Atherton briefed us on the Stamford Bridge assignment. He spoke with authority and to the point as he always did. Both Sykes and North sat quietly for him. The three of them had trained together. North was bossy and brilliant. Sykes was unconventional and brilliant, but he was their unofficial leader. I don’t how he’d managed it. I don’t think he consciously did anything. He was actually a very modest man, but somehow, the two of them deferred to his judgement. Their choice reflected credit on them as well. They could have done a lot worse.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘King Edward has died. Harold Godwinson has been crowned King of England, breaking his oath to William, who immediately sets about building a fleet and assembling an army. He sends an envoy to the Pope for papal blessing, which he gains. In the eyes of all Europe, King Harold is a perjured man.

‘However, Duke William is not the only one with his eyes fixed on the English crown. Tostig, brother to Harold, ex Earl of Northumbria, and brother-in-law to William, has allied with King Harald Hardrada of Norway. The two of them raise an army and sail for England. Three hundred ships sail up the River Ouse towards York. The northern earls meet them at the Battle of Fulford on 20^th September and are soundly defeated. The entire northern army is scattered across Mercia, Northumbria and Yorkshire. This is a bit of a double whammy for our King Harold because it means none of them can be reorganised in time for Stamford Bridge or Hastings. People often wonder why Harold undertook the long march north to meet them when, if he’d stayed down south, there was a very good chance he would have beaten Duke William, because William was a foreigner in a foreign land and his back was to the sea, but King Harold has publicly stated that neither Tostig nor Hardrada will gain one foot of English soil, so he speeds north.’

‘Yes, all of History could have been different,’ said Sykes, ‘but we could just as easily have had the same result but the other way around. Harold stays in the south and defeats William. Then races north to engage Tostig and is defeated at Stamford Bridge instead of at Hastings. We could be celebrating the Battle of Stamford Bridge, 1066. The last time the English were successfully invaded. Imagine if, instead of Europe, it was with Scandinavia that England had been linked.’

We took a moment to think about the implications.

‘Anyway,’ said Atherton, rousing himself. ‘Here are the protagonists – Tostig and his ally, King Harald Hardrada. And King Harold Godwinson, whom we know quite well now. Since we have two Harolds and they’re both kings, I shall refer to them as Hardrada and Godwinson. Everyone clear?

‘Right. Godwinson, with little choice in the matter, sets off for the north. Tostig and Hardrada are passing the time with a little high-spirited pillaging and looting. The village of Scarborough has a particularly bad time of it. The Viking army thinks it has nothing to fear. Not only is the northern opposition scattered, but Godwinson is down south, hundreds of miles away and, they think, preoccupied with the Norman fleet heading his way. They’ve misjudged their man, however. Godwinson obviously decides that Hardrada and Tostig are a more immediate threat and he heads north to sort them out.’

‘You can see his point of view,’ said Clerk. ‘If the Vikings get themselves established in the north and William arrives in the south, he could be caught in a very nasty pincer movement.’

‘Indeed,’ said Atherton. ‘At this point, Godwinson’s army consists only of housecarls or thegns. Three thousand mounted men. They’re trained fighters and the backbone of his army, but he needs the fyrd. The men at arms. He sends the thegns to range ahead and recruit fighting men along the way. And they don’t hang about, either. Godwinson and his army will march one hundred and eighty miles in four days.

‘In the meantime, Tostig and Hardrada have negotiated a very lucrative peace deal with the terrified citizens of York. Stamford Bridge is to be the meeting place for an exchange of hostages and money. From the Viking point of view, what could possibly go wrong?’

He paused for a sip of water.

‘There’s always something, though. Some little fly in the ointment. This time, it’s the weather. The 25^th September is a very hot day. No doubt thinking the hardest part is over and done, Hardrada has left a large part of his army back with the ships back at Riccall guarding his plunder, together with the greater part of everyone’s armour, because it’s just too hot to wear it. Everyone else is relaxing twelve miles away on the banks of the River Derwent and having a ‘me’ day after their recent exertions. They think they’re safe because their enemy is hundreds of miles away and are definitely not aware that he and around ten thousand slightly miffed Saxons are going to appear over the horizon any moment now. Max.’

He smiled at me.

‘Thank you. As Mr Atherton has said, this is the point at which we will appear. Thanks to excellent contemporary sources, just for once, we know exactly where and when we want to be. We’ll land, fairly early in the morning, on the outskirts of a small wood slightly to the north of the area now known as Battle Flats.’

I brought up a map of the area.

‘The Vikings are camped on the east side of the River Derwent with a small force on the west side, holding the bridge itself. Godwinson and the Saxon army will approach from the west.

‘Miss Sykes and Mr Bashford, please stick with Harold Godwinson. Miss North and Mr Clerk – William isn’t around for this one so you’ve got the Vikings. I particularly want you to focus on the legend of the giant Viking who holds the bridge against the Saxons. Did it or did it not happen? Did he actually manage to kill forty men before being killed himself? You know the drill. At some point, Eystein Orri will arrive with Viking reinforcements. Mr Atherton, if you could cover him and his army, please. Miss North and Mr Clerk will remain with Tostig and Harald Hardrada.’

They both nodded.

I continued. ‘We’re all in Number Five for this one. We won’t be venturing outside so there are no costumes involved. You’ve all read up on the background, battle strategies, the aftermath and the lead-up to Hastings. Report to Hawking 09:30 tomorrow morning. Any questions?’

We landed on the north side of what would be known as Battle Flats on the outskirts of a small deciduous wood. Although we were heading towards October, the warm weather meant the leaves had hardly begun to change at all and there was plenty of cover. And, as Atherton said, pretty soon everyone was going to have much more important things to worry about than us anyway.

We had a good position, sitting on a small rise above Stamford Bridge and the River Derwent. In fact, it couldn’t be better. We would have an excellent view of Harold’s army when it arrived – although I did feel that even we couldn’t miss three thousand mounted men and around ten thousand men at arms.

It was a hot day. A very hot day. Down below us, the Vikings were relaxing in the sun, playing ball games, fishing, or wrestling. Many of them were having a nap. They were armed – I could see their swords thrust into the ground only an arm’s reach away, but most of their armour was back at the boats, twelve miles away at Riccall.

He might have won the battle and scattered the northern army, but Harald Hardrada was making a huge mistake. He was far too complacent. We scanned backwards and forwards, but as far as we could see, there were no sentries. No scouts. They had invaded a foreign country; they were far from home and they hadn’t posted lookouts of any kind. It was madness. And then he’d compounded his error by splitting his army into two. The very much smaller contingent was stationed on the western side of the bridge, with the bulk of his army sprawled on their backs on the east side.

We checked over our equipment, made ourselves a cup of tea, and sat down to await the arrival of Godwinson’s Saxon army.

The first Hardrada knew about it – the first any of us knew about it – was when a massive roar could be heard and the ground shook. The Vikings leaped to their feet, dazed and sleepy, staring around themselves in bemusement just as Godwinson’s army breasted the hill and came storming down upon them. In one moment all was peace and quiet and, in the next, thousands of Saxons were pouring down the hillside, axes in their hands and revenge in their hearts.

They completely engulfed the smaller army on the west bank of whom there were only about a thousand anyway. The Vikings snatched up their weapons – many of them had been swimming and were naked or nearly so – and setting their backs to the river, prepared to defend the bridgehead, to give Hardrada time to get his main force armed and ready. We could hear his chieftains shouting orders as they struggled to get the shield wall together. Without it they would be cut to pieces.

They were cut to pieces.

Nearly a thousand men died in the first fifteen minutes.

They had only swords or axes. No mail or armour. Blows that would be turned aside by armour, or even mail, cut deeply into unprotected flesh. Arms and heads flew through the air. Men fell, gutted from groin to gizzard. It was a slaughter. There seemed to be nothing to stop Godwinson and his men thundering across the bridge and laying into the main body of Hardrada’s army, who themselves still seemed stunned by the swiftness of an attack from a man they had believed to be hundreds of miles away.

Hardrada, however, did not completely lose his head. From out of the milling turmoil of his army still desperately trying to form up, three riders emerged, galloping hell for leather away from the slaughter. He was sending a desperate appeal to his ships at Riccall. Three thousand of his men lay there, guarding not only the ships and the plunder gained so far, but all their armour and spare weapons as well.

I said quietly, ‘Miss North…’

‘I’m on it.’ And indeed she was. Two of the screens showed close-ups of the riders galloping over the crest of a hill and disappearing from view.

I did some quick calculations. Ten miles away. On horseback. Unfamiliar countryside. Say an hour to get there. How long to assemble three thousand men and get them moving? And that was the easy bit, because even if every available man set off immediately, not only would they themselves be heavily armoured, but they would be carrying spare shields and armour for those who’d left them behind. And it was a very, very hot day. So say another hour to get themselves organised and moving. And then the ten miles back again. At a run. Heavily laden. In this heat. Two hours. Minimum. Harald Hardrada could not expect to see reinforcements in anything under four hours. Could he and his men last that long?

‘There,’ said Sykes suddenly. ‘There. At the bridge. The Viking. There he is.’

And there he was indeed. Long-handled axe in one hand, giant shield in the other. A legend springing to life before our very eyes.

There’s a story – well, a legend really, that the main part of the army was only saved from early annihilation by a giant Viking warrior, who planted himself on the bridge, and held it against Godwinson’s attack, thus giving Hardrada the time he so desperately needed. The legend goes on to say that the Viking – his name sadly lost over time – killed over forty men that day, laying about him until the river ran red with the blood of his fallen foes and the bridge itself was littered with their limbs.

Well, it wasn’t forty men, but it was close.

True, he had only his axe, but the bridge was narrow and could only be approached by a maximum of three men at a time and he was a ferocious fighter.

Accounts say that the battle stopped as everyone watched this modern day Horatio, but no, the battle didn’t stop. On the western side the struggle continued until he stood almost alone, splattered with blood and gore, friends and enemies alike piled around him. Heads, limbs, and bodies lay everywhere.

He was unmoveable. The man was truly a hero, and today no one can even remember his name.

The forty men might have been an exaggeration, but not by much. The bridge was awash with blood which dripped into the river beneath. Ribbons of red trailed downstream. I don’t know how long he could or would have lasted, but further upstream, an enterprising Saxon had climbed into half a barrel and, armed to the teeth, was floating downstream. We zoomed in on him being borne downstream, his spear ready in his grasp, and with two or three spares ready to hand. He had no shield with which to defend himself. The barrel was swirling madly in the current, uncontrollable. Its occupant could only hang on with his other hand and hope and pray he arrived at the right place at the right time.

It was hard to see how he could be a threat, but a group of Harold’s men, seeing what he was doing, hurled themselves on what would turn out to be a suicide mission, engaging the Viking for as long as they could, sacrificing themselves to push him back across the bridge into the path of the oncoming barrel. He tore into them, but for every one that fell, another stepped up to take his place, and while the Viking was concentrating on the enemies before him, the soldier in the barrel reached his destination. Holding fast to the bridge with one hand, he stabbed upwards through the planking with the other. Once, twice, three times. He must have caught the Viking in the groin because a great gout of blood spurted into the faces of his attackers. Still he stood, however, and the soldier was forced to use a second and then a third spear. Still roaring, the giant yanked them out and fell to his knees. Panting Saxons stood back and watched as slowly, he slipped sideways into the water. Trailing ribbons of his own blood, he floated slowly away. Out of sight and out of History.

Roaring their triumph, the Saxon army streamed across the bloody bridge, took a moment to form their line, and advanced.

Hardrada had arranged his forces in some semblance of order, ready to receive them, but only just in time. Their long front line ranged from north to south. It had to be as long as they could make it so that the Saxons couldn’t get around them, but they were stretched very thin. Too thin in places, it seemed to me. And not every fighter had a shield.

The two armies faced each other, ready to begin. A horn sounded. And again. Both sides seemed to pause.

‘A parley?’ said Sykes in disbelief.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Bashford in excitement. ‘This must be where Godwinson tries to negotiate a deal with Tostig. And when Hardrada demands a piece of England for himself, Godwinson offers him seven feet of earth. Because he’s tall. My God – that could actually have happened.’

Well, maybe it did and maybe it didn’t – we had no way of knowing, but a parley was definitely taking place. It lasted only a few minutes – just long enough for an offer to be made and rejected. Both sides moved away from each other, and without waiting another minute, Godwinson advanced his men.

Still the sun beat down. The heat was almost unbearable and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky to give either side any respite.

They went at each other like madmen. Both sides incurred heavy casualties, but the unarmoured Vikings were faring worse. Much worse. In a desperate effort to shore up his weakened shield wall, Harald Hardrada was moving groups of men from one point to another, but his men were falling faster than he could replace them.

Time passed – the sun wheeled across the sky. Hardrada must have been growing more desperate by the minute but there was still no sign of reinforcements. His line was ragged, his men exhausted.

And then…

‘Listen,’ said Atherton suddenly, and turned up the volume. We could hear horns blowing in the distance, faint but clear. ‘Eystein Orri is here.’

Weary Vikings raised their heads and even managed a ragged cheer. Their own horns rang out in reply. As if in answer, a group of men breasted the hill, paused for a moment, silhouetted against the pitiless blue sky, and then swept down towards the battle.

There weren’t anything like as many as Hardrada could have anticipated. If he had hoped for three thousand fully armed warriors ready to get stuck in then he was to be bitterly disappointed. I wondered how many had fallen by the wayside. Their exhaustion was apparent to everyone. Any hope they might have brought to the beleaguered Vikings was short-lived. The reinforcements were as fatigued as those they were relieving. They’d run more than ten miles, not only in full armour themselves, but carrying spare gear for their comrades. Many had died of heat exhaustion before even reaching the battlefield. Godwinson’s army, realising the newcomers were not likely to be a big threat to them, regrouped for a fresh attack.

The Saxons weren’t big on archers. They relied mainly on their shield wall and their sword arms, but Godwinson took advantage of the lull to bring up the few he had. A hail of arrows darkened the sky. And then another. And another.

We knew Hardrada would be killed by an arrow in the throat. He would die in seconds.

I said to North, ‘Make sure you don’t miss it,’

‘I won’t,’ she said shortly, so I left her to get on with it.

I didn’t see it myself – I was focussing on another part of the battle, but we heard the roar that went up from both sides, announcing his death.

Even then the Vikings didn’t give up. I could see Eystein Orri desperately trying to hold their forces together. Horns sounded again and, abandoning the wavering shield wall, he grouped his men into a solid mass, weapons bristling outwards, still formidable foes.

This stand is known in song as ‘Orri’s Storm’, and they held for a while, beating back the Saxons time after time, but slowly and surely, as the sun began to drop in the sky, the Vikings were whittled away. The final straw was when, surrounded by half a dozen roaring Saxons, Tostig himself went down, bringing Hardrada’s raven banner down with him. The Saxons closed in and that was the end. Leaderless, the Vikings scattered in every direction. Some would be chased all the way back to their ships at Riccall.

For the Vikings, the day had been so disastrous that of the three hundred ships that had brought them here, only twenty-four were needed to take the survivors home.

Of those fleeing the field, some ran uphill towards us, seeking refuge in the woods. Time for us to go, too.

I said, ‘Start shutting things down, Mr Clerk, and let’s go home.’

‘Copy that,’ he said, and he and North busied themselves at the console. Sykes and Atherton began to clear things away into the lockers.

I said, ‘Everyone ready?’ but before we could initiate the jump, a group of blood-splattered Vikings crashed through the undergrowth, closely followed by some half dozen Saxons, their swords and axes raised. They were seeking out the enemy, driving the exhausted men before them, mercilessly pursuing the final remnants of Hardrada’s army.

With nowhere to go, the Vikings turned at bay, to make a stand. They were hacked down, one by one until, eventually, not one was left standing. The shouts and screams died away and only a handful of victorious Saxons remained, leaning on their swords, panting, surrounded by the wounded, dead, and dying.

I stared thoughtfully at the screen, wondering what to do next. We were still well concealed and even if someone should come across us, there was no way they could get in. We could risk a jump, but there were people all around us. There was a very real possibility they’d get sucked into the vacuum of our leaving. We have a safety line in Hawking for a reason.

‘We’ll stay a while,’ I said. ‘Let’s see what happens next.’

All around the little glade, the green grass had turned red with blood. I wondered how long the wounded would be left here and the answer was – not very long at all. The standard of medical care depended upon whose side you were on. Saxons who could walk were helped to their feet and taken away. Those who couldn’t were carried on makeshift litters made of cloaks and spears.

Those who weren’t Saxons were despatched on the spot. Even a young lad who couldn’t have been much more than fourteen or fifteen. He wasn’t that badly hurt, but a wound in his leg prevented him running away. He saw his death approaching and began to cry. A blank-faced Saxon stood over him, said a few words – perhaps in consolation, or perhaps a prayer to the gods. The boy’s final shriek was cut short. He spasmed once and then lay still.

And once again, we were watching people die. Real people. It’s what we do. We wrap it up in all sorts of fancy phrases – investigating major historical events in contemporary time is our favourite, but, basically, we watch people die. We sell it to ourselves on the grounds they would have died anyway. That our being here makes very little difference – or shouldn’t do. That in our time they’ve been dead for x-hundred years. That it’s always important to have an accurate record of what really happened. Before those who write History – nearly always the victors – put their own particular spin on events. And all that’s good, I know it is. But not when you’re watching a young man, a boy even, white faced, teeth clenched in agony, curled around a mortal wound and watching his own life’s blood pump into the thirsty earth on a lovely summer’s day, as the birds sing in the trees around him.

It takes a hell of a lot of getting used to. I haven’t managed it yet. And actually, would that be a good thing? Do I want to be able to watch, dispassionately, as another life departs this world? I don’t think I do. So I suppose I just have to put up with it.

I was putting up with it now.

Sykes drew in her breath with a hiss. I put a hand on her shoulder and said, ‘Keep filming.’

She did, and it was worth it. Because someone shouted suddenly and, before we realised what was happening, Harold Godwinson himself strode through the trees.

We knew it was him, because he was preceded by his personal banner, the Fighting Man. He’d discarded his mail and wore only a sweaty and bloodstained tunic. His legs were bare and his hair dark with sweat. He stood in the centre of the glade, hands on his hips, staring about him. As far as I could see, he appeared unscathed. His mouth set in a grim line as he surveyed the two piles of dead bodies – Vikings on the far side of the clearing, and the Saxons, neatly laid out on the other.

North was nearly falling over herself trying to get all the cameras focused on him.

‘He looks older,’ said Bashford, zooming in.

‘He looks ill,’ said North.

I agreed. And I could hazard a guess as to the cause. Whatever brave face he was putting on for England, in his heart, Harold was a perjured man – an oath-breaker – and he knew it. It wasn’t sitting easily on his conscience.

Kings are not supposed to have a conscience. It’s not a luxury they could afford. Medieval kings had two simple tasks. To safeguard the realm and to ensure the succession. Nothing complicated, but failure to do one or both usually resulted in catastrophe.

The very unwar-like Edward II lost humiliatingly to the Scots at Bannockburn and was only just able to force himself to father an heir. He ended his days supposedly impaled upon a red-hot poker.

Richard II – son and grandson of mighty men – was weak, fickle and childless. Eventually it cost him his throne.

Henry VI was pious, mentally frail, lost most of the English possessions in France, and was very surprised to find he’d fathered an heir. Popular opinion reckoned that, actually, he hadn’t. Henry too was overthrown. Twice, in fact.

And what about King Stephen? He wasn’t the rightful heir – that was his cousin, Mathilda. Stephen had two excellent qualifications for the job – he wasn’t a woman and his name wasn’t Mathilda, but he foundered because he couldn’t live up to the popular image of a medieval king which, basically, was to be the biggest bastard in the country. Stephen’s problem was that he was just too nice, which was not what people looked for in their king. His ability to listen patiently and sensibly to other people’s point of view all but wrecked the kingdom. His weakness and lack of resolution caused his uncle’s system of administration, so patiently assembled over the previous reign, to fall apart in what is always known as ‘The Anarchy’, and the country foundered. Not surprisingly, after his death, the crown went back to Mathilda’s line. I personally always felt the country would have done much better to have stuck with Mathilda, who would cheerfully separate any man from his testicles as soon look at him, thus easily fulfilling one of the two requirements for the job of king – conscienceless brutality – but she was a woman and therefore not eligible.

Of course, you could go too far. Edward III overdid things slightly when it came to heirs and had too many sons. The family fragmented into the houses of York and Lancaster and gave us the Wars of the Roses.

Or what about Henry II’s boys? Young Henry, Richard the Lionheart, Geoffrey and John happily schemed and betrayed their father and each other without a second thought.

So basically, all a king had to do was keep the realm safe and father an heir. Job done. Recent monarchs have added waving to the list, but let’s face it – it’s still not that difficult. The point I’m circumnavigating is that having a conscience is a luxury kings can’t afford. As opposed to politicians and bankers who could do with having one inserted and yet appear to be complete strangers to the concept. From looking at him now, however, it would seem King Harold was having trouble with his.

His hair had darkened and it seemed to me there was less of it. Although that might simply have been helmet hair. He looked exhausted but, to be fair, he’d had a strenuous week. It was the look in his eyes that gave him away. He had the look of a man whose inner voices gave him no rest.

Sykes stirred and I was conscious that things were getting very hot and stuffy inside the pod. I wished they’d get a move on and leave.

‘Suppose they decide to stay up here?’ said Sykes, wiping sweat off her face with her sleeve. ‘It’s cool, shady and pleasant. That’s why we we’re here.’

‘We could use the sonic scream,’ suggested Bashford.

The sonic scream is brilliant. Some time ago it was discovered that if you broadcast at a low frequency, only teenagers can hear it. Normal people aren’t affected. It induces feelings of discomfort and slight nausea. Not unnaturally, the teenagers don’t like it, so they move on. They don’t know why they’re moving on – they just do. I believe this is now illegal, but Professor Rapson and the Technical Section never allow little things like that to stop them, so we have something similar installed in our pods. We usually keep it for hostile animals and suchlike, but it certainly works on humans, too.

Sadly, the effects can be a little unpredictable. On one occasion we’d caused a herd of Roman bullocks to stampede, causing massive damage to private property, and then, not content with that, we’d gone on to shatter every pane of glass in Hawking.

I was weighing up the pros and cons of activating it with so many seriously wounded people still around when Sykes said, ‘Hang on, who’s this? Look.’

A rider on a sweat-drenched horse was thundering up the hill towards us, shouting as he came. Every man turned to see what was happening. Most of them drew their swords. Two or three stepped in front of the king.

He reined in so hard his horse sat back on its haunches, foam flying. Flinging himself from his horse before it had even stopped moving, he shouted again, looking wildly about him.

‘What’s going on?’ said Sykes, adjusting the cameras and turning up the sound.

‘No,’ I said, in disbelief. ‘We couldn’t be that lucky.’

‘Lucky?’ said Bashford, and then realisation dawned. ‘Oh my God. Oh my God. Quick, turn up the sound.’

The messenger was standing, hand on his knees, struggling for breath and trying to talk at the same time. Someone passed him a wineskin, but he waved it aside, grabbing a man by his arm and speaking urgently. The man pointed at Harold, standing quietly at one side of the clearing, hands still on hips. The messenger hastened over, flung himself on his knees in front of his king, speaking fast and gesturing south.

Yes, we really were that lucky. I couldn’t believe it. He was gabbling so fast that we couldn’t make out the words, but we didn’t have to. We all knew what this was about. I was watching Harold’s face. I was watching the face of a man feeling his kingdom tremble beneath his feet.

It couldn’t have happened at a worse time.

Duke William had landed.

Every man here had only nineteen days to live.