‘So far, gentlemen, providence has been kind to us; out of six-hundred and ninety-six ships that left St Valery we have lost only two. Now we must press on to Hastings. We can’t stay here; it’s far too stony for the horses and besides, the only decent road out of here leads not to London but to somewhere called Lewes. Tomorrow we’ll make our way along the coast, where I am assured the country is more suitable for our needs and where friends are waiting to offer their assistance.
‘Any questions?’
Warenne spoke. ‘May I ask when we march on London, my Lord?’
‘Marching on London is another matter. We will stay in Hastings until we discover who has won the battle in the North. If Sigurdsson is the victor, we’ll march on London; they’ll probably be glad to see us. It must be bad enough having Harold for a king but even he is preferable to those pagan dogs from the North. And if Harold is the victor, we’ll stay until he comes for us.’
‘How do you know he’ll come for us?’
‘Because,’ answered William, with a certain smugness, ‘it’s in his nature to respond directly; he’s a man of action. Besides, this is Wessex. Harold has many a private estate within easy reach and he must protect his people. Are there any more questions?’
This time there was no response.
Sussex
At dawn the Normans broke camp and started their journey east. The army divided in two as it left Pevensey, the infantry following the coast and the horsemen journeying further inland. Every encounter with the invaders brought the locals the same misery. Adults were tortured, raped and killed and their children impaled alive; every village was razed to the ground, bodies left where they fell.
The Norman infantrymen completely destroyed Bexhill. The good folk there were given no warning and shown no quarter. Years later, the only sign of the town’s existence were piles of blackened beams lying at grotesque angles by the side of the road.
After destroying Bexhill, the infantry column continued its march, sweeping down on Crowhurst, Wilting and Filsham. The result was the same; mayhem and murder. The animals were driven off to Hastings to die at a butcher’s hands.
Travelling inland with the chevaliers, led by Sir William Warenne and Robert Montgomery, was Ralph Pomeroy, feeling much better now he had recovered from the crossing. His stomach was full and he was enjoying the camaraderie of his countrymen. Burning down villages had put him in a good mood. They would destroy one more today before heading to Hastings for the night. Warenne and Montgomerie had it on good authority a village called Whatlington belonged to King Harold, so Duke William insisted on its total destruction. As a way of testing Sir William Malet’s loyalty, the Duke ordered him to accompany two of his most ardent supporters. The Normans’ first sight of their objective was the little church of St Mary Magdalene on their right. As they grew closer they saw an isolated cottage on their left. Sir William Warenne ordered some of the men to investigate. Within minutes the cottage was ablaze. Villagers working in the surrounding fields came running to help. Their neighbourliness was to prove fatal. The few that survived the immediate onslaught were pursued across a field into an alder wood. They were never seen again.
Montgomerie ordered Pomeroy to deal with St Mary’s. With half a dozen men he approached the church where they dismounted and tied their horses to a yew tree before entering. Once inside they found Father Aethelweard, busy in conversation with one of his parishioners. The old priest was surprised to see armed men enter his church. The leader appeared to be a down-at-heel thane and as they approached him he caught a look in their eyes that he found disturbing. Perhaps they were King Harold’s men come with some terrible news.
Pomeroy drew his knife and levelled it in line with one of Aethelweard’s eyes, casually backing him against a wall, the priest protesting all the while. When the old man stopped, with nowhere left to go, Pomeroy continued an extra step until he felt his knife slice through the priest’s brain and stop when it made contact with the inside of the old man’s skull. Aethelweard was dead before he hit the ground. His parishioner fell beside him, screaming, disembowelled by one of Pomeroy’s men. Pomeroy watched the man for a few moments as he writhed on the floor before ordering his men to take whatever valuables they could find. As they set about their task, Pomeroy watched the life slip away from the villager. Looking up he noticed the light shining down from above, through the two triangular windows in the tower. He had no idea why, but he felt a moment’s discomfort.
‘My Lord?’ It was an infantryman.
‘Yes,’ replied Pomeroy.
‘We’ve got everything we could find.’
‘Good. Put a torch to this heathen temple, then.’
‘Pleasure, my Lord.’
The men went outside, filled their saddlebags with stolen goods and then returned to set about burning the building.
As he left St. Mary’s, the sound of shouting and screaming greeted Pomeroy’s ears. Looking down Whatlington’s main street he noticed all the cottages were on his side of the road; on the other side ran a small river, little more than a stream. His eye followed the river to a water mill at the end of the village on the other side of the road. It was the last building in the village except for a little stone bridge. Two soldiers had just cut a youth down in the street. Leaving him for dead they hurried into the mill. Too busy with their own tasks, no one else paid any attention to the scene.
Pomeroy unhitched his horse from the yew tree, climbed into the saddle and made his way along the street at a canter. Arriving at the mill he heard a rumpus from inside. His curiosity roused, he dismounted and entered the darkness of the building, which was illuminated only by golden shafts of autumn sunlight shining through windows and doors; dust mites and specks of flour circled idly in the air. Now that he was inside, all that Pomeroy could hear was the grinding rhythm of the mill’s cogged wheels as they gnashed together; the sound of the millstone as it ground down seed and the ceaseless babble of the water as it flowed across the millrace towards the sea.
From somewhere above, the giggling laughter of a baby caught his attention. He felt excitement rise up within as he made his way up a ladder to the next floor. There he discovered a young mother clutching her baby, as she dodged round sacks of flour, attempting to escape from two men who were intent on ravishing her. Her infant thought it a game.
She saw Pomeroy enter the room like an apparition materialising in the air. He stood silent before her. The two men who recognised him froze as if unsure what to do. They looked to him for orders.
Pomeroy observed the scene for a moment. This part of the mill was brighter than the ground floor but the spokes of the mill wheel turning outside constantly broke the shafts of light. The room changed from bright to gloom from moment to moment. Like the soldiers, the young woman remained motionless holding her baby. Pomeroy thought that by the look of it, he was a boy. The infant was still giggling, still enjoying the game. He had a smile across his little pink face and when the light struck it, his fine, blond, curly hair glistened like gold.
The woman, whose name was Aelfryth, looked to the newcomer for protection; perhaps he would save her? Pomeroy smiled and stepped forward towards Aelfryth; he held out a hand of friendship. Briefly she felt relief but as he smiled more broadly she was no longer reassured. Something in the eyes gave him away; she felt in terrible danger. Her baby began to cry. Now she realised her mistake; she had let him get too close. There was nowhere to run as all three soldiers made for her. As the two men grabbed her arms, Pomeroy pulled the baby from her. In a couple of strides he was at the open window, the shadow of the millwheel flickering across his features. A lascivious grin spread across his face as he held the baby a little way back from the window. He looked Aelfryth up and down and nodded to the two soldiers who ripped off her clothes. To protect her distressed infant she made no attempt to stop them. Pomeroy thought it was something in her that would make him do it but as he gazed at her face he realized it was something in him, something that he had felt
before and it was here again, with him now in the mill; a strange power that filled him, overtook him. A daemon, as it had so often done before, had possession of his soul. So when Aelfryth was naked he laughed and threw her tiny son out of the window. The little boy’s crying stopped abruptly.
Aelfryth wailed the pain of deepest misery, her love, her heart destroyed. She gasped in horror as Pomeroy turned his attention to her. In her ears she could hear the laughter of his comrades.
As he grew closer the deep reddish brown of her nipples against the white skin of her milk-filled breasts drew Pomeroy’s attention. Terror was now shuddering uncontrollably through her body. Aelfryth felt powerless. Pomeroy stood before her feeling as potent as a god but really much less than that; he was capable of nothing but devastation. He looked her in the eyes and smiled again. She knew instantly he was the kind of man who loved other people’s fear. He lived to kill; he loved to kill. In death he found life. The dread in her eyes thrilled him. All the signs he knew so well were there. He knew she realised he would be merciless. The thrill of her fear excited him to the centre of his very being. Now he reached out and took one of her breasts in his hand and fondled it so very gently. She cried and struggled and begged him again and again to leave her alone, not to hurt her. He carried on as though he had not heard her but he savoured her fear.
He reached up with his left hand now and fondled both breasts. The soldiers were hooting with laughter and already looking forward to their turn. But still they held on tight to the struggling girl, egging their master on to greater deeds. He began to squeeze her harder, as hard as he possibly could. Pain as well as humiliation and helplessness seared through the young woman. Her screams joined those of others in the village who were meeting a similar fate. Tears poured down her contorted face.
Pomeroy’s heart was pounding now. Her screaming made him euphoric; her writhing body delighted him; her futile struggle was pure ecstasy. Breathless, he released her and stepped back, drawing his sword, holding it vertically before his face as he did so, the light shining on its cold, silvery blade. Stepping forward again he held it flat under her breasts. She recoiled from the chilling touch of the steel and begged for mercy.
‘What’s the matter? Do you think I’m going to cut your tits off?’ he laughed. ‘No I wouldn’t do that to a handsome wench like you. It would be such a waste.’
What Pomeroy relished as much as violence itself was the knowledge that inside his victims’ terror lived the faint, foolish hope that complete submission might lead to their lord sparing them. How little they understood his sport. What he liked best in this moment before death was to prolong the anticipation of agony. Let the victim imagine the supreme pain of his probing blade before the deed was done. In this world between life and death he was more than a just a warrior; he was king. A regular visitor to this world, he knew the landscape well. He enjoyed its views, its strange perfumes, its urgent sounds that screeched louder than any bird and, of course, the feel of warm blood on his hands. But what delighted him most was the pleasure of feasting his eyes on his victims’ faces as they realised they were about to die and the fascinating fading away of the light in their eyes as their life drained from them. Terror filled a void in his life.
Pomeroy indicated to the soldiers to force the woman down on the floor, which they did, stretching her out before him. Stepping between her splayed legs, he dropped to his knees, then staring into Aelfryth’s eyes, reeled in depraved rapture as he set his sword about its work. Obedient it was in his well-trained hands and it performed its bestial butcher’s business with a zeal unsurpassed in any abattoir. Her deafening screams echoed in his head long after the business was all over. The skull that housed his bulging eyes, the manic grin, the pale face, held motionless above Aelfryth’s now calm corpse. She was finally free of her tormentor.
He let out a sigh. Now he felt replete, he could relax and enjoy a moment’s calm. He noticed the flickering light and the sound of the mill stream brought him back to earth. There was no time for rest. He had the Duke’s work to continue. He wiped Aelfryth’s blood from his sword in her long blonde hair and as he did so he examined her flowing locks more closely. He couldn’t help admire the way they caught the sunlight and revealed lustrous gold. It was truly beautiful hair. Odd though, how it still felt the same whether they were dead or alive. If you had to say if someone were dead or alive just by feeling their hair, you’d have to guess, you wouldn’t have a clue. Funny that.
The two soldiers watched him in silence while he cleaned his weapon, concentrating intensely on the task in hand until once again he had a bright, clean, gleaming blade. Realising he was being watched, he rose to his feet and slid his sword back into its scabbard.
My God, I hope I wasn’t talking to myself then, he thought, self-consciously. For a moment he looked at the two soldiers, then without a word, turned and left.
‘You’d thought he’d a let us fuck her first,’ said one.
‘Yeah, selfish git. He’s ruined her now,’ replied the other.
‘She’s still warm, though.’
‘You have her, then.’
‘What d’you think I am?’
They released her body in disgust, left the building and walked away. Looking for more mischief, the three of them blended in effortlessly with their comrades. Heading back into the middle of what was left of the village, they passed a pale-faced chevalier heading to the mill, looking quite ill. He was the only one amongst the Normans who fully understood the cries for help and who was familiar with the names of loved ones called in anguish. Drained of all emotion and in a state of shock, Sir William Malet headed to the mill. Stepping round the body of a young man, Sir William entered the building. It was unnaturally silent inside. Over the sound of the babbling brook he could hear something dripping. He looked down and on the floorboards saw a dark pool spreading in a sunbeam. His eyes travelled upward and he saw the source. Like Pomeroy and the soldiers before him, Malet climbed the ladder and the sight that met his gaze made the battle-hardened warrior vomit. Skalpi’s wife lay dead before him; it was obvious how she had died. Feeling the need for air and wanting to avert his eyes he stepped uncertainly over to the window. Looking through it, there he saw, trapped in the millwheel, the body of a baby. He retched again, this time more violently. Unable to bear being in the mill, he raced down the ladder and made his way outside where, in an effort to recompose himself, he took deep breaths and a few steps away from the building. Gradually, as his head stopped reeling, he became aware of the scene around him. Everywhere was butchery and bestiality. Every crime known to humanity was being committed with impunity. He felt so numb he could not even cry and Pope’s absolution or no Pope’s absolution, he wondered whether they would all burn in hell.
As he mounted his horse another Norman approached him on a big bay stallion.
‘Missed an opportunity there, friend,’ the stranger said in a Breton accent.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘It’s the only building left standing.’
It was then Malet noticed, although he never knew how he could have missed it, that the chevalier carried with him a burning torch.
‘Still, not to worry; I’ll take care of it.’ He smiled as he hurled the torch onto the thatched roof of the mill. ‘That should burn nicely. Mills usually do.’ He turned and rode away as Malet, still white-faced, not knowing what to do or say, stared as the torch rolled harmlessly down the mill’s thatched roof and extinguished itself on the ground.
Upstream, peering through the undergrowth on the riverbank by the side of the bridge and unseen by the withdrawing Normans was a small group of villagers hiding out of sight. In all there were seven crouched under the bridge, including two children and a baby. When the Normans left, the villager who had been watching signalled his neighbours to join him. From under the bridge six came out alive, the baby having joined the other children of the village in eternal rest. Her father had gathered her up when he saw soldiers
running amok and carried her beneath the bridge to safety. Unlike Aelfryth’s baby she did not think this was a game and being frightened cried for her mother. Terrified of giving their position away, in his fear, the father had hugged her close to his chest. Still he could hear her crying; it sounded deafening. Neighbours, the panic-stricken look of their stares glaring down on him, demanded a solution. Soldiers were approaching. Two horsemen actually came to a halt on the bridge right over their heads. As they approached the man placed his hand over the baby’s mouth, stooped down and placed her gently and respectfully beneath the water. Soon there was no life left in her little body and her father could hear nothing and see nothing, simply conscious of the terrible weight of his burden and the fearful pounding of his own heart. Tears ran down the father’s cheeks and fell from his face to mingle with the water and run downstream through the millrace over Aelfryth’s baby’s body to the sea.
The Normans, their day’s work complete, headed to Hastings, riding hard along the road. When they left Whatlington, it was shrouded in silence; almost nothing could be heard, not even birdsong. The world screamed out in silence.
At twilight, Duke William arrived at Hastings. Assured that they had nothing to fear from well-disciplined Norman soldiers, the townsfolk had stayed and opened the town gates for him. The Normans were especially glad to be there; it was beginning to rain.
William was very happy to reach his destination. Hastings was a well-protected, strong defensive position. A range of hills ran down to the sea with high ground commanding the beaches to either side. William’s men helped themselves to what they wanted from local supplies. With Harold and his army miles away, there was no one to stop them. Before dining that evening, Duke William had discussed with Sir Humphrey de Tilleul en Ague exactly where he would erect his castle next morning. This was not to be a temporary stay.
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