Peaceweaver

by Judith Arnopp

‘At least you will fight again, my son,’ said Eadgytha, ‘and I am shamed I was so little help when you had need of me.’

  Before Godwin could answer a group of men stumbled in, their faces and torso’s bloodsoaked and we fell straightaway to tending their hurts.

  ‘What is happening on the field?’ I asked of a be-whiskered farmer.

  ‘They rode on horseback into our shield wall. Can you believe that? They did battle with their horses, used them as a weapon against us.’ the old fellow uttered with bewilderment on his face. ‘I have never seen the like. The Normans have no honour. The Saxon shield wall has always stood firm against everything but … horses it cannot withstand.’

  I dabbed at his face, most of the blood didn’t seem to be his and he confirmed that he had sliced the head from an oncoming horse before the rider had slashed his shoulder with his sword.

  ‘And the king, he lives still?’ we asked, again and again of the wounded and they answered,

  ‘Yes, he lives, as far as we know, he still lives.’

  Trumpets sounded and the next wave of injured told us that there was a lull in the fighting. The wounds that we tended now were different, if anything they were less severe, for so fierce had the fighting become and the injuries grew so brutal that more of the maimed died before they could be brought from the field. There was no rest for the women and during the break in the violence our nursing continued feverishly, our fingers hurrying to patch up the wounded so they may return to the fight. Eadgytha, hearing her son, Edmund’s voice, turned to greet him and assure herself that he was unscathed.

  ‘Edmund.’ she called and he looked up, appalled at finding her there.

  ‘Mother? What are you doing here? We thought you far from danger…’ his voice trailed away and all heads swivelled as Harold strode into the tent.

  ‘I am come to discover how Godwin’s headw…’ he stopped mid-sentence and glared at Eadgytha, unable to believe his eyes.

  ‘What in God’s name are you doing here?’ he bellowed. Eadgytha blanched at his anger, bowed her head and did not answer. Harold, gory from the fight, stood, hands on hips before her,

  ‘I asked you a question, Madam’ he bullied, ‘I entrusted a job to you and I would know why you abandoned the task.’ Still she did not move and I could see her trembling.

  Suddenly I saw Eadgytha as Harold must see her, daubed in gore, lank hair stuck to her forehead and her rough gown covered in wet patches. She was a mess and I knew I must look the same. I stood up from behind the patient I was bandaging.

  Harold’s eyes flicked past me unseeing, and then back again. His features froze, the blood drained from his face and I knew he was angrier than I had ever known him. I clenched my fists and looked him in the eye,

  ‘I am to blame, Harold. I refused to go to Chester and Eadgytha would not leave me because she had given you her promise.’

  ‘As had you, Madam,’ he growled and, his grip tight upon my arm, he marched me from the tent. Briskly he all but dragged me away from the curious throng of people toward the edge of the hill, close to the place from which I had watched the battle. Glancing across I saw the field littered with the dead and dying; strewn with remnants of banners like the fields around Thorney after the day of the spring fayre. Anwen hovered a little away, out of earshot.

  ‘Well?’ he spat, ‘explain.’

  How could I explain? It all sounded so childish now. I wanted to risk my own life, and that of Eadgytha and my maid, because I had been too proud to tell you how much I loved you and I was afraid you would be slain and die never knowing?

  I could not say that and so I said nothing, hoping he would understand and just take me in his arms and hold me as I craved. The silence stretched on until it became overwhelming.

  ‘I was afraid,’ I said at last, ‘I thought you may need me, if you were wounded. I couldn’t bare to think of you injured… or worse and myself far away and of no use to you.’

  Hollow eyed, he looked away; I thought he couldn’t bear to look upon me.

  ‘Eadgyth, your duty is to do as I say. You need to put our child before everything else, if he is safe then there is hope, but if you are taken then he is taken and Saxon England is lost. You will go now, under escort, to Chester and there will be no argument. Do you understand?’

  I nodded, my throat a knot of pain. He made to walk away but just as I was about to call him back, he turned and pulled me close. He held me, my head beneath his chin; he smelled dreadfully of blood and sweat but I did not flinch from it. For a long moment we stood upon Caldbec Hill and there was nothing but us two with the solid earth of England beneath our feet and the Saxon sky above our heads. When he released me and began to walk away I rummaged in the pocket that hung at my side,

  ‘I wanted you to carry this, Harold,’ I said and offered him my kerchief, ‘for luck.’ He came back toward me and took it, examining the fine embroidered edge before handing it back.

  ‘I don’t need it, sweetheart. I have this, look,’ and from his jerkin he pulled a crumpled, grey rag. I took it and, after a moment, smiled a brilliant smile.

  ‘It is my kerchief, or what is left of it. It’s the one you stole from me on the day you rode into Wales against Gruffydd.’

  ‘tis the very one,’ he grinned, ‘I keep it by me always and hasn’t it ever brought me luck?’

  Throwing myself into his noxious embrace again, I held him tight, ‘Be safe, Harold,’ I cried.

  The bodies of the dead and wounded lay scattered about the camp, some calling for water. Anwen was trickling water between the lips of a dying boy, pretending she was his mother so that he should die in some comfort. ‘You’ve always been a fine son,’ she was saying, ‘and I love you dearly.’

  When his head fell forward she lay him back and covered his face with his torn jerkin. I stood beside her for some moments before she stood up and handed me the jug; I drank deeply and then looked about me, wiping my mouth on my mucky apron.

  ‘Oh, Lady,’ she whispered, close to tears, ‘to think we should ever see such sadness.’

  Together we looked across the hillside, at the living tearing the armour from their dead comrades for protection in the coming fray, at the wounded dragging themselves back to the field to fight again, and at the dead staring blank eyed upon a world gone mad.

  ‘Nothing is worth all this,’ I said, ‘maybe we should surrender. Normans can’t be as bad as they say.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it, Madam, I’ve heard tell those devils eat young babies and there’s not a woman in the realm who’d be safe from them should they prevail over us. We must all fight, man and woman, girl and boy, and to our last breath.’

  Eadgytha strode from the tent toward us, glancing up at the sun. To my surprise I realised it was not yet noon.

  ‘Harold has ordered Godwin to take us to Chester without delay. The boy is spitting mad but has given his word. I don’t know about you, Lady, but I feel I am needed here. I have asked Godwin if we can find reason to delay our departure.’

  ‘Eadgytha.’ I exclaimed, ‘are you telling me we should disobey our lord king …again?’

  She flushed, quite exquisitely. ‘I am, Lady, we cannot leave these dying men and, should things turn very bad, there may still be time to get away. Godwin has horses ready in yonder copse so our escape can be swift.’

  The shield wall was lined up once more and, as before, flights of Norman arrows rained down upon them and the noise of battle resumed. I stood beside an ancient oak tree, its twisted trunk rough against my hands, and watched the fighting recommence. Although I had heard the tales told of the previous mounted attack I had not really believed the ferocity of it until I saw it with my own eyes.

  A large band of horsemen, led by whom I assumed to be William, bore down upon the men of England. Our wall stood firm until the huge beasts were almost full upon them. They hacked the horses down with their axes; the screams of the animals almost worse than those of the men who were mutilated as they fell from the saddle.


  I saw a horse roll headless from the fray and slide downhill in a river of his own gore, his slaughtered master prone upon his back. I heard the Saxon war cries and I saw my husband with the killing rage upon him; on foot amid his huscarls he cut about him with his axe, dispatching Normans and horses as I had seen him swat fruit flies in our chamber.

  Time and motion seemed slowed and the clamour of battle drifted away as I watched him from afar. I felt I did not know the fighting man who laid waste all before him, who took life without a qualm. Although the figure was familiar, the blond hair flying, the moustaches glinting in the sun, his actions were appalling and I was sore afraid. Just then a hail of projectiles rained suddenly from the skies, clattering as they fell useless or thumping dully as they found their mark. The papal banner that swirled above William’s head floated to the mired ground and a great cry went up.

  'Le duc est mort. Le duc est mort.' they cried and I had enough of the Norman tongue to know that Duke William was dead.

  Whirling around, I saw Godwin limping toward me, a makeshift crutch beneath his arm; his face was sulky at being banned from the fray.

  ‘Godwin, Godwin.’ I cried, almost jumping up and down with delight, ‘William is down, he is dead, we have won the day.’

  I leapt at him, flinging my arms about his neck, my hard pregnant belly tight against his stomach. He pushed me away, blushing, and went to my vantage point the better to see. We stood side by side looking toward the battle, with hope in our hearts.

  The Normans were in disarray, the death of their Duke, diminishing their arrogant bravado. They began to disengage from the conflict and back off down the hill, a stream of Saxons in their wake.

  ‘They are running, Godwin, but there is nowhere for them to run. We have trounced them, just as Harold said we would.’

  ‘Wait, Eadgyth’ he said, with a hand to my arm, ‘look, what is happening, there by the marsh.’

  Together we looked with increasing dread as a figure emerged from midst of the Norman infantry and clambered upon a fresh horse. Removing his helmet, he waved his arms and called out to his men, his absurd hair cut and hefty build marking him as their Duke.

  Our hearts sank, hope dwindling as with his standard bearers beside him, William rallied his army, reassuring them that he was unhurt. I turned and wept onto Godwin’s shoulder while he stroked my hair, as despairing as I.

  For hours the Normans continued to attack our shield wall, it went on for so long that I grew immured to the bloodshed and no longer flinched at every falling axe or severed limb.

  Transfixed, I watched as William continued to send his forces to attack again and again, with both infantry and cavalry. The Saxons fought on, weary but determined, refusing to let the shield wall weaken. At one end of the ridge our men were cutting down the attacking invaders.

  Suddenly the Normans seemed to falter and then back down, in retreat down the slope. Like a snapping bowstring one end of our shield wall broke forth and ran in pursuit of the fleeing foe. The far end of the defending wall was weakened, something that did not escape the Duke’s eye. When the pursuers were too far to retreat, the Norman army turned, driven onward by the Duke, cutting the Saxons down and breaking through our ranks. The cavalry poured onto the hilltop.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I screamed, ‘they have gained the ridge.’

  The Norman horse was charging across the hilltop to where the Saxon royal standard fluttered in the breeze. The shield wall shifted, blocking the path to their king and preparing to face off the invaders once more. Gyrth and his huscarls stood between William’s men and Harold’s standard. Godwin grasped my arm.

  ‘We should go, Eadgyth,’ but I shrugged him off and turned back to the battle just in time to see the chevaliers smash into Gyrth’s fightingmen.

  The Saxons, mown down by the mounted force, stumbled and fell, the cries of the trampled reaching us at the malformed tree. I watched as Gyrth fought valiantly for his brother’s kingdom, hacking and slashing with his battleaxe. Then, screened from my view by the surging enemy, Gyrth’s standard fluttered for a while before wavering and finally falling to the ground to be crushed beneath the hooves of the Norman cavalry.

  ‘Oh, Gyrth,’ I wept. Tears wet my cheeks but I did not move and I was not aware when Godwin left me. A few moments later I realised that Eadgytha and Anwen were beside me. ‘Gyrth has fallen,’ I sobbed without turning my head, ‘and Leo too. I saw him smite down a charging cavalryman and then he fell, taken down by another from behind.’

  Eadgytha and I stood handfast, looking upon the scene while behind us, Godwin and Anwen beseeched us to flee.

  The horsemen sped toward where Harold and his huscarls had made their stand; his men clustered about him, their battleaxes flying. I saw the Norman horses fall and I heard the thunk of blades cutting into flesh and I heard the screams of the dying. I saw my husband, his mouth open in a scream of rage I could not hear, lay waste to all who approached him. And then, quite gently, a swarm of silent arrows flew overhead to descend in sweeping destruction upon the ridge.

  So thick were they that they shadowed the sun, making our men glance upward. I saw Harold put a hand up to his head before he stumbled, his standard swaying, the fighting man banner staggering before his final collapse. Edgytha and I fell to our knees.

  ‘Harold!’ Our screams rang out as one as the mounted men moved forward and, drawing back their lances, smashed them down onto the prostrate body of the Saxon king. Godwin and Anwen were tugging at my clothes, both sobbing as they tried to drag me to the horses to make our escape but Eadgytha and I stayed upon the ground and gave vent to

  our terrible hatred.

  Domesday

  October 15th 1066

  I willed the sun not to rise the next morning but it did, just as if it were like any other morning. The dawning light slowly chased back the dark to reveal the horror of the cream of England’s youth and vigour stricken in the dirt.

  They lay in piles; rigid, blood-drenched, corpses, eyes wide to the rising sun. Soon the carrion birds came, great kites and buzzards swooping down to join the crows to feast upon our dead. As cold as death itself I clutched the trunk of the oak tree and saw the Normans come again and, scaring away the birds, begin to strip the corpses of their wealth.

  The Norman dead were carried from the field but the Saxons were left, naked beneath the October sky, for the birds to peck and the worms to chew until all flesh was gone and their bones began to bleach in the sun.

  The disturbed birds retreated to the perimeters of the field, watching and waiting for a chance to return to their banquet. A light rain began to moisten the air and Eadgytha stirred beside me. I don’t know if she had slept or, like me, had spent the night in wakeful misery.

  ‘We must find him and take his body,’ she said dully, looking at the scene, ‘we cannot leave him for carrion.’

  Other women moved with us among the dead, wives and mothers turning torsos and lifting helmets to reveal the ravaged faces beneath. The ridge was silent after the clamour of the day before, the peace broken only by the keening of the bereaved as they fell upon the corpse of the man they were seeking.

  They all looked the same, bloodied and blackened cadavers, their staring eyes and faces frozen in horror at the moment of death. Eadgytha and I lifted our skirts and tiptoed, slipping and skidding through the mire. We did not look like noble women now, our bedraggled state blended us invisibly with the peasantry.

  At the top of the ridge a group of Norman’s sifted through the Saxon slain, turning the corpses with their feet, their alien voices strident in the hush, their laughter an insult to our sorrow. We paused, uncertain if we should continue, Harold’s warning to stay clear of the enemy prominent in our minds, but they saw us and shouted something too rapidly for us to understand.

  We turned and made to move away but they pursued us. Eadgytha faced them, bracing her shoulders and pushing me a little behind her, shielding me from their sight. The men approached, gesturing wi
dely and shouting so that we may better understand their heathen tongue. They indicated that they were seeking the body of the Saxon king and asked if we could identify his body among all those that lay piled around.

  ‘I can identify the king, should he be found.’ Eadgytha stated loudly, ‘my maid here, and I, will find him for you on the condition that we be allowed his body for burial.’

  I pulled Anwen’s cloak close about my body to shield my pregnant belly from their gaze. The men huddled together, gesticulating with their arms while they conferred. At length, one of them turned and said in halting Saxon,

  ‘You may ‘ave the oathbreaker’s body if you show us where ‘e lies.’

  They watched us as we moved about the hilltop, close to where we had seen Harold fall. The remains, both of man and horse, were piled thick here and we grew weary in the sun, turning corpse after corpse, each time dreading that it may be him.

  It was Gyrth that we found first, his naked body intact apart from a great gash that laid his chest open. His intestines spewed forth to soak the battle standard that draped across him like a shroud. We wept over his body and tried to cover it with the banner and the Normans, seeing our grief, made to come near but Eadgytha waved them away.

  ‘It is not the king,’ she told them and, after a brief prayer, we rose and continued our search.

  Gyrth’s was the last body we found that was not entirely dismembered. As we grew closer to where the standard had flown we found only pieces, trailing innards, severed limbs and heads. It seemed to us that most of the damage had been done after death, even their genitalia had been sliced away in a savage desecration of manhood.

  I espied the banner of the fighting man before Eadgytha. The coloured flag, bloodied and twisted among the bodies of the huscarls. Clasping hands, together we moved toward it, the pieces of what had, yesterday, been hot-blooded men, thick about our ankles.

  Close to the fallen standard we climbed over the body of a horse, its throat had been severed and its entrails unravelled on the grass, the bulbous eyes stared glassy in the sunlight. Here the ground and the corpses upon it were bristling with arrows and we knew we came close to where Harold had fallen.