Blood of Kings, page 19
“SHIELDS!” bellowed Osfrid. He raised his round shield just in time; he stumbled as an arrow slammed into the wooden frame to bounce off harmlessly.
He regained his footing and looked up to see Cearl’s men engage the Norse vanguard. Swords and axes clashed, men from both sides fell, and some fell into the flowing Derwent with a scream.
Osfrid reached the bridge, Acca just behind him the younger man’s shield protecting his flank from the archers who were shooting their arrows with increasing desperation.
The Saxon warriors behind him had formed a shield wall to protect themselves from the hail of missiles raining down upon them.
The wall was proving effective; few Saxons were falling to the deadly maelstrom. Saxon archers unleashed their own volley, the arrows arching overhead and slamming down into the lightly armoured Norsemen. Javelins were thrown by Huscarl’s at the Nordic archers impaling a score on their lethal points. The screams of battle rang out over the previously serene landscape.
The bridge battle had turned into a pushing match between Cearl’s men and the Norse vanguard.
Osfrid swore under his breath, the longer they were held on this side of the bridge the likelihood that Viking reinforcements would arrive grew. He looked up as he saw a behemoth of a Viking in full armour and armed with a massive brutal looking Dane axe cleave his way through Cearl’s men. A half dozen fell in a single mighty blow, Cearl among them. Osfrid cried out as he saw his friend fall into the river, a massive gaping wound almost splitting him in two.
“It’s Thor himself!” muttered Acca in disbelief.
The giant Norseman decapitated two more Saxons and viciously hacked his way through another’s torso. Blood and gore covered Osfrid and his men.
Hunweld moved up next to his son.
“A Berserker, not seen one like him since before you were born lad,” he laughed maniacally. Osfrid looked at his father as though he were mad.
“Fall back!” screamed the lead Saxons. The berserker cut down another handful of men as he menacingly advanced on the panic-stricken front ranks.
“Bugger it all,” Osfrid shouted in frustration. The Saxons retreated across the bridge, the berserker laughing mockingly at their backs.
The Saxon army regrouped on the York side of the river and waited; no-one was willing to face the Nordic monster. Harold rode to the head of the army and appraised the situation. He wheeled his horse to face his men.
“One man holds you all at bay!” he cried. “One Saxon is worth more than one wretched Norseman, which of you has the courage to kill that bastard!” he shouted pointing at the Berserker who was picking dirt from under his fingernails with a bored expression. The man was covered in blood and gore; his long beard stained red with Saxon blood.
“Why not put an arrow through him sire!” shouted one of the Thegns.
Harold glared at the man.
“Shoot him like a coward? Never! We are Saxons; we have honour, he has slain forty of us, will no man prove to those pig fuckers that we are better than they and avenge their comrades deaths!”
Osfrid frowned in annoyance.
“Sod the King's sense of honour. The longer that big bastard holds us here, the longer the Norsemen have to bring in reinforcements,” he muttered.
He turned to face Acca and his father. “We have to get the berserker out of the way.”
He thought for a moment, noticing some of the barrels the Norsemen had been using to fill with water lying on the bank of the river. An idea entered his head.
“Acca, father, you see those barrels on the bank?”
Hunweld nodded.
“Aye I see them, what do you have in mind?”
Osfrid smiled.
“I have a plan.”
*
Time was passing, the sun was close to reaching its apex in the sky, and still the Viking Berserker held the bridge. Three new Saxon corpses lay at his feet. They belonged to men who had challenged him in single combat. Brave but foolish.
The Saxon army’s morale faltered with every kill. Acca looked up from his task as another cheer arose from the Norse shield wall. He winced at the thought of another poor sod being cut in two by the berserker.
“Right lad, get in,” Hunweld said as he held the barrel in the water.
The cold waters were up to his waist. They had found the barrels Osfrid had mentioned and emptied one of its contents.
Acca had stripped off his armour until he only wore a tunic and boots. He clambered into the barrel, wincing as he stood on a splinter.
“This is crazy,” he muttered, taking the spear from Hunweld. The older man laughed pushing the barrel into the centre of the river, its current quickly took the barrel in its grip and sent Acca drifting down stream towards the bridge.
***
34.
“I accept the challenge,” shouted Osfrid as he raised his sword into the air. The Saxons stood next to him clapped him on the back in respect.
“Let the honour of the kill be yours Lord Osfrid,” Harold said, as he watched from his horse.
Osfrid nodded to Velmud who smiled weakly back.
“Don’t worry, this will work. I just have to stay alive long enough for you to signal to Acca. Wish me luck.” Velmud gripped Osfrid’s wrist in brotherhood before slipping down the riverbank to wait for Acca in his barrel.
*
Osfrid walked onto the bridge. His breathing echoing in his ears in the confines of his helmet. The face plate was down; only the Berserker filled his vision. His thoughts drifted to Aerlene; her beautiful face drifted through his thoughts like a spectre.
‘I may be with you very soon my love,’ he whispered. The thought did not fill him with sorrow but with a calm acceptance. She was waiting for him.
He held his sword in front of him, and his shield tucked high under his chin. Cautiously he advanced. The Berserker stood with a keen expression on his blood-soaked features, the man was eager to kill more Saxons. Osfrid would not give him the chance.
He roared a challenge and darted forwards with a speed that took the Norseman off guard. His dragon sword flashed upwards slicing into the Berserkers unprotected flesh. Blood spurted from the wound, but the big man was quick too, throwing his body forwards and forcing the blade of the sword to skim off his body. Osfrid spun raising his shield and battered the Norseman in the face staggering him.
At once the Berserker regained his footing and gripped the edge of Osfrid’s shield wrenching it with all his might. Osfrid bellowed out in pain as the shield’s straps snapped under the force, crushing his arm.
The berserker barked a laugh as the shield fell free leaving Osfrid exposed on his left flank. The Berserker threw the shield away over the bridge, swinging his mighty axe over his head and bringing it down at Osfrid’s head. The Saxon army watched the two skilled warriors in intense silence praying that their man would win the day.
Desperately, Osfrid dodged deflecting the axe head with his sword, parrying a series of blows that rained down upon him. Sweat poured into his eyes, and his arm ached in pain, he couldn’t take much more before the berserker added him to the pile of Saxon dead.
Osfrid countered savagely knocking the axe aside and butted the Norseman in the face with his helmeted head. The berserker roared in pain staggering backwards.
‘I need to get him into the centre of the bridge’ it was now or never.
Osfrid rained a series of frantic blows with his sword forcing the big man back several steps. He overreached one of his attacks, and the Berserker deflected the sword causing Osfrid to stagger forwards and crash to the deck. The berserker brought the hilt of his axe smashing down onto Osfrid’s back, his armour the only thing saving him from suffering a broken spine. He collapsed to the floor of the bridge. The Norseman forced his head down onto the surface of the bridge with his foot; axe held high to deliver the killer blow. Osfrid could see the waters of the Derwent flowing slowly by through the cracks in the Bridges wooden planks.
It was then that Osfrid heard the high-pitched whistle from the side of the bridge. ‘Velmud!’
Through the gaps he saw a barrel drift into view, he closed his eyes waiting for the axe to fall onto his skull. It never came.
A gargled scream came from above him; he looked up and saw the berserker stood with his axe high in the air, a look of stunned disbelief on his face, blood spurting from his mouth, a spear sticking into his groin from underneath the bridge.
The Berserker gave out a gargled roar of disbelief before collapsing to the deck of the bridge. The Saxons roared in delight; the Norsemen shouted their disgust.
Osfrid staggered to his feet, raised his sword in victory and charged headlong across the bridge. He picked up a shield from one of his brave dead companions as he ran. The Saxon army right behind him.
The battle of Stamford Bridge had begun.
***
35.
September 25th, 1066
Stamford Bridge
Osfrid crouched behind his shield as he crossed the bridge and deflected a javelin hurled by one of the Norse warriors rushing to meet him. At his back roared ten thousand angry Saxons who were pouring over the bridge. Blood lust was in their hearts. He peeked over the rim of the shield and could see that the Norse shieldwall had formed into a wide circle. Their flanks would be protected, but the sheer weight of numbers favoured the Saxons.
The two armies crashed together in a deafening crescendo of shouts, crashing wood and metal. Screams quickly followed as the furious hand-to-hand fighting grew more savage.
Osfrid was in the thick of the fighting. Already his sword was dented and covered in blood. His armour had been scratched and battered, but he didn’t care, all he saw was his foes. His blade snuffing out their lives with every brutal thrust. At his back, Acca and Hunweld fought just as vengefully. Thoughts of Aerlene and the devastation of Driffield fuelling their rage.
Huscarl battled Berserker, sword clashed with sword, axe against axe, the most skilled and ferocious warriors in the world clashed in mortal combat. Scores fell from both sides, but the Saxons were gaining the upper hand. The Norse shieldwall was beginning to weaken as wave after wave of Saxons charged the line.
Time and again, the Vikings held their ground their war axes cutting down their attackers. They knew they were outnumbered fighting ever more desperately as Harold’s men fought their way through the Norse lines.
Osfrid roared as he thrust his sword through the throat of a berserker. The man’s lifeless corpse collapsing at his feet. Without their armour, the Norsemen were proving easy pickings. To his left stood Hunweld and Velmud. They fought back to back, gods of war both them.
The two Varangians fought with an unsurpassed skill and majestic brutality. Velmud’s axe decapitated a shrieking Norseman; Hunweld’s cleaved another almost in two. Blood soaked them all from head to toe. A roar spread through the Saxon Ranks as their King joined them in battle. Harold had shed his cloak and now wore a suit of mail, his sword already stained with an enemy’s blood. With their King alongside them, the Saxons picked up the pace of their butchery. The Derwent flowed red with blood. The once scenic spot had become a slaughterhouse with no respite in sight.
Acca cried out as the Norse shield wall was breached. He threw down his broken long sword and drew the short stabbing bade of the Sax. He dove into the gap thrusting left and right with the smaller blade punching deep into the sides of the two Norsemen on either side of the breach widening the gap further to allow more Saxon warriors to pile in behind him.
Victory was close.
A horn call resonated over the battlefield; with a roar Harald Hardrada the King of the Vikings charged the Saxons desperate to close the shield wall once more. His standard Land Ravager stood defiantly in the ground with berserkers standing at its base daring anyone to try and topple the flag.
Hardrada raised his axe high in the air in defiance. Again, and again, the Saxons charged the Norse line but were repulsed each time. Hardrada’s skill in warfare encouraged his men to desperate feats of skill and bravery. Even without their armour, the Norsemen fought with a determined savagery.
Hardrada opened his mouth to bellow at his men, to encourage them, to rally them to one more push, but words never left the Kings mouth. An arrow shot from a Saxon archer on the other side of the river struck the King in his windpipe. Acca shouted insults at the falling body of the man who had once been a Varangian, a mighty feared warrior, now just a sack of meat crashing to the ground.
The Viking King was dead.
***
36.
Hardrada’s corpse lay at the base of Land Ravager its defenders standing stunned at the sight of their dead King. The fighting slowed until an eerie calm descended over the scene of slaughter. The Norsemen stood in confusion, with their King dead they no longer had anyone to command them.
King Harold lowered his sword; “Surrender!” he shouted at his foes. The Norsemen hesitated; some lowered their weapons, whilst others took the opportunity to flee, but most stayed uncertainty in their eyes.
“There will be no surrender... brother,” Tostig stood defiantly next to Land Ravager, his Flemish mercenaries at his back growled in agreement. His red hair was matted with sweat and blood, his armour was dented, but still, he stood his ground.
As soon as the words sunk in the Norseman screamed their defiance, the battle resumed. Once more screams filled the air and the deafening sounds of clashing metal resonated across the river.
Osfrid stared at Tostig. All thoughts of the battle were now gone his sole purpose for existing now was to impale the man who ordered his wife and daughters kidnapping, his wife’s murder onto the end of his sword.
He advanced through the battlefield like a man possessed. Any Norseman who got in his way, he cut down without a second thought. At his back were Hunweld and Acca. The two men fought desperately to keep up with him.
Osfrid hacked his way through the Flemish mercenaries, his sword getting stuck in the guts of one of the screaming foreigners. Viciously he yanked the blade out of the mewling man spilling his innards onto the ground. The horror of it all, no longer mattered to him, all he could see before him was Tostig, his wife’s face and vengeance.
“Tostig,” he roared over the din.
Tostig spun to face him his eyes growing wide at the sight of his blood-soaked enemy.
“I swear to God that you will pay for your crimes! You murdered my friends, ordered the kidnapping of my family; your man murdered my wife!”
Tostig barked an order at his men to give them room. The mercenaries formed a small shield wall to hold off any interference.
Osfrid barked a humourless laugh.
“You would face me?”
Tostig smiled wickedly.
“Look around you Osfrid. Everything you know and love will end! If not today by my hand then it will by the Normans. My brothers will all die one way or another. This land will burn, and our people will be snuffed out like the flame of a candle.”
Osfrid pointed his sword at Tostig.
“You speak of our doom as though we are all cowards. We will fight; we will never be conquered by the likes of you,” he growled.
The two men circled one another waiting for a chance to strike.
“Osfrid the Unconquerable, how amusing,” Tostig scoffed. “Handel took great pleasure in raping your whore’s corpse. I took your wife, your children and now I will take your miserable life”.
“I will not stop until you are in hell!”
Osfrid swung his sword in a vicious cut. Tostig dodged under the swing, countering with his own blade and forcing Osfrid to take a step back.
The two men were skilled swordsmen, and now both unleashed that skill upon the other. The swords clashed and parried. Osfrid’s eyes never left his foes. Calmness had descended on him as he fought. Visions of Aerlene filled his soul with determination.
‘You must win for our children’
He feinted a thrust at Tostig’s throat. As his enemy raised his blade to block the strike, Osfrid rotated his wrist reversing the move, and stabbed his blade deep into Tostig’s chest.
Blood sprayed from the wound forcing the red-haired man to fall to the ground in agony. His chainmail had prevented the dented Dragon blade from puncturing deeply. Osfrid stood over his wife’s murderer his blade pointed at his throat. Tostig gasped for breath.
“I will never be conquered. Vengeance is mine. For Aerlene,” he whispered as he thrust his blade down into Tostig’s throat.
The blade sunk through bone and gristle. Tostig weakly pawed at Osfrid until he stopped moving. He was dead and screaming his way to hell.
An immense weariness overwhelmed Osfrid as he slumped to his knees. He rested his head on the hilt of his sword. He stared into the dead eyes of his enemy and sobbed. Emotion consumed him as he watched his wife’s killer die. Around him, the Flemish mercenaries fled. Most were cut down or drowned in the Derwent’s flowing waters.
Victory was theirs.
Osfrid lifted off his helmet and took in the carnage around him. Thousands lay dead or dying in the dust and dirt, blood covered the grass, and mangled men were wandering in a daze through the chaos.
The battle had moved deeper into the woods. The sounds of vicious fighting could still be heard.
‘No doubt Acca and Hunweld were in the thick of it.’
He slumped back onto his heels and stared up at the bright blue sky. The sun shone hotly onto his exhausted face.
As Osfrid sat on the grass, he was unaware of the man sneaking up behind him.
Handel had watched his master’s death. He had been at his master’s side throughout the early stages of the battle, but upon seeing Osfrid, he had skulked to the rear of the lines, waiting for an opportunity. The warrior was alone, and now he would die. He drew his knife and prepared to strike.
***
