HARDRADA
“Where are my kindred? Where is the giver of treasure? Where are the benches to bear us?”
The Wandered.
“There was a great mead hall, filled with warriors. The benches stretched back as far as the eye could see and the vast hall was full but for one place left at the table- and I knew it was for me… And you were there… my king… waiting beside my seat…” he told us of his dream. “The air was heavy with the smell of mead, meat and men’s blood. Cheers rang out… for us, my king… that is all I recall.”
Harald Hardrada was silent. He ran a huge hand, heavy with golden rings, through his beard.
“A good dream,” he said at last, to the world in general, then turned away from the man who had dreamt and to me, “fetch my porridge.”
I did as I was told. It was a cold dawn. For us, Summer ended that day.
The grass was damp with dew, the rising sun shone weakly. Arms and armour were shattered around the camp. I will always remember the smell of campfires and sweat. Birds sang in the trees. The waters of a river sang quietly.
The man who had dreamt went to his own breakfast. The Hardrada ate without speaking. Just once he looked up at the sky and smiled.
Jarl Tostig- our ally and the enemy’s brother- sat eating beside Hardrada. He too was silent, he seemed weary.
“Saxons coming! To battle! The English!” scouts roared from the west of our camp.
A man rode across the bridge, alone through the camp, the chainmail and sword shining in the pale sun- right up to us.
He gave no name, but addressed Jarl Tostig bluntly.
“Your earldom shall be returned if you turn against Hardrada,” the lone rider said. “You know me better than that… Tell me, what would be willing to give King Hardrada?” asked Tostig.
The rider replied “Seven feet of English ground, as he is taller than other men” *
With that he rode back back to the English army which was gathering across the river to the west.
“Who the hell was that?” Hardrada asked.
“That was my brother, King Harold Godwinson.”
“He has balls…” then his face turned crimson with rage. “To battle! No time for the armour! No time to finish porridge! Pick up your weapons and follow me… To battle, to glory! To slaughter, and to Valhalla!”
So it was that we rushed to battle. Outmanoeuvred and surprised, with no time to dress in iron for battle or fill out bellies.
The Hardrada rushed forward and we followed him. As he approached the bridge and saw the great lines of enemy spearmen and axemen, a change came over him.
The red rage faded from his face and a peace settled upon him. For the second time that morning, he looked up at the sky- the clouds had parted and the sun grew stronger- and smiled. I have served the King for most of my life, and I can tell you that he was not a man who often smiled. Then he did a thing that no one could have expected him to do- he burst into song.
Not a melancholy swan song, nor a furious battle song, but a merry and riotous drinking song. A song of maidens and wenches and barrels of mead…
He crossed the bridge- Stamford Bridge, I recall- and we followed. There was barely time to form lines as we sped forward, desperate to keep pace with the king.
A heart beat later and we were upon them. A wave crashing against a rocky coast.
I am not, by trade, a fighting woman. I cook porridge and meat and I assist Hardrada to don his armour. I follow him to war only out of necessity. So I found a big fellow who had remembered his shield and stood behind him. If a stray arm or leg came my way, I cut at it with my short sword.
Even I, who knew little of tactics, could see that we were going too loose. Unarmoured and panicked men do not do well against armoured men who are well prepared.
Once we fell back, leaving a pile of twisted bodies. Hastily, we formed a shield wall and rushed forward again.
Some love the sound of steel striking steel and the cries of battle. I prefer the crackling of a cooking fire and the song of birds. I endured the battle and tried to stay alive.
A roar carried across our line, “The Hardrada has fallen! The King is dead!”
I could not see him, I was in the third rank of the shield wall and surrounded by chaos. A few men rushed forward- furiously enraged. Most paused or shuffled backwards.
Then, as though we were one vast beast with a thousand legs, we lost all heart and turned to run. We all ran across the bridge towards our ships.
All but one man.
Looking back, I saw one man alone upon the bridge. The man who had drempt.
His chest was bare and bleeding and in his hands he held a mighty Dane axe. Alone he stood and held back an army. All around him, men fell to his blade as he bought time for us to reach our ships.
The saga says he killed 40 men, and I believe it.
I did not stay to watch him fall, there was no need… His seat stood empty, waiting for him in the hall of our ancestors.
*Quoted from Snorri Sturluson