In good cheer they broke camp, mounted their horses and formed a column, which started to snake its way through Sussex at a brisk pace. They were making good time and expected to join Harold at the old grey apple tree well before sunset.
Also heading toward the old grey apple tree were the earls Edwin and Morcar. After resting their men and horses for a day in London, the brothers were leading what was left of the northern army to Hastings. An assortment of housecarls and volunteers, two thousand men in all, were crossing London Bridge while Duke William was addressing his troops. The northern earls were certain they would reach the old apple tree by noon on Sunday.
Four hours’ march from Caldbec, three hundred and fifty Danish housecarls had also just finished breakfast and they were now marching briskly to join Harold. They had been sent by King Swein, who wanted to help his cousin. Before them and behind them came the stragglers of Harold’s army, still marching down from London. In all, up to two thousand men would arrive at the old grey apple tree at varying times throughout the day.
Harold, having left Edyth in the tent chatting with Lady Gytha, was eating breakfast with Gyrth, Leofwine and his captains. In the air the smell of wood smoke mixed with the musky fragrance of autumn leaves and birdsong mixed with the voices of the men. It was a perfect autumn morning. Then a commotion broke out in the camp as a scout approached the King at full gallop shouting, ‘Normans! Normans!’
The rider jumped off his horse before it had completely stopped and took a few bounds forward, bowing to the King as he ran. Coming to a halt and out of breath, the scout delivered his message: ‘Duke William, my Lord, he’s just over the other side of the hill.’ The rider indicated, with a wave of his arm, a hill on the other side of a nearby ridge.
Harold ordered his men to form a line at the top of the nearby ridge. Most of them had already grabbed their war gear and some were on their way even as he spoke. Senlac Ridge had a commanding view over a small valley to Telham Hill. If he could gain possession of this piece of high ground, he would have a fine defensive position. The top of the ridge was only half a mile wide with thick woods and undergrowth on either side; to the west the ground rose quite sharply, making it easily defendable.
Those who were still sleeping were woken by the kicks and shouts of their comrades. A clamour broke out as men fresh from dreams stirred themselves to rush straight from their beds to form a shield wall.
Harold shouted to Edmund, ‘Take Edyth and Gytha. I’m entrusting them to your care. Wait with them by that oak,’ he called out, as he indicated a tree three-quarters of a mile or so away. Mounting his horse, he raced for the top of Senlac to be with his troops who had already arrived and were busy forming a shield wall.
On the other side of the valley, William had ordered his archers to clear the ridge of the English, in the hope of making the high ground his. His plan was that the archers would throw the enemy into confusion and if the cavalry could organise itself in time, they would charge the thin English line and make the high ground theirs.
Harold, aware of the danger this manoeuvre posed, signalled most emphatically to his men to join him. In spite of their weariness and the surprise of the attack, the English reached the ridge first, but the fast-moving Norman archers had covered the ground quickly. Closing in, the crossbowmen in the middle of the Norman ranks fired a volley at their enemy. Behind and below them the cavalrymen were donning their armour, making ready to join the battle. Firing as many arrows and crossbow bolts as they possibly could into the unprotected legs of the English, the archers felt safe, staying just out of spear throwing range. Some fyrdmen, never having seen a crossbow, were terrified by the speed of the bolts and the accuracy of the shot; in a panic some of them left the field.
William hoped that the archers would be able to keep the pressure up for long enough to enable the cavalry to charge in and take the ridge. But as the depth of the English line increased, the archers, still unsupported by their cavalry, retreated down the hill. Two hours would pass before fighting resumed.
Harold instructed Gyrth to take command of the left flank and Leo the right. The brothers went to their appointed places, watching patiently as the Normans below them prepared for the coming battle.
The English stood on the ridge facing south watching the Normans fifty feet below. Harold was beneath his standard viewing the army below; he estimated William must have about eight thousand men with him, all of whom would be seasoned professionals. His own army possessed no cavalry and most of the archers were still struggling down from London. The infantry was a mix of housecarls and fyrdmen. Looking along the ridge in either direction, Harold felt pleased. He could see his army in close formation, protected in front and at the flanks by the housecarls’ shield-wall.
‘See the effete Normans and their French friends. See how they scuttle about, pretending they’re preparing to do battle but really delaying the moment when they march to their deaths. They may have mounted soldiers who will race their horses towards you but they can’t break a shield wall. They have archers but what good are they? Arrows will fly aimlessly over your heads or land harmlessly at your feet but none will hurt you. As for their infantry, by the time they’ve walked up these slopes they’ll be exhausted. And remember, as much as you’ve never fought against Normans, they’ve never fought against you. Who have they fought, you might wonder? What kingdoms has the Duke of Normandy conquered? None, save for a few puny counties belonging to his neighbours.
‘And what are they fighting for, these dogs who dare to set foot, uninvited, into our homeland? Are they men come to liberate us from some tyrant whose rule is so despotic it’s intolerable to the world? No!
‘They are men come to take our land, our riches and our women. Remember well the villages we passed through on our journey here. Every village in England will look like that if William has his way. Unlike the Normans, we are fighting to keep our homes, our women and our children. We are fighting for freedom, for life itself.’
Harold shouted the last words as he waved his axe above his head. The gesture earned him a rousing cheer.
‘Remember, men, all you have to do is stand firm and by nightfall we’ll be supping in Hastings.’
Another cheer went up from his men but soon silence fell over the ranks. The Normans had started their advance. William approached astride his black charger. At his side, carrying the papal banner, was Turstin, son of Rollo. At William’s other side was Ralph de Tosny, carrying the Duke’s standard, the Leopards of Normandy flag and a raven emblem. William’s half brothers Odo and Robert were there, as were Walter Gifford, Roger de Bigod, Montgomerie, and looking like a man whose worst nightmares had become grim reality, the ashen-faced William Malet.
Behind the Duke in the centre of the army were his fellow countrymen, the Normans, the largest contingent of men totalling about four-and-a-half-thousand. On his left were some two thousand Bretons, Poitivins and troops from Maine under the command of Alan of Brittany. On William’s right was a mix of two thousand French and Flemish mercenaries under the command of William FitzOsbern, with Eustace de Boulogne and Robert de Beaumont under his command. The vanguard consisted of the archers and crossbowmen; in the second rank stood the infantry and finally the squadrons of chevaliers whom he would later be joining to lead the attack. From their vantage point on the ridge, the English soldiers paid particular attention to this last group. They were fascinated by their shields, kite-shaped, not round like those of the infantry. They could see the heavy swords, long spears and maces that would soon be used against them. To their relief, they also noticed the horses’ lack of armour; the animals wore no protection at all.
It was then William rode forward a few paces ahead of his comrades. Holding the attention of both English and French armies, he began to taunt Harold, all the time playing with the relics round his neck. He shouted up to where he could see Harold’s standard: ‘You might believe in God and you might think God is on your side, but God is with me and I have the banne
r to prove it.’
No one in the English ranks understood a word. What William had shouted, only heaven knew but the relics and the banner were clear for all to see and a rumour started to spread amongst the English that their king must have been excommunicated. Every man knew if that this was true, then the same fate hung over anyone who fought with him. Surreptitiously, one or two thanes slipped quietly away and left the field.
Even at the distance William was from the English line, he could see his display having impact. He was winning the confidence of his own men while Harold’s men were losing faith in him. With a smirk on his face, he turned to his troops. What he saw surprised him; they looked obviously fatigued. A night spent praying had left them tired and jittery. Their morale concerned him. He knew he could win the battle but his men would need to be in good spirits to face the ordeal ahead.
Riding along the length of his troops the Duke racked his brain to find some dramatic way of starting the proceedings that would be to his advantage. He wanted some way of unsettling the enemy, some way of disturbing them. His answer came in a flash.
‘Is there any man here who would challenge a Saxon to single combat? Is there a man who would demonstrate to the enemy our Norman prowess and strike fear into their barbarian hearts?’ he called out.
‘I’m your man, Duke William. I’ll slay a Saxon for you,’ answered a young warrior ‘Just say the word.’
It was Taillefer, a military adventurer and minstrel, grown weary of his normally menial role and hungry for glory.
‘I praise your courage, young man, but are you sure you know what it is I’m asking?’ enquired the Duke, as Taillefer halted in front of him.
‘I beg you, my Lord. May I be the one to strike the first blow?’
‘You may, Taillefer. God be with you.’
Taillefer put his horse into a walk, heading out between the two armies, in high spirits, sure that fame and glory awaited him. At a gentle pace he headed up the hill to the centre of the English line, to the sound of his comrades’ cheers following on the air behind him. As he went, he sang the ancient songs of long-dead heroes like Roland and Charlemagne. Thrilled by the thought that from this day on, songs would be sung about him, his spirits rose. With supreme confidence he flung his sword high into the air, watching it turn before catching it again. The minstrel chevalier was in his element, performing before his biggest ever audience.
Gradually silence fell over the Norman army gathered at the foot of the hill. On the ridge the chant of English soldiers could be heard: ‘Out! Out! Out!’
The noise grew louder and the housecarls in the front line smashed swords and axes against their shields in time to their shouts. The sound was deafening.
Skalpi looked up to Harold, who nodded in response to the unasked question. The housecarl handed the Fighting Man standard to Finn and stepped forward through the ranks to meet his enemy. Walking confidently with his shield over his back and his axe held almost casually in his right hand, he took his position twenty feet in front of his comrades and waited for the Norman.
Taillefer stopped and turned his horse towards his comrades. He would milk this occasion for all he could. ‘For William, Normandy and the Lord God Almighty!’ he cried. There was an instant roar of support from those gathered below.
Taillefer made minor adjustments to his shield and reins, and then unable to resist putting on a display, once more threw his sword high into the air. It twisted and turned as it flew upwards, stalled, then made its way earthward to be caught with aplomb by the great showman. A roar of appreciation greeted his ears from his comrades.
With a grin on his face, Taillefer turned his horse to the enemy and put it into a trot. His heart was now racing, the sound of his comrades’ cheers growing dim in his ears; just the thud, thud, thud of his horse’s hooves. Then at a canter, he headed toward his glorious fate. Silence fell on the battlefield as both sides awaited the outcome. Soldiers saw the contest as symbolic of the forthcoming battle; it would be a good omen for the winner.
Skalpi, noticing Taillefer’s acceleration, started to swing his axe in a figure of eight. The Norman, with his sword held high, now riding at full gallop, bore down on the Englishman.
‘Out! Out! Out!’ chanted the English army.
Faster and faster Taillefer rode his horse, eyeing the precise spot on Skalpi’s neck where he would land his blow.
The housecarl’s nerve held; he too had picked a spot to place his axe. He would aim at the rider’s right hip; the horseman would be fit to fight no more and could be finished off at will. Skalpi swung his axe with careful aim; timing was crucial. He had no defence except to sidestep the deadly sword but his axe gave him the reach he needed. Then the horseman was on top of him and in one deft movement, a little sideways step at just the right time, the precise timing of the swing and the contest would be as good as over.
Taillefer had Skalpi in view at all times and thought it would be relatively easy to cut down a man armed with only an axe. The young man underestimated the skill, the courage, the reach and the power of the man and his weapon. Too late he saw his opponent’s sidestep and the grey blur of the axe head; then the feeling of insufferable pain.
Each step his horse took was agony for the young chevalier. Every jolt of the fine charger’s body put him through the most excruciating suffering. His scream was so loud it seemed to fill the heavens. He struggled to control his horse; it was all he could do to stay in the saddle, his right leg held on only by skin and a little muscle, the smashed bone clearly visible through the blood and tissue. The horse came close to a halt by the shield wall and as the white-faced Taillefer tried to turn he vomited, dropping his sword to the ground before falling after it with cries of pain echoing in a head so light it seemed to float. The charger turned for home, confused, no master’s hand to guide him.
Taillefer’s world was reduced to the immediate awareness of the present, to the precise here and now, to one huge mistake. No future. No past. The world on its head. King, Duke and armies had vanished. He was aware of unbearable pain, his helplessness and the smell of earth and damp grass. His vision consisted of no more than the housecarl above him and his leg lying at a distorted angle by his side. Even so he could not help but notice, as his head lolled back on the ground, how blue was the sky and how pretty the fluffy white clouds looked as they sailed above. What a beautiful day. Then the glory that was to have been his vanished in the grey blur of an axe.
When Skalpi picked up Taillefer’s head, the helmet that still protected it fell to the ground revealing the hairstyle that the English often mistook for that of a monk. Facing his friends, he raised his trophy high and the army gave out a deafening cheer. The opening clash had gone their way. The omens were good. Skalpi had not let them down. Taking a spear from one of the men in the front line, Skalpi drove it hard into the ground before sticking the head of his challenger upon it.
‘Come and see your friend,’ he shouted to the Normans below. ‘He’s waiting for you.’
The army, impressive though it was in its orderly sections, now somehow seemed less threatening. He could see Taillefer’s horse still cantering homewards, its tail held high, panic in its eye and stirrups jangling empty by its side, heading towards the subdued Norman soldiers who looked on as he stuck their comrade’s head on a spear. They failed to hear the words he shouted down to them before he picked up his axe and returned to take up his place in the line.
The Duke, maddened by losing his champion in such a way, cursed himself for not picking someone more experienced, someone who would have at least taken an Englishman with him. He now addressed his men.
‘You saw the valiant Taillefer,’ he yelled, his mace held high in the air. ‘You saw how courageously the young man faced the enemy without the slightest hesitation, without any second thoughts, gladly giving his life for our cause. He was a hero with the heart of a lion, made stronger by his faith in God, slaughtered like a lamb by a barbarian. Let us avenge our brother and rep
ay the English for this atrocity. Let us advance!’
Clarions rang. To the sound of drum and trumpet the Normans advanced. The infantry, with the archers following on close behind, marched forward, forgetting their fear in an outburst of rage. William’s soldiers started to make their way determinedly up the slope, singing, as they went, the Song of Roland, in Taillefer’s honour.
When the distance between the two armies closed, a fusillade of missiles from both sides took to the air, arrows shooting uphill and spears, hatchets and stones hailing down. The Norman archers could make no impact upon their enemy. Once within stabbing range of the shield wall, the Normans were skewered, impaled and scythed down by the dozen; they were making little impression. They were chopped up or run through and their corpses thrown back with the exultant cry of ‘Out! Out! Out!’ William’s losses were truly terrible.
The Bretons were getting the worst of it. The ridge they advanced up was steeper than the eastern side. They were breathless when they arrived at the crest and they had no match for the axe. The Normans in the centre were also experiencing dreadful losses but stoically they drove on. The mercenaries on the right flank were holding back, demoralised by Count Eustace’s insistence that they had fallen into a trap.
‘This ground favours Harold too much for this battle site not to have been picked in advance. And look, more men are joining him all the time!’ cried Eustace in alarm.
He was right; parties of Englishmen were arriving every few minutes.
After half an hour of the bloodiest combat the Normans had ever experienced, the assault petered out. Atop his charger, William read the situation well. Already he knew this would be a battle that would last longer than the usual two or three hour affairs he had fought at home. He knew, as well as anyone present, if they did not win the battle that day, he would have no future. The English had to be congratulated. They had stood up well to the infantry but it remained to be seen how they would cope against cavalry.
1066 Page 45