‘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 25th 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.