One hundred and sixty-eight miles as the crow flies had to be covered by the young messenger. Fortunately, the roads were dry and his horse had good footing. He had letters of credit to cover the exchange of horses at wayside inns. He could push his pony until it dropped, but he preferred to change horses every ten to fifteen miles. It depended on the steed he rode, but he felt he could average ten miles per hour. Sixteen horses in sixteen hours- a Herculean feat for a skinny youth.

He leapt astride his pony at ten a.m. and sped south in a whorl of dust. The pony was ready to run with its tail streaming at the speed. By Selby the horse was finished. The thane of Selby provided the second mount. Beyond Carlton with no inn in sight he stole a horse from the farmer’s field and left his jaded mare. It carried him on to Doncaster where another deal was consummated. Bawtry, Retford, a river crossing gave him another inn to exchange his gelding. It was a long ride to Newark on Trent and a barren road to Grantham.

“Innkeeper, I’ve a message for the king. The Vikings have landed. I need another horse. I have letters of credit from the Earl of Northumbria.”

“Too bad! I’m not taking that beast. You’ve ridden the life out of it. Bugger off!”

The lad looked surprised, but his mood changed rapidly to dismay—then anger. He knew his job.

“Listen, you asshole nothingness, I’ll bugger you with this sword if I haven’t a decent horse in five minutes! Do you understand that? Here is a letter of credit for one horse. Now let’s see what you have.”

He came away with a sleek black stallion full of devilment. Colsterworth, Stamford, Mansford, Stilton, Brampton, Eaton, Baldock, Stevenage, Hatfield, Harrow and on to the city of London. Once he had the trading method he had no more trouble with reluctant horse traders. There had been a physical let down after Grantham. After eight hours in the saddle his mind began to drift. Daydreams and finally sleep overcame him. One tumble out of the saddle was enough. He was determined to stay awake. Besides, his shoulder throbbed from his collision with the packed road. He thought he might have broken a bone and he likely had. He douse his head every time his steed stopped to drink. The rivulets of water ran off his hair and soaked his jerkin and shift. It dripped from his juvenile beard and the icy water revived him.

Subsequently, on the outskirts of North London at two am he was challenged by the watch.

“Who goes there?”

“Messenger.” and with the realization he had ridden the one hundred and sixty miles he relaxed and tumbled once again from his horse. The house carls gathered him up and noted his sealed dispatch case. It carried the mark of the Earl and none would take the liberty of opening it. They doused the lad again with water and one slapped his face a few times to open his conscious mind.

“Wake up, Boy! Wake up! What are you doing here? Do you hear me? Open your eyes.”

They finally roused him. “I’ve a message from York for the King. Vikings have landed.”

“Oh shit! Corporal, get a cart and take this sorry bugger to the captain. He’ll not ride anymore tonight. He’s chafed raw from knee to waist.”

The boy was passed from command to command and with some sleep eventually reached the king’s palace on Thorny Island near six am.

“I’ll not wake the King for any message from York!” John the valet was adamant.

“John, I will take your shiny bald head and ram it through the King’s bedroom door if you haven’t moved by the time I have raised all my fingers.”

“I can’t let you go in. He has been confined to his bed with terrible pains in his legs.”

“Guards, remove this ass!” Two house carls grasp John by the bicep and suspended him kicking above the stone floor.

“Put me down you bloody apes! I’ll have your balls for this!” So, they gave him something as one carl rapped him with the heavy hilt of his dagger. John was quieted. There was now a roaring behind the door and Wolf, the butler, swung it open.

“Why am I disturbed? Ever loving Jesus am I supposed to suffer the pain in this leg and fools gladly. What is this melee?” The group now through the door, prodded the youth forward.

“I have an urgent message, Sire, from York. The Vikings have torched Scarborough and massacred the inhabitants. It is estimated they have four thousand men at arms. As I rode south I chanced to see their Dragon Ships on the Ouse River—hundreds of them.”

“And?”

“Sire, the thanes believe it is more than a raid. They think it is an invasion.”

“Holy Mother of God! Am I to see no peace? Wolf! help me out of this damn bed!”

“Sire!”

“Thank you, Boy. What are you waiting for Captain. Get you carls ready to travel. We must go and save York, again.”

“When Sire?”

“Today, you damn fool! Do your want Vikings burning down London? Ouch! Watch my leg you awkward ass!”

“Sorry, my Lord,” squirmed John as he laid out the clothes he expected King Harold to wear.

“John, I’m going to war, not the King’s gala! Now, hurry it up. I have things to do before I depart. Three hours, Captain, three hours.”

“Yes Sire.” .He scooted out the door and was already bellowing in the hall, shouting orders to the palace guard of the house carls. They became animate. London became a hive. Carls just returned from months in the field on the south coast were starting to relax when the call to arms returned them to the soldier’s irony- Peace is only attained by war. Gear was stowed, ponies saddled, weapons sharpened, food packed and the ways were filled with galloping horses and running men following the strands of the web to central London. Harold, King of England called and the standing army responded. Brothers, earls, captains, sergeants were ordered like a deck of cards. The king caught his captain’s arm. “Merlin, your best riders; raise the fyrd ahead of our rabble and prod them on to York.”

So, he raised his arms for quiet and the hubbub died away. Even the animals stilled as the King spoke. “Men of England, my right arm, I call upon you again. Those murdering thieves from Norway have struck the defenseless citizens of Scarborough, burning them in their beds, raping and torturing, hacking our people to pieces. We will make those bastards pay with their blood! Once again they will face the English axe and once again we will drive them into the North Sea!!”

The carls responded, “Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!”

“We must scorch the north road. It must burn with our passing. Hardrada, the hard-head, couldn’t capture Denmark. How much chance has he with England??”

“None!” the carls answered in one voice.

“To horse my Avengers and follow me!”

“Hurrah! Hurrah!” and chaos permeated the square. It was short lived as vile-tempered sergeants drove them into order. The unmounted took up the rear ready to run the 160 miles to York if necessary. Retribution was on its way. Harold set the speed; they had to fight when they got there. He computed the time—thirty-two miles per day for 5 days. They could do that and still be battle ready?

Leofwine and his captains had roused the blood of the fyrd, the army in reserve. They joined at every cross-road sometimes four, sometimes forty. The caterpillar that was a mobile force lengthened and strengthened the English resolve. Foragers had no problem amassing food for the passing army. The word was out, “Vikings!”. Everyone knew these demons. “You get to sleep or the Vikings will get you!” was parent’s admonition. The shores of England must be inviolate. Eight hours marched by and three thousand became four thousand. The first day had been hell and Harold dragged them along unfeelingly.

They made camp too tired to eat, too tired to chew, but they salved their hunger pangs and rolled in their robes against the frosty September damp. But for the posted sentries and the stamp of the horses hooves a grim quiet settled over the prostrate army. The King’s pavilion was lighted by two torches.

“Why would crazy Harald attack now?”

“Well, Brother, he has been rebuffed at every turn in Denmark, he has a restless army, he saw an opportunity, and he wants the throne of England.”

“But Sire, the North Sea is a graveyard of ships in winter!”

“Leofwine, he doesn’t intend to go home. He has his ships safely in the Humber/Ouse rivers free of North Sea assault. Regardless, why is not important; he’s here accompanied by our brother, that traitorous bastard, Tostig, I opine. We need news from York, numbers, positions.”

Planning continued, tentatively. Another eight hours trudged by and four thousand became five thousand. A few in fatigue fell by the wayside, but the main force completed their thirty-two miles. They were ready to eat on day two. They were ravenous trying to restore the misuse of their bodies. Again quiet descended and the King’s torches still burned.

Another eight hours stepped in cadence and the five thousand became six thousand. The army was stronger, more accustomed to the way of the road. Blisters, bunions, twisted ankles took their toll of the marchers and ponies became lame. On they marched better than halfway to the battlefield. A lone rider galloped into the camp. At last, they had some news.

“Sire, news from York!”

“Go ahead, Man. What news?”

“My Lord, York has fallen! The Earls Morcar and Edwin are dead or have fled. Norway himself had demanded five hundred hostages be delivered to him to ensure the lords of the north will support his conquest of England.”

“He is in York?”

“No, Sire, he entered the city, but retreated to his ships.”

“Strange! He has his hostages?”

“No, Sire, they are to be delivered at Stamford Bridge September twenty-fifth.

“I wonder if we would be welcome at that party? Come Gentlemen, we must discuss this. See this man fed and cared for.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Well, well, a message from the good burghers of York I expect. Tostig speak to them. I never could get my tongue around those Saxon words.”

“Speak, Man.”

“Sire and Lords of Norway, the mayor and burghers of York have raped the town and country-side for hostages. They will be presented tomorrow as you wished.”

Tostig translated.

“Ask him where your supporters are, Tostig,” Harald taunted.

Tostig flared and his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. He contained himself.

“When and where Tostig? When and where?”

Tostig clenched his fists, but did as he was bid.

“Ten o’clock, Sire. You may determine the place.”

“What in hell do I know? Here or there? You set it up.”

“I would like the exchange at Stamford Bridge, Sire. That’s where my brother drove me from my

inheritance. It is only ironically fitting.”

“Good enough. King Harald of England and Norway will accept the hostages at ten o’clock at Stamford Bridge.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Tomorrow, Olav, my son, you and the Orkney lads will remain with the ships. We can’t afford the English any tricks by leaving our transportation unguarded. We will leave you the ship captains, the men of the Orkneys and the units from Oslo. We don’t expect an attack, but I’ll not be caught unawares. The other two thirds will go with Tostig and I.”

“Yes, Sire, Full gear?”

“How far is it, Tostig?”

“Ten miles, Sire.”

“The weather looks too fine and too warm to march in full gear. Weapons yes; armor nooo!”

With half of England now under the banner or Norway and York properly cowed, a light-hearted Viking army set off from Riccall for Stamford Bridge. With five hundred hostages in Viking hands England would be forced to compromise. The Norwegian army would be free to do as they pleased. They had won the war and deserved the spoils. Loot was all part of the game. They settled in to await their prizes—five hundred solid citizens of York. An advanced scout ran back to the Norse camp.

“King Harald, an army approaches!’

“Yes, it is the five hundred hostages and the council from York.”

“No, my Lord, it’s an army!”

The dust from the hill-hidden force was now evident. It was certainly more than five hundred men. The weapons glinted in the morning sun as they crested the hill, three thousand house carls and five thousand men of the fyrd were making a determined march from York.

“Who are they, Tostig?”

“It is likely the thanes come to pay homage to their new king and the Earl of York.”

“Horse shit, you Fool! This is a force to be reckoned with! It must be England himself. What will we do?”

“Sire, let us retreat to the ships to retrieve our armor and the rest of our men.”

“No! send three men by horse to bring our army here. We have a natural barrier for them to cross. If we turn tail and run, the English horsemen will cut us down from behind.” Harald falsely believed the English fought from horseback like the knights of the continent. Tostig didn’t correct him.

Three horsemen were already beating a hasty retreat to the Norse ships.

Harold of England halted his army on the east side of the Derwent River. He rode to the fore and called to the Norse army. “Is Tostig, Earl of Northumbria, in your midst?” He was answered by hoots, catcalls and whistles. However, Tostig stepped forward.

“Hail Tostig, your brother offers you greetings—peace--and the earldom of Northumbria rather than war.”

“How is it he could not offer these things a year ago? Could he have been mistaken? Does he accept the lives that have been lost as a consequence? What of the striplings Morcar and Edwin?”

“Forget them, for Earl Morcar and Earl Edwin are no more.”

“And what will Harold of England give his brother King Harald of Norway.”

“King Harold of England could spare six feet of English earth. Six foot down and six foot in length or a little longer as he seems a tall man.”

The English within earshot were amused at the king’s wit—the Norse not at all. They recognized the laughter and bristled. Tostig’s nostrils flared, but he maintained control.

“Then tell King Harold I refuse his greetings, his peace, and the shire of Northumbria. I’ll stay by my friends and win England by war.”

Harold of England saluted his brother with his sword and returned to his army.

“Tostig, who was that?” questioned Harald.

“The King.”

“By all the gods, why didn’t you say so? We could have had him.”

“Yes, but that is not my way.”

Harold of England wasted not a moment. He returned to his own lines that were quietly spreading across the face of the Viking troops. The horses were taken to the rear. They were a means of transportation not articles of war. Harold of England was the only one mounted. All English eyes were on him. He raised his sword above his head at arm’s length. He paused in the ensuing quiet. A few sparrows, good English sparrows, could be heard chirping in the stillness. A crow cawed as if a sign and the sword was thrust toward the Vikings.

“Charge!”

English axe, English spear, English sword and English cudgel sprang into life. Animation loosed the tongues. Stomach-twisting blood curdling bellows erupted and the sparrows took flight. The Saxons rushed headlong into the hell of battle and the arms of death. This was not the art of war from a textbook on strategy. This was hand-to-hand man-on-man combat, although it was best to have a mate to protect your back. The Vikings gave not an inch. The opposing forces clashed as the driving force met the immovable object. Chaos was east of the Derwent in axes and swords, in limbs and blood, in shouts and screams with the quick and the dead. By shear force of numbers, their armored bodies and their determination to save their homeland, the English became the quick on the east bank while the Norse became the dead ,or retreated over Stamford bridge.

“Hold that bridge until our reserves from the ships arrive!”

“Yes, Sire.”

The captain selected Olav, the giant, and he chose a dozen of the fiercest fighters in the Viking army—thirteen men to conquer England. There was no need to explain. “Hold that bridge!” It was hold the bridge or die. The English countered with their strongest. The twelve repelled them. Again and again they rushed the defensive twelve. The bodies became a wall.

“Sire,” pleaded Tostig, “Burn the bridge!”

“No! Our reserves will dispel these English turds!” yelled Norway.

“What must we do, King Harold?”

England stroked his chin. “Leofwine, I am at my wit’s end. We can’t clear the bottle-neck at the bridge; the cork is too stout. We can’t cross the river without hundreds of boats and a great loss of men. We can’t leave to find another bridge or the Vikings will flood back to the west bank. We can’t afford to wait; our informants say the Viking reserves are on the way. If we could only find the corkscrew. If we could only get behind them.”

A young lad brightened. “We could get under them.” That brought some loud guffaws. The boy reddened and began to sweat, but bravely continued. “I know that bridge. It has an open deck—the planking has gaps. If we got under them---“

Harold saw the possibility. “Their archers would kill anyone on the river in a boat.”

“But Sire, the man could lie on the floorboards and let the current carry him. Once under the bridge he’d have some protection and with a good English lance---“

“Damn! It’s worth a try. Gyrth, it’s up to you. Find a vessel: find a volunteer or two; supply them with stout lances.”

“I’ll go,” said the lad. More laughter greeted his enthusiasm.

“Yes, and I’ll need you,” assured Gyreth. That quieted the warriors.

“Upstream lad. Find us a boat!”

“Yes, my Lord.” and he turned to go.

“Keep it well above the bend of the river.”

“Yes, my Lord.” and off he ran toward the river source.

“Cedric! Bring me a dozen stout lances honed to perfection and a dozen men who would volunteer for a dangerous mission.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

In ten minutes Cadric was back and Gyreth and troop left the English ranks and set off upstream. The lad had commandeered a small vessel—a rowboat.

“Hell, Boy, that’s no boat. That’s a swill tub!”

“It’s the only thing within a mile,” the boy whined.

“Enough! Men, here is the plan. One man covered with this robe will lie in the bottom of the boat. The current will take him to the bridge. He will make fast to the bridge and employ these lances to destroy the Vikings blocking our way. Would a volunteer step forward?” and to a man they stepped one step ahead.

“All right, we’ll draw lots,” as he gathered a dozen straws. “The short straw rides the ‘swill tub’”

The men stepped forward and each took a straw and concealed it behind his back.

“Reveal.”

A wiry little fellow held the short straw. He was not big nor muscular, but he was as hard as steel.

“It is up to you Eldritch. You must clear the bridge to save York, Harold and England. The lad will help you get underway. We will return to the main force ready for our assault on the west bank.”

“Yes, My Lord.” and he took the steel-headed ash lances. “Come Lad.”

The two clambered down the river bank and the dozen lances were secured along the ribs. Eldritch cautiously stepped in and lay down on the floor.

“Shit, this tub leaks. I’ll be lucky to make the bridge. Cover me with that grimy robe and shove me off, Boy.”

The lad draped the rags over his prone form and shoved the boat off shore. However the young man stepped into the departing stern and crawled under the cloth.

“What the hell! You get your ass back on shore!”

“Better be quiet, Eldritch. The Norse frequent the near bank.” he whispered, “or we may draw spears or arrows.”

“Son of a bitch!” Eldritch growled.

The men of two armies watched the derelict boat’s innocuous journey down the Derwent. Only Olav, the giant, and his mad beserkers were unaware of the incongruous boat trip. They were too involved in the give and take of battle. When the boy heard the wash around the bridge piling he rolled out of the rag pile and grabbed the bracing of the bridge. Eldritch followed lance in hand. Through the slatted deck of the bridge he could see the Viking defenders. He waited not a minute and speared a Viking under the floating ribs. The sturdy shaft splintered as the behemoth above fell. The second lance was launched and caught the Viking in the mid section as leaned forward in his sword thrust. The west bank Norse came alive in warning. Archers were summoned. Arrows were loosed, but the steepness of the bank and the underpinning of the bridge prevented a clear shot. Eldritch impaled another Viking as the honed lance embedded in Norse buttock. The fourth lance shot through the slats in search of Olav. However, large as he was, he was also agile. He caught the lance and wrenched Eldritch off his feet as he lifted. Eldritch was yanked into the lower planking with a tremendous crash and he fell back into the river senseless. Olav spun the lance in the face of the attackers on the bridge and drove the spear back into the slatting. It found an English target and drove in behind the lad’s collar bone. He gurgled and gave up the ghost. The English attackers buoyed by the fall of three of the defenders ran over the distracted Olav as he fell before the English axe. The way was open. The English poured through the bottle neck. The Vikings formed their defensive front line, but the aroused Saxons hacked their way through. Harald of Norway seemingly turned mad. He tore at the English slashing left and right. He might have turned the battle, but for an English hunting arrow that found his throat. A sudden calm descended. Was the battle over? Into the arena dashed the reserves from Riccall ululating their war cries. Tostig snatched up Hardrada’s standard Land Ravager and the carnage continued. Could the reserves of the Vikings change the outcome of the

battle? They did their best, but their best was left on the road from Riccall. Nine mile they had run—nine mile with arms and armor. It was difficult to stand; let alone fight. Some threw off their armor and waded into the blood and gore.

As the sun fell in the west, ironically an English axe in Yorkshire felled its former earl. With Tostig’s death and the ensuing dark, the Vikings retreated—retreated—they fled Stamford Bridge.

The quick fell in exhaustion, tired of the house of slaughter. The half dead screamed in pain as the healers and surgeons wandered the field by torch light. The dead were not spent; the dead were not pained. The scavengers loaded them on tumbrils but their bones would frequent the arena for years. A weary entourage set up the king’s pavilion. Other than the personal house carl guard for the monarch, the English army slept nearly as deeply as the dead of the battlefield.

Under a white flag, all too early the, Prince Olav Hardrada and the two youthful earls of the Orkneys entered King Harold’s camp with the morning sun. Olav and the earls were issued, accompanied, before the weary Harold. Olav drew himself ram-rod stiff and all bowed before the King.

“Oh Father of England, we submit our weapons to you.” They lay their shields, swords and dirks before them. “Our lives are forfeit!”

Harold paused. His exhaustion evident. “Gentlemen of Norway—Prince Olav, Earl Paul and Earl Erland, much has been lost in this war. You have lost a king and father. I have lost a brother. Norway and England are both the poorer for the good men slaughtered and maimed. I do not desire vengeance. ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord’ There will be no more killing. You may pick up your weapons and retire to your ships. Take as many dragon ships as necessary to take the remnants of your army to Norway, but you must never return as anything but traders or friends or your heads are mine.”

The youths were stunned, but they fell on one knee. “We so swear, My liege Lord!”

“Gyreth, accompany these young men to their ships and secure any vessel left behind. Gentlemen, you are dismissed.” The lads gathered their arms with as much aplomb as possible and bowed their way out of Harold’s presence.

Harold shook his head sadly and turned to Leofwine. “Well Brother, what else may we expect today?”

“Sire, I am afraid the supplicants will be worse than the antagonists.”

“Yes, we have played this tune before in York. It’s easier to be a warrior than a diplomat. Hold them off until I bathe and eat.”

Two of the first were the Earl of Mercia and the Earl of Northumbria come out of their rat hole. Harold dismissed everyone from the pavilion. Then he drew the brothers close to his chair. Only whispers could be discerned outside the tent, but whatever was said left the brothers red in the face and lathered in sweat.

Thanes of the north and burghers of the town came full of accusations, pleas, and complaints. Even his army complained. They hadn’t realized enough plunder. Harold was again patting the shoulder and stroking the backs of the men of York. It took a week.