Much later, when the sun had almost gone and scudding clouds were darkening an already dreary evening, Godwin came to escort me to Harold’s pavilion. As he went to lift the flap we heard voices within and hesitated, not wishing to intrude. Leofwine was speaking, his tone edgy.
‘Harold, I think you shouldn’t fight. You are exhausted, man, you have had nothing but strain for months and now think you can fight a battle when you are still stiff and worn from the last.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ came Harold’s voice, ‘have you seen these men that have come to fight for me? Men that have marched the length of England; men who have left their ploughshares and their hearthsides to fight for a man they do not know? Are they not weary too? How then can I plead tiredness and sit in the sun while their good blood is spilt? Nay, brother, I fight tomorrow and I will not rest until William is dead or fled.’
Another voice, lighter and younger than the last and I realised it was Gyrth; the three remaining sons of Godwin were together on the eve of battle.
‘They can’t flee, for the duke ordered their ships burned to prevent such a thing happening.’
‘Then they can swim home,’ snarled Harold, in a voice I had never heard him use before. Gyrth broke through the forced flurry of laughter.
‘But Harold, what if the day goes against us? Should we not preserve our king to fight another day.’
‘Nay, lad,’ replied Harold, ‘we finish them tomorrow, I will not fight another day. I will end it tomorrow or die in the attempt…’
‘And where will England be then, without a king?’
‘You will have a king, boy.’ he roared, so loudly that, all around, heads turned toward the royal tent. ‘The queen rides to Chester with the next king tucked safe within her womb. If it goes ill for me then you must rule, Leo, until my son is of an age to do so and you, Gyrth, must aid him. Godwin too, for all his youth, is a good boy, and will stand by his half-brother.’
Outside in the cold, Godwin and I, heard his words and stared at each other, realising that our presence could only undermine the king’s confidence in his plans. With a brief shake of his head, Godwin backed away, beckoning me to follow him and we slipped away into the steady drizzle that had begun to fall.
Senlache Ridge 14 October 1066
Despite their exhaustion few slept well that night but a hush fell upon the camp as darkness fell. The men sat at their campfires, watching the glowing embers, wondering if tomorrow’s battle would bring victory or death. Godwin had commandeered a tent for Eadgytha and I, where we both lay sleepless until the first notes of dawn confirmed that day had come. I rose from my bed, stretched my aching limbs and crept outside. I thought Eadgytha slept but, a few moments later, I found her at my side, as crumpled and weary as myself.
A white blanket of mist covered the land but, as the morning wore on and the world kicked off its bed covers, a white, nondescript sky was revealed. The day was neither dull nor bright, neither warm nor cold. Anwen produced a rough breakfast of honeyed milk and coarse porrage, which we both ate, more from gratitude than hunger. As the morning wore on and noise in the camp increased, Godwin appeared, pale from lack of sleep. At first, by his height and bearing, I thought he was Harold and my heart gave a little leap.
‘Good morning, Madam,’ he said, ‘and to you, Mother. The day looks fair set for battle; father says that these white skies are better than sun that dazzles a soldier’s eyes and saps his strength. It is better too than rain, that turns the battle ground to a quagmire and obscures the vision.’
We both smiled but made no reply until Eadgytha broke the silence.
‘How is your father this morning, my son?’
‘Oh…anxious… preoccupied. He has no idea you are here and it will be best if we keep it that way. He is closeted now with the earldormen, Edmund is with them but I made my excuses and came to find you, to see if you have all you require. You must both stay well clear of the battle and, should things begin to go wrong, you must flee from here, do you hear?’
We both nodded mutely and then Eadgytha said,
‘I have been praying that the Normans would creep away under cover of night but, I suppose they are still there.’
Godwin gave a snort, ‘They are and, rumour has it, that they carry the papal banner. With Rome on their side they will feel themselves invincible.’
I placed my empty porrage bowl on the table.
‘They have won the pope to their cause with lies,’ I said, spitting out my words. ‘They declare your father an oath-breaker but they are the ones without honour, Harold would have sooner died than pledge allegiance to William over holy relics.’
‘We know that, Madam,’ soothed Eadgytha, staring out across the undulating land, ‘but we must have faith that God knows this also and so sends us victory over our enemies. Should things go wrong, England will be changed forever. Our customs and language lost and our children’s children will be as Normans.’
‘Then they must be stopped,’ I cried, ‘and Harold is the man to do it.’
‘Amen,’ said Godwin, ‘Amen to that.’
The camp fully awake, the noise and activity of battle preparation took our minds from the enormity of the moment. My rising panic was doused by small emergencies; a young serf with a badly scalded foot came to be salved and bandaged. He was no more than eleven summers, his face white, both from the shock of his injury and worry that he would miss the battle.
‘I can still fight, Lady,’ he declared, ‘bind it well and I will fight for the king ‘til I drop.’ I smothered a desire to ruffle his hair. He was little older than Idwal. Instead, I washed his scrawny foot and smothered it liberally with goose grease before binding it. He wore no boots and I suspected the dressing would soon work itself free.
‘I thank you, Lady,’ he cried as he limped away, armed with just a rusty axe, some relic of the ancient wars. I wondered what he would say if he realised it was the queen of England that had just bandaged his grimy foot.
The country was depending on men like him, torn from their families by duty and honour. When he was gone, Eadgytha and I fell to helping the other women put the infirmary into some order, for, even if the day went well, there would be casualties, there are always too many injured …and killed in conflict.
It was still early when we watched the men take their positions on the hilltop. We knew nothing of Harold’s plans and could only hope that he had some winning strategy to finish the day quickly. They lined up across the ridge of Santlache hill, an impregnable wall of muscle, their shields locked and their axes and swords honed. Harold’s fighting man banner snapped in the skies along side the dragon of Wessex and the flags of Leofric and Gyrth. The Godwinson brothers stood ranged together for battle. The fighting men of England were backed up by the hoards of untrained ploughmen, blacksmiths and grim faced monks; their flanks ungirded, and armed only with clubs and maces. To one side the archers stood ready, their arrows stuck into the ground around them so that they could let fly a rapid succession of deadly missiles. England waited, determined to stop the invader and to spill without mercy the Norman blood upon the Saxon shore.
Scanning the massed army, I searched for Edwin’s banner, sweeping my eyes twice or thrice across the hillside.
‘Where is my brother Edwin?’ I asked, ‘why is he not come?’
Eadgytha shrugged.
‘He has much ground to cover and many men to muster. He may be held up but there is time yet. Don’t give up on him, the day is young.’
I felt that he should be here; his tardiness was letting all England down, letting his king down, letting me down and bringing dishonour upon the name of Ælfgarsson. But I could not ponder his whereabouts for long, for my attention was snatched by an outbreak of unholy noise.
From where we stood we could not see the ranks of William’s army but we could hear them shouting insults, trying to break the resolve of our shield wall. In response our men stood firm, clashing their weapons against wooden shields and roarin
g, ‘Ut. Ut. Ut.’
Eadgytha clutched my arm, our petty dislike forgotten in the face of shared fear. Not only Harold but Godwin and Edmund were out there among the fighting men and we both prayed for them, vulnerable and untried in battle as they were.
All at once there came a hail of Norman arrows, they whispered through the sky before spiralling softly to the ground, short of the target. Our men let lose a stream of derisive abuse, thumping their shields again, enticing the enemy into action while our archers let fly their arrows in retaliation. The Normans crouched beneath their raised shields and we knew from the screams that some of our archers had reached their mark. First blood, the day had begun.
Their next volley was more precise and we heard the stuttering thud of a multitude of arrows imbedding into our raised shields. So thick did they fly that some found a way through the close linked shields and men fell, struck down screaming, only to be hauled from the front ranks from behind to be quickly replaced by another warrior.
After that we were forced away from the scene for the wounded began to arrive at our tent in a steady stream, some limping, some carried; those we could were bound up so they could fight again but others were too badly hurt. There were those for whom we could do nothing but offer them comfort, hold their hands and croon soft words to them as they cried for their mothers. Every so often, one of the women would abandon her post and run to the edge of the hill to ensure that the fighting man banner still flew proud above the furore.
Anwen rallied the wounded, teasing them and making light of often horrific wounds, squeezing together the torn flesh before binding it tight and sending up a silent prayer that they might recover. The lilting of her Welsh tongue barely ceased but Eadgytha and I worked more quietly, each with half our minds upon the battle that clamoured so close by; our hands soiled with good Saxon blood and our tunics soaked in gore.
A monk was brought in with an arrow through his throat and, swallowing nausea, Eadgytha knelt at his side, his fingers clasped within her praying hands, while I bathed his forehead and waited helplessly while he choked slowly to death on his own blood. When his gurgling breaths ceased I gently closed his eyes and stood up, signalling to a servant to bear the body away as another was brought in to replace him.
‘Take a rest, Madam, you look exhausted,’ begged Anwen, ‘we shall manage without you for a while.’
The boy she tended was not mortal hurt. She bent over his skinny torso prising an arrow from his shoulder.
‘This will smart a bit, bach,’ she said, ‘so grit your teeth and let’s get it out.’ He fell into a swoon as the barbed blade was ripped from his flesh, bringing a further torrent of blood. ‘That’s better, lad, now I can work without fear of hurting you further.’
She looked up at me, flicking her black fringe back from her eyes, ‘Are you still here, Lady?’ she cried, ‘go on, outside, take the air and see if your Lord’s standard still flies.’
The noise from the field was incredible. Screams, taunts, trumpets, the thump of twenty thousand swords on twenty thousand shields; shrieks of the dying and the roar of rage issued from the battle while closer, in the camp, the cries of the wounded mingled with the shouted orders of the those tending the fallen. I hurried closer to the edge of the hill and looked across to where Harold’s shield wall still held strong against the foe; his pennant blowing strongly in the wind.
Beneath it I could see him rallying his men, bolstering their courage from the rear. His mouth wide and his fair hair flying beneath his helmet, he whirled his axe about his head and shouted to his men to stand firm.
All eyes in the shield wall were fixed in one direction; I turned my head to see what held their attention and the breath caught in my throat. William’s army, four ranks deep, were approaching on foot, swords raised and spears pointing forward. At first they marched but soon they broke into a jog, roaring insults and obscenities as they came. Their ferocity was such that I feared our lines would never stand firm, but they did not so much as falter as the vast hoard bore down upon them. My heart stopping, I watched as they came.
‘Sainte criox.’ they bellowed, ‘Holy cross.’ our ranks hollered back,
‘Godemite. God Almighty. Olicrosse. Holy Cross.’ and ‘Ut. Ut. Ut.’
The Saxons let lose their spears into the approaching army, felling them as they ran, but the Normans barely faltered. Our men, fixed like oak trees to the ground, gripped their battleaxes, ready for the onslaught. With a mighty roar the two sides met, a human wave crashing onto rocks and all I could do was look on in horror as they slashed and struck with axe and sword.
Fresh blood fountained into the air and I saw heads severed and gaping holes smashed into armoured chests, but as each man was felled so did another take his place, unflinching in the face of certain mutilation.
I turned and fled, swirling back into the tent where Eadgytha was binding the bloodied stump of a frydman’s arm. My heart thumping, I snatched up a bowl of soiled bandages,
‘The battle grows worse.’ I cried, ‘prepare yourself, Eadgytha, for I fear our task is about to become harder.’
‘Harold lives still?’ she asked, helping her patient from his chair and conducting him to sit with the other wounded outside. The wounded awaiting our care were groaning, some screaming. Eadgytha thrust her hair from her face with the back of her wrist, exhaustion writ clear on her face.
‘The banner still flies,’ I replied, ‘I have never seen battle before, I tell you, men make light of it in their mead hall boastings.’
‘This is a battle…’began Anwen but her words were interrupted as one, desperately wounded, was carried in and dumped upon the table.
‘Oh, my good Lord, have mercy.’ cried Eadgyth, her face white, ‘tis Harold’s uncle Ælfwig …oh, Eadgyth, he is sore hurt.’
Judging from the gore, this was an understatement. Grabbing my knife I began to cut away his clothes.
‘These are monastic robes and he wears a hair shirt.’ I exclaimed.
Anwen slopped a bowl of water before me as Eadgytha replied, ‘He is the abbot of Winchester. Godwin told me yesterday that Ælfwig had brought the youngest of his brethren to the fight. Oh God, he bleeds so, we will never save him.’
She was right, his wound was so severe that all our ministrations were useless and his breathing grew shallower as his blood seeped steadily away without him gaining consciousness. We all wept freely as his portly body was shrouded and borne away. He was the first we had tended who was noble kin, a Saxon prelate, torn by loyalty from the peace of his abbey to die amid the horror of war. It was my first taste of despair that day and it was not to be my last.
After that they came in droves, thegns, farmers and ploughboys, cut so deep and wide that there was little hope that, even could we halt the flow of their blood, they would not take the fever and die. We battled on, weary and sickened, staunching, stitching and soothing as best we could. And then came Godwin with blood on his brow and an arrow in his thigh. Eadgytha screamed when she saw him and we both rushed to him, leading him, limping, to a chair.
‘I’m alright, Mother,’ he said whitely.
I cut his leggings and wiped the blood away while his mother fussed ineffectually, kissing his face and trying to smooth his hair.
‘tis not lodged so very deep,’ I said, ‘but it will hurt, Godwin.’
Eadgytha mopped his head, examining the source of the injury.
‘This is but a flesh wound; thank Jesus. Heads always bleed profusely. Oh, my son …’ she sobbed, suddenly overwhelmed by the trauma of the day and the fear that, like all the others, her son too would slip from life beneath her hands. Putting her head on his shoulder she let the tears flow while I worked at the arrowhead.
‘How goes the battle?’ I asked to distract his attention from the bloody knife I wielded.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied, ‘it was going well and they had not so much as dented the shield wall. The slaughter was great, far more falling on their side than on ours. But,
of a sudden, the Bretons who fought against us on the right flank suddenly faltered and began to retreat, at first backing up slowly but then turning and running full pelt down the hill. Father yelled for the wall to stand firm but the fryd closest to them thought it a rout and ran after them howling their derision. Ow, Eadgyth. Watch you don’t sever my manhood.’
I grinned up at him, ‘Sorry, I’m sorry, I am being as gentle as I can.’ He nodded and, after a moment, continued his story, breathless with pain.
‘The fryd, sensing victory, chased the Bretons past the marshland and straight toward the Norman camp. Hundreds of them, screamed after the fleeing foe like demons, overwhelming them and striking many down as they went. For a while it looked as if the triumph was ours.’
I grasped the stump of the arrow shaft and tugged it. The arrow jerked from his muscle followed by a crimson jet of blood that spattered across my face.
‘God’s teeth, woman.’ he yelled, sounding exactly like his father but when I looked up to apologise I saw he had fainted clean away. Eadgytha, in an agony of panic, splashed water on his face while I staunched and bound the wound. Moments later he regained consciousness and was watching me, his eyes still bleary,
‘If the Norman’s get too much for us to handle we can set you on them, Madam,’ he said before slipping into unconsciousness again.
Later, he concluded his tale and we learned how William, foreseeing the total collapse of his infantry, led his men in a decisive onslaught, blocking the retreat of the Bretons and crashing into the Saxons, slashing with their swords and trampling the defenders into the ground. We lost many men; those who tried to return to the shield wall were pursued and hacked to the ground while the shield wall looked on.
‘Just after that,’ continued Godwin, ‘Father noticed my head wound and sent me to have it tended, there was no arguing with him and he hadn’t even noticed the arrow jutting from my leg.’
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