And now, while war thus hungered for England at the mouth of the Somme,
the last and most renowned of the sea-kings, Harold Hardrada, entered his
galley, the tallest and strongest of a fleet of three hundred sail, that
peopled the seas round Solundir. And a man named Gyrdir, on board the
King’s ship, dreamed a dream [239]. He saw a great witch-wife standing
on an isle of the Sulen, with a fork in one hand and a trough in the
other [240]. He saw her pass over the whole fleet;--by each of the three
hundred ships he saw her; and a fowl sat on the stern of each ship, and
that fowl was a raven; and he heard the witch-wife sing this song:
“From the East I allure him,
At the West I secure him;
In the feast I foresee
Rare the relics for me;
Red the drink, white the bones.
The ravens sit greeding,
And watching, and heeding;
Thoro’ wind, over water,
Comes scent of the slaughter,
And ravens sit greeding
Their share of the bones.
Thoro’ wind, thoro’ weather,
We’re sailing together;
I sail with the ravens;
I watch with the ravens;
I snatch from the ravens
My share of the bones.”
There was also a man called Thord [241], in a ship that lay near the
King’s; and he too dreamed a dream. He saw the fleet nearing land, and
that land was England. And on the land was a battle-array two-fold, and
many banners were flapping on both sides. And before the army of the
landfolk was riding a huge witch-wife upon a wolf; the wolf had a man’s
carcase in his mouth, and the blood was dripping and dropping from his
jaws; and when the wolf had eaten up that carcase, the witch-wife threw
another into his jaws; and so, one after another; and the wolf cranched
and swallowed them all. And the witch-wife sang this song:
“The green waving fields
Are hidden behind
The flash of the shields,
And the rush of the banners
That toss in the wind.
But Skade’s eagle eyes
Pierce the wall of the steel,
And behold from the skies
What the earth would conceal;
O’er the rush of the banners
She poises her wing,
And marks with a shadow
The brow of the King.
And, in bode of his doom,
Jaw of Wolf, be the tomb
Of the bones and the flesh,
Gore-bedabbled and fresh,
That cranch and that drip
Under fang and from lip.
As I ride in the van
Of the feasters on man,
With the King!
Grim wolf, sate my maw,
Full enow shall there be.
Hairy jaw, hungry maw,
Both for ye and for me!
Meaner food be the feast
Of the fowl and the beast;
But the witch, for her share,
Takes the best of the fare
And the witch shall be fed
With the king of the dead,
When she rides in the van
Of the slayers of man,
With the King.”
And King Harold dreamed a dream. And he saw before him his brother, St.
Olave. And the dead, to the Scald-King sang this song:
“Bold as thou in the fight,
Blithe as thou in the hall,
Shone the noon of my might,
Ere the night of my fall!
How humble is death,
And how haughty is life;
And how fleeting the breath
Between slumber and strife!
All the earth is too narrow,
O life, for thy tread!
Two strides o’er the barrow
Can measure the dead.
Yet mighty that space is
Which seemeth so small;
The realm of all races,
With room for them all!”
But Harold Hardrada scorned witch-wife and dream; and his fleets sailed
on. Tostig joined him off the Orkney Isles, and this great armament soon
came in sight of the shores of England. They landed at Cleveland [242],
and at the dread of the terrible Norsemen, the coastmen fled or
submitted. With booty and plunder they sailed on to Scarborough, but
there the townsfolk were brave, and the walls were strong.
The Norsemen ascended a hill above the town, lit a huge pile of wood, and
tossed the burning piles down on the roofs. House after house caught the
flame, and through the glare and the crash rushed the men of Hardrada.
Great was the slaughter, and ample the plunder; and the town, awed and
depeopled, submitted to flame and to sword.
Then the fleet sailed up the Humber and Ouse, and landed at Richall, not
far from York; but Morcar, the Earl of Northumbria, came out with all his
forces,--all the stout men and tall of the great race of the Anglo-Dane.
Then Hardrada advanced his flag, called Land-Eyda, the “Ravager of the
World,” [243] and, chaunting a war-stave,--led his men to the onslaught.
The battle was fierce, but short. The English troops were defeated, they
fled into York; and the Ravager of the World was borne in triumph to the
gates of the town. An exiled chief, however tyrannous and hateful, hath
ever some friends among the desperate and lawless; and success ever finds
allies among the weak and the craven,--so many Northumbrians now came to
the side of Tostig. Dissension and mutiny broke out amidst the garrison
within; Morcar, unable to control the townsfolk, was driven forth with
those still true to their country and King, and York agreed to open its
gates to the conquering invader.
At the news of this foe on the north side of the land, King Harold was
compelled to withdraw all the forces at watch in the south against the
tardy invasion of William. It was the middle of September; eight months
had elapsed since the Norman had launched forth his vaunting threat.
Would he now dare to come?--Come or not, that foe was afar, and this was
in the heart of the country!
Now, York having thus capitulated, all the land round was humbled and
awed; and Hardrada and Tostig were blithe and gay; and many days, thought
they, must pass ere Harold the King can come from the south to the north.
The camp of the Norsemen was at Standford Bridge, and that day it was
settled that they should formally enter York. Their ships lay in the
river beyond; a large portion of the armament was with the ships. The
day was warm, and the men with Hardrada had laid aside their heavy mail
and were “making merry,” talking of the plunder of York, jeering at Saxon
valour, and gloating over thoughts of the Saxon maids, whom Saxon men had
failed to protect,--when suddenly between them and the town rose and
rolled a great cloud of dust. High it rose, and fast it rolled, and from
the heart of the cloud shone the spear and the shield.
“What army comes yonder?” said Harold Hardrada.
“Surely,” answered Tostig, “it comes from the town that we are to enter
as conquerors, and can be but the friendly Northumbrians who have
deserted Morcar for me.”
Nearer and nearer came the force, and the shine of the arms was like the
glancing of ice.
“Advance the World-Ravager!” cried Harold Hardrada, “draw up, and to
arms!”
Then, picking out three of his briskest youths, he despatched them to the
force on the river with orders to come up quick to the aid. For already,
through the cloud and amidst the spears, was seen the flag of the English
King. On the previous night King Harold had entered York, unknown to the
invaders--appeased the mutiny--cheered the townsfolks; and now came like
a thunderbolt borne by the winds, to clear the air of England from the
clouds of the North.
Both armaments drew up in haste, and Hardrada formed his array in the
form of a circle,--the line long but not deep, the wings curving round
till they met [244], shield to shield. Those who stood in the first rank
set their spear shafts on the ground, the points level with the breast of
a horseman; those in the second, with spears yet lower, level with the
breast of a horse; thus forming a double palisade against the charge of
cavalry. In the centre of this circle was placed the Ravager of the
World, and round it a rampart of shields. Behind that rampart was the
accustomed post at the onset of battle for the King and his body-guard.
But Tostig was in front, with his own Northumbrian lion banner, and his
chosen men.
While this army was thus being formed, the English King was marshalling
his force in the far more formidable tactics, which his military science
had perfected from the warfare of the Danes. That form of battalion,
invincible hitherto under his leadership, was in the manner of a wedge or
triangle. So that, in attack, the men marched on the foe presenting the
smallest possible surface to the missives, and in defence, all three
lines faced the assailants. King Harold cast his eye over the closing
lines, and then, turning to Gurth, who rode by his side, said:
“Take one man from yon hostile army, and with what joy should we charge
on the Northmen!”
“I conceive thee,” answered Gurth, mournfully, “and the same thought of
that one man makes my arm feel palsied.”
The King mused, and drew down the nasal bar of his helmet.
“Thegns,” said he suddenly, to the score of riders who grouped round him,
“follow.” And shaking the rein of his horse, King Harold rode straight
to that part of the hostile front from which rose, above the spears, the
Northumbrian banner of Tostig. Wondering, but mute, the twenty thegns
followed him. Before the grim array, and hard by Tostig’s banner, the
King checked his steed and cried:
“Is Tostig, the son of Godwin and Githa, by the flag of the Northumbrian
earldom?”
With his helmet raised, and his Norwegian mantle flowing over his mail,
Earl Tostig rode forth at that voice, and came up to the speaker. [245]
“What wouldst thou with me, daring foe?”
The Saxon horseman paused, and his deep voice trembled tenderly, as he
answered slowly:
“Thy brother, King Harold, sends to salute thee. Let not the sons from
the same womb wage unnatural war in the soil of their fathers.”
“What will Harold the King give to his brother?” answered Tostig,
“Northumbria already he hath bestowed on the son of his house’s foe.”
The Saxon hesitated, and a rider by his side took up the word.
“If the Northumbrians will receive thee again, Northumbria shalt thou
have, and the King will bestow his late earldom of Wessex on Morcar; if
the Northumbrians reject thee, thou shalt have all the lordships which
King Harold hath promised to Gurth.”
“This is well,” answered Tostig; and he seemed to pause as in
doubt;--when, made aware of this parley, King Harold Hardrada, on his
coal-black steed, with his helm all shining with gold, rode from the
lines, and came into hearing.
“Ha!” said Tostig, then turning round, as the giant form of the Norse
King threw its vast shadow over the ground.
“And if I take the offer, what will Harold son of Godwin give to my
friend and ally Hardrada of Norway?”
The Saxon rider reared his head at these words, and gazed on the large
front of Hardrada, as he answered, loud and distinct:
“Seven feet of land for a grave, or, seeing that he is taller than other
men, as much more as his corse may demand!”
“Then go back, and tell Harold my brother to get ready for battle; for
never shall the Scalds and the warriors of Norway say that Tostig lured
their king in his cause, to betray him to his foe. Here did he come, and
here came I, to win as the brave win, or die as the brave die!”
A rider of younger and slighter form than the rest, here whispered the
Saxon King:
“Delay no more, or thy men’s hearts will fear treason.”
“The tie is rent from my heart, O Haco,” answered the King, “and the
heart flies back to our England.”
He waved his hand, turned his steed, and rode off. The eye of Hardrada
followed the horseman.
“And who,” he asked calmly, “is that man who spoke so well?” [246]
“King Harold!” answered Tostig, briefly.
“How!” cried the Norseman, reddening, “how was not that made known to me
before? Never should he have gone back,--never told hereafter the doom
of this day!”
With all his ferocity, his envy, his grudge to Harold, and his treason to
England, some rude notions of honour still lay confused in the breast of
the Saxon; and he answered stoutly:
“Imprudent was Harold’s coming, and great his danger; but he came to
offer me peace and dominion. Had I betrayed him, I had not been his foe,
but his murderer!”
The Norse King smiled approvingly, and, turning to his chiefs, said
drily:
“That man was shorter than some of us, but he rode firm in his stirrups.”
And then this extraordinary person, who united in himself all the types
of an age that vanished for ever in his grave, and who is the more
interesting, as in him we see the race from which the Norman sprang,
began, in the rich full voice that pealed deep as an organ, to chaunt his
impromptu war-song. He halted in the midst, and with great composure
said:
“That verse is but ill-tuned: I must try a better.” [247]
He passed his hand over his brow, mused an instant, and then, with his
fair face all illumined, he burst forth as inspired.
This time, air, rhythm, words, all so chimed in with his own enthusiasm
and that of his men, that the effect was inexpressible. It was, indeed,
like the charm of those runes which are said to have maddened the
Berserker with the frenzy of war.
Meanwhile the Saxon phalanx came on, slow and firm, and in a few minutes
the battle began. It commenced first with the charge of the English
cavalry (never numerous), led by Leofwine and Haco, but the double
palisade of the Norman spears formed an impassable barrier; and the
horsemen, recoiling from the frieze, rode round the iron circle without
other damage than the spear and javelin could effect. Meanwhile, King
Harold, who had dismounted, marched, as was his wont, with the body of
footmen. He kept his post in the hollow of the triangular wedge; whence
he could best issue his orders. Avoiding the side over which Tostig
presided, he halted his array in full centre of the enemy, where the
Ravager of the World, streaming high above the inner rampart of shields,
showed the presence of the giant Hardrada.
The air was now literally darkened with the flights of arrows and spears;
and in a war of missives, the Saxons were less skilled than the Norsemen.
Still King Harold restrained the ardour of his men, who, sore harassed by
the darts, yearned to close on the foe. He himself, standing on a little
eminence, more exposed than his meanest soldier, deliberately eyed the
sallies of the horse, and watched the moment he foresaw, when, encouraged
by his own suspense and the feeble attacks of the cavalry, the Norsemen
would lift their spears from the ground, and advance themselves to the
assault. That moment came; unable to withhold their own fiery zeal,
stimulated by the tromp and the clash, and the war hymns of their King,
and his choral Scalds, the Norsemen broke ground and came on.
“To your axes, and charge!” cried Harold; and passing at once from the
centre to the front, he led on the array. The impetus of that artful
phalanx was tremendous; it pierced through the ring of the Norwegians; it
clove into the rampart of shields; and King Harold’s battle-axe was the
first that shivered that wall of steel; his step the first that strode
into the innermost circle that guarded the Ravager of the World.
Then forth, from under the shade of that great flag, came, himself also
on foot, Harold Hardrada: shouting and chaunting, he leapt with long
strides into the thick of the onslaught. He had flung away his shield,
and swaying with both hands his enormous sword, he hewed down man after
man till space grew clear before him; and the English, recoiling in awe
before an image of height and strength that seemed superhuman, left but
one form standing firm, and in front, to oppose his way.
At that moment the whole strife seemed not to belong to an age
comparatively modern, it took a character of remotest eld; and Thor and
Odin seemed to have returned to the earth. Behind this towering and
Titan warrior, their wild hair streaming long under their helms, came his
Scalds, all singing their hymns, drunk with the madness of battle. And
the Ravager of the World tossed and flapped as it followed, so that the
vast raven depicted on its folds seemed horrid with life. And calm and
alone, his eye watchful, his axe lifted, his foot ready for rush or for
spring--but firm as an oak against flight--stood the Last of the Saxon
Kings.
Down bounded Hardrada, and down shore his sword; King Harold’s shield was
cloven in two, and the force of the blow brought himself to his knee.
But, as swift as the flash of that sword, he sprang to his feet; and
while Hardrada still bowed his head, not recovered from the force of his
blow, the axe of the Saxon came so full on his helmet, that the giant
reeled, dropped his sword, and staggered back; his Scalds and his chiefs
rushed around him. That gallant stand of King Harold saved his English
from flight; and now, as they saw him almost lost in the throng, yet
still cleaving his way--on, on--to the raven standard, they rallied with
one heart, and shouting forth, “Out, out! Holy Crosse!” forced their way
to his side, and the fight now waged hot and equal, hand to hand.
Meanwhile Hardrada, borne a little apart, and relieved from his dinted
helmet, recovered the shock of the weightiest blow that had ever dimmed
his eye and numbed his hand. Tossing the helmet on the ground, his bright
locks glittering like sun-beams, he rushed back to the melee. Again helm
and mail went down before him; again through the crowd he saw the arm
that had smitten him; again he sprang forwards to finish the war with a
blow,--when a shaft from some distant bow pierced the throat which the
casque now left bare; a sound like the wail of a death-song murmured
brokenly from his lips, which then gushed out with blood, and tossing up
his arms wildly, he fell to the ground, a corpse. At that sight, a yell
of such terror, and woe, and wrath all commingled, broke from the
Norsemen, that it hushed the very war for the moment!
“On!” cried the Saxon King; “let our earth take its spoiler! On to the
standard, and the day is our own!”
“On to the standard!” cried Haco, who, his horse slain under him, all
bloody with wounds not his own, now came to the King’s side. Grim and
tall rose the standard, and the streamer shrieked and flapped in the wind
as if the raven had voice, when, right before Harold, right between him
and the banner, stood Tostig his brother, known by the splendour of his
mail, the gold work on his mantle--known by the fierce laugh, and the
defying voice.
“What matters!” cried Haco; “strike, O King, for thy crown!”
Harold’s hand griped Haco’s arm convulsively; he lowered his axe, turned
round, and passed shudderingly away.
Both armies now paused from the attack; for both were thrown into great
disorder, and each gladly gave respite to the other, to re-form its own
shattered array.
The Norsemen were not the soldiers to yield because their leader was
slain--rather the more resolute to fight, since revenge was now added to
valour; yet, but for the daring and promptness with which Tostig had cut
his way to the standard, the day had been already decided.
During the pause, Harold summoning Gurth, said to him in great emotion,
“For the sake of Nature, for the love of God, go, O Gurth,--go to Tostig;
urge him, now Hardrada is dead, urge him to peace. All that we can
proffer with honour, proffer--quarter and free retreat to every Norseman
[248]. Oh, save me, save us, from a brother’s blood!”
Gurth lifted his helmet, and kissed the mailed hand that grasped his own.
“I go,” said he. And so, bareheaded, and with a single trumpeter, he
went to the hostile lines.
Harold awaited him in great agitation; nor could any man have guessed
what bitter and awful thoughts lay in that heart, from which, in the way
to power, tie after tie had been wrenched away. He did not wait long;
and even before Gurth rejoined him, he knew by an unanimous shout of
fury, to which the clash of countless shields chimed in, that the mission
had been in vain.
Tostig had refused to hear Gurth, save in presence of the Norwegian
chiefs; and when the message had been delivered, they all cried, “We
would rather fall one across the corpse of the other [249], than leave a
field in which our King was slain.”
“Ye hear them,” said Tostig; “as they speak, speak I.”
“Not mine this guilt, too, O God!” said Harold, solemnly lifting his hand
on high. “Now, then, to duty.”
By this time the Norwegian reinforcements had arrived from the ships, and
this for a short time rendered the conflict, that immediately ensued,
uncertain and critical. But Harold’s generalship was now as consummate
as his valour had been daring. He kept his men true to their
irrefragable line. Even if fragments splintered off, each fragment threw
itself into the form of the resistless wedge. One Norwegian, standing on
the bridge of Stanford, long guarded that pass; and no less than forty
Saxons are said to have perished by his arm. To him the English King sent
a generous pledge, not only of safety for the life, but honour for the
valour. The viking refused to surrender, and fell at last by a javelin
from the hand of Haco. As if in him had been embodied the unyielding
war-god of the Norsemen, in that death died the last hope of the vikings.
They fell literally where they stood; many, from sheer exhaustion and the
weight of their mail, died without a blow [250]. And in the shades of
nightfall, Harold stood amidst the shattered rampart of shields, his foot
on the corpse of the standard-bearer, his hand on the Ravager of the
World.
“Thy brother’s corpse is borne yonder,” said Haco in the ear of the King,
as wiping the blood from his sword, he plunged it back into the sheath.