XIV The Battle of Stamford Bridge
The month of September, 1066, was drawing towards its close, and so far all had prospered with Tostig and his Norwegian ally. After burning Scarborough, they had sailed up the Humber, advanced towards York, fought a tough battle, and placed themselves in such a position before the capital of the North, that the citizens recognised the necessity of yielding. Indeed, they had agreed to open the gates on the morning of the 25th, and on that morning Tostig and Hardrada—who had broken up their lines, and encamped on the river Derwent, at Stamford Bridge, seven miles from York—were to march in triumph into the city, and hold a grand council to regulate the affairs of the province.
It was a Monday; and early in the morning, Hardrada and Tostig, leaving part of their army encamped on the other side of the Derwent, rode side by side towards York, accompanied by some thousands of their soldiers. The weather being warm—for it was “one of those autumnal days in which the sun is still in all its vigour”—and no resistance being anticipated, the Norwegians laid aside their coats of mail, and dispensed with all defensive armour except helmets and bucklers. When approaching York, however, they suddenly perceived clouds of dust, and, through the clouds, steel glittering in the sun.
“Who are these men?” asked Hardrada, in surprise.
“They must be Northumbrians,” answered Tostig, “coming either to crave friendship or to ask pardon.”
The Norwegians, however, had not advanced many paces, when Tostig was disagreeably undeceived. The approaching mass grew more distinct, and the sun revealed an army in battle order.
“It is King Harold,” said Tostig, scarce mustering voice sufficient to speak the words.
“Ride!” said Hardrada, turning to three of his horsemen—“ride! and, with all haste, bring our warriors from the camp.”
The horsemen darted off with the speed of the wind; and Hardrada, unfurling “The Ravager of the World,” on the folds of which a vast raven was depicted, ranged his men round the banner in a long, narrow line, curved at the extremities. Pressing against each other, with their spears planted in the ground, and the points turned against the foe, the Norwegians stood ready for conflict; and their king, mounted on his coal-black steed, his helmet glittering with gold, rode along the line, singing, as was his wont on such occasions, extempore verses, to excite the valour of his men.
“Let us fight,” he sang, “though without our cuirasses; let us forward to the edge of blue steel. Our helmets shine in the sun. For brave men that is enough.”
While Hardrada thus sang, about twenty mounted warriors—horses and riders clad in steel—dashed out from the Saxon ranks. Approaching the Norwegian lines, they suddenly halted, and intimated their wish to hold a parley.
“Where,” cried one of them, “is Tostig, the son of Godwin?”
“Here,” answered Tostig, spurring forward his steed.
“If thou art Tostig,” said the Saxon, “thy brother greets thee by me, and offers thee peace, with his friendship, and thine ancient honours.”
“These are fine words,” said Tostig, bitterly; “but if I accept your offers, what shall be given to the noble King Hardrada, son of Sigurd, my faithful ally?”
“He,” replied the Saxon, “shall have seven feet of English land, or a little more, for his height exceeds that of other men.”
“Then,” said Tostig, “go back and say to my brother that he may prepare to fight; for none but liars will ever say that the son of Godwin deserted the son of Sigurd.”
The parley ended; and the Saxon warriors rode back to their host. The Norwegians and Saxons then closed in the shock of war, and the conflict immediately became fierce and sanguinary. But, from the first, the invaders had the worst of the encounter. With their huge battle-axes, wielded with both hands, the Saxons rushed furiously on their foes, cleaving down all opposition, and breaking the first rank of the Norwegians. Hardrada, pierced with an arrow, fell in the heat of the strife; and, as his gigantic form disappeared from the black steed, the banner he had brought from Norway was trampled in the dust and captured by the foe.
No sooner did Hardrada fall than Tostig took command of the Norwegians, and prepared to continue the strife. Harold, however, paused in his assault, and sent once more to offer peace. But the Norwegians would not listen to terms.
“We will rather die,” said they, “than owe our lives to those who have killed our king.”
On receiving this answer, the Saxon king led on his men to the attack, and fearful was the carnage that ensued. In vain did bands of the Norwegians, roused in their camp by Hardrada’s riders, hurry up to the aid of their fast-falling comrades. Fatigued with their hasty march under a burning sun, they fell in heaps before the axes of their foes. Ere long, the struggle ceased: Tostig lay dead on the ground, and around him the Norwegian chiefs who had followed their king to minister to his vengeance.
But, meanwhile, the Norwegians who had not passed the Derwent drew together to make a desperate defence; and the Saxons advanced to consummate their victory. This, however, proved no easy achievement. In fact, the strength and resolution of one man long kept the Saxons at bay.
At that time the Derwent was crossed by a wooden bridge. Long and furiously was this bridge contested; and when the Norwegians, yielding to overwhelming press of numbers, retreated, one warrior, of tall stature and mighty strength, remained to defy, single-handed, the might of his foes. Armed with a battle-axe, which few men could have wielded, he struck down every one who ventured within his reach; and, when forty men had fallen by his hand, the boldest Saxons recoiled in dismay from a foe who appeared armed with supernatural power.
But at length the Norwegian was taken unawares. Perceiving the certainty of death in attempting an encounter hand to hand, one of the Saxons seized a long spear, leaped into a boat, and floated quietly under the bridge. Availing himself of a favourable opportunity, the Saxon dexterously thrust his spear through the planks right into the Norwegian’s body; and the huge champion, without even seeing his new adversary, fell mortally wounded. Harold then became master of the bridge, and led his soldiers to the Norwegian camp.
Nothing that could be called resistance was now attempted. The Norwegians had given way to despair; and when Harold, for the third time, sent to offer peace, the proposal was gladly accepted. Accordingly, a treaty was hastily concluded; and after Olaf, son of Hardrada, had sworn friendship to the Saxon king, the Norwegians took to their ships, and, with sad hearts, set sail for their northern homes.
The victory at Stamford Bridge placed much booty, and a considerable quantity of gold, in the hands of the Saxons. All this Harold, as king, claimed as his own; and deep was the discontent which the avarice, or economy, of the son of Godwin, on this occasion, created in the ranks of the victorious army. Many of the Anglo-Saxon chiefs took mortal offence, and ridiculed the idea of serving a king who had not sufficient generosity to share the spoil of a vanquished enemy with those by whom the enemy had been vanquished.
The discontent of the Anglo-Saxons was at its height, when Harold suddenly became aware that he was in no position to lose friends and adherents. The breezes in which his banners waved at Stamford Bridge had filled the sails, and impelled to the English shores, the fleet of an invader more formidable than the adventurous Hardrada. While Harold the Saxon was wrangling with his earls and thanes in the city of York, William the Norman had landed with his counts and vavasors, on the coast of Sussex.
Alarm now appeared on the face of every Saxon, and confusion added to the discontent that pervaded Harold’s ranks. But no time was to be lost. Without even taking time to bury the slain, the Saxon king turned his face southward. For many years after, the bones of the slaughtered Norwegians whitened the scene of the battle of Stamford Bridge; and, so late as the nineteenth century, swords, heads of halberds, and horseshoes, have often been turned up, and excited interest, as memorials of the day on which the great Hardrada was overthrown, and the “Ravager of the World” trampled in the dust.