I Am the Chosen King

by Helen Hollick

  “See to those beasts,” he ordered. “End their torment.” He made his way back, all the while exchanging cheerful banter. All the while driving and driving away the thought that hammered and screamed in his mind: My brothers are dead. Both my beloved brothers, both are dead! Gyrth, killed by a spear through his throat, Leofwine, a Norman sword slicing through his stomach as he had raised his axe to strike. Both Harold’s brothers slain and left among the dead, for during those hours of furious fighting there had been no opportunity to help with the wounded or to remove the corpses. Harold halted as he cleared the straggle of ranked men. Looked over his shoulder, along the lines. Men standing, sitting, lying. Leaning on spears, eating, resting, drinking. Hurting, wounded. Nigh on exhausted. Was it worth it? This death, this carnage?

  Ah, no! No crown was worth this dreadful taking of life—but then, no crown ought to be surrendered without it, especially not to a man who could so casually cause it all.

  “They will come again,” Harold said to those who could hear, knowing his words would be repeated along the line of sprawled men. “A last time, William will try for us again. It will be worse. I can guarantee.” He forced an encouraging smile, raised his fist in a gesture of victorious defiance. Shouted, “But then for them, we shall make it worse still!”

  They answered him with cheers.

  “The day goes well for us, my friends, my heroes!” he called as he walked back down behind the line, heading for the baggage and the wounded. He had to keep up the talk. Show he had energy yet to spend, that he had no doubts. That his confidence and pride were unsullied. How good an actor, then, must a king be!

  “I am proud of you! Take your rest while you may, my brothers—though we are not as tired or exhausted as they, the poor fools that they are, tramping up and down that damned hill all day. I almost feel sorry for the bite of the blisters to their heels!” The men laughed, appreciating his humour, as he knew they would. A few clattered their swords on to their shields, others hefting their axes and spears in salute. Not one man in those ranked lines of the shield wall atop that ridge wondered what in the name of hell he was doing there—why he was taking part in such a God-awful, bloody day. There was no need to question, for they knew, each and every one of them, fyrdman or housecarl, nobleman or freeborn farmer.

  They were there for their King. For Harold.

  Quietly, in an aside to one of his most trusted captains, Harold said, “Fetch me as soon as there is movement from down there. I go to see my mother.”

  Removing his helmet he glanced again briefly at his loyal, brave army. Aye, they were all tired, but the battle lust was thundering through their veins and they were good for a while yet. By God’s mercy and the vows that he had made on that day of his anointing, but he was proud of them!

  It was quieter back among the shade of the woodland trees; darker, too, for the sky was clouding over, the warmth of the day fading, the promise of rain in the air. Too late for their benefit, though. It would fall, perhaps, during the night or on the morrow. Had it rained this day…ah, but it was no use thinking of the ifs and buts. It was what it was, would be what it would be. Harold ducked under a low branch, came out into a clearing. At least the rain would wash away the blood. Would set this hill clean again.

  A few tents had been pitched, fires lit. Cauldrons of water steamed, dangling suspended from tripods. Within one or two a thin gruel was bubbling. The wounded were laid in rows, some covered by blankets or cloaks, most as they had come from the battlefield, sweat-grimed and bloodied.

  Beneath an oak, away to the left, a woman was kneeling beside a white-haired, elderly man. She looked up, saw Harold making his way towards her, attempted a wan smile as she brushed stray hair from her eyes, leaving a smear of blood across her forehead. Her veil was askew, her gown stained and sodden in places near the hem.

  He took a while to reach her, for he stopped at nigh on every man, to pass a word of comfort or praise. Beside one or two he squatted down, laid a hand on chest or head or arm. There was nothing he could do to ease the pain, to stop the march of death, but a personal word from the King, their beloved lord, was all they asked. They were content, after Harold had passed by, to go to God.

  “Where is my mother?” he asked Edyth as he hunkered down on the other side of the man she was tending. A broken spear shaft poked from his chest, his breath coming in bubbled gasps as the lifeblood and spittle seeped from him. Harold laid his hand on his shoulder. “Go with God, my old friend, you have served both Him and me well this day.”

  With a cough, the old man attempted a grin. “I have spoken to two of the greatest kings now, my Lord, As a lad Cnut once praised me for my quick-running legs and now you, God go with you, my Lord.” He closed his eyes. Died.

  Harold sighed, dipped his head as he lifted the unlaced byrnie over the man’s wrinkled face. Why had the old fool not stayed at home? At his age he had no need to come. None, save perhaps that of pride, which burnt so fiercely in the hearts of so many of these gloriously brave men.

  Edyth choked back tears. She dared not cry, for if she allowed just one to fall, she would not be able to stop. The weeping would come later, when there would be nothing else to do but to remember this day, these men. To remember how young many of them were; their names, their kindred. Their ending.

  “Countess Gytha is over yonder,” she said, tipping her head towards the makeshift tents, “she watches over your brothers.”

  Harold massaged his face, his cheeks, chin, nose. Brought his hand up through the sweat streaks of his damp hair. Closed his eyes to squeeze back his own tears. “Three sons has she now lost in as many weeks. Wulfnoth, too, is perhaps dead—I doubt William has allowed him his life after this.”

  Edyth reached across the body of the old grandfather, touched Harold’s hand, her thoughts screaming: Let it not be four sons! Please, let it not be four! She said in a voice that belied her terror, “Your nephew, too. Hakon is dead. He was slain in the first hour of fighting—he was so determined to fight in the front line, to avenge those years of missed freedom.”

  “At least he is free now.” Harold’s hand tightened around hers, the grip intense, desperate. Not Hakon as well, God no…“Ah, Edyth, Gyrth and Leofwine gone—so many good men gone with them.” He lifted his eyes, stared into hers. “Is it justified? All this? All this spilt blood?”

  She did not answer him immediately. What could she say? She shrugged her shoulders, tried with, “Would you then rather let William rule England? Give these men, your men, over to the ways of Normandy, without at least a chance to fight for what is our own?”

  He let go her hand, pushed himself upright. The joint-ache in his knee was paining him, but then his whole body felt stiff and sore. He would most assuredly sleep for the month around after this day.

  “You are right, my Willow-bud, as ever you are. I must go see my mother, and then return to the line.” He turned to go, paused, swung back to her. Stepping around the dead, he took her to him in an embrace that was brief but more eloquent than any spoken word. He touched his lips to her forehead, spun round and walked abruptly away.

  She saw him again, some few minutes later, making his way back across the clearing, heading through the trees to the ridge. She was kneeling beside a boy who felt no pain from the neck down, his spine being severed. He had told her that he came from Wessex, from Bosham itself, that his father had been Earl Godwine’s man, that he was proud that one son should serve the other. That his four brothers were here also, somewhere.

  Harold stopped before he left the cover of the woods, glanced back at her. He raised his right hand, palm outward, fingers slightly bent. It was how he always waved farewell to her, whenever he left the manor. He would rein in his horse before the gateway, turn, raise his hand…when Edyth looked down, the boy had died. Perhaps it was as well he had not lingered long; he would not be alone in his journey to the other side, for all of his brothers ha
d gone ahead, were gone before him.

  24

  Sendlach

  Duke William allowed five minutes under the hour to rest, and then the war horns blared for the third time. Again, he had spent the precious respite planning. For this third try, they were deployed under his own command in one single force, not three divisions. He had lost many men, more horses—knights would be fighting on foot, for the remounts were all used. Their position was desperate, the outcome uncertain, but there was no choice but to go for this one last assault. Were they to withdraw, where would they go? The English would hunt them down, finish them like game at bay. Whether they fled or fought, death waited. Better to die fighting than running like a whipped hound, to be hanged or burnt or starved…but then, for William, if captured, death was a certainty. That Harold might allow him and his followers their liberty did not occur to him.

  William’s survival depended on his men destroying that shield wall. Harold’s on holding it firm.

  Two things made the Duke the leader that he was: his determination to win and his ability to recognise mistakes and to change tactics. Harold had placed his army in the most appropriate formation, had chosen his ground well and had commanded with skill and precision. That fact William had conceded after his first assault had been so easily deflected. Both men were worthy generals, but only one could win. Skill no longer seemed to come into it. Luck would be playing a lead role in the outcome of this day, but William was not going to risk what was left him on the chance roll of a die. This attack would be different and, if they did not win through, then perhaps they were deserving of death.

  Harold watched almost dispassionately as the tidal wave of men rolled forward again. The front line of cavalry and infantry were protected with high-held shields; archers were placed at the rear. Slower on this occasion, not tiring themselves, respecting the disrupted state of the ground, the slope of the hill and their own exhaustion, they trundled nearer. It would take a while for them to reach the top—could something be done to slow them more?

  “He is a formidable man.” Harold admitted to his personal bodyguard. “And a rare one, for he uses his brain to seek solutions to a problem. Pass word that we will at last require our archers—set them to the front—but they are to be ready to step back as soon as the line is approached. The shield wall must be held!”

  The abuse hurled by the English was as searing as any barbed arrow, but words could not maim or injure, unlike the hail of missiles that was propelled downwards. Arrows first, then anything that could be thrown. Clods of turf, severed limbs, dead men’s boots. The head of a horse, even apple cores and empty ale skins. Anything, everything to deflect the attention of the Norman ranks. A man would duck his head, raise his shield arm at something that flew through the air from a waiting battle line. It might only be the harmless, shrivelled core of an apple, but then again, it could be a dagger blade…

  The Norman advance shook, but only briefly; it came onwards. The English reset their shields, braced their legs and shoulders, and waited.

  Needing to distract the attention of the front line, to sow confusion so that the cavalry and infantry could come in close without danger, the Norman archers had come to a standstill—were aiming—let loose their arrows in a high, wide trajectory to fall from above. How many men would be fool enough to look up as that cloud of hissing, whining shafts sped overhead? Enough? Would enough stop an arrow in the vulnerable, unprotected flesh of the face? Enough to do damage to the shield wall? And how many had instinctively ducked, cowering from the death-tipped cloud, had crouched, exposing their shoulders and backs to the same spitting barbs?

  Clever! thought Harold, as he watched, listening to the screams of his wounded men. For all I think of him, I admit Duke William is indeed a capable man.

  They joined, Norman breath heating on English faces. Eye to eye, sword to sword. The front line was weakened—but holding. Hand-to-hand fighting, the weight of the Norman advance crashing against the shield wall, as if some great devil-driven sea storm was mercilessly battering at a shoreline. The defence coming as desperate and brutal.

  The Duke appeared to be everywhere at once—to the fore, to the rear. To left, right, to centre. Shouting, urging, cursing. His horse was killed from under him—two now had he lost. He leapt clear as the animal crashed downwards, screamed at the nearest rider to dismount, took the animal for himself. He must be mounted, must be seen! Must drive these cur-sons on!

  For one whole hour they fought. So rarely did a battle last this long—nearly the whole of the day had they fought here, up on this ridge seven miles from the coast at Hastings. Harold himself was now fighting, had come nearer the front with the best of his housecarls. The line that had held so long was beginning to break and to crumble; too many were dying; not enough were there to take their places.

  And then the breaches came, great gaps of dead men, and the Norman cavalry were through, the advantage, suddenly, exultantly, swinging towards the Normans. William’s helmet was dented by an axe blow; Robert fitz Erneis rode for Harold’s standard, intent upon seizing it, killed several men with his sword before being cut down by the cold metal of English axes.

  The mêlée was man against man, group against group, nothing left of that wall that had stood, unshakeable, since the ninth hour of the morning. Naught Harold could do, save stand and fight. Hope and pray that they could last out until darkness fell. It was not now a matter of winning, but of staying alive. The light was fading, soon the sun would be down. The housecarls fighting for their king at the centre of the ridge were growing smaller in number, gathering closer around the two royal standards. There was no time to think, to analyse, to feel. Only once, briefly, did Harold wonder that perhaps he ought to lay down his great death-edged axe and surrender. But he remembered Dinan. No, this was the better way to die.

  Four mounted men were closing in, two of whom had a personal grudge against this Saxon King: Eustace de Boulogne, who had suffered humiliation at the hands of Godwine his father, and Guy de Ponthieu, who had lost the hope of a chest of gold. With them were Hugh de Montfort and Walter Gifford, all from the Franco-Flemish side, now forcing their way inwards from the eastern end of the ridge. They showed no mercy to the dying or the wounded as they hacked their way through towards Harold with a bitter thirst for revenge that had taken hold along with the unstoppable fever of bloodlust? The King’s guard tried to protect their lord, but there was nothing, nothing they could do to stop the vicious tide of bloody death. Nothing they could do to save England’s last Saxon-born King.

  To the western end Duke William had been unhorsed a third time. He remounted more leisurely, for all his army were now upon the ridge and the English were broken, beginning to run. He rode at a walk, issuing commands, encouraging that last, final push. Could not believe his fortune.

  The shout went up in French, spread, was repeated, clarioned from mouth to mouth. William spurred his horse to a gallop to where Harold had stood, where the standards of England had, all the day through, fluttered…

  “Le roi anglais est mortl Le roi est fini! The English King is dead!”

  Epilogue

  The Battle Place—15 October 1066

  More than 600 horses and 4,000 men lay dead along the 600-yard ridge of Sendlach Hill, the place of battle. The place of death. In the drizzle-misted dawn of the fifteenth of October the carnage and destruction were unfathomable. Had it taken so much death to achieve such a little kingdom?

  William stood, exhausted and unshaven, near to where Harold’s standard had flown proud until the moment that everything had ended for the English. He had not slept during the hours of darkness—had not sought a bed until after the midnight had passed and then his mind had whirled with thoughts that would not, would not, be banished. Thoughts of how close he had come to defeat, of how many had died and in what manner. The unbelievable realisation that he had won. Harold was dead and the crown of England was his for t
he taking. But the winning was empty, the nightmares had been there instead, hammering with galloping hooves behind his eyes, trampling his brain, howling with the cries of the dead and the dying. Harold was dead, but William now knew the manner of his dying and it would haunt him until the day of his own passing. He knew how Harold had died. How brutally he had died.

  Walter Gifford had struck the first blow, slicing his sword through Harold’s left thigh, shattering the bone. As the King had staggered, half fallen, de Montfort’s lance had pierced his shield, penetrating through to his chest. Harold’s axe had remained in his hand; he had attempted to rise, the ground drenching with his blood; he had fought on. Bleeding, dying, he had fought on. Eustace de Boulogne’s sword had slashed through his neck, below where his helmet had protected him; he was already dead as the Norman removed his head from his body, and as Guy de Ponthieu, with deliberate savagery, disembowelled and dismembered England’s King before also hacking at those English housecarls who had fought to their deaths to protect him.

  Few of the Norman army had slept well, because of that dishonourable death. They had curled beneath their cloaks where they had dropped, unable to carry their aching limbs far from the carnage of the battlefield. Too many crowding, weeping spirits walked over-close at heel for easy rest.

  By flaring torchlight they had searched through the bodies, heaped several deep, around the standard of Wessex, looking for Harold. Could not find his head, could not identify what remained.

  Angry, the Duke had thrust his face closer to de Montfort’s, had stabbed his finger into the older man’s broad chest. “I suggest, my friend, that you search again, and keep searching, until you find it!” Incompetents and fools! Why was he surrounded by such? He must have Harold’s body, to prove he was dead.

  Come morning, the anger had increased, fuelled by the lack of sleep and the first insidious stirrings of conscience. He had not undressed to sleep, but had lain, clothed, on his cot. As the sun rose and the day began, he strode from his tent that they had erected to the leeward side of Telham Hill and looked up at where, yesterday, they had fought. He would build an abbey, he thought, up there on the ridge, where the victory had been his. An altar could cover where Harold had fallen. A small voice flickered to the back of his mind. Was thrust immediately aside as he bellowed for his horse to be brought up. The voice of honesty: To honour a victory! Or to honour a king whom you had no right to kill?