Читать книгу The Conquerors: The Pageant of England - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 8

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Harold Hardrada had come to stay. He had sailed from Norway with a fleet of extraordinary size and a large army. Some reports have it that he took a thousand ships to transport his troops. However, the remnants of the invading force returned to Norway in twenty-three ships, so it may safely be assumed that the chroniclers have been guilty in this instance of one of the gross exaggerations in which all early annals abound. But the gigantic Norseman had brought his wife, a Russian princess to whom he seems to have been much attached, some at least of his many mistresses, a drove of his children, an ingot of gold so large that twelve men were needed to get it on board, his household goods, his wardrobe, all his shining armor and his prized weapons and his bewinged helmets. He intended to remain and to rule over England.

After beating the English earls at Fulford, he established his headquarters near the village of Aldby in what had once been the home of the kings of Northumberland. This, no doubt, he considered the fit habitation for a conqueror. By settling himself here, he allowed his vanity to get the better of his strategic sense. His army had to be assembled loosely nearby along the banks of the Derwent. It was flat country and offered no advantages at all to defenders.

The truth of the matter is that the powerful Norseman had not expected his English namesake so soon. He would have disposed his troops with greater care had he thought he would be attacked here. It is recorded that he was a much surprised man when he saw a cloud of dust on the road from York and realized that the English were coming to Stamfordbridge. He must have known a moment of panic when it came home to him that a large part of his army was with the ships at Riccall and that still more were encamped on the other side of the river. Harold Hardrada sent off messengers to summon the absent troops and then drew up what forces he had in battle array.

In spite of the poor position of the invaders, they looked formidable enough to the tired English as they crossed the river. The viking King had formed his men in the traditional shield wall which made a complete circle. Little was to be seen save the fierce eyes of the Norsemen above the interlocked shields and the dread flag of the King, his standard, the Land-waster, curling and uncurling in the wind above them. Harold Hardrada rode out to inspect his forces, looking very handsome and martial on his huge black horse. It may have been that the weight in the saddle was too much for even so strong a mount. The black steed stumbled, at any rate, and the King pitched forward to the ground.

English Harold, assembling his men for the attack, saw what had happened. He smiled grimly.

“Who is the tall man who fell from his horse?” he asked those about him.

“It is King Harold of Norway.”

The English King, cupping a hand over his eyes, watched his crestfallen enemy return to the Norwegian ranks on foot. “A tall man, and a goodly,” he is reported to have said. “Methinks his luck has left him.”

But the English leader, who was almost as hardheaded and realistic as Duke William, put no reliance in that possibility. Thinking of the Norman army which was being assembled across the channel and the need he had of every English soldier, he made an effort to effect a settlement. A herald was sent forward, accompanied by twenty armed horsemen.

The herald stopped and called, “Where is Tostig, the son of Godwine?”

The traitor, carrying his English battle-ax over his shoulder, stepped out from the ranks. “He is here.”

“Thy brother sends word by my mouth that he salutes thee and offers thee peace, friendship, and thy former honors.”

“Those are fine words,” said Tostig. “But if I accept, what will there be for my ally, the noble King Harold, son of Sigurd?”

“Seven feet of English earth,” answered the herald. “As he is taller than other men, perhaps a little more.”

“Go then,” cried the brother of the English King, “and tell your master to make ready for the battle!”

It is reported further that Harold Hardrada, having recovered from his mishap, searched eagerly for a sight of English Harold. When his quest was rewarded, he remarked with all the condescension of a man of extra inches that “the King of England is a small man.” Then he added with a generous gesture, “He stands well in his stirrups.”

Harold was small only when compared with a man of the stature of the Norse leader. He led the first charge against the shield wall, brandishing his battle-ax. His men followed close after him, shouting eagerly, “The Rood! The Rood!” It was apparent from the first that the advantage was with the English. Men fight their hardest when the feet of invaders press on their native soil. If the Norsemen won, they would ravage England from coast to coast. No man’s life, no woman’s honor, would be safe. The need of the homeland inspired every English thrust, it put edge to the sword and weight to the mace, it sped on the tip of every English arrow.

Harold Hardrada, standing beneath the Land-waster, held the English at bay long after they had broken the shield wall. The hero of a hundred legends, the victor of a thousand fights, he fought his last battle like the God of War himself. Singing the battle songs of the north, his eyes blazing with the madness of conflict, he fought until a mound of his dead surrounded him. No man lived who knew the edge of his terrible two-handed sword. But one man cannot win a battle by himself (the records of chivalry to the contrary) and in time the royal gladiator and troubadour went down, an arrow in his throat. He died with his bloodstained kirtle over his face and so was spared the spectacle of the victorious English breaking through.

The battle still went on. Tostig, who was brave in spite of his faults, commanded after the death of the King and fell in turn by the Land-waster. The reinforcements from the ships arrived under the leadership of a soldier named Eystein Orre, but the battle was lost when they reached the field and all they could do was die as their fallen comrades had done.

Harold Hardrada’s amazing career had ended in the seven feet of earth promised him. Most of his men had died with him. Those who survived made their peace and sailed back to Norway, with their women and their household goods and a small remnant of their pride.

But it had been a costly victory. Five days later, when presiding at a victory banquet in York, Harold received word that the Normans had landed on the south coast. Brandishing a bull in his favor which the Pope had sent, William had proclaimed England his and Harold a perjured thief.

The victor of Stamfordbridge rose from his seat and went out to begin preparations for a second battle. Perhaps, as he thought of his weary and shrunken army, he realized that his two dead foes had won after all. Their adventure had so depleted the English ranks that Harold had small chance now of prevailing against the mounted and superbly equipped forces of Norman William. The mad whim of Harold Hardrada and Tostig, which had cost them their own lives, was to clamp a yoke of steel on the neck of England!