King's Man (42 page)

But Harald seemed unperturbed. 'Well, if it does prove to be Harold, then he's got here by forced marches, and his troops will be footsore and weary. That makes them ripe for slaughter.'

He gave a snort of confidence, and I could see how his faith in his own success as a military commander was unshakeable. In the past decade he had never lost a major fight, and now he was certain that his battle luck would hold. Godwinsson, as far as Harald was concerned, was offering himself for defeat. With growing dread, I knew differently. I recalled the details of my nightmare on the night before Harald returned from Kiev on his splendid ship with silken sails. I had dreamed of a great fleet and its tall commander struck down by an arrow at the moment of victory, and when I had voiced my fears, I had been told that I had seen the death of the Greek general Maniakes, Harald's near double. Now, far too late, the image sprang into my mind of the great assembly of Harald's longships drawn up on shore or lying at anchor in the shallows of the river just ten miles away. That spectacle, I knew with absolute certainty, was the true fulfilment of my dream. Yet again I had failed. Years ago I should have warned Harald about the macabre portent.

'If it is Harold Godwinsson, then we had better get the formalities concluded,' Harald continued. He looked about him, caught my eye, and said, 'Thorgils. You're just the man. You can be my herald in your black and white gown.' He smiled grimly. 'They won't attack a man of the cloth, even if he's a fraud. Ride out and ask for a parlay.'

Knowing that I was being swept along by events over which I had no control, I walked back to where my pack pony was hopefully nuzzling the earth, trying to find a few wisps of dried-up grass. I felt that I was no more than a puppet in some vast and cruel game being played out by unseen powers. My legs ached as I hauled myself back on to the wooden saddle and plucked on the rope reins. Reluctantly, the pony lifted its head and began to walk. Its legs, too, were stiff and painful. Slowly, almost apologetically, the little pony and I climbed up the slope. Ahead of us, more and more English foot soldiers and cavalry were appearing over the ridge and taking up their positions across the hillside. The Norwegians below me were no longer relaxing in the sunshine. They had scrambled to their feet and were searching for the weapons and shields they had laid aside. There was no sense of order or discipline. They looked towards Harald and his councillors, waiting for instructions, and they watched me on my pony slowly plod towards the hostile army.

I noted a cluster of banners among the English cavalry, and veered in that direction. As I rode along the front rank of the English line, the foot soldiers called out, asking what I wanted. I ignored them. Around the banners was a group of some twenty men. All were mounted. I made a mental note to tell Harald that many of the English troops now massing behind their leaders were also on horseback. That would explain how Harold Godwinsson had managed to travel so quickly and take us by surprise. At least a third of his force were cavalry, and I guessed that the remainder were levies that he had collected locally.

The gleam of a sword hilt caught my attention, a dull yellow glint among the riders. I looked again, and knew that the ranks of horsemen nearest the banners were royal huscarls, Godwinsson's personal force, the finest troops in England. Since Knut's time they had carried gold-hilted swords. Many of them also carried spears, while others had long-handled axes dangling from their saddles. I wondered whether they would choose to fight on horseback or on foot.

'King Harald of Norway wishes to talk with your leader,' I called out when I was close enough to the group around the banners for them to hear me distinctly. They were English nobles, all wearing costly chain-mail shirts and helmets decorated with badges of rank. Their horses were tall, strong-boned animals, not nearly as massive as the Norman destriers, but far superior to the smaller Norwegian horses in Harald's army.

I reined in my little pack pony and waited at a safe distance. I saw the group confer among themselves, and then half a dozen came forward at a trot. Among them a tall, heavily moustached man rode a particularly handsome chestnut stallion. There was something about his bearing, the way that he sat in the saddle, that told me at once that this was Harold Godwinsson himself,

the king of England, though he was careful to remain among his companions as if he was just another rider.

'Tell King Harald that there is nothing of substance to discuss. But the King of England, grants him an audience. He may speak with the king's herald,' came a shout.

I was fairly sure that it was Godwinsson who had spoken. It was an old trick for a leader to pretend to be his own spokesman. Harald had often used it himself.

I turned and waved to Harald and his entourage, beckoning them forward.

The two groups, evenly matched in numbers, met midway between the two armies. They halted their horses, careful not to get within a sword's length of one another, and I thought to myself, as I watched them, how very similar they were. All were bearded and moustached, with hair that was mostly blond or light brown, and all of them seemed to be both haughty and suspicious as they eyed one another across the narrow gap. The main difference was in the shields they carried. Those of Harald's men who had wisely brought their armour carried round shields, brightly painted with war emblems, while several of the English riders held longer, narrow shields with a tapering lower edge. I had seen these same shields among Duke William's men and knew that on horseback they gave an advantage, for they protected a rider's lower leg as well as the vulnerable flank of his horse. It was another warning, I thought to myself, that I should give to Harald.

The exchange between the two groups was brief. The rider who purported to be the royal spokesman — more than ever I was sure that it was the English king himself — demanded to know with what purpose the Norwegian army was trespassing on England's soil. Styrkar, the royal marshal, replied for the Norwegians. 'King Harald has come to claim the throne of England which is his by right. His ally and companion, Tostig here, has come to claim what is also his by right — the earldom of Northumbria, of which he was unjustly deprived.'

'Tostig and his men may remain, provided they stay in peace,' came the answer. 'The King of England gives his word that he will be reinstated in his earldom. He will, in addition, grant Tostig one-third of the realm.'

Now I was sure that Godwinsson himself was speaking, for the speaker had made no attempt to confer with his colleagues. It also occurred to me that the parlay was no more than play-acting. Tostig must have recognised his half-brother, the English king, yet he was pretending that he did not know him. The entire meeting was a sham.

Tostig spoke up. 'And if I accept that offer, what lands will you give to Harald Sigurdsson, the King of Norway?'

Hard as a blow of a fist to the teeth came back the unrelenting reply, 'He will receive seven feet of English ground. Enough to bury him. Or more, as he is much taller than other men.'

The two groups of riders stiffened in their saddles. Their horses, sensing the sudden surge in tension, began to fidget. One of the English riders slapped his reins on his animal's neck to make the creature calm down.

To his credit, Tostig soothed the situation before it broke into open violence. 'Tell the King of England,' he called out, still keeping up the pretence that he did not recognise his own half-brother, 'that it will never be said that Tostig, the true Earl of Northumbria, brought King Harald of Norway across the sea in order to betray him.' Then he turned his horse and began to ride away down the hill. The parlay was over.

Kicking my pony into a trot, I hurried to rejoin Harald's group. I rode up behind Harald in time to hear him ask Tostig, "Who was that who spoke for the English? He had a deft way with words.'

'That was Godwinsson,' Tostig replied. Harald was obviously taken aback by the answer. He had not intended to compliment his rival.

'Not a bad-looking man,' he acknowledged, then drew himself to his full height so he sat very tall in the saddle, and added, 'but a little puny.'

On the threshold of a battle, Harald's vanity was dangerous, I thought to myself. Combined with his self-belief, it could lead us into disaster. It was unlikely that he would compromise his pride by ordering a strategic withdrawal to the fleet. In his eyes, that would seem too much like an abject retreat.

We came back down the hill to rejoin the Norwegian troops with Styrkar shouting to our men that they were to fall back across the bridge and take up a defensive position on the far slope. At least our marshal was not blind to our danger. If we remained where we were, the English would be attacking us downhill. Nevertheless, our withdrawal was a scrambled affair, the men gathering up their weapons and converging on the little bridge with no sense of order or discipline. They jostled their way across the loose planks of the bridge in an untidy torrent, and made their way up the far slope where they began to regroup.

Seeing the backs of their enemies, the English forces took their chance to try to turn the Norwegian withdrawal into a rout. A detachment of their cavalry came cantering down the hill and closed with our stragglers. It was not a concerted attack so much as a haphazard onslaught to take advantage of the moment. I had already crossed the bridge with Harald and his entourage, and looked back to see a chaotic engagement unfold. Isolated bands of Norwegian warriors or single individuals were ducking and dodging as they tried to evade the lances and swords of the English horsemen. There were occasional shouts of defiance and whoops of anger as our men turned and tried to fight back against their mounted opponents. I could see that the English forces were relishing the advantage of surprise. They knew that they had taken the Norwegians completely unawares, and this gave them a powerful advantage.

As I watched the confused fighting, my attention was caught by an extraordinary sight. Slowly making its way through the skirmish, as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, was an ordinary farm cart. It was the sort of vehicle which might be found in any modest farmyard, a simple wooden platform on two solid wheels drawn by a single horse. On the back of the cart were several sacks of grain, some barrels, and, bizarrely, several chickens trussed up and hanging head down in batches. I could only suppose that the carter was one of those engaged to bring supplies to the Norwegian army as part of the tribute from the citizens of York, and he had blundered into the fight inadvertently. Now he was petrified by the danger in which he found himself and too scared to react, while his horse between the shafts was an ancient nag, half blind and deaf. Even as I watched, the cart reached the approaches to the bridge, and the elderly horse stopped in puzzlement, gazing at the press of struggling men which blocked its path.

The last of the Norwegians' rearguard - those who had not been cut down by the English - had reached the bridge. They were more disciplined than their fellows, and had formed up in a squad which turned to face the enemy; now the men were retreating step by step. As they passed the stationary cart, one of the Norwegian fighters reached up and pulled the driver from his seat, sending the poor wretch flying. Moments later, the cart horse disappeared, as the bewildered animal, its harness cut, galloped away. A dozen hands grabbed the cart and wheeled it to the middle of the bridge, where it was overturned to act as a barricade to delay the English advance. Moments later the Norwegian rearguard was running up the slope to rejoin the rest of Harald's troops.

The overturned cart did not block the bridge completely: there was a gap between the cart and the bridge's edge barely an arm's span in width, but sufficient to allow a man to pass. In this opening a single Norwegian warrior now took up his stance, facing the enemy. He had a fighting axe in one hand, a heavy sword in the other. Who he was I would never know, but he must have know that his position
was suicidal. He was making it
clear that, single-handed, he would hold the gap until his own side had taken up their battle formation. He challenged the English to come forward and fight him. For a bleak moment I wondered if that lone warrior was not like myself, a forlorn dreamer defying the inevitable.

Still, the English hesitated. Then one of their cavalrymen rode out on to the bridge, his spear poised. But the moment the horse stepped on the loose planks, the animal shied and would go no farther. With an angry wrench of his reins, the cavalryman turned his horse and rode back to solid ground. A second rider attempted the bridge, but his mount also baulked. So it was an English foot soldier who advanced to accept the Norwegian's challenge. Judging by his long coat of mail, the Englishman was one of Harold's professional soldiers, a royal huscarl, and he advanced with a confident step, sword in hand, scorning even to lift his shield. It was his fatal error. He was not yet within reach of the Norwegian when, without warning, his opponent flung his axe. The weapon whirled across the gap and struck the huscarl in the mouth, felling him instantly. With a satisfied whoop the Norwegian ran forward, bent down to retrieve his weapon and, moments later, was running back to take up his position once again. There he clashed his sword and axe together defiantly, daring the next to come forward and fight him.

Three more times an English huscarl accepted the challenge, and each time failed to clear the passage. The Norwegian champion was a master of hand-to-hand fighting. He killed one challenger with a sword thrust through the body, decapitated the second with a swiping back-handed axe blow that seemed to come from nowhere, and deftly tripped up the third attacker who had come close enough to grapple with him, then pushed him over the edge of the bridge into the river below. Each encounter was met with groans or cheers by the two armies watching the spectacle from each side of the river, and for a time it seemed that the Norwegian champion was invincible.