Harold called for mass to be celebrated and, as the shadows lengthened from a setting sun at the end of a fine English day, he addressed his men from horseback. Hereward watched from afar as the King spoke, but could clearly see the Talisman around his neck. He felt relieved that his long journey seemed to have had a purpose after all.
As Harold’s voice rose, so did the hearts of every man there. His horse circled and stomped its feet, its gyrations adding emphasis to his message. He sat tall in his saddle, looking every inch a king in England’s gravest hour.
‘Tomorrow we ride into battle. There will be no shield wall to protect us; our defence will be our speed and our guile. If there is a pitched battle, we will engage at pace and withdraw quickly to regroup and strike again. Those of you who have served with me for many years will remember our campaigns in Wales. Surprise will be the key to our victory. Tomorrow we will annihilate the Norwegians, who threaten our families and our future. The chronicles will tell of the day for generations to come. Fight for England! Fight to protect our Saxon blood! Long live our cherished people!’
Beyond the King and his army, the sun was setting behind the trees of the forest, its leaves the vibrant colours of an English autumn.
Hereward looked at Einar, Martin and Alphonso, who had just arrived from Glastonbury.
‘Tomorrow we stay close to the King.’
At that moment, Hereward’s pride in his homeland knew no bounds.
A pivotal chapter in the history of England was about to be written, and these men would determine the outcome.
16. Hardrada
The morning of 25 September dawned bright and clear. The meadows were dank from heavy dew as the rising sun drew swirls of mist from rivers and streams made cool by the chill of night. A warm day beckoned.
Hardrada had been uncharacteristically careless. That morning, buoyed by his reception at York, confident from his comfortable victory over the forces of Edwin and Morcar and feeling certain that King Harold’s army could not be within 100 miles of him, he was in a complacent mood. He had made camp at a small bridge on a tributary of the Great Ouse and was overseeing the taking of hostages from the people of Northumbria. The crossing was called Stamford Bridge, on the River Derwent, a few miles due east of York.
The Norwegians had spent the days since their victory filling their ships with the spoils of war and celebrating their success; they were in no state to fight an elite force of Saxon housecarls. Hardrada had advanced from his main camp to Stamford Bridge with only about a third of his force, perhaps 5,000 men. More significantly, he had allowed them to leave behind their mail coats, shields, helmets and spears. They carried only their swords and axes and their only protection was their leather jerkins.
It was a bedraggled body of men.
Harold’s army could not have offered more of a contrast. It had left Tadcaster under darkness and in barely three hours was in York, where the locals were shocked to see a Saxon army enter their city so quickly after the defeat at Gate Fulford.
Harold’s housecarls had grown in number. A further contingent of 500 had arrived in the early hours of the morning and swelled his force to close to 3,000 men. Unlike the Norwegians, they were fully armed and well prepared. Harold’s advance had been so rapid that no word had reached the North that the Saxons had even left the Midlands. He halted his men just outside York to wait for his scouts to report on the Norwegians’ position. When he heard of Hardrada’s disposition, he ordered an immediate attack.
This time there would be no final rallying speech.
The first the Norwegians knew of the advancing army of Saxon housecarls was the low rumble of their horses travelling on the wind from the west. At first, they thought it must be more hostages from York. Then, they suspected a double-cross manoeuvre from Edwin and Morcar, surmising that, somehow, the defeated Northumbrians and Mercians had raised a force of cavalry. Only when they saw how many horses were streaming over the hill from Gate Helmsley and heard the rising thunder of thousands of hooves, did they realize that Harold’s army was about to descend on them.
Recognizing the gravity of the situation and knowing how effective his brother’s surprise attacks could be, Tostig shouted at Hardrada, imploring him to organize a rolling retreat, fighting as they went.
The old warrior would have none of it and bellowed back, ‘We stand and fight. Send messengers to the ships and summon Prince Olaf to come at speed. Raise the Land-Ravager standard; form a shield wall around it. Berserkers come to my side. Men of Norway, stand your ground!’
Harold watched the rapid Norwegian deployment, counted their numbers and, seeing that they had no horses, no armour and few weapons, called a halt to his advance. He summoned a company from his personal bodyguard, twenty-five men in all, and asked Hereward and his three companions to join him. They rode down to the river and sought to parley with Hardrada.
The famous warrior appeared, accompanied by Tostig and a small retinue of berserkers.
‘You sit tall in the saddle for a man of modest height, Harold of England.’
Hereward could not help but be amused by Hardrada’s comment. Although the legendary Norwegian was at least six and a half feet tall, Harold was also a tall man, standing well over six feet.
‘Greetings to you also, Harald of Norway. I will try to observe noble courtesies, despite your presence in my kingdom and your treatment of my people.’
‘My Lord Earl, your occupation of the throne of this land is not legitimate. You are not of royal blood. This land was part of Scandinavia until recently; it will be so again.’
‘We will settle that argument in due course. First, I would like to speak with my brother Tostig.’ He turned to Tostig with a look of contempt. ‘You have invaded your own land seeking vengeance, and in defiance of a decision made by the Witan. Few would forgive your actions.’ Then the King’s face softened. ‘But I will do so. Return with me; bring your men. England needs you. There is a foe far mightier than these Norwegians approaching our shores. I will restore you to your earldom and increase your lands in the North. After we despatch the Normans, we will campaign in Scotland against Malcolm, your erstwhile ally. When he is defeated you can add Scotland to your domain. We are still brothers and we can be comrades once again to protect our homeland.’
‘It is an interesting offer, my brother, but your brotherly love was absent when I was hounded from my earldom. Today you propose terms because you need my support, but I fight with King Harald and the Norsemen now and I did not bring them all the way to Northumbria to desert them.’
Harold looked sad at his brother’s response, but his expression quickly became stern again. ‘So be it, Tostig, once my brother, once an earl of England. You will die for your treachery. As for you, Harald of Norway, you are ill prepared and caught in the open on English soil. If you withdraw and return to your ships and leave the plunder and hostages you have taken, I will spare you and your men.’
‘You are bluffing, Earl Harold. My force is far superior to yours. I stand on Scandinavian soil. This land is mine through the heritage of my ancestors. If you desire to take it from me, you will have to win it in battle.’
Harold breathed deeply, knowing that many were about to die, and gestured to his men to turn and ride back to the army.
He addressed Tostig one last time, deliberately ignoring his Norwegian foe. ‘If Hardrada insists on his patch of English soil, he’d better start digging his grave. As he stands so tall, he will need a big hole.’
As Hardrada watched Harold ride away, he turned to Tostig. ‘Your brother has a sharp tongue. I’m going to enjoy cutting it out of him.’
There was only a narrow bridge between the two forces, so Harold decided to abandon the horses and mount an immediate infantry attack. His army advanced on foot in squadrons of fifty, but found their way across blocked by a huge Norse berserker, who despatched the Saxon housecarls in groups of three and four at a time with the wide arcs of his flailing axe. The Saxon squadrons tried to wade across the river but could not do so in shield formation and were easy targets for the Norwegian archers. Hereward looked at the situation and quickly gave instructions to Alphonso, who melted into the crowd of housecarls massing to reach the bridge.
Within moments, the berserker’s stubborn defence came to an abrupt end. With a scream of agony, he was
