Prudence: An Important Value for a Norwegian

York, England, 25 September, 1066

"Dread King, it is time to go."
Harald Hardraada did not suffer flattery for the sake of advancement. He was king of Norway though, and as such he suffered such flattery often. So he survived. He replied to this certain suckup: "Alright. Gather all the troops and let's be off. Those hostages are valuable!"

"All the troops?" asked the man, or rather the boy, a young page barely fifteen winters old and only showing a slight fuzz on his cheeks. Hardraada did not like being questioned either. "Yes,all of them. Did you not hear me? Now,off with you, or your head shall be off as well!"

Stamford Bridge awaited them.



Harold, son of Godwin, king of England elected by the Witan, stood at the bank of the river called Derwent, and waited for his brother. It was his fault, all of this, you could say. If he'd supported Tostig instead of Morcar and Edwin, they'd all be south of here, destroying the Bastard's army...

But maybe they'd all be dead. But now was not the time to reflect on what might have been. Now was the time to make sure people would not ask that and say, "If Harold had acted differently, he'd be alive..."

An hour passed. Then two. The huscarls started fidgeting. Leofwine was already counseling retreat. Gyrth suggested they attack York. But Harold always took the middle ground. The third hour of their waiting came, and then it ended. The Raven Banner of Norway was appearing, and with it a terrible sight: Forty five thousand men had assembled on the north side of the river, and they all shouted a terrible sentence: "Drepe saxserne!
 
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Hello there, and welcome back to AH.com! :D
I wonder if perhaps there may be a surviving Viking state in England? Certainly an interesting scenario to ponder, I think. :)
 
Stamford Bridge on the River Derwent, Yorkshire, England, 25 September, 1066

Harald looked out over the water. A few hundred yards in front of him was a bridge.
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And across the bridge was the challenge and the opportunity of his life.
What had he done in his life? Killed a few Saracens, tromped around Rus', and unsuccessfully tried to conquer Denmark. Would anybody remember him for any of that a hundred years from now? Would he be mentioned in the same breath as Knut, who had ruled Norway, Denmark and England? Would the sagas ever sing of him near the hearth on a cold winter night?

If he had anything to do with it, yes.
But across the river was he who sought to prevent him from becoming a legend: The man people would forever confuse him with because of the similarity of their names: Harold Godwinson.
The battle for England started now.


The son of Godwin and the first king of England that was not of the house of Alfred the Great was tired of waiting. His undergarments were already threatening to moisturize, and his mouth would not obey him when he tried to order an advance.
But his vocal cords did, and finally he broke through the cowardice blockade. The harsh Anglo-Saxon words exited his mouth: "Forth, and fear no raven!"
The whizzing began almost immediately. Arrows flew back and forth, and one dented his chain mail. His ax was drawn, and the bridge quickly was filled up with warriors, the Dragon of Wessex was held up in the air until it was cut down by an arrow in its bearer's throat. Harold had reached the bridge when a heartening event occurred: a shout rose up: "Hardraada is dead!"


They can't hurt a dead man, he thought. Harald had learned much in his three decades of warfare: One thing he had learned was to never trust brute strength. Not like he didn't have any. Forty five thousand men had ridden out from Jorvik as the Norsemen called it, to fight Harold's army, and now something like ten thousand had fallen. It was clear that the result was unclear. He had crumpled on the bridge, a false arrow embedded in his throat. And now he saw, from his position half a mile away that the Raven Banner was being pushed back from the bridge, even someone had planted a Dragon of Wessex on the northern shore. But the men knew the plan. He had been spotted, but not by the enemy.


Harold couldn't believe it was over already. True, the bridge was choked with Saxon bodies as well as those of the Norse, but Hardraada's army was shattered. York would surely now open its gates, a kingless Norway would surely surrender.


They reached sight of the city by twilight. The walls loomed large in the fading sunlight, and Harold shouted with all his hoarse might: "Open the gates! Surrender to me, the rightful king of England, and we will let you sail home in peace!"
Unexpectedly, a reply came. "Surrender? Who will make us do so? You and your battle-weary army of men who cannot wait to return to their fields?"

It wasn't the Norse monarch with whom he shared a name. It was somebody else. It took a moment for his face, only barely visible, to register. Then it came to him: Paul, the Earl of Orkney. No visible signs of battle were on his face. Indeed it seemed that he had been quite restful.
So were the rest of the troops who had gathered besides the Orkney man.

A hard ruler gives hard results.


Five hours earlier, many miles south, Pevensey, Sussex

The wind had changed. Finally the troops who had tired of waiting now had a chance to tire of something else: battle.
William, or Guillaume as he was really called in his native Norman French, who unfortunately was called 'the Bastard' behind his back and not without reason, had reached the land that had always been a presence if he chanced, say, to look across the sea on a clear day from Calais. He reminded himself for the thousandth time why he had come. Harold was an oathbreaker who had sworn to help him gain the crown after the old king of England died, and a despoiler of churches who had only contempt for God.

He chuckled at the memory of Pope Alexander's gullibility. Surely it was the will of God, he said to himself more seriously. Or at least, he thought it was to himself. His trusted aide, Geoffrey de Eu, had heard him. "What is the will of God?" he asked his liege. "This." William replied, and pointed to his sword.
 
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