The Last English King

by Julian Rathbone

  ‘A hundred miles away,’ scoffed Quint. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Please, Quint, will you allow our friend to get on with his story? After all, it was you who asked for this interlude . . .’

  ‘A hundred and fifty long-boats and over fifty tubbier transports, and not a tree left standing for five or ten miles inland. They were all pulled up on the long sandy shore beneath the low white cliffs of the area, sometimes not cliffs at all but just a long sandy dune covered with spiky, squeaky blue grass. And in tents and benders behind, in the fields or clear-felled forest, about three thousand knights, that is fully armed men with horses, another couple of thousand without horses, and maybe the same of archers, stick-throwers, spearmen and the like. There was a lot of confusion on that day -- psychological as well as physical. For a start many thought that this was it, this embarkation that had been ordered meant they were en route for England, fame, gold and glory, land of your own or a watery grave.

  ‘For twenty minutes or so things went pleasantly enough, never more than a mile or so off-shore, the wind still light but steady. It must have been quite a sight from a distance; close-up, I was on the third boat in the inland line, it was pretty bloody chaotic. Lines? Yes, of course. Our anally obsessed leader --’

  ‘Your what'?'

  ‘It’s a mental condition caused by an over-disciplined approach to defecation in early infancy,’ Quint supplied. ‘Taillefer and I have been discussing it. Symptoms are obsessively tidy minds, outbursts of almost uncontrollable rage when things are found to be out of place or not working --’

  ‘I think we get the picture. You’re saying basically that William organized his fleet in two lines -’

  ‘Three, actually.’

  ‘In three lines because his mother smacked him some forty years earlier if he shat in the wrong place or at the wrong time.’

  ‘Yes. You see his mother, always unsure of her position as the unmarried mistress of the duke, self-consciously aware of her low origins, was over-anxious that her son should be well brought up from the very start --’

  ‘Rubbish. Go on, Taillefer, and try to keep it simple. You’re in the third boat of the line, nearest the shore . . .’

  Taillefer strummed, collected his thoughts and went on.

  ‘The Duke’s ship, the Mora, was, of course, the leading ship in the outside line, marked by the fact that it was flying a long white and gold banner or pennant given to him and blessed by the Pope. The trouble was that though these ships looked identical they had been hurriedly put together by a variety of craftsmen, some less skilled than others, so under sail they handled very differently.

  ‘First the ship immediately behind him kept creeping up, and once even bumped the stern of the Mora; to avoid a repetition, the master let his boat yaw almost broadside on and drift towards the middle line. This caused his sail to take the wind out of the Mora’s sail and slowed her down even more, so now the ships in the innermost line began to edge in front of all. The Duke ranted and raged, screamed with fury. This put the fear of death into our master’s soul and he ordered the steersman to put up the helm in an attempt to heave-to and of course the one behind rammed us amidships. The effect of this ran through the whole fleet and within half an hour of getting clear to sea, Deauville was still ahead on the starboard bow, the whole lot were milling about, bumping into each other, sails going down, sails going up, horses neighing, stamping and in some cases breaking free and jumping overboard, and all through it, if you were within a hundred yards or so, and quite a lot of us were by then, we could hear the madman bellowing like a baited bull.

  ‘It was Bishop Odo who saved the situation. The Duke’s half-brother. He was bigger than the Duke and perhaps the only man in the whole host, in the whole fleet not frightened of him. He found a bucket with a rope attached, slung it overboard, filled it, and emptied it over his brother’s head. The Duke’s fit left him, he began to give sensible orders, taking advice (something he hardly ever did) from the Mora’s master, and contriving to get them passed down the lines. We were all to let the Mora get well clear, and then follow, but in much more open order than before, and not worry too much about keeping to our allotted stations. Just so long as we didn’t overtake him.

  ‘After that things went well enough for several hours, well into the afternoon. We slipped along merrily up the coast, the waves lapping rhythmically, the sea-gulls calling, the ropes and timbers creaking --’

  The harp seemed to echo these very sounds as Taillefer almost chanted, his eyes turned inwards, seeking out not just the sights he was describing, but reliving the very experience . . . then suddenly the harp switched to a moment or two of shrill lament and he looked up and round the table.

  ‘Only four boats went down. Because they had not been properly caulked they filled, they foundered and all hands and soldiers were lost. Of course the wind died as the sun fell behind us, and the men at arms themselves had to roll up their sleeves and heave on the sweeps. It was an exercise few had ever done before. They dug too deep, left the blades in too long, at least a dozen or so were jerked off their benches and into the sea as the handles shot up into the air, oars were broken and again everything was at sixes and at sevens. And by then we were on an ebb tide which was carrying us out to sea. The tide? Living here in Sidé you will not believe this, Ma’am, but the sea in those northern latitudes can pull back a full half mile where it is shallow, a height of twenty feet, twice in every day and night. Nevertheless, we limped into Dieppe about midnight or beached the ships nearby. Fortunately we were waited for and lights had been left out for us, for there was no moon.

  ‘Next day the wind failed again completely and the men had to row the whole way to St Valery on the Somme. Twenty-five miles is a long- haul on the oars and the whole army was thoroughly knocked up by the experience -- hands so blistered there was no way they could have lifted a sword or axe, legs and arms aching, backs so stiff they could hardly move. If Harold had made a pre-emptive strike in the next couple of days, he could have had the lot for virtually nothing.

  ‘Anyway, it was still a clear fortnight before they sailed for England and in that time William saw to it that the ships would be properly handled, repairs done, the men trained up to row and so on. In fact he organised regattas up and down the Somme and awarded prizes for the crews that did best while he and his lords sat on the river-side in tents and drank the fizzy weak wine from Rheims and ate smoked salmon. The smartest whores from Rheims, Rouen and even Paris turned up and a good time was had by all.’

  His harp played a lascivious jig.

  ‘On the final crossing he still insisted that, whatever else happened, the Mora was always to be in front. He got the wind he wanted on the twenty-seventh but it took a whole day to get everything on board and they didn’t actually sail until night-fall. Come the dawn and a sea-mist, the Mora was entirely on her own, somewhere in the middle of the channel. Not another boat to be seen. They told me, friends who were on board, that it was really eerie. Almost calm, a heavy dew in the rigging, the mist, the snort and trumpeting of the whales not far off. The Duke climbed up to where the helmsman stood and looked around. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘we’ll conquer the fuckers on our own if we have to. Just see if we don’t.’ But then the mist lifted and he could see some of his fleet - but the nearest a good mile or so behind him.’

  ‘Is it not true, that when he jumped down on to the beach . . .?’

  ‘Hey, come on. That will do.’ Junipera was firm. ‘We are getting ahead of the story. Wind the clock back to Stamford Bridge, please? Tomorrow Walt can tell us what happened there and thereafter.’

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  ‘It was not,’ Walt said the following evening, ‘until the actual day of the battle of Fulford that we were ready to set out from Waltham Abbey. Harold was determined to leave as little to chance as possible. He wanted to know the fleet was safely harboured in London, just below Southwark Bridge, and he refused to move until all the housecarls from the
south-coast stations had arrived and his army was up to full strength. We crossed the Lee and set off up Ermine Street at dawn on the twentieth, with about four thousand mounted housecarls. Harold had already sent men on ahead of us to raise the fyrd at every major town we went through or near: Hertford, Huntingdon, Grantham and Lincoln, so by the time we got to Lincoln on the third day we had another three thousand, but not all mounted and not all with proper arms. Next day we reached Tadcaster . . .’

  ‘Four days?’ As usual Quint was sceptical. ‘How far is it?’

  ‘About a hundred and eighty miles. But remember, we were on Ermine Street, a long narrow but dead-straight ribbon of turf. So, by the time we got to Tadcaster we had another three or four thousand . . .’

  ‘It’s not possible an army should be able to march that far in four days. Not even Alexander himself-’

  ‘Well, we did. And I told you Alexander was nothing compared with Harold . . .’

  Junipera intervened. ‘Quint, if you interrupt again, I shall have to ask you to leave the table.’

  Quint fell silent, but through the rest of Walt’s story crunched almond biscuits noisily whenever he felt Walt had strayed beyond the bounds of credibility.

  One thing Harold had developed, almost over the previous week, was a far better system of communications than he had had before. Horsemen were stationed all along Ermine Street and also south of London to the coast, to pick up and pass on news: thus it was just as he was leaving Grantham that Harold heard the news of Fulford, of the northern Earls’ disobedience in fighting a major engagement before he could be with them and of how they now had no army at all worth speaking of. It seemed to mean that his four thousand might easily be outnumbered by at least three to two, since the Northumbrians and Mercians had been annihilated. Hardrada’s losses had been light - he could still field well over five thousand fully equipped and battle-tried effectives. Of course, the fyrd gave Harold an overall numerical superiority, but they were only reliable in pursuit of an already beaten foe or when given a defensive role behind a wall or ditch.

  From the scurriers Harold learnt that, after Fulford, Hardrada had moved his main army eight miles west of York to Stamford Bridge where he was still carrying on negotiations both with the burghers of York and Edwin and Morcar. He wanted hostages from both and a substantial ransom in treasure and food for his men. Otherwise he’d torch the city. With their army destroyed, Edwin and Morcar had little to bargain with, except possibly their support for Hardrada if or when William beat Harold. None had any idea at all as to where Harold was, apart from supposing that, in spite of Timor’s message, he would remain in the south at least until William had been defeated.

  The army rested for one afternoon and night at Tadcaster while Harold took stock of the situation. At dawn on the twenty-fifth they broke camp and marched the seventeen miles to Stamford Bridge, arriving two hours before midday . . .

  ‘You’re not telling this very well. It’s boring,’ complained Alain. The others agreed. Walt drank off a glass of purple wine, pulled himself together, picked up a knife, slashed it through a candle flame and let out a terrible, harsh cry -- something between a scream and a bellow. They all jumped in their seats.

  ‘What on earth was that?’ Junipera asked.

  ‘War cry,’ he said, and held his glass out to Adeliza, who refilled it. He drank and continued. There were no more interruptions.

  It was a sunny, warm, but muggy day, some haze and cloud, maybe a rumble of thunder way in the mountains to the west. There was a long ridge ahead, not much of a climb, but we’d been told that the Norsemen were on the other side of it, and that made it seem more than it was. We passed a farmstead, Helmsley it was called, and the kids ran along the side of our column, telling us we’d never beat the Norsemen, they were giants, but they’d done no harrying . . . yet. Seemed quite friendly in fact.

  Near the top Harold called a halt, had a peep over the ridge, then came back. He told us to get the housecarls out of column of march and deployed into a line four deep, two paces between each man, five between each line and then told us, that is the eight of us and his brothers Leofwine and Gyrth, how things were and what he wanted us to do. Down below, he said, there were maybe a thousand on the west side of the river guarding the bridge which was big, a good five paces wide. The main army was spread over the hillside on the far side was open fields, harvested, not ploughed yet, the fences down so the stubble could be grazed and manured. Only the men on the west of the bridge were standing to arms, on the other side they were just lying about round camp-fires, cooking their midday meal, their arms and armour stacked. Near the top of the hill the Land Waster standard drooped above a handful of big tents.

  ‘Right,’ said Harold. ‘I want that thousand on this side sorted in twenty minutes and our first men across the bridge before the main body can get themselves under arms. Wulfric, you keep a thousand men behind the main line. When the rest have cleared the ground you get across the bridge and form up to hold the eastern end. You then either wait for the rest of us to get across or, if the enemy are still not deployed, move in on them, but either way you wait for my say so. All right?’

  So we got off our horses and passed them to the rear, and off we went, up the last fifty yards and over the ridge, a long triple line of us, nearly a thousand paces long. It must have been a shock to the poor buggers below when they saw our shining helmets come over the top. They’d no idea at all there was anything like an army against them nearer than London. We were in the middle, in the second line - Harold, me and Helmric the Golden. Harold had two standards now. Helmric carried the gold lion of Wessex, the flag Ironside had fought under fifty years before, and I carried the new one Harold’s mother had made him. It was on a twelve-foot pole, which weighed a ton after an hour or so, though the flag itself was light, made out of fine wool and silk, so it blew out proudly even in a slight breeze. Eight feet by six, just as Gytha had said it would be, but fastened to the pole vertically, so the Fighting Man filled it. Plain bright green, and the Man in white outline just like he is on the hillside, with his great club and his member stuck up in front of him. The message it sent was ‘I can bash your brains out with my club, fuck your arse with my prick, and, when they see this, your womenfolk will be glad to trade you in for our lot.’ We went down the hill with a shout, a shout like ... he pulled in breath again . . .

  ‘Don’t,’ murmured Junipera warningly.

  All right then. But imagine that shout coming from three thousand throats at once . . .

  Junipera shuddered.

  Of course a lot of them ran for it, most towards the bridge which, wide though it was, clogged up so some fell into the river below where the weight of their armour drowned them; others fled north and south up and down the banks, but a good few got themselves together and held on. But our axes hewed into arms and legs, were swung at heads that ducked and weaved in vain. Soon the red blood flew, splattering shields and mail, and the white bone, shivered like ash-poles splintered for kindling, stuck through wounds and the holes we slashed in their mail. Brains spilled like the meat from an egg. They tried to fight back, to maim and kill us in turn, but their arms were like lead before the fury of our onslaught.

  You see, it was only four days since they’d been in a battle, and no one who has not been in one, wielded axe or sword, held shield firm for half a day or more, and traded blow with blow again and again, and taken knocks too, can know what it takes from you. Within ten of Harold’s twenty minutes the way to the bridge was clear and Wulfric with his thousand surged through our ranks to cross it, for now, just one Norseman, literally just one front all of that thousand, stood in his way.

  At first some of us thought it was Hardrada himself. He was big enough. All of seven feet in his boots and helmet. He had the big bull horns on his helmet, there was gold inlay over its brow and down the noseguard, the lightning flashes of Thor, and you could see he had big red whiskers and beard beneath it. His coat was plate mail, and the plates
shone in the sunlight, and beneath it he had leather guards, also sown with big studs like crotchless trousers over his leggings, and then heavy boots. Behind him, fastened round his neck by the claws and hung for a cloak, he wore the pelt of a great black bear. His shield was big, bright with copper and silver, the red leather covering it polished to shine like metal -- it was tapered, not round, and so skilfully did he manage it that, with everything else he wore and carried, it seemed he was invulnerable.

  In his right hand he had a huge battle axe. Its curved blade, shiny steel, heavy, wedge-like, but honed to a razor edge was an arc at least two feet long. The haft was a yard and a half at least with a spiked ball at the end which was there to give the whole weapon a balance rather than act as a hammer for heads. In short, he was a true Berserker - a title given to the bodyguards of Scandinavian kings, but only when they have earned it by deeds of reckless courage accompanied by true war-fury.

  The bridge itself did not allow more than three ordinary mortals to come at him at once. The first three he quickly despatched, one indeed had his head almost severed so the blood briefly fountained a foot or more above his dangling cranium before his legs folded beneath him; the second had his head stove in from the top, for all he was wearing an iron helmet; and the third took wings and landed in the river to drift into a bed of reeds where the darkness filled his eyes as he bled to death from a wound which, in spite of his mail, left exposed the white foam of his lungs and the shards that had been his ribs.

  After that his attackers were more wary, making darting sallies, using one as a stalking horse while another tried to get in from the other side, but he was alive to all their ruses, and only those who backed off got away with their lives, albeit often mutilated. And all through this the Berserker howled, and bellowed with war fury and killing lust, and in the lulls between our attempts shouted abuse and made obscene gestures.