‘Surely that will be the property of the next king, my lady?’
‘Be realistic, Edmund. They’d probably choose Edgar but who will support him? Edwin? Morcar? I doubt it. They’ll be too busy trying to feather their own nests. Look how they let Harold down. Do you think they’ll show any more loyalty to a boy? No. We need to get hold of the treasury in order to pay for an army to rid the country of the Duke. If we don’t do it, who will?’
Edmund did not answer; instead he turned his attention to Lady Edyth.
‘Lady Edyth, will you be travelling to London or Winchester?’
‘Winchester is where I’d like to go but I have Ulf to consider. I must go to him first.’
‘If that’s your decision, my lady, then may I accompany you on your journey?’
‘And me too,’ added Thorkell.
‘Will you two be staying at court?’
‘I promised the King I would look after you. I know I can offer only you limited protection but such as it is, I would offer it,’ said Edmund dutifully.
‘Then you must accompany me. You too, Thorkell.’
‘Thank you, ladies, you honour us,’ replied Edmund for them both. The four then headed back to the old apple tree.
The journey to Caldbec was a silent one. No one spoke, each of them in their own world, travelling in silence, except for the squeaks and creaks of the cart. In the cold and wet they all felt the need to huddle in their cloaks. The fine autumn drizzle shrouded everything in grey. A weight sank in each one’s stomach as they made their way to the battlefield. About a quarter of a mile from the scene of the catastrophe, a Norman scout came into view through the murky rain. He approached them and brusquely asked who they were and what they were doing.
Lady Gytha answered in perfect French, ‘I am Lady Gytha of Wessex. I am the mother of King Harold. This is Lady Edyth, his wife. The priest is our chaplain and the young man is our escort. Now take us to Duke William.’
Such was Lady Gytha’s demeanour, the horseman became quite deferential.
‘Yes, my Lady. This way. Please follow me.’
Making their way across the ridge towards William’s tent, they passed amongst heaps of naked dead. Here and there they could pick out someone they knew, not yet stacked in a pile with the rest. Here and there across the field were Normans throwing more bodies on heaps and dotted about the place were poor wretches who had come to find a body. Some were looking for a brother, some a son, others looking for a lover or husband. Some were looking for several family members. Like the crows they searched amongst the slain. At least the Normans were civilized enough to bury their own dead. They arrived at the Duke’s tent and were surprised when their cart was put in the charge of a midget. The Duke appeared with a dozen men, all of them looking pleased with themselves. Sir William Malet and Count Eustace were the only ones familiar to the English. The Count smirked but Malet could not meet their gaze.
The Duke looked the four up and down. ‘What do we have here?’
‘I am Lady Gytha of Wessex, the mother of King Harold. This is …’
‘Earl Harold,’ snapped Duke William.
‘This is Lady Edyth, my son’s wife. This is …’
‘Concubine, you mean.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I said concubine. Unless this is Lady Aldytha, then surely this slut is one of Harold’s whores.’ He turned his head to his comrades, who were all laughing heartily, all except William Malet, who remained stone-faced, hiding his anger at the Duke’s cheap remarks. William added, ‘Getting a bit old for that game too, by the look of her.’
‘It’s strange to hear such harsh words from one born so noble,’ snapped Lady Gytha.
The Duke found himself staring into the most penetrating gaze he had ever seen.
The laughter subsided in an instant.
The Duke, the smile wiped from his face, was a little more restrained. ‘Did you come here for any purpose or have you just called by to exchange insults?
‘We have come to claim my son’s body.’
‘Why should I let you have it?’
‘Because it is the decent Christian thing to do.’
‘Really?’
‘Perhaps I can recompense you for the inconvenience. If I gave you his weight in gold, would that suffice?’
William was visibly shocked. Racing through his head was the thought that if Lady Gytha could make him an offer like that on the spur of the moment, then she alone was in possession of enough gold to make his expedition worthwhile. The prospect of having such a treasure trove thrilled but angered him too. As much as he wanted to accept her offer, he would appear ungallant and could not bear the loss of face in his comrades’ eyes. For a moment he said nothing but he could feel behind him, in his men, the same astonishment at Gytha’s proposal. Against his will he had to refuse. The offer hurt him more than any insult.
‘My good woman, I’m not a mercenary who fights for reward.’ The lie fell easily from his lips and even as he spoke, he was trying to work out where Lady Gytha kept her treasure and how he could get his hands on it.
‘I came to claim my rightful crown,’ he continued. ‘I have no need of your trinkets; please keep them. Certainly I’ll permit you to look for your son’s body but remember this, I’ll not grant Earl Harold the honour of a descent Christian burial because he and he alone bears the responsibility for the deaths of so many good men.
‘Malet!’
‘Yes, my Lord?’
‘Go with these people and see if you can find Earl Harold’s body. When you find it take it to the coast and bury it there; make sure it’s in unconsecrated ground.’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘Take them away.’
‘Very well, my Lord.’
‘Oh, and Lady Gytha, it might help you in your search to know that Harold was decapitated.’
Lady Gytha paled and the tears once more began to pour from Edyth’s eyes. Edmund put an arm round her for comfort. As they turned to follow William Malet, Duke William, feeling especially malicious, called after them, ‘You see, in battle it doesn’t pay to lose your head,’ before bursting into laughter, raucously accompanied by his friends.
As Gytha and Edyth began to look for Harold’s body, Edwin and Morcar, with a couple of thousand men, met some of the survivors of the battle, led by Bondi, who gave them the news of the demise of their king.
‘So the Normans hold the field?’ asked Edwin, unnecessarily.
‘Yes, they do, what’s left of them,’ Bondi replied. ‘At the most there can be only four thousand on the hill. Apparently there’s another two thousand down in Hastings, too far away to help should William run into any trouble.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you are going to attack him, aren’t you?’
‘We haven’t the men.’
‘What do mean, you haven’t the men?’
‘We haven’t the men. There are only a couple of thousand of us.’
‘And there are five hundred of us. We can do it. They’re exhausted. They won’t expect it. A lot of them are already making their way back to Hastings. We could easily surround the few that remain. They wouldn’t be able to use their cavalry and without their cavalry they’re useless. What do you say?’
Morcar stepped in with a reply: ‘We would need to elect a new king first.’
‘Elect a new king? There’s no time for that. Let’s go and get him now and whoever’s king in the future will be eternally grateful to you.’
‘It’s not our decision to make. The decision to go to war is for the King to make.’
‘We haven’t got a king,’ Bondi replied, raising his voice, ‘that’s just the point!’
‘Then my brother and I will return to London and call the Witan …’
‘Call the Witan? Most of the Witan are dead.’
‘May I remind you whom you address? My brother and I will return to London and there the next King of England will be chosen. It will be he
who decides whether or not to attack the Duke.’
With that the brothers turned their horses and led their men back the way they had come. Bondi stayed where he was, silent for a moment before shouting abuse at them as they left. They assured each other they were doing the best thing in returning to London. Their ignominious defeat at Fulford still haunted them and if Harold had met his match at Caldbec, what would be their fate if they confronted the Duke?
*
Grim-faced, Gytha, Edyth, Edmund and Thorkell, with Sir William, started the search for Harold’s body. Slowly they passed the naked bodies of their countrymen, stripped by eager Norman hands.
But not everyone found being on Caldbec Hill an unpleasant experience. In the cold, fine drizzle, amongst the carrion picking the corpses clean with many others, was Ralph Pomeroy. In spite of the inclement weather he was having a fine day. His squire had rounded up a couple of horses that had once belonged to comrades now dead and held them secure. From bodies they had looted some fine gold rings and amulets as well as weaponry and armour. For Ralph Pomeroy, the decision to join William’s expedition was to be the turning point in his life. His heroism on the battlefield had been noted and before a year had passed, he would find himself knighted and presented with a handsome piece of Devonshire land. He married the widow of an English soldier and gave her some children to add to her own two boys, who later died in an accident.
Also on the hillside were those who were hoping to find someone they loved amongst the dead, and yet hoping to find no one. Did no corpse mean that he had escaped into the night? Was he even now safe at home, warming himself by the hearth, cosy by the fireside? Or would a stool stand empty by the hearth?
On the ridge the eerie grey silence was too often disturbed by the sound of heartache, as a grief-stricken woman discovered the remains of a loved one. Edyth joined the ever-rising number when she caught sight of her lover’s body. She ran over to him, quickly followed by Gytha, Edmund, Thorkell and Sir William. Though he was headless she recognised him, knew immediately and her long legs, like a newborn foal’s, crumpled, unable to support her. Gytha fell to her knees and wailed.
Edmund climbed down from his horse to confirm in his own mind that they had indeed found the King. There was no doubt. The tattoos on his arms were easily recognizable; undamaged and as bold as ever, she had seen them a million times before, but never so lifeless as now.
Edmund lifted Edyth’s shoulders so she was sitting up and he supported her until she came round. Sir William went to comfort Gytha. When she realised who it was she screamed at him, ‘Don’t touch me! He was your friend. He was your friend and this is how you treated him. Look at him! Look at him!’
Sir William looked at the blood-drenched body.
‘My lady, it couldn’t be helped. Like anyone I have to obey my Lord. Forgive me, but the decision was not mine to make.’
‘And that makes it all right?’
‘No, that doesn’t make it all right, my lady. It makes it God’s will.’
‘That bastard duke’s will, more like.’
Sir William remained calm and chose his words carefully. ‘It’s a sad business,’ he said, ‘but it has happened. It was fate that brought Harold here and that being so, Duke William’s conscience must be clear.’
Lady Gytha glared at him but said nothing.
Edmund had brought a purple silk sheet from the cart.
‘Sir William, will you help me?’ he asked.
The two men had carefully wrapped Harold’s mangled body when twenty or more Norman foot soldiers arrived, following their captain and an empty wagon. The captain addressed Sir William.
‘The Duke has ordered me to escort these people from here, my Lord.’
‘But I’m to bury this body.’
‘The Duke says you know what the arrangements are; you’re to bury him by the sea. This lot are to come with me to the London Road, where I’m to see them on their way. You’re to put the bodies in the wagon there and take them to the coast. I’ll return later to act as your escort.’
‘This is outrageous!’ yelled Lady Gytha, ‘we were promised we could have my son’s body.’
‘The Duke told me you’d say that. He said to tell you he’d made it clear that you could look for the body. He said nothing about your taking possession of it. Now be on your way!’
‘We will do no such thing.’
‘I think you’d better do what he says, my lady,’ Sir William intervened. ‘I’ll make sure Harold and, for that matter Leo and Gyrth, have a decent burial.’
‘What, in unconsecrated ground?’
‘If that’s what the Duke ordered.’
‘We can do it. Edmund can say a prayer for them.’
At this moment the captain’s patience ran out, ‘Go now!’ he barked, nodding to his men who surrounded Edmund, Thorkell and the ladies.
‘You can’t do this to us. Order your men off now!’
‘Begging your pardon, my lady, don’t tell me what to do,’ said the guard, matter-of-factly, walking his horse towards Lady Gytha.
Sir William saw the danger of the situation. ‘Please do as he says, my lady.’
Seeing no choice, Lady Gytha, Edyth, Edmund and Thorkell climbed into the cart and were escorted to the London Road.
Sir William was as good as his word. He continued the harrowing search for Leo and Gyrth, whom he eventually found. Leo had to be pulled out of a heap of dead housecarls, clinging together in death as they had in life. Gyrth lay where he had fallen. All the time the light drizzle fell; occasionally those on the hillside slipped over on the greasy, sodden grass.
When Sir William had collected the bodies together and he had them secured in a wagon, he headed to the coast with the escort to bury them. His escort consisted of the captain and his men who had returned from the London Road; they were to dig the graves and to protect him should he come under attack.
Sir William led the wagon to the coast. A warm yellow sun shone down on the white cliffs and seagulls soared overhead just as they did on any other day. A few feet from the cliff’s edge, the party halted. Sir William gave instructions and the soldiers set about digging a grave, all except one whom he ordered to engrave an inscription on a large flat stone. When the graves were dug, without ceremony the bodies were carelessly thrown into the ground while Sir William quietly observed the proceedings. As his mind wandered, he drifted into the past; the sound of the wind buffeted around him, the sea crashed on the shore below and the birds called as they circled in the sky above. The sounds took him back to Bosham. Sir William thought back over the years and his memories of Harold and felt regret as he thought of his part in destroying a man he had so admired. What brought him back to the present he was never sure but it was most likely the movement on the top of a nearby ridge that caught his eye. Something about the movement told him it was someone who did not want to be seen and he knew it must be Thorkell and in the same instant he knew exactly why he was there.
Before the chalky soil could be tipped over the bodies, Sir William interrupted the proceedings.
‘Captain, it’s getting late in the day and you really ought to be getting back. I’ll take care of the burial. Leave now; I’ll catch up with you in a short while.’
‘My orders are to supervise the burial, my Lord.’
‘And you’ve done an admirable job. Look, I don’t quite know how to say this, but I knew these men well. It’s bad enough that they’re buried in unconsecrated ground. Couldn’t you just give me some time to say a prayer over them?’
‘Very well, my Lord,’ replied the captain and without further ado gave orders to his men. Within five minutes they were out of sight.
Full of a sadness he could not name, Sir William, without filling in the graves, put in place the headstone, the legend of which read, ‘By command of the Duke, you rest here a king, O Harold, that you may be guardian still of the shore and sea.’
After saying a short prayer over the graves and without turning back f
or a last look, he rode away to rejoin the Duke. Behind him the setting sun cast its colour on an ocean turned red.
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