‘We must hold the wall,’ Harold said urgently, striding over to them. ‘It may take all day but we must hold the wall until the moment is ripe.’
‘How will we know when that is?’ Leo demanded, looking eagerly to the Normans below.
‘I will sound the horn – five long blasts. But it will not be quick, Leo. You must hold.’
‘You said.’
‘It is important,’ put in another voice and Harold turned to see Edwin of Mercia.
His brother-in-law was very young, just two and twenty years, but Fulford had hardened him. He’d been on a losing side that day and had to flee for his life – Harold could see in his eyes that he had no intention of ever doing so again.
‘Look at the slope,’ Edwin went on, pointing to the fresh sheep-grazed field rolling down from their feet to the enemy. ‘That will tire their men and their horses but it will take time. I swear we will have to stand for the full curve of the day before we can take them.’
They all looked to the sun, rising low over the east side of the field and casting a falsely pretty light over the two great runs of soldiers on either side. Harold traced its path in his mind’s eye, seeing it pass over as quickly as if it were the fire-tailed star from Eastertime. He gritted his teeth.
‘To arms, men! We hold until five blasts sound and then – then we will smash them back into the Narrow Sea.’
Those nearest roared their approval and the sound spread out all along the several-deep lines as Leo and Garth, Edwin and Morcar, and all the lords moved to head up their troops. Leo was on the left wing, Garth the right, with Harold dead centre, and Edwin and Morcar commanding the sections either side of him. Harold sent up another prayer of thanks that the Northern lords had made it to his side. They knew of Edyth’s pregnancy too now and the babe joined them to Harold even more tightly than before, making them so very valuable as his allies.
Had he gone to battle even one day earlier, his ranks would not have been half so deep, nor his command half so steady. Putting back his head, he blew a single blast on the horn and as one the men of the front line took a step forward and their shields clunked into place as surely as if there was mortar between them.
‘Ut!’ came the call: Out! The ancient Saxon battle cry. ‘Ut! Ut! Ut!’
Below, the Norman archers fell to their knees and cocked their crossbows.
‘Ut!’ the men roared louder. ‘’Ut! Ut! Ut!’
And battle commenced.
Harold had known it would be tough – had he not told his commanders as much – but even so, the day seemed to grind out like a millstone over corn. Every time the Normans mounted an attack the men braced themselves, and every time they backed off to regroup Harold could feel the whole shield wall quivering to follow and knew that resisting the urge was every bit as tough as resisting the charges.
The trained soldiers were used to it, from Harold’s own elite housecarls down to the appointed militia-men, drilled at least occasionally in the art of the shield wall. For the brave men who had come straight from the harvest, however, set on seeing the invaders off their shores, just standing and taking a hammering went very much against the grain.
And then, as the sun reached its apex, sending sweat down all collars, be they chainmail, waxed leather, or simple wool, there was a crisis on the left flank. A cavalry charge led by Duke William himself met fierce resistance that sent the horses into disarray. In the scramble several men were unhorsed and suddenly a cry went up: ‘The duke is dead.’
Harold felt it thrill through him. Could it be? Certainly the Norman lords looked panicked – several were already riding back to their ranks as if preparing to flee.
‘Can you see?’ Harold asked those in front of him. ‘Can you see what has happened?’
But this far along the field no one could for sure and now, with a roar, part-rage, part triumph, Leo’s men were breaking out of the wall and charging into the tangle of Normans.
‘Hold the wall!’ Harold bellowed on instinct. ‘Hold the wall!’
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Morcar stopping the rush and was grateful, but even so he strained as hopefully forward as the rest of his men, praying for this to be it, the end, before too many precious lives were lost. But someone was riding out from the melee, helmet lifted high, head bared and Harold saw, as everyone did – Saxon and Norman alike –Duke William shouting encouragement to his men. Not dead but alive – alive and with Leo in his sights.
‘No!’
The cry choked from Harold and he looked for Garth far out on the right as the Normans, with renewed courage and purpose, circled in on the loose Saxons and their lord and cut them swiftly and systematically to the ground. Harold did not see his brother die, but felt it in his soul – a sharp, bitter, crushing blow that almost felled him for a moment. Planting his feet in the churned up soil of Hastings field, he seized the pain and rolled it up inside him into a red-hot ball of fury. He would see William gone from here. Leo, God bless him, had been too hasty. They must wait. They would wait. But then – then they would strike.
The day ground on. Harold left his central troops with his ablest housecarls and trod all along the line, encouraging the men and re-affirming their strategy with the commanders. Already it was clear that the horses were weakening. The day was still warm and the slope was hard work for them, especially now it was littered with bodies and slick with blood. The Norman crossbowmen had arrows yet but there were more sticking uselessly in Saxon shields and Harold was sure the invaders must be losing heart. If it was hard to stand and wait for attack, how much harder was it to attack again and again for no apparent reward? The Northern reinforcements had easily plugged the gap left by Leo’s tragic charge and there was no way through the solid defence along the ridge. Norman heads were dropping; they were surely losing heart.
Harold looked up. The sun was on its way downward now, already dipping towards the trees in the west as if it, too, was worn out of this fifteenth day of October. When Harold looked back he saw that the Normans had paused and could see their comrades huddled around their duke.
‘Hold the wall!’ he cried for what must be the one thousandth time. ‘They are breaking,’ he added. ‘Hold it and our time will come.’
The men roared back, the sound frayed at the edges but determined yet. Harold smiled. It felt strange amongst the blood and the fear but these men, these Englishmen, were his and he was so, so proud to have been chosen as their king – chosen for this; for battle. They needed him and he would not let them down.
He squared his bulky shoulders. They were stiff and sore but he cared not. Not much longer. He watched intently as a new charge formed, led this time by the Bretons on the Norman left, distinguishable by their black and white pennants and their stout ponies, smaller than the Norman horses – smaller and more manoeuvrable.
A memory flashed through Harold’s tired mind – ’64. He’d ridden on campaign into Brittany with Duke William. He’d been ‘invited’ to it after the duke had released him from capture by the Count of Ponthieu, leaving Harold in his debt. That had been before William had tricked him into swearing to uphold him as king. That oath, made on holy relics – though Harold had not known it until after – had tortured Harold when Edward had neared his end. He’d even considered supporting William but the Witan had refused to countenance it for a moment. They’d wanted an Englishman as king and Harold had had to respect that – as he had to uphold it now.
He focused on the Breton ponies as they lumbered up the slope and, remembering them in a similar situation near Dol two years ago, suddenly he knew exactly what they were going to do.
‘Garth!’
His brother did not hear him at first, but Earl Edwin did and roared the cry on over the battle shouts of the men. Garth looked round and his gaze locked with Harold’s. Harold knew not if his brother heard his next words but prayed his lips had formed them clearly en
ough for Garth to understand: ‘Feigned retreat.’
He said it over and over and suddenly Garth’s eyes narrowed. He gave a curt nod and turned urgently back to his men. Harold saw heads turn as an order rippled along the shield wall and watched nervously as the Bretons pulled back suddenly and fled. The Normans jeered convincingly at them but not convincingly enough. The Saxon shield wall shook but held and only the shadows of the dead chased the Bretons back down the hill.
Harold’s gaze swung back to William and he saw it – panic in every part of the duke’s tense body. Even his horse was prancing, its coat lathered in the white sweated foam of fear. Harold took a deep breath. It was time. Lifting his horn to the fading rays of the sun, he blew five long, deep blasts.
The Englishmen surged down the hill like dogs released from the leash, salivating for a bite at the enemy who had tormented them all day long. The Normans, still caught watching the uselessly fleeing Bretons, were helpless before them. The tide of Saxons – Northerners and Southerners both – ripped through their ranks cutting down men and horses as the dark, pulsing cry of ‘Ut, ut, ut,’ sounded like a drumbeat over the wails of dying Normans. Harold ran with them, sword aloft, cutting out vengeance for Leo, and for England.
And now the Normans were turning to flee. Their ranks were decimated. Dead strewed the ground and the mercenaries who had filled their ranks for money alone had already fled, back down the long road to their ships at Pevensey. Harold cut and thrust with the rest until the field was all-but bare of standing Normans, and suddenly there he was – William.
He was on his knees in the bloody field, his horse dead, surrounded by Harold’s housecarls, the last of his lords with him. Harold stood still. Everything seemed to fade – the death-cries of those still pursued by his farmer’s army, the whinnies of panicked horses on the loose, the whistle of swords slicing through the last of the light. He drew in a long, deep breath.
‘William the Bastard’ he said coldly.
Duke William of Normandy looked up at Harold, his eyes white with fury and hatred.
‘Harold Oath-breaker,’ he answered with a defiant sneer.
Harold nodded slowly. So, there was to be no plea for mercy, no offer of negotiation or treaty. He considered the options – if he let William limp back to Normandy would it ensure his gratitude and allegiance, or would it simply leave England exposed to future attack? Would pardoning him look strong or weak to the eyes of others? For himself, he did not want this man on God’s earth one day longer, but was execution here, or after legal judgement, the correct way forward?
He looked down at his bloodied sword. What was the point of hollow words after all that had passed today? There were men dead on this field because of the greed of one man. Mothers had lost sons, wives had lost husbands, daughters had lost fathers and brothers. Now, above all, was the time to stand up and be King to his people.
Calmly Harold lifted his sword and placed the tip against William’s throat, between the straps of his helmet and the linen padding of his chain mail hauberk. He looked into the invader’s eyes, unblinking, then in one swift motion he thrust his weight against the blade, hearing the crunch as it pushed through his enemy’s gullet. William’s body crumpled at his feet and his blood splattered across the legs of his cowering lords like brutal flowers.
Harold stood a moment, his hands clasped on the hilt, then let the sword go, took a step backwards and crossed himself as he looked up to God. The Sun was all but gone and the light was low and run through with red – too much red. There had been enough slaughter.
Slowly Harold bent, removed the sword with a twisted jerk, and lifted William’s body into his arms. He nodded one of the remaining Norman lords forward.
‘You – take your duke home. Show him to his sons as a warning never to tread upon English shores again, then give him honourable burial. He was a worthy duke, but he was no king. Today God has proved that and we thank Him for it.’
The Normans nodded, bowed and, taking what was left of their duke, scuttled away after the last of their ragged troops. Harold watched them go then turned back to his own, brave men with a bitter smile. There had been too many dead this day, but they had won and pray God this would be the last of it.
I was not born to be a king but I was chosen one – chosen by those wise in experience and backed by people I am proud to represent. I was crowned on January 6th 1066 but did not truly take the throne as my own until October 15th, the day of our great victory at Hastings. That day I stood side by side with my fellow Englishmen and faced down a great threat to our dear land. And that day I learned what they already knew – how precious this land is to us and how eternally grateful I will be to God for blessing us with his love in victory.
The people sing my praises now. It embarrasses me, save that in praising me, their king, they praise themselves. And now Edyth has birthed me a son – a second Harold – to follow in my path, a boy who is truly born to be a king. Praise God and all my countrymen that at Hastings we fought hard, we fought together and we held England firm.
Author’s Note
When I found out that I was getting to write the alternative Battle of Hastings I couldn’t believe my luck! I’d found it heartbreaking writing the ending of my novel The Chosen Queen in which Harold, my hero, was hacked to death barely an hour before the reinforcements who could have saved him arrived. Writing this story was, therefore, cathartic to say the least.
And this version was so, so possible. The Battle of Hastings, from what we can gather, started around 9a.m and Harold was not killed until sometime around 4p.m. That’s a long time for a medieval battle – normally one or two hour affairs at most – and it being October it was almost dark when he was dealt his deathblow. What’s more, the northern troops do seem to have been very close and it may well have been them who lured a large number of Normans to their death in the ‘malfosse’ behind English lines after the battle was over. If the shield wall had only held firm for another hour, both sides would have been forced to retreat and rejoin the next morning, by which time Harold’s numbers would have been swollen and victory far more likely.
One of the mysteries of October 1066 is why Harold marched south to meet William quite as quickly as he did. William had built a castle at Hastings, and he was pillaging the area, but he was quite well contained on the peninsula and showing no signs of marching north. The sensible option for Harold when he reached London after his long march from Stamford Bridge would have been to wait at least another few days to rest his troops and allow more to join him. So why did he not?
He may have sought to emulate the surprise attack he’d mounted so successfully on Hardrada. He may have been incensed at the attacks on his own people as the heart of his patriarchal lands were around Hastings. Or perhaps William had decided to move position, realising, as Harold would have done, that it would be folly to be caught, trapped, in that narrow peninsula of land. Once out on to the expanse of the Weald, it would have been hard for Harold to stop him. Or, Harold may just have been driven mad with the desire to have William gone and all the fighting done with. He was a man, after all, who had been through much since being crowned on January 6th. Whatever the reason, his haste to go into battle with William may well have cost him the victory and that is what I wanted to explore in this story.
Joanna Courtney
www.joannacourtney.com
Discussion suggestions
Never mind what the Romans did for us, what did the Normans do? Crusading knights, castles, chivalry- what, in all this, is truly ‘English’?
Was Harold truly revered as a monarch, or just needed as a war-leader? If he had defeated William at Hastings, how long might he have lasted as King?
NOVEMBER
1066
Despite his victory at Hastings, William was not yet King of England. He seems to have waited at the battlefield for some time (even, reportedly, eating his dinner amon
gst the carnage) perhaps hoping to receive a full surrender, but that never came. Indeed, another had been named king in his place.
Edgar ‘Aetheling’ (meaning ‘throneworthy’) had come to England in 1057 with his father, Edward the Exile who was the royal son of Edmund Ironside, son of King Aethelred, and had been in exile since he’d been smuggled away from the conquering Cnut as a baby back in 1016 (exactly one thousand years ago in this year of 2016!) Sadly Edward had died within days of reaching England, leaving Edgar, his only son, as the ‘true’ royal heir. In 1066, however, he was only about thirteen which was why Harold, a proven leader of men, had been elected to the throne in his stead. Now though, with Harold dead, the remaining lords hastily proclaimed Edgar as king. To take the throne Duke William was going to have to take London.
William adopted a policy more than familiar to him from years of putting down rebellions in Normandy – tracing a circuitous line to London, raiding and pillaging everywhere he went. This was designed to have the double effect of feeding and enriching his own men, and of aggravating his enemy and it worked. Dover and Canterbury both surrendered, as did Winchester, but London, with its high walls and one fortress-like bridge across the Thames, and Westminster, secure on Thorney Island further along the Thames, were harder nuts to crack.
THE BATTLE OF LONDON BRIDGE
G.K. HOLLOWAY
Although Edgar had the strongest claim to the throne, when in January 1066 the Witan had to elect a successor to Edward, they chose Harold Godwinson, a proven commander and a respected Earl. After Harold’s death on the battlefield, England needed a new king; the young Edgar was the only choice. If things had worked out differently for him he might well have enjoyed his coronation on Christmas Day 1066. As it transpired, he spent most of his life rebelling against William and his successors.
1066 Turned Upside Down Page 15
