The Wind From Hastings

by Morgan Llywelyn

  All that was left of Anglo-Saxon England stood together. The standard of the Fighting Man still rode the summit; there were just not enough fighting men left beneath it.

  But so great was their determination that they fought on, unslacking. They could not win, but they would not lose. Then William the Bastard bethought him of a new stratagem. Orders were shouted, and the archers were brought up again and massed at the foot of the ridge. But they did not shoot at an upward angle against the massed shields. No, they aimed their arrows almost straight up, so they flew up all at once in a dense black cloud, arched high above our line, over the protective shields, then fell swiftly down into the English ranks.

  I do not know how many were hit, for I saw only one. Harold of England took an arrow in the head and fell, with a dreamy slowness, to the bloodsoaked earth.

  His own men stepped back from him in shock and horror, and I could see clearly what happened next.

  With his own hands, he grasped the arrow by its shaft and pulled it out of his eye socket. He writhed on the ground in agony, but before anyone could touch him he was on his feet again. Somehow he found the strength to shoulder his ax one more time, and he went between his own housecarles and met the Normans coming up the slope. His stunned troops followed him, but it was obvious he could not last long. The English line was broken completely now, and even Duke William had ridden to the top of the ridge. I saw him sitting on yet another horse, directing a group of knights to capture our standards and end the battle.

  They carved their way with flashing swords to the King of England. I watched him fight, and go down, and struggle weakly to rise again. The hacking blades closed over him.

  The war ended then, for England and for me. Sick to my soul, I turned my back on all of it and stumbled through the woods to my children. If Osbert accompanied me I cannot recall it; I neither heard nor saw anything.

  The woods were black, as if the sun had set.

  WALES

  I LAY ON the floor of the hut, only half-aware of the activity around me. Voices spoke, figures bent over me, but I could not answer them. Even the voices of the children were abrasive and unwelcome; I tried to push them away with my mind.

  “Your Grace! Your Grace!” Someone had been shaking my shoulders for a long time. I fought to focus my reluctant eyes and saw that it was Osbert. Beyond him Gwladys hunched, crying into her apron.

  “Night has come, my lady, and the Normans are scouring the countryside for survivors. What do you wish us to do?”

  Osbert’s tone was that of an uncertain child, seeking authority. At first I was puzzled to hear him thus; then I remembered. Authority was dead on Hastings field.

  With great difficulty I forced my aching bones to sit me up. “The King, Osbert; what have they done with the King?”

  There were actual tears in the housecarle’s eyes, and I heard Gwladys sob aloud. “They cannot identify him, Your Grace.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He looked around the room, lit only by one feeble torch, as if hoping to find someone else who would say the words he did not want to say.

  “The Normans stripped all the English bodies, my lady. And they are … they are”—his voice choked—“very badly hacked up. No one has been able to recognize King Harold.”

  “Mother of God!” Bile flooded my mouth, and I retched onto the filthy floor.

  But I could not afford the luxury of weakness. Harold was dead; everyone in that woodcutter’s shack looked to me to tell them what to do. Our lives depended on it. The lives of the children of two kings depended on it.

  I dug my nails into my palms until the pain cleared my head a little. “You say the Normans are searching for survivors? Is there a chance they will find us here?”

  “I doubt it, Your Grace. Men have already passed by quite close without noticing the place; even at a little distance it seems part of the trees and brush. But if we took to the road now they would be on us in a twinkling.”

  “William would not treat kindly with me, as … as Harold Godwine did. My children and I would doubtless live out our lives in some damp Norman keep.” There was nothing more I could do for Harold, but much I could do for his unborn child.

  “The Bastard shall not get us, Osbert. We will stay here until his army moves on to enjoy its conquest elsewhere, and then we will go someplace where he will never send to look for us. Doubtless he does not know I am here now; even the King did not know. He will assume I have been left in safekeeping somewhere, for him to pick like a ripe plum at his leisure.”

  My mind was churning, picking over the plans that had been forming beneath its surface even as we came through the Andredsweald. There had always been the foreknowledge of this moment within me, I think. All that I had learned must come together and save us now, and chart a future for my children. A safe future. Free of the heritage of blood.

  I forced my voice to be brisk. “Gwladys! Compose yourself, woman, and listen to me. Have you still those relatives you once told me about, in the mountains of Snowdonia?”

  She looked at me wonderingly. “Aye, my lady.”

  “And they would well come you, and give you shelter?”

  “Aye …”

  “Think you they would also extend the Welsh hospitality to a family of poor English freedmen, fleeing the Normans and anxious to build a new life for themselves?

  The woman stared at me as if she were simpleminded. “But, Your Grace … !”

  “Do not call me that ever again! I am no longer First Lady, Gwladys! I am no longer a Lady at all, just a simple lowborn woman with my husband, here”—and I took the arm of the astonished Osbert—“and our children.”

  “And that is who I shall remain; do you understand me?”

  I do not know who was shaken more, Gwladys or Osbert. But at last it was agreed. Such identifying belongings as we had with us would be buried forever in the dark of the forest, save only Griffith’s ruby and the ring Harold had put on my finger in the York Minster. These I would hide on my person in such a way that they would not be found if we were robbed and searched. Osbert gave his housecarles, save only Merfyn, who had an eye for Gwladys, permission to leave us and make their own ways home. The remaining horses we turned loose; they were fine enough to give us away.

  Osbert caught a farmer’s nag running loose in the woods and tied it up at a distance for me to ride when we left. “You cannot walk to Wales, my lady, not in your condition!” he said gently.

  When the sickly dawn broke over Senlac Ridge, I bade Merfyn go as near as he dared to the battlefield and see if he could learn if the King had been found. When he came back he was dragfooted, and I thought the news was bad.

  “No, King Harold has been found, my lady. Duke William has taken his body and says he will give it decent burial, but he will not return it to the English.”

  Harold Godwine. Once more in William’s custody.

  “How was he identified, Merfyn?”

  It was obvious that that was the part he was loath to tell. “I met one of the Earl Gyrth’s men; he told me that the monks from Waltham went to Duke William and asked for the King’s body. He sent them to try to identify it, but they could not. They went to Gytha, but she could not even try.”

  Poor Gytha; I pitied her then as I had never done before.

  “And so, who found the King, Merfyn?”

  He footshifted and would not meet my eyes. “No one knew you were here, my lady …”

  “Aldith! Call me only Aldith, Merfyn, and mind you do not forget!”

  He looked most uncomfortable. “Yes, uh, Aldith. At any rate, no one knew you were here, and so, uh …”

  “And so?”

  “Edith Swanneshals went down to the field. The monks carried torches for her, and she walked among the English dead, bending over their naked and butchered bodies and going dry-eyed.”

  I felt sick.

  “At last she stopped, my friend said, and cried aloud, sinking onto the ground. She cradled what lay there i
n her lap and would not be comforted. It is said she recognized the King by signs none other would know.”

  He did not have to add that. I did not want to know it!

  “And so the King’s body was wrapped in linen and carried to Duke William, but then he refused to give it to the monks after all. We can only trust he will treat it kindly; we are powerless to do more!”

  Merfyn’s voice rose in an agony of helplessness and regret. Behind our eyes, I think we all watched that woman moving slowly among the dead, her face ghastly in the torchlight.

  The Normans have begun to pull out. Osbert has seen their divisions moving slowly up the road toward London, and I shudder for those who encounter them along the way.

  We will not follow the London road but cut cross-country, as the local folk do. It will be a long journey, and the cold weather will reach us in earnest before we see the mountains of Wales rising ahead of us. But I feel my babe strong within me, and I know Osbert will keep his vow to the King and care well for us.

  Along the way, to pass the time, I will begin to instruct my children in their new heritage. Can the sons of kings be taught to live without slaughter, to put aside ambition and forget the claiming of thrones? We shall see. I want my sons to live, for the sake of life itself.

  I am coming home, Griffith.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Saxon, Welsh and Irish names before the Conquest were subject to a number of variations in spelling and pronunciation. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle refers to Harold Godwine’s wife as Ealdgyth, for example; a name that many scholars have accepted. However, she is also variously referred to as Edyth, Aldith, Aldyth and Algifu. To simplify a confused situation I have limited her to two names, the Saxon Edyth and the Welsh Aldith. Other names of persons and places are those most generally accepted by modern scholars.

  By Morgan Llywelyn From Tom Doherty Associates

  Bard

  Brian Boru

  The Elementals

  Finn Mac Cool

  The Horse Goddess

  Lion of Ireland

  Pride of Lions

  Strongbow

  1916

  The Wind from Hastings

  “A many-faceted jewel of prose.”

  —The Pittsburgh Press on The Wind from Hastings

  “She can really write. She makes us feel the energy, the passion, the violence, the ignorance, the filth, the superstition, and the half-barbaric beauty of medieval life.”

  —John Goodspeed, Maryland Center for Public Broadcasting, on The Wind from Hastings

  “One of my all-time favorite authors.”

  —Jude Deveraux

  “The best there is in the field of historical fiction.”

  —Jennifer Wilde

  “Morgan Llywelyn is known for giving life to Irish myth and history in novel form … . She presents history in a most readable fashion.”

  —Post & Courier, Charleston, South Carolina

  “If you desire to momentarily escape from twentieth-century life, look no further. The historical fiction of Morgan Llywelyn will be sure to satify … . She exhibits a mastery of complex, emotional themes … . Poignantly explores the duality between historical fact and fiction.”

  —Irish American Post

  “Ms. Llywelyn’s work is known for its skillful blend of historical fact with interesting characters.”

  —The Richmond Times-Dispatch

  NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THE WIND FROM HASTINGS

  Copyright © 1978 by Morgan Llywelyn

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  Tor Books on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.tor-forge.com

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

  eISBN 9781429983563

  First eBook Edition : February 2011

  ISBN: 0-812-55502-3

  Library of Congress Card Catalog Number: 78-6973

  First Tor edition: December 1998