“Will you attack Newcastle, Sire?”

“I think not. No need to give warning to the thanes. YET! They likely have no idea that war is afoot. No, we’ll stay off shore on our present bearing.”

“Tostig.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“It is getting late in the year. It is not wise to tempt the North Sea gods after the change of the season. I want to take the fleet as close to York as possible. It’s your country. Where should we land?”

“The three closest coastal towns are Scarborough, Bridlington and Hull that we would reach in that order. All three are thirty-two miles from York. There are no towns of consequence between York and the coast.

I suppose the best would be Hull. Hull is on the Humber River estuary.”

“And the Humber is available?”

“From Spurn Head on the North Sea ships can at least sail eighteen miles to Hull and another sixteen miles to the branch of the Don and the Ouse. To that point the waterway is a mile wide. From the union of the two rivers it is eighteen miles north to York.”

“Yes, useful, Tostig, useful. Could we row right into York?”

“Not likely.”

“Hmm! We’ll see—We’ll see!” and Harald left Tostig and made his way astern to confer with the captain and helmsman. They in turn called the king’s son Olav and the prospective sons-in-law Paul and Erland of Orkney. Harald acquainted his war council with Tostig’s information.

“Sire,” began the captain, “you know I am more concerned with the fleet. The Humber estuary would be a haven for the ships for the whole winter if necessary. I elect we sail for the Humber.”

“But what is the size of Hull, Father? Is it a fortified town? Is it to wise to encompass a smaller village. Give the men a chance to limber their arms after a few days at sea. Give the axes a taste of blood. By the time we finish with Scarborough or Bridlington the swords will sing for blood.”

“Yes, Son—true. Maybe we can do both. We could likely sail within hailing distance of York but a blooding might be just the thing. Captain take us closer to shore. We’ll reconnoiter .”

“Aye, Sire.”

In the failing light of late afternoon they landed two miles above Scarborough without discovery either by luck or darkness. They moved the army quietly and slowly while Harald and scouts sized up the town. It was perfect for a Harald Hardrada attack. This was the type of town he had been destroying all his life. Overlooking the town was a steep hill and the Vikings had the advantage of the heights. The attackers began to collect firewood.

“What are we doing?” asked a beardless Viking.

“Your first raid is it, Boy?” said an elder.

“Yes, Sir.”

“We are going to soften the defenders with a little heat.”

“How? We are way up on a hill.”

“Watch!”

The Norse set their fire logs on the brink of the decline and arranged pole levers behind the intended fire. When the fire wood was burning well the use of the lever would send the burning logs cascading down the hill. A burning log and a dry wooden home were quickly married. The flames enveloped all. The humans were divorced as the house invited its lover. To be certain the Norse followed the rolling logs and cast their pitchy torches into the thatch roofs of the town. Some Saxons burned in their sleep overcome with smoke. Others exited screaming, “Fire!” It is difficult to fight two enemies. They were so much alike—fire and Viking. The roaring fires were joined by the roaring invasion force. Fight the fire, fight the Vikings or flee? Few escaped; the town was surrounded. The black ebony night saved a few from Viking axe and sword, but Scarborough became a cemetery. Appendages, bodies and blood littered the area.

Into the firelight a gorilla-like sergeant carried a struggling English woman not more than a child. “I’ve just found some fun for you lads.” He twisted her arms behind her and holding her with one hand grasped the neckline of her night shift and tore it from her body. She kicked at his groin, but he yanked her backward to the ground before the blow landed. “Give a hand here.” And rough paws pinned her flailing legs. The sergeant still held her arms now pinned to the ground. “All Right, Boys, take your turn- fresh English meat!” and much coarse laughter and talk followed.

The young Viking from the hill was man-handled forward by the sniggering men. One caught his neck and shoved him toward the firelight. The others took it up and soon the lad was before the pinioned lass.

“Let the boy try her first, Sergeant. He won’t hurt her much!”

Laughter accompanied the harried lad. The boy was overcome. He shook his head. He looked at the struggling girl, he looked at the sergeant and bolted in the chink between two monstrous Vikings. He was followed by coarse ribald jokes and much laughter. The corporal threw back his kirtle for he was ready to enter the girl. He fingered her open and rammed his member into her. The girl screamed and the sergeant had a man stuff her mouth. He got a bloody bitten hand for his effort, but she was quieted. She screamed without sound. He rammed her mercilessly until he climaxed. Another Viking entered her and began a rhythmic thrust. And another. And another. The Saxon girl had passed out? She had quieted.

“Your turn, Sergeant. I’ll hold her arms.”

“Don’t worry. She’s passed out.”

The sergeant covered the girl and one of her hands went around his waist.

“Ha! Now she’s enjoying it.” But the right hand went to his belt. His knife jumped into her hand or seemed to jump. The oiled leather gave up the blade in a millisecond. The sergeant entered her and the knife entered him. The honed blade slipped into the left abdomen as easily as it left the scabbard. Under the ribs reaching upward went the thirsty blade. A gush of blood from the severed vena cava and blade and man stopped thrusting together. He looked with surprise, fear and consternation as the gory blade exited. As weak as she was her blade did not stop. It was fueled in the blood and hungrily searched for more. It found her carotid artery and her life spurted forth happily. The two assailants weakened and died together. The sniggered laughter was stifled by the in drawn breath. The rapists were repelled and since they were not the one dead, the battle-hardened Vikings left the blood-stained corpses where they lay and returned to their ships as directed.

As the Vikings left the smoldering ruins a blackened cloth stirred. A pair of panicked eyes scanned the burned out village. The raiders were intent on loot and the black cloth moved into the deeper

shadows and then deeper still. The dark cloth floated loosely to the ground and a tow-headed gangly Saxon lad legged it down the road to York. Once clear of Scarborough he entered the first barn and bridled a Yorkshire pony. Together they pounded southwest to York. By morning the horror-stricken youth was challenged by the watch.

“Who goes there?”

“The Vikings are coming! They burned Scarborough! All Dead! All gone!”

“Who are you?”

“Peter, Peter of the Smithy, Sir.”

“We’d better get him to the Captain.”

Peter was hustled away ,but the news was overheard by a couple of early risers. The story spread and grew with each telling. Half of York would be ready to flee by noon. Meanwhile Peter of the Smithy was being passed higher and higher. Eventually, he was before the Earl of Northumbria, Morcar. In an aroused court Morcar raised his voice.

“Call out the fyrd! Inform my brother Edwinl.” Hubbub followed.

“Do we march on Scarborough?””

“No, we defend York, you Fool.”

“Where are they now?”

“Who’s leading them?”

“How many do they have?”

“Fortify the coastal towns.”

“My Lord, I think it best we amass our army here until we have some definite information. We’ll send a patrol to Scarborough.”

“Very well Hutton. See to it. Hutton?”

“My Lord?”

“Get a message to the king.”

“My Lord.”

Harald and Tostig and their Viking force put back to sea and the persistent north wind drove cloud and ship sixty-four miles south to the mouth of the Humber. They rounded the neck of land, Spurn Head, and broke out oars for the westerly trip up the estuary. Before the message from York arrived, the town of Hull was surprised, but so were the Vikings. A Saxon rider from Scarborough had raced south through Bridlington and on to Hull. The burghers of Hull, really the whole populace, abandoned the town. A small Saxon fleet weighed anchor and within the sight of the approaching Norse armada retreated up the Ouse River. The Vikings ravaged Hull and looted what was left behind. The torches touched the thatch. It would have been better to leave no enemies behind, but enemies concerned with winter quarters would be otherwise employed.

On the Norse rowed up the Humber, up the Ouse. Seven miles south of York the oars were shipped. At Riccall the river narrowed. Harald called a halt. Beyond Riccall the ships could not be turned bow to stern. In the event of retreat it would be a disaster to lose your ships. Besides, the English ships now up the Wharfe River, a smaller branch of the Ouse, could trap the Viking ships.

“Moor the ships fore and aft. I’ll not have them swinging on some mud bank.”

“Yes, Sire!” and the accompanying shouted orders spread through the Viking invaders.

“Well, Tostig, where are your friends?”

“They are likely detained by those halfling brothers Edwin and Morcar. They’ll be with us; have no doubt.”

“They’d better be, Earl Tostig, for tomorrow we take York.”

“Captain.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“This will be a memorable September twentieth. The Norse will rule England.”

The English scouts returned with some of the frightened country folk who had fled before the carved dragons that poked their ferocious heads above the river bank. The sweating rider stood before the anxious lords. Edwin and Morcar with peach fuzz beards stood between the bearded thanes of the English north.

“Well, Man. Report!” urged Edwin.

“My Lord, there are thousands.”

“Boats or men?” but no one chuckled.

“Men, my Lord and over a hundred ships. They have drawn the ships up together and tied them off. They cover the Ouse for a mile, four abreast. They’ve made little effort to come ashore. Four boats lashed together has given them a man-made island. They are honing weapons and checking their gear. They will be ashore tomorrow.”

“That is bad news, Corporal. Can we be ready, Selby?”

“Earl Edwin, we have no choice. We won’t select the time or place to meet. We must alert all our thanes and have the fyrd ready for tomorrow. I expect they will come directly to York. With time on our side we might harry their flanks as they march toward the city.”

“No, the fyrd will be slow to report. They’ve likely heard of the conflagration at Scarborough, the yellow dogs. We’ll stay here and protect the citizenry.”

“My Lords, at least let us chose the battleground. We need a field where their superior numbers cannot outflank us. Somewhere where our front will approximate the length of theirs. Only their forward rank will be able to fight at close quarters. Secondly, we are fighting for our homes, our loved ones and they are fighting for loot. We may turn them.”

Morcar strutted. “We’ll drive them back to the sea, Hutton. None will stand before the English axe.”
“How many Vikings have you fought Morcar?” Hutton responded sarcastically. “I’ll be happy just to wake up in two days time.”

“There is no time for peacocks,” Selby admonished and he took a stick and drew a crude picture in the dirt as he explained. “The Vikings will likely push straight north following the river bank. Consider the field at Fulford. The way narrows between the river in the west and the dike and marsh in the east. The solid ground is only five hundred paces. We can form a solid wall of axes and shields. They’ll need barges to outflank us in the west and Jesus shoes to cross the marsh in the east.”

“Do not blaspheme!” said Edwin hotly.

“Lad, pay attention and don’t worry about my soul.”

“Gentlemen, let us keep our heads today,” added another, “and before the Vikings. Your plan seems sound Selby. At least it gives us a chance. Maintain the wall and maintain York.”

“Very well, prepare your men. Draw them up south of the city at Fulford. Morcar will protect the east flank, I will take the center and Hutton will close the river door. May God go with us!”

“Amen!” escaped many throats.

The Vikings slept aboard their rafted vessels. There was no chance for an English attack on the suspecting Vikings. With the first glimmer of eastern light in the dewy grass of early fall, the Viking captains took their army ashore. No one noticed the glittering beads of water on the fall goldenrod. They may have cursed the wet. The sergeants gathered and shaped the amoebae of troops into some semblance of order and adrenaline powered the force on a blood quest. They shouted themselves into a three column ribbon of fierce fighting men and began the seven mile hike along the Ouse. Spirits were high. Bravado and excitement filled their being. No Saxon could stand against them.

Morcar, Hutton and Edwin marshalled their untried troops. They had never fought for the sake of their country. The waiting had quieted them—three thousand bearded Saxons formed three ranks, or six men to every pace across the field. Armored and shielded were the imposing front ranks. They had fought the Norse before. They had whetted the English axe and it had tasted Norse blood. The second rank of villeins, the free men of York, were armed more lightly, but every man was farm hardened into a braided muscle. Body fat was unheard of when you worked dawn to dark. The third rank was mostly serfs willing to give their lives for their country or at least their home. They were ill-equipped, but if one of the front rank fell, they could drop their scythe and use the fallen man’s sword. One thing was plentiful on the battle field—weapons.

They stood on the cool September morn. Mist condensed over the river and over the marsh. Only the chosen battle field of Fulford remained clear. They had one way to look to assess the oncoming Norse. Shivers ran up their spine—of weather and of fear. Voices were hushed. In spite of the cool fall weather beads of cold perspiration ran under their arms. Fear may have taken them , but determination sustained them. They waited.

The noise of the approaching Vikings preceded them. It floated over the cold damp expanse. Raised voices, laughter, metallic clanks, and the thud of footfalls filled the ears of the Saxon army. The Norse may have had fears or shivers, but a six mile march sent blood coursing through their bodies. It warmed them and welded them together. A slight ridge and the twist of the Ouse separated the two armies.

Over the height rose a pennant undulating in the slight north breeze. An English lad pointed and English eyes aligned. At a half mile the standard continued to rise. A horned helmet and a length of spear broke over the ridge. Then three helmeted heads, and as the bodies followed, other heads appeared. Norse orders were shouted down the line of marchers. Someone in the middle gestured with his shield to the left and sword to the right. The left column wheeled left and spread toward the Ouse. The right column wheeled right to the dike and marsh. The center column spread both ways in double file. A tall figure, ornate of dress, who seemed to be in command, waited for the dispersal of his troops. Would they never stop coming over the hill? Beads of sweat glistened in the morning sun on the foreheads of the English.

Finally, the column of Vikings ended. They now were amassed three and four deep on the flanks and six deep in the center of the line. Not a word between the armies—no challenge was issued. Harald, King of Norway, signalled with his sword and the Norwegian line began to close on the men of York. Seven hundred paces separated the armies, six hundred paces, five hundred paces. No one broke. Four hundred paces.

“Lancers!” and the English rear ranks prepared their projectiles.

“Archers!” and the few Norse with bows nocked an arrow. Three hundred paces. The English stood like statues.

“Do not break the line!”

At one hundred fifty yards, “Archers loose!” The Norse artillery sent a flight of feathered shafts into the English center.

“Charge!” screamed the berserker Hardrada. With blood curdling war cries the Vikings began to run toward the English line, swords, axes and lances menacingly before them.

“Steady! Steady!” was repeated down the English line. The opponents closed, “Lancers Now!” The English lancers stepped forward and lances were loosed—the answering artillery. Lances, rocks, cudgels and sharpened discs hissed through the heavy morning air. Ten paces, the English could not contain themselves longer for fear of being swept away by the tide of running Vikings. They met with a crash of axe, shield and sword that could be heard in the city. Chaos reigned and blood, gore and bodies made footing treacherous. The dirk became the best weapon in close quarters. On the other hand, no one asked for quarter and no one gave it.

The English line held. Along the marsh in the east the Saxons under the youth Morcar, Earl of Northumbria, gained the upper hand. The Vikings were being driven back. Their line was about to break. English would pour through the expanding hole. The leaders of both armies were concerned.

Hutton saw the probability of a Norse counter attack from the reserves in the center. A pincer movement would turn the tables and entrap Morcar and Vikings would flank the English on the marsh and roll up the English left. “Maintain the line!”

Harald Hardrada from his central vantage point saw the English forces turn his right and roll his army into the river.

“Who’s leading our right?”

“Tostig, Sire.”

“I might have known! Olaf, reinforce our right. Now! Unfurl my standard.” In the melee Olaf and a youthful standard bearer shepherded fresh reserves on the double to support the faltering forces of Tostig. They barrelled into the thinning line of English attackers. Tostig’s men were revitalized and took heart in the English confusion. The reserves had broken through. Morcar’s left ran for the marshes pursued by Tostig to the south and Olaf to the north. The English center was vulnerable and was overwhelmed from the front and left by the screaming berserkers intent on English blood. Hutton fell with his men, trampled by the sheer weight of numbers and a superior army. Earl Edwin mounted his pony and escaped into the Yorkshire countryside

Earl Morcar of Northumbria was hidden by reeds in the marsh. Vikings stepped from hummock to hummock in the fen in search of the fleeing English. Morcar covered in reeds, his face in the mud evaded detection.

The battle was over. The English bodies were stripped of weapons and valuables such as they were. The wounded Selby was the most senior English thane brought before Harald.

“Well, English, bow before your new king!”

Selby in his pain was stunned by the statement. He was forced to his knees by a blow on the neck.

“How many guard the town.”

“No one. The army was here.”

“That had better be true, for you will proceed me through the gate. Come, Tostig the terrible, you weakling, truss this man up and let’s see the mayor of Yarvik, a Viking town, and the new capital of Norse England. Oh, My Son, do not let these men run wild. This is our capital. I want it in good repair.”

“Yes, sire. I’ll see to it.”

“King’s guard. Fall in! Let’s go Saxon. Take us to the mayor.”

A small group set off from Fulford. Dented helmets, torn shields, notched swords and blood and dirt bespattered, the King’s guard approached the city gate. The mayor already apprised of the outcome of the battle, stood in the middle of the gateway wearing his chain of office ready to greet the victors—anything to avoid the destruction of the town.

“My Lord, welcome to York. May you find peace and tranquillity.”

“Isn’t it marvellous, Tostig, how genial they are as losers. You don’t seem as welcome as I?”

Harald smiled to himself. “Lord Mayor, I have restrained my men from the destruction of your town, which is their right after a victorious battle. This town, Yarvik, will be the capital of Norse England. You will arrange accommodation fit for a king and a great hall and council chamber. I leave it to you to select the best. Oh, You recognize your former master Earl Tostig?”

“Yes, Sire, we recognize him.”

“He will need accommodation too for he expects his earldom back.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“That’s strange, Tostig. He doesn’t seem happy about that news!” Harald chuckled at his own wit and Tostig’s discomfiture.

“We will see the city, Lord Mayor, and then you will have three days to prepare the city for my triumphant entry. Lead us.”