Tim Severin - King's Man

As I watched the confused fighting, my attention was caught by an extraordinary sight. Slowly making its way through the skirmish, as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, was an ordinary farm cart. It was the sort of vehicle which might be found in any modest farmyard, a simple wooden platform on two solid wheels drawn by a single horse. On the back of the cart were several sacks of grain, some barrels, and, bizarrely, several chickens trussed up and hanging head down in batches. I could only suppose that the carter was one of those engaged to bring supplies to the Norwegian army as part of the tribute from the citizens of York, and he had blundered into the fight inadvertently. Now he was petrified by the danger in which he found himself and too scared to react, while his horse between the shafts was an ancient nag, half blind and deaf. Even as I watched, the cart reached the approaches to the bridge, and the elderly horse stopped in puzzlement, gazing at the press of struggling men which blocked its path.

The last of the Norwegians' rearguard - those who had not been cut down by the English - had reached the bridge. They were more disciplined than their fellows, and had formed up in a squad which turned to face the enemy; now the men were retreating step by step. As they passed the stationary cart, one of the Norwegian fighters reached up and pulled the driver from his seat, sending the poor wretch flying. Moments later, the cart horse disappeared, as the bewildered animal, its harness cut, galloped away. A dozen hands grabbed the cart and wheeled it to the middle of the bridge, where it was overturned to act as a barricade to delay the English advance. Moments later the Norwegian rearguard was running up the slope to rejoin the rest of Harald's troops.

The overturned cart did not block the bridge completely: there was a gap between the cart and the bridge's edge barely an arm's span in width, but sufficient to allow a man to pass. In this opening a single Norwegian warrior now took up his stance, facing the enemy. He had a fighting axe in one hand, a heavy sword in the other. Who he was I would never know, but he must have know that his position was suicidal. He was making it clear that, single-handed, he would hold the gap until his own side had taken up their battle formation. He challenged the English to come forward and fight him. For a bleak moment I wondered if that lone warrior was not like myself, a forlorn dreamer defying the inevitable.

Still, the English hesitated. Then one of their cavalrymen rode out on to the bridge, his spear poised. But the moment the horse stepped on the loose planks, the animal shied and would go no farther. With an angry wrench of his reins, the cavalryman turned his horse and rode back to solid ground. A second rider attempted the bridge, but his mount also baulked. So it was an English foot soldier who advanced to accept the Norwegian's challenge. Judging by his long coat of mail, the Englishman was one of Harold's professional soldiers, a royal huscarl, and he advanced with a confident step, sword in hand, scorning even to lift his shield. It was his fatal error. He was not yet within reach of the Norwegian when, without warning, his opponent flung his axe. The weapon whirled across the gap and struck the huscarl in the mouth, felling him instantly. With a satisfied whoop the Norwegian ran forward, bent down to retrieve his weapon and, moments later, was running back to take up his position once again. There he clashed his sword and axe together defiantly, daring the next to come forward and fight him.

Three more times an English huscarl accepted the challenge, and each time failed to clear the passage. The Norwegian champion was a master of hand-to-hand fighting. He killed one challenger with a sword thrust through the body, decapitated the second with a swiping back-handed axe blow that seemed to come from nowhere, and deftly tripped up the third attacker who had come close enough to grapple with him, then pushed him over the edge of the bridge into the river below. Each encounter was met with groans or cheers by the two armies watching the spectacle from each side of the river, and for a time it seemed that the Norwegian champion was invincible.

'He can't hold out for ever,' someone beside me muttered.

'Eventually the English will bring up their archers and shoot him down.'

'No,' countered another voice. 'The huscarls want to claim the victory for themselves. They won't let some common bowman take the credit. Look there, upstream.'

I glanced to my right. Drifting down the river on the gentle current was a small boat. Little bigger than a washtub, it was a humble punt that some farmer would use to paddle his way across the river rather than make a detour to reach the bridge. In the boat sat an armoured English huscarl, his weight almost swamping the little craft, and he was paddling with his hands to keep the boat in mid-river where it would pass directly under the Norwegian's position.

'Look out, beware to your right,' someone shouted, trying to warn the Norwegian. But our champion was too far away to hear, and the cluster of huscarls on the far end of the bridge had already begun to set up a deafening chant, beating rhythmically on their shields to drown out the sound of any warnings. As the little boat neared the bridge, two huscarls stepped out from their ranks and began to advance deliberately towards the barricade. This time they took no chances. Both carried long shields, and they crouched down behind them to protect themselves from another axe throw. The Norwegian had no choice but to wait until they were within sword range, and then he struck, hacking down with his axe and sword hoping to beat down their guard. But the two huscarls stayed behind their shields, knees bent and deflecting the blows, only occasionally making a stabbing thrust with their own swords in counter-threat.

Helplessly we watched from our vantage point, knowing what would happen. The Norwegian's stamina was extraordinary. He continued to rain down blows on the two huscarls until the moment came when his opponents judged that the man in the boat was directly under the bridge. Then they rose up and hurled themselves forward. The Norwegian retreated back a pace so that he stood in the narrowest part of the gap between the cart and the edge of the bridge, and there he traded blows with his attackers. But it was exactly where they wanted him. Even as the Norwegian concentrated on fending off the huscarls' frontal attack, we saw the boatman grab one of the timbers supporting the underside of the ancient bridge and bring his little craft to a stop. Then he stood up, and, still holding on to the bridge with one hand he brought his spear up vertically and slid it through a gap between the planks. There he waited, the spear pointing upwards, while his comrades gradually pushed the Norwegian champion back to the precise spot. Then, suddenly, the boatman thrust upwards with his spear, the iron point driving straight into the Norwegian's crutch, unprotected by his long shirt of chain mail. The surprise attack spitted the Norwegian. He doubled forward, clutching at his groin, and one of his opponents took the chance to step forward and chop down with his sword at the gap below the helmet, killing his foe with a blow to the back of the neck. The fight was over, and even as the Norwegian body splashed down into the river, a squad of huscarls was running forward to lay hold of the upturned cart, drag it to the edge of the bridge, and heave it over.

Moments later the advance guard of Harold's army began to clatter across the open bridge and advance towards us, led by a file of mounted huscarls. Watching their confident approach, I recalled Ulf Ospaksson's words when he had tried to dissuade Harald from invading England. Then he had said that one English huscarl was reputed to be worth two of the best of Norway's fighting men. Now we would learn the truth of the dead marshal's warning.