“What is it?” men were asking, perplexed, a little fearful. “What is wrong?”
Ealdred, Archbishop of York, came hurrying, his vestments gathered into his fists so that he might run the faster. He put his hand out to signal Harold to stop. “What has happened, my Lord? What tragedy? What is wrong?”
“We are in dire need of your prayers, my Lord Archbishop,” Harold said quickly, as he hauled the beast to halt. “I must ride south immediately. Duke William has landed his fleet at Pevensey.”
17
London
Harold reached London late in the evening of the ninth of October. The news was bad. His brother Leofwine awaited him at Westminster, was first down the Hall steps into the torch-lit courtyard as the King rode in.
“Well?” Harold demanded as Leofwine ran up.
“He has fortified himself within that area of marsh-edged land known as the Hastings Peninsula. It would be difficult to take our army in there—boundaries of marsh and river are as effective as any palisade wall. For the moment he has no lack of supplies, is living off the land, looting all he can and destroying what remains.”
Harold tossed the reins of his stallion to the nearest servant, unbuckled and removed his war cap as he strode up the wooden steps leading into his Hall. Alditha stood at the top, the cup of welcome in her hand. She offered it to him, he took a quick gulp and passed it back, pressing a light but inattentive kiss to her cheek. “I have no time for formal welcome, lass, but would appreciate a tankard of ale and something to eat—cheese will do.” He kissed her a second time, more fondly. “You look tired,” he added. “Does the child bring discomfort?”
“No, my Lord, the child is well,” Alditha answered him, but he did not hear, for he was talking again to Leofwine and others of his command who were gathering around the table set beside the eastern wall, already cluttered with maps and parchments. His queen, for want of something to do to help, went to fetch ale.
“I have been studying the route south, and the entire Hastings area,” Leofwine said, indicating one map unrolled and spread, a salt box, tankard, ink pot and wooden fruit bowl anchoring the four persistently curling corners. “From what we have already learned, these villages”—he indicated three—“have been burnt, razed to the ground.”
“Casualties?” the King snapped.
Leofwine cleared his throat, glanced at his own captain of housecarls, knowing Harold would not be pleased at the answer, “Several.”
“Aye, I would expect the Bastard to butcher the menfolk.”
“’Tis not just the men. There are bodies of women and children—bairns, some of them, still at the breast.” Leofwine swallowed hard, reluctant to continue. The brutality of the battlefield was no stranger to any of the warrior kind, but this, this was sickening. Quietly, his voice hoarse, he said, “Many are only charred remains—they burnt with their houses. Nothing has been left standing. No one left alive. It seems he has not come merely to conquer England, but to destroy everyone and everything in the process.”
Harold was standing with his palms resting flat on either side of the map, looking at the markings of river, coast, settlement and hill. He set his jaw, said nothing. He dared not. The words that were sticking in his throat would have erupted into fury had he released them. He swallowed down his anger with a gulp of ale from the tankard that Alditha fetched him, his mind turning to campaigning in Brittany…
William’s determination to succeed, whatever the cost in human life or suffering. His manic obsession with winning. Too clearly could Harold see in his mind that smouldering ruin of Dinan. The senseless killing of the innocent. Of women and babes. Heard in his ears the screaming as women and their daughters, innocent of men, were violated. Now it was happening to his own, to English people. People he knew—and knew well, for he held estates in that coastal area, had hunted there often as boy and man grown. He had a stud of fine breeding horses at Whatlington, and Crowhurst held a mews with some of the best hawks in the country. His hawksman there was a loyal and good-humoured man, his wife and four daughters all exceptionally pretty. Crowhurst had been one of the places Leofwine had pointed to.
After a while, when his breathing had calmed, Harold asked, “Do we know the extent of his supplies? The Hastings land will not feed him for ever.”
“With the number of ships he has brought with him, I would say he is capable of withstanding a siege through the winter at least.”
William could devastate the area in that time, and aye, it would be difficult to flush him out. The Hastings Peninsula might be no stone-built fortress, but it mattered not. A siege was a siege, whatever the defensive circumstances, and Duke William was well versed in siege warfare. Nor, Harold reflected grimly, was he likely to make foolish mistakes through arrogance, as had Hardrada.
“I say leave him to rot!” That was Gyrth, who had just entered the Hall, stripping off his riding gloves as he did so. Like Harold, his beard-stubbled face was grimed with white dust, his clothes sweat-stained, eyes tired. Twice, in a matter of weeks, had they made the journey between London and York in six days. Once in itself was feat enough for any man, but twice? Surely this king deserved the respect and loyalty of his subjects!
“We shall ensure he cannot get reinforcements; therefore he will run out of food eventually—perhaps his men will not stand firm if we starve them out,” Leofwine added.
Harold pushed his weight from the table, hooked a stool forward, sat. He was so weary. His body felt a dead, limp weight, but he could not afford the luxury of paying mind to it. “We need to consider this carefully,” he said. “I know Duke William. Know some of his vile tactics—he made damned sure I did. I see why, now. He hopes to goad me into hasty action through what he has ordered done to my people in Sussex.”
“He intends to draw us into the arena, do you think?” Leofwine spoke his thoughts out loud. “Is waiting for us to go in after him, lure us into an ambush?”
“Or, once he has burnt and plundered everything in sight, will he march out towards the Weald?” a housecarl captain asked, indicating a possible route with a grimed nail. “Could he have designs on Winchester, or Dover?”
“That we must wait and see.” Harold selected a chunk of soft goat’s cheese and bit into it, not tasting its tangy saltiness. “I do not care to let him run riot in the Weald. With only one narrow road in through dense woodland and impassable marsh he is safe from any land-based attack, but equally, that makes only the one route out. Within Hastings, we have him contained, can choose our own time to attack.” He ruffled his hair, then brought his hand down over his nose, across his chin. “It is easier to spear a boar while it is trapped. Only a fool would prod such a creature out into the open.”
“How long do we wait?” Leofwine queried. “A few days, weeks?”
Harold answered him with a vague shrug. His mind was too tired to think,to make decisions…He forced the drowsiness aside. “We wait as long as we can. We are all tired, many of the men are wounded and are still straggling south—we were too short of horses for us all to ride with haste.
“My poxed brother’s treachery has placed us at a disadvantage. Let us just hope William is as uncertain what to do next himself—he cannot have made plans, for he would not have expected us to be occupied in the North.”
Not for the first time during the dash south did Harold wonder at that, though. Had William known? What if Tostig had made an ally of Normandy also? There was no reason, save that of family honour, to have prevented him. And honour was a quality Tostig had been grotesquely lacking.
“The fyrd, I assume, is alerted?” he asked of Leofwine.
His brother nodded. “The war horns await your orders for their blowing.”
All summer had the fyrds of the south and eastern counties been on alert, alternating their patrolling of the coastline. Now they were to be called out again. They were not obliged to come, for already t
hey had served their compulsory time. Before Stamford Bridge, Harold might have doubted their eagerness, but not now. They would join together under his banner, for no warrior would miss the chance of a good fight, a good victory.
***
“Will you not come to bed? You need to sleep,” Alditha stood beside her husband, laid her hand over his. Midnight had passed; she had been abed, asleep, but had awoken to find Harold sitting brooding before a brazier that was only feebly glowing.
He began to rub warmth into her fingers. “I have too many thoughts tangling in my mind. Sleep would not come.”
She knelt and laid her head in his lap. He stroked his hand over her loose hair. She always smelt of chamomile. So did Edyth.
“Can you defeat Duke William?” she asked.
“I defeated Hardrada.” But that was different. He slid his palm along her cheek, down the nape of her neck. “The fight with Normandy will depend on how long I can delay. If I can delay.”
She looked up at him, her solemn eyes questioning. “If? Surely you will wait until all can reach you? You will not march with only half an army?” Even Alditha, a woman, could see the potential for disaster in that.
“I have lost men and many horses. If your brothers and the fyrds of Northumbria and Mercia could have come south with me, then Duke William, for all he believes he is superior, would not have stood a chance against us. As it is, the North has fought twice with great bravery already, has taken a hard toll of casualties. Both your brothers were wounded at Gate Fulford. Eadwine, like my son Goddwin, has an arm wound that lost him much blood. Morkere took a spear deep into his thigh. They will heal, but not fast enough to be of immediate help. How long will William wait before pressing for an advantage? Once he learns that my armies are not at full strength he will spare no mercy for me or England.”
Digesting his answer, Alditha buried her face within the folds of Harold’s cloak, but the sob that she tried to suppress escaped her lips.
“What is it, sweetheart?” Harold tipped up her face with his finger and wiped away the trail of a tear.
She made several attempts to pluck up the courage to speak and at last blurted out her fear. “What if you were to lose to him? What will become of me and my daughter, of this one, in here?” She clutched her swollen belly. She had not liked to ask. It was taboo to mention defeat, but she had to know. Had to!
Harold wished he could comfort her by saying that William would not harm a woman. Would he hurt a queen? Would he dare? But if he got to Alditha, it would be because he, Harold, was dead—and who then would be able to protect her? And the child. What would he do to a boy child? No, he could not pledge that she or the babe would be safe in William’s bloodstained hands.
Cradling her to him, arms around her, he rocked her as if she too were a child. “I shall not give up my kingdom easily. I intend to win, dear heart. He may well take victory at a first battle if we are drawn into a fight too early, but the winning of one battle does not always mean the end of a war. Look at our Great King, at Alfred—at the numerous battles he fought against the Danish invaders.”
Aye, Alditha thought in answer, and look at other kings who have failed, who have been slaughtered in the fighting.
Harold did sleep, for an hour or so, before dawn crept in with the bright promise of another sun-filled day. The chattering birds beyond the window woke him. As he stirred, Alditha groaned, snuggling closer to his warmth, reluctant to wake.
He would send her north, he had decided, where she would be safe from William. Her brothers could be trusted to see to her security—for the child, if not for herself. And if the worst happened and William succeeded, from York she could ride with ease to Chester and from there reach the safety of the Welsh, her mother’s people.
He closed his eyes, drifted into another doze. And that would solve another problem also. What to do with his three sons. Goddwin, Edmund and Magnus had remained in York, unable to ride although they had begged to accompany him. It would not surprise him if they limped and crawled their way down the North Road—but if he sent word that they were, between them, to protect the Queen and the unborn child…
Goddwin did not like Alditha, but neither would he like what William might do to the boy or girl that was destined to be his half-brother or -sister. Especially not if Harold ensured his eldest son knew all that had been happening in Sussex.
Word had reached London of what had been found at Crowhurst. Farms, buildings, the chapel, all burnt to the ground. The land-folk of the settlements and farmsteadings—including those of his manor, his hawksman and servants—all of them, young and old, fearing Duke William and his men, had sought the sanctuary of the church.
And William had ordered its firing, heedless of these Christian folk sheltered within.
18
Waltham Abbey
Algytha had ordered the trestle tables brought outside for a good scrubbing while the weather held so fine. She paused, puffing with exertion; why did men make such a mess with their ale and meat? Could they not keep at least some of it within the tankard and in the bowl? A horse’s neigh attracted her attention and she glanced across the courtyard, expecting to see one of the farm folk, or someone from the village. It was too soon for it to be one of the boys home and her father would not have the opportunity to leave London. Not with this latest news of William.
Edyth heard it also. Her cheeks red from the effort of beating dust from a tapestry, she rested her fist on her hip and, breathing hard, watched the gateway for the visitor to arrive. She too doubted it would be Harold…even if he were not so busy with the Norman landing, why would he come here? Westminster, Winchester, wherever his court resided was now his home, not the manor. She wished someone would come from the palace, though, for she was anxious to hear how her two eldest sons fared—they had been wounded but would live, that she knew. Anxious, too, to hear what was happening in Sussex; how Harold was and what he intended to do.
Her smile of pleasure was exaggerated by the surprise of her wish being granted, for she recognised that distinctive bay—it was ridden by one of Harold’s most trusted captains. Laying down the beating broom, Edyth made to walk forward to greet the newcomer, but stopped short, her expression crumbling into horrified dismay. Harold was come—but he was not alone. He rode beside an open-sided litter; inside lay a heavily pregnant woman. The Queen Alditha.
Edyth had seen her briefly at court, during those months when she had first been brought out of Wales, but had never spoken to her. Seeing her again, she was reminded of how pretty she was.
Harold dismounted, hugged Algytha who had run to greet him, then handed the woman from the litter and led her towards Edyth, who stood, conscious of her musty, old and very patched working gown and the kerchief covering her hair. Why, of all days, had he chose this one to bring her here? On the very day Edyth, for want of something to occupy her mind, had decided to clean out the Hall thoroughly before winter? Everywhere was chaos and confusion. Oh, why today?
Edyth dipped a curtsey to the Queen and bade her welcome to the manor, then flashed Harold a glare of anger. “My apologies that we are in disarray, my Lady. You are welcome to the privacy of my own chamber, which is not so disordered.” Harold, she noted, wore the marks of tiredness. Was it any wonder?
Looking about her with interest, Alditha followed Edyth within doors and up a short flight of timber steps to the spacious room above the southern end of the Hall. The room was light and airy, with south- and west-facing window shutters thrown wide to allow in the sunlight. Tapestries of hunting scenes decorated the lime-washed walls, a bright patch-worked cover lay over the wooden box bed in one corner, its red-dyed curtaining swathed back with embroidered ties. There were comfortable chairs; several carved chests for clothing, linen and such; glass goblets; silver platters. A vase of autumn flowers stood in the centre of a table, at which a boy sat, legs dangling from a high-legged stool, a book lying
open before him. He looked up as they entered, yelled with delight as he saw his father and ran to him, arms outstretched.
“My youngest son,” Harold explained to Alditha as the lad jumped into his father’s embrace, legs and arms clinging around his waist and neck. “This is Ulf, who at twelve years of age is becoming too big for leaping on me as if I were a pony!” With fond love, Harold ruffled the lad’s hair, then pointed to the book. “What are you reading, boy?”
“’Tis one of your falconry books, Papa. Thorkeld says I may help him in your mews, if I am prepared to learn all I can.”
“Learn from Thorkeld also, there is little he does not know of hawking. You may tell him, when he thinks you have learned enough to take care of her, that you may have Freya. She is one of my best goshawks. Fly her well, lad.”
Ulf whooped his pleasure.
“Do you not already have a hawk of your own?” Alditha asked politely of the lad. He was a good-looking boy, with the features and mannerisms of his father.
“Aye, Lady, I have a merlin, I call her Beauty. Papa gave her to me on my tenth birthing day—but a merlin cannot be compared to a goshawk.”
“It most certainly cannot! I had a merlin when I lived in Wales. She was so fast when she flew that it was difficult to keep your eye on her, and when the sun dazzled on her feathers I thought her the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Your choice of name is a good one.”
Pleased that his wife was attempting to make friends with the lad—it was no easy thing for her to come here—Harold was reluctant to intervene, but there was so little time and so many things that required attention.
“Ulf, put the book away where it belongs and get you gone to tell Thorkeld your news. I would speak with your mother.” As the boy ran from the room, his tread loud on the stairs—with the unmistakable thud as he jumped the last four—Harold thought bitterly that his son’s love of hawking might, for a while, be disrupted.
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