The wind was rising, as was the sea. Spray drenched the soldiers in the wooden ships which, as every minute passed, were tossed about ever more roughly. Without waiting for orders, steersmen pulled on helms and started to head east. They had no choice; the wind had changed. For the first time since he was child, William felt as though he had no control, as though he had taken on too mighty a foe. He felt so alone, so small, so impotent. The waves that rose around him held his future in their power and their power was truly awesome, pitching and rolling William’s ship this way and that. The Duke felt as though he were riding on the back of some huge monster. Waves crashed down around his crew, who struggled with their oars to keep on course. Airard FitzStephen, the helmsman, clung on to the helm for dear life. Now, William wondered if he would die, here in the raging sea. Would water claim him when battle could not? The sea had turned from a silver plate, something barely animate, to this raging element whose anger grew fiercer as every minute passed. The sky, too, was black and raging, thunder and lightning flashing and crashing all around. Then there appeared a sight that struck fear into the very heart of him; it was a vision of hell, if not hell itself, he saw. Through the lashing spray, William saw the whole ship light up, rigging and all. Fire shot out of the mast; everything was alight, everything a bright blue blaze in the unearthly darkness. Even the sea burned green, blue and white. William turned his head to see his ship being followed by more ships all alight, hopeless decorations bobbing around in the in the pitch black of night. He thought he was sailing into oblivion. So did some of his men, who in horror jumped ship. William turned his terror-struck face to FitzStephen, who grinned back at the Duke like a demon.
‘Saint Elmo’s fire!’ he called out.
The Duke stared at him.
‘Saint Elmo’s fire. It’s auspicious. It’s a good omen. You’ll see.’
William could hardly believe it. Here in the heart of the tempest, FitzStephen was beginning to look more relaxed. The steersman could see William had doubts. ‘I’ve seen it before. Don’t worry. It’ll all be all right, my Lord.’
The Duke thought he would best take the sailor’s word for it; the alternative did not bear thinking about. ‘I have every faith in you, Airard,’ he said. He even forced a smile.
As the ships continued on their way to land William felt belittled by an enemy he had no idea how to fight. Then after an eternity the cry went up, ‘‘Land! Land!’ It was FitzStephen calling.
‘Where is it? Where are we sailing?’ shouted the Duke above the raging storm.
‘The wind is taking us to Ponthieu, my Lord. We have no choice,’ came the answer over the din.
‘All that waiting! All for nothing! When will we ever get to England? Then turning to FitzOsbern, he bellowed, ‘Is this a message from God? Are we destined forever to be at the mercy of the elements?’
‘Fear not, my Lord. We’ll get there.’
William eyed his friend closely. In FitzOsbern’s eyes he could see not the slightest glimmer of doubt. Reassured, he hung on to the side of the ship and prayed silently that they would make a safe return to dry land. His fleet was still far out at sea, its ships scattered in the blackness with their cargoes of horses and landsmen, each individual helmsman running before the wind following a fast-fading lamp, searching in growing desperation for the shelter of the shore. Most survived, their boats crashing on the shore with the breakers, making it to St. Valery exhausted and frightened. The storm marked the end of summer and for many, the end of William’s venture. Under cover of the dark some of the men slipped away back to safety, security and home. The wind followed them, howling in from the west.
Wessex in September
Along the roads of southern England, soldiers were making their way home. Harold’s party was one of many. For company he had Edyth, Ulf, Gytha, Thorkell and his housecarls. Ordinarily, it would take two days to cross Sussex, then perhaps a couple more across the North Downs.
In the late afternoon, the stagnant air grew hot and sticky, draining man and beast of energy. Storm clouds gathered in the oppressive atmosphere. Lightning flashed in the sky to the south and the sound of thunder rolled towards them, unsettling the horses. Gusts of cooler air blew in and rain began to fall heavily. Luckily, they were not far from one of Harold’s estates. Putting their mounts into full gallop, they found shelter but not before they were all drenched. While the men took care of the animals, the local thane arrived and organised the servants. Harold and Edyth found the privacy of a bedroom to change into dry clothes.
‘I wonder if they’re having this storm in Normandy?’ she asked.
‘Let’s hope so.’
As Harold spoke, lightning and thunder flashed and crashed around the house. The flash was bright and the thunder deafening. Rain thrashed against the wooden walls and roof slats.
‘Let’s hope they are and their ships get wrecked,’ Edyth said chirpily.
Harold smiled by way of reply. He had noticed the way a couple of stray raindrops ran down her face, reminding him of a time earlier in the year.
‘You’re very quiet, Harold. Tell me, what’s going to happen when you get back to London?’
‘You know I love you, Edyth and there’s nothing I’d like more than to return to Westminster with you by my side as my queen and for us live like any other couple.’
‘But?’
‘I’ve thought about it these last few months. I know it’s entirely my fault. I know I said I might need to be free to have a political marriage but that was just a device to get my father to agree to our handfast marriage. I never dreamed it would happen. I thought we’d always be together, just the two of us, and the children of course, but now there are complications.’
‘So I am your mistress?’
‘You are what you have always been. You are my love. My only love.’
‘I wish I could believe you.’
‘You can. I’ve just spent all summer with you. You must know how happy you make me. It’s circumstance that drives us apart.’
They held each other tenderly for a while. When they broke away, all Harold said was, ‘So?’
‘Waltham it is, then.’
‘Gyrth will keep an eye on you. If there’s anything you need, let him know. I’ll be out to see you whenever I can.’
‘It’s not what I hoped for.’
‘It’s not what I hoped for, either.’
‘What happens when all this business with William is over?’
‘We’ll have to see. Don’t worry, I’ll think of something.’
Edyth gave Harold a studied look. Their eyes fixed on each other in silence.
‘Oh, Harold,’ said Edyth, grabbing hold of him tightly. She was in tears, her words a confused babble of mumbles and sobs.
‘It’ll be all right, you’ll see, you’ll see. Everything will work out in the end.’
Edyth put on a brave face that evening. Occasionally, eyes glanced her way, to read her. The men wanted the measure of her mind, only so as to know how it might affect their king. They wanted to know her mood, all the better to read his. They were happy to see her looking serene. The King, too, looked relaxed, as did his son, sharing a joke with his father as they sat in the hall, a fire burning in the hearth, fighting off the cold, damp air, the thunder and lightning subsiding but the storm still raging around them. They could hear the patter of the rain on the roof and the window shutters, closed to keep out the angry elements. The cry of the trees as the wind whipped through their branches seemed to give the storm life, the palpable presence of an unwanted guest. In the lodge, all seemed calm. Everyone was glad to be by the fireside, out of the wind and rain to enjoy the warm, dry interior and the company of their fellows. Food and drink were plentiful. What more could anyone want?
Ponthieu
When the Mora struck land, expertly beached by its steersman, William felt an overwhelming relief to be ashore. Wandering around in the darkness, he found his way to the church of St. Valery. When he entered, followe
d by FitzOsbern, William threw himself in front of the altar and lay prostrate, praying to God, offering his thanks for saving his life and those of his men. He then offered gifts and made promises of more, if only the Almighty would give him a favourable wind to take him to England. To FitzOsbern this looked too pitiful for comfort, so he left his lord to make his peace with his maker.
So keen was William to offer his thanks, he spent the entire night in the church, only venturing out early next the morning. So worried were FitzOsbern and William Warenne about the Duke’s state of mind, they stood sentry all night. It was they who greeted him at the start of the day. William immediately ordered an appraisal of the damage caused by the storm. He would discover later that he had lost fifty ships and about four hundred men were missing. Of the four hundred, only about two hundred bodies had been found washed up along the coast. Some two hundred men, it appeared, had deserted. None of the prefabricated forts had been lost but the Duke was out of supplies. Most of the hired troops thought William would give the word to disband. To dispel these rumours, William raided barns and increased their rations. Two burial parties were sent out along the coast, one to either side of the camp to dispose of any drowned bodies washed up on the beach. Any deserters were to be executed on the spot.
Outside his tent, William was failing to enjoy a late breakfast with his commanders. They were keen to know the Duke’s mind.
‘We cannot let this little setback stand in our way,’ he told his lieutenants.
Odo was going to say something but thought better of it. Robert de Mortain, too, remained silent. Following the example set by William’s brothers, FitzOsbern, Warenne and Guy de Ponthieu kept their peace.
‘We have no choice. We must invade,’ the Duke continued. ‘I’ve always said we would and we must do so this year. If we don’t, what will happen to us?’
Duke William surveyed the company slowly, through his cold blue eyes. ‘I can’t disband the army. I’ll never be able to recruit one again next spring. If I abandon my ships here in Ponthieu, do you think I’ll find them intact when I return?’ William looked meaningfully at Guy when he said this. ‘And finally, we have no money. So you see, we have to sail to England. If we don’t, we’re beaten men.’
‘No my lord, we will never be beaten.’ said William Warenne with all the bravado he could muster.
‘Thank you for your vote of confidence, William.’
‘We all feel the same way, my Lord,’ FitzOsbern added his support.
‘I know I can also rely on my brothers to support me,’ said William, smiling at Robert and Odo, before adding, ‘Count Guy, can I rely on your support?’
‘Naturally, my Lord.’
‘You seemed very quiet for one keen to offer his services.’
‘That’s because I took it for granted you would know of my unswerving devotion to your cause, my Lord. Forgive me, I’ve been most remiss.’
‘Thank you, Guy; I knew I could rely on you. Perhaps you would like to demonstrate your support by supplying us with food for the duration of our stay?’
Count Guy visibly tensed at the thought of Ponthieu struggling to feed ten thousand men. He was not at all sure the little county could cope for more than three weeks.
‘Delighted, my Lord,’ answered Count Guy. After all, he thought, it would only be for a couple of days. But for nearly the rest of the month the wind blew in from every direction but the south. William wondered if it was a sign from God, like the comet earlier that year. Looking at the trees around him, the Duke could discern the early signs of autumn. Soon, invasion would be out of the question. He wondered what would become of him then.
In the North
King Harold entered London to a hero’s welcome and the loving arms of his queen. Even though Harold had not engaged, let alone defeated, the enemy, Londoners at last felt safe and for that, they were grateful. Harold and Aldytha waved to the crowds from the steps of Westminster. The cheers were deafening. Barely had he had time to take any refreshment when a messenger arrived, demanding an immediate audience.
‘What is it that brings you here in such a hurry?’
‘He’s landed, my Lord. Killed hundreds. You must come, my Lord. You must help,’ the breathless messenger replied.
‘What?’
‘He’s landed and creating mayhem. We need your help.’
‘Landed where?’ asked a confused Harold.
‘Scarborough. They’ve burned it to the ground and now they’re heading to York.’
‘York?’
‘Yes. He’s turned up with more than three hundred ships. Earls Morcar and Edwin are going after him now, my Lord, but they need help.’
‘It’s Harald Sigurdsson who’s landed?’
‘Yes, my Lord, and he’s heading straight for York.’
As soon as he was able, Harold gathered together his war council to make plans for the swift journey north. Leofwine was left to guard Kent and Essex, should William attempt to land near London. The leaders of the fyrd in Sussex and Hampshire were left with instructions to harass but not to fully engage William, in the unlikely event of his arrival. Harold hoped they might prevent a landing but if not, the resistance should consist of raids on the Norman camp. At all costs a pitched battle should be avoided.
Gyrth left for East Anglia to call out the fyrd there and lead it, with his housecarls, to the Great North Road, where he would later meet Harold.
The frenetic days that passed in London before Harold could organise his forces left their mark. Each night he would endure the most terrible dreams. Viking longships would appear off the coast and then drive up on to the shore. Dragons emblazoned on the ships’ sails would spring to life, pounce down and pursue him relentlessly across the country, through towns and villages, across fields and eventually into woods. Sometimes he would attempt to sail out in his own ship to meet his foe, only to discover his sail would unfurl to reveal thousands of holes and the oars would shrink and become useless. He would wake in a sweat to discover Aldytha, silent and serene, asleep beside him.
Just as preparations were complete, Skalpi arrived at court, requesting an audience with Harold, which was immediately granted.
‘My lord, I came as soon as I heard Sigurdsson had invaded. I want to volunteer my services.’
‘Skalpi, your offer is very welcome.’
‘Permit me to fight beside you with the housecarls?’
‘There’s nowhere else I’d rather have you.’
‘Thank you, my Lord. It’s an honour.’
‘I’m the one who’s honoured, Skalpi. Perhaps you’d like to report to Gauti. I’m sure you know where to find him.’
‘Thank you, my Lord,’ Skalpi replied. In high spirits he left for the housecarls’ quarters.
Within an hour, Harold was heading up Ermine Street with his troops following on behind. The clatter of thousands of hooves on the old Roman road was deafening. Onward they rode, covering as much as sixty miles a day, through Cambridgeshire and Huntingdon, meeting Gyrth and his men in Northamptonshire as arranged. Onwards they rode, always travelling at the speed of the fastest.
When they reached Tadcaster, they found the remnants of Morcar’s little navy taking shelter from the Norsemen. It was here that Harold discovered the awful truth of the situation. Wilfred, Morcar’s helmsman, gave him the news.
‘Sigurdsson came with three hundred and thirty ships full of Viking scum. They burned Scarborough and Holderness to the ground then butchered and murdered everyone in sight. Then they came up river and left their ships at Riccall.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘Well, my Lord, the ships are still at Riccall but the Norsemen are in York.’
‘York! What happened to Earl Morcar and Earl Edwin?’
‘They’re all right, last I heard, my Lord, but most of their men are dead.’
‘What happened?’
‘Well, the earls decided to take Sigurdsson on, like. Well, Harald and your brother Tostig left a big force be
hind to guard the ships and headed off towards York with about ten thousand men. When they were about a mile outside the city, at Fulford Gate, they came across Edwin and Morcar. The earls had their men lined up across the road. They stretched from the river on one side to the bog on the other; there was no way past.
‘So Sigurdsson just charged through them?’
‘No. It was Edwin and Morcar who did the charging.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, they charged Sigurdsson’s right flank with great success.’
‘Don’t tell me, the attack carried all before it, and then suddenly Sigurdsson’s left flank caught them off guard.’
‘That’s exactly what happened, my Lord. Sigurdsson’s lot forced Edwin and Morcar back into the marsh. It was a disaster. Those of ’em that weren’t cut down were drowned. They reckon there were so many of ’em in the bog the Vikings could walk over ’em.’
‘Did many get away?’
‘Well, Edwin an’ Morcar escaped unharmed.’
‘And the men?’
‘Well, there was about six thousand to start with and they reckon there was somewhere between a thousand and two thousand who made it back to York, my Lord.’
Harold’s face revealed the anger and shock he felt. All they had achieved was to hold up the invaders by a few hours. The loss also raised the concern that there would be so many fewer to engage Sigurdsson when the time came.
‘So York has fallen?’
‘Oh yes. Once the earls were beaten, that was it. Old Sigurdsson just walked in.’
‘Presumably he’s still there now?’
‘No, my Lord. Last I heard he’d gone back to his ships at Riccall, but he’ll return to York for hostages.’
‘Do you know when?’
‘Tomorrow, I think.’
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