“Harold has seen the advance on the Saxon right,” William cried. “I wager he didn’t order it. It was undisciplined, and against all military strategy. He’s hesitating to take up the challenge of a full frontal assault. We have a chance to regroup, re-arm and take food and drink. Montbryce, order Pierre de Fleury to take a party of men to remove our wounded from the field. Harold’s men are taking advantage of the break in the hostilities to do the same. Tell de Fleury they must put the wounded horses out of their misery.”
What of the men’s misery?
“The cursed Saxons will win if they hang on until dark. We can’t stay here all night. We would have to retreat, and retreat means defeat.” William seemed to be at his lowest ebb, trying to plan a new tactic to break down the Saxon defences. “The terrain makes it difficult,” he shared with his commanders gathered around him. “We can’t try a flanking movement, because of the trees and marshes on either side. Harold chose this place well. We can’t break the shield wall. Perhaps we can feign a retreat and draw the Saxons forward?”
Most of his commanders were doubtful it would work, but Ram, wiping the spatters of blood and brains from his face, urged, “It’s our only chance. We need to draw the Saxons forward by giving the impression it’s a genuine retreat, and not a tactic. Normans have used it successfully before, at Saint-Aubin against Walter Giffard. Ask him yourself, he’s on our side now, and is fighting with us today.”
William thought for a while, shifting impatiently in his saddle. “Feigning a retreat worked for us in Sicily, not long ago. We’ll resume the battle. Montbryce, order the infantry to advance, and then lead the cavalry, at speed, up the hill behind the infantry. Engage the Saxons, and then turn around and make it appear we’re running. You’ll have to choose the moment carefully, so as not to arouse their suspicion it’s a trick.”
Ram rode back into hell, his blood pumping so fast his heartbeat echoed in his ears, in time with his steed’s hoof beats. The sound had an oddly comforting cadence to it, “Ma-Belle, Ma-Belle, Ma-Belle.”
Thanks be to God, Fortis still lived. The Duke had already lost three horses in the melee. He clutched the leather straps of his shield tightly, couched his spear like a lance, and leaned into his horse.
The infantry advanced with limited success. Ram regretted he couldn’t inform them of William’s plan. Most of them would be killed, sacrificed for the greater good. Shouting the battle cry Fide et Virtute, he led the cavalry at a gallop up the hill and engaged the Saxons, narrowly avoiding being decapitated by a gigantic Saxon, wielding a battle axe. He felt the cold draft of the huge weapon as it swung close to his ear, heard the whoosh. For a moment, he couldn’t understand why he wasn’t looking at his own bloodied head on the ground, instead of into the startled, disembodied gaze of the Flemish knight who’d ridden at his side. He thrust his spear into the Saxon’s throat, then had to pull hard to retrieve it. He looked back over his shoulder. Judging the moment to be right, he shouted the order to turn, giving the impression they were retreating. He shifted his shield to cover his back.
“Unbelievable—it seems to be working,” William chortled, as he watched the Saxon army break ranks and follow Montbryce’s cavalry down the slope, only to be cut down by them as they turned again.
Ram became vaguely aware of arrows flying overhead. He surmised William must have sent his archers forward, to retrieve the arrows loosed earlier. Firing over the heads of their own men, so that the arrows would land on the rear English lines, had caused a number of casualties. Wheeling round, he saw King Harold raise his hands to clutch an arrow that had struck him in the face. The monarch fell to the ground.
“Your Grace, Harold has fallen! He has fallen!” Ram’s throat was so dry he hoped his strangled cry had reached the Duke’s ears.
Reining in his horse and swivelling in the saddle to look at where Ram pointed, William yelled, “This news will cause widespread confusion. We must launch a full frontal attack now.”
It didn’t take long for the news of Harold’s demise to spread like wildfire through the Saxon ranks. They became dispirited, and fled up the hill and into the forest on the other side, taking any horses that had previously been withdrawn for safety. The exhausted, and often wounded, English warriors were pursued relentlessly, and cut down in the woods or trampled beneath thundering hooves.
The dead and injured of both sides, and Norman horses littered the battlefield. Severed body parts lay everywhere on the bloodied earth, now churned to mud. The Saxon line had broken. The mangled bodies that had been the flower of English nobility and youth, covered the ground as far as the eye could see. Only the King’s housecarls were prepared to continue the fight. They valiantly surrounded their dead king. With battle-axes and swords, they fought to the last man.
The Normans at last broke through to where King Harold had fallen. William had won against the odds, but, as darkness fell, showed his dismay at the sight of so many promising young men, both English and Norman, lying dead and broken on the field of battle. An eerie silence hung over all.
As they picked their way through the carnage, William confided to Ram, “If Harold had waited only one more day for his full force to arrive, the outcome of this battle may have been very different. If he’d decided to outwait us, the more difficult it would have been for us to maintain our position here, far from home. I can’t understand why he had no archers. He always was too impetuous. It’s ironic that after all the tactics of the battle, my decision to send the bowmen back in to retrieve and reuse their own arrows turned the tide.”
He gazed distractedly at the Wessex Wyvern dragon banner, still fluttering sadly in the breeze, and Harold’s personal standard of the Fighting Man, captured near his body. It was sumptuously embroidered with gold and precious stones. William pointed to it. “I want that standard borne to the Pope.”
He turned and Ram could see the exhaustion etched into his friend’s face.
“By the way,” William said. “Speaking of impetuous, who was the fool that charged the Saxons alone, at the outset of the battle?”
“According to the rumours, a jongleur named Taillefer,” Ram replied.
“Hmm. The man must have had a death wish. I suppose jongleurs will be singing about him soon. He’ll be more famous than I.”
Ram de Montbryce and his future king looked at each other and laughed.
***
While Ram was fighting for his country and his life in England with his Conqueror, a vile pestilence swept through the villages of the Calvados. It attacked the elderly and the young, and the village healer could do nothing in the face of its horror.
Madame Bonhomme succumbed, and then Mabelle faced the swift illness and death of her beloved future father-by-marriage. As he lay dying, Comte Bernard took her hand. “You’re the only one now, Mabelle. Ram needs you.”
A fit of coughing seized him and there was blood on his spittle.
“I sense you’re my son’s destiny. Take good care of my boy. I always believed I would die with honour, on the battlefield. But it’s not to be.” He smiled at her as his life ebbed away.
In her anguish, she keened Ram’s name over and over, in sorrow for his loss and her own. Comte Bernard had been her champion. There was no news from England. Was her betrothed alive or dead? It was her darkest hour. Why did she ache for a man she should loathe?
There’s no happiness for me at Montbryce. The only person here who truly loved me is dead. Ram will never love me. I need to go home. How many years have I longed to return to Alensonne.
The lead coffin was laid to rest in its tomb in the crypt, beneath the chapel. Bonhomme and his sons were lost in their own grief. Giselle and La Cuisinière embraced each other tearfully as they watched their future Comtesse climb wearily to her lonely bedchamber.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
As soon as William gave leave, Ram searched frantically for his brothers. To his great relief, they’d both survived the slaughter. The three stood together for long silent
minutes, their arms around each other’s shoulders. Hugh’s left arm hung by his side. He had suffered a sword slash to his upper arm, which had been tended by one of the camp physicians.
They spent time calming and reassuring their horses, knowing the important role the stallions had played in keeping them alive. It significant all three Montbryce horses—his own Fortis, Hugh’s Velox, and Antoine’s steed, Regis—had survived. Few Normans could claim that, and it was a testament to the care with which they were chosen, and the attention lavished on them.
Antoine lamented, “My body stinks. It disgusts me. Let’s go bathe in the river.”
They stripped off their armour with the help of their squires and joined many of their countrymen who were trying to wash away the stench of blood, sweat and their own waste.
“I feel I’ll never be clean again,” Ram complained as they dried off. Vaillon handed him his clean tunic.
None of them slept, and as dawn broke the following morning, all were summoned for the solemn reading of the muster roll. Ram was saddened to discover his handsome friend, Pierre de Fleury, had lost his life.
“He’ll no longer have to lie with his ugly wife,” Ram said bitterly to Antoine. “Perhaps he’d rather be alive and lying with her, than stone cold dead on this bloody field.”
The Montbryce brothers left the marshalling area after the ceremony and huddled under the canvas hastily erected by their squires. They looked out over the distant battlefield, sickened by the sight of scavengers still combing over what remained of the bodies. “We should be grateful our rank saved us from the duty of searching for reusable weapons and armour,” Hugh murmured.
“My squire has scrubbed my armour with vinegar and sand, but I can still smell the stench of blood. It clings as do fleas to a dog,” Antoine scowled.
“It’s the piteous moans of the wounded I find the hardest,” Hugh murmured. “We were lucky to escape as we did.”
His brothers grunted their agreement. They sat in strained silence. Eventually Hugh spoke, his voice full of anger. “The Duke has arranged for the proper burial of the Normans who fell, and Bishop Eude is to say a Mass. A few Saxons took their dead away, but most of the English corpses have been buried in a mass grave.”
Antoine looked hard at Ram. “There are rumours His Grace wanted to verify the identity of the body they thought was Harold’s. It was so mutilated his face couldn’t be recognized. William ordered Harold’s mistress, Edith Swanneck, to attend and verify identifying marks which only an intimate would know.”
“That’s true. I can vouch for it. The body was a gruesome sight,” Ram admitted, shaking his head. “The woman was distraught.”
“What about the other rumour, that Harold’s mother sent messages offering the weight of her son’s body in gold, if she could be allowed to bury him, but William perversely refused?” Hugh asked.
“That’s also true, I regret to say. He ordered Harold be buried in an unmarked grave, near the sea shore he’d fought so hard to protect. Even I don’t know the location.”
The three men were silent for a long while, holding their hands to the warmth of the campfire. Ram spoke first. “I’d hoped to return home to Normandie,” he told them, “But William is sending me to Ellesmere, in the west. There has been trouble for many years between the Welsh and the English. News has arrived, from Normans who settled there years ago, that there have been more recent raids on the Welsh borders. A rebel by the name of Rhodri ap Owain has been attacking the towns and villages near Ellesmere. William has promised me an earldom there.”
Antoine and Hugh were delighted for their brother and shook his hand. Ram accepted their congratulations, knowing they were genuine, then continued, “William wants us to assert our authority now over this rabble. I’m to reconnoitre the area and inspect my castle at Ellesmere at the same time. I’ll request you be assigned to accompany me. Your wound shouldn’t prevent you from travelling Hugh?”
His brother’s hand still trembled
“Non, mon frère. I’ll be fit to travel. Thank you for your words of courage before the battle.”
Ram nodded. “Hastings has taken a heavy toll on all of us. We will never forget this battle as long as we live. I wouldn’t admit this to anyone else, but you’re my brothers. I miss Mabelle. I want to share the victory with her—perhaps confide something of the terror and disgust I felt, and tell her the news of the promised Earldom. I want to lie with her, bury my head in her breasts, fill her with my seed and feel whole again. You’re right, Antoine. I was a fool many times over not to marry her.”
His words had resonated with Hugh, who rasped, “Why is it the thing a man feels compelled to do after courting death is lie with a woman? Most of the survivors in my brigade are hobbling round trying to hide tree trunks at their groins. Look at me.” His trembling hand went to his manhood. “I can’t help myself.”
Antoine shifted uncomfortably. Both of them believed Hugh had never lain with a woman. Ram thought his young brother might be close to his breaking point. “Much as I would like to hasten home to wed Mabelle, I’ll have to do the Duke’s bidding, if I want to keep the title he’s promised. At least we’ll have each other’s company as we travel to Ellesmere, and I’ll know you’re safe. I’ll dispatch a messenger to Montbryce.”
***
William was incensed. “Since Hastings I’ve waited for the Witan to formally surrender the English throne to me, and now we have news they’ve proclaimed Edgar the Aetheling king. They have the gall to support the Confessor’s grand-nephew. I give my oath, Ram, he’ll never be crowned, as long as I draw breath. We’ll evidently have to take London by force.”
Ram’s heart fell. This would mean another delay before he could return to Normandie. He struggled not to let his agitation show. William was upset enough. “It seems ironic Stigand and the others now want to support Edgar, when they were previously willing to favour Harold as king over him,” he offered.
“You’re right. It makes one question their resolve. First we march to Dover. It’s strategically important and we must secure it.”
In Dover an epidemic of the flux broke out among the troops after they ate tainted meat and drank the water. Many died, and still more had to be left behind in Dover to recover as the invading force advanced to the religious centre of England, Canterbury.
After taking Canterbury, they marched on London, where the core of resistance was centred on Edgar. Meeting fierce opposition at London Bridge they circled to the west of the city, setting fires and leaving a trail of devastation.
“We’ll cross the Thames at Wallingford,” William ordered. “Wigod, the Lord of Wallingford, is a Norman sympathiser.”
At Wallingford, Stigand abandoned Edgar. The Aetheling’s forces were dwindling rapidly. He met William at Berkhamsted, with a group of English nobles, and offered him their fealty, bringing to an end the Anglo-Saxon kingdom that had lasted for hundreds of years.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ram wasn’t present at the historic surrender, having left the main army after the Wallingford crossing. The three Montbryce men had escaped the ravages of the flux but were sickened again by the excessive brutality of the victory at Wallingford. They set out, with two hundred of the best surviving knights and men-at-arms from Montbryce, to make the journey from the River Thames to the Welsh border region. He felt it a sufficient number to deter any attack from disgruntled locals.
Ram told Hugh, “We should cover the seven score miles to Ellesmere in four days, if we’re lucky and the November conditions don’t make the track difficult. Pray for cloudless skies.”
Their route took them through Oxford, a fortified burgh, founded two centuries before by Alfred the Great. Antoine and Hugh rode at Ram’s side. The inhabitants fled upon catching sight of them.
“William has talked about the possibility of building a castle here, and I’ll report it’s a good idea, given the town’s location and burgeoning reputation as a place of learning. I’m impressed with the way th
e streets are laid out in an orderly pattern, and the town looks to have about a thousand houses, which probably means there are close to five thousand inhabitants.”
Antoine replied, “I suppose, since the Danes burned the town fifty years ago, much of what we see has been built since then. There’s a market, and the town seems prosperous. It’s ironic, don’t you think, that a council was held here earlier in the century to choose a King of the English? No wonder William wants to build a castle here. No doubt he appreciates the irony too.”
They shared the humour of it as they left Oxford, following the Cherwell River bound for Warwick, another walled town William had his eye on for a castle. The three of them agreed a piece of land on a sandstone bluff overlooking the River Avon, site of four houses belonging to the Abbot of Coventry, would be an ideal location for such a project.
“I’ll bring back that piece of important information. This inconvenient journey might turn to my advantage, and augment my importance in William’s eyes.”
Ram was glad of the company of his brothers. He could keep an eye on Antoine and Hugh, and the presence of family made him feel better. They’d proven themselves as warriors in the hell of Hastings, but Hugh had withdrawn into uncharacteristic moodiness. The seemingly uncontrollable tremor in his younger brother’s hand worried him.
Passing through Bridgnorth on the River Severn, Ram resolved to ask William for this town as part of his holdings. Though somewhat far removed from Ellesmere, it was a good location, and William hadn’t mentioned it for a royal castle.
They decided to stop at Shrewsbury before going on to Ellesmere, to ascertain the latest news of Welsh incursions. He learned, from Norman sympathisers, that Rhodri ap Owain, the rebel chieftain, had been creating havoc around the town of Oswestry.
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