Conquest

Harold took a deep breath, thanked the messenger and turned to address the Council. As he spoke, he mostly looked to Hereward for reassurance, especially as he was about to abandon the central tenet of his carefully planned summer strategy.

‘Command your constables to bring horses; we ride to the North immediately. I will take only the fifteen hundred men currently under arms and as many as I can gather on the way. We will revert to the cavalry tactics of my campaigns in Wales and cut down the Norwegians before they know we are among them. We must be there by the twenty-fourth. My brother Gyrth will ride with me, as will the Captain of my Hearthtroop, Hereward of Bourne. Go! Go quickly!’

The Saxon military machine sprang to life with remarkable efficiency. Almost 800 horses were in Oxford within twenty-four hours. A thousand more were gathered on the way north, to put a force of almost 2,000 men in the saddle by the time the Saxon army mustered at Tadcaster at midday on Sunday 24 September. It was a small force, significantly outnumbered by the Norwegians, but they were England’s finest, the embodiment of 200 years of Saxon military tradition.

Harold’s force had covered a huge distance in just three days. No other army in the world could have been assembled with such speed, covered such ground and been in such prime condition to fight. The months of training had paid off handsomely.

Harold called for mass to be celebrated and, as the shadows lengthened from a setting sun at the end of a fine English day, he addressed his men from horseback. Hereward watched from afar as the King spoke, but could clearly see the Talisman around his neck. He felt relieved that his long journey seemed to have had a purpose after all.

As Harold’s voice rose, so did the hearts of every man there. His horse circled and stomped its feet, its gyrations adding emphasis to his message. He sat tall in his saddle, looking every inch a king in England’s gravest hour.

‘Tomorrow we ride into battle. There will be no shield wall to protect us; our defence will be our speed and our guile. If there is a pitched battle, we will engage at pace and withdraw quickly to regroup and strike again. Those of you who have served with me for many years will remember our campaigns in Wales. Surprise will be the key to our victory. Tomorrow we will annihilate the Norwegians, who threaten our families and our future. The chronicles will tell of the day for generations to come. Fight for England! Fight to protect our Saxon blood! Long live our cherished people!’

Beyond the King and his army, the sun was setting behind the trees of the forest, its leaves the vibrant colours of an English autumn.

Hereward looked at Einar, Martin and Alphonso, who had just arrived from Glastonbury.

‘Tomorrow we stay close to the King.’

At that moment, Hereward’s pride in his homeland knew no bounds.

A pivotal chapter in the history of England was about to be written, and these men would determine the outcome.

16. Hardrada

The morning of 25 September dawned bright and clear. The meadows were dank from heavy dew as the rising sun drew swirls of mist from rivers and streams made cool by the chill of night. A warm day beckoned.

Hardrada had been uncharacteristically careless. That morning, buoyed by his reception at York, confident from his comfortable victory over the forces of Edwin and Morcar and feeling certain that King Harold’s army could not be within 100 miles of him, he was in a complacent mood. He had made camp at a small bridge on a tributary of the Great Ouse and was overseeing the taking of hostages from the people of Northumbria. The crossing was called Stamford Bridge, on the River Derwent, a few miles due east of York.

The Norwegians had spent the days since their victory filling their ships with the spoils of war and celebrating their success; they were in no state to fight an elite force of Saxon housecarls. Hardrada had advanced from his main camp to Stamford Bridge with only about a third of his force, perhaps 5,000 men. More significantly, he had allowed them to leave behind their mail coats, shields, helmets and spears. They carried only their swords and axes and their only protection was their leather jerkins.

It was a bedraggled body of men.

Harold’s army could not have offered more of a contrast. It had left Tadcaster under darkness and in barely three hours was in York, where the locals were shocked to see a Saxon army enter their city so quickly after the defeat at Gate Fulford.