It took half-an-hour to drag the boat up the track and into the bushes before they decided to have their extended breakfast. Margit said she did not feel hungry, ‘ but I will have something later’. No one, not even Ragnar, saw her previously sneaking into some bushes to be sick. This was because with the aid of a net he had been otherwise occupied in catching two plovers and an oyster catcher to augment supplies.
They could see some people working in a field some distance away. Margit said it was probably one of the last fields to be harvested for wheat. The barley would be in by now.
‘If we go to the south I believe we will come to Driffield. My father has a sister who lives there and I went with him and mother two years back. There is a good road there which goes to Stamford Bridge and then into York.’
‘It must be only an hour or so before midday,’ said Byorne, butting in. ‘So let’s get moving and try what you said Margit. We can alter our route should we have to.’ This was met with everyone’s approval.
As they moved off Ragnar said we must look more like serfs or cottagers so that those who meet us will belief us when we say we are going on for final harvesting work. ‘We must hide our weapons as best as possible. I have already got my helmet down the back of my jerkin, which makes me look like a hunchback.’
This was greeted with laughter. They would not have laughed if they knew they were on a convergent path that meant they would meet up with King Sweyn and his Viking and Saxon army.
Twice they passed greetings with peasant farm workers, leaving Margit and Ragnar, as they looked less Danish, to say they were on their way to Driffield where they had a job. Passing through a small village in the late afternoon they were again accosted by some villagers.
‘Haven’t you heard! A big army of Vikings and Saxons from Wessex have landed and are probably in Driffield now. They are going to sack Jorvik! Best not go to Driffield until it’s all over.
Directly they were out of earshot of the villagers Bjorne said, ‘The way I look at it we have two choices. We can carry on to Driffield and join up with Sveyn’s men and hope we can be carried into York by them without being killed in the fighting. Or we can swing north now, move along the edge of the moors then come down to enter Jorvik by a north gate that’s only used by local people on foot and usually has no guard over it. That will be the opposite side from where Sweyn is likely to attack.’
All agreed that they should take the northern route, although it will take longer.
Dusk was approaching when just off the track they were following they saw a dilapidated barn, which they thought probably housed cattle in the winter months. As the rain of the last two hours showed no sign of lifting, they decided this would have to be their home for the night. The men took it in turns to keep lookout, each being fully armed and wearing one of the helmets.
Refreshed by a good night’s sleep, they set off at dawn, having augmented their shrinking rations with some turnips stolen from a nearby field. Luck was with them as only once did they see some Norman horsemen in the far distance who were going away from them. Apparently they had not appeared to have seen them.
* * *
King Sweyn 11, who was part Norse and part Dane in parentage, was actually born in England. He walked with a limp, was courageous but never really successful in battle. He managed to break into Jorvik, in spite of William having fired much of it once again in order to diminish its use as an HQ for Sweyn in the forthcoming winter. Although Sweyn and Edgar of Wessex managed to have temporary control of much of the North, William was able to commence his harrowing initially to the west and north of Jorvik.
King William, with much of his Norman forces still intact, offered Sweyn a considerable bribe to return to Danemark with his Vikings and desert Edgar and the his Saxons. That winter the people of Northumbria, particularly the sector that was to become known as Yorkshire, suffered the full murderous forces of William’s harrowing of the land so that crops could not grow and the killing of those who tried to oppose it. This included the devastation of Durham and the land up to the Tyne.
It was the fifth morning since the six survivors had beached their boat on the sea shore. Their rations were now virtually extinct and they got by with what they could steal, including a chicken. The decision to reach the edge of the North Moors and follow a track to the west proved to be correct. The trees growing along the moor edge provided good cover, although it slowed them down. They passed just north of Pickering then turned south near Appleton, which they reached just before dusk. It was here that Harald the Limper stole the chicken. A plump white hen who only managed a few clucks before Harald had rung its neck.
‘We can’t camp here for the night’, said Bjorne, ‘It’s too open and not far enough away from the owner of our supper. We definitely saw Normans in Pickering and he or she may have spotted us
and inform them. Fortunately, there’s a good moon tonight. Let us press on for a good hour and find a copse off the road where we can hide up and light a small fire and cook the hen.’
They walked on for twenty minutes and suddenly saw a solitary figure, dressed like a serf as far as they could see in the dark. Seeing them at the same time he shot off the road and ran away over a field that he was obviously familiar with. The six pressed on for another half hour as the moonlight began to be obscured by passing clouds.
‘Look right’ whispered Ragnar. ‘I’ve been looking there and it’s not just a clump of trees but a small wood I hope.’
Following Ragnar they worked their way through the wood for at least two hundred paces. Everyone scoured around to find small pieces of broken branches that were reasonably dry. Einar always carried some fine kindling with him as well as flints and in ten minutes he had a small fire going.
After eating the well-smoked chicken, with the last of a few beans each, Bjorne said ‘we should now put that fire out. We can only be about three leagues from Jorvik and therefore must not signal our presence for anyone else who comes along the road.’
After drinking from a stream that ran through the wood and filling up the two flasks they still had, they set off south again aiming to by-pass the small village of Bulmer. Suddenly they heard the sounds of horses hooves at a gallop. The wood was still obscuring the curved track so they could not see who they were, but knew they must be Normans.
Bjorne pushed Margit into a ditch and told her to cover herself up with ferns and brambles.
“Men, to your arms and put the two helmets on. Quick, move into that sodden field. Yes Ragnar, away from Margit. Mounted Norman knights are not so agile in the mud.’
Because of the need to hide their weapons the five Danes had no spears or shields. They did have
swords, shorter than normal but just as sharp, as well as knives and axes. They had just reached the middle of the sodden field when they saw four mounted Normans come round the curve of the track. They each had lances and shields, which they raised in attack mode on seeing the Vikings. Bjorne stopped dead in his tracks and still without moving he stared at the on-coming horsemen muttering to himself and reddening in the face and neck. The Normans were about to meet a Viking Berserker.
The lead Norman came straight for Bjorne with his lance lowered. With an upward thrust of his sword Bjorne shattered the lance as the horse came level, with his knife he stabbed the horse straight in the heart, upon which the poor beast collapsed on the spot to die. Falling to the ground in his unwieldy armour the Norman was at the Viking’s mercy, and was dispatched with a thrust of the knife between the breast armour and the helmet, severing the jugular.
The three other Normans rode around Bjorne to attack the four Danes who were in an open semi-circle some twenty paces beyond Bjorne. With his sword in his hand Sveyn Olafsen, Ragnar’s friend, received the full penetrating thrust from a lance and fell down vomiting blood to die within a minute. As the Norman turned his horse, more slowly than he expected in the churned up field, Ragnar managed to bring his sword down with his maximum power on to the top of the rider’s right leg. His armour gave the leg considerable protection from being severed, but there was enough power and inflicted pain to bring him to the ground. As Ragnar leapt upon the prostrate Norman he did not see the third horseman bearing down on him. But Bjorne did and noticed that his visor was fully open. With enormous strength he threw his axe which embedded itself in the Norman’s face. Shrieking with pain and blinded by blood, he rode off the field and, unlikely to survive, was not seen again.
Meanwhile, on the first charge of the three Normans, Harald the Limper and Einar Hairfair, waving their swords, decided the best way to deal with the two Normans aiming to put them
down was to keep zigzaging on the sodden ground as they could turn quicker than the horses. Harald, not being as nimble as Einar, was caught a glancing blow on his head from a lance – but Harald had drawn the long straw to wear a helmet, and the point of the lance skidded off. Frustrated by Harald and Einer, this Norman Knight attacked Ragnar, wounding him in the arm, which he had hardly noticed at the time. He was finally killed jointly by the two Viking brothers. His horse must have been treated kindly by his master as he stayed there looking down at his corpse.
‘Stay with us old girl, we might be able to feed you,‘ Ragnar said as he stroked the mare. ‘Margit can ride you and she is far less of a weight than that fat old Norman.’
From the ditch where she hid Margit was able to see part of the battle, which had lasted only six or seven minutes. As she prepared to climb out of the ditch she saw the surviving Norman gallop away northwards.
‘Your God Odin must have been watching you Bjorne the Red. You saved our lives, but why did you have to kill the horse?’
‘ Margit, it gave me great pain in my heart, certainly no pleasure, but I knew it was the only way to deal with the Normans’ leader. First we must bury our Viking comrade Sweyn before we get on to Jorvik as fast as we can.’
After doing so they all sang a Christian hymn, Margit said a prayer, and a cross was stuck into the earth. Next to it was a split section of a bough on which Bjorne had crudely carved some Viking runes. ‘Ragnar, you would have made a far neater job but I fear your right arm is not up to it. We will take strips out of this Norman’s shirt and Margit you must bind Ragnar’s wound to slow the bleeding.’
It was decided to put both Ragnar and Margit on the mare and make their way into the next village, regardless of who was there. For extra defence they each had a helmet now and a lance between them which was strapped to the side of the horse. Bjorne had the longer sword he took from the first Norman.
As they entered Bulmer villagers either averted their eyes or gave that look that intimated they wanted to talk to them. A middle-age man whose dress suggested he was a freeman rather than a serf asked them ‘Are you scouts for the Danish King?’ adding, ‘We are told that William has set fire to part of Jorvik and now departed. If you hurry up you can join the Vikings and their Saxon allies who are probably about to enter the city.’
‘Thank you for that information sir, Bjorne replied. ‘We are Danish and Saxons here, as this lady will confirm. The only enemies we have are the Normans, who attacked us down the road to Pickering.
‘We are in need of some bread before we move on and perhaps we could trade you with this helmet which one Norman no longer requires.’
‘That could have been one of the group of Normans who burnt several houses and killed sheep and cattle not far from here,’ commented the freeman. It seems that King William and his men are retreating for a while up the main north road to Thirsk or even beyond.’
Among the small crowd who had gathered, and obviously respected the views of the freeman, there was an elderly lady who was asking Ragnar if she could see the wound on his arm. It was still bleeding and the surrounding flesh was becoming more swollen and inflamed.
‘I will be back in one minute young man. I have a potion that we use on cuts to help stop them bleed and not go poisoned. Now you chew on some of that bread the Meister is getting for you and I will be back.’
On her return the old lady lifted off the blood-soaked bandage from Ragnar’s arm and applied
some sweet smelling ointment from a small stone pot. ‘What is it made of,’ asked Margit.
As you are a Saxon or Celtic girl I will tell you’ said the old lady. It is a mixture of Yarrow leaves and Lady’s Mantle. My own grandmother told me it was a well used balm from the Celtic days.’
As they moved off, with Ragnar and Margit still on the Mare, they noticed that not all the villagers looked upon them as friends. One or two looked at them in silent disapproval.
Bjorne said that perhaps they always had such miserable faces, but if they were supporters of the Normans there’s not much they can do about it. From what the people who helped us said, William could have taken all his men to the north for the present.
They moved as fast as they could and did not stop for rest until late afternoon near Strensall. Ragnar had made no complaints but all could see that he was in great pain and clinging on to the horse with only his left hand. Margit pulled back some of the new bandaging from an old shirt that the Meister had given him. ‘That looks a nasty red my love and giving you pain, she said.’ But the good news is that the bleeding is definitely slowing up.’
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