‘Edwin and Morcar don’t look too happy,’ remarked Gyrth. ‘Are you sure it was wise to leave Merleswein in charge?’
‘Well, I can trust him to hold the North and send men south if need be.’
‘So you don’t trust Edwin and Morcar?’
‘After Fulford Gate, would you?’
‘D’you think there’s more going on up here than meets the eye?’
‘What, are they separatists, you mean?’
‘They might want to keep the North as a separate kingdom, while William has the South?’
‘Yes. It’s not beyond the realms of reason.’
‘If William attacks in the South, do you think you can rely on them for assistance?’
‘I’m really not sure, but their sister is queen and a baby is on the way. They won’t do any better than have a nephew as King of England.’
‘Perhaps they’d rather be kings of Northumbria and Mercia?’
‘It’s all a bit fanciful but they are young and headstrong.’
‘So they are unreliable?’
‘Not completely. They made a mistake at Fulford but they might have learned from it.’
‘Well, if William turns up we’ll find out.’
Just feet away, at another table, talking under their breath, sat Edwin and Morcar.
‘What do you think he means by it?’ asked Morcar. ‘Is he leaving Merleswein in charge because he doesn’t trust us?’
‘Do you think he’ll try to get rid of us entirely, like he did with our dad?’
‘Who knows? Who would trust a Godwinson?’
‘He dealt with Tostig when he had to.’
‘I heard at Stamford Bridge he promised him his earldom back if he changed sides.’
‘Do you think he would have? Given him the earldom back, I mean?’
‘I don’t know but what I do know is this, either way he can’t be trusted.’
‘But now he’s married to our Aldytha, we’re all kin.’
‘I still don’t trust him,’ replied Edwin, cutting savagely into a piece of meat.
‘But his son will be our nephew. There won’t ever have been a king with such strong support.’
‘Assuming he lives to wear the Crown. An accident could easily be arranged, I’m sure. Aldytha could be walking along by the Thames one day with the little one and before you know it they’ve slipped into the river and that’s the end of them. And they’d get away with it too. Look at Cospatric; no one ever got to the bottom of what happened to him.’
‘But that wasn’t Harold. It was Tostig and that bitch of a sister of his.’
‘That’s right, but look at it this way; Harold has half a dozen brats with Edyth Swan-neck. It’s only natural for them to think they’re going to inherit the Crown; it’s only natural for Harold to want them to rule after him; if he had us removed from power and put his sons in our place, and if our sister and her baby met with an accident, his family would be stronger than ever.’
‘When you put it like that it seems so obvious. What are we going to do?’
‘We’d better think of something fast.’
The next day, shortly after a cold dawn, Harold left York with Gyrth and all of their housecarls fit enough to travel, together with several hundred followers keen to see London. They made their way south at an easy pace so as to spare the horses, still weary from the outward journey.
Making their way down Ermine Street, which cut straight through freshly ploughed fields, the army enjoyed the warm autumn sunshine and the weary soldiers took time to enjoy their journey. Gold-tinged trees stood scattered around the countryside, early heralds of the autumn grandeur to follow, the hawthorn a blaze of colour. And overhead, like them, birds were heading south for the winter.
The journey was uneventful until the end of the third day, when a rider was seen fast approaching. As he came closer, the rider looked more and more familiar to Harold, until to his amazement, he at last recognized him as his son, Ulf.
Ponthieu
Outside Duke William’s tent a war council gathered. The Normans and their allies had lingered at St Valery for more than two weeks, waiting for the word from the Duke to set sail.
‘It’s almost the end of September, my Lord,’ said Odo. ‘What are we to do?’
‘I still have no news of Sigurdsson.’
Odo continued, ‘Count Guy can’t support us much longer. We either go to England soon or we pack up and head for home.’
William glared at Count Guy. ‘Is this true?’
Count Guy was desperate to be rid of his guests. ‘I’m afraid so, my Lord. The barns are empty.’
‘God’s Face!’ snapped William. He took a moment to pause for thought. ‘Gentlemen, I had hoped we would know the outcome of the battle between Earl Harold and the Norwegian king before we sailed for England. The men think we wait on a southerly wind, one that looks as if it will blow from that direction long enough for us to cross the Channel safely. I don’t want to tell them we’ve been hanging around here waiting to see what someone else does. It looks hesitant and indecisive. We must do something more.’
Odo was the only one who dared respond. ‘Perhaps if we all prayed together.’
‘Make a show, you mean so the troops can see we’re trying everything.’
‘That kind of thing, yes.’
The Duke cast his eyes heavenwards as if in resignation but it was inspiration that struck him that day.
‘Get down to the Abbey, Odo. Tell the parish priest to remove St Valery’s remains and have them carried down to the flats by the river. Have them placed on a carpet or something. I’ll muster the men and have them gather round.’
‘When do you want to do this?’
‘Now! Do we have time to waste?’
Two hours later, William’s army was assembled in unit formations and a special service began. The army knelt around St. Valery’s casket with Duke William and his brother Odo at the centre, on their knees, offering up prayers for a change of wind. Odo led the congregation. Once he had finished, William rose to his feet and indicated to Odo to have the venerable saint’s casket returned to its shrine but only after every single one of his troops had filed past. The soldiers, as they passed the casket, had to make an offering, no matter how humble, to the saint. Ralph Pomeroy, who had survived the storm, cast a worthless foreign coin in with the others. He even begrudged that. It took until evening for all the soldiers to pass and make their donations but it lifted morale.
The following day, while Harold celebrated his victory in York, the Normans’ prayers were answered. After enduring a cold, sleepless night, William ventured outside his tent. He was greeted by a beautiful golden autumn morning, the air bright, cold and clear but not quite still. He could feel the warmth of the sun on his face. A thrill of excitement ran through him. He looked at the weather vane; the wind was from the south.
‘Muster the men!’ he bellowed. ‘Muster the men!’
Trumpets sounded, prompting sleepy-eyed barons to emerge from their tents to find the Duke snapping out orders this way and that. There was a rush as men, half asleep, hurried to carry out their duties. As at Dives, each man presented himself at his appointed ship and boarded. There were enough provisions for the crossing and that would be all. The next time they ate, they were told, it would be English food, captured in England.
It was early evening when William’s ship left the harbour at the head of his forces, its dragon head facing England. At the stern a gilded boy blowing an ivory horn looked down on them. Following the Mora the way ducks follow their mother, in the deepening twilight six hundred and ninety six ships made their way out of the Somme estuary towards England.
On the Mora, William, sitting in the shadow of his ship’s red-and-yellow-striped sail, spoke to his brother Robert. The oarsmen, all twenty of them, sat scattered around the deck enjoying the last of the day’s sun. Matilda had taken the precaution of having the boat fitted out for oarsmen, the only vessel in William’s fleet to carry
them, just in case he needed to escape from the invasion beach in a hurry. But the Mora, even without the use of its oars, moved faster than any other ship in the fleet.
‘Didn’t I tell you we could do it? Didn’t I?’
‘You did, William,’ answered Robert. ‘You did. There’s no arguing with that.’
‘In the morning we will land unopposed on English soil. Mark my words.’
‘You seem very sure, brother.’
‘I am. The English will be too busy dealing with the Norwegians.’
‘Well, we must trust that whoever wins the battle has little left of their army.’
‘Just think, Robert, if the weather holds good for just twelve hours, England will be ours.’
As long as we don’t meet the English navy or get caught in another storm, thought the Duke’s companions.
At nightfall, a lantern was attached to the top of the mast so the other ships could follow their leader. Under cover of darkness the Normans crossed the Channel, the hunter creeping up on its prey while it slept. In the morning they would give the English a rude awakening.
Three hours after sunset the crescent moon sank below the horizon, leaving them in an iron-cold darkness. William’s captain sailed by the stars; his followers steered towards the lantern. There were no storms to push him off course but the constant pitching and rolling of the ship was again making him feel ill. And the cold, the bone-chilling cold, bothered him too. The constant spray from the bow seemed to penetrate every layer of his clothing. He sat on deck near the helm by Airard, his back against the prow, the horn-playing boy looking beyond him, further than any human eye could see. William sat propped up there all night, only stirring to throw up over the side.
It was the warm morning sun on his face that woke him; that and the sounds of activity on deck.
‘Good morning,’ he called to his comrades, over the sound of the gulls, the sea lapping the ship’s sides and the gentle wind slapping the sail.
‘Good morning,’ echoed the replies.
‘She’s a fine craft, the Mora, isn’t she?’ the Duke said to no one in particular.
‘Very fine, my Lord,’ replied Odo, with some obvious discomfort.
‘I see you’re feeling seasick too.’
‘It’s not that, my Lord. It’s just that I feel a little uneasy.’
‘Why do you feel uneasy? It’s not like you.’
‘It’s the fleet.’
‘What about the fleet?’
‘Where is it?’
William looked around, this way then that. There was not a ship in sight, nothing in any direction. Everywhere were dark green-grey waves, each one identical to the other, but no land in sight. He could detect a look of mild panic behind the mask of calm, yet the oarsmen seemed genuinely unperturbed. Filled with foreboding, William looked to Airard for some assurance.
‘Captain, I wonder, do you have any idea where the rest of the fleet might be?’
‘Don’t worry, my Lord. The Mora’s so fast the rest can’t keep up with her.’
‘Well, can’t we wait for them?’
‘If you like, my Lord.’
So FitzStephen gave the orders. The sail was lowered, the anchor was cast and the Mora simply bobbed about on the waves. An eerie gloom settled over the ship. William looked around to see everyone aboard scanning the horizon for their comrades. After half an hour there was still no sign and William’s comrades grew more apprehensive. The Duke found a way to distract them.
‘Why are we wasting time standing around gawping at the sea when we could be enjoying a fine breakfast?’ His comrades turned to face him as if in shock. He then called out to his servants to fetch him something to eat.
‘Which of you men will join me?’
‘I will,’ responded Robert, enthusiastically.
‘And I,’ replied Odo.
‘Me too,’ added FitzOsbern. Everyone else resumed scanning the horizon.
Food was laid out and the Duke called for spiced wine. He and his comrades tucked in heartily. Their stomachs were empty; that and the salt air had combined to make them all ravenous. The oarsmen ate the breakfasts they had brought with them, just some bread and cheese. William and his brothers, even while they devoured their food, still stared at the vast, empty horizon, quaking in their boots.
Turning to the nearest oarsman, William commanded him to climb the mast for a better view.
‘Well. Can you see anything?’
‘No, my Lord, nothing,’ cried the man.
The Duke concealed his disappointment well.
‘You’d better come down, then. Have a look a little later when I’m sure you will have some better news for us.
Slowly the man descended while the Duke, his two brothers and FitzOsbern continued making a show of enjoying their breakfast. Fifteen minutes later the oarsman was ordered to climb the mast again.
‘Well, can you see anything this time?’
The oarsman peered into the distance for a short while.
‘Ships! Ships!’ he cried.
‘How many?’
‘Four, my Lord. And they’re heading this way.’
‘Good. You see,’ he announced to the crew, ‘they’re all as keen to get to England as we are. It’s just that they’re not so swift.’
But four ships are, after all, just four ships and a little while later, to reassure his men, he once more sent the oarsman to the top of the mast.
‘And what, my friend, do you see now?’
‘Masts, my Lord. Many masts.’
‘How many masts?’
‘Too many to count, my Lord. It’s like a wood, no, a forest of masts. There are hundreds of them.’
‘Good,’ said William with obvious relief. ‘This evening we’ll celebrate a successful crossing by drinking English beer.’
Eventually England appeared on the horizon, its white cliffs growing gradually taller. FitzStephen could make out Beachy Head and set his course further to the east in the hope of landing at Hastings. Soon it became apparent to him that they would miss their destination.
‘We will have to land at Pevensey, my Lord.’
‘Why can’t we sail into Hastings?’
‘Because the wind isn’t blowing that way and we have to make land before the tide changes or we’ll be floating off the coast all day. Pevensey is our best chance.’
‘Pevensey it is, then.’
‘Very well, my Lord.’
Between the coast and the Norman fleet, unnoticed by anyone, was a little fishing boat. Its owner had set out early in the hope of bringing in a good catch. Its small crew of three were busying themselves sorting out the net before casting. The boat’s owner and father of the two other men cast a glance to the horizon. No matter how close to shore he was, he always kept a weather eye open. It was he who noticed them first, moving at speed towards him. There, coming over the horizon, were ships, more than he had ever seen in his life, more even than the King had when he guarded the coast over the summer.
Seeing their father motionless, staring out to sea with his jaw dropped open, the sons followed their father’s gaze. The sight was awesome; ship after ship after ship disappearing into the distance, covering the sea like scum. As the fleet grew closer, they could make out brightly coloured sails and the grotesque dragonhead prows of war ships. Death was in the air. As one, the crew sprang to life; the little fishing boat turned sail and headed swiftly for port. They reached Pevensey ahead of the invaders to discover the town quite empty. Not even a dog lay sunning itself. They ran inland as fast as they could, praying that someone had sent word to the King. They need not have worried; a rider was already galloping toward London.
If they had stayed to watch the landing, the fishermen might have found their hearts filled with confidence rather than fear. The disembarkation was a shambles, even though the long, flat shingle beach was ideal for the landing force. William, on the Mora, sailed boldly into Pevensey harbour. The old, fortified Roman harbour would make an ideal bas
e. Surrounded by a half-mile long wall was a network of docks, only recently vacated by ships of the English navy. A few unmanned merchant ships were tied to the quays; their crews vanished with the rest of the town. But the bulk of William’s force crashed in with the waves onto the shingle.
Soldiers, some with green faces, many still feeling sick from the voyage, hurled themselves over the sides of their craft, staggering to shore, glad to be on land. One or two ships came in sideways, depositing their passengers and cargo into the shallow water of the shore. There was chaos and confusion as horses escaped the torment of the waves. Kicking, rearing and bolting in all directions, they too had been affected by the constant billow and roll of the crossing.
From one ship a group of archers crept, bows drawn ready to fire on any Englishmen who might spring forth in a surprise attack. From the next, a group of infantry was hurriedly unloading amour and weapons, well prepared for any danger there might be. It was they who spotted the Duke land ashore.
Stepping off the Mora, William walked like a drunk along the quay, the journey and the spiced wine making their effects known. No sooner did he step off the quay and onto English soil than he tripped, falling spread eagle to the ground with a thud and a groan. This was an ill omen. Ever the quick thinker, he instantly turned the accident to his advantage. As he lay stretched out he clawed up a handful of soil and shouted out, ‘By the splendour of the Almighty, I have seized my kingdom; the soil of England is in my own two hands!’
A cheer rose up from the men, who watched as he rose histrionically to his feet, with a broad smile forced onto his red face, two handfuls of soil held above his head.
When all the ships were unloaded the masts were lowered and laid out along the decks to make the craft more stable on the beach. By midday Pevensey’s barns and stores had been emptied to provide food for the troops, enough to feed them for a couple of days at least. As they had brought nothing with them they would have to raid the surrounding countryside.
Gathered around the port reeve’s table that afternoon, William and his captains made plans for the following day.
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