And the Rest Is History(54)

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.