The Constant Queen (51 page)

‘All arranged.’

Elizaveta looked at her daughters, women now but looking as guilty as little girls at the admission. She drank in the sight of pretty, blonde Ingrid, so like her grandmother and namesake in both
looks and temperament, then dark-haired Maria, too like her mother and father for her own good. She sighed.

‘You knew I would agree?’

‘You’re always up there, Mama. At least this way you can enjoy your dinner instead of scratching away on that old viol.’

‘Scratching . . . ?’ Elizaveta protested but the girls were already spinning away and Greta was calling to the children that it was time to go. ‘Scratching?’ she repeated
indignantly to herself but in the doorway Maria spun back.

‘I really
was
proud of you,’ she said and then she was truly gone, leaving Elizaveta to pick up her skirts and follow with a reluctant smile.

‘Goodness, Tomas, we’ll all starve at this rate and then we’ll never defeat Harold’s damned southerners. Pull it by the horns!’

‘I’ll pull you by the horns,’ came the ferocious reply and the men roared with laughter.

The group of youngsters had dragged the cow almost to the riverbank now but were in confusion about how best to get it across. The bridge was sturdy but narrow, barely wide enough for two men
side by side, and the cow would fill it. Across the pasture behind them another group had somehow succeeded in lassoing a second beast and were leading it, still very much alive, towards them.
Harald saw Tomas look round in something close to panic and took pity on him.

‘Get the ropes,’ he called to the men on his side, ‘or we’ll never have it cooked before dusk. And besides, we don’t want the English to think us fools, do
we?’

That set them moving. Aksel led a group up the hill where two lengths of rope sat coiled amongst the discarded mail like adders in a nest. He bent to pick up the first one and then
froze.

‘Hurry, Aksel,’ Harald prompted but in reply Aksel pointed a hand towards the York road and now Harald saw it too – dust rising. ‘They’re coming,’ he
roared to his men. ‘The hostages are coming. Get that bloody cow over here now!’

Aksel picked the ropes up, slinging them over his shoulder, but then paused again.

‘Aksel!’ Harald shouted, irritated. ‘Move!’

Aksel looked down the slope at him and Harald saw raw dread in his eyes – Halldor’s eyes. For a moment he was in Miklegard again, a young man fighting with his friends against
pirates, and then the lad’s shout ripped through his warped mind: ‘Soldiers!’

He blinked. Soldiers? It couldn’t be. There were no soldiers left in the north, or none ready for fighting at least. They were all face down in Fulford’s marshes.

‘Soldiers!’ came Aksel’s cry again, then, ‘A banner. ’Tis, ’tis . . .’

‘’Tis what?’ Harald snapped, though he could see it for himself now – a white banner with a black warrior picked out upon it, sword raised: the fighting man, the
standard of Harold Godwinson, once Earl of Wessex and now King of England. ‘It cannot be,’ he muttered.

‘Sire, ’tis the king.’

‘It cannot be,’ he said, louder. ‘He is in the south waiting for Duke William.’

But there was no doubting the banner, nor the gilded armour, nor the huge host at the man’s back. Was he a magician to have brought so many so far? And how had he evaded the guard
outside York? Were those poor men dead already? There was no time to think of them now and Harald’s mind raced into action, seeking advantage. If this was truly Harold Godwinson, his men
would be tired. They would be no match for his own troops, rested and ready and . . . He glanced back to the armour, strewn carelessly across the hillside. Never had Harald been caught so
unprepared and he felt panic surge through his big body before, swift on its tail, the hotter rush of battle-anger.

‘To arms!’ he cried, snatching up the landwaster and leading the way himself. ‘Man the bridge. We must keep them back long enough to form a wall.’

He ran up the hill, flinging mail at men as he went so that it clashed and tangled in their legs. Harold Godwinson had caught him out with barely half his warriors and they were unarmed and
sluggish with sun and ale. Ulf would never have allowed this, he realised with a bitter pang. He had been a fool and now he had to move fast.

‘Did you know about this?’ he hissed at Torr, grabbing the man’s collar as he tried to dart past.

‘No, Sire, truly. I have no idea how he has done it.’

‘Well he has,’ Harald said grimly, ‘and now we will have to fight as we have never fought before.’

Already the English were streaming out across the pasture, some fighting on horseback like Pechenegs, cutting down the Viking cattle rustlers in swift, easy strokes.

‘Send to the ships,’ Harald commanded one of his best riders. ‘Take horses and ride hard. Tell Otto he must bring troops now.’

The man nodded, looking fearfully back at the English as they drove through the Norwegians still caught on the far bank.

‘Sire, ’tis twelve miles.’

‘I know, you fool. Ride hard.’

The man ran for his horse, leaped in the saddle and was gone, up through the trees towards Riccall. Otto would come, Harald knew, but not for some hours. They would have to defend as they had
never defended before.

‘Men!’ he roared into the autumn air, planting the landwaster into the ground. ‘To me! We knew we would have to fight Harold of Wessex to win England and it seems the time
has come to do so. He has spared us a march, bless him – so let us welcome him in true Viking style!’

His men let out a huge roar and Harald thought he saw the English line falter across the pretty river between them. Good. He had not picked this time nor this place but he was ready. He had
always been ready – let them come.

Elizaveta felt she had not laughed so much in weeks, certainly not since Harald had sailed for England and perhaps for a long time before that. Everything had been so bound up
in the invasion, as if normal life had ceased and all Norway had been hunkered in a dragon boat pointed west. She had breathed battle plans, drawing them in from Harald with every snatched kiss,
and all else had seemed somehow frivolous. Today though, perched up on the Brough of Birsay, avoiding the shadow of the ancient broch, she felt as if she had been gifted life again.

She sat back on the woollen rug laid out on battered leather hides to keep the September damp from seeping through, and watched as Filip, hands clutched around his ankles,
leaped across the grass before them. She had finally told them of the toad, his namesake, and how Maria had smuggled him into the great hall at Oslo, and now he was acting out the scene, eyes
forced wide and cheeks blown out as he croaked his way across the cliff top.

‘Ah!’ Greta screeched, throwing her hands up to her cheeks in mock horror. ‘It’s so ugly!’

‘And so slimy,’ Mina cried at her side.

‘And so warty,’ Ingrid added.

‘Oh no,’ Maria objected, hands on her heart, ‘I think he is beautiful and I shall make him a lord.’

She jumped up and ran over to Filip, seizing her precious sword from the food basket and holding it before him. Elizaveta watched the amber hilt glowing golden in the dipping sun and prayed
Harald’s sword, too, was glowing gold, not red.

‘Swear fealty, Lord Toad,’ Maria commanded.

‘Never,’ Filip cried in a croaking voice, trying to leap back and tangling himself in his own fool’s grip. ‘I will only swear,’ he went on from his position on his
back in the grass, ‘to the King of England, King Harald.’

‘King Harald Hardrada,’ Elizaveta said quickly.

‘Of course,’ Maria agreed, just as swiftly, ‘what other Harald is there?’

‘None,’ Filip called, ‘save he be a toad like myself.’

It was a brave jest but the laughter had gone out of the scene and all eyes turned to the sea. It lay a benign blue before them – the colour of hope, Tora had called it, and Elizaveta
seized at that now.

‘Who would like an apple tart?’ she called brightly, reaching to the servant for the basket.

The children tumbled towards her but Maria did not move, save to step towards the cliffs. Elizaveta handed the basket to Greta and went to her eldest girl.

‘Maria? You are cold?’

Her daughter’s skin, exposed where she had pushed back her sleeves in the game, was as dimpled as gooseflesh. Maria snatched the fabric back into place.

‘A little. It is late in the year after all, Mama, for eating outdoors.’

Elizaveta refrained from pointing out that the whole jaunt had been Maria’s idea.

‘It is time, perhaps, to head for home,’ she suggested instead but at that Maria shook her head.

She was turning her little sword over and over in her hands, staring at it as if she might gaze right into the heart of the steel and suddenly she said: ‘I want to see.’

‘See what, Maria?’ Her daughter did not reply, just moved to the broch and put a hand on its rough walls. ‘No!’ Elizaveta darted after her. ‘No, Maria, please. You
cannot see England even from the top. You know you cannot.’

‘I might.’

‘And even if you could, what then? Papa is at least three days’ sail away – you will hardly pick him out from here.’

‘I might,’ Maria said again, her face set. ‘I feel him, Mama – in here.’

She pressed her hand to her heart and tipped her head back to fix her eyes on the topmost stones of the broch.

‘Maria,’ Elizaveta begged, ‘you cannot climb. Your skirts . . .’ But now Maria was setting her sword against the base of the broch and unclipping her shoulder brooches.
Elizaveta hastened to stop her but as the skirts fell to the floor she froze. ‘You are wearing hose.’

‘I am not a fool, Mama.’

‘Not a fool,’ Elizaveta allowed, ‘but foolish all the same. Maria, it is dangerous.’

‘So is sailing to England but if Otto can do that, if Papa can do that, then I can climb this.’

‘It does not work that way,’ Elizaveta insisted. The others were gathering around now and Maria was grasping the first stones. Elizaveta grabbed at her waist. ‘There are no
omens, Maria, no deals to be made with God. This is but a tower, a collection of stones; you cannot reach Harald this way.’

Maria looked down at her.

‘Mayhap not, but I need to try.’

Elizaveta stilled. She knew that feeling. It was a feeling that had sent her, canoe above her head, up the steep riverside path in Kiev and then again in Oslo. It was an itch in the soul and it
seemed her daughter had caught it from her. She took first one hand and then the other from Maria’s waist.

‘Take care,’ she told her softly and then, standing back and taking Ingrid’s arm, watched her elder daughter start to climb.

Harald felt as if he were on an endless upwards struggle. His limbs screamed, his head pulsed. He slashed and parried, blocking blows with his shield and casting them with
his sword. Deep within the shield wall he was sheltered from the ferocity of the full attack but his men were falling away like moths in a candle flame, and the English were driving fervently on
towards them.

Stuck on open hillside he’d had little choice but to form a shield-wall in full turtle formation around his banner with his men in an arrow shape, the best fighters on the two longer
sides protecting the softer rear. He and his personal warband were a little back from the tip, supposedly commanding the movement of the battle but in truth there was no command to issue save:
‘Hold!’

Already the field was littered with bodies, most of them Norwegian. On the bridge poor Tomas had abandoned his cow and, fighting alone with a sword flung his way by a comrade, had held off
the entire English host for wave after wave, buying Harald the priceless time needed to arm and group the core of his warriors. Finally he had fallen but with unending courage and Harald vowed he
would see him honoured. Once the reserves made it from the ships and sprung the English from behind to secure the victory, he would see him honoured. He just needed to last out a little more. He
was not a natural defender – already he felt cramped, tied in by his own battling men – but he could do it. He would do it.

Harald set his feet more firmly in the soft ground but then a sharp cry told him that the left side of his wall had split. Looking over he saw the English driving into the central section,
soldiers pouring in like ants onto honey, only with murder in their eyes. For a moment all seemed helpless but then he glanced back up the hill and saw a flash of steel in the dipping sun. Otto was
come! Otto was come and not a moment too late. He need stand here, penned in, no more.

He looked out across the battlefield and his heart soared. This was him. He was Harald Hardrada – Viking, Varangian, King. He wiped sweat from his brow and swept his eyes around, taking
in the ferocious shield-push of his men, the chaos of the English, and the sparkle of his own reserves roaring down the hill, swords high. There was no battlefield plan now, no calm command, no
space for manoeuvre. There was just one thing left – spirit. Glancing to his landwaster he saw his raven, wings triumphantly wide, sewn with the loving, believing stitches of his wives.
Planting his feet, he drew in a deep breath. He would fight as he had fought all his life and he would not end this day beneath a bush. He threw back his head, raised his sword and roared a single
word – ‘Charge!’

The world had concentrated, focused down into one tiny figure, dark against the soft sandstone of the broch as the sun dropped behind. It seemed as if there was no time any
more: Elizaveta was listening to her mother’s stories and feeling trolls clutching at her ankles; she was riding up the banks of the Ros, resettled foreigners cheering her in; she was on her
childbed, wreathed in agony; then cresting the rapids, spirits as high as the tumbling waters. And there was no place either: she was on the walls of Kiev, ice in her face; riding up to a royal
farmhouse, fighting disappointment; ordering architects to spin a city from half-remembered plans; then plunging into a steaming pool beneath a fire-riven land.