Chapter twelve

HARD BOOTS AND SOFT HATS

Harold rode to a high point where he could see the enemy's position clearly. He stared down upon Harald Sigurdsson, the mighty Hardrada, King of Norway, with his men arrayed in the field, taking booty from the populace who'd traveled from afar under threat of death. Harold felt aggrieved at the rape of his people. Sigurdsson was like a seven-year-old, taking the sweets off other children. Harold despised selfishness and bullying, and spat upon the ground.

"That bastard is robbing my people. Well, Sigurdsson, you're going to play with some real hard folk." Harold said seething through his teeth. He gazed out farther along the ridge as his thoughts drifted from his planned tactics to his contumacious brother, Tostig. All the silly fool had to do was behave, nothing more, he thought. He'll come round when he sees me, and our brothers will embrace him. How do I find him, though? He brushed away a nosy fly that seemed to have fallen in love with his face. In a bush beside him, a blackbird sang a merry tune. Thank you, little fellow. Was that song just for me? He nodded in acknowledgment, then turned his horse about and moved slowly off the ridge. He was pulled from his thoughts by the voice of Gyrth who had ridden up beside him.

"Huh! Ah, Gyrth, where is Swein?" Harold asked. "I need him beside me. I thought that I'd told you that you're to stay beside Brithnoth throughout the day. There are to be no deviating from my orders, or we might find ourselves in deep trouble. Is that dear? Now, what is it you want, Gyrth?"

"We should be on the other side of that river, Harold," Gyrth said looking rather disappointed with the view before him.

They both dismounted and looked at the bridge, where a single man stood alone guarding the narrow crossing that was the only safe passage over the high-banked, deep and slowly flowing river.

"The advantage of surprise lies with us, and that's the way it has to remain. In any case, as soon as we knock out that guard by the bridge, then across, and we're in the field. We can then mop up this lot and see what else there is to do." Harold remounted and stood high in his stirrups, trying for a better view of the bridge through the trees.

Ulf ambled over to where Harold and Gyrth were discussing the situation. In one hand he carried a heavy, two-handed broad axe, in his other hand he held a sharpening stone. He slid the stone deftly from one side of the blade to the other, honing his instrument of death.

Harold glanced towards Ulf, but his thoughts were elsewhere. "So many decisions, so many things can go wrong... hmm, what's the best approach...?" Harold said thinking aloud, and searching for input on how he could best take the bridge without giving away their presence.

"He looks a big fellow, but the only guard about, from what the scouts tell me. I think we ought to take him by stealth, in the dark. That way, we will still have the element of surprise in the morning. Ulf, I want you to go take a closer look. I need to know what the land looks like close up. See if we can cross elsewhere, unseen and in good order. That bridge is really a bit too narrow to get us all across quickly," Harold said, as he again took another look at the disappointingly narrow crossing.

"Yes, sire. I'll be as quick as I can," Ulf said. He spun about and walked down towards the river, keeping low and blending in with his surroundings to take stock of the situation.

Harold dismounted, and he and Gyrth strolled back to the main group to see the various generals sitting in a circle discussing Brithnoth's thoughts with him. As Harold approached, they all stood up and came to attention.

"Gentlemen, please, resume your places." The men all seated themselves in a circle to hear what their king was to say to them. He looked around the group of highly motivated men, all experienced housecarls, and each straining at their leashes, yet patient enough not to rashly rush into situations that could jeopardize their advantage.

"My plan was to rest the men and to attack first thing in the morning. I've had second thoughts, and I know it's against my better judgment, but we'll go in now," Harold said looking towards Brithnoth, and hoping for a nod of approval from the old warrior. "There is a problem though -- the bridge. It appears to be the only route we have. The banks are too steep to clamber up, and Sigurdsson's forces would attack and defeat us if we tried to cross the river any way other than that bridge."

"Are the men all assembled and ready, Brithnoth?" Harold was tense. He was relishing the thought of facing Harald Sigurdsson on an equal footing. He wanted to look the man in the eye, and have a bloody king-to-king encounter. In the name of his father, he was going have glory, and Sigurdsson was going to have hell.

"We're ready to go," Brithnoth replied, but sensed Harold's thoughts were elsewhere.

"Harold, are you alright?" Leofwine shook Harold's arm.

"Huh? Yes, fine, I'm just fine. What is it?"

"You asked if the men were ready, Harold." Leofwine said.

"And are they?" He shook himself out of his reverie and now felt more serene, fresh, sharp and on top of every feeling and emotion. I'm going to crush Sigurdsson, crush him, he thought.

"Yes, sire, exactly as you requested, not a man is out of place," Leofwine replied.

"Right then, we are going to remove the man on that bridge. See that it's done immediately, Brithnoth, so that we can cross it in short order, and we might never have such an opportunity again." The men hurried off to gather and inform the fyrd of the good news.

"Line the men up on the ridge. We're going in now," Brithnoth called to his sergeants. The housecarls came quickly to the brow of the ridge, their shields shining in the morning sun. Each man knew what his task was, and knew how to back up his kinsman, when to defend, when to attack, and when to retreat. Harold's housecarls were professional soldiers, the best in Evirope, strong of will, steadfast, loyal, courageous men of honor.