by Jodi Taylor
He wasn’t needed. They were just going through the motions. This was the day Duke William came to Count Guy, and Count Guy wanted as many people as possible to witness this important event. They were packing them in.
We had no chance to look around us. I had a vague impression of a courtyard and dark, towering walls, and then we were hustled through a disappointingly small door and into the Hall itself. Of course, the Hall was built for defence. It made sense to have a small, narrow door through which only one person could enter at a time.
I had an impression of echoing vastness, although the exact dimensions were difficult to ascertain. Despite any number of wildly flickering candles impaled on tripods, and torches thrust into sconces, the corners of the room were near invisible. A few shafts of light filtered through the louvered lantern in the roof high above us, but were lost in the prevailing gloom. And it was gloomy. A large fire burned in the centre from which the smoke curled optimistically up towards the louvres, but the wind outside was so strong that it was immediately blown straight back inside again. Occasionally, a man would appear and fiddle with the long strings that opened and closed the vents, but to no avail. No one seemed particularly bothered, so I could only assume that near-asphyxiation was an accepted hazard in these times. My eyes were stinging. Many people were coughing.
The floor was cold, hard stone; its discomfort only mitigated by the thick layer of crushed rushes spread over the top. They looked fairly fresh – maybe laid down especially for today, but I knew that if I kicked aside the top layer I would find old bones, grease, dog shit, spilled beer – and worse. I left the top layer where it was.
A raised dais stood at the far end, on which stood two ornately carved chairs of equal height and importance, because although William was Guy’s overlord, every man is a lord in his own hall. They’d resolved the problem of who took precedence over whom by moving Guy’s chair from its central and commanding position under the canopy and setting it a little to one side, with William’s chair a meticulously measured equal distance to the other. I suspected that, behind the scenes, a chamberlain or steward was going quietly insane.
The chairs were the only furniture in the place. The eating tables were temporary trestles and had been removed, so today was obviously all about business, not pleasure.
The far wall behind the two chairs was covered by a tapestry, subject unknown in all this gloom, and probably almost completely obscured by layers of smoke and soot anyway.
Two rows of hefty stone pillars marched down the hall, supporting equally hefty smoke-blackened timbers that, in turn, held up the roof – although frankly the whole place was so murky that the roof could have been supported by four elephants standing on the back of a giant turtle and no one would ever know.
We started off near the door, but such was the crush of people still fighting to get in, that without any effort on our part, we found ourselves pushed to the front, our backs to a pillar. We couldn’t have asked for a better position. We stood closely together and refused to budge. People streamed around us. There was a little muttered cursing, but we stood our ground and people left us alone.
Looking around, although the company was predominantly male, there were some women present. About one in five were female. And we were definitely among the better dressed, which made a pleasant change and was probably why, strangers though we were, people were leaving us alone.
We palmed our recorders and got what discreet footage we could. And then we waited.
Two hours. Two bloody hours.
I know the greater part of our job is to stand and wait. Wait for the charge, the fire, the battle, the murder, whatever, and then observe and document. And then we usually to have to run like hell afterwards, of course, so you think we’d be used to it. Sometimes it’s not too bad, but here in this smoke-filled cave – there really was no other word to describe it – the usual standing quietly and waiting was a bit of a bloody ordeal.
According to Markham, there’s a knack. Apparently, you don’t just stand there. That’s the wrong way to do it, according to the Security Section – famed for complicating simple situations since the beginning of time. You don’t stand with your weight on one foot, then the other, then shift it back again, and so on, because that makes at least one leg ache and after a while, your hips and shoulders as well. You should stand straight but relaxed, weight equally on both feet, hands hanging loosely. Then you ease your weight forwards onto the balls of your feet for a few moments and then rock backwards onto your heels. You’re not actually moving but you are – says Markham. Keeps the blood flowing, prevents cramp, aching ankles and knees, sore feet, blood clots and possibly cellulite as well. And for all I know he’s right. Anyway, we stood there, swaying back and forth like a thicket in a strong wind and no one fainted, so we must have been doing something right. Sadly, it does nothing to alleviate boredom. I began to wish I’d stuck with Team William. At least they were out in the fresh air. There were some nasty, wet, hacking coughs in here and a great deal of sputum was being propelled around the place. It really was a miracle anyone made it past the age of twenty.
Two bloody hours.
We heard them coming. Horns sounded above a clatter of hooves in the courtyard outside. Unseen men shouted orders.
‘They’re here,’ said North in my ear, presumably in case I wasn’t paying attention, and I stifled my usual urge to set fire to her.
‘OK, everyone,’ I said. ‘Heads up.’
And then it all went quiet.
‘They’ve gone in through another door,’ reported North. ‘Through to the count’s private quarters, I guess.’
‘Get yourselves in here if you can. We’re on the left as you come in, and near the front, so try for somewhere on the other side of the fire. Security to remain outside in case we need rescuing.’
‘Copy that.’
The link closed.
There was another long pause. Although not two hours long. Around us, people stood on tiptoe and craned their necks in anticipation. As, I admit, did I. We were going to see William, Duke of Normandy and Harold Godwinson, Earl of Wessex. The two great players of their age. Either would have been remarkable but for the two of them to share the same time period … and to be together … here … today … I realised with a shock that I hadn’t thought about Matthew for a couple of hours, realised why Leon had insisted I go on this assignment, and then shoved everything out of my head, because they were coming.
I think we could have been forgiven for not noticing the two doors either side of the tapestry; we could barely see the tapestry itself. The one on the left opened, however, and a man – a steward, I guessed from his dress – strode forwards onto the dais. Lifting his staff, he solemnly pounded the boards three times. For silence, presumably, although he’d had that from the moment he made his first appearance.
He made a ringing announcement, not one word of which I caught, but I think the gist was pretty obvious to everyone there. A stir of anticipation ran through the crowd. Well, our part of it, certainly. Bashford caught my eye and grinned. And then it was full attention on what was happening now.
The same door opened and we held our breath. What were we going to see? Who would be first through the door?
They did it beautifully.
As the lord in his own hall, Guy was first through the door. My first impression was that he looked like a fox. He was a thin-faced man of medium height in a russet red tunic. His cloak had been dyed to match and was trimmed with vair. Look it up.
Entering, he paused for one moment, gathering all eyes on himself, and then stepped to one side, allowing his overlord to make his entrance.
There are no images of William. Contemporary reports say he was dark, burly – he would be extremely fat, later in life – that he enjoyed excellent health, was a good fighter, and a tireless huntsman. They also said he was fierce and unforgiving, that he had no pretensions to intellect, and managed at the same time to be both pious and cruel. A not uncommon c
ombination in any age.
With courtesy, but not a huge amount of deference, Guy attended William to his chair and took up his own position. Around us, everyone bowed. Even the women. At this time, there was very little difference between the bow and the curtsey. Women spread their skirts a little in what might be the ancestor of the formal female curtsey, which wouldn’t make its appearance until sometime in the 17th century, but otherwise, everyone bowed. Including us.
Their entourages followed on behind and arranged themselves behind the appropriate chairs. Count Guy’s men were dressed in similar though less colourful robes. Under their cloaks, William’s men wore their famous knee-length chainmail hauberks with the loose, elbow-length sleeves and carried their conical helmets with the noseguards. Whether they wore mail because they didn’t trust the Count Guy, or simply because they’d been riding, was not clear.
William himself wore a tunic of purple and gold, his lack of armour signifying he wasn’t here to fight. His mailed escort signified he would if he had to. Apart from a huge golden brooch securing his cloak, he wore no jewellery of any kind. He didn’t need to. He could have worn an old sack and still commanded the room.
He was invited to sit and wine was brought. The two men sat and sipped. Their escorts eyed each other. No one seemed to be armed although I wondered how many daggers were tucked into sleeves, or hidden in the folds of a thick cloak.
There was polite conversation. Both men smiled with their mouths. Count Guy politely offered a refill, which was as politely refused. You could have cut the air with a knife, and such was the tension that if they didn’t get a move on then someone probably would.
There was no doubt who was in command here. William, obviously considering he’d more than fulfilled polite convention, stirred impatiently in his chair, and at once Guy beckoned a man forwards and whispered in his ear. The man left immediately.
William and Guy sat quietly in their seats. No one was moving anywhere. One of the most fateful encounters in History was about to kick off. The silence was so complete I dared not even whisper to North. I just had to hope she and Clerk were here, somewhere, and recording their bloody socks off.
As we had done, Harold and the remaining survivors of the shipwreck had to make their way through the tradesman’s entrance. They’d been found dry clothes from somewhere, but Harold, as if to underline his position here, was significantly less magnificently dressed than his hosts. Or gaolers, if you like. He himself seemed more or less intact. One of his men had a bandage around his forehead and could walk only with assistance. Another seemed to have a broken arm. There were only eight of them altogether. There were no other survivors.
A path was cleared for them and Harold led his party to the foot of the dais, paused some six feet away, and stood waiting. He was making them come to him. Power games.
Both William and Guy rose, and Guy stepped down to greet him formally. Harold answered him politely enough, inclining his head to what I guessed was an enquiry as to his health.
I had a fat stone pillar on my left and Markham on my right, shielding me from view. To an uninterested observer, it must have seemed as if I was holding my cupped hand to my face. With the exception of Markham, who never allowed what was going on in front of him to blind him to what was going on around him, we were all recording like madmen.
Finally, Count Guy stepped aside. William, who had waited and watched, now stepped down and for the first time ever, Harold and William were face to face.
Harold was the taller of the two. In his chronicles, Ordalis Vitalis describes him as very tall and handsome, and he was. His hair was light, but not blond, worn longer than the Norman fashion, and with one of those huge, droopy moustaches that Saxon men so mistakenly thought were a good look. His cool blue eyes met William’s heavily lidded, dark ones. William stretched out his hand and they stood together, hands clasped, for a very long moment, eye to eye, each appraising the other. Polite. Smiling. Affable. Wearing their public faces. And neither of them giving any clue as to their inner thoughts.
It is possible, I suppose, that both Harold and William were aware of the importance of this moment. Of the implications for the future. They were on a collision course. Only one of them could survive. They wouldn’t know that it would all end in savage and bloody slaughter at Hastings, of course, but they might have been aware there was only room in this world for one of them.
Guy coughed discreetly and both men moved apart. William to proffer a goblet of wine, filled with his own hands, and Harold to accept a hastily found chair. The three of them sat on the dais, and now William had the dominant position in centre, with Guy on his one hand, and Harold on the other. They drank and talked and laughed as if not one of them had a care in the world.
We recorded until our arms ached.
At last, Guy rose from his chair and gestured to his steward again. William set down his goblet and rose without haste. Harold did the same. The room bowed, again in silence, and Guy escorted them back through the door in the tapestry. For a private meal was my guess.
I looked up at the louvre. The sky was darkening. Shafts of light no longer illuminated the clouds of swirling smoke. The day was over. We would return to the pod and then tomorrow, we’d hang around the gates to catch a glimpse of them riding to William’s castle at Rouen. There was no real need – we had what we needed – but a glimpse of the size of the party and Harold’s position within it would round things off nicely. There was no doubt he was a prisoner, but would he ride at William’s side as all accounts seemed to say, or at the rear, under guard?
I imagined them riding through the crisp, sparkling afternoon air, experienced a moment’s unexpected claustrophobia, and was suddenly desperate to get out of this dark and smoky Hall. The great men and their entourages had disappeared. Time for us to go as well.
The greater mass of people was heading for the tiny door. The more intelligent were holding back, giving the crowd time to disperse. I caught a glimpse of North and Clerk standing by the central fire, looking around them. Clerk caught my eye, gave no sign of recognition, took North’s arm, and began to lead her to the door.
We met up outside the gatehouse. The sun was sinking and the still strong wind had turned cold. Dark purple clouds were moving up from the horizon. I became aware I was parched, starving and desperate for a pee. Definitely time to get back to the pods.
We nearly missed them the next morning. They must have been up well before dawn. It was eighty miles and more to Rouen and they obviously wanted an early start. We weren’t able to get to the town in time, but we stood on the small rise and watched them canter out through the gates and away.
William’s banner, the golden lions of Normandy, led the way, with William himself a few yards behind. Earl Harold rode alongside him. On a good horse. There was no sign of any of the other members of his group. I wondered what became of them. Had William left them with Guy as compensation for the bigger prize he had snatched from him?
We watched them down the road, pennant fluttering in the still strong wind. They breasted a small hill and then disappeared into the distance.
‘Time to go,’ I said.
‘What went wrong?’ said Dieter as we exited the pod.
I looked around. ‘Nothing. Why do you ask?’
‘No one’s injured. No one’s bleeding. Nothing important is hanging off. Either from you or the pod. There’s no smoke. No alarms. Are you sure you actually left the hangar?’
‘I know it’s difficult for the Technical Section to keep up with the rest of us, but we do occasionally have assignments that go without a hitch, you know.’
‘We could take an axe to the console,’ said Sykes helpfully. ‘Knock it about a bit if that will make you happy.’
‘Actually, I think I may have broken one of the cupholders,’ said Markham, holding some sad remains in his hand. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise,’ I said. ‘You’ve made his day. Fixing this will keep his entire section busy for
weeks and even then they’ll probably have to call in specialist help.’
Dieter silently relieved him of the broken cupholder and indicated we should leave as quickly as possible. Clerk’s team were already heading for Sick Bay. We followed on behind. Half of me was eager to see Leon and Matthew again. The other half wasn’t quite so sure.
It seemed strange to crash through Sick Bay doors and find a strange doctor waiting for us. We’d all been gabbling away and suddenly silence fell. We looked at him. He looked at us. I felt a little sorry for him. It wasn’t his fault he wasn’t Helen Foster.
‘Dr Maxwell, would you like to come this way? I expect you’re eager to see your family again. Anyone else in a rush?’
They shook their heads. Normally, there would be a kind of human surge, with each of us demanding priority because everyone hates hanging around after an assignment. We’re often dirty, wet, cold, tired and still terrified. Helen would repel each request with scorn and harsh language but, in some mysterious fashion, when everyone stopped arguing and pushing, everything would have been done and we’d been scanned, shoved into the appropriate wards, showered, fed and, where appropriate, put to bed.
Now, everyone shuffled their feet and said nothing. There wasn’t anything I could do. He was going to have to work things out for himself.
Pronounced fit for human consumption, I made my way to the isolation ward. Hunter let me in. I barely recognised the place. The central table was covered in building bricks and half-completed jigsaws. I had no idea what they were constructing out of Lego, but whatever it was it was huge. Books, papers and crayons littered every horizontal surface. Matthew’s pale blue teddy sat on his pillow.
The two of them were crouched over something as I entered. Leon looked up and smiled. ‘Hi. How did it go?’
‘Perfectly,’ I said.