And the Rest Is History

by Jodi Taylor

  There was no sort of crowd control inside. The important people stood at the front – that was a given – so we historians split into our two teams and used our elbows.

  We were just in time. We’d only been inside a few minutes when I heard raised voices. They were turning people away now and, although it was traditional to leave the doors open so the crowds outside could hear what was going on, if we hadn’t been able to get inside, we might as well have gone home and Dr Bairstow would not have been at all happy with us.

  The place was huge. An echoing cavern. Huge and chilly. It smelled of damp stone, candle wax, incense and wet people. There were candles everywhere. In sconces, on tripods, impaled on what looked like wheels, hanging above our heads on chains that disappeared up into the gloom. The place was brilliant with light. It was vital that everyone present must see Harold perjure himself today. This was a very important occasion. Critical, you might say. From the moment he took the oath, Harold and William would be in direct conflict. From that moment on, only one could survive.

  Unlike the gloomy hall at Beaurain, with its smoke-darkened tapestry, this place throbbed with colour. There were murals on the walls, their colours still fresh and sharp. Scenes from the Bible abounded. And there were images of the Virgin Mary in her blue robe everywhere. Every niche held a statue. Every corner had a full-sized representation of a saint, all exquisitely wrought and lovingly painted in glowing reds, blues, greens and gold. I thought I saw Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travellers, and always popular at St Mary’s. And St Catherine, on her wheel. I counted over thirty figures visible from just where I was standing. This colour and vibrancy in the main part of the church contrasted sharply with the unfinished side chapels, still closed off and covered, where building work was still in progress.

  There were large numbers of ecclesiastical figures around. William wanted to make very sure of the Pope’s support. Quietly, in the background, I could hear chanting, but above all there was the murmur of people. The sounds of their movements echoed around this vast space. Pews hadn’t yet been invented and there were no chairs. Everyone stood. The weak and feeble stood, sat or leaned around the walls – hence the expression ‘the weak went to the wall’. Only one chair was visible – a magnificently ornate affair with carved arms, set under a canopy, bearing the lions of Duke William.

  While I was keen to see him again – and Harold, of course, because they were becoming old friends to us – I was also eager to see the Bishop of Bayeux, William’s half-brother, Odo of Conteville, who was in his own way at least as remarkable as William.

  Odo supported his brother throughout his life. Not just a clergyman, he was a warrior and statesman as well. In addition to providing ships for the crossing to England, he would fight at Hastings, albeit only with a wooden club, since clergymen weren’t supposed to wield a sword. Those who thought this might hold him back were wrong. Apparently he still managed to do a formidable amount of damage. It would be Odo who would commission the famous Bayeux Tapestry, and William, who valued personal loyalty above all things, would reward his war-like brother with enough land and property to make him the largest landowner in England – second only to William himself. In 1067, Odo would become Earl of Kent.

  We spent an hour slowly working our way as far forward as we could get. Which wasn’t that far. We were still quite a long way back, but that’s what the close-up function is for.

  And then, we waited. Because we’re historians, and if we’re not running – we’re waiting. And vice versa, of course.

  I whiled away the time by looking around me. They’d pulled out all the stops for this one. I could see the altar. Gold and silver plate and candlesticks winked in the candlelight. An enormous golden cross, encrusted with what I took to be rubies stood in the centre. The contrast between the pristine white cloth and the brilliance of the rubies was breath-taking.

  The area in front of the altar, hitherto empty and guarded by soldiers was beginning to fill up with richly dressed men. These would be the movers and shakers of the day, and all of them invited so William could have impeccable witnesses to the events. My heart went out to Harold. Stitched up by a master.

  In our game, it’s always tempting to play ‘What If?’. What if Harold had never been shipwrecked? What if – as the legitimate choice of the Witan – he had become king in the normal manner? Without the backing of the Pope, would William even have considered crossing the Channel? Would he have been able to assemble his enormous army if he had? If Harold had been a strong king, would Tostig and Harold Hardrada have dared to attack and draw him north at that vital time? And if William had never attacked and Harold remained king, if Anglo-Saxon culture had remained intact – where would England be today?

  It’s fashionable to say that at the time of the Conquest, England was a backwater – a tiny half-island off the coast of Europe and nothing more – and that William’s invasion dragged it into mainstream Europe. Then there are those who say that England was doing very nicely thank you, and only became a backwater after the Conquest, because it was just a small part of the Norman holdings. That the Normans still looked to Normandy as their heartland and that was where their kings spent most of their time.

  And what of our language? If the Saxon tongue had prevailed, then we would regard something as kingly rather than royal. Miss North would be fair rather than blonde. We would have selfhood cards rather than identity cards. We would sunder rather than sever. We would eat cu, not boeuf, swin, rather than porc, cicen rather than pouletrie, deor rather than venesoun.

  Fortunately, before I became too entangled in the game of What If? – and it does happen – Markham nudged me, because the important people were beginning to arrive, and the first one up was Harold.

  He entered from the side, emerging out of the gloom. Another man, slightly shorter but with a strong facial resemblance, stood at his elbow. I wondered if this was his brother, Wulfnoth, held hostage here for years, because he seemed to have become more Norman than Saxon.

  Harold was politely escorted. Or guarded, if you want to give it the correct name. He wore a brilliant sky-blue tunic, heavily embroidered around the neck and hem, that fell to just past his knees. His hose were green. A jewelled belt hung on his hips and his cloak, a darker blue, was fastened at the right shoulder by a jewelled pin. His shoulder-length, fair hair was neatly trimmed and he’d retained his unfashionable and unflattering moustache. I didn’t blame him. Everything he wore – everything he owned – had been given to him by William, the soul of generosity. The only thing he still possessed was the prospect of becoming King of England one day, and even that was about to be taken from him.

  There was a huge air of expectation. No one knew what Harold would do. Maybe even Harold didn’t know what Harold would do.

  On the other hand, of course, no one knew what William was about to do, either. I had to remind myself again that apart from William, Odo and a few others, we were the only people here who knew what was about to happen today. As far as everyone else knew, Harold was about to take a simple oath of loyalty and then push off back to England.

  William was making him wait, but Harold showed no signs of impatience or damaged ego. He stood, one hand on Wulfnoth’s shoulder, head bent, apparently listening to an amusing story. I admired his composure.

  William didn’t make him wait long. Trumpets sounded, the chanting began again, louder this time, and here he came, entering from a door opposite that used by Harold. He wore a long, crimson tunic that suited his dark colouring well. An ornate golden chain hung around his neck. His belt was of soft leather, set with rubies. In contrast to Harold’s bare head, he wore a small circlet of gold. It was as if everything had been contrived to isolate Harold. The predominant colour amongst William’s supporters was crimson. Looking around, Harold was the only blue in a sea of red. Even Wulfnoth wore crimson.

  William was followed by his coat of arms. A red banner with two golden lions. Or, if you had looked it up beforehand so a
s to be able to describe it accurately – gules, two lions passant or.

  I looked around. Everything was crimson and gold. The hangings, the banners, the canopy over the chair. Everything was in William’s colours. And reinforcing his position as the top dog here, William was accompanied by his half-brother, Bishop Odo. There was a strong family resemblance, which I’m sure both brothers cultivated.

  An acolyte preceded them, bearing yet another ruby cross.

  I whispered, ‘Miss North, report.’

  ‘We’re in place. Everything’s fine.’

  Sykes was some little way off. I could just see the top of her head with Evans standing next to her.

  ‘Miss Sykes, report.’

  ‘We’re good,’ she said in my ear. They both sounded preoccupied so I left them to get on with it.

  Bishop Odo was dressed to impress. As burly as his brother, he wore a long, snowy white tunic with sleeves, and his stola hung around his neck. His overgarment, the dalmatic, was made of some stiff material and slit up the sides. His chasuble continued the crimson silk motif, beautifully embroidered in light-catching gold thread. Everything was in crimson and gold to match William. Just in case anyone had failed to get the point.

  His crozier, held in his left hand was heavily ornamented and inlaid with ivory, and his pectoral cross was – again – of gold and rubies.

  William himself walked alongside, but a polite half pace behind. I was convinced he’d made a conscious effort to associate himself with the Church. And modern politicians think they invented spin, bless them.

  William bowed to the altar and strode to his chair, paused for a moment and then, in complete silence, he seated himself. I stole a glimpse at Harold, who stood quietly nearby, politely attentive, as if attending a pleasant diversion Duke William had set up for his amusement. You couldn’t fault his self-control.

  The bishop was followed by a whole raft of chanting clerics who, in turn, were followed by two men carrying a box suspended between two long poles. I craned my neck. This was it.

  With great care and reverence, the box was set up in front of the main altar. After a suitable pause to collect everyone’s attention, the heavily embroidered cloth was removed. A stir ran through the crowd and as one, people knelt. It was another altar. A portable altar – the kind a household would carry with them as they travelled from one home to another.

  Duke William was making doubly sure. One oath – two altars. Harold’s wiggle room was getting smaller by the moment. Lying on top of the altar was a huge Bible, leather bound and already old even in this time. Under that was a blood red cloth, again embroidered with the lions of Normandy.

  It would appear Harold had only to take a simple oath on the Bible. I looked for signs of relief in his face. To break a simple oath was not so serious. His face was expressionless, however. William was not the only one giving nothing away.

  We rose to our feet, along with everyone else.

  The bishop greeted the clerics who, in turn, bowed to William. No one spoke to Harold.

  Even in this huge space, and even with all these hundreds of people around me, I could hear only silence. Complete silence. No one even coughed.

  Stepping forwards, Bishop Odo respectfully guided Harold to the space between the two altars. I could hear his low murmur as he instructed Harold to place a hand on each altar. A minor cleric held a golden cross before him. Another spoke the oath which Harold was required to repeat.

  He did so, loudly and clearly. In front of everyone present, he promised to support William, Duke of Normandy, in his claim to the throne of England, so help him God. His voice echoed around the huge stone vault of Bayeux Cathedral as he steadfastly held the bishop’s gaze. His manner was solemn and dignified, as befitted a man taking an oath before God. There was nothing to suggest he had treachery in mind. All around us, people’s heads were nodding in approval. Not more than ten feet away from Harold, William’s face was expressionless.

  The best thing about being a sweeper is that I was free to look around. With both teams concentrating on their particular target, I was able to stare about me. At the rapt faces all around. Everyone was craning forwards, desperate not to miss a moment of what was going on. I turned back to William, looking for some clue in his face. I was wasting my time. Adept at displaying only what he wanted to, William was showing nothing more than polite interest and respect for the occasion, and was, apparently, quite relaxed about the whole thing. It’s no big deal, said his posture. We’ll get through this, nip off for a quick drink and you could be home by this time next week. Trust me. He sat on his throne, calm and unperturbed, but when I looked closely, he was gripping the arms of his chair so hard that his fingers had turned white.

  The ceremony was quite short. Only a few minutes and it was done. Once the oath was taken, there was no need to linger. Both William and Harold were now irrevocably set on the road to Hastings.

  Harold finished speaking, lowered his arms to his sides, genuflected three times and bowed to the golden cross, which was taken away. The Bible was carefully removed.

  Obviously thinking the ceremony was finished, Harold turned to William who stood up and made a slight gesture. I saw tension in those standing around him. The moment had come.

  With a gesture similar to that of a modern conjuror, a minor cleric whipped the crimson cloth off the second altar.

  Every historian in the place strained for a closer look. Actually, everyone in the cathedral strained for a closer look.

  The altar was actually a hollow box. The Bible on which Harold had sworn his oath concealed a small compartment which itself contained a small golden casket.

  Bishop Odo himself stepped down from the main altar. Taking the casket from its hiding place, he reverently opened the lid and displayed the contents. Firstly to William, who nodded grimly. There was no sign now of the affable duke.

  Turning, he showed the casket to Harold who stood, stiff as a board, exposed and alone, in the light of a thousand candles.

  The casket contained three or four small bones, nestling in folds of rich, purple cloth.

  A huge gasp ran around the cathedral.

  Harold staggered backwards, somehow regained control of himself, and stood frozen. At no point did he meet William’s eyes. The net had closed around him. He had sworn a public oath not merely on a Bible as he had thought, but upon the blessed bones of Normandy’s saints. He had sworn a sacred, unbreakable oath. William had outwitted him.

  Every eye, including that of William himself, was fixed on Harold. What would he do? What could he do?

  He pulled himself together. I had no idea what the effort cost him. He must have known that from that moment on, he and William were on a collision course from which only one of them would emerge. He drew himself up, perfectly in command of himself. For all anyone knew, he might only have tripped on an uneven stone and temporarily lost his balance. William, of course, knew better. And so did we.

  Harold turned to William who, with the same superb self-control, had not for one moment allowed any flicker of satisfaction to cross his face. Then Harold bowed his head slightly, turned on his heel, and strode from the cathedral, his blue cloak flying behind him. His entourage trailed uncertainly after him.

  It was an insult, but William wisely let him go. He had what he wanted. There was no point in forcing a confrontation now.

  No one could leave before William, and he was in no rush to depart. He spent some time talking to the ecclesiastical officials as the relics were carefully and reverently returned whence they came. From there, he took some time to speak to members of his own retinue, possibly issuing instructions to keep an eye on Harold, although there was no point now. Now that Harold had sworn away the crown, he could return to England any time he liked. Now that it was too late.

  Eventually, he left as he came, with his half-brother the bishop, and everyone else was free to leave. I eased my aching back and legs, sighed with relief, and collected my teams.

  It
was late afternoon when we finally fought our way out of the cathedral. There were people everywhere. Notwithstanding the traditional Norman weather, the streets were full of families enjoying themselves. It was possible they feared their fierce duke, but they were proud of him as well. Barrels had been broached and somewhere, I could smell roast meat, reminding me that I was starving. William had spared no expense to ensure this day would be remembered by the people of Bayeux.

  We meandered our way through chattering groups and I became aware that all was not well with my teams. Vigorous discussion was taking place. Actually, vigorous discussion is St Mary’s speak for a bloody great argument.

  The divisions were team based. Team Harold was having a go at Team William over his deception. Team William was giving as good as it got, claiming Harold was a perjurer and oath breaker. Team Harold was countering with the claim that the oath was worthless since it had been extracted under false pretences. Team William was maintaining that whether he meant to keep the oath or not, he did actually swear. It was binding. And how duplicitous was he, swearing an oath he never meant to keep in the first place?

  ‘Not so,’ countered Team Harold. ‘The oath could not be valid because he was tricked into it.’

  ‘He never meant to keep it,’ shouted Team William. ‘He’s forsworn.’

  ‘Not important,’ argued Team Harold. ‘The crown was never his to give away. The decision rests with the Witan.’

  ‘He broke his word,’ began Team William again, and were shouted down by Team Harold, informing us that politicians break their word all the time. Any politician will promise anything to anyone to get a vote. Everyone knows they have no intention of ever keeping their word.

  Team William were maintaining their position on the moral high ground. ‘You can’t disregard an oath just because you don’t like it.’

  Team Harold were red-faced and waving their arms around. ‘The oath is not valid. It was taken on Norman soil.’