Chapter eleven

THE ROAD TO GLORY

Harold led his horse out of the stable as he always did. It was a friend, his companion. Both rider and horse trusted each other implicitly. He looked down at the stable boy, Fredric, and patted him on the shoulder. He was a good lad, willing, too. Often he worked late into the night grooming the horses until Harold returned. Griffed, the imder stable boy, looked on as his king conversed with Fredric.

"Are you ready for the saddle, Fredric?" asked Harold; he noticed the boy's eyes were red and swollen. He'd obviously been crying. Fredric turned away, trying to hide his grief from his master. Placing his large hands on Fredric's shoulder, Harold turned him around.

"What is it, boy? Tell me; what is it that brings tears to your eyes? It's not like you to weep this way, Fredric. Harold looked concerned for the boy's distress.

"Osfrid was my friend, sire. He was a good person, and now he has been brutally killed. I miss him so much. I see him everywhere, as if his ghost were looking over me."

Harold pulled Fredric close to him. Such a sweet hoy, he thought, hut is he tough enough to hecome a housecarl one day? Harold held the boy out at arms-length.

Fredric steadied himself as a strong finger lifted his chin.

"The good Lord in Heaven is looking after Osfrid. No more harm can come to him. Just remember the goodness he had within his heart. You have taken his place... be strong, brave, and trustworthy, as he was. He will look down from the arms of Mother Mary and give you strength. You'll soon be a man amongst men. I have not forgotten my promise to you. You will soon be training with the housecarls. It's hard work and can be brutal in practice. Then you will become a member of an elite force of comrades that look after their own. They never leave a friend to suffer, because they're a family and brothers in arms."

Fredric gazed deeply into the eyes of his king. He trusted him completely. Harold never lied to him or anyone; he knew the king was a man of his word.

The horse was becoming restless, eager to be outside. The beast gave a long snort that Harold knew meant impatience. Fredric was to ride the horse around the meadow behind the stable to warm and tone the beast's muscles. It had been Osfrid's job to exercise the king's horse, and this privilege now fell to Fredric.

Harold picked up a purple carrot from a basket. Giving one to his steed, he inquired of their origin. "Tell me, Fredric, where did these roots come from?" Harold knew that they were not grown in England. The ground was far too stony to grow them, and the soil too sweet.

Fredric took a carrot from the basket and gazed at it for a moment. The horse snorted, reached out, and took the root from Fredric's hand. He smiled as he watched the beast devour the delicious root. "Osfrid had someone give them to him, sire. The man came from Normandy. I believe they give these roots to special horses they breed there."

Harold dismissed the carrots for a moment and pondered on who it was that might have been undertaking the journey to Normandy.

"Do you remember the name of the man who gave the roots to Osfrid?" Harold's curiosity was becoming almost intense. He had to be sure; he had to confirm Swein's information.

"It was a man called Eumer, sire. He was very kind. The odd thing about him was that he took a great liking to Toll, you know, your present from the Duke of Normandy. Eumer spent a lot of time here and would often ask about you and where you used to go when you rode out alone. I thought it a strange thing that he was always alone. Don't you think that was rather odd, sire?"

Harold's expression changed from a mild inquisitiveness to deep thought. For a few moments, there was silence. Harold returned his gaze toward Fredric, and once more placed his hands upon the boy's shoulders.

"In the future, I want you to inform Brithnoth or myself if anyone visits these stables that you've never seen before, most especially if it's someone who asks questions of you. Is that clear?"

Fredric nodded.

"Come along, now; let's have her ready. I have things to do. Jump up, and go take her for a canter." Harold gave the boy a wink and a broad grin.

"Yes, sire -- ^if you could hold her still," Fredric replied struggling to keep the excited animal from stepping on his toes.

"Good. See to it that she's warm before she is brought out to the assembly point," Harold said then walked back towards the castle entrance. It was an imposing portal with a portcullis and a large, heavy drawbridge, the only one in England. At the base, the walls were fourteen feet thick and of solid stone masonry sloping inward from the base. The Romans had originally built the lighthouse nearly a thousand years earlier, and it was an impressive piece of architecture. Harold thought of how his Saxon predecessors had added to the castle's structure from time to time. The sight of the great walls and the defensive earthworks still impressed him.

Harold looked over his shoulder to see a group of men approaching from the north. The men looked strong and healthy, and they were obviously housecarls, elite fighting men. As they came closer, Harold could see their gonfanon and recognized them as Gyrth's men. It's comforting to know that I've had the strongest, bravest, and above all, the best trained warriors in the whole of Europe. My own housecarls are a fine body of men, and willing to die rather than surrender to any force. They are masters of the art of combat and fearless, he thought. All were tattooed from the neck down, with dragons and angels being favorite motifs.

Brithnoth entered the courtyard and stood looking about for any sign of Harold. Not seeing him, he called for Fredric. He stood watching as the boy spim the horse around and trotted toward the great man. The sound of iron clad hooves echoed around the courtyard as Fredric approached him. Brithnoth smiled at the lad, but there was an obvious sadness conspicuous in the youth's demeanor.

"Fredric, where is the king?" Brithnoth asked.

"I'm here, Brithnoth. I was having a few moments looking about-- you know, inspecting the troops before we set off to York." Harold replied as he appeared from behind the door, and greeted the old warrior with a hug. Harold had a wicked gleam in his eyes, for he knew he'd startled the old man.

"You almost gave me a stroke. I'm an old man now, and no longer used to being taken by surprise. Do that once more, and I shall have to kill you." Brithnoth grinned, but straightened when he noticed the serious look on Harold's face. He wondered if he'd misread him, and saw that Harold was now in another mode. It was a look that he knew meant business, and he returned to continue his briefing in a professional manner.

"All our preparations are in place, but the prospect of a long march doesn't please the fyrd too much. However, as the saying goes; needs must when the devil drives, eh." Harold placed his arm around his shoulder and spoke in a soft voice. "This last episode, that is the attempt upon my life, has become personal, Brithnoth-- you know that. I know that the bastard was behind the attempt to kill me. As for Sigurdsson, well, this is a venture from which I may not return. You understand that Hardrada is a mighty foe. Yet I will do my duty to the end, to the best of my abilities, win or lose." Brithnoth stared deeply into Harold's eyes.

"You know your weaknesses, Harold. You also know your strengths. Look to them; they will drive you on to victory. If you die in the attempt to keep your country free from these evils, you'll have died a glorious death. No one can say that if you failed you did not fight a superb battle, Harold Godwinson. If you lose, and we are forced imder the yoke of Hardrada, he will be our king. I, like others, though we wish it not, will have to accept him."

The two men looked on as Fredric cantered around the field, turning the horse here and there, warming the horse's muscles. He patted the beast's neck as she jumped over a hurdle.

"Sigurdsson has no idea that we are marching north. Indeed, I have kept a tight lid on all information, because he thinks we are marching south to meet any threat from the bastard. What is more, he believes we'll agree to divide the country once he has taken hold of the Midlands. I'll let him come, and then I will cut off his line of supply. The man thinks he is King bloody Cnut. Well, have we a surprise for him!" Harold threw Brithnoth a grin, then chuckled softly.

"Do you think he'll fall for it, Harold?" Brithnoth's hand scratched his chin.

"Only time will tell, my good friend. Tell me. Are the fyrd assembled in the fields below? The evening march will be easier for them as the sun would surely take its toll on men marching with all their equipment. Come along, old chap; let's go and eat our fill before we set off for the great adventure; we'll catch up with the troops in a short while." Harold took his friend by the arm and led him inside.

As they moved off, Harold heard his officer's giving commands, to the troops in the field. "Aweccan, waepnu nimth, forth-gath!" (Attention, raise weapons and forward march(!)), came the call from the sergeants. The fyrd moved in file, five abreast, for the long march to the north along Ermine Street, the old Roman road. Along the route, Harold sent out collectors to assemble men and their supplies. They were to join the troops on the long march north, preparing hidden supply dumps for the return journey, in case they had to return and fight Duke William.

The night marching made it better for the men to make headway along the old paved road. It was covered in a fine moss, and the short grass made walking easier. In the mornings, the men set up camp. Harold had organized fresh food to be brought to the soldiers by local villagers. The men slept until nightfall and then resumed their journey. The army grew larger by the night as more men joined the troops from each village along the route. The morale was good, very good. Harold was their king and commanded a deserved measure of respect, because he acted as though he was one of them. All knew what was expected of them. One man in the rear of the happy throng began to sing a boisterous melody that caught on with the rest as they marched.

"Liste, til deotha meadra. Sle eowere feonds, as cumbol forthegath. Deoth til urnum foendum Hardrada oll-stoppi, a day-raed. Onraes, Onraes, ha, ha, ha!" (Listen to a man doomed to death. Kill your enemies, and protect the standard. Bring death to our enemy, Hardrada. He's an arrogant fellow and a buffoon. Attack, Attack! Ha, ha, ha). All night long, as the men marched onward, someone would add another impromptu chorus to the song until it grew and became as long as the march.

Harold smiled with pride from the front of the marching retinue setting the pace.

Gyrth turned to Harold and offered him a drink of water from a goatskin carrier.

Harold took a long drink and returned the vessel.

"The men are in fine spirits, Harold," Gyrth said with a smile.

Through the darkness, Harold noticed a rim of light, edging the blackness into a dark blue, the color that presaged the process of dawn. A blackbird began a half-hearted attempt at a song that seemed to fall on deaf ears. The bird fluttered up to perch on a higher branch as the troops began to pass below, too close for comfort.

"As fine a bunch of men as ever wanted to die, Gyrth," Harold replied solemnly, noticing that his own focus was becoming introspective.

"Steady on, Harold; we're here to throw Sigurdsson out, not to fail and die in the attempt."

Harold pulled up his horse, leaned across to grasp the bridal of Gyrth's horse and stared at his brother. An owl hooted a call, "Tell us all... tell us all." It seemed to cry.

"We are here to protect our freedom. Many men on both sides will die, some will live, and some will lose limbs. I'm sorry, Gyrth, war is an awful thing. We can never recover from our experiences; we just harden. We never forget our friends. We keep them in our thoughts and our hearts. We fight for them, as they fought and died for us." Harold pressed his knees into his mount and rode on as the eastern horizon began to bring with it a raucous dawn chorus. Harold turned to Swein and asked that the men singing joyously behind, from now on, be silent.

As dawn broke, Riccall came into sight. Harold had his men set up camp and sleep while scouts looked for signs of Harald Sigurdsson.

Brithnoth approached Harold with news of the scouting parties that he had sent out the day before.

"What news do you have for me, Brithnoth?" Harold asked.

Brithnoth pointed towards the north west of their position, to a flat expanse of land with a river flowing between them and the enemy. "Sigurdsson holds the land at Fullford Bridge, sire. They're about an hour's walk in that direction. I would say they number about two thousand men, and they're currently poorly armed. They're Hardrada's men, all right, and there is more. Tostig is with a very tall man. I understand from my scouts that the man can only be Sigurdsson. Yesterday, the local landowners were bringing whatever they own to the fields surrounding their encampment. Obviously, they were under orders to do so. It's my guess that today will be no different."

"It appears that we now know what he is doing, Brithnoth."

Harold turned around to gaze towards Leofwine and beckoned him to come closer.

"Leofwine, I want the men to be fully rested and to keep quiet. There's to be no singing; is that dear?"

"Yes, Harold, I understand. Would you tell me what is going on? The men are going to want to know." Harold and Leofwine both dismounted and seated themselves upon a fallen tree.

"It looks like they're collecting booty from the nobles. It would seem lots of cattle are being brought in to feed his men, too, and some sheep are being penned. It's quite obvious that they've not a clue we are here." Harold looked towards Brithnoth with a wry smile.

"You'll take your orders from Brithnoth, who is going to take his orders directly from me. You're to do nothing with your men without the express permission or orders from him or from me. I'll call a meeting after we have rested and eaten." Harold patted his brother on the back, and they both rose to their feet and parted, with Leofwine returning to his position amongst men. Well, it looks like this is the big one, he thought. My hoys are straining their leashes.

Harold returned to be beside Gyrth and Brithnoth, who had dismounted and were now discussing the situation between them.

"Your scouts have done well, Brithnoth. Go thank them for their work, and then have them get some rest. We're doing nothing until tomorrow morning." Harold then turned towards Gyrth. "It looks like we've caught Sigurdsson with his leggings down, little brother," Harold said smiling broadly."

Gyrth was looking confused.

"We ought to attack now, Harold. It could be a very different situation tomorrow morning," Gyrth said looking a little worried. Come on, Harold, let's up and at em, he thought. The light had won the battle of a weakened night, and the birds were in full song. Bees and flies buzzed around, competing for the right to take the nectar from the now open flowers of the hedgerows. The air was still and the trickling noise of the river below Harold's camp was idyllic and tranquil. The men lay down to rest their weary legs, to drink water, and sharpen their weapons; their spirits were high. They didn't want to sleep, just to rest a little and to be at the enemy below them.

Harold placed a hand upon the shoulder of his excited brother, calming him.

"The men need to rest for a while longer. They were marching all night and have not any sleep. We must have room to maneuver and with fresh men, too, Gyrth. If all goes well, and we're not noticed we'll have them by their coddling hairs. I need to secure the troops. See to it that the fyrd do not wander off and get captured by some scouting party of theirs, or the game will be up."

Harold's orders were followed to the letter, as Brithnoth gathered the housecarls together and gave them orders to rest. "What Harold says, he does for good reason," Brithnoth said to his under-sergeants and other housecarls. "In the morning, see to it that the men are all ready for battle, in full amour, their shields ready, and their weapons sharp. It looks like we're going straight in, boys. There will be no messing around." Brithnoth's tone gave away his excitement in anticipation of the coming conflict.

Brithnoth then rose to his feet, leaving the others behind, and made his way to the edge of the road and looked across to the plains below, taking care to keep out of sight of any scouting parties. Brithnoth pondered the situation before him. This will be tough, much tougher than many of us think. There must he many more ready to strengthen those troops down there. Where's their amour? He thought. It can only he on their ships. If we move now, hefore we are seen, and take them hy surprise and ohliterate them, then we can he ready to fight their reinforcements. Surely then, we would he victorious.

Leofwine and Ulf approached the great warrior, interrupting his private thoughts.

"They're hard men, Brithnoth, not easily fought," Ulf commented. He stood next to him as Leofwine moved over to the other side of the great man.

"We need to be careful to keep our charges tight at all times," Leofwine replied, and began sharpening his axe with a stone. He gazed at the old giant with admiring eyes. He loved this great man who had coached him to be a warrior. This wise man had become a brother and a Godwinson in all but name and would soon lead them, with Harold, to a great and wondrous victory. A fox wandered in front of them, stopped and gazed at the three men, then moved away.

"Never underestimate your enemy, Ulf. I taught you that as a child. No matter what plans you lay down to direct an upcoming battle, you can never cater for the unexpected. An arrow will kill a king just as easily as it will kill a fyrdsman. It doesn't discriminate. If you do as you're told, the likelihood of defeat will diminish. Nonetheless, remember what I have told you: always prepare for the imexpected. You'll be fighting tough warriors as brave as you'll ever see. Don't disrespect them. Despite their king's false claim, they'll fight to the last man. Leofwine, you will do as I command. If you don't, I will kill you myself!"

"My boys know what they need to do," Ulf said spitting on the ground. He'd accidentally swallowed a fly that had entered his mouth. "The bloody things must be sodding blind; that's the third one this morning!"

"Boysl You are dealing with men, and you show disrespect to my housecarls, Ulf?"

"Indeed not, sir." Ulf bowed his head in shame. He'd learned a lesson in respect.

Under-sergeant Larch brought a message for Gyrth to attend Harold, but fell about laughing at Ulf's facial grimace. "If Ulf stopped eating shit, the flies would leave him alone," Larch muttered to himself.

"I heard that. Larch. I'll shit in your face if I catch you, you turd-faced toad." Ulf said grinning broadly at Larch's humorous remark.