
As if he had read my thoughts, Stígandr continued, “Eoforwic now has two castles on a hill, each from which his men watch over the two rivers and the entire city. King Willelm ordered the second castle to be built after one of the French army leaders and many of his men were killed in the siege of the first castle in February. Since then, the governor of Eoforwic and the scirgerefa of Eoforwicscir have tried to keep the town quiet, but the townsfolk have never lost their will to fight against their French masters.”
“How do you know?”
Stígandr looked at his fingernails. “You can find out a lot if you ask the right people.”
So there were, in fact, two castles to be besieged? No wonder Eadgar Æðeling depended on a large army and support from foreign fighters! I had never seen a castle in my life and imagined that it would not be easy to attack and overcome the men within, but it was possible, apparently. After all, the people of Eoforwic had already killed a Frenchman once during a siege – although that didn’t sound like much of a success, considering the effort involved in a siege. But it meant that even a castle on a hill had weaknesses, and perhaps we would be able to exploit them to our advantage.
Eoforwic sprawled over the plain like an endless, viscous wave dragging roofs, paths, carts, people and animals behind it. Between the Use and Foss rivers, the main castle was already waiting for our onslaught. French warriors, clad in full battle wear, lined the castle’s mighty palisaded fence as far as the eye could see. Like an omen of what was to come, silent witnesses reminded us of the fierce battle that had taken place here only six months ago. Splintered wooden slats stuck out from abandoned houses like pikes lowered in defence. In trampled gardens, only a few neeps stuck their heads out of the ground, and small beanstalks searched in vain for a trellis to hold onto. The mutilated, charred remains of once magnificent fruit trees stood around like lepers, and on the east side of the city stretched a lake whose black water swallowed up everything that lay in its way, buildings, trees and shrubs. Just like the new ruler of Englaland.
When we reached the castle, our army split. One part went on to attack while the rest, me included, slowly pushed through to the bridge at the end of the great street called Micklegate. Only there could we cross the Use and then ride south again to the second castle.
Back when we had fought the Norþmenn at Fuleforde, we had caught a glimpse of Eoforwic as we passed it to the south on our way to the battlefield. At that time, I couldn’t really gauge the size of the city. But now, after a restless night in the Danish camp in Richale, we were finally setting foot into it, and only then did I realise why it was called a city. Eoforwic was huge, much bigger than anything I had ever seen – but then again, what should I have seen, at only nineteen winters of age? However, as we soon discovered, even the streets of a large city were not designed for an entire army to pass through freely. How King Harold and his army had swiftly crossed its entirety to get to Stanfordbrycge as quickly as it did remained a mystery to me. Everywhere, it was teeming with houses, fences, stalls and wells. Stray pigs and geese were continuously running between one’s legs, and we were constantly having to let through some cart or rider who was blocking our onward journey because they themselves were held up by some obstacle in front of them. Numerous wooden buildings and houses were huddled together – even around the castles there was only just enough space in the streets for two oxcarts to pass side by side. It was cramped and oppressive. High above us, the castles on the hills were guarding the banks of the rivers, watching us approach. I felt like a rabbit realising that a hungry bird of prey was circling above it, observing its next meal.
The rising heat of the day brought with it the stench of rotting waste, excrement and sweat, and the deafening noise of people, animals and other moving objects shouting, grunting, rattling, snarling and making a whole host of other sounds filled the air. Above it all, visible from afar and towering above the noise, crowds and smells, were the castles that Willelm the Bastard had built. Everyone knew by now that wherever he went, the new king built castles as a reminder of his power. When I saw the castles in Eoforwic, I knew why he did it and why the English hated him so much for it. Before the French came, the tallest buildings you could see from a distance were the churches or the manor houses with their great halls, where people would come together to eat, sleep, pray and live. Now, they were replaced by another symbol, far greater and higher, that of the French domination over the land and the people they suppressed.
“My neck is hurting from looking up.” Ulfgar turned his head back and forth so that it cracked.
Pressed closely together, we were following the stream of countless men ahead of us. “I don’t like any of this.” I wrinkled my nose. “All those houses, all those people. And then those castles.” My gaze slid upwards again.
“The king needs to keep an eye on his subjects somehow. Even more so when he is not particularly popular with them.”
This reminded me of why we had actually come here. Eadgar Æðeling had sent three men to Eoforwic yesterday. They were to track down the leaders of the rebels and find out how people felt about a revolt before we began to besiege the castles as the Danish king had proposed.
“I’ve never besieged a castle before.” Ulfgar looked at me frowning. “Must be a pretty tough undertaking.”
“We will soon find out.” I pressed my lips together and thought of my father, whom I had, again, long since lost in the host of warriors. I prayed to God that He protect my father and us in this battle and that we win.
Our leader, Gospatric, sounded the charge.
Ulfgar and I were standing too far back to do anything yet. So instead, we shouted our support to the men assaulting the castle. They formed a shield wall behind which they charged in waves with their spears and axes across the ditch and up the hill. Additional cover came from our archers, who shot their arrows at the French warriors behind the palisade fence of the outer bailey. Arrows hailed back from the Frenchmen, looking to find a hole in the shield wall and hit the unprotected archers. Having arrived at the fence, the attackers stabbed and slashed into the wood of the palisades while dodging the spear thrusts of the Frenchmen defending the wooden rampart. While we waited our turn for the assault on the castle, we pulled the injured down from the hill so that someone could tend to their wounds.
Some time later, as the battle continued to rage, we noticed trails of fire flying through the air.
“What was that?” I asked Ulfgar.
“They’re shooting flaming arrows.” Ulfgar scratched his beard. “It’s about to get rather warm here, methinks.”
“They’re setting fire to the slats!” I shouted. “What an excellent idea! Why didn’t they do it right away?”
“Maybe they forgot their tinder stones and had to buy some on the market first.” Ulfgar watched the flight of the arrows carefully as the waves of attackers kept charging.
Owing to the heat of the last weeks, the wood of the palisades and of the tower in their midst was as dry as a withered leaf in the searing midday sun. A single arrow stuck in a gap in the wooden slats of the tower, and soon a small flame flickered at this spot. Our archers shot more fire arrows at the castle.
The Frenchmen on the palisades continued their defence. They seemed to have received support from other warriors because it was staking our men longer to get to the castle now. Maybe they had underestimated our army and had only put up a few men to defend the castle. Either that or the attackers were getting tired. In any case, more spears and arrows were raining down from the castle, and we had to take shelter behind the surrounding houses until it was our turn to attack.
Ulfgar and I had hastened behind a shed. I peered around the corner. “They’re shooting back.”
“Haven’t they been doing this all along?”
“No, they’re shooting with fire.” I looked first at Ulfgar and then at the wooden buildings around us. “They want to set fire to the houses we are hiding behind.”
“Then Gospatric had better end this siege as quickly as possible.”
Ulfgar bent over to take a look at the castle, in which several fires were burning. The palisade fence had also caught fire, and behind their shields, two of our men were lighting more slats with torches. More fire would further weaken the defensive wall and also keep the Frenchmen busy with extinguishing them instead of defending the castle.
“I don’t think the French can hold the castle much longer. A few more axe blows and there will be a hole in the fence. Look!” Ulfgar pointed to the spot where the fire was eating through the slats and two Danes were cutting huge cracks in the weakened fence with their mighty axes, “We’re getting ready to break into the castle. Or to split the heads of the Frenchmen who want to prevent it.”
The fire spread quickly. Large parts of the castle and the surrounding buildings were soon in flames, and broad clouds of smoke rose into the sky. But our army no longer needed the protection of the buildings. Like moths to a flame, we rushed to the beckoning gaps in the castle’s wooden ramparts and pushed inside, where the last refuge of the Frenchmen was also ablaze. Surrounded by the embers of the crackling wooden beams, glowing dark red like a searing iron, the older warriors were already engaged in hand-to-hand combat with the Frenchmen in the outer bailey.
Now it was time to show what I had learned in the last few years and whether I deserved to become a huscarl. With my spear, I stabbed at a Frenchman who was fighting an Englishman and turned his back on me. The spear pierced his chain mail with a crunch. With a jerk, I pulled the metal tip out of the dying man, ready for the next.
We no longer had to fear an attack from the palisades, as most of the warriors had gathered in the outer bailey to try and fight off the invading hordes. Whatever guards were left, trying to slow down the onslaught outside the palisades with spears and bows and arrows, our archers took care of.
From the side, a Frenchman rushed at me with a spear and a huge shield. I hurled my spear at him, but he sidestepped behind two other fighters, and my spear got stuck in the ground instead of the enemy’s chest. I took my axe and raised the shield. The Frenchman leapt out from behind the others and stabbed at my face. I jumped to the side. He thrust with his spear. With my shield in front, I threw myself forwards and against his spear, causing my foe to stumble backwards. I hacked into the handle of his spear with my axe. The wood splintered like a chicken bone. The Frenchman threw away the splintered spear shaft and reached for his sword. I aimed at his right side, but he warded off with his shield and swung the sword towards my neck. I ducked under the shield, lunged and slashed at his outstretched sword arm. A dull thud. The sound of shattering bones. Blood. The Frenchman cried out and dropped the sword. His forearm dangled uselessly from his upper arm. I looked him straight in the eye before slashing at his unprotected side. Just in time, he raised his shield, so I swung my axe above the ground at knee height, as if cutting ears of grain with a sickle. This time, the shield came too late. My axe slid through the Norman’s lower leg. He groaned once more before he collapsed, bleeding and buried under his shield.
The blood rushed in my ears. My whole body shook with excitement. “Ða Frenciscan sculon deaþe sweltan!” I shouted Ulfgar’s war cry and looked for the next enemy. I was no longer the inexperienced and frightened youth of Fuleforde and Stanfordbrycge. I had worked hard on my fighting skills and had been involved, a few times, in ambushing and killing the French tax collectors. I had experienced myself what French rule meant to us Englishmen. Had seen the streams of gaunt, exhausted people, old and young, fleeing from the French cruelty in the south and east. I also knew about the Welsh revolts. Yes, the resistance to the new rulers had died down, but it had never ceased completely, and if we stopped fighting now, it would be too late. We would have lost Englaland forever.
When all around us was fire, smoke and dead Frenchmen, Gospatric’s voice rang through the castle, “The French are dead. Down with Willelm the Bastard! Long live our beloved King Eadgar Æðeling!”
The remains of the burning tower collapsed with a crash, interrupting the cheers that accompanied Gospatric’s words.
“Follow me to the other castle!” our leader shouted, pointing his spear eastward.
We squeezed our way through the flames, which by now had left sprawling holes in the palisades, and gathered at the foot of the hill.
As we were walking past the burning houses to the bridge over the Use, Ulfgar pushed his way through to me. His ochre hair stood out as if a wildcat were bristling its fur, so he looked even bigger and wilder than usual. He grinned broadly. “The castle is on fire and all the little Frenchmen are being roasted like honey-glazed duck on a spit.”
I wiped the sweat and sticky hair from my face with my sleeve. “May God help us in the fight at the other castle, too.”
“He will.” Ulfgar raised his blood-blackened axe and roared, “Down with the French!”
Our brothers-in-arms quickly picked up Ulfgar’s battle cry, and so we continued our way to the bridge, chanting.
Beyond the river, there were also flames, but they were no longer confined to the great castle and its surroundings. Instead, they were spreading across the city. People ran coughing from burning buildings. Men with sticks chased after squealing pigs, trying to keep the animals together and drive them all in one direction. Cows, donkeys and horses were herded out of stables whose roofs had caught fire and were threatening to collapse. A mother dragged two crying toddlers behind her, while the older children carried the few belongings they were trying to save from the flames.
Is this really right what we are doing? I thought as I looked into their frightened faces. We’re not only killing the French, but also our own countrymen. We’re destroying their homes and their lives. All in the name of a youth who is a stranger to his own land.
People had formed lines to the river, using buckets, small barrels and bowls to try to put out the fire on the adjacent houses.
When we crossed the bridge, so many buildings were already on fire that the thick clouds of smoke burned my eyes. We turned right to go down the road that led south to the main castle, or what was left of it. The castle’s tower was a stump that lit our way like a beacon. The palisades were a burning heap of rubble. A cheerful crowd of warriors emerged from the former castle, which looked like a large funeral pyre. At the foot of the castle hill, they joined the rest of the army, which was approaching us and seemed to be driving the fire forwards. Only a few houses remained unscathed, while the south-westerly wind blew the fire further north.
The two parts of our army met joyfully. We patted each other’s backs, raised our fists and weapons and shouted our praises to the Danish king and Eadgar Æðeling.
A man pointed to a group of warriors in front of the castle and roared, “Those French turds will bleed even more. We have captured their scirgerefa. If the king wants him and his family back alive, he’d better bring a huge money pouch.”
The crowd jeered and sneered, and it took a while to hear the cries from the northern side of the city. But eventually, the shouts for help filtered through.
“The cathedral is on fire!”
“We need help!”
“Fear the wrath of God!”
The cathedral is on fire. A sudden pain cut through me. For sure, this was a sign from God. He was angry with us because in our bloodlust and thirst for revenge, we went murdering and pillaging through Eoforwic and did not spare the innocent. “We must help them!” I said first to Ulfgar and then louder to the others around us. “We’ve burned down the castles and killed the French, but we can’t stand by and watch a place of worship go up in flames.”
“Certainly we won’t,” one of the Danish warriors shouted, grinning broadly. “First we’ll get the treasures out of there.”
“Exactly,” another bellowed. “The French won’t need them anymore.”
With that, a cluster of warriors rushed northwards.
I looked uneasily at the others around me. Feelings ran high in the summer heat and the smoking fires everywhere. I feared that not many would hesitate to loot other buildings along the way and attack the local population. My heart was pounding like a hammer on an anvil. “This is not what we wanted when we came to Eoforwic.”
“You won’t be able to stop the Danes on your own,” said Ulfgar, who looked equally stunned at the greedy hordes who had just fought with us against the French, only to abandon us for gold and treasure shortly after victory.
This time, the uneasy feeling that had befallen me at the beginning had not deceived me, no matter how successful our fight against the French might have been, God would punish us for our deeds, that much was certain. “Where’s the Danish king? Why doesn’t he hold his people back?” I looked around frantically.
“He was probably the first to run off to the cathedral, and his men follow him blindly. No Viking ends a victory without taking home plenty of booty.”
“What about Eadgar Æðeling? There must be someone to put an end to this killing and plundering!” I stood helplessly amidst all those running for help or for booty, unable to do a thing. Even years of hard practice to become a warrior had not prepared me for the unpredictability of others.
“I doubt if he can do much against the Danes with our small English army. There are just too many of them.”
Pushing people aside, I hurried northwards. “Then at least we must try to appease God’s wrath. Come! Perhaps we can still save the cathedral.” I beckoned our fellow warriors. “Follow me! We will prove to God that we fight only the French, not the people of Eoforwic. We must put out the fire in the cathedral.”
We hurried back up the road we had just come down. We had destroyed the castles and killed or captured the Frenchmen in them, but it was not yet over. Instead of celebrating the victory, we ran as fast as we could through a burning city whose inhabitants were losing their homes, animals and families because of us. We wanted to free the city from the French. Instead we razed it to the ground as the French had done with our settlements, including everyone and everything that stood in their way. What was happening right here and right now made us no better than them, and I was sure that the people of Eoforwic were hurling all the curses of which they were capable at every single one of our warriors, whether Danish, Scottish or English. It was our fault that their homes were burning, and we truly deserved their hate. But if we failed to save the cathedral from the fire, then very soon and above all, we would feel God’s punishment.
When we reached the vast place of worship, large parts of the roof and the southern wall were already on fire. At the portal, armed men were pushing their way out and in. Some of them held golden goblets and statues decorated with precious stones. On the western side, people were passing on buckets to bring water from the Use. A couple of carts drawn by oxen brought water in large barrels, which was then poured on the blazing flames by two men. While Ulfgar, I and those who had followed ran to help with the water buckets, the Danish hordes used the confusion to also search the neighbouring houses.
A priest stood close by, shaking his head and making the sign of the cross as he looked around in despair. “If the archbishop had not died recently of a broken heart over all the misfortune in Englaland, then surely today would have been his last day on earth,” he said.
The southern wall of the cathedral suddenly gave way to the fire and collapsed with a loud crash. Shortly afterwards, the roof of the nave on that side lowered, thundering onto the rest of the southern wall and throwing a huge cloud of dust into the air as it crumbled to the ground. I stared, spellbound and held my breath in horror. What have we done? Like a brittle old shed, the rest of the roof finally came tumbling down. Anyone who was still in the cathedral looking for booty now rushed out screaming or was buried forever by the falling stones and debris. Tears stood in my eyes. We had won the battle and yet we had failed. I felt empty and useless. What was the point of fighting if it brought misfortune and death to my countrymen? “There’s nothing more we can do here,” I said with a heavy heart. “Let us return to the main castle!” I beckoned the others to follow me.
The streets were still crowded, but now, it was the inhabitants who wandered helplessly and desperately through their destroyed home town, wailing loudly.
“Where are the Danish king and Eadgar Æðeling, anyway?” I asked Ulfgar as we moved forward through the smoky streets. “Shouldn’t they gather their men and tell us what to do next?”
Ulfgar shrugged his shoulders and let his gaze wander over what had once been a proud and thriving city and was now being reduced to ruins. “I don’t know where they are, nor have I seen Gospatric and the two eorles again. Very suspicious.”
“It is, forsooth. Where have they all gone? And where is my father?” A sudden terror seized me. Where was he? He must have started fighting at the main castle, while we entered the town and rode on to the second castle with the rear part of the army.
When we reached the smoking heap of embers that, until a few hours ago, had been the awe-inspiring seat of the scirgerefa of Eoforwic and his troop of French warriors, several hundred men had gathered around Gospatric at the foot of the castle hill. While the others joined them, I searched for my father outside and inside the safe parts of the castle, but to no avail. Finally, I descended and spied a small group of Englishmen near the big water. “Father!” I shouted, dropping the axe and shield and running towards him.
My father turned around, just in time to catch me in his arms as I threw myself against him and hugged him tightly. “You’re alive, Father. I was afraid they had killed you.”
My father patted me on the back as if calming a child who had woken up from a bad dream. “Fear not, my son. As long as I can still stand, I will fight, even if it is the last thing I do.”
He let go of me and pointed to the loops fastening his shield on his left forearm. “That was an excellent solution you came up with. It has served me well in battle. But now, tell me, my boy, how did you fare in your first real battle as a warrior?”
I struggled to smile. In my mind I saw not only the enemies I had defeated, but also the fearful faces of those I… we… had left without hope and home. “I think I fought well, but where have all our leaders gone? I see only Gospatric over there. Where are Eadgar Æðeling, the two eorles or the Danish king? Did the French—?”
“The Danish king ordered his men to retreat to Richale, to celebrate the victory over the French, I assume. The two eorles and Eadgar Æðeling have also left with their warriors. And rightly so because it’s important to keep an eye on the Norþmenn. You know they are unpredictable and should never be trusted, even if they pretend to be on your side.”
At least in this battle, Father’s old grudge against his former friend had been confirmed. It was not enough for the Norþmenn to take the castles and kill their garrisons to bring the only French stronghold in the north back into English hands. They wanted gifts for their help, not just words of praise and a feast, and they had taken them without paying attention to the rest of the army and the leaders’ next steps. Who knows what else crossed their minds? Their king was a cousin of King Harold’s. He might want to assert claims to the throne himself now that Eoforwic had fallen.
I looked at the burning city. Where once the castles towered above everything, there were only flames. Eoforwic was burning. Its castles, cathedral, houses, shops, sheds, stables. If the fire could not be quenched soon, hardly anything would be left.
“What happens now, Father? Will Eadgar Æðeling remain in Englaland to be crowned as the rightful king?”
“That will be difficult. The Archbishop of Eoforwic is dead, his city destroyed, and a successor is not yet in sight. Besides, Eadgar Æðeling would have to travel to Wincestre for that, and that is still firmly in the hands of the Frenchmen.”
“Will he move south with his army?”
Father shook his head. “Eadgar Æðeling’s army is made up of men from the north, from Norþhymbre and Scotland. They will hardly venture so far south.”
“I would go with him and fight for him.”
My father laughed and put his hand on my shoulder. “You would, my son, I know. A king couldn’t wish for a better huscarl than you.”
“What’s going on?” shouted one of the Englishmen who had gathered in front of the castle ruins. All heads turned towards the far end of the road, where people came running out of the city, shouting. Most of them were men in battle wear, possibly those who had lingered on to sweeten the day’s success in one way or another. But now, they were running from something and were heading straight towards us.
“Out of the way!” one of the runners yelled, jostling two men who were blocking his way to the bridge over the River Foss.
“The French are coming!” shouted another, trying to run as fast as he could without losing one of the four silver cups he was carrying.
We looked at each other in amazement.
“What French?” asked someone, as men hurried past him.
“We didn’t leave anyone alive,” shouted another. “How can that be?”
“They probably came back to life when you stole their cups.”
More people came hurrying along the road and over the bridge, though we still couldn’t make out why. My stomach was in knots. “We should take shelter somewhere,” I said and ran to the castle hill where I had dropped my axe and shield.
“Run! The French are after us!”
That was the last cry we heard before we realised what was driving people away. There, at the northern end of the road, a whole host of mounted and heavily armed French warriors thundered along the street.
Where did they come from? We killed all the Frenchmen in the castles.
The French leader gave the order to attack the enemy warriors at the foot of the castle, who took to their heels and rushed off across the bridge to the other side of the river. Some jumped on the horses left there to escape to Richale or some other safe place. Others hurried into the nearby woods, probably hoping that the horsemen would give up the chase there.
As the leader rode past the hill, he looked up at me without slowing his horse. An icy shiver ran through me. The rider turned away again and charged towards the men fleeing from him and his warriors.
To my relief, I found that my father, together with the others who had been standing with him on the bank of the river, was not one of them, but had escaped behind the hill. Meanwhile, the French were stabbing the first runaways with their spears. Whether they would pursue them all the way to Richale or wherever they had gone, I doubted. Sooner or later they would come back looking for us. Then they would take bloody revenge on us. Not for what we had done to the people of Eoforwic, but for rebelling against their king, for destroying the symbols of French domination here in the north, wiping out their entire army and capturing their scirgerefa and family. King Willelm had yet to let any of the revolts go unpunished. One day, he would make us pay for what we had done.
We hid in the woods until the French gave up looking for us and rode back to the city. At dusk, we set off for Richale, where most of the army had retreated before the French horsemen arrived.
“These were the warriors that King Willelm had sent to Dunholm to put down the rebellion there,” one of the men explained. “They say that Saint Cuthbert sent a mist to stop the French.”
“As if the French would let that stop them!” sneered another. “More likely King Willelm found out that a large host was on its way to Eoforwic. He knew that the few Frenchmen in Eoforwic wouldn’t hold the castles, so he ordered his men back ahead of Dunholm to support his warriors in Eoforwic.”
“Ha! How miserably he failed in that.”
“We lost a lot of men while fleeing from Eoforwic,” said my father, who had been walking silently beside me until then. “Knowing King Willelm, more will follow.”
“Why don’t we go to Eoforwic again tomorrow?” I asked. “This second French army only consists of a small number of horsemen. They are no match for our entire army. Besides, they have no more castles to protect them. We could wipe them out, too.”
“We would have to act soon for that,” my father said. “Those castles can be rebuilt quickly. The hills are still there, and they can get wood nearby. In just a few days, they could erect new defences.”
“So what? We’ll set fire to them again.”
“There is not much left to burn in Eoforwic, my son. Remember, too, that the people will not put up with another inferno. At worst, they will turn on us and join the French in defending their city. Or at least what’s left of it.”
Ulfgar pushed a thick branch out of his way and squeezed through between two trees. “The Danes have already plundered the town today. Why would they go back into a city with nothing left but a fresh lot of Frenchmen?”
“You mean the Danes will sit in their tents and see what King Willelm does?”
“They have captured his scirgerefa and can afford to sit and wait,” my father said. “I don’t think they will leave Englaland until King Willelm has paid them for his release – and paid them well.”
“Unless they are satisfied with what they have snatched from Eoforwic, in which case, they will simply kill him and go home,” said Ulfgar, as if it were the most trivial thing in the world. “Then we have a problem because the Danes make up the bulk of our army.”
I stroked my downy moustache, but whichever way I turned it, the chances of winning in the end were indeed slim. We had won this battle, but no one seemed to know where to go from here. Had the Danish king and Eadgar Æðeling decided what they would do with Eoforwic now? I could only hope that the two of them agreed on something, because otherwise, our victory, however good it felt, would have been utterly useless – just like all the other revolts that had taken place in the last three years since Willelm the Bastard became king. None of them had seriously troubled him. He ruled with an iron fist and would never let the crown he had once seized be taken away. Perhaps we would find out more in the Danish camp, whose lights showed us the way as night fell.
Over the fires that brightly lit the faces of those sitting around them, pieces of meat were being brushed and turned until they were roasted evenly and crispy brown. Men were sitting on wooden stumps, stools or on the ground, raising their brim-full clay cups, laughing loudly and waving roasted goose legs in their fists, which shone with fat in the light of the fire. At one fire, someone was playing a harp and singing a song that everyone joined in with, even though some of them were already too drunk to sing in tune. At another fire, the men listened intently to a storyteller who told a tale with words, hands and face.
There was, however, no trace of the Danish king, Eadgar Æðeling nor the two eorles.
“Where are our leaders?” I asked anxiously as we pushed our way through the crowd and I shook hands with some Englishmen who had fought with us at the second castle.
One of them wiped his mouth with his sleeve and pointed to one of the tents. “In there, talking about important things.”
“What happens now? Do we fight again tomorrow?”
The other man shrugged his shoulders. “They’ll tell us in the morning.” He waved his hand towards the fire. “Get something to eat. Ale’s over there.”
We pushed further into the camp until we found a place where we could lay down our weapons.
Ulfgar stretched his arms. “At last! Now, I really need something to eat. Sieges make you hungry.” Without further delay, he made his way to one of the spits, from which a suckling pig gave off its delicious smell.
Only when my stomach growled did I realise how hungry I was. I followed the trail Ulfgar had left on his way and got myself a cup of ale and a piece of meat.
Just as I was chewing the first bite, I heard a familiar voice next to me.
“Will you drink with me to our triumph, Osfriðson?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone hold out a cup to me. My gaze wandered from the hand along the arm to the hunched shoulders, past the pointy chin beard to the dark eyes sparkling in the firelight. “Stígandr! I should have known you would come. I didn’t see you anywhere in Eoforwic, but you are here in time to celebrate.”
“But, Oswulf, why so grim on this day of victory against the French?” He made a sweeping gesture over the men sitting around the fires. “Look at them celebrating and rejoicing. This has been a great day for Englaland and the resistance against the French conquerors. Wæs hal!” He raised his cup and took a big gulp.
I didn’t feel like raising my cup. We had won, but it was a bitter victory. It had not been a battle on an open field, far from settlements and people living quietly. We had waged a bloody war on the French rulers of Eoforwic, but the ones who ended up paying for it were the townsfolk, whose lives we had jeopardised and destroyed for no reason. I took another bite and looked at Stígandr, chewing. “Where did you fight?” I asked, though I doubted he had fought at all. I suspected he had just sneaked into the camp a moment ago.
“At the main castle, of course.”
Of course!
“The Danish troops showed the French rather quickly that they had the better army. As for yourselves, you took a little longer, but you did quite well in the end.”
As if he had heard Stígandr, a man next to us laughed out loud.
“Quite well?” I didn’t know what spoiled the taste in my mouth more at that moment, Stígandr’s disparaging remark or the man’s laughter. “The castle went up in flames, and we killed all the French.”
“Well, that was the easier of the two tasks for which the Danish king’s army came here. At the main castle, we had to be more skilful. After all, we needed the scirgerefa and his family alive.”
“We could have done that just as well. Besides, you had four experienced leaders and their armies with you. We had only one.”
Stígandr laughed, shaking his head. “Experienced! You sound like you almost believe it yourself. Your confidence in your leaders honours you, Osfriðson, but of all four, only the Danish king has the necessary experience.”
If only Ulfgar would come back! Was I the only one whose efforts Stígandr was going to keep on slandering? “I know nothing about the Danish king and his achievements on the battlefield, but Eorl Morkere and his brother are experienced warriors.”
Stígandr twirled the tip of his chin beard between his thumb and forefinger. “Yes, I forget. We saw that in the battle of Fuleforde. No, wait! That was a complete failure. The army destroyed, the leaders fled into the woods. But the battle at Stanfordbrycge? No, they didn’t take part in that at all because they had no men left. But the battle at Senlac Hill… no, they didn’t take part in that either. Oh well, even with the eorles and their troops, the English would have lost anyway.”
I had lowered my eyes and remained defiantly silent while the other men’s jeering and laughter surged over me like waves. Indeed, the reputation of the two eorles had not been particularly good in recent years. They had repeatedly appeared and disappeared. Moreover, they had submitted to the foreign king a long time ago then fled and were now fighting against him. But for how long? Would they disappear again and submit to Willelm the Bastard?
“And as for your English pretender to the throne, Eadgar Æðeling, what shall I say? He is a youth who has barely set foot on English soil his entire life. Now, he brings a host of fierce foreign warriors from Scotland to Eoforwic, believing the time is ripe for him to finally claim the English throne. But he is neither chosen to inherit the throne nor experienced as a commander.”
I thoughtfully gnawed the rest of the meat off the bone and then threw it on the ground, where a dog greedily snatched it and ran off. What Stígandr said was true, as much as it pained me to admit it. The assault on Eoforwic had been a well-intentioned venture, but it had run into nothing. There was no common goal that united the different peoples who only a few hours ago, had brought down the castles of Eoforwic together. There were no common further steps that the leaders wanted to take. Their intentions were far too different for that. The only thing we had achieved was that a city – and with it, the livelihood of many people – had been almost completely destroyed, that we had exposed innocent people to the looting and murder of hordes, drunk with victory, and that it was only a matter of time before we felt King Willelm’s wrath for this outrageous rebellion against his rule. The attack by the French riders brought down from Dunholm was only a small taste of what we had to expect.
“I don’t really know what you’re trying to say.” My gaze found Ulfgar with two men who had been fighting with us, wildly waving a large piece of meat so that the fat flew through the air before all three burst out laughing. I tried to wash down my thoughts with several sips of ale. Let Stígandr say what he wanted to! We had defeated the French and destroyed their castles. Our English king, whom the witan had proclaimed as King Harold’s successor, was alive and could count on the support of fighters from Scotland and Norþhymbre if it came down to defending his right.
Stígandr twirled the tip of his beard again. “Well, I think everyone will soon have to decide which master they want to serve, the one who is destined to perish from the start, or the one who sooner or later turns out to be the stronger one.”
“Oh, is that so?”
Stígandr raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
“How do you know who will lose and who will win? For King Ælfred, too, it looked as if all English kingdoms would disappear as he made his last stand against the invading Vikings. And yet he pushed back the Danes and united his country.”
Stígandr turned his gaze to the cloudy night sky. “King Ælfred. Now that was a king who knew how to unite several peoples under his leadership.” His gaze became serious. He looked me in the eye. “Those days are gone, Oswulf. King Ælfred’s Englaland is no more. Kings change, and Englaland’s glory and splendour fades away, while other countries rise to wealth and prosperity under their rulers. What do the English still have to offer? Most of the nobles have been killed in the great battles. Those who remain submit to Willelm the Bastard to save their skins and their lands before the French take them. Some fickle ones, like Eorl Morkere and his brother, pledge allegiance to the king, only to break their oath afterwards and side with the English again. Just you wait, soon, they’ll be grovelling at the king’s feet again, begging him for mercy because they have realised that their rebellion was futile. Eadgar Æðeling will hide in Scotland, hoping that his arch-enemies will continue to provide him with an army. They probably will, but not because they want to see him on the English throne but because they themselves have their eye on the north of Englaland and want to expand their kingdom southwards.” He drew in a meaningful breath and straightened up as far as his hunched shoulders would allow. “Times are changing, Oswulf. Perhaps you should consider, too, who you will fight for in the future.”
I stared at Stígandr. He openly invited me to commit high treason against the future English king, suggested that I bury my country and my hopes and that I throw myself at the feet of a foreign usurper who neither spoke my language nor had any legitimate reason to be my king?
“Do you actually know what you’re saying?” I breathed, because I could hardly get a sound out of my throat from sheer horror. I drank most of the ale in my cup in one big gulp. Maybe this was all a dream because I was tired from the fight, with the flickering of the fires and the noise in the camp dancing in my head and clouding my mind.
“Don’t wait too long, or it may be too late. The Danish king has already sent a messenger to King Willelm to let him know that they’ve caught the scirgerefa. I don’t think the king will think long and hard about what he’s going to do. He cares little for the life of a scirgerefa, never mind the life of anyone else. But the fact that his castles are in ruins and the entire French garrison of Eoforwic has been wiped out is not something he will let go unpunished. You’d better ask yourself now whether you want to face this punishment or not.” He raised his cup once more and left me standing.
Stunned, I watched him go. Didn’t my father once say that everyone had their name for a reason and that Stígandr would also live up to his name, “wanderer”, at some point? Was he following the dangerous path towards our foe, the enemy from Normandig? Or had he already chosen to do so a long time ago, although he made me feel ashamed that I had misjudged him?
“Well, if that wasn’t our old friend from Ledlinghe!” Ulfgar approached, chewing and glancing after Stígandr. “Did you enjoy chatting with him?”
“Stígandr is mad.”
“I know. But why did it take him so long to explain that?”
“He wants me to betray Eadgar Æðeling and sell myself to the French bastard.”
Ulfgar pursed his lips. “Rather daring, our Norþmann. So? Did you agree?”
“Of course not! But surely many will. Like a rat catcher, he will lead them straight into the mouth of the hungry monster from Normandig in return for a comely reward.”
* * *
In the morning of the following day, we were told that we were no longer needed. Eadgar Æðeling would travel back to Scotland with his army, while the Danes wanted to stay until King Willelm had paid them the money for the scirgerefa and his family. Only then – perhaps sooner if supplies ran low or winter came earlier than expected – would they return home to Denmark. At least, for the time being, they would not return to Eoforwic. There was nothing left there to tempt them. Besides, they feared that the French horsemen that had chased us out of the city would not idly watch them plunder and pillage the city again in such a short time. That left only the men of Norþhymbre, who had placed themselves under Eorl Morkere’s command, even though they were not at all averse to Eadgar Æðeling’s cause and expected more from an English king than from Willelm of Normandig. But neither Eorl Morkere nor his brother intended to wait here in Richale for an answer, let alone the king’s appearance in person. Instead, they announced that they would retire to their shires and take their followers with them.
So, we packed up the few things we had taken with us, mounted the horses we had left in Richale before entering Eoforwic and headed home to Ledlinghe. With us went the uneasy feeling that King Willelm would not simply accept our storming of Eoforwic, as he had made clear earlier in the year after the revolts in Dunholm and Eoforwic. But for many weeks, nothing happened. Some saw this as a sign of hope that the king was slowly giving up on subduing the rebellious north. Others painted the king’s revenge in pictures that surpassed everything we had ever heard of in terms of cruelty and horror. Only a few believed these gloomy predictions, for on the Day of Judgement, God would also judge King Willelm for his deeds, and over the past years, he had already burdened his soul with enough guilt.
The only thing we could be sure of at that time was that the Danes had indeed left Englaland without paying Eoforwic a second visit. Our scouts reported that the camp had been abandoned and not a single ship had been left. Whether they had received the ransom they wanted for the the city’s scirgerefa, or whether King Willelm did not care about him and therefore had not yielded to their demand, we did not know. But what did we care? The Danes were gone, which seemed to somehow answer the question of whether the Danish king would try to assert his own claim to the throne of Englaland after the victory at Eoforwic.
We did not hear much from Eadgar Æðeling during this time, only that his sister was to marry the King of Scotland to strengthen the bonds between the allies. True, Stígandr’s words concerning the æðeling had made me waver, but if the latter went openly to war against King Willelm, I would fight on the English side. As long as there was that one glimmer of hope, I had no intention of submitting to the French dog, like so many others had done.
“If he hadn’t become King of Englaland, Willelm would have made it pretty far as a castle-builder in Normandig,” Ulfgar whispered to me, while a travelling minstrel in the great hall of Ledlinghe told us about the king’s latest deeds. These consisted namely of two more castles built in Waruuic and Snotingeham, while he was on his way north, to see for himself what had become of Eoforwic. No sooner had the king reached the city, the minstrel sang, than he gave orders to rebuild the destroyed castles there. This time, however, the French used stone to prevent the castles from catching fire so easily, should intruders or even the rebellious inhabitants of the city themselves ever think of setting them alight again.
“I’m surprised that he suffers the humiliation so meekly,” I said. “He is rebuilding the castles as if nothing had happened. He let the Danes leave peacefully, and not a word has been said about whether the two eorles or even Eadgar Æðeling have to fear any punishment.”
“He’ll probably think about it while he’s ripping out the legs and cutting the chest of his yule fowl.”
“Eoforwic must be a desolate place at this time.” I couldn’t help thinking of the misery of the people whose homes we had destroyed and who had been victims of the looting and violence that followed. I sighed deeply. “I wonder if the king thinks that his presence during the festive season will lift the spirits of the people and give them hope.”
Ulfgar looked at me with raised eyebrows. “I don’t want to doubt King Willelm’s Christian disposition, but I rather think he celebrates the feast of the Lord in Eoforwic because he can keep a better eye on his northern subjects from there – and because he can strike back much more quickly if there is another English riot.”
“He will not let the assault on Eoforwic go unpunished.”
Ulfgar sighed, nodding thoughtfully. “There’s a good reason why the Danes, Scots and the two eorles left so quickly.”
“Which leaves only one part of the army that attacked the city and whose homeland is easily accessible from there.”
“Norþhymbre.”