Although the Saxon arrows were having a respectable effect, no amount of missiles in the world could have stalled a charge of such a force. The Norman army collided with the Saxon shield wall with a tremendous clash. A great cloud of dust had been kicked up and the battle was momentarily obscured from Edwin’s eyes – he watched with tension, hearing only the grunting and yells of battle that had become all too familiar in recent years. As it cleared, they soon realised that the two lines were grinding against one another, and even William’s vaunted Knights had found no glorious victory in the impact. Slowed by the uphill climb they found themselves facing a hardened foe fighting to defend its land against an outside force. Any sense of discipline and order was abandoned as the battle became reduced to pure brutality in an instant.
They ground against one another for what seemed to be an age, each side watching with tension and horror as man after man fell. This was no quick or easy battle, it was a slaughter the likes of which had rarely been seen in England. Both forces were tired, well armed and boasted large, disciplined shields. While the infantry struggled, slowly chipping away at one another, each side’s bowmen fired volley after volley over the lines, felling hundreds until they ran out of arrows and were forced to join the battle with swords, daggers and salvaged weapons from the fallen.
The battle dragged on for hours, moment after moment blurring into each other in Edwin’s mind. He rushed from point to point, shouting encouragement and moving reinforcements anywhere the lines looked to be weakening. Both armies’ lines were growing thin and empty as life after life was claimed, until at last a cry of French echoed through the lines.
“Duke William! The Duke is slain! God have mercy!”
Panic began to spread through the Norman lines, and it was surprisingly the knights who first broke away from the battle, leaving their levied footmen to continue the battle alone. Some of Edgar’s troops broke ranks, eager to try and pursue and run down anyone they could. Edwin did not see the mistake until it had already transpired, and there was little he could do to stop it. Further downhill, the scattered Knights regrouped into a new formation. Their lances had been long since lost to battle and their numbers were heavily depleted, but they were still a heavily armoured force on horseback.
“Edgar! Pull your men back!” Edwin shouted, waving in the direction of the right flank.
It was unclear if the young King had heard him, but it was clear there was nothing more to do about the pursuing men. The Norman knights turned in place and led a mighty charge up the hill, and even slowed by its slope they slammed into the broken line with fury. Without any shield wall to protect them from the momentum of the charge, they had become easy pickings.
Edwin finally caught sight of Edgar furiously ordering them to fall back. His line had become crippled and half the shield wall was broken – a likely death sentence for an army as reliant on it as the English was. The Knights pulled out again, reorganizing for another of their deadly charges as the Royal housecarls attempted to regain some semblance of order and formation. He hesitated for a moment, but after a final glance to the weakened Norman line, he decided to deploy his last reinforcements personally.
“Arms up, men! To the right flank, we need to close that gap before they sweep the King away with their damned horsemen!”
Although the fyrdsmen were somewhat unwieldy to manoeuvre, they turned in a respectable amount of time and began their march, quick enough to reach the battlefield just as the Norman Knights struck Edgar’s weakened flank. Even from here he could see the housecarl’s line struggle against the heavy charge. For half a bloody minute the Norman Knights waged uninterrupted bloodshed on the Royal Housecarls. Their eager killing spree, however, came to an unpleasant end as Edwin’s fyrdsmen marched directly into their exposed flank. The vulnerable horses were caught by surprise as the Saxon spears felled dozens of the Duchy’s finest. First they wavered as some of the Knights shouted fearfully, then they began to panic. With no Duke to lead them, the Knights began to flee once more.
And this time they were not alone in their flight. The entire Norman force broke into a piecemeal retreat, panicked at the loss of their Duke and their inability to crack the King’s shield wall. There was no mercy for the Normans as the Saxons broke the wall en masse to pursue. Any attempts to rally the French host failed and hundreds were trampled or captured in the ensuing stampede. Many died by thrown spear or axe before the last stragglers were allowed to flee unmolested. A roar of victory echoed through the hills of Oxfordshire, and none were louder than King Edgar, who had finally earned his crown. The English had beaten the Normans.
Chapter 19 – Return to the Sea
20th of October, 1066
The beach – its brilliant ivory accentuated the rugged cliffs of England’s fair shores, the foaming sea roared and smashed herself upon the beaches. It was a thing of beauty, and to the Normans it had been their gateway into England. As everyone knew, of course, a gateway could be used to enter, but also to exit. With so many of their army dead and William himself lost, there was little point in remaining here. It was time for the surviving Normans to return home with whatever prizes they could still carry.
Robert d’Normandie stood as the last surviving son of William and the leader of the remaining Normans. His brothers had suffered grievous wounds in the fighting and tragically succumbed to injury during their flight from Oxford. The outskirts of the town had become the grave for thousands of Frenchmen from Brittany to Flanders, unified and dead under Duke William’s banner. Perhaps if he still lived the surviving soldiers would have the will to fight on, but Robert was just a boy and he knew he did not have the presence or respect needed to inspire loyalty in his men.
Still, he was formally in charge here and it was up to him to do something. Odo had gone missing during the rout, whether separated or run down, Robert did not know. Their grand conquest had turned into a disaster, but now he had a chance to take advantage of his bloodline. Hundreds of ships hovered in the near water; a much smaller fraction would be needed to take them home, but it was still taking some time to load the men onto ships. Too much time.
Thankfully, he was not entirely alone: he still had the help of one of his father’s old friends, Count William of Eu. “Master Robert, the men will need a few hours more to get everything onto the ships, but the English are already approaching. We need to do something.”
“Can we fight?” Robert asked. “At least to try and delay them?”
“Not much of a delay on this beach, Robert. They can easily line archers along the cliffs and fire down upon us. Moreover they outnumbered us by a fair margin even before we started loading men onto the ships. This fight would be little more than suicide.”
“Maybe they’ll be willing to talk. We could at least get some time for the men to get onto the ships...” Robert took a deep breath. “I’ll need an escort.”
“I’ll come with you, and my retinue too. I agree that talking has got to be our best chance of escape.”
Robert smiled, and for once he felt that he was being treated as an equal. “Good, but there’s one more thing...the Saxon girl I found in London – I want to take her with. Normandy is no place for her, I feel like it’s only right to let her go.”
William d’Eu raised an eyebrow, but shrugged. “Why not, perhaps it will make some small recompense, although I doubt the King will care much about one girl.”
“I’ve got a funny feeling they might,” Robert said before turning to find her.
Returning to his hastily-propped tent, he peered in looking for her. “Gunhild? Are you there?”
A faint sob betrayed her presence, and Robert frowned. She had rarely stopped crying since they left London; it was hard enough to justify caretaking her when she had been calm, but the broken sobs had begun to grate on the nerves of his uncle. Thankfully, Odo was not here and he could safely do as he pleased for the time being.
“Ah, there you are. Come on, we have to go. I’m taking you to meet with
the English King. This war is over, we’ve lost...”
She threw off the blankets and stared in surprise. “R-Really? Does that mean you’re not taking me on the boats?”
“Ships,” Robert corrected. “And no... I’ve enjoyed our time together Gunhild, but I get the feeling you’re not meant to leave here. God wants me to let you go.”
She smiled for the first time he could remember. It was no outpouring of emotion, no laughter, hugs or other girlish traits he would expect, but a simple smile. He was a little disappointed that she wanted to leave him, but could understand the sentiment – he wouldn’t want to be left stranded in England any more than she wanted to be hauled to France, and if she really was the daughter of Harold Godwinson as he feared, taking her invited disaster and outrage from the English.
“Come on, there’s not much time. We’ll be riding out any minute.”
She nodded eagerly and rushed to follow him. The thought of going home excited her tremendously. It had only been a few weeks, but it felt like a lifetime since she had seen her family or slept in her own bed. There had hardly been time to adjust her eyes to the sun before she had been swept off her feet and planted on Robert’s horse once again.
They rode. It was not a long journey, but the beach slopes and slender dirt path required her to hold on to her escort tightly as his horse climbed. Finally they reached the crest and the English army was revealed to them. It was descending on them with a quick, determined march, and Gunhild smiled again to herself, glad to know that the Normans had lost the war. Robert spurred the horse forward and they galloped towards the English army with purpose.
For a while, they did not stop, but as the Normans closed in further they at last relented and ground to a halt. For the second time this week, the leaders of the English came forth to meet the Normans. Robert halted his horse and so too did William d’Eu and the rest of their retinue. The English leaders came again, but Gunhild barely recognised most of them; only her own cousin, Edgar, was identifiable by name. Still, to see any friendly faces made her beam with optimism.
“Well Normans, it seems you have been cornered!” Edgar called out to them.
Robert did not speak English, but he had an interpreter that served him just as well. “Cornered, yes, but we still have enough bite to make you regret attacking us. I want a way out of this without bloodshed.”
“Without bloodshed?” Edgar laughed. “Do you know what your father has wrought by his ill-fated expedition? It is rather late to make peace, son of William. There’s already been a lot of bloodshed, and there may well be more..”
“My father is dead, his fate has caught up with him. As his son, I am prepared to renounce my claims upon the throne and pay a tribute to secure our safe passage home. We want no further quarrel with England.” Robert tugged on Gunhild’s sleeve, then turned the horse to make her clearer. “I have also this Saxon girl, she claims her father is rich but I seek no ransom, only to see her safely returned to her family.”
Edgar’s eyes widened as he recognised Gunhild for who she was: a vital puzzle piece in his bid for power. “I...of course. You are fair and just in your offer, and I am prepared to accept it. Know that you will be indebted to me for this gesture, tribute or not.”
The young Frenchman lowered his eyes respectfully. “So be it, if those are the terms of our freedom then I accept.”
One of the Normans picked up Gunhild and gently placed her upon the earth. She looked back to Robert, as if to ask if he were sure, but he just nodded at her. That was all the confirmation she needed – running eagerly towards the Saxons. At Edgar’s signal, a guard picked her up and gently placed her upon Edgar’s own horse. There was an awkward silence before Edgar turned his retinue back and rode without another word.
Robert watched as they shrank into the distance, leaving the Normans alone in the field. Although the army began to slowly march forth, they were still a long ways off and no longer had the same urgent pace. At last, the long and difficult campaign was coming to an end.
“What now, William?” Robert asked the Count.
“Now? Now we go home.”
Chapter 20 – Coronation
1st of November, 1066
Many months had passed since the Norman flight from England. The victory of the English over William the Bastard was hailed throughout the Kingdom, and men from across the realm paid tribute to their new King. Westminster’s hosting of the King’s coronation was a hurried, but somewhat jovial affair. Tostig and Duke William were dead, freeing England from their threatening shadows. This was a time of celebration – a time to forget that the threat of Harald Sigurdsson still lay somewhere over the horizon.
Stigand had crowned Edgar as king, granting him the recognition of the Church and God and denying other potential heirs the pleasure of attempting to usurp his appointment. Now they took in whatever celebration they could, enjoying mulled wine, cider and whatever victuals the London kitchens could hastily arrange. Westminster was alight with the celebration, but Edwin still could not celebrate, knowing that the war was not technically over.
“What’s wrong, Edwin? You seem glum, surely you have not become unable to enjoy a good party when you have the opportunity to!” Edgar grinned.
“I am deeply concerned, your majesty. Hwicce’s lands are already exhausted and ravaged by the war, and I have no doubt that Harald Sigurdsson plans to return. We are vulnerable and many foes lie around us – what if the Welsh decide to rise up again, or the Scots come down from their mountains as they have in the past?”
“You worry too much, Edwin. The harvest season is nearly over and we have enough fresh recruits for the fyrd to rally against any attack. Winter snows are due soon, so even if they come, they will likely find their death here. Besides, I am not without gratitude to the man who helped me make it here. I have been pulling some strings – the few I have – and arranged an award that should give you cause for excitement.”
“Oh?” Edwin raised an eyebrow. “What do you have in mind that could appease my worries? I hope it’s something good and not just another bottle of mead.”
The Earl had let protocol and etiquette slip the in the presence of his superior, but Edgar owed Edwin his throne as much as his brother or the archbishop. The young King didn’t seem to mind it, in either case.
“I have been speaking to Edith, the common law wife of our late King. After some convincing, she has agreed to permit a marriage between her daughter Gytha and your brother Morcar. Moreover and more relevant to you, we can seal a marriage between Gunhild and your son Estmond; I am certain that this will prove to be more fruitful than the last attempt to tie the royal bloodline into your own family.”
Edwin folded his arms tightly across his chest. As he had said to Edgar so long ago, one did not turn down an offer of a royal marriage lightly, and he had to admit this was a tempting offer. Edwin liked to think that his price was high, but the idea that his descendants could one day bear the crown of England was a temptation no noble could simply ignore. Edgar flashed him a toothy smile, the same one he had seen on the walls of Tamworth an age ago at the thought of fathering a line of future Kings.
“You said I was a friend of your house, and although we took many risks to get here you can see as much as I that the future of England is all but secure. Let me prove to you how much I value your friendship, Edwin – take the offer.”
The King proffered one hand, his new crown tilted slightly awkwardly. It was a comical image, but he was now King Edgar II and young as he was, he had made waves in England when given an opportunity. Edwin had long struggled with the risks involved in supporting the young King, but at long last it seemed like it was paying off. For the first time in many weeks, he felt a genuine smile come to his face. Clasping his hand against Edgar’s, he shook it vigorously.
“You have a deal, your Majesty.”
* * *
Dark thunderclouds rolled across the northern border of England, sending a deep rumble through the land. T
hough it was dark, the occasional flash of distant lightning illuminated the marching frames of thousands of helms. Rain fell relentlessly, but speed was of the essence. King Harald Sigurdsson drove his men onwards, not satisfied to accept second place in his bid for the throne. This boy, this Edgar Aetheling, had stolen the throne out from under his very nose. This was not acceptable, and worse still, he now was forced to rely on men he trusted even less than Tostig’s mercenaries: the Scots.
“What do you think of this, Harald? Fine British weather for you!” King Malcolm laughed, partaking in a drink of some strong-smelling swill.
“It’s atrocious, but hardly the first storm I’ve seen. We may need to make camp soon, this kind of rain is slowing the wagons down.” Harald Sigurdsson tried to wipe a bit of mud off his tunic, succeeding only at smearing it. “At least it will make it harder for the English to notice our presence.”
“Don’t worry lad, when the boy King comes we’ll be more than ready for him. Just don’t forget what you promised me back in Stirling.”
“I won’t forget, Malcolm. Rest assured Northumbria will be yours once my line sits upon England’s throne,” he said reassuringly. Harald looked at his bedraggled, wet-weary force as it struggled through mud and rain. “My men are the finest warriors any Viking King could ask for, and the bones favour us. Soon England will belong to us once again.”
Crusader Kings II - [Champions of Anglia 01] - A Fall of Kings Page 11