Signalling his commanders, William watched as groups of between five and twenty horsemen charged the English. The impact was not what he had hoped for. The axe men made easy meat of them. Although the spears his men hurled caused some casualties, the greater loss was on his side.
From his vantage point, Harold watched as his men came out from behind the shield wall and placed blow after blow of well-aimed axe upon the Norman riders and their mounts. In front of his very eyes, Finn took the head off a horse and killed its rider with one blow.
As he looked over to the west, he saw the Bretons were making heavy going of it. Leofwine was laughing, enjoying the sight of the struggling foe. To the east, he saw Gyrth, shouting encouragement to his men whilst he was himself fighting in the thick of the action. Harold took comfort from the fact that the shield wall was holding steady. His confidence rose. Looking toward the Bretons, it seemed to him that as one, their nerve cracked. They turned tail and streamed down the ridge like leaves before the breeze. Harold saw someone on the Norman side fall from his horse; it was a black charger. It was William! The Bretons, thinking their lord dead, were now in full panic. Then, in defiance of strict orders to hold the line, a horde of fyrdmen rushed after the retreating Bretons. Leofwine ran forward to drive his men back and caught a crossbow bolt right in the middle of his chest and he fell dead on the spot. The housecarls called the fyrdmen back but in their excitement they ran on.
In the chaos and confusion that reigned on the Norman side, Harold saw a chance to snatch victory. If the entire army were to swoop down now, they could drive their enemy from the field. He looked across to Gyrth, who he could see was thinking the same thing. But Leo had just fallen and there was no one to receive the command or lead the right flank. Looking across to the right, his heart sank as he saw William remount his horse and remove his helmet so his troops could clearly identify him.
‘Are you all madmen?’ cried the Duke, racing across the path of the retreating Bretons. Like Harold, he knew if the entire English army fell on them now they would be lost.
‘Can’t you see victory?’ he called to them. ‘Run away and you’ll only find death! Look at me: I am alive and by the grace of God I shall be the victor this day. Why are you running? Where can you go? You’re allowing yourselves to be beaten by men who you could slaughter like cattle. You’re throwing away victory and lasting glory, for what? None of you can run fast enough to evade destruction. Only if you fight on can you live.’
Unconvinced, the Bretons kept on running. Grabbing a spear and ignoring the protestations of Eustace of Boulogne that retreat might be the best policy, William whacked and prodded the fleeing men. His half brothers Odo and Robert joined in, as did William Malet and Montgomerie. Very soon the Bretons were forced into turning around. What they saw brought the light of hope back into their eyes. Only some of the English had pursued them. The vast bulk of the opposing army was still high up on the ridge. Some of their pursuers had run far ahead of their comrades. The Breton cavalry turned and charged back up the hill, picking them off as they went.
Now it was the turn of the English to run. Some of them made it back to safety but most were killed. A few hundred ran to a small tree-topped hillock. There they fought a losing battle against overwhelming odds. From the top of the hill their comrades watched helplessly as their numbers were depleted. Some of the soldiers who had so bravely charged down their enemy only minutes ago were now seeking the shelter of the tree by climbing up into its branches. William’s archers and spearmen made light work of them all.
Hurriedly reforming the shield wall, Harold’s men prepared to receive another vicious attack. Despite their losses, morale was high and their discipline held. They continued to maintain close order and took heart from the Norman losses, already twice their own.
The Normans, who had been losing heart, now saw an opportunity to deal the English a savage blow. William led another ferocious attack directly in front of Harold. The two men were just feet away when William hurled a spear directly at Harold, who neatly sidestepped it.
‘I will kill you myself, Godwinson,’ the enraged Duke shouted.
‘You’ll have to try harder than that,’ was the laconic reply.
The Duke turned away to collect another spear but fell from his horse for the second time that morning. Seeing him topple, the housecarls surged forward in the hope of killing him where he lay. It was all William’s bodyguard could do to hold them back. Flustered but uninjured, the Duke scrambled to his feet, calling for another horse. There was no response. Catching sight of Roger de Beaumont, William ordered him to give up his mount but Sir Roger refused. With his bodyguard falling back and the housecarls coming ever closer, William started brawling with Sir Roger, striking him several hard blows on the leg with his mace before dragging the hapless cavalrymen to the ground. Leaving him to his own devices, William rode off on his horse.
He heard Harold shout loud enough for everyone to hear, ‘How are you going to kill me, William, if at every opportunity you run away?’
Embarrassed, William left his bodyguard behind as it tried to disengage itself from Harold’s housecarls. He rode along the line, busying himself by encouraging his men to fight harder. Feeling a little shaken by his fall and still trying to compose himself, William paid little attention to the immediate battle. He was shocked to be knocked straight out of his saddle. He crashed on to the ground, winded. Looking up, he was confronted by the sight of Gyrth Godwinson, scrambling to his feet and making to head straight for him. Gyrth had the most murderous look the Duke had ever seen on anyone’s face. The Earl held a long knife and was only two paces away. Still gasping for breath, the Duke was struggling desperately to get to his feet. He was seconds away from death and he knew it. He put out his arm to protect himself. But as Gyrth prepared to strike, the Duke was amazed to see a bloody spear point protrude from his assailant’s chest. With a look of shock and horror on his contorted face the Earl collapsed to the ground.
‘Everything all right, my Lord?’ It was a cheery William Warenne.
The Duke, still fighting for breath and barely able to speak, looked up to his rescuer and simply nodded. His attempt to smile was made in vain. Still on all fours and breathing with difficulty, the Duke watched the life flow out of his assailant, who lay beside him writhing in agony. He had no idea who his enemy was but had, in those few brief seconds, formed a deep respect for him. It was out of respect, as soon as he was able, that he slit Gyrth’s throat, releasing him from unendurable pain. By the time he had his breath back, his bodyguard had caught up with him and Warenne had retrieved his spear. Remounting, William rode with his men down the hill to the Norman camp, leading an orderly withdrawal back to his own lines, where archers sat around discussing the battle. Such had been the ferocity of their attack they had run out of arrows. The English, having few archers, had returned very few for the Normans to reuse so William sent to Hastings for more.
Away from the English line the air smelled sweeter. Here, freshly cooked food greeted the nostrils of the hungry. On the ridge was the smell of death. A little past noon and half a mile away, four thousand men and several hundred horses lay dead. Most of them were Normans.
William gathered his captains around him and they retired to his tent where they would eat and make plans for the afternoon. A feeling of doom hung over them. Looking up to the top of the rise they could see the half-mile wide line of housecarls still standing proud. As they surveyed the English line they saw a straggler, most likely a young chevalier trying to make a name for himself, ride along the shield wall and throw a spear into the ranks. He turned to see what damage he had done. He failed to see Thorkell bring a pole-axe down hard onto his horse’s neck. It was a bizarre sight to see the horse, whose head was almost severed, lolling and flopping wildly as his master still held the reins, trying to control the animal as it cavorted madly along the line. The rider screamed as blade after blade cut into him from axes, swords and spears. The witless beast fell t
o the ground, unseating its wounded rider; he crashed face first to the ground at the feet of the English, who made short work of him. Watching from the bottom of the ridge, William and his comrades knew that unless they came up with some good ideas, a similar fate awaited them all.
In the inner sanctum of his tent, William and his close friends sat down to talk and eat. No one said a word. Everyone avoided the Duke’s eyes. Servants served platters of skewered meats, cheeses, roast fowl and bread. Still they sat in silence.
‘This should be a banquet,’ announced the Duke, sternly. ‘We should be celebrating a victory, not moping about because half the day’s gone and we’re worse off than when we started.’
Still no one spoke.
‘What’s happening out there? I have the biggest army I’ve ever had at my command. I have the finest soldiers money can buy and the biggest cavalry force to set foot in England since the Romans. It should all have been over in an hour or two.’ The Duke took a deep breath and sighed. ‘Don’t any of you have anything to say?’
The Count of Boulogne cleared his throat.
‘Yes, Eustace, what is it?’
‘Have you noticed the reinforcements that keep turning up?’
‘I don’t think we need concern ourselves with them.’
‘But there must have been three or four hundred at least.’
‘I saw them. There were fifty, a hundred at the very most.’
‘Well, my Lord, however many there were, they keep arriving. Perhaps it’s best if we retire to Hastings and send for reinforcements from home. Or better still …’
‘Eustace, this battle will be won today and it will be won by me. Now I want some good ideas. Who has one?’
‘My lord?’
‘Yes, Monty.’
‘When the Bretons retreated, the English came straight after them. I wondered; why not employ the feigned retreat?’
‘Thank you, Monty; I thought the same thing. We’ll try that tactic on the left flank first.’
The Duke continued, ‘The tactic is most likely to have success there. If it works, we’ll see how it works with those on our right.’
‘What if the tactic doesn’t work?’ asked Eustace, Comte de Boulogne.
‘Eustace.’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘Shut up.’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘I think we might very well be able to draw them down from the left or the right because their respective leaders are dead.’
‘Really,’ said William, his eyes lighting up with excitement. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m absolutely sure. Earl Leofwine was shot with a crossbow bolt just as his men started after the Bretons. Sir William Warenne killed Earl Gyrth sometime after that.’
‘Did I?’ said Warenne, quite surprised.
‘He was the man who knocked Duke William out of his saddle.’
‘Was that really Earl Gyrth?’ asked Warenne, pleased with himself.
‘I’m sure of it. I’d know him anywhere. Did you not hear the cry of dismay from the English lines when they saw him die?’
‘I’m sure Sir William was too busy to notice anything like that,’ interjected the Duke, before enquiring, ‘so, of the Godwinsons, only Earl Harold is still alive?’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘Who else is up there with him?’
‘It’s hard to say, my Lord, but I didn’t see anyone else I recognised. But Earl Harold is in the centre and his housecarls are too well disciplined to break order.’
‘Very well then, we’ll feign retreats on the left and the right. We’ll work away at the flanks until we can get cavalry on the ridge and attack from the sides as well as the front. We’ll keep the pressure up till the flanks collapse, then we’ll go for Harold himself.
‘Does anyone have any questions?’
Count Eustace wondered if they would be able to do all that by nightfall but thought better of voicing his concern.
‘Very well, my friends; let’s eat.’
On the ridge above them Harold was taking stock of the situation. From the oak, Edyth could bear to watch no longer and went over to see if she could assist. Lady Gytha went to help the wounded. Edyth met her husband in mixed spirits.
‘Is it over, Harold?’
‘No, my love, not yet. Can you believe it? They’ve broken off for dinner.’
‘Well at least it gives our men time for a rest. Where are Gyrth and Leo?’ she asked innocently.
‘Dead.’
‘Oh, no. I’m so sorry, Harold.’ Unable to hold back the tears, she cried.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said once more. ‘These tears will do you no good. How can I help?’ she said, pulling herself together.
‘Help the wounded. God knows there are enough of them.’
‘Very well.’
‘The men will carry them over to the baggage train. You can treat them there.’
She wanted to ask him if he were winning, if he would take the day, but something stopped her. She felt hesitant, unsure. And then she was aware of his speaking to her.
‘It should keep you busy most of the afternoon,’ he was saying. ‘I’ll see you by the old apple tree when this is all over.’
‘Will it take long?’ What a stupid question, she thought; how would he know?
But he was trying to reassure her. ‘It’ll be over by sunset. They can’t budge us off this ridge and they can’t fight us in the dark. They won’t dare to camp here overnight so they’ll have to go back to Hastings. When tomorrow comes we’ll have more reinforcements.’
She hugged him tightly, hoping his words were true.
‘You’d better get on and help the wounded.’
‘Bye, Harold.’
‘See you later.’
As she made her way to the baggage train, three hundred and fifty Danish housecarls arrived to take their places with the others. There were joyful shouts of greeting from the English to their new comrades. Edyth felt relief sweep through the length of her body and she walked with a lighter step.
On the ridge Harold appointed Godric, Shire Reeve of Buckingham, as commander of the left flank and put Abbot Leofgar in command of the right. He thought they would do an admirable job of standing in for his brothers
Just a few miles away, at Ninfield, Bondi and his men had come to a halt. The sight before them had stopped them in their tracks. It was a village laid waste.
‘There’s nothing we can do here except bury the dead,’ said Bondi.
But there was nothing with which to dig. Everything had been destroyed. Bondi’s men began looking for anything they could use to turn the earth. They met with little success, so a party was sent back to the village they had stayed in the previous night, where they found the tools to do the job. In the meantime Bondi and the rest of the men headed on to Harold’s encampment. After the delay Bondi calculated they would, if they hurried, reach the King sometime around sunset.
Duke William and his captains, replete after their midday meal, made their way back to their horses. The Duke made a point of separating Sir William Warenne from the others.
‘Thank you, William, it was a close thing out there; I owe you my life.’
Warenne was thrilled. Never before could he remember the Duke having thanked him for anything. It would be something he would tell his sons as they warmed their feet by the fireside on long winter nights. The Duke never mentioned the incident again.
Looking around him, Duke William estimated there would be about three hours of light left in the day, which might just give him enough time to win his victory. He was anxious to press on. Count Eustace had other ideas.
‘Why don’t we wait until the arrows arrive from Hastings before renewing the attack?’ he suggested rather feebly.
‘Get on your horse and prepare your men,’ was William’s curt reply. ‘Send up the infantry. The cavalry will press up right behind them, hurling spears into the English. When I give the signal, Count Alan, I want you and your men to run
down the hill as fast as you can. When the infantry begins to turn I want the cavalry to break off. If the English fall for the ruse I want you to wait until they are as far from their lines as you can draw them. Then turn your cavalry round and wipe them out. I will be observing. If the English follow you, I’ll break off with my cavalry and charge down on them from above. Is that clear?’
‘Very clear, my Lord,’ replied Count Alan.
Alan the Black rode over to his men and gave the orders. Duke William rode to the front of his men, signalling them to advance. Trumpets sounded and drums began to beat. What was left of his infantry, now depleted to eighteen hundred men in all, began the long march up the hill, holding a perfect line. The cavalrymen held their horses in check until it was their turn to engage their enemy. All the while the archers, having no arrows, looked on.
In a perfect line William’s troops advanced. Their discipline masked their fear. Every step forward brought them just that little bit closer to the time of reckoning. Each soldier knew in his own mind that if the slaughter continued at the same rate as it had that morning, by evening not one of them would be left alive.
‘Dieu Aide!’ went out the call.
‘Dieu Aide!’ was the chant taken up by the hapless soldiers.
Up on the ridge the English took up their chant, ‘Out! Out! Out!’ It went accompanied by the clash of sword and axe smashed against shield.
As the distance between them grew less and less, more and more became the evidence of the morning’s carnage. Infantrymen had to step round piles of bodies. The higher up the ridge they climbed, the worse grew the smell, the grislier the sights. Arms, legs and the occasional head lay on the slope. The closer to the shield wall the Norman infantry advanced, the higher the mounds of bodies were piled up to make obstacles for them.
Norman timing, born of desperation, was perfect. Just moments before the infantry made first contact, the cavalry, in groups of twenty, raced along behind them throwing their spears hard into the English lines. Barely had Harold’s men had time to recover when the infantry arrived. But the axe men were undaunted. Just as they had cut the Normans to pieces in the morning, they started to repeat the process in the afternoon.
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