Spear Havoc 1066

by C. R. May

  Oðinn makes our Olaf win!

  The wharf which edged the northern shore below him buzzed with activity as ships from across the known world unloaded their exotic cargoes. It was clear why the Vikings had returned again and again to the English motherland; the country was groaning with wealth, he had seen it for himself on the journey here from the coast.

  But the affluence and vitality of his people was not the only revelation. He had spent his first night on English soil since he had fled the victorious Cnut as a young boy at the port of Dover. They had marvelled at the cliffs as they approached and even his son Edgar, already giddy with excitement on his first sea trip, had paused from mischief making to gape in wonder at the towering white ramparts of his new homeland. To their great surprise they had been welcomed by cheering crowds, both in the port and at the town of Rochester where they had broken their journey to the capital. The children had looked on with mounting excitement as crowds had gathered to chant Ironside! Ironside! outside their lodgings in the town, and he had proudly explained that it was the eke name which his own father, King Edmund, had been given by the people for his doughty fighting qualities.

  Edmund Ironside had fought the great Danish army of Cnut to a standstill, before agreeing to partition the country to enable the war weary English people time to recover and win back their land. Betrayed, he had soon been murdered and his young sons spirited abroad by the victorious Dane to share his fate. Edward sighed as he remembered his dead brother. Named after their father, the boys had been inseparable during their years in exile, and Edward thought on the injustice of his older brother’s death. Far from home, he had not lived to see the day when he would be recalled and declared heir to the kingdom.

  The slightest of coughs sounding at his elbow told him that the servant had returned, but as the woman opened her mouth to speak the ætheling was already raising a hand to cut her short. He knew he was expected, and draining the cup Edward took a final look upriver as he stood to go. The sun lay on the western hills, the evening sky blushed scarlet as the day drew on, and a stillness was beginning to descend on the greasy waters of the river as the boatmen hurried home to families and ale houses. Beyond the great sweep of the Thames stood the king’s hall at Thorney, near to the place where the Confessor was building a great stone minster in the latest Romanesque style. Tomorrow he would finally meet with his cousin and be proclaimed heir to the kingdom of the English. A sudden chill ran through him as he thought of the ancestors who had passed through the king’s doors in days gone by. So many ghosts stood at his shoulder here.

  His humour returned as he approached the room set aside for dining. The family had already gathered and he could hear one of the girls, Margaret or Christina, cry out in exasperation as she attempted to persuade her young brother to act with the manners expected of a Christian prince.

  Edward entered the room and smiled as Beneta rose in welcome. The table had been set with a selection of typical English dishes and he hoped that the bishop’s experience extended to such things. The older man had already discovered a liking for the drink known as cider, which he had described as “an excellent remedy for sleeplessness” the ætheling recalled with a snort.

  He hailed the venerable churchman as he came into the room: ‘Bishop, what do you recommend?’

  Bishop Beneta sidled over and guided the ætheling towards the table. ‘You will be pleased to learn that they have excellent food here, lord,’ he said with the expansive sweep of an arm.

  Edward forced down a smile as he admonished the old churchman. ‘Not excellent bishop: heahgeweorc!’

  Agatha glanced across as the men’s laughter filled the room, and Edward was gratified to see the happiness there despite the best efforts of the children to ruin the meal. Beneta reached the table and pointed out a certain dish. ‘Now this is heahgeweorc, lord,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘I can vouch for it personally. I am told that the king had it specially prepared to introduce you to a food which is widely eaten by your countrymen, irrespective of rank.’

  The Exile crinkled his nose. ‘What is it? It looks like cake filled with meat.’

  Beneta chuckled with delight. ‘That is what I thought at first. Apparently it is known as pie. It is tremendously popular here, and I was told that I must ensure that you eat a healthy portion.’

  Edward shrugged, reaching across towards the place where a large slice had already been removed from the otherwise perfect circle of the pie. Cutting a wedge of his own he slid it onto a trencher. ‘So what does it taste like, this pie?’ Turning back, Edward chuckled as the old bishop belched and pulled a pained expression. ‘It can’t be that bad, surely old friend?’

  Beneta wheezed, reaching out to grip his lord’s arm as the pain spasmed again. As the old churchman’s face became a rictus, his arm shot out in a final selfless act to send Edward’s platter spinning from his hand.

  Afterword

  Of all the ‘what ifs’ surrounding the problem of who would succeed the childless Edward the Confessor, perhaps the most often overlooked and tragic is the death of Edward the Exile in 1057. Edward and his older brother Edmund were the sons of Edmund Ironside who was king of England briefly in 1016. Having taken up the fight against the Danes following the death of his father, Æthelræd II Unræd, Edmund came close to outright victory before he was betrayed by a leading English noble, Eadric Streona (Eadric the grasper). By the terms of the Treaty of Olney, Edmund and the Danish king Cnut agreed to share the kingdom between them. They became royal brothers and sole heir to each other’s English lands. Edmund died, probably murdered on Cnut’s orders, within weeks, and Cnut and his allies killed or drove abroad any who might pose a threat to their rule.

  Even though such leading Englishmen as Edmund Ironside’s brother, the popular Eadwig was murdered out of hand, the Ironside’s young boys were now the sons of Cnut’s sworn brother by the terms of the treaty and therefore posed a different problem for him. Edmund was approaching his first birthday and Edward was a newborn babe. Even Cnut baulked at the outright murder of what were now the baby sons of his brother. There was however a precedent for such situations in the northern world and the Dane took it. The young æthelings were sent abroad to Cnut’s half-brother in Sweden in the expectation that they would be murdered there, but he passed the boys on the royal court in Hungary where his sister was queen. Cnut’s assassins soon tracked them down, and they were forced to flee again to the Kievan Rus where they grew to adulthood under the protection of Yarolslav the Wise. There they fell in with another exile Andrew of Hungary, and the English brothers returned to the West to help their new friend gain the Hungarian crown in 1046. Edmund died in Hungary no later than 1053, but Edward was now a warrior of renown with a family which included a young son, Edgar. Both males were direct descendants of the old West Saxon line and were the perfect solution to the situation in England regarding the succession. It seemed obvious now that king Edward would die without issue and the pogroms of Cnut forty years earlier had all but eliminated the family.

  Edward was sent for and returned to widespread rejoicing. Arriving at Dover he travelled to London where he was to meet the king and be formally recognised as heir to the English throne, but before the meeting occurred the Exile was dead.

  There is no record of how this robust descendant of Cerdic and Alfred met his end, but there is no mention of wounding or illness in the chronicles and it must be assumed to have been the work of a poisoner. What does seem certain is that with the death of Edward the Exile, the bloodbath of 1066 became almost inevitable. The Confessor washed his hands of the succession problem and seemed resigned to the chaos which would follow his death. Following duke William’s victory at Hastings the Exile’s young son, Edgar ætheling, was acclaimed king but never crowned. Although Edgar rebelled several times against Norman rule over the following decades he could make no impression on a land now dotted with impregnable castles and ruled by the iron fist of the Conqueror. The male line of Cerdic which had ruled
over at least the southern areas of England for almost six centuries was all but extinguished, and the Anglo-Saxon age ended.

  Who would gain by such an act? The pious King Edward cannot have been to blame, the ætheling’s return neatly solved all of his succession problems. William of Normandy is a suspect and there is no doubt that he would have ordered such a thing: other men who were regarded as threats by the duke, within the borders of the duchy and without, had died by poisoning. Norman sources claim that King Edward had promised the throne to William as early as 1051, and there were Normans in positions of power in England in 1057 who could have organised the killing.

  The finger of suspicion must also point at the Godwinson clan. There is documentary support that Harold Godwinson was involved in bringing the exile home, with strong evidence that he actually travelled to the continent at this time, perhaps as far as Rome. But was Harold contemplating the throne in 1057, if at all? He was certainly the most powerful of king Edward’s earls and was well placed to make a bid for the kingship if, as seemed almost certain by then, the Confessor died without producing a son. What better way to eliminate the last of the legitimate heirs to the throne than to help bring them home from distant Hungary and within the reach of his henchmen?

  Another contender must be Harold’s brother, Tostig. He shared many of Harold’s qualities but appears to have been far more cunning and ruthless. Crucially he seems to have been the favourite of both King Edward and Queen Eadgyth, his sister. As the second eldest surviving son of Godwin and with the support of the royal couple, Tostig too would have everything to gain by the Exile’s quick death. Already earl of Northumbria his rule there had been unpopular and heavy handed. He would even go on to murder the sons of important northern nobles who had answered his summons under safe conduct, so removing Edward the Exile would be entirely in character. His rule was so unpopular that the Northumbrians eventually rose against him.

  Perhaps Harold saw a chance to remove another man who might stand between him and Edward‘s throne when he refused to support his brother against the rebels, turning him into the implacable enemy who would fight alongside Harald of Norway in 1066?

  The true reason for Edward the Exile’s death will never be known, he could even have choked on a slice of pie. Accidents can and do happen.

  3

  HACON

  The duke paced the boggy ground, casting a look of disgust at the angry sky. Yet another blanket of greyness was rolling in from the West, and he hissed a curse before turning back to the armoured group. ‘We have to attack,’ he spat, ‘and soon. If this accursed weather grows any wetter we shall all be growing gills!’

  The knights laughed dutifully at their leader’s quip, but the truth was they were fast running out of time. As a count in his own right with a good claim to the English throne, Eustace of Boulogne clearly felt himself the equal of the Norman leader, and he made a suggestion as the others averted their eyes. ‘Maybe we should withdraw to our encampment?’ Eustace threw a look skywards. ‘We have perhaps another hour or so of what passes for daylight in this accursed land. If our best fighters act as a rearguard, we still have time to rest and regroup and renew the attack on the morrow.’

  Duke William spun on a heel and glared. Not for the first time that day he regretted having the man in his army, and although he had added a healthy number of men to the invading host the count was as trustworthy as a snake. ‘And what if the English are arrayed along the ridge line not just to deny us access to the interior,’ he spat, ‘but corralling us like oxen for the slaughter while the rest of their army makes its way to the battlefield? Have you thought of that?’ The duke shook his head. ‘No, we attack again. I shall lead the chevaliers directly up the roadway and punch through to the usurper. The moment he falls the day is ours.’ A murmur of agreement met his announcement and William paused, his eyes shooting daggers at the group. The men were tired out, he knew that, but the cry had been a mere shadow of the throaty roar which had proceeded the first attack at the beginning of the day, and the truth was that a feeling of hopelessness was beginning to chivvy away at even his unshakable faith.

  Eustace tried again, and the duke clenched his teeth in frustration as a quick look at the faces in the group showed that the idea had been well received by some. ‘If we attack once more, it will be dark by the time we know if we have been successful in breaking through. If thrown back again — we will be trapped in this bog for the rest of the night, within easy reach of English spears.’ Eustace glanced to either side as he looked for support. The pause had been expertly judged — just long enough to suggest that that was the likeliest outcome, but not so dragged out to be seen as a clear challenge to the duke’s authority. His point made, the count spoke again as William seethed. ‘What if the usurper and his horde decide to attack us in our sleep?’ Eustace went to continue, but the duke’s anger finally boiled over. ‘Then at least we should have got them down from that bloody ridge!’ William clicked his fingers, pointing angrily to the space where he expected his horse to be. The pageboy blanched, his eyes fixed firmly on the muddy soil of England as he led the animal across. As the duke hauled himself back into the saddle, he cursed beneath his breath. He had known the majority of the men below him for the best part of his life, indeed he owed his life to more than a few of them and he regretted his outburst. He pulled a weary smile as his self control reasserted itself: they were not alone in feeling the strain. ‘It’s been a hard day,’ he said. ‘But I should not have wished to spend it in any other company than the men I see before me now. We have come a long way together my friends, let us finish what we started.’ Turning away William reached inside his mail shirt, closing his eyes in silent prayer as his lips met the sliver of the True Cross. The relic had been a gift to him from the Pope in Rome, along with the papal banner which now flew, bedraggled and grimy, at his side.

  Lord God. Grant me this victory, and I will honour you with a thousand new churches and a hundred monasteries throughout my realm of England.

  He forced himself to tuck the pendant away. His action had begun to tread the fine line between devotion and desperation, and he shifted in the saddle as he swept the upturned faces with his gaze. Forcing the mood down deep, he grinned encouragement at them and drew his sword. He had dragged them this far by the sheer force of his will, he could get them to the top of the final hill.

  ‘Tell the trumpeters to signal the general advance: archers; everything. Let us finally breach this “shield wall” and claim that which my cousin, the pious and holy Confessor, promised to me.’

  Duke William walked his destrier to the base of the slope and looked beyond the bright wall of muscle, steel and leather which lined the crest of the ridge to the graphite grey clouds beyond. A faint lightening away to the West told him that the short October day was almost spent, it would have to be this time or he would lose everything. As his most trusted men mounted and pushed their horses to his side, his mind wandered back over the events of that fateful year.

  It had been a year of heady highs and desperate lows. Before the first month had passed he had received the bittersweet news from England. King Edward had died childless, but the throne had been usurped by the earl of Wessex, Harold Godwinson. Only two years before Harold had promised him on holy relics that he would support the duke’s claim to the throne, a fact that he now conveniently denied. William snorted in a rare display of humour that grim day, guiding the head of his horse westwards as he did so. He knew for certain that Harold lied — he had ordered the relics hidden beneath the cloth himself.

  He had browbeaten the faint hearts who said that it could not be done and assembled a vast invasion army. Hundreds of ships had taken shape along the banks of the River Dives. Emissaries had caressed the Pope’s ego with their silken tongues and persuaded the pontiff that his was a just cause. He would replace Stigand, the excommunicate archbishop of Canterbury, and order a great reformation of the English church, increasing both its wealth and power.

>   God Himself had shown his support for the great undertaking, sending Harold’s own brother Tostig to raid the coast of the kingdom, and the thrashings of the wounded giant had brought every knight in northern France flocking to his banner like crows to a corpse. And then, just as the army was set, the provisions laid in and ready to sail, the invasion had ground to a halt. Contrary winds had pinned them within the great bay of the River Somme at St Valery, and he had prayed for guidance daily as the summer drew on and the supplies dwindled. Some men said that God had ruled against his invasion — the cowardly began to slink away in the night. But the Lord had not forsaken him. The same wind which had delayed his own attack until the English had abandoned their coastal watch, had swept the Norwegian army of King Harald Sigurdsson south. Having drawn the usurper’s attention the Almighty had backed the wind and William had sailed. Disembarking on the deserted coast he had discovered that Harold was away in the North. Soon news had reached them that the English had won a great victory against the grizzled Viking, but he knew from bitter experience that it would have come at a cost. Harold’s army would be exhausted and depleted — so he had laid waste the southern district, Harold’s ancestral land, while his enemy raced back south. He was certain that the English would take the bait, and when they moved he would be ready: he would crush them as he had his previous enemies.

  Drumbeats and the strident blare of horns broke into his thoughts, and William looked past the knot of knights surrounding him to the foot soldiers beyond as they moved forward and dressed themselves in their battles. The archers were already at the foot of the hill, loosing shafts which vanished into the gloom almost the moment that they left the bowstring. All eyes were turned towards him as they awaited his signal to begin what must be the final advance of the day, and William felt the power of command surge through him again. It was, he realised, the same thrill which had driven Caesar, Alexander and Hannibal on to greatness when all seemed lost.