1066

by G. K. Holloway

  ‘Eustace, how would you like to cover yourself in glory?’

  ‘Me, my Lord?’

  ‘Yes, you.’

  ‘Well naturally …’

  ‘Good. Take half a dozen men and take the English standard. Don’t worry about Harold, he’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Yes. I saw him go down a moment ago. Now get in there and capture his standard and then show it to the troops.

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’

  ‘Nothing, my Lord.’

  ‘Well, get on with it!’

  Eustace began rounding up men to help him with his task. As far as he could tell, Harold was still standing. Half a dozen men might not be enough and so he went out to gather twenty more men who would be keen to share the honour.

  Along the length of the ridge the shield wall was collapsing. The defenders were desperately trying to close the gaps. Tripping over the gouged and gaping bodies of their comrades, each group of Englishmen desperately fought to rejoin the main body of men around the standard. This meant giving up ground on the flanks, making more room for the exhausted Norman horses to manoeuvre and charge.

  Around Harold the Normans were getting closer. He was in the largest group on the ridge in the middle of a thousand men. Their number was being rapidly depleted.

  Just over a mile away, Bondi and his men reached a fork in the road known as Henley’s Down and the housecarl took heart, knowing that they had less than an hour’s journey to the old apple tree. They looked forward to warm campfires and a hot meal. Those who had never met him were looking forward to the honour of meeting their king for the first time. An air of excitement hung over the group as they hurried though the twilight.

  In the eye of the storm the King fought on defiantly. The searing pain in Harold’s head had not abated; if anything it was worse but he would not leave the field.

  ‘My lord,’ pleaded Skalpi, ‘you must get away from here!’

  ‘I can’t leave the men.’

  ‘There’s nothing more you can do.’

  ‘I can do my best. What’ll happen if I run away now, when they need me most? It’s almost dark. If we’re still here at nightfall, William will have to give up. We can fight him again tomorrow. We’ll be stronger then, we’ll have more men.’

  ‘But my Lord …’

  ‘I must stay by the standard, Skalpi, I must. What sort of king would I be if I left the field now?’

  ‘Then I’ll not leave your side.’

  ‘Edmund, I fear for the safety of the women. Leave us now and protect them.’

  ‘My Lord, I cannot leave you.’

  ‘Would you disobey your king when he most needs your loyalty?’

  After a moment’s thought Edmund replied, ‘God be with you, my Lord.’ He turned reluctantly and left.

  Beneath the Fighting Man, the King, with Thorkell on one side and Skalpi on the other, prepared for the next onslaught. Around them the housecarls pressed together, forming a human shield. All they had to do was protect the King, just a little while longer until darkness fell.

  A quarter of a mile away, Count Eustace had formed two groups. The biggest was made up of twenty mounted men, led by Robert FitzErneis. The Count had told him the Duke had selected him for the honour of taking Harold’s standard and that he would be in the company of handpicked men whose mounts were not too tired to charge.

  ‘Good luck, Sir Robert, I know you won’t disappoint us,’ Eustace had said to FitzErneis as he departed on his deadly mission.

  ‘Thank you, Count Eustace. I’ll return shortly with a gift for you.’

  FitzErneis was thrilled to think the Duke had enough faith in him to bestow on him such an honourable task. With his head filled with dreams of glory, he put his horse into a full gallop and followed by his men, raced straight for Harold’s standard.

  Holding their horses in check were Eustace and three others. They were Walter Gifford, Hugh de Montfort and Hugh de Ponthieu, son of the man who had held Harold prisoner two years before. They were all hard men and seasoned warriors. They would charge straight in behind FitzErneis and his men, taking advantage of the confusion. They watched impassively as FitzErneis heroically threw himself straight into the mayhem.

  For FitzErneis and his men, it was like entering the mouth of hell. They crashed through the shield wall and there followed terrible scenes of carnage as they forced their way toward the standard. They were only a few feet from the King. They could see him, axe at the ready, waiting for them. The din was terrible as exhausted housecarls and thanes were forced aside. Steel clashed against steel; the thunderous blows of axes shattered shields. Wounded men and beasts screamed in agony, some victims of an enemy blow and some trampled to death or crushed as they fell under horses. Some men, as in a scene from Hades, ran round blindly in distress, clutching at their wounds and yelling in rage at the world.

  Skalpi was quick to spot the attack and immediately alerted the other housecarls to the danger. The weight of the charge was overwhelming and furious fighting raged around the standard. The twenty handpicked men were trying to fight their way through and taking serious losses for every foot they travelled. Axes bit deep into their flesh. Swords slashed into them. Spears penetrated hard chain mail and soft flesh. By the time he reached the standard, FitzErneis was the only man left from the twenty who had started out less than a minute before. He saw a man with a ghastly face wound, his eye a grisly mess in its socket. He felt his horse go down under him before he was thrown off, landing on his shield. He was on his feet in an instant but not fast enough. The one-eyed man brought an axe down hard through his shoulder. He fell in two separate bloody halves to the ground.

  Thinking the strike over, for just a few moments the defenders lost concentration. Before they knew what was upon them, four more riders were in their midst, charging at full gallop.

  With Eustace in the lead, the four riders bore down on the standard. With no one to defend him, Harold made an easy target. Enduring insufferable pain and afflicted by clouded vision, Harold was aware of the second strike too late. It was the thundering hooves that alerted him to danger. He turned from FitzErneis’ body, staring up at the horsemen charging through the twilight. It was as though they had appeared from out of the earth itself.

  It was Count Eustace who struck the first blow, running the King through the chest with a spear, piercing his heart, drenching the earth with his blood. The same hand that threw the spear snatched the Fighting Man from the earth and the Count galloped, deliriously happy, away along the ridge toward the Duke.

  Harold tottered helplessly before falling; his one seeing eye stared but saw nothing. Walter Gifford’s unseen blade sliced off his head. Bringing his horse up sharp, the Norman turned it round, grabbed the Golden Dragon and rode off to find his master. As Harold’s decapitated body struck the ground the sun dipped behind the trees shrouding the battle in darkness; his soul took flight, ascending to heaven like many that day, lightly and gently, blown like a feather on the breath of God.

  Hugh de Montfort, having nothing to fear, leaned right over in the saddle and disembowelled the headless king as he lay stretched out on the bloody ground. And last, Hugh de Ponthieu, Count Guy’s brother, looking for glory, threw his spear, which pierced Harold’s body and stuck pointing skyward.

  It would be nightfall and the battle over before Harold received his final wound. Count Guy’s son, Ivo de Ponthieu, searching by torchlight in the darkness, found the King’s body amongst his slain housecarls. And there, Ivo, no victim’s eyes to shame him, looking for a trophy, by taking away added an unspeakable wound of his own.

  When the King fell to the ground, despair and dark desperation had struck the housecarls. Norman infantry, seeing the King fall, charged the housecarls and a ferocious fight ensued. The housecarls were overrun and many killed and wounded. Thorkell decided to leave the field when he saw Bishop Odo strike Skalpi down. With the King and it appeared, all of his friends dead, this seemed the best
policy. He thought he would make his way to the watch oak. Perhaps he could protect Edmund and the ladies.

  After Harold had fallen, Sir Walter and Count Eustace made straight for the Duke to give him the good news. William, when they handed over the two standards, could not conceal his disbelief.

  ‘Well done, Sir Walter. Well done, Count Eustace, I wasn’t sure you’d succeed.’

  In those few short words he had betrayed his plan and already Eustace was wondering when the time would be right for him to make a move on the English throne, After all, he told himself, it was his by right. He had a claim and he had killed Harold. Where had the high and mighty warrior been then?

  ‘I had a good plan, my Lord. You should know above all others the value of a good plan. The greater the plan, the greater the success.’

  ‘Yes indeed, Count Eustace. And do you have any plans now?’

  ‘Naturally, my Lord.’

  ‘I’d love to know what they are.’

  ‘You will see. Watch me, my Lord. I’ll finish the English and proceed with my battle.’

  ‘I’ll do just that, Eustace.’ And as the Count disappeared into the night, William thought he would certainly need to keep an eye on him.

  On the English left flank, more and more of Godric’s men were being cut down by merciless Norman swords. Pomeroy, along with dozens of William’s men, had fought his way along the ridge, leaving the hilltop strewn with corpses. Sheriff Godric, who had as yet failed to rejoin the main group of men with the King, was fighting like a berserker.

  After running his sword through a young thane, the blood-spattered Pomeroy found himself on the edge of a group of men that had surrounded the huge Englishman. Now up close, Pomeroy, like most of the men present, was thinking twice about attacking the axe man. He weighed the danger against the honour and decided patience was a virtue. He knew there would be a younger man there, someone eager to make a name for himself, someone who saw an opportunity for glory. Pomeroy would wait for him to strike and make his own attack while the Englishman was occupied. Sure enough, a young man lunged forward but he was dispatched before Pomeroy could act. Worse still, it was the Englishman who was on the offensive; flailing this way and that; it seemed impossible to get near him. It was hard for Pomeroy to pick his moment.

  But his moment came; Godric turned to face Pomeroy and as he did so, an infantryman stepped forward to deal him a blow. Godric, quick as ever, never staying still, turned and brought his axe down with awesome force, splitting the man’s helmet and head alike but the blade was stuck. Quickly he put his foot on his victim’s head and pulled hard on the axe’s handle. Pomeroy saw his moment, stepped forward behind Godric and brought his sword down hard as the sheriff struggled to free his axe. The blade caught Godric in his side. It was a painful blow that cut through his tattered byrnie, penetrating deep between his ribs. Pomeroy had no problem withdrawing his weapon and struck a second blow, this time bringing his sword down hard into Godric’s shoulder, close to his neck. The sheriff let out a fearsome scream as he fell back clutching at the wound. A spear hurled by a Frisian drove deep into his chest. Pomeroy brought his sword down hard across Godric’s stomach. The big bear crashed to earth, dead before he hit the ground. Below his chest was a deep red gash, a wide, silent mouth speaking of pain and helplessness.

  On the right flank, Leofgar had fared little better than Godric. He had received several wounds, two of them serious. He was taken from the field to where he could receive treatment. In the meantime the monks from his abbey and those men left on the English right kept up the fight, knowing darkness, if nothing else, might save them. Already the Normans were bringing up torches, their light casting ghostly shadows across the field.

  It was as Eustace left William that Bondi and his men eventually reached Oakwood Gill, just on the edge of Dunniford Wood, not far from the battle. Bondi was at the head of the column leading the men along a track on the edge of a ravine and was the first to hear the dreadful news. He heard people rushing toward him through the dense woods. Men were shouting, crashing into each other, falling headlong in their attempt to escape the carnage. His own men shouted for them to join them. It was one of these fleeing men who ran headfirst into Bondi’s horse. The housecarl dismounted, grabbed the man’s tunic and questioned him.

  ‘What’s happening? Where are you going?’

  ‘Get off. Who are you? Why should I tell you anything?’ He replied breathlessly, still struggling to escape.

  ‘Stand still and answer me. I’m with the King’s bodyguard and I demand to know what’s going on.’

  ‘If you’re with the King’s bodyguard then you’re out of a job. The King’s dead.’

  Bondi was shocked into silence but a moment’s glance into the man’s face convinced him he had heard the truth. He felt overwhelmed. It did not seem possible.

  The clatter of hooves broke the conversation.

  With contempt, Bondi threw the man to the ground. ‘Dismount and spread out along the edge of the gorge, men,’ he commanded.

  The men obeyed and as they were doing so, more of the remnants of Harold’s army, heading for the relative safely of the treacherous gullies and the hidden ravine, appeared out of the darkness and joined them. It was here they made their stand. Dozens of horses charged out of the darkness, their riders hoping to find the odd hapless Saxon running for cover. Without exception all of them plunged to their doom in the abyss. Dozens more came charging after, losing their footing, breaking their legs or hurtling to their deaths down the steep banks of the ravine.

  Those at the rear were oblivious to the trap and galloped at full speed after their comrades until the ravine was a mass of dead and dying men and beasts. Many riders suffered an instant death, breaking their necks or smashing their skulls. Bondi’s men quickly put others, who lay trapped or were too stunned or injured to move, out of their misery. What brought the slaughter to an end was the Normans’ realisation that there was an impassable wall of their dead in front of them.

  Eustace arrived leading a group of fifty chevaliers. Sending scouts forward to investigate on foot, they returned to report a second English army dealing out havoc and slaughtering hundreds of Normans at no cost to themselves. At this point Eustace flew into a panic and was about to sound the retreat when a stone struck him hard between the shoulders. He was carried off wounded, while his men fell back. He was speechless and blood was pouring from his nostrils. He had been about to send word to Duke William that they should withdraw to Hastings, away from the new English army. As it was, he was able to present himself as a hero of the Malfosse, as the fifty survivors of the massacre came to be known. The other heroes of the Malfosse, all three-hundred-and-seventy-six of them, would be burned in a giant pyre where they had died.

  With the night came a terrible darkness; the moon would not rise till midnight. Realising there was nothing he could do for his king; Bondi led his men into the black woods to take shelter, as did other survivors of the battle. On the battlefield, disembodied moans and screams penetrated the still blackness of the cold autumn night.

  At the Watch Oak

  While Duke William was dining with his comrades, Edmund, stumbling through the darkness, finally found Edyth and Gytha waiting in a cart beneath the vast oak tree. Even in the darkness where he found them, Edmund could see their anxiety.

  ‘My ladies?’

  ‘Edmund, is that you?’ enquired Lady Gytha, in the gloom.

  ‘Yes, my lady, it’s me, Edmund.’

  ‘What’s happened, Edmund? Where’s Harold?’ asked Edyth urgently. But she knew, even though she could hardly see his face, what he was going to say. Even in the darkness she knew. Lady Gytha also knew.

  Edmund started to speak. ‘I wish it weren’t so,’ was as far as he got. The two grief-stricken women, as one, burst out crying. Edmund desperately tried to console them but to no avail, he had never seen either of them so distraught. Inconsolable, they wailed with grief and the tears flowed in streams down their face
s. The few words either of them managed to speak Edmund found incomprehensible. The two women held each other in a tight embrace, the harder to drive away the pain. They soaked each other’s shoulders with their tears. Edmund lost the fight to hold back his own; the three of them, like babies, cried beneath the unseen boughs, the chill air through the branches shushing them like a mother.

  His concern for the safety of his charges helped Edmund compose himself. He knew it was unlikely the Normans would come their way but he remembered what had happened to other women the Normans had encountered. He also knew the women would fetch a pretty ransom and his priority should be to get them far away from the battlefield.

  ‘Ladies, please, we must find somewhere for the night.’

  They heard someone call out; it was a voice they all recognised. Thorkell had found his way to them. When their eyes met, not a word was said. In silence the party climbed into the cart and headed off to Mountfield in search of a place to spend the night.

  Sunday Morning

  After a restless night spent in an old crone’s hovel, Lady Gytha stirred, looked around the room and jolted when she realised everyone was awake. It was she who spoke first.

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘Go to London and elect a new king,’ Edmund replied wearily.

  ‘I want Harold,’ stated Edyth flatly.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll never see King Harold again, my lady.’

  ‘I want to see him, if only to give him a decent burial.’

  ‘So do I,’ added Gytha.

  Realising just how determined the two women were, Edmund acquiesced. ‘Very well, then.’

  ‘But I’ll not be coming to London with you,’ Gytha added. ‘I have no business there. I’ll have no influence at court and frankly, I’ve little care for whoever is chosen. I intend to go to Bosham and then to Winchester to rescue my possessions and as much of the treasury as I can.’