The Conquest

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  'In truth, the wound did not pain me at first,' he added. 'I rode the first three days from York without it troubling me. All I need is a short rest.'

  Ailith gently lifted away the last of the wadding and looked at the wound with which Goldwin had walked and ridden for the better part of two weeks. A nasty red gash had opened him up from navel to hip-bone, slicing through layers of fat and muscle. The gash had been stitched in a rough and ready manner. Pus oozed between the threads, some of which had broken apart, and the entire area was puffy and inflamed.

  'God have mercy!' Her hand went to her mouth; her belly heaved. 'Goldwin, you cannot think of marching anywhere with this!'

  'Harold needs every man. He lost too many in the north,' Soldwin gasped.

  Ailith opened her mouth to remonstrate with him, but closed it again, the words unsaid. It was obvious from his condition that no matter how he pushed his will, his body would be incapable. All she had to do was keep him lulled and quiet, giving his flesh the chance to knit.

  'So be it,' she murmured, 'but tonight you must sleep. May I ask Sigrid's aunt Hulda to look at your wound and give you a potion to help the healing?'

  Goldwin nodded and closed his eyes with a sigh. 'Indeed I am very tired,' he mumbled. 'I've hardly slept since the battle. It is the ravens pecking at the corpses. They won't leave me alone.'

  Rolf slid wearily from Alezan's back to stand in the ankle-deep sludge of the wooden fort that one of Duke William's adjutants had pretentiously dared to call Hastings Castle. A bitter wind drove his sodden cloak against his back and whipped the stallion's tail between his mired hocks. The rain which had held off briefly as they rode through the marshy, deserted countryside began to whisper down again, fine in the wind as wet mist, a rain to penetrate the bones until they would never be warm again. Rolf removed his helm and absently touched a sore patch at his temple where the leather lining had chaffed.

  Across the bailey the stable quarters were frantic with activity as patrols returned from a day of foraging the hinterland for provender. An outlying scouting party had galloped into the camp with the news that the English army had been sighted in the great forest known as the Andredesweald not seven miles' distance. Riders had been sent out forthwith to summon in all the outlying Norman troops, and the command had gone out to stand to arms.

  Rolf led Alezan to the stables and dismissed the harassed groom who came to take the bridle. 'Go to,' Rolf said, stroking the chestnut's whiskery soft muzzle. 'Attend elsewhere before the Duke has a battle right here among his own knights.'

  The man hurried gratefully away towards a swearing Breton count whose stallion had just stepped on his toe.

  Alezan snuffed Rolf's hair and face, his breath moistly warm as the man rubbed him down with a wisp of balled up hay. 'Give over, you brute,' Rolf muttered as the horse lovingly nipped the back of his neck. The chestnut's coat was thickening up for winter, the golden blaze of his hide muting to red. Rolf lifted each one of the stallion's hooves in turn to check that the shoes were still securely nailed and that the frogs were clean. As he straightened from his examination, his eye was caught by Richard's grey destrier in the horse line opposite, and he paused to admire the animal.

  To look at him now, it was impossible to believe how difficult he had proved on the beach at St Valery, and again at Hastings. It was as Richard said; the stallion hated ramps, but in every other way was a beast of exceptional quality. He did not have the bulk of some of the north Norman destriers with their strong influx of Flemish blood, but he was fast, could turn on a penny, and his endurance was phenomenal. Even now, after Richard had been out on him all day, he still looked fresh, his ears pricked, his liquid eyes curious. Rolf admitted ruefully that he would have to eat his pride and go cap in hand to Richard to beg him for the use of the horse at stud. In his mind's eye he saw his friend's smug grin and winced.

  By the time he left the stables, the daylight was almost quenched. Torches glimmered in the wooden huts and tents of the vast Norman encampment of seven thousand men. Rolf went to one of the ramshackle cooking sheds that had been set up within the bailey. A bulky Fleming with forearms the size of hams was tending a huge iron cooking pot suspended over the flames. He stirred the contents with a large, shallow ladle, wiped his forehead on his rolled-back sleeve, and looked at Rolf.

  'What you brung this time?' he demanded in heavily accented French.

  Rolf held out his hands to the warmth of the fire. The smell of the bubbling, rich stew teased his nostrils and his stomach growled. 'Enough to keep your cauldron simmering for another day at least,' he said as he handed the man his wooden eating bowl, and sat down on the crude bench at the side of the cooking pot. Unbidden there came to his mind's eye a vision of the angry, bewildered peasants from whom the supplies to feed the Norman army had been reaved. He saw their village burning orange beneath the grey October sky, inhaled the dark coils of smoke, heard the wails of the women and children, the furious despair of the men.

  The ravaging had been a deliberate ploy of the Duke's, an attempt to lure Harold onto the Hastings peninsula and there force him to do battle, William wisely did not want to move too far from his own precarious supply lines. He reasoned that when Harold heard of the destruction of estates whose earl he had once been, he would take it as a personal insult and his impetuous nature would bring him roaring down to the south coast, intent on throwing the Normans back into the sea. It was William's plan to persuade Harold to give battle before his troops were rested and back up to full strength after their hard battle in the north. Tonight it seemed as if that plan had worked.

  The Fleming leaned over the stew to ladle a generous portion into Rolf's bowl and hand it back to him. There were greasy chunks of mutton floating in it, and a mish-mash of vegetables. Rolf cupped his hands around the bowl, savouring the heat, and sipped. A comforting warmth reached his vitals and began to thaw his limbs.

  Outside the shelter the rain started to thud down hard, filling the hollows in the churned mud of the bailey floor. A boy ran across the courtyard with a torch in his hand, and disappeared into the wooden keep. Another foraging party rode in with a milch cow and bellowing calf, and a packhorse laden with sacks of flour and strings of onions. The men were swearing roughly in Flemish, cursing the foul English weather, but their manner was jovial. They had also raided a barrel of mead which Rolf knew would never find its way to the quartermaster.

  Another man trudged across the courtyard towards the cauldron, his hood drawn up around his face and his body protected against the rain by a cloak of double thickness fashioned of the hairy wool preferred by the Danes.

  'Stinking weather,' commented Aubert de Remy by way of greeting and accepted a bowl of the scalding mutton broth.

  Rolf murmured assent and shifted along the bench to make room for the merchant. Two reconnaissance scouts on dark bay horses entered the fort at a rapid trot. Torchlight and rain gleamed on helms, harness and mail.

  'Are you on duty tonight?'

  Rolf shook his head. 'No, I've been on forage detail all day, but I doubt I'll sleep for all that. Do you think Harold will attack?'

  Aubert pursed his lips. 'I doubt it. I believe he is planning to keep us penned up on the peninsula while he waits for more troops to arrive and strengthen his force. It is what I would do if I were him. Mind you, if I were him, I would have stayed in London and made William come to me.' He sleeved a drip from his nose and hunched his shoulders. 'Time is on Harold's side, not ours. He could have afforded to wait.'

  'Not necessarily. The Pope has given his blessing to our cause. God is on our side. When word of that gets spread abroad, some of the English might not be quite so willing to fight.'

  'Perhaps,' Aubert conceded with a shrug, 'but he could well have taken the risk for the sake of a few more days — could have waited until we had to move out in search of supplies.' He drank his broth and looked sidelong at Rolf. 'Tonight the priests and chaplains will be taking confessions and shriving those who desire it. It
is more than possible that we'll march on Harold at dawn, providing that he does not march first. And as I have said, I think he intends to remain where he is.'

  Rolf thought of the battle axe in his tent. He slept with it naked at his side like a mistress. It had become a talisman, his defiance of fear. Tomorrow he would be brought face to face with thousands like it, and if one even so much as caressed him in passing, he knew that he would die. Without conscious thought, his fingers curled around the comforts of the Cross of Christ and the hammer of Thor that hung upon his breast.

  CHAPTER 12

  'Ut, Ut, Ut!' howled more than seven thousand English throats. Spears hammered on shield rims in a pounding, relentless rhythm. 'Ut, Ut, Ut!'

  Rolf stared at the seething host of warriors on the ridge, packed together twenty men deep; the bristle of spears, the metallic flash of sharp iron points and the death-smile curve of axe blades. His throat was as dry as chaff; to try and swallow was to choke. Cold sweat clammed his armpits and made his hands slippery upon Alezan's bridle. Norman battle cries retorted to the Saxon invective 'Dex aie! Thor aid' But it was like hurling peas at a sheet of beaten iron. The slope of the ridge was littered with the corpses of the Norman infantry who had rushed the Saxons in the wake of volleys of arrows from the Norman archers. No visible softening of the Saxon defences had occurred and now the cavalry was to go in against the great Danish axes.

  'Christ on the Cross,' muttered Richard FitzScrob, his eyes on the Saxon line and the Norman dead littering the ground in front of it.

  'Your ventail's undone,' Rolf said huskily.

  'What?' Richard released his grip on the grey's reins and raised his hands to fumble with the loose mail flap which would protect his lower face from injury. It also made it considerably more difficult to breathe. Free of control the grey sidled, pressing up hard against Alezan. Rolf cursed as his leg was crushed, and the chestnut lashed out. A ripple shuddered down the line, as each horse and rider was forced to adjust. Richard snatched the grey's reins and brought him back under control, dragging the stallion's head down until its muzzle almost touched the tassels on the decorated breast band. 'I need four hands,' Richard gasped apologetically, and then, 'Jesu, I'm going to be sick.'

  'Not now you've fastened your ventail, you'll choke! Pull yourself together, man!' Rolf's own voice cracked with strain. Grimly he adjusted his shield, which appeared to have a mind and mobility of its own, and shifted his wet grip on the shaft of his spear.

  Richard gagged, glanced sidelong at Rolf, and clenched his jaw.

  William FitzOsbern, commander of Rolf's section, rode his sweating stallion along their line, his standard bearer following on his heels, gold silk pennon snapping in the breeze. On their flank, Alain Fergant's Breton cavalry set their destriers at the ridge. Hooves thundered, the earth shook.

  'God is with us!' roared FitzOsbern. Raising his mace on high, he faced the Saxon line and his lips contorted in a snarl. 'Laissez Cone!'

  Rolf spurred Alezan. The Norman line surged up the hill, the knights thigh to thigh, keeping pace. Breath and hide steamed like hell-smoke. The ground was soft and he could feel Alezan's shoulders and quarters straining, the stallion's hooves gouging out great clods of earth. The vibration of the charge thundered up through Rolf's saddle and into his straining body. Beyond Alezan's pricked ears, he saw the packed rows of painted shields, some long and triangular like his own, others circular with half-globe iron bosses. And within the shield wall, the axe-wielding, mail-clad huscarls who dealt death to anyone who came within range of the sweeping arcs of their weapons.

  Spear tips spiked the sky; a hail of stones, wooden staves and steel caltrops assaulted the charging horsemen. Rolf kept his shield high, his head down, and hoarsely called upon Christ and Thor to protect him. The stink of blood, excrement and sheer human terror fouled his nostrils; the battle din roared in his ears until he was deaf.

  He clutched his spear, and prepared to hurl it as Alezan strained within range. To his left an axe flashed as a Saxon warrior struck. The dark brown horse of the knight next to Rolf pitched to its knees. Blood sprayed; a warm wetness spattered Rolf's face and he saw the man hit the ground, defenceless against the Saxon huscarl who, in one massive blow, spliced the knight as if he were a bacon pig. Rolf twisted hard on the bridle, and before the axe could rise and whirl again, rose in the stirrups and cast his spear at the huscarl with all the strength in his arm. The Saxon screamed and staggered, clutching at the shaft embedded through mail and gambeson in his side. Rolf yanked the reins, squeezed with his thighs, and hauled the chestnut away. They half-galloped, half-skidded down the slope, mud churning beneath the destrier's hooves, missiles singing after them, and turned once safe, to recoup. On Rolf's other side, Richard tore off his ventail with frantic fingers and leaned over Sleipnir's withers to vomit.

  'They're not men, they're devils!' he gulped.

  The yellow banner of FitzOsbern rippled and the commands roared out for the cavalry to close ranks and advance again. 'Estroitez I droit! Mettez en bandon!' Rolf snatched a spear from a convenient stack, fretted the chestnut on his hocks, and rejoined the assault.

  This time, an axe man actually ran to meet Rolf as he rose in the stirrups to cast his spear. Rolf saw the deadly iron arc sweeping towards him and tried to stab the Saxon with the lance. The axe took off the spear head clean through the haft and continued to describe its deadly half-circle. In desperation Rolf tried to cover himself and the chestnut with his shield. The curved blade smashed through the linden planking and sank into the destrier's neck. The horse reared, and the Saxon's face beneath the nasal of his helm was suddenly a mass of red, shattered bone. Howling, a second axe man darted forwards. Rolf sawed on the reins, and spurred his wounded horse out of the melee.

  Alezan carried him halfway down the hill and then the chestnut's legs buckled and Rolf was pitched headlong into the muddy grass. He lay bruised and winded. The thunder of the Norman charge and retreat surged in his ears. He could hear the triumphant Saxon roar of 'Ut, Ut, Ut!' Three knights galloped past him, their mounts flinging clods of soil. Someone was screaming in terror for a priest. Alezan kicked, shuddered, and died.

  Rolf looked numbly at the blood-streaked golden-red hide. He had bred the stallion up from a foal, had exerted much time, effort and pride in his training. Now he was nothing but carrion for the ravens; a heap of meat among a thousand such heaps on this gory battlefield.

  The screaming had stopped. Rolf pushed himself to his feet and guarding himself against the barrage of sling-stones with his broken shield, limped towards the Norman baggage station on Telham Hill to saddle up a remount. After five paces he stopped in mid-stride and stared, his blood freezing. A riderless grey destrier stood trembling beside a body. The stallion's withers and neck were saturated in blood, but Rolf could tell that the horse was not injured.

  'God's sweet life!' he muttered through his teeth and ran to catch the bridle. Another knight had the same idea, but Rolf arrived first, and snarled him off. Then he knelt beside the fallen man.

  'Richard? Richard, Christ, man, get up!' He shook his friend's shoulder.

  Richard FitzScrob's reply was silent. His head lolled beneath the vigorous demand of Rolf's hand, revealing the shattered throat where his unfastened ventail had exposed him to a blow from a nail-studded club.

  Fury pierced Rolf's numbness. He had a savage desire to leap astride the grey, hurl himself at the Saxon line and kill every last warrior. Pushing himself to his feet, he exchanged Richard's undamaged shield for his own, jammed his foot into the stirrup and mounted up. 'Alliez!' he urged the stallion and dug in his spurs.

  It was about noon when the Breton left flank, unable to take any more punishment from the English battle axes, broke and fled, leaving the remainder of the Norman army dangerously exposed. The centre drew back and the right flank wavered. The Bretons were heatedly pursued by triumphant English fyrdmen, and the two forces joined battle again in the marshy ground at the foot of the ridge. The Sax
ons had the advantage. Panicking, floundering, all the Bretons desired was to escape with their lives.

  Rolf felt the infection of fear pierce his own exhaustion, but he held his place in the line. Where was there to go? Back to the ships in disordered confusion to be killed ignominiously on the shore? Even as these thoughts bolted through his mind, the impetus of the Norman assault wavered. A knight cried to him that Duke William was nowhere to be found, that he was down, that he was dead. Rolf found himself facing the line of shields and axes with no-one to either side of him. Wrenching Sleipnir's bridle, he turned back.

  'Stand firm!' roared William FitzOsbern to the men of his command. He rose in his stirrups, his usually impassive features brimming with rage. 'Are you no better than the Bretons that you run like cowards?' He levelled his mace at a young knight. 'Do your duty to your sworn liege lord, or by God I'll kill you myself! Until you hear the command to retreat given from my own lips, you will assault that shield wall. Now get back up there and win this damned battle for Normandy!'

  'Yes, my lord.' The young man's face was bone-white beneath his helm.

  And then the Duke himself strode into their midst, his helm thumbed back and his ventail unfastened to show himself to his frightened men. Apart from a thin stone-cut down one cheek, he was unharmed. He was also horseless. 'You, de Brize, give me that grey,' he demanded.

  Inwardly cursing, but leaping from the saddle with alacrity, Rolf presented William with Sleipnir.

  'You won't go unrewarded,' said the Duke as he gained the saddle. 'I always honour my debts.' And then he was gone, smacking Sleipnir's rump with his sword blade, plunging through the melee and rallying his troops. Rolf wondered gloomily if he would ever see the grey again.

  The battle continued, each foothold bitterly contested in blood. Harold's brothers Gyrth and Leofwin were killed. The English who had charged down the hill in pursuit of the Bretons were cut to pieces by William's cavalry, and the Normans were able to gain the ridge and begin eating their way to the core of the English defences. Gaps appeared in the shield wall and the less well armoured men in the ranks behind had to step forward and bear the brunt of the Norman assault. As the light began to fade towards dusk, the Duke employed his archers again, instructing them to fire high and aim for the rear of the Saxon lines where Harold's standards flew: the bold red dragon of Wessex, and the equally impressive silks of his Fighting Man banner.