And the Rest Is History(56)

This stand is known in song as ‘Orri’s Storm’, and they held for a while, beating back the Saxons time after time, but slowly and surely, as the sun began to drop in the sky, the Vikings were whittled away. The final straw was when, surrounded by half a dozen roaring Saxons, Tostig himself went down, bringing Hardrada’s raven banner down with him. The Saxons closed in and that was the end. Leaderless, the Vikings scattered in every direction. Some would be chased all the way back to their ships at Riccall.

For the Vikings, the day had been so disastrous that of the three hundred ships that had brought them here, only twenty-four were needed to take the survivors home.

Of those fleeing the field, some ran uphill towards us, seeking refuge in the woods. Time for us to go, too.

I said, ‘Start shutting things down, Mr Clerk, and let’s go home.’

‘Copy that,’ he said, and he and North busied themselves at the console. Sykes and Atherton began to clear things away into the lockers.

I said, ‘Everyone ready?’ but before we could initiate the jump, a group of blood-splattered Vikings crashed through the undergrowth, closely followed by some half dozen Saxons, their swords and axes raised. They were seeking out the enemy, driving the exhausted men before them, mercilessly pursuing the final remnants of Hardrada’s army.

With nowhere to go, the Vikings turned at bay, to make a stand. They were hacked down, one by one until, eventually, not one was left standing. The shouts and screams died away and only a handful of victorious Saxons remained, leaning on their swords, panting, surrounded by the wounded, dead, and dying.

I stared thoughtfully at the screen, wondering what to do next. We were still well concealed and even if someone should come across us, there was no way they could get in. We could risk a jump, but there were people all around us. There was a very real possibility they’d get sucked into the vacuum of our leaving. We have a safety line in Hawking for a reason.

‘We’ll stay a while,’ I said. ‘Let’s see what happens next.’

All around the little glade, the green grass had turned red with blood. I wondered how long the wounded would be left here and the answer was – not very long at all. The standard of medical care depended upon whose side you were on. Saxons who could walk were helped to their feet and taken away. Those who couldn’t were carried on makeshift litters made of cloaks and spears.

Those who weren’t Saxons were despatched on the spot. Even a young lad who couldn’t have been much more than fourteen or fifteen. He wasn’t that badly hurt, but a wound in his leg prevented him running away. He saw his death approaching and began to cry. A blank-faced Saxon stood over him, said a few words – perhaps in consolation, or perhaps a prayer to the gods. The boy’s final shriek was cut short. He spasmed once and then lay still.

And once again, we were watching people die. Real people. It’s what we do. We wrap it up in all sorts of fancy phrases – investigating major historical events in contemporary time is our favourite, but, basically, we watch people die. We sell it to ourselves on the grounds they would have died anyway. That our being here makes very little difference – or shouldn’t do. That in our time they’ve been dead for x-hundred years. That it’s always important to have an accurate record of what really happened. Before those who write History – nearly always the victors – put their own particular spin on events. And all that’s good, I know it is. But not when you’re watching a young man, a boy even, white faced, teeth clenched in agony, curled around a mortal wound and watching his own life’s blood pump into the thirsty earth on a lovely summer’s day, as the birds sing in the trees around him.

It takes a hell of a lot of getting used to. I haven’t managed it yet. And actually, would that be a good thing? Do I want to be able to watch, dispassionately, as another life departs this world? I don’t think I do. So I suppose I just have to put up with it.

I was putting up with it now.

Sykes drew in her breath with a hiss. I put a hand on her shoulder and said, ‘Keep filming.’

She did, and it was worth it. Because someone shouted suddenly and, before we realised what was happening, Harold Godwinson himself strode through the trees.

We knew it was him, because he was preceded by his personal banner, the Fighting Man. He’d discarded his mail and wore only a sweaty and bloodstained tunic. His legs were bare and his hair dark with sweat. He stood in the centre of the glade, hands on his hips, staring about him. As far as I could see, he appeared unscathed. His mouth set in a grim line as he surveyed the two piles of dead bodies – Vikings on the far side of the clearing, and the Saxons, neatly laid out on the other.

North was nearly falling over herself trying to get all the cameras focused on him.

‘He looks older,’ said Bashford, zooming in.

‘He looks ill,’ said North.

I agreed. And I could hazard a guess as to the cause. Whatever brave face he was putting on for England, in his heart, Harold was a perjured man – an oath-breaker – and he knew it. It wasn’t sitting easily on his conscience.

Kings are not supposed to have a conscience. It’s not a luxury they could afford. Medieval kings had two simple tasks. To safeguard the realm and to ensure the succession. Nothing complicated, but failure to do one or both usually resulted in catastrophe.

The very unwar-like Edward II lost humiliatingly to the Scots at Bannockburn and was only just able to force himself to father an heir. He ended his days supposedly impaled upon a red-hot poker.