“I believe you are right,” Harold replied. “The decision of the Witan to support me instead of Edgar has nothing to do with the Aetheling’s age. The Archbishops of Canterbury and York and the other powerful members of the Witan recognize I am the more capable monarch.”
Leofric nodded his agreement. “Now you need to clear your head after the long ride from the north and concentrate on the coming conflict.”
Harold clenched his jaw. “Even my mother has advised we wait before joining William in battle, but I am adamant.”
He hoped the confidence in his voice would resonate with his commanders as he faced them squarely, one hand on the hilt of his sword, his back rigid, his crowned head held high. “We can’t afford to give William time to form alliances in England with Normans who’ve dwelt here for years. My decision to surprise the Norwegians is what brought about their defeat.”
One knight raised his hand, as if to speak, but Harold’s glare silenced him.
“We will fight William now. We need to choose the location of the battle with care.”
He looked around for any further signs of opposition but saw none. “I’ve opted for Caldbec Hill for a number of reasons. It gives a natural advantage because of its all round visibility. It’s protected on each flank by marshy ground, and there’s a forest behind it. It’s easy to reach from London and is close to William's position.”
Many voiced their understanding and agreement.
“The Old Hoare Apple Tree is a well known landmark and will make an excellent rallying point. By nightfall, I estimate at least seventy-five hundred of our men should have arrived. Preparations must be laid to challenge William as soon as possible. He’s in Hastings. Tomorrow is Saturday. I was born on a Saturday, and my mother has always said it’s my lucky day.”
After a sleepless night, he watched his army set off at first light. The common soldiers wore conical leather helmets, the wealthier helmets of iron and as much clothing as possible under their hauberks, to serve as padding. The rich knights had hauberks with hoods worn under the helmets. All were on foot, well-armed with battle-axes, swords, shields and spears. The impressive sight bolstered his confidence in the successful outcome of the battle.
Gyrth approached and went down on one knee. “Harold, there will be great danger in the coming battle. Let me take your place to lead the army against the Normans. You’re too important to expose yourself, especially tired as you are after Stamford Bridge. England can’t risk losing her king.”
Harold took Gyrth’s hand and pulled him to his feet. “I thank you for your love and concern, brother. William is deliberately victimizing my people in Sussex. It’s personal now. I will lead our victory against him.”
Prayers were offered in the Norman camp throughout the night prior to the impending confrontation, and men confessed their sins. Ram sought out his brothers and they received the Sacrament of Penance together. He wanted to clear the air, once and for all, between Antoine and himself. He had never truly believed his brother had dallied with his future wife, but the unfounded jealousy was there, in the back of his thoughts. Mabelle had uttered Antoine’s name at the lake. He and his brother could both die during the coming battle. Antoine had sensed his coolness, he was sure. The crackling campfire held their gazes.
“Brother, there’s no easy way to ask you this, but I must.”
“I know something’s on your mind, Ram. It has bothered you for months.”
“It’s Mabelle.”
Antoine shook his head. “I’ve never understood why you didn’t marry her that day. I was ashamed, I have to admit. You’re lucky she still speaks to you.”
Ram hesitated. “You’re part of the reason I didn’t.”
Antoine looked startled. “Me?”
Here was the point of no return. “I chanced upon Mabelle in the woods, on my way home that day. She seemed to be waiting for someone.”
Hugh and Antoine looked up suddenly. “And you thought it was me? Why?”
“She spoke your name.”
“My name? What do you mean?”
“When she first saw me, she thought I was you.”
Antoine straightened his back. He stared intently at Ram. “I’m confused. You saw her in the woods, and she thought you were me?”
Ram shifted uncomfortably on his camp stool. Now he would have to tell the whole story. “She was sleeping.”
“In the woods?”
“She’d been bathing…at the lake…and fallen asleep.”
Antoine exchanged a glance with Hugh and both men burst out laughing, drawing the curious stares of other knights nearby. Hugh almost fell off his stool.
When Antoine could speak again, he stammered, “What you’re trying to tell us, older brother, is that you stumbled across Mabelle lying naked in the woods and—but, wait a moment—did you know who she was?”
“Non. And she wasn’t naked. Not quite, anyway.”
“So, let me see if I have this right.” Antoine held up his thumb. “One, on the way to your wedding, you stopped to watch an unknown, almost naked maiden?”
He held up his forefinger. “Two, you became angry with me?”
His middle finger popped up. “Three, you were so furious with her, because she thought you were me, that you called off the wedding.”
Another fit of laughter from Hugh caused Antoine to pause.
“I knew something had happened that day. I could tell there was tension between you,” his younger brother said.
“Four,” Antoine continued, “you’re an idiot, and five, you should fall to your knees and ask the woman’s forgiveness.” He thrust his five outstretched digits in front of Ram’s nose.
His brothers continued to mock him, and soon he was laughing and shaking his head at his own folly. He stood and dragged Antoine off his stool and into his embrace, choking back tears. “I’m sorry. Forgive me. When I’m near Mabelle, I lose my senses.”
“That’s called love,” his brother replied.
Ram’s spine stiffened. “I have no time for love.”
“You’re a fool if you drive her away,” Hugh said gently.
They talked for another hour about their father, their beloved castle and its orchards. Each swore to bring honor to the Montbryce name. Despite their earlier laughter, Hugh’s wide eyes, tense lips and crossed arms told Ram his brother was terrified.
“Hugh, there’s no shame in feeling fear. I’m afraid, as is Antoine. My gut is in knots. Any man who tells you he’s not afraid this night is a liar. The important thing is not to let the fear control you. Bravery is born of fear. Engrave our family motto on your heart, as it is on your shield, Fidelity and Valor.”
Hugh nodded. “I know. I can’t stop shaking but I’m not a coward.”
William ordered a pre-dawn Mass to be said, during which he placed around his neck the relics on which Harold had sworn his oath. He assembled his army, and informed them what was expected. Astride his destrier, he proclaimed, “It’s all or nothing. There’s no going back without a victory. We will win because we are the righteous side.”
He intoned a laisse of the Song of Roland to inspire his soldiers with that warlike example.
His castles all in ruin have you hurled,
With catapults his ramparts have you burst,
Vanquished his men, and all his cities burned.
Apprised by scouts of the Saxon position, the Normans set off from the coast in a long column, because of the forested terrain, their wagons loaded with sharpened weapons, armor and provisions. Startled birds took flight as the horde marched through the trees. No words were exchanged.
Did each man ponder his future, or his past, as Ram did, hypnotized by the muffled sounds of horses’ hooves and leather booted feet, as they made their way to the inevitable horror ahead? Did every rider focus on the swaying tail of the horse ahead, sphincter muscles clenched?
They followed the Papal banner for nine miles then William selected a location for his command post behind the c
avalry. Ram joined him astride Fortis.
“It’s as well the situation is coming to a conclusion. Morale is beginning to wane amongst the foot soldiers,” William confided. “They’re more concerned with staying alive than with moral crusades and promises of wealth to the nobility.”
Ram carefully checked his equipment, the hooded hauberk and iron helmet, spear, shield and trusty sword in its scabbard. He smiled at a brief memory of Mabelle heaving Honneur into the lake, but quickly banished the thought. He couldn’t afford to be distracted from the dire business at hand. His hauberk, with three layers of metal circles, looped and soldered together, would give him good protection, especially with the extra rectangular breastplate of chain mail secured to protect his chest. The bottom of his hauberk tunic, split at front and back, covered his thighs like a skirt, and made riding more comfortable. He wished it covered the lower part of his long legs but would have to make sure the pointed end of his tapering wooden shield did that. He was proud of his leather covered shield, one of the few with a coat of arms. Fide et Virtute.
Vaillon had shaved the back of his head. He would be sweating a lot this day, and couldn’t afford to have his vision obscured. The nosepiece of his helmet, protecting his nose and eyes, was enough of a distraction.
William positioned his army looking towards the steep hill Harold had chosen. Ram’s gaze ranged slowly over the front ranks of archers, then to the six rows of infantry behind them, and then to the cavalry, the fearsome Bretons on the left, the Flemish contingent on the right, the Normans in the center. As he surveyed the daunting sight, Rambaud de Montbryce knew with dire certainty this would be a different fight from any he had been in before. It would be a mighty battle to the death that would change the course of history. His own, his country’s and his duke’s.
Immense pride and sheer terror coursed through his veins.
Carnage
We will meet his challenge,” Harold shouted decisively when he saw the Normans take up their position. “Move the men down from Caldbec Hill to within five hundred yards of the enemy. The Normans won’t deploy a shield wall.”
He scanned his army. The housecarls in the front rank were responsible for forming the shield wall, developed by Alfred the Great and used ever since. This tactic was particularly effective against the initial onslaught in any battle. Behind the housecarls were the fyrd, or militia, ten deep, led by the thanes who carried swords and javelins. Many of the peasants they’d recruited were armed with iron-studded clubs, slings, reaping hooks, scythes and haying forks.
He set up his command post behind them, centrally positioned to provide an elevated view of proceedings. Confidence coursed through him, heating his warrior blood. He ordered the signal to be given. His standard bearer raised the Wessex Wyvern dragon and waved it proudly. Suddenly on the air came the Saxon battle cries, “Godemite”, “Oli Crosse”.
The Normans responded with a plea for God’s help, “Que Dieu nous aide.”
Trumpets sounded. The pivotal battle began.
“What’s that fool doing?” screamed William, as one of his men broke ranks to rush forward alone, juggling swords, to attack the Saxons. He was quickly cut down, after managing to slay a standard bearer at the front of the astonished enemy soldiers.
“Loose the arrows,” he commanded.
The Norman archers let fly their arrows in a concentrated barrage. This had limited success against the shield wall.
A serious problem soon became apparent to Ram. “Your Grace,” he shouted breathlessly, when he arrived back at the command post. “I’m not sure why, but the English are not using archers, and we require an exchange of arrows to keep the ammunition levels up. We’ll soon run out.”
William cursed. “If that happens, our archers are not trained for hand to hand fighting. Bring forward the crossbows.”
Ram shook his head. “But, Your Grace, the Pope has forbidden the use of crossbows. We’re fighting Christians.”
William clenched his fist. “We must defeat Harold. That’s our only concern, and crossbow bolts are more effective against shields.”
Ram had no alternative but to obey.
With prearranged hand signals, William ordered his foot soldiers forward. The English did the same. The quiet of the countryside soon filled with the clang of swords, the sickening thud of clubs on helmets and bone, the battle cries of the living, and the groans of the dying. Iron helmets and weapons clashed.
The English on the high ground had the advantage. The Saxon line remained virtually untouched, the arrows having done little damage to the impenetrable armored monster that was the shield wall. The barrage of traditional weapons as well as rocks from slings, caused serious problems to William's men.
“We’ll need the cavalry earlier than I would have wished,” William shouted. “Too many heavy casualties.” He turned as Ram galloped into view. “Montbryce,” he yelled, “order the cavalry to charge on the shield wall, before it advances much further.”
Heart pounding, Ram rode at full speed into the bloody mayhem to deliver the order to the cavalry. Both his brothers were among the mounted Norman ranks. He encouraged his horse, knowing the weight, speed and impact of Fortis might prove to be his best weapon against the unmounted Saxons. Secure in the large saddle, raised front and back to give him a solid seat, he used his spurs sparingly on the beloved horse. “I’m thankful it’s you beneath me, Fortis. Many questioned the wisdom and necessity of bringing horses on the ships, but I would wager they see the right of it now. You could be the difference between victory and defeat.”
It was puzzling that the English army had no cavalry. Perhaps neither the horses nor the men were trained to fight as one. As a youth he had learned to fight from horseback as a noble pursuit. The idea of a mounted elite was a heroic notion in Normandie and Bretagne, as Mabelle had rightly observed.
But now, hard as the Normans tried, they could not break the shield wall. The Saxons brought down riders and horses with a single blow of their lethal Danish battle axes. The slope quickly became a muddy slide, making the ascent difficult for the horses. Fortis struggled as Ram swung and hacked with his sword, severing limbs and heads.
The much feared Bretons, on the left, were having a particularly difficult time. They retreated back down the hill, and Ram watched in horror, left with no alternative but to go back to the command post. The muscles of his sword arm were on fire, his face spattered with blood and muck. His heart raced. He turned back to look at the scene of chaotic terror and caught sight of another Montbryce shield, the knight carrying it still mounted. Was it Hugh or Antoine?
“The retreat of the Bretons leaves us vulnerable to a pincer attack,” William bellowed when Ram returned to his side. “Our men are panicking.” He cursed and Ram sensed he could see his dreams of taking the English throne in serious jeopardy.
Ram feared he might never see Mabelle again.
Why do my thoughts go to her?
Panic was widespread amongst the Normans. The Bretons were in full retreat back down the hill but were slowed down on the lower slopes by the stream and marshy ground below, giving the Saxons more opportunity to inflict casualties.
“Your Grace,” Ram panted, swallowing hard, pointing to the cavalry. “Eude is rallying his men.”
Two of William’s commanders, one his half brother, the other Eustace of Boulogne, had indeed seen the action on the left flank, and were rallying their confused cavalry. They galloped towards the Saxon infantry who turned tail, broke off battle and tried to return to their lines. The uphill trek proved to be too far, and they were cut down by the Norman cavalry. Ram suddenly caught a glimpse of his gentle brother Hugh hacking down an enemy soldier, but then lost sight of him.
Ram sensed William was at his lowest ebb, trying to plan a new tactic to break down the Saxon defenses. “The cursed Saxons will win if they hang on until dark. We can’t stay here all night. We would have to retreat, and retreat means defeat. The terrain makes it difficult,” he shared with h
is commanders gathered around him. “We can’t attempt a flanking movement, because of the trees and marshes on either side. Harold chose this place well. We can’t break the shield wall. Perhaps we can feign a retreat and draw the Saxons forward?”
Most of his commanders were doubtful it would work. Ram wiped the bloody muck off his face and urged, “It’s our only chance. We need to lure the Saxons forward by giving the impression it’s a genuine retreat, and not a tactic. Normans have used it successfully before.”
William thought for a while, shifting impatiently in his saddle. “We’ll resume the battle. Montbryce, order the infantry to advance, and then lead the cavalry, at speed, up the hill behind the infantry. Engage the Saxons, and then turn around and make it appear we’re running. You’ll have to choose the moment carefully, so as not to arouse their suspicion it’s a trick.”
Ram rode back into hell, his blood pumping so fast his heartbeat echoed in his ears, in time with his steed’s hoof beats. The sound had an oddly comforting cadence to it, “Ma-Belle, Ma-Belle, Ma-Belle.”
The duke had already lost three horses in the melee. Ram thanked God Fortis still lived. He clutched the leather straps of his shield tightly, couched his spear like a lance, and leaned into his horse.
The infantry advanced with limited success. Ram regretted he could not inform them of William’s plan. Most would be killed, sacrificed for the greater good. Yelling the battle cry Fide et Virtute at the top of his lungs, he led the cavalry at a gallop up the hill and engaged the Saxons, narrowly avoiding being decapitated by a gigantic Saxon wielding a battle axe. He felt the cold draft of the huge weapon as it swung close to his ear, heard the whoosh. For a moment, he couldn’t understand why he wasn’t looking at his own bloodied head on the ground instead of into the startled, disembodied gaze of the Flemish knight who had ridden at his side. He thrust his spear into the Saxon’s throat, then pulled hard to retrieve it. A quick glance over his shoulder showed the moment was at hand. Shifting his shield to cover his back, he bellowed the order to turn, hoping to give the impression they were retreating.
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