My name is Osfrid. Once I was Thegn of Sturnbyck, a place of 10 hides, in England's Southland. I was a king's Thegn, my master being Harold Godwinson, ruler of all England.



I was one of his huscarls and fought many a battle at his side until his dreadful death at Hastings.

Now, the frost of old age covers me, and I rant and tire of life under the Bastard William

All would have been well, save for the raid in the Northlands by Hardrada. I speak of Harald Sigurdsson, King of Norway, and my King's miserable, traitorous brother, Tostig.

At the time, we were awaiting the invasion of the Bastard from Normandy. We knew he would come, but suddenly the alarm was raised that Hardrada and Tostig, his lap dog, had burnt Scarborough to the ground and were right swiftly advancing on York.

My King, of course, could not let this matter rest. He gathered up his huscarls, his royal Thegns, and the rest of the fyrd with us and headed north.

More joined us on the journey. Our horses were fresh and we made the fastest march I can remember. Those without mounts had to run with us, a killing pace, but in the name of the King, they did their best.

Some 130 leagues and four days later, we arrived at Tadcaster, 7 leagues to the southwest of York. It was here that Harold learned of the deaths of both his brothers in law, Morcar and Edwin.

Sigurdsson, for that was Hardrada's proper name, had asked for hostages to be delivered to him from York. Still, he had no idea of the presence of our army.

That night, we gathered victuals for the army in Tadcaster and waited in impatience for morning. We ate and rested well that night. The weather was warm and clement and no fires were needed.

I rested on a pile of hay, took out my sword Blood Drinker, and stoned him until he could scythe grass. My seax, Gut Cutter, I stoned too. Then I lay and slept.

Even then, I was a tried warrior and sleep came to me without trouble. At sunrise, we quietly moved out and went the short distance to Helmsley Gate, where we tarried just out of sight of Hardrada at Stamford Bridge.

We could see the Vikings now, as we lay in the long grass. Some were swimming in the Derwent river, others stripped to the waist, sunning themselves. We rose up and marched over the hill and down to where the Vikings lay in innocence of our arrival.

Cries and oaths greeted the sight of us, and it became apparent that many of Sigurdsson's men were without armour. Shields they had and swords, some had axes, but we learned later that they had left their hauberks and byrnies on their ships.

They were simply waiting for hostages to be delivered, not a great English army. We approached the bridge of Stamford itself, but found ourselves stopped by one man. A giant berserker, fully armed and with a great two handed axe, who stood guard on the bridge. Our warriors went singly and in pairs to meet him, but he cut them down like cattle are slain by the slaughterer.

No-one could approach him without their heads departing from them, or their bodies being cut in two. Then one of our brave men crept into a boat that he found on the shore, while this giant was engaged.

He floated beneath the bridge, and brought his spear up between its planks with all his strength, piercing the berserker's manhood and delving into his belly.

The giant keeled over slowly and made a mighty splash in the river.

We charged across the bridge, but the brave stance of the berserker had given Hardrada a chance to bring his men to order.

We faced their shield wall with our own and we charged. They fought bravely, but without armour, our swords and axes fed upon their bodies and they broke.

They ran for their ships, but we gave chase, cutting them down wherever we could find them. Earlier, Hardrada had sent a desperate message to his ally, Eystein Orri, to bring re-enforcements.

Not long after this, an arrow took Sigurdsson in the throat and he died. A short time following, the vile Tostig met his end.

By the time Orri appeared with re-enforcements, it was too late. The King of the Northmen dead, his standard, Land Ravager, captured, his men made haste to their boats and sailed away.

Three hundred boats had brought them. They returned to their homeland with 23. And then the news of Hastings and the Bastard's landing reached us.

But that is for another day.

I'm indebted to Wikipedia for some of the facts in this article.

Copyright (c) 2009 Mike Bond