To his immense relief the Saxons broke ranks and followed. He quickly turned his men and attacked. The enemy had no footing on the slippery slope and were easily cut down.
Ram became vaguely aware of arrows flying overhead. He surmised William must have sent his archers forward to retrieve the arrows loosed earlier. Wheeling round, he saw King Harold raise his hands to clutch an arrow that had struck him in the face. The monarch fell to the ground.
“Your Grace, Harold has fallen! He has fallen!” Ram’s throat was so dry he hoped his strangled cry had reached the duke’s ears.
Reining in his horse and swiveling in the saddle to look at where Ram pointed, William yelled, “This news will cause widespread confusion. We must launch a full frontal attack now.”
News of Harold’s demise spread like wildfire through the Saxon ranks. They fled up the hill into the forest on the other side. Exhausted and wounded English warriors were pursued relentlessly and cut down in the woods or trampled beneath thundering hooves.
Aftermath
After the battle, the dead and injured of both sides and the carcasses of Norman horses littered the battlefield. Severed body parts lay everywhere on the bloodied earth, now churned to mud. The Saxon line had broken. The mangled bodies that had been the flower of English nobility covered the ground as far as the eye could see. Only the King’s housecarls were prepared to continue the fight. They surrounded their dead king, armed with battle-axes and swords, and fought valiantly to the last man.
The Normans at last broke through to where King Harold had fallen. They had won against the odds, but, as darkness fell, William uttered his dismay at the sight of so many promising young men, both English and Norman, lying dead or maimed on the field of battle. Only the cawing of scavenging crows intruded on the eerie silence.
As they picked their way through the carnage, William confided to Ram, “If Harold had waited only one more day for his full force to arrive, the outcome of this battle may have been very different. If he’d been patient, it would have been more difficult for us to maintain our position here, far from home.”
He gazed distractedly at the Wessex Wyvern dragon banner, still fluttering limply in the breeze, and Harold’s personal standard of the Fighting Man, captured near his body. It was sumptuously embroidered with gold and precious stones. William pointed to it. “I want that standard borne to the Pope.”
Ram saw the exhaustion etched into his friend’s face and suspected he looked equally haggard.
“By the way,” William said, “speaking of impetuous, who was the fool that charged the Saxons alone, at the outset of the battle?”
“According to rumor, a jongleur named Taillefer,” Ram replied.
“Hmm. The man must have had a death wish. I suppose troubadours will be singing about him soon. He’ll be more famous than I.”
Ram de Montbryce and his future king looked at each other and laughed.
As soon as William gave leave, Ram searched frantically for his brothers. To his great relief, they had both survived the slaughter. The three stood together for long silent minutes, arms around each other’s shoulders, except that Hugh’s left arm hung at his side. He had suffered a sword slash to his bicep, which had been tended by one of the camp physicians.
They spent time calming and reassuring their horses, knowing the important role the steeds had played in keeping them alive. It was significant the three Montbryce horses—his own Fortis, Hugh’s Velox, and Antoine’s Regis—had survived. Few Normans could claim that, and it was a testament to the care with which they were chosen, and the attention lavished on them.
“My body stinks,” Antoine lamented. “It disgusts me. I’m for the river.”
They stripped off their armor with the help of their squires and joined many others who were trying to wash away the stench of blood, sweat and their own waste. They enjoyed a moment of wry humor at the sight of Hugh trying to keep his wounded arm dry.
“I’ll never be clean again,” Ram complained as they dried off.
He got no sleep that night, and as dawn broke the following morning joined the other survivors summoned for the solemn reading of the muster roll. Ram was saddened to discover his handsome friend, Pierre de Fleury, had lost his life.
“He’ll no longer have to lie with his ugly wife,” he said bitterly to Antoine. “Perhaps he’d rather be alive and lying with her, than stone cold dead on this bloody field.”
The Montbryce brothers left the marshaling area after the ceremony and huddled under the canvas hastily erected by their squires. They looked out over the distant battlefield, sickened by the scavengers still combing over what remained of the bodies. “We should be grateful our rank saved us from the duty of searching for spoils,” Hugh murmured.
“My squire has scrubbed my armor with vinegar and sand, but I can still smell the stench of blood. It clings as do fleas to a dog,” Antoine scowled.
“It’s the piteous moans of the wounded I find the hardest,” Hugh murmured. “We were lucky to escape as we did.”
His brothers grunted their agreement. They sat in strained silence. Eventually Hugh spoke, his voice full of anger. “The duke has arranged for the proper burial of the Normans who fell and Bishop Eude is to say a Mass. A few Saxons took their dead away, but most of the English corpses are being buried in a mass grave.”
Antoine looked hard at Ram. “There are rumors His Grace wanted to verify the identity of the body they thought was Harold’s. It was so mutilated his face couldn’t be recognized. William ordered Harold’s mistress, Edith Swanneck, to attend and verify identifying marks which only an intimate would know.”
“That’s true. I can vouch for it. The body was a gruesome sight,” Ram admitted, shaking his head. “The woman was distraught.”
“What about the other rumor, that Harold’s mother sent messages offering the weight of her son’s body in gold, if she could be allowed to bury him, but William perversely refused?” Hugh asked.
“That’s also true, I regret to say. He ordered Harold be buried in an unmarked grave, near the sea shore he’d fought so hard to protect. Even I don’t know the location.”
The three were silent for a long while, holding their hands to the warmth of the campfire. Ram spoke first. “I’d hoped to return home to Normandie,” he told them, “but William is sending me to Ellesmere, in the west where there has been trouble for many years between the Welsh and the English. News has arrived from Normans who settled in the area years ago that there have been more recent raids on the Welsh borders. A rebel by the name of Rhodri ap Owain has been attacking the towns and villages near Ellesmere. William has promised me an earldom there.”
Antoine and Hugh were delighted for their brother and shook his hand. Ram accepted their congratulations, knowing they were genuine, then continued, “William wants us to assert our authority now over the rebels. I’m to reconnoitre the area and inspect my castle at Ellesmere at the same time. I’ll request you be assigned to accompany me. Your wound shouldn’t prevent you from traveling, Hugh?”
His brother’s hand still trembled.
“Non, mon frère. I’ll be fit to travel. Thank you for your words of courage before the battle.”
Ram nodded. “Hastings has taken a heavy toll. We will never forget this battle as long as we live. I wouldn’t admit this to anyone else, but you’re my brothers. I miss Mabelle. I want to share the victory with her—perhaps confide something of the terror and disgust I felt, and tell her the news of the promised earldom. I want to lie with her, bury my head in her breasts, fill her with my seed and feel whole again. You’re right, Antoine. I was a fool many times over not to marry her.”
His words seem to resonate with Hugh. “Why is it the thing a man feels compelled to do after courting death is lie with a woman? Most of the survivors in my brigade are hobbling round trying to hide tree trunks at their groins. Look at me.” His trembling hand went to his bulging manhood. “I can’t help myself.”
Antoine shift
ed uncomfortably. They believed Hugh had never lain with a woman. Ram thought his young brother might be close to his breaking point. “Much as I would like to hasten home to wed Mabelle, I’ll have to do the duke’s bidding, if I want to keep the title he’s promised. At least we’ll have each other’s company as we travel to Ellesmere, and I’ll know you’re safe. I’ll dispatch a messenger to Montbryce.”
William was incensed. “Since Hastings I’ve waited a sennight for the Witan to formally surrender the English throne to me, and now we have news they’ve proclaimed Edgar the Aetheling king. They have the gall to support the Confessor’s grand-nephew. I give my oath, Ram, he’ll never be crowned, as long as I draw breath. We’ll evidently have to take London by force.”
Ram’s heart fell. This would mean another delay before he could return to Normandie. He struggled not to let his agitation show. William was upset enough. “It seems ironic Stigand and the others now want to support Edgar, when they were previously willing to favor Harold as king over him.”
“You’re right. It makes one question their resolve. First we march to Dover. It’s strategically important and we must secure it.”
In Dover an epidemic of the flux broke out among the troops after they ate tainted meat and drank the water. Many died, and still more had to be left behind in Dover to recover as the invading force advanced to the religious center of England.
After taking Canterbury, they marched on London, where the core of resistance was centered on Edgar. Meeting fierce opposition at London Bridge they circled to the west of the city, setting fires and leaving a trail of devastation.
“We’ll cross the Thames at Wallingford,” William ordered. “Wigod, the Lord of Wallingford, is a Norman sympathizer.”
At Wallingford, Stigand abandoned Edgar. The Aetheling’s forces were dwindling rapidly. He met William at Berkhamsted, with a group of English nobles, and offered him their fealty, bringing to an end the Anglo-Saxon kingdom that had lasted for hundreds of years.
The Healer
Hamlet of Ellesmere, Border Marches.
Rhonwen Dda had never met her father. Everyone in the Welsh village where she was born was aware she was the natural child of a Saxon lord and the local healer. The shame had driven Myfanwy to take her skills as a healer and her babe to the hamlet of Ellesmere, in the border Marches, where they weren’t known.
Rhonwen had no memory of Wales.
Over time, Myfanwy’s reputation spread, and she was sought after for her knowledge. People spoke in hushed tones of her mystical healing powers. As Rhonwen grew, she often assisted her mother with the preparation of herbs and salves. She longed to master the secrets of healing and observed her mother closely.
Myfanwy was a patient teacher who delighted in her daughter’s wish to follow in her footsteps. “It’s glad I am you’ll be a healer, Rhonwen. I’m getting old, and the day will come when you’ll need to take care of yourself.”
The meagre brazier flickering in the centre of the hut had melted the November frost, but their breath still hung in the air as they prepared cures. Rhonwen’s shoulders stiffened as she shivered. She slid her hands from the warmth of her sleeves and touched her mother’s arm, stilling the grinding of dried herbs. “You’re not old, mammie.”
But her mother had not been a young woman when she had conceived. The arm Rhonwen held was thin and boney. She shivered again. Her mother was her protector, her teacher. How could a girl of ten fend for herself?
Myfanwy’s face was grim. “There is danger everywhere in these uncertain times, daughter, and healing skills are what will protect you, give you standing. We must hope these victorious Normans will appreciate our talents when they come to the Marches.”
Her mother resumed her task. Rhonwen’s heart fluttered again. She took a deep breath. “How do you know they’ll come?”
Myfanwy put aside her mortar and pestle and took Rhonwen’s hands. “They will come. This William of Normandie will be as greedy as the Saxons. Now he has slain King Harold, he will want to control everything and everyone in his path. I pity the Welsh who have struggled so valiantly against the English Saxons. I fear life under the Normans will be much worse.”
Rhonwen threw herself into her mother’s arms. “Can we not flee? Where can we go to be safe?”
Myfanwy hugged her tightly and whispered, “Nowhere will be safe. We must make sure we are needed. Good healers are highly prized by warriors.”
Rhonwen inhaled her mother’s scent. It was the comforting aroma of healing herbs and potions, the smell of hope and freedom from pain. She nestled her head into her mother’s breast and Myfanwy rocked her, crooning a soothing Welsh lullaby.
Farewell
Mabelle was distraught. News of the costly victory at Hastings had reached Montbryce, but no word of her betrothed and his brothers. Rumor was rife that hundreds of Norman knights had lost their lives; the remainder had been stricken by the flux and the campaign was not going well in other parts of England.
Comte Bernard paced the hallways on the rare occasions he wasn’t closeted in his solar, brooding. The one man who’d been her champion was lost in his own anguish. Sometimes he seemed not to know who she was.
Giselle talked about nothing but her sons and fretted for news of them.
It was Mabelle’s darkest hour. Was Ram alive or dead? Why did she ache for a man she should loathe?
There was no happiness for her at Montbryce. Ram would never love her. She’d longed for years to return to Alensonne, and not a sennight went by without a missive from her father urging her to come home. Now was the time.
However unlikely it might be that a letter would reach Ram in England, she couldn’t simply leave without explanation.
She summoned a scrivener. After several attempts to express her feelings to the impatient monk, she approved the final version.
To Vicomte Rambaud de Montbryce
In the great hope that you and your brothers yet live, I send you this missive.
Montbryce is a place I have known only humiliation and unhappiness. Will any of you ever return?
I must turn my attention to my beloved Alensonne, where by all accounts my father is making life difficult.
You must marry a bride more suited to you. I release you from your obligation. You will not now receive Alensonne, Belisle and Domfort in dower, and I don’t yet know how to resolve that problem, as I’m sure they are lands you covet.
Perhaps my diplomatic father will have a solution.
Mabelle de Valtesse (and d’Alensonne)
Having set her seal, she dismissed the supercilious cleric and set off in search of the comte, not looking forward to telling him of her decision. She found him sitting before the hearth in his solar, staring into the flames, and stammered out her intention to leave. He eventually dragged his gaze away from the fire, looked at her as though bewildered, patted her hand and told her she must do what she thought was best. She left unsure if he’d understood her words or not.
She then sought out the steward and gave him the letter. “For my betrothed,” she explained. “You’ll know the best way to make sure he receives it.”
“Oui, milady,” he replied, taking the letter with uncharacteristic brusqueness.
“Is something wrong, Fernand?” she asked, worried he might have guessed the contents.
He tucked the parchment into his tunic. “Forgive me, milady. Vangeline and I are trying to do too much. Many of the servants have fallen pray to the pestilence spreading through the village.”
Giselle had told her of the illness afflicting some of the neighboring villages. Perhaps it was her duty to stay. She was probably needed at Alensonne, though her father had mentioned nothing. Not that he would care if servants fell ill. “You’ll make sure my letter is sent,” she reminded Fernand as he bowed and hurried away.
Blindsided
Ram and his brothers left the main army after the historic surrender. The three Montbryce men had escaped the ravages of the flux but were si
ckened again by the excessive brutality of the victory at Wallingford. Guided by Normans who’d settled in England years before, they set out with two hundred of the best surviving knights and men-at-arms from Montbryce, to make the journey from the River Thames to the Welsh border region. Ram deemed the force a sufficient number to deter any attack from disgruntled locals. It was unlikely there’d be any threat from armed militias, most of whom had joined Harold’s army and perished at Hastings.
Ram told Hugh, “We should cover the seven score miles to Ellesmere in four days, if we’re lucky and the December conditions don’t make the track difficult. Pray for cloudless skies.”
Their route took them through the fortified burgh of Oxford. The inhabitants fled upon catching sight of their small army.
“News of our victory has traveled fast,” Ram observed. “William has spoken often of this place, founded two centuries ago by Alfred the Great. He’s considered building a castle here and I’ll report it’s a good idea, given the location.”
“I’m impressed with the way the streets are laid out in an orderly pattern,” Antoine added. “I’d guess there are about a thousand houses, which probably means there are close to five thousand inhabitants.”
Hugh agreed. “The Danes burned the town fifty years ago, so I suppose much of what we see has been built since then. The town seems prosperous.”
They left Oxford in good spirits and followed the Cherwell River, bound for Warwick, another walled town William had his eye on for a castle. The three agreed a piece of land on a sandstone bluff overlooking the River Avon would be an ideal location for such a project.
Conquest (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 1) Page 11
