But first there was an invasion to mount.
The culmination of all the preparations came in June. The dedication of an abbey constructed by William's wife Mathilda became a celebration of bloody war, and soldiers in mail coats watched William and Mathilda give their seven-year-old daughter to be a child oblate at the abbey. Orm thought this mixture of sanctity and aggression was utterly characteristic of William.
With the ships built, William gathered his fleet and his forces in the Dives estuary. But the weather was poor, with ceaseless rain and northerly winds that kept the fleet stuck in port. The men and their horses sheltered in their vast camps, in tents if they were lucky, under cloaks and blankets thrown over branches if not. Every week two thousand carts brought food, fuel, water and wine, and a thousand carts left full of horse manure. Disease nibbled away at the static army. William ordered fasts and prayers; he had relics paraded by the sea.
But still the weather did not break.
And in England, a different threat loomed.
XIV
Godgifu saw the English army arrive from afar, from her position on a slight rise away from Hardrada's main camp at Stamfordbrycg. And, though she was too far away to see the expressions on their faces, she could see shock and fear ripple through the ranks of the Norse and their English allies.
The geography of the site was clear, in this place that was soon to become a battleground. It even looked beautiful, in the bright noon light of a September day. There was the river running roughly north to south, crossed at the bridge by the arrow-straight east-west line of the Roman road to Jorvik. The Norse had spread themselves out on both sides of the river around the bridge, and threads of fires rose from their camp. On the east bank Godgifu could see the ugly raven standard, the 'Land Waster', of the King of Norway, Harald Sigurdsson – known as Hardrada, Ruthless-with the lesser standard of his English ally Tostig rising alongside.
The Norse were relaxed. Some of them were even fishing.
And there came the English, advancing steadily along the Roman road towards the bridge, their painted shields a colourful wall before them, their conical helmets shining like grains of wheat. Godgifu saw standards rising from among their ranks: the Wessex dragon, and the red and gold Fighting Man, the standard of Harold King of England, this September day not yet ten months on his throne.
It was impossible for Harold to be here. And yet he was.
'Hell,' said Estrith. 'Hell, hell, hell. They've caught us with our pants around our ankles. Who'd have thought it? Now we're for it. Come on, Godgifu, help me with this stuff.' She was bundling up clothing, bits of armour and weaponry, food. Beyond, the other women collapsed sail-cloth tents and ran for the horses.
Estrith, a powerful woman of about forty, was the wife of a fyrdman, a common English soldier – a man who was down there by the bridge, Godgifu realised, along with the rest of Tostig's contingent. These women had sheltered Godgifu since the Norse had joined the English. Godgifu ought to help them break camp and flee.
But she couldn't take her eyes off the scene unfolding down by the river.
The Norse commanders issued hasty orders, trying to rouse their men. Scouts ran for their horses and rode east, heading for the fleet, to call for armour and reinforcements.
But the English were here, already in battle order under the noon sun. They approached from the west, from Jorvik, and the Norse detachment on that side of the river was small and mostly unarmed. These men now scrambled to get back across the bridge to the east bank. They were brave, brutal men, hardened by years of warfare – but only moments before they had believed they were safe. Now, as English arrows began to fly, they panicked, crowding onto the bridge, and Godgifu heard the first screams of the day.
The English foot-soldiers reached the bridge and a wall of shields pressed into the mass of Norse, swords and axes flailing. Blood splashed, bright red in the noon light, becoming a kind of crimson mist amid which blades hacked and slashed. The cries were sharp now, like the screams of wounded birds.
This was the first pitched battle Godgifu had witnessed. She had been involved in combat herself, in the raids with Tostig's men on the south coast, and in petty incidents when she had protected her brother. But she had seen nothing of the first major battle of the summer, Hardrada's victory over the English at the Foul Ford. She had never seen anything like this before, a scene of hundreds of men crowding, hacking and stabbing at each other almost mindlessly.
It didn't last long. The last of the Norse fled, or were cut down, and the English had the bridge. Already the river ran red with blood. The English began to advance once more, stepping over corpses and kicking them into the water.
Godgifu felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Estrith. 'It's always like this, you know.'
'What is?'
'Battle,' Estrith said. 'Just a bloody churning. And it all comes down to numbers. Now we get a break. They're going to talk before they fight.'
'About what?'
'About avoiding the slaughter. Perhaps Harold is asking for Tostig to be given up.'
'If so he will offer him quarter,' Godgifu said. 'Harold won't kill his brother.'
'After inviting in an invader, after this?' Estrith shrugged. 'Then he's a fool. But it's up to him. Anyhow while they are talking, which won't be for long, we have to move.'
'Why?'
Estrith sighed. 'You really are green. Everybody knows the Norman Bastard is prowling the coast of Frankia, waiting for the wind to carry him to England. Do you think Harold is going to show mercy to whatever's left of Hardrada's rabble, to leave them to roam around Northumbria causing trouble? No. Harold will cut them down. And he will be no less sparing with us, mark my words.'
'So we run.'
'We run.'
But even as she worked with the women, frantically packing up the camp, Godgifu kept an eye on the battlefield. Unable to get the blood out of her head, she thought it seemed a long time since May when she had joined Tostig, a long journey that had brought her to this muddy Northumbrian river bank.
XV
Godgifu had been riding with Tostig since his first landings on the south coast. Tostig's men had had trouble knowing what to make of her. She was a woman who fought; she was neither a wife nor a nun nor a whore. But she had proven her worth in the light skirmishes they had fought as Tostig raided along the coast. She was treated with respect by the English, and was never troubled by them.
And she had enjoyed the feel of the horse under her, and of a sword or axe in her hand, and of the breath of the sea in her face when they sailed on Tostig's ships. As Orm had said it was good to be free of the moral complexities and compromises of a king's court, and to immerse yourself in loyalty to your lord and some simple physical action.
But Harold had managed to drive off Tostig from the south coast. England's defences, the navy and the fyrd, responding rapidly to the call-out, had worked well at their first test under Harold.
The embittered Tostig sailed around the coast to the north-east. He sought help from the Danes, and even approached William, it was said. But the Bastard had his own schemes and they didn't involve any Godwines. Tostig landed in the north, intending to head for Jorvik. But the northern earls, Morcar with his brother Edwin of Mercia, had driven him back once more. Harold's tactic of hastily marrying their sister had evidently paid off.
Tostig spent the long summer brooding in Scotland. And meanwhile he sent embassies across the northern sea.