Spear Havoc 1066

by C. R. May

  ‘Hacon Sweynson,’ Harold said. ‘You have fulfilled your oath, and the duke is our captive — the day is ours.’

  Ansgar the Staller was alongside the king, the Fighting Man war banner a swatch of gold and blue in a darkening sky. Beyond them the dragons of Wessex dominated the skyline as they had throughout that tempestuous day.

  The king spoke again. ‘I will be needing a trusted man to keep an eye on our honoured guest,’ he said with a backwards glance. ‘While I negotiate a suitable ransom and arrange the return of our kinsman Wulfnoth.’

  King Harold smiled again. ‘I rather thought that you might like to be that man?’

  Afterword

  In addition to the widely reported role which the prevailing winds played that summer by bottling up the Norman fleet, remarkably we have a first hand account of the actual weather conditions in the channel during the late summer and autumn of 1066. Although the Carmen de Hastingae Proelio, the Song of the Battle of Hastings, was a late discovery (it was found in the Royal Library in Brussels in 1826) it is almost certainly the work of Guy, bishop of Amiens. The later historian Orderic Vitalis tells us that the poem was written in the spring of 1068, not much more than a year and a half after the battle itself, for the entertainment of the now King William of England. In it we have the description of the weather in the early weeks of September: ‘It was cold and wet,’ Guy writes, ‘and the sky was hidden by clouds and rain.’ Even today those months can be among the most changeable in England and Atlantic storms can, and do, batter the country at any time of the year with the autumn months being especially prone.

  Having visited the battlefield myself, it is easy to see the effect that hundreds of horses and thousands of heavily armed men would have on the area following even a few days of heavy rain. Several of the present day re-enactments which are held at the abbey close to the anniversary of the battle itself have been cancelled as rain turned the valley into a mud bath.

  In reality, William had three horses killed from under him during the battle and the Norman army and their allies very nearly broke and ran. The Bayeux tapestry depicts the moment when William was forced to lift his helm and ride around the field of battle to counter rumours that he had died. William gambled and won — it could so easily have been very different.

  The Hacon Sweynson of our tale was the only known child of the eldest of earl Godwin’s sons. Sweyn Godwinson was a bit of a rogue who managed to get himself exiled from England three times, and Denmark once, within the space of five years. During this time he also murdered his cousin Beorn who was attempting to help him gain a pardon from king Edward, and abducted the abbess of Leominster, a lady called Eadgifu, who he seems to have intended to marry to gain control of the abbey’s lands. He in turn was murdered returning from pilgrimage to Jerusalem in 1052, and I have taken Eadgifu to be the mother of young Hacon which would make him nineteen or twenty years old in 1066. The events which led to the banishment of the Godwin clan in 1051 and their return to England the following year are outlined in Peace Weaver so I shan’t go into detail here, but young Hacon along with his cousin Wulfnoth were initially handed over as hostages and then spirited away to Normandy — probably by Robert of Jumièges, the fleeing archbishop of Canterbury. Harold retrieved Hacon from captivity in 1064, but was unable to rescue his young brother Wulfnoth who was destined to remain a prisoner until his death at Winchester in 1094. Having grown up together in a foreign land, it seems highly likely that Hacon would want to fight both against his long-term captors and to win the freedom of his kinsman and fellow detainee, and so I made him the hero of our story.

  Several Norman sources describe the death of King Harold and the knights responsible and I have used them here. The king’s reported death wounds I have transferred to Walter Giffard.

  Only a handful of names other than Harold and his brothers have come down to us from the thousands of Englishmen who fought and died on that fateful day. Were it not for chance mentions in legal documents, the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle or Domesday Book we should barely know a single one. To honour them and the men who fell at their side, I will list those which I came across during my research for this book:

  Harold Godwinson - King of England

  Gyrth Godwinson - Earl of East Anglia

  Leofwine Godwinson - Earl of Middlesex

  Thurkill of Kingston, Berkshire

  Esegar, shire reeve of Middlesex

  Ælfwig, Abbot of Winchester - An uncle of the king, the Warenne Chronicle tells us he fought alongside twelve of his monks, all clad in mail

  Shire reeve Godric, Lord of Fifhide, Berkshire

  Ansgar the Staller, port reeve of London and shire reeve of Middlesex. Mortally wounded at Hastings, Ansgar may have been King Harold’s standard bearer at the battle

  Eadric the deacon, a landowner at Cavendish, Suffolk

  Ælfwold, abbot

  Ælfric, thegn of Huntingdonshire

  Skalpi - A housecarl owning lands held directly from Harold straddling the Suffolk/Essex border

  Alwi of Thetford, Norfolk

  Ringolf of Oby

  Breme of Suffolk

  An unnamed Freemen of Harold’s from Cavendish in Suffolk

  An Englishman known only as a “son of Helloc”

  A nameless tenant who is recorded in Domesday Book holding 12 acres worth 16 pennies at Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk

  Again from Domesday Book - two unnamed men (brothers? friends?) who held land in Tytherley, Hampshire

  4

  EARL HAROLD’S WAR

  The old man teased the strands of his beard, settling back with a weary sigh as he turned his gaze to the nearby window. The trees outside were dark hands against a hard magenta sky as the harsh winter of 1094 gripped the land.

  The journey up from London had been a hard day’s ride, and guilt had chivvied his conscience at the sight of his sons and grandsons spurring the horses through banks of drifting snow. But they were here now, the fires were roaring, the drink flowing, and the sounds of laughter and merriment drifting in from the hall beyond reminded him of his own youth. He leaned forward once again, squinting as he ran a bony finger down the page of the chronicle. ‘Now, where was I?’

  Harold chuckled as he remembered where he had left off, and he slid the tip of a forefinger across the words as he recalled the events of that tumultuous year. ‘Ah yes, of course, you silly old fool — 1066, how could you forget?’

  The metallic clack of a latch interrupted the earl before he could begin, and he glanced across as one of the brothers entered with a respectful bob of the head. ‘Excuse me, lord,’ he said with a smile. ‘I have come to light the candles and tend to the hearth.’

  Harold returned the smile, nodding his assent as the old cleric shuffled in. The brothers at Waltham always doted on their most distinguished visitor and he snorted at it. And so they should. Not only have I paid practically all of their costs for the past forty years, I have endowed the abbey with more holy relics than West Minster!

  As the churchman fussed around him and the evening shadows retreated to the furthest corners of the room, the old earl propped the ancient book, leaned in and began to read:

  1066

  As related, King Edward came to Westminster at Christmas, and there let the minster be hallowed that he himself built, to the glory of God and all God’s saints.

  He remained there into this year and passed away on twelfth night, being interred on twelfth day in the same minster. Edward, king, lord of the English, sent his soul, strong in truth, to Christ. In God’s safekeeping, his holy spirit. The wise one committed the kingdom to one in high rank,

  Harold, noble earl, who at all times faithfully obeyed his lord in words and deeds, holding back nothing at the need of the king and people.

  Harold smiled his thanks as the clergyman recharged his cup and left the room. Taking up the drink, the old earl chuckled again as he recalled the faces of the witan, the wise men, when he had refused to accept the kingly gift. True, he
was the only Englishman who could possibly defend the country from the rival claimants to the throne. Although descended from the old West Saxon line of kings, Edgar ætheling was a stripling and thought not yet ready for the rigours of kingship.

  Harold sipped his ale, congratulating himself as he came to the same conclusion which he had reached almost thirty years previously.

  King Edward was growing old in years, and the succession had been uppermost on his mind. He had prayed for guidance at the chapel in Bosham, before setting out on a simple fishing trip along the coast. The Lord had sent a squall which blew them across the channel and he had come into the power of the duke. He had been treated with honour and they had quickly become friends. After witnessing the might of the Norman army and the qualities of their ruler in a campaign against the Bretons, he had recognised that this had been no chance meeting but God’s will and willingly promised to support William’s claim to his cousin, King Edward’s, throne. Despite the secrecy of their pact, William had promised before witnesses on holy relics that no English lord or churchman would be forcibly replaced on his accession, and that English laws and customs would be safeguarded. Harold had been confirmed in his earldom of Wessex and the ætheling, Edgar, was to be declared William’s chosen heir in England. It had been the greatest service he had ever given his countrymen.

  His finger ran on down the yellowing vellum, the earl muttering as it did so: ‘long-haired star...crowned King William at West Minster...earl Tostig came into the Humber with sixty ships...ah, here it is — Earl Harold’s War.’

  King Harald Sigurdsson of Norway came to this land with a force of three hundred ships.

  Earl Tostig submitted to Harald and became his man, and together they went up into the Humber until they came to York, and fought with them there, earl Edwin and earl Morcar his brother; and the Norwegians had the victory.

  Earl Harold, who the Normans called sub-regulus but his own people the shepherd of the English, was informed that this had befallen; king William having returned then to Normandy.

  Earl Harold gathered together a great host of English folk and those men of Normandy who were on this side of the sea and came against the Norwegians at the River Trent.

  There was that day fought a very great battle. King Harald, whom the Norwegians named Hardrada for his ruthlessness, fell there with a very great number of his host and the earl Tostig taken. The Norwegians who remained were put to flight and the Norman knights pursued them from the field, hewing at them from behind so that few reached the safety of their ships, and the army of earl Harold held the field of slaughter.

  Then the earl went up to the Humber and offered terms to the son of the king of Norway. Olaf swore oaths that he would forever hold peace and friendship with this land and the earl let him sail home with twenty ships.

  Harold, earl of Wessex, sent word to the king in Normandy of his overwhelming victory and King William held the earl to be the greatest of his subjects.

  Harold’s features mirrored the peculiar feelings of pride and horror which swept through him each time that he read the passage. The brothers at the abbey, rightly, were proud of their benefactor and his achievement. It had been his greatest day, and the monks had listened to his recollections and faithfully captured the essence of the triumph in the chronicle.

  The earl sighed and looked out once again across the abbey grounds to the dark outline of the woodland beyond. A murder of crows was circling above an ancient oak, the harshness of their cawing adding a sense of eeriness as the screams and cries of the battlefield returned to haunt Harold’s mind. No words, however cunningly crafted, could convey the sheer horror of that day. The deafening crash as thousands of shields came together, spear points glinting in the summer sun, the rise and fall of silvered blades as they chopped at steel and flesh. The sky had darkened as Mercian, Welsh and Norman arrows had whispered overhead to take the rear ranks of the Vikings. And then without warning the Norsemen had broken, streaming away to leave the line of their dead and the smell of blood, gore and loosened bowels to mark the high tide of their advance.

  The old man closed his eyes as he attempted to block out the shrieks and yells, but all he heard was the thunderous pounding of hooves. His friend, William Mallet, had led the knights of Normandy around the flanks of the allied shield wall and chased the Norwegians from the field. Trapped with their backs to the River Trent, they had thrown themselves into the flood in their terror. Harold had walked down to the place later that day and watched scores of English and Normans laughing together as they crossed and recrossed the river on a bridge of bodies.

  The memories had drawn the enjoyment from the moment and the earl quickly ran his finger down the page. He recovered his humour as he did so, smiling here and there as the tale of his life unfolded in the lines before him until only blank parchment remained. Closing the ancient tome with a soft thud, he rose and carried it across to the scribe sat patiently waiting at the desk the brothers now called an escritoire after the fashion of their Norman brethren. Harold felt the merest pang of regret at the intrusion; he was too old now to change his ways, he still preferred the old English word tabule.

  Brother Wigstan smiled self-consciously and handed across a loose leaf. Holed and grimy the edges were roughly fashioned, and Harold could see that the words written there were obviously a working draft.

  Wigstan blinked nervously at the grizzled old warrior. ‘Would you care to approve my work before I begin to transcribe the words into the chronicle, lord?’

  Harold nodded that he would, moved closer to the candle and began to read.

  This year William, king, lord of the English and Normans, sent his soul to Christ, in God’s safekeeping, his holy spirit.

  He in this world dwelt for a time in kingly power and wise council, a just man but fierce; no man dared against his will.

  He had castles built to thwart the Dane and any foreign prince who coveted this land,

  Wales was in his power; he built castles therein, and ruled all the people there.

  So also Scotland he subjected by his great strength.

  Normandy was his natural land, and over the earldom called Maine he reigned.

  Among other things it is not to be forgotten, that good peace he made in this land, so that a man of any account might fare over the kingdom with a bosom full of gold unmolested; and no man dared kill another man, even if he had done much evil to him; and if any man lay with a woman against her will, he soon lost those limbs he played with.

  William, who the English called the good, defended his home, land and people, until suddenly came death; the angels accompanied him, into the sky’s light.

  And so all folk received Edgar as king, as was his natural right.

  He was hallowed at West Minster with much celebration, and Archbishop Eadmer instructed him well before all the folk, and reminded him of his duties towards the welfare of all the people.

  Harold raised his eyes, smiling at the almost childlike anticipation painted on the face of the scribe as he waited for the venerable earl’s verdict on his handiwork. The words would be read by the great, great grandchildren of men not yet born, and the weight of responsibility was obviously weighing heavily on the younger man.

  ‘Yes, I like it,’ Harold said after a pause to reflect on the greatness of his friend the king. ‘I like it a lot.’

  Afterword

  Harold Godwinson was the wealthiest and most powerful man in the kingdom at the time of the death of Edward the Confessor on 5 January 1066, but does that necessarily mean that he coveted the throne itself?

  All contemporary chroniclers praise Harold for his loyalty towards King Edward. There is evidence that Harold was heavily involved in bringing back Edward the Exile from Hungary (see The Exile), and even references to Harold in Norman sources grudgingly admit his qualities. Harold and William knew each other well. There was an unexplained voyage in 1064 which resulted in Harold campaigning alongside the Norman army against the Bretons. Harold im
pressed the Normans, and an incident of personal bravery is commemorated on the Bayeux tapestry itself.

  That Harold and William held one another in mutual respect I think is reflected in the number of times that William sent messengers to Harold asking him to relinquish the throne in 1066. Even after the duke had landed in England he let it be known that the way was still open to a negotiated settlement, and a Norman knight who desecrated Harold’s body on the battlefield was sent away in disgrace. William saw himself as the rightful king, and had intended to rule as king of the English as traditionally as he was able. Even after Hastings he confirmed the majority of those who had not actively fought against him in their titles and offices, and it was only after the ongoing rebellions of the following years culminating in the rising in the North which hardened his attitude. That he refrained from killing Edgar ætheling despite his repeated betrayals (a man who after all had a better claim to the kingship) when it was in his power to do so supports this.

  Did Harold swear in Normandy on holy relics to support William’s claim to the throne? Yes, I believe there is little doubt that he did, but I also think that William recognised that Harold had been placed in a difficult position at the time of king Edward’s death. Despite Edward’s likely bequeathal of the kingship in 1051, William was a realist who knew that there was no pro-Norman faction in England. Even after the defeat of Harold’s army at Hastings, the duke waited in vain for a delegation to arrive from London to offer him the crown.