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.