And the Rest Is History(55)

He was unmoveable. The man was truly a hero, and today no one can even remember his name.

The forty men might have been an exaggeration, but not by much. The bridge was awash with blood which dripped into the river beneath. Ribbons of red trailed downstream. I don’t know how long he could or would have lasted, but further upstream, an enterprising Saxon had climbed into half a barrel and, armed to the teeth, was floating downstream. We zoomed in on him being borne downstream, his spear ready in his grasp, and with two or three spares ready to hand. He had no shield with which to defend himself. The barrel was swirling madly in the current, uncontrollable. Its occupant could only hang on with his other hand and hope and pray he arrived at the right place at the right time.

It was hard to see how he could be a threat, but a group of Harold’s men, seeing what he was doing, hurled themselves on what would turn out to be a suicide mission, engaging the Viking for as long as they could, sacrificing themselves to push him back across the bridge into the path of the oncoming barrel. He tore into them, but for every one that fell, another stepped up to take his place, and while the Viking was concentrating on the enemies before him, the soldier in the barrel reached his destination. Holding fast to the bridge with one hand, he stabbed upwards through the planking with the other. Once, twice, three times. He must have caught the Viking in the groin because a great gout of blood spurted into the faces of his attackers. Still he stood, however, and the soldier was forced to use a second and then a third spear. Still roaring, the giant yanked them out and fell to his knees. Panting Saxons stood back and watched as slowly, he slipped sideways into the water. Trailing ribbons of his own blood, he floated slowly away. Out of sight and out of History.

Roaring their triumph, the Saxon army streamed across the bloody bridge, took a moment to form their line, and advanced.

Hardrada had arranged his forces in some semblance of order, ready to receive them, but only just in time. Their long front line ranged from north to south. It had to be as long as they could make it so that the Saxons couldn’t get around them, but they were stretched very thin. Too thin in places, it seemed to me. And not every fighter had a shield.

The two armies faced each other, ready to begin. A horn sounded. And again. Both sides seemed to pause.

‘A parley?’ said Sykes in disbelief.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Bashford in excitement. ‘This must be where Godwinson tries to negotiate a deal with Tostig. And when Hardrada demands a piece of England for himself, Godwinson offers him seven feet of earth. Because he’s tall. My God – that could actually have happened.’

Well, maybe it did and maybe it didn’t – we had no way of knowing, but a parley was definitely taking place. It lasted only a few minutes – just long enough for an offer to be made and rejected. Both sides moved away from each other, and without waiting another minute, Godwinson advanced his men.

Still the sun beat down. The heat was almost unbearable and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky to give either side any respite.

They went at each other like madmen. Both sides incurred heavy casualties, but the unarmoured Vikings were faring worse. Much worse. In a desperate effort to shore up his weakened shield wall, Harald Hardrada was moving groups of men from one point to another, but his men were falling faster than he could replace them.

Time passed – the sun wheeled across the sky. Hardrada must have been growing more desperate by the minute but there was still no sign of reinforcements. His line was ragged, his men exhausted.

And then…

‘Listen,’ said Atherton suddenly, and turned up the volume. We could hear horns blowing in the distance, faint but clear. ‘Eystein Orri is here.’

Weary Vikings raised their heads and even managed a ragged cheer. Their own horns rang out in reply. As if in answer, a group of men breasted the hill, paused for a moment, silhouetted against the pitiless blue sky, and then swept down towards the battle.

There weren’t anything like as many as Hardrada could have anticipated. If he had hoped for three thousand fully armed warriors ready to get stuck in then he was to be bitterly disappointed. I wondered how many had fallen by the wayside. Their exhaustion was apparent to everyone. Any hope they might have brought to the beleaguered Vikings was short-lived. The reinforcements were as fatigued as those they were relieving. They’d run more than ten miles, not only in full armour themselves, but carrying spare gear for their comrades. Many had died of heat exhaustion before even reaching the battlefield. Godwinson’s army, realising the newcomers were not likely to be a big threat to them, regrouped for a fresh attack.

The Saxons weren’t big on archers. They relied mainly on their shield wall and their sword arms, but Godwinson took advantage of the lull to bring up the few he had. A hail of arrows darkened the sky. And then another. And another.

We knew Hardrada would be killed by an arrow in the throat. He would die in seconds.

I said to North, ‘Make sure you don’t miss it,’

‘I won’t,’ she said shortly, so I left her to get on with it.

I didn’t see it myself – I was focussing on another part of the battle, but we heard the roar that went up from both sides, announcing his death.

Even then the Vikings didn’t give up. I could see Eystein Orri desperately trying to hold their forces together. Horns sounded again and, abandoning the wavering shield wall, he grouped his men into a solid mass, weapons bristling outwards, still formidable foes.