straw in their hair and dung on their tunics, but though their eyes were fear-filled, Redwald saw determination in their ruddy faces.
Harold stretched out a steady arm to point to the river crossing two miles away where men swarmed like ants on both banks. ‘See? They are not ready for us. Too confident, like all the Northmen. The Vikings thought we would be as weak and slow as the men who faced them in the time of our fathers’ fathers’ fathers. They thought we would creep like whipped dogs, not strike like wolves.’
‘They did not reckon with Harold Godwinson.’
The king smiled.
Redwald cast his mind back to the beacon blazing in the night on the hills to the north of London. It was the last bonfire in a long line stretching from the north along the east coast. At first, the young man’s heart had filled with ice, but Harold was hot with passion. He had been ready for this moment and his blood was up for battle. If he had waited for mounted messengers to deliver the news of the Northmen’s attack, his war preparations would have been delayed too long. But Harold had been proved right in overriding the Witan, and his system of bonfires meant the news had arrived before the ravens had even taken wing. On the hard ride north, they had encountered white- faced messengers with stories of three hundred dragon-ships blotting out the whale road with their red and white sails. Thousands of fierce Viking warriors under the command of Harald the Ruthless. And Harold’s own brother, Tostig, was among them. The Northmen had sailed up the Humber and sacked Skaresborg before tearing through the forces of Edwin of Mercia and his brother Morcar at Fulford. Eoferwic had fallen with barely a whimper. When the English army had arrived in Tatecastre after the great march, Harold had prepared for an attack. Redwald recalled his master’s fire, the clarity of his planning during the long tactical discussion with the huscarls; for the first time the strength of the Wessex man’s leadership seemed to match his grand ambition, Redwald thought. But the attack never came. The Vikings were indeed over-confident. They waited to resupply thinking they had all the time in the world.
And that morning, the storm of English spears and axes had made their lightning advance to Stamford Bridge.
Harold swept an arm towards the enemy, who raced back and forth to prepare their defences. ‘And now we are here, how would you attack?’
Redwald knew the king was testing him. As in all things, this was part of his education, the knowledge that would help him become great. He thought for a moment and then made two slashes in the air from the north and the south.
The monarch nodded, but his sly smile suggested the answer had not been correct. ‘Look at the men we have arrayed behind us. Why halve the enemy’s attention when we can break it into seven.’
‘Seven?’
‘Seven warbands.’ Harold marked the lines of attack in the air. ‘We strike quickly and tear the Northmen apart. That is only a small part of their full force. The rest of Harald’s men will be with his fleet at Riccall, and he will have sent messengers to call them here. Our victory is assured if we crush the Vikings before the rest of the army arrives.’
‘They will try to hold the bridge to stop us crossing the river to the east.’
‘Of course they will. Only a handful would be needed to make a stand. But we will come like the hammers of a thousand smiths and smash them upon the anvil.’
Redwald stared at the churning Vikings, feeling his heart pound faster as the battle neared. He feared the attack would not go as cleanly as his master suggested. Around the campfire the previous night he had listened to the murmurs of the huscarls as they discussed the coming attack, and he soon understood why the king of the Northmen was called ‘the Ruthless’. Harald had left the ravens feeding on the remains of his foes across all the world, from Byzantium to the frozen rivers of Kievan Rus where the Slavs gnawed on the bones of those they had killed in battle.
Harold’s eyes narrowed as he peered towards the river crossing, the current weak and the waters low after the long weeks without rain. ‘My heart is heavy for my brother. He still feels the pain of his treatment. Let the word go out to take him as our prisoner, if it is within our power. I would have him at my side again, and his good advice in my ear.’
Redwald flinched and quickly turned away before his master could see his concern. If Harold brought Tostig and the rest of his brothers into his closest circle there would be no room for other advisers.
‘You will lead one of the warbands,’ the king said, as if to reassure him. ‘Give the order.’
The king urged his mount back towards the waiting huscarls, and after a moment Redwald followed. Leading a warband into battle was a great honour, yet still he felt uneasy. The warriors, even the men of the fyrd, all carried tokens next to their skin, a strip of linen from the garment of a loved one, a bone cross, secret amulets bearing the marks of one of the old gods. He had nothing except what was in his heart.
‘Let the spears of the English pierce the hearts of the Northmen!’ Harold bellowed as he rode along the front of the huscarls. ‘Let the river run red with their blood! Into battle, English, with God on our side!’ He wrenched his horse around and dug in his heels, leaning across its neck as he roared his fury. Thousands of throats responded, the cry resounding like the waves crashing on the shore. Redwald thought how terrifying it must be for the enemy to hear that sound.
Within moments he was lost to the pounding of hooves and the wind tearing at his face. The army moved behind him like a great beast coming to life, lumbering at first but gathering strength and speed as it thundered towards its prey. Oak and elm flashed by. Lost to the drumming of blood in his head, Redwald could only sense the men riding at his side, their gaze fixed, their lips drawn back from their teeth, spears or axes clutched in their right hands as they gripped the reins with their left.
As the turf blurred by beneath the horses’ hooves, Redwald glimpsed the Northmen jostling against each other as they waited along the river bank and realized yet another error they had made. Many were naked to the waist, their only armour their helmets. In the burning heat of the day, they must have left their mail shirts at their ships. Wooden shields would offer scant protection to the smiting that would be dealt them.
On the extremes of his vision, Redwald saw the mounted javelin-throwers leading the charge from either flank. Each man carried seven javelins in deep leather pouches strapped to their harness. Redwald found himself riveted by the sight of the riders pulling out each narrow, weighted spear and hurling it in one fluid motion before selecting the next weapon. The iron tips caught the sun like fire as they rained down. One Northman threw up his arms as if praising God when a javelin rammed through his right eye socket, down through his body and out of his side. A red mist sprayed upwards. Across the ranks, Vikings convulsed, pinned to the ground by the falling spears like rabbits caught in traps. Fascination gripped Redwald. Truly Harold was a great war leader to bring such a devastating tactic to England.
Shields stretched along the river bank in a bulging semicircle centred on the river crossing, reds, blues and yellows, marked with black and white crosses or stripes, all newly painted for the invasion. Redwald saw gleaming helmets poking out from behind the wall and wondered what thoughts were going through the Northmen’s minds. Did they fear their death was near? Did they trust that even with the vast army ranged against them they could still win? He had been told that the vikingr ’s belief in their own prowess was unshakable.
Spreading oaks and beeches dotted the approach, but the huscarls surged among the trees without checking their pace, before leaping from their horses and attacking on foot. Redwald joined them. With a roar, the English wave broke on the shield wall. Northmen staggered back under the pounding, ripe for the hack of an axe. Spears bristled from behind the shields.
Within a moment, Redwald found himself enveloped in the din of battle cries and the crashing of iron upon wood. Huscarls pressed tightly on either side, the constant motion of chopping axes and thrusting spears like the flapping of birds on the edge of his vision. Redwald threw his blue shield in front of him without a moment to spare. A spear burst from behind the wall towards his face, the tip splintering the wood as it raked across his defence. Before the Northman could withdraw his weapon, Redwald rammed his own spear into the warrior’s face. Blood gouted from where the tip ripped through the cheek and out of the back of the head. The man’s dying convulsions wrenched the spear from the Englishman’s grasp.
Cursing, Redwald withdrew to snatch up his axe. As he spun round, he glimpsed the seam of corpses littering the reddening turf in front of the shield wall. Even outnumbered, the Northmen were taking their toll on their English foe. On either side, the plucky ceorls swarmed forward. Many fell within moments, but the sheer weight of bodies began to drive the Vikings back. Redwald felt a rush of blood, but no fear.
