Tim Severin - King's Man

Like hundreds of his own men, I looked towards Harald himself, waiting for a signal telling us what to do. Without his guidance we were lost. And as I did so, I saw the arrow fly. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I was sure I saw a dark blur skim over the heads of the struggling infantry, drawn fatally towards the tall figure on the black stallion. It remains a moment frozen in time for me: I saw the scarlet headband on Harald's brow, the blue cloak flung back over one shoulder so that his arms were free, and the two deadly axes rising and falling remorselessly as he hacked his way through the press of soldiers. His personal bodyguards had fallen back, hindered by the throng of men, but even if they had been close to him they could have done nothing to save their master. The arrow struck Harald in the windpipe. Later I heard it said that Harald's war cry was cut short into a single, choking gasp that turned to a bubbling grunt. All I saw from a distance was Harald suddenly sway in the saddle, stay upright for several heartbeats, and then slowly topple backwards, his tall figure disappearing into the chaos of the battle.

At that appalling moment, as those Norwegians close to the dying king halted in dismay, Harold Godwinsson unleashed his mounted huscarls at us. He sent them against our northern flank, even as word was spreading across the battlefield that Harald

Sigurdsson was struck down. The news, which elated the hard-pressed English infantry, shocked our own embattled men. Not one of them had dared imagine that Harald the Hard Ruler would ever be killed in battle. He had seemed invulnerable. From a dozen major battles and countless skirmishes he had emerged alive and as the victor. Now, suddenly, he was gone, and there was no one to take his place. Our troops faltered.

The mounted English troops smashed into the demoralised Norwegian foot soldiers and shattered what little was left of their formation. The riders tore great gaps through the disorganised mob of our men, cutting them down as if they were huddled sheep. At first the huscarls used their spears as lances, but then they abandoned these weapons and drew their swords or unslung their axes because the slaughter was so easy. Our men were confused and defenceless. They attempted to parry the attacks with whatever was to hand — staves, clubs, their daggers — but it was futile against an armed huscarl mounted on his horse and swinging a heavy sword or the deadly long-shafted fighting axe. It was a massacre. The huscarls rode back and forth through our men like reapers clearing a field of standing corn, and those they left on their feet were set upon by the triumphant English infantry who rushed in to increase the carnage.

Weaponless, and still wearing my monk's gown, I sat on the little pony watching the disaster unfold. Despite all my forebodings, I was still unprepared for the extent of the catastrophe. This, I knew, was a defeat from which there could be no recovery. Never again would my people muster such a large army nor follow a leader with so much to offer us. This was annihilation, the final calamity, and I grieved to see Harald killed. But even as I mourned, I found consolation in knowing that the man to whom I had sworn allegiance would have preferred to die with honour on the battlefield than fade away, old and pain-racked, in his bed, knowing that he had failed in his great ambition to restore the greatest kingdom of the north. The disappointment would have embittered Harald for the rest of his days. I told myself that even

in defeat, he had earned himself exactly what he would have wished: an honourable reputation that would never fade.

With that thought in mind I nudged my pony in the ribs and rode down the hill to retrieve Harald's body.

All my life I have known moments when a strange sensation of physical invulnerability comes over me. It is as if I am no longer aware of what my limbs are doing. My mind goes numb and I feel that I am advancing down a long, brightly lit tunnel where nothing can do me harm. That was how I felt as I rode forward on a tired pack pony that hot afternoon through the shattered fragments of a defeated army. I was vaguely aware of the crumpled corpses of our men lying on the ground, their blood and urine darkening the dust around them. Occasionally I heard the groans of the wounded. Here and there was a slight movement as some poor wretch tried to drag himself upright or to crawl away and hide. In the distance small bands of Norwegians were still putting up some resistance, but they were surrounded and outnumbered by their opponents, who were moving in to finish them. Somehow I was ignored.

I rode towards the last place I had seen Harald, the spot where he had toppled from his horse. A small cluster of men was gathered around something on the ground. They were bending over it, pulling and tugging. As I approached, my pony stumbled. Looking down I saw that it had tripped on a broken wooden pole, its end splintered. The flag attached to it was Land Ravager, Harald's personal standard. Nearby lay the body of his standard-bearer, a great gaping wound in his chest. He, like the others, had worn no armour. I reined the pony to a halt, got down and picked up the banner. Only a few feet of the pole remained. With Land Ravager in my hand I walked towards the group of men, leading the pack pony. Irrationally I thought that somehow I would be able to load Harald's corpse on the pony and ride back to the fleet, unscathed.

The men were English foot soldiers. They were stripping Harald's body of valuables. His fine blue cloak was already gone, and someone was tugging at the heavy gold rings on his fingers. Another man was pulling off a shoe of soft leather. Harald's body lay face up, a great dusty bruise across his cheek. The arrow that killed him was clearly visible. It had passed right through his neck. But that I had already dreamed.

'Stop that!' I croaked. 'Stop! I have come to collect the body.'

The looters looked up in surprise and irritation. 'Clear off, father,' said one of them. 'Go say your prayers in another place.' He unsheathed his dagger and was about to saw off one of Harald's fingers. Something clicked inside my mind and I passed from my distant reverie into sheer rage.

'You bastards!' I shouted. 'You defile the dead.' Letting go of the pony's reins, I raised the broken shaft of Land Ravager and struck at the looter. But I was too old and slow. Contemptuously he knocked aside the pole and I almost overbalanced.

'Clear off,' he repeated.

'No!' I yelled back at him. 'He is my lord. I must have his corpse.'

The looter looked at me narrowly. 'Your lord?' he said. I did not answer but took another lunge at him with the pole. Again, he knocked aside the blow. 'How come he is your lord, old man?'

I realised that I made a strange sight: an elderly priest in a long black gown, his bald pate showing stubble, and wielding a broken wooden pole. The other looters had moved away from Harald's corpse and were forming up in a circle around me. I was trembling with anger and exhaustion.

'Let me have the body,' I shouted. My voice was thin and wavering.

'Come and get it,' jeered one of the men.

I ran at him, using the pole as a lance, but he dodged aside. I pulled up and turned to see that his comrades had again taken up their positions around me and were laughing. I lunged again. The pole was heavy in my hands, and the long skirts of my monkish gown hampered me. I tripped.

'Over here, grandad,' taunted another voice, and I spun round to see someone dangling Harald's scarlet headband from the tip of his dagger. 'You'll need this,' he jeered.

The sweat was running down into my eyes so that I could scarcely see. I lumbered towards him and tried to snatch the headband, but it was whisked out of reach. I felt a thump in my ribs. One of my tormentors had struck me with the flat of his sword. I reeled away, trying to approach Harald's body. A foot reached out and I tripped headlong into the dust. The blood pounding in my ears, I picked myself up, and not knowing who or where I was striking, I swung Land Ravager in a circle, trying to keep my tormentors back. I heard their scornful laughter, then someone must have come up behind me and hit me, because I felt a terrible pain in my head as I slumped forward on my knees and then down on to my face.