1066 Turned Upside Down

by Joanna Courtney

  Emerging from the murk Warenne catches sight of Edgar standing with his housecarls behind the formidable barricade.

  ‘Forward! Forward!’ he cries, then intrepid as always, he forces his own way forward.

  Inspired by his courage, his infantrymen push on harder under the hail of missiles. They can see the dark figures, fearsome spectres ahead. Spears fly towards them out of the cold, dim haze to strike soldiers down but still the Duke’s men stay resolute and advance until they reach the makeshift defence. Using their shields for cover, they push with all their might in an attempt to force the obstacle aside.

  Now they are so close to their foe they find spearmen jabbing at their faces and others standing on carts and huge barrels, throwing hand axes down on them. More and more of the infantrymen fall wounded or dying and warm blood seeps between the wooden planks of the bridge to mingle with the icy river and the bodies floating below.

  Along the south riverbank, the Norman crossbowmen are having little impact. They are at the limit of their range, have no view of their targets in the fog and are hampered by their own men along the bridge. On the northern shore, however, the English archers continue to let fly their arrows at their attackers. The English blockade is yielding to the weight and press of men, but not enough, too slowly, and at too high a price. Duke William decides the losses are too great to continue.

  ‘Pull back!’ he cries above the din. ‘Pull back!’ No one hears him. ‘Pull back!’ he yells, louder.

  The order is echoed by his commanders and the withdrawal gets under way. Duke William can see from his soldiers’ relieved expressions he has made the right decision.

  ‘Out! Out! Out!’

  Insults and calls of derision follow them as they retreat across the bridge, stumbling over fallen comrades. On the south bank they appear as bloodied apparitions before those who have remained behind.

  ‘My lord,’ Fitz Osbern says quietly to Duke William, ‘I think we need a change of tactics.’

  ‘Indeed,’ responds the Duke sarcastically.

  He eyes the wounded. A couple of hundred injured soldiers have made it back but he thinks there may be as many as seventy or eighty lying dead on the bridge.

  ‘My lord,’ says Fitz Osbern, ‘we can succeed but not yet, not while this fog is working to their advantage. Their arrows can reach our vanguard but our crossbowmen cannot touch them. When it lifts, that’s when we can storm the bridge. We can make a battering ram, break into the barricade and charge through, they’ll be unable to repel us. If we rush them with enough infantry we can do it.’

  ‘What kind of a battering ram?’

  ‘We will make one from a tree trunk and a cart.’

  ‘And push it across the bridge?’

  ‘Exactly so, my lord.’

  ‘You’ll need to clear the bodies.’

  ‘I’m sure I can get Edgar to agree to that, my lord.’

  ‘Good. It’s agreed,’ says the Duke. ‘We will clear the bridge of the fallen, wait for the fog to lift, and then we will take London once and for all.’

  The previous evening, they had thought the final victory would fall into their hands as easily as a ripe fruit from a tree, but this particular fruit was not quite ready for the picking. They all knew that after victory there was plundering and that this would be plentiful in London. Not far away, but out of reach, riches await them. Inside, they rage with frustration.

  Nearing midday, after Fitz Osbern has claimed the dead and the warmth of the sun has cleared the foggy air, the Norman crossbowmen gain sight of their adversaries. With their greater range they are to pick off as many English archers as they choose.

  Fitz Osbern has ordered some of his men to make a battering ram. Soldiers have cut down an oak tree and secured the trunk to a handcart. Now it is ready they wheel it into position at the front of the column.

  ‘Advance!’ Fitz Osbern commands.

  The men begin pushing the cart forward. Once on the bridge, the soldiers push harder and the cart begins to pick up speed.

  ‘Charge!’ the call goes up from the Duke.

  ‘Charge!’ call out Fitz Osbern and Warenne.

  They do as urged, forcing the cart over the bridge and halfway through the barricade as the rest of the infantrymen, led by Fitz Osbern, bear down rapidly behind. The fighting is vicious and bloody.

  On the riverbank the crossbowmen are shooting furiously.

  ‘Remember,’ their sergeant shouts out, ‘they can loose their arrows at a fearsome rate but they haven’t got the power or the accuracy of our crossbows. Now that we can see, let us show them our worth!’

  And they do, shooting at half the rate of the English bowmen but hitting their targets more often. Just as at Hastings, the effect of their accuracy thins out English ranks. They inflict a terrible fear on the defenders but the Saxons remain unyielding.

  ‘Make every bolt count!’ Walter shouts.

  His waving arms and loud commands make him a target for the English archers on the far side of the river, but for all the arrows that come his way, none strike home.

  Edgar is standing in a place that commands a good view of the proceedings. Now that the Normans are tearing down the barricade and swarming over it with renewed vigour, fear strikes into his heart. His inexperience is beginning to show. Defeat looks certain and death seems close. The Norman cavalry are coming on to the bridge, following in the wake of the infantry and drawing close with frightening speed. Edgar stands transfixed – he’s never seen the power of cavalry before but the survivors of Hastings all around him are clearly dismayed at the familiar sight. The veteran housecarls look nervously one to the other as the tension mounts and spirits wither.

  ‘Steady men. Stand firm,’ Bondi calls out. ‘Those horsemen cannot hurt you. They are harmless while they are on the bridge. You can see they are held back by the foot soldiers. Hold steady and all will be well.’

  Edgar is glad of Bondi’s resolve but his relief is immense when a grinning Waltheof also appears at his side. The blood-spattered earl appears to be enjoying himself.

  ‘Things are looking lively, eh, my lord? Come with me, we will liven them up some more.’

  He is buzzing with battle, though behind him Edgar can see Morcar and Edwin losing confidence. He looks to Bondi, who has also caught the dismay on the northern earls’ faces.

  ‘My lords,’ Bondi urges the brothers, ‘let’s push forward and we will have the day. We cannot afford defeat. If they take London the rest of England is bound to fall. Your lands with it!’

  Edwin and Morcar nod and, with a quick look to each other, visibly gather themselves.

  ‘Forward, men!’ they call out and watch as their housecarls press on in attack, repelling the Norman infantry swarming over what remains of the barricade.

  ‘Follow me!’ Waltheof commands.

  Desperate to kill the enemy, he leaps into the vanguard of the men. Like a demon, he flails his axe this way and that, scything down his enemies. Bodies fall, draping the barricade like sheaves of corn left out to dry as Bondi rushes to join him.

  Still the Normans keep coming; nothing seems to deter them. Climbing over corpses as if they were mere logs in a forest, they appear blind to danger and happy to die for their duke. Edgar lifts his grandfather’s sword and, taking courage from its heft and history, obliges them.

  ‘Advance! Advance! Advance!’ Fitz Osbern bellows.

  ‘Out! Out! Out!’ cry the English in reply.

  Axe, spear and sword crash against shield and chainmail. Sometimes the weapons find their way to soft targets – piercing flesh, breaking bones or cutting through limbs. Fallen men are dying, their screams anonymous in the din of battle.

  The Normans are willing to make any sacrifice in their relentless pursuit of victory. After all, do they not have the Pope’s guarantee of absolution? And the prize lies tantalisingly
close – the whole of London waits a few yards away on the other side of the crumpled barrier that is no longer protecting the city or its people. But in its place, are the English, determined to hold firm as a new barricade – a shieldwall of living, breathing, angry warriors.

  Inch by bloody inch, the English are being beaten back. Pushing forward heedlessly, more and more of the metal-clad Normans have come across the bridge. There seems no end to these men who are eager to feel the bite of the axe, keen to suffer the slash of the sword, happy to fall on the spear. The vicious attack rages on even though the dead are piled high. Believing victory is close, the Norman infantry fights all the harder, Duke William is there, mounted on his horse, urging them on.

  ‘Forward men, forward! They are weakening. One last drive will do it. Push on. Push on forward!’

  The English housecarls can feel the pressure and they fight more fiercely, the fury of the attack defying reason. It is frenzied and it cannot be repelled, but those who fought at Hastings are anxious to make amends for the cruel death of their King Harold.

  Edwin and Morcar continue encouraging their men from behind, Bondi, Waltheof and Edgar are leading the defence – Waltheof slaying many with his huge battle-axe, Edgar cutting down his foe with his grandfather’s sword. The young king takes heart from his comrades and from deep inside a warrior emerges. Revelling in the glory of battle, he rushes to fight any Norman within reach until he sees his nemesis, the Duke, a few yards away astride his spirited warhorse. There, tantalisingly close, is the man responsible for all this slaughter, barking orders to his frenzied fighters.

  His gaze meets that of Duke William. For a moment they stand frozen, their eyes hard and staring, then William spurs his charger and Edgar leaps forward, each desperate to hack their way through to the opponent whose defeat spells honour and glory for the victor. But the ferocity of the battle keeps the men apart and frustration grips Edgar as, thrusting and slashing with his grandfather’s sword, he tries to reach his man. And then he remembers Ironside’s other legacy.

  Swapping his sword to his left hand, eyeing his quarry, he pulls his throwing axe from his belt and he hurls it as hard as he can towards the Duke. Too late William sees his rival. Too late the Duke raises his shield. Such is the power of Edgar’s throw that the axe strikes deep into William’s chest renting the links of his chainmail, sending him screaming to the ground. The would-be conqueror is helpless and pain washes over him as he falls.

  Quickly his men lift him up and half drag, half carry him to safety. But now there is no leader, the Duke’s men fall back, while the English butcher those on the north bank before throwing their bodies into the river. Where otters usually play there is now blood and gore, and the stench of death. It is over – the battle is done and the Saxons are the victors.

  With the men cheering him on, Edgar makes his way to the riverbank, seeking out William on the other side. There, in the bright afternoon sunshine, he sees the Duke being carried into his tent. Edgar waves his sword at him and grins. William’s sightless eyes see nothing.

  ‘What is the matter? Was our welcome not warm enough for you?’ bellows Edgar across the red-tinged water, but the words are drowned out by the chanting of his soldiers.

  The English are celebrating their victory against this foreign foe. Now they think, with relief, that they have a leader in whom they can have faith.

  The next morning the Normans are gone, never to return. Taking their Duke for burial in Normandy, they have melted away like yesterday’s fog. In London a week-long celebration begins. And, far away in Chester, a newborn baby cries.

  Author’s Note:

  Why did Duke William invade England? He claimed Edward the Confessor had promised him the throne and that Harold, Earl of Wessex, had sworn an oath to support him. When King Edward died, the English Council elected Harold. William, outraged by Harold’s audacity, invaded England to take the crown for himself. After Harold was killed at Hastings, William assumed he would be declared King – he was not. Instead Edgar was proclaimed King. He was the grandson of King Edmund Ironside and therefore of royal blood. Duke William had promised his followers land and riches as their reward for helping him overthrow Harold. He could not allow his companions to go empty handed. After Hastings he had no choice but to take the crown or his followers would have turned on him. And so he marched on London and fought a battle at London Bridge, which he failed to win. He then crossed the Thames up river and fell on London from the north. The English surrendered and William’s coronation was held on Christmas Day 1066.

  His long reign saw troubled times. There were a succession of uprisings that went on for many years, and William was only able to subjugate the English by building stone castles the length and breadth of the kingdom. Previously unseen in England these massive structures were designed to impose awe and fear, to intimidate – and for the Normans’ own safety and protection.

  What would have happened had the Norman invasion been a failure? The English would have carried on ruling themselves much as before and probably developed in much the same way as the rest of Northwest Europe. Today, the UK might be more like the Scandinavian countries. One thing that is certain, our history would be very different. There may have been none of the wars with the French, no Henry V, no Henry VIII, no Elizabeth and who knows, no British Empire. Then again, perhaps the British Empire might have been even bigger.

  G.K. Holloway

  www.gkholloway.co.uk

  Discussion suggestions

  Why was London so important? Why didn’t William lay London under siege, leaving the English holed up there and instead making Winchester or York his capital?

  There is a tale that Harold survived Hastings. Badly injured, he fled England and became a hermit monk. Is this likely do you think?

  DECEMBER

  1066

  Having failed to cross into London at Southwark, William marched his troops in a circle of destruction through what are now Surrey, Hampshire and Berkshire until he finally crossed the Thames at Wallingford where Archbishop Stigand of Canterbury surrendered to him. The rest of the cowering lords did so a little later at Berkhamstead, allowing William to finally march into the Royal Palace of Westminster as the acknowledged – if still vastly unpopular – king.

  He was crowned on Christmas Day 1066 in the recently built Westminster Abbey, amidst chaos as a roar at the point of crowning led his guards to torch many houses beyond the abbey, scattering the crowds – including those gathered within to witness the coronation – and leaving William to be crowned in haste and almost alone. It was not an auspicious start.

  Nonetheless, William was determined to see himself painted in a good light as a just, Christian and, above all else, rightful king. He ordered an abbey built at what is now Battle as penance for the lives lost on Hastings field and he also ordered some impressive PR.

  The Bayeux Tapestry, probably commissioned by William’s brother, Odo, Bishop of Bayeux and Earl of Kent, set out to tell the story of William’s conquest through Norman eyes – starting with Harold’s mysterious visit to Normandy in 1064, focusing on his apparent oath to uphold William’s claim, and finishing with William’s ‘noble’ victory.

  However, the tapestry seems – whether for reasons of skill, spite or just practicality – to have been sewn in England and experts point to the lively and often rather scurrilous images sewn into the borders as an indication that those making it were trying hard to insert their own voice into the heavily political message of the main narrative.

  THE NEEDLE CAN MEND

  ELIZA REDGOLD

  One of the most famous relics of the 11th century is the Bayeux Tapestry. It is called a tapestry, but in fact it is an embroidery. It is nearly 70 metres (230ft) long, and 50 centimetres (20in) in height, and comprises of fifty scenes stitched on linen with coloured woollen yarns

  It is kept, now, in a museum near Bayeux Cathedral in Normand
y, where Odo, Duke William’s half-brother, was bishop. Some say it was Odo who commanded the Tapestry made, perhaps it was, perhaps it wasn’t. We don’t know.

  At initial glance it seems to tell a straightforward story of the events that led to the Norman Conquest, and the Battle itself. But there is so much we do not understand: why the little figures in the upper and lower borders? Who were the few people named – Turold, the dwarf, and the woman, Alfgyva? Annoyingly, the makers did not include explanatory footnotes.

  The Tapestry is a beautiful thing, even today its colours are bright and vibrant. It has survived wars and fires, and the skill that went into making it is as wondrous to us now, as it must have been back then, at some time soon after October 1066. The women who stitched it – for there was more than one hand responsible for its creation – put more than just thread into those scenes. There is sadness, loyalty, and love stitched there. But who designed it? Whose was the mind behind the Tapestry’s creation?

  ‘Naked!’ I wriggled with a mixture of horror and delight as I stared up at my grandmother, my arms clutched around my knees. ‘Tell me again, Gammer.’

  My grandmother laughed. In the flickering firelight she looked like a young girl as she sat and stitched. ‘I’ve told you the story a thousand times, little Elf.’

  ‘Tell me again,’ I begged. I hated to miss any part of the story.

  ‘As a Saxon noblewoman it was my right to choose whom I would marry,’ she began, as she always did. ‘That will be your right too, Edith.’

  My own marriage seemed very far away. ‘You chose grandfather.’ Some children called their grandfather Gaffer, but I did not. The Earl of Mercia, my grandfather, was kind, but stern. He scared me. He was often away, sometimes at the court of Wessex, or as far as Wales, so I did not know him as I knew my grandmother. With my own mother gone, I spent many weeks with her in Coventry, in her beautiful hall, visiting the people in the town and farms, going to the monasteries and churches she endowed. And always, we rode. On horses so fine they seemed almost to fly across the plains, we spent hours on horseback, galloping all over my grandmother’s lands, often as far as the wildwoods of Arden.