Raoul’s fingers clenched suddenly on the folds of the tent-flap. He turned his head, watching the monk with painful eagerness.
Hugh Maigrot picked up his tale again. ‘They drew their swords with a mighty shout, and waved them aloft, declaring, “We follow Harold, our true King!” Then Harold, being somewhat moved, as I thought, put his brother aside, and beckoning to me to come closer, spoke with me in good Latin, bidding me begone and tell your Grace that he would meet you in battle, when God should declare between you. And so I left the camp, pausing only to speak with certain monks from the Abbey of Waltham. My lord, the levies of Edwine and Morkere have not yet come up to join Earl Harold.’
He stopped, and bowed. No one spoke for a moment; then the Duke said: ‘So be it. We march at daybreak.’
The Normans spent a great part of the night in confessing their sins, and receiving the Sacrament. The camp was in a bustle of preparation which did not cease until the moon rode high. Men curled up in their cloaks then upon the ground; the sentries paced slowly up and down with the starlight on their helmets; the priests were shriving penitents until the dawn, but Odo, the Bishop of Bayeux, lay sound asleep in his silken tent, with his shirt of mail hung from the pole behind him, and his mace ready to his hand.
The Duke was up until midnight in conference with his barons, but he laid himself down on his couch then, and soon dropped off into an easy slumber. Raoul had a pallet in his tent, but he could not sleep. He went out into the night, and stood looking towards the line of dark hills that lay between Hastings and the Saxon encampment. Somewhere beyond those tree-crowned heights Edgar was lying, perhaps wakeful too, thinking of the morrow. Raoul tried to picture him: was he confessing his sins? or was he spending the night in feasting, as he had once said Saxons were wont to do before a battle?
Tomorrow, thought Raoul, tomorrow … O God, let me not encounter Edgar! Let me not remember him, not see his face confronting me, nor meet his sword on mine, with death in both our hearts!
A howl rose in the stillness, eerie and melancholy. Raoul started, and crossed himself involuntarily, but it was only one of the wolves that prowled round the camp at night, hunting for scraps thrown out on to the garbage heaps.
At daybreak, when Mass had been celebrated, the Duke broke camp, and led his host in three divisions up the road that led to the hill called Telham, and over it to the fringe of the Andredsweald.
The first division, which was composed mainly of French, Flemings, Ponthevins, and the men of Boulogne and Poix, was commanded by Count Eustace of Boulogne, and was to form the right wing of the army. Young Robert de Beaumont led a thousand Normans in this division. It was his first trial of arms, and he was eager to acquit himself worthily. He rode a restive destrier, and the badge of his house was blazoned on his shield.
The second division, Norman to a man, was commanded by the Duke in person, riding the horse brought to him by Walter Giffard from Spain. He wore a plain tunic of steel rings sewn flat on leather, with loose sleeves reaching just below the elbows, and skirts to the mid-leg, slit before and behind to allow him greater freedom of movement. His hauberk and helmet, which were borne by his squire, were both quite plain, the helmet being sharply conical, and having a neck-piece as well as a nasal. The only weapons he carried were his lance, and the mace which hung from his saddle-bow.
Near to him rode his brother and the Bishop of Coutances. The Bishop wore his robes, and held his crozier, but Odo had put on his mail shirt over a long white albe, and had armed himself with a formidable baston.
The Count of Mortain was joined with Néel de Saint-Sauveur, in the leadership of the Côtentin troops. His squire carried the standard of St Michael before him on the end of a lance.
Close behind them rode Roger de Montgoméri at the head of the vast forces of Belesme, and near at hand were the veterans, Giffard and Gournay, and William FitzOsbern with the men of Breteuil, and of Bec-Crespin. None of the men yet wore their armour, since the weight of hauberks would only add to the fatigue of the march.
The third division was to form the left wing. It was led by Alain Fergant and Count Haimer of Thouars, and was composed of Bretons, Manceaux, Poictevins, and auxiliaries from the banks of the Rhine.
The way led over the foothills above the Pevensey marshes. When the sun grew warmer men sweated freely, and the long line of spears glittered like a metal snake winding along the road.
From the summit of Telham Hill the Saxon army came in sight at last. The Norman host halted, and rested awhile in the shade of giant trees. The Duke had ridden forward a little way with Counts Eustace and Alain, and was closely observing the English position, and the ground that lay between.
Harold had pitched his two standards on the opposite height, a narrow hill about a mile in length, which sloped gently down to the Senlac bottom at its foot. A hoar apple-tree marked its summit, and by this Harold’s own standard of the Fighting Man was planted. Across the valley the Normans could see the sheen of its golden folds; beside it the Dragon of Wessex floated red against the sky.
The hill seemed to be completely covered with armed men. The Normans, straining their eyes to see more closely, whispered amongst themselves that a forest of spears awaited them.
‘Hear me, Count Eustace!’ the Duke said. ‘If God grant me victory this day, I will build an Abbey where that standard waves now.’ He pointed across the valley. ‘That I swear, before God and the Pheasant.’ He wheeled his horse, and came cantering back to the lines. He put on his hauberk, and taking his helmet from his squire set it on his head before he realized that he was holding it hind part before. He saw that some who were watching him were inclined to regard this accident as an ill abodement, and he said with a laugh: ‘A sign! My Dukedom shall be changed to a Kingdom, even as I now change this helm.’
The army was in movement by this time, deploying along the sides of the hill, archers to the fore, the heavy foot immediately behind them, and the chivalry drawn up in the rear. Bardings jingled: caltraps caught the sun and flashed points of light; pennons and gonfanons fluttered a medley of devices.
The Duke summoned up De Toeni with a nod, and held out his gonfanon. ‘Bear my gonfanon, Ralph de Toeni,’ he said, ‘for I would not but do you right, and by ancestry your family are Gonfanoniers of Normandy.’
De Toeni rode up close. ‘My thanks to you, beau sire, for the recognition of our right, but by my faith the gonfanon shall not be borne by me this day! Seigneur, I claim quittance of that service for one day alone, for I would serve you in another guise, and fight the English at your side.’
The Duke laughed. ‘As you will, De Toeni.’ He looked round; his eye alighted on old Walter Giffard; he said: ‘Lord of Longueville, I know none worthier than you to carry my standard.’
Walter shook his head vigorously, and reined back. ‘For the mercy of God, beau sire, look on my white hairs!’ he begged. ‘My strength is impaired; I am short of breath. Let Toustain here bear your gonfanon: I warrant he will be glad.’
Toustain FitzRou Le Blanc, a knight of Caux, coloured up, and looked eagerly at the Duke. William held out the gonfanon. With a gasp Toustain took it in his reverent hold.
Facing the ranks of his army the Duke made a short invigorating speech to the listening soldiers. ‘Now is the time for you to prove with what courage you are endowed,’ he said. ‘Fight like men, and you will have victory and honour and riches! Fail, and you will be swiftly slain or live to serve cruel enemies.’ His voice lifted; he said strongly: ‘There is no road for retreat. On one side arms and a hostile country bar the way; on the other the sea and the English ships oppose flight. It is not for men to be afraid. Try only that nothing shall make you retreat, and soon triumph shall rejoice your hearts.’
He ended on
a confident note; FitzOsbern, who had been fidgeting with his bridle, spurred up to him, and said in his impetuous way: ‘Beau sire, we tarry here too long. Allons! allons!’
The knights now put on their armour; men gripped their spears, and slipped their arms in the enarmes of the big kite-shaped shields; in a few moments the order to advance was given, and the lines moved forward down the slope of the hill.
A rough valley separating Telham Hill from the Senlac height had to be crossed. It was boggy in parts, with bull-rushes growing in great profusion, but on the higher ground there were trees and bushes. Brambles caught in the archers’ tunics, and often the riders had to duck their heads to avoid low-hanging branches. As they drew nearer to the foot of the opposite ridge the Normans could distinguish the figure of the Fighting Man upon Harold’s waving standard, and see the glint of sunlight on the jewels with which it was sewn. The men-at-arms, observing no mounted soldiers amongst the Saxons, exclaimed at this. Some, better informed than the rest, spread the information down the ranks that no Saxon rode into battle.
‘See how they plant their gonfanons firm in the ground!’ grunted a spearman, shifting his shield on his arm. ‘When my father went to fight King Edward’s battles under the Lord of Longueville and the King’s brother Alfred, thus was it then. The troops whom they call huscarles stand with the noble lords around the standard, and will not move. Ho, ho, we shall teach these Saxons something of warfare this day!’
‘What, will they not charge on us?’ demanded the next man.
‘Nay, nay. Look how they have fortified their position!’
In front of the Saxon lines a hasty ditch had been dug, the loose earth being beaten into an embankment which was crowned the whole length of the hill with a breastwork of osiers and brushwood. In the centre waved the standards, and round them were gathered the thegnhood and the trained huscarles, all fully armed with byrnies, and helmets of bronze, and wood, and iron, and round bucklers daubed with crude colours and devices. Each wing of the army was composed almost entirely of the shire-levies, men belonging to the fyrd of England, not trained to war, some wearing their simple woollen tunics, some the proud possessors of axes, some brandishing hammers, and scythes, and even iron spades.
At a distance of a hundred yards or so the chivalry halted, and the archers, advancing steadily up the slope, discharged their first volley of arrows. They were met by a storm of missiles: javelins, lances, taper-axes. The breastwork of osiers did much to protect the Saxon line from the arrows, and though some found marks, many hit the brushwood, and stayed there quivering. The archers pressed on through the rain of missiles, and loosed a fresh volley. This succeeded little better than the first, and the throwing-spears and axes that hurtled down upon them made them waver on the slope. A man fell with a taper-axe stuck fast in his shoulder; stones and flints whistled past the archers’ heads; they shot again. One or two gaps appeared in the Saxon front line, but these were quickly filled. The heavy projectiles were driving the archers back; they retreated, leaving their dead and wounded sprawling on the field; and stumbling over the boulders and flints and javelins with which the ground was by now littered they fled back out of the Saxon range.
The Duke’s messengers went galloping down the lines; the heavy foot, spearmen fully armed and carrying shields and gavelocs, moved forward in a formidable line all along the front.
Dodging the hail of missiles, some falling, some stumbling over the dead, they came up the slope with their shields before them, and tried to storm the breastwork. Steel clashed; wild shouts and groans rang out; the Saxon axes whirled in the air, and descended with a force that cut through the Norman hauberks as though they had been made of paper. A man’s head jumped from his shoulders, and went hopping and rolling down the slope; the body toppled into the ditch; someone slipped in the blood, and was thrown forward on his face and trodden underfoot by his struggling comrades. Here and there the Saxon line gaped for a moment, but swiftly closed again; in some places the breastwork was beaten down; and all along the line the ditch was filling with dead bodies and blood-boltered debris.
The Norman foot was thrown back, and retreated down the hill in confusion, pursued by a fresh storm of javelins hurled from above; the chivalry, standing motionless at the bottom could see maimed men deserted on the slope and trying to crawl to safety, some armless, some dragging a bleeding stump where a leg had been; others, whole, but hideously gashed, staggering downhill with blood spurting from their wounds and splashing over their tunics and hose.
The leaders managed to check the men-at-arms’ precipitous flight, and to marshal them into order. A command ran down the lines of the horsemen: the chivalry was coming up.
The foot retired to the rear between the divisions of the cavalry; a single rider spurred ahead of the line, and began to sing the Song of Roland, tossing his sword in the air, and catching it as it fell. Taillefer, it was; he of the golden voice. His full-throated ‘Aoie!’ set the Duke’s knights roaring out the refrain with him. He galloped before them up the slope, still juggling with his sword. Behind him thundered the whole weight of the chivalry. He caught his sword a last time, and gripped it, sat well down in the saddle, and dashed straight into the Saxon breastwork. It broke under his charge; he was in amongst the enemy, hacking and slashing; his voice rang high on the triumph of his song; there were swords all round him; he fell, pierced with a dozen wounds.
The knights and the barons behind hurled themselves against the breastwork. Horses floundered in the ditch; cries of Dex Aie! and Turie! rose, answered by the roar of ‘Out, out!’ Away on the right wing Robert de Beaumont was earning laurels for himself for the gallantry of his many attacks; nearer to the centre the Lord of Moulines-la-Marche was fighting with a ferocity that made men call him William Sanglier thereafter.
In the forefront of the battle the gold lions of Normandy waved; Toustain was sticking close to the Duke, gritting his teeth, hanging on desperately to the shaft of the gonfanon. Mortain fought beside his brother; no axe before, no press of horsemen behind could force him from William’s side, but a terrific blow aimed at him cleaved his horse’s neck nearly through, and the beast sank under him. He sprang clear; Raoul cried: ‘Take mine, Mortain! Up! up!’ He forced his way back out of the press, and slid down from his destrier’s back. Mortain grasped the bridle with a brief word of thanks, and hoisted himself up. One of Raoul’s own men struggled to reach him, and thrust a bridle into his hand. ‘Here, master!’
Raoul mounted. ‘Good lad. Get you back out of this.’ He drove in his spurs and thrust forward into the mêlée again.
A tremor ran through the line. Away on the left the Bretons and Manceaux under Alain Fergant were wavering. Only the fyrd confronted them, but these men of peace were filled with a courage of bitter hatred, and the ferocity of their blows turned the Bretons’ hearts to water. They broke, and fell back; their leaders were yelling at them, and trying to beat them forward with the flats of their swords on the horses’ quarters, but a storm of slings and taper-axes settled the matter. The left wing turned and fled down the slope in headlong confusion, sweeping away their own foot which had formed again behind them.
‘Seigneur, seigneur, the Bretons have broken!’ Raoul struggled to reach William’s side. ‘Back, for God’s sake!’
The centre and right were already giving ground before the murderous Saxon axes. The Duke gave orders to draw off, and rode down the slope to a point from where he could observe the whole line of his front. His chivalry retreated in good order, but Toustain’s horse had been slain by a spear-thrust through its chest and men could no longer see the gold lions turning and twisting in the ranks. A rumour spread swiftly that the Duke was slain; dismay seized the host; a sort of groan went up.
‘He lives, h
e lives!’ Gilbert d’Aufay shouted.
The Duke pulled off his helmet, and galloped down the line, calling: ‘Behold me! I still live, and by God’s aid I will conquer!’ A flint sang past his ear; FitzOsbern snatched at his destrier’s bridle and dragged him down the slope to safety.
Someone furnished Toustain with a fresh mount; the lions waved on high again, and a cheer went up.
In the rear those in charge of the spare horses and the battle-harness saw the rout of the left wing, and were so filled with dismay that they began to retreat. A white horse dashed after them, a white alb fluttered. ‘Stand fast! stand fast!’ bellowed the Bishop of Bayeux. ‘We shall conquer yet!’ He waved his baston to his own men, and said: ‘Hold this rabble! Let them not stir!’
There was now a fresh movement on the left. The English fyrd, seeing their foes fleeing in panic away from them, burst out of their breastworks with yells of triumph, and surged after in a straggling horde.
The Duke saw the blunder, and wheeled his cavalry. Led by Néel of Côtentin, and William, Lord of Moyon, the centre charged over the ground, and falling on the fyrd’s flank, rode down the peasantry in their hundreds. The serfs, ill-armed, unprotected by mail, were cut to pieces almost to a man; the Bretons halted in their flight; their leaders got them into some sort of order, and brought them up again to assist in a slaughter that was by then complete. More than half the English right wing was slain in that brief encounter; the Norman horse drew back from a field of dead, and the squadrons, swinging about, cantered back to the centre.
The Conqueror Page 37
