In the cool quiet of the October evening, while the flames flickered silently, Harold and his friend were alone in the church. Edmund looked on while Harold lay before Christ upon the cross, stretched out on the stone floor, humbled in prayer; above him the figure of Christ, carved in black flint, his head held high, staring out into the vastness of eternity.
Hidden in the shadows, Edmund looked on and in the darkness thought he detected a movement, although he had heard not a single sound. Everything was familiar, yet something was strange, and there in the dim light he saw it. No longer was Christ standing proud on the cross; his head now hung in sorrow, his chin upon his chest. His eyes, full of pity, gazed upon the prostrate Harold. Edmund felt a shiver run through his body; his spine tingled and his stomach tightened. Nausea swept through him. Suppressing the urge to faint, he looked on as Harold rose to his feet and made his way to the door before leaving for the great hall. Edmund looked once more to the figure on the cross and noticed a trail of tears running down the face. As tears streamed down his own cheeks, he silently made his way to his cell, avoiding all others so as not to betray his secret.
Outside the abbey, Harold, all alone under the stars, made his way to Edyth. As he passed under the tower, its high double windows seemed to look down on him. He was disappointed not to find her at home; she had left to join him on his journey to Hastings.
Early on Wednesday 11th October, even as the last of the stragglers from Stamford Bridge were still making their way down the Great North Road, Harold led his army out of London. In the cold early morning small crowds gathered to say farewell, cheer and shout encouragement. But the leaving was a sombre affair; no housecarl was mounted, as the King’s horses were still recovering from their journey. The few horses fit to use were pulling the carts in the baggage train. The soldiers, on foot, ambled slowly by, tired before they began. True, as their journey progressed, fresh soldiers from Sussex and Kent joined them, so they consoled themselves with the thought that at least some of them would feel fresh when the battle started, but three days’ march lay ahead.
Harold rode, as usual, at the head of the column with his brothers. Haakon rode with them, looking every bit the English noble warrior, holding the banner of the fighting man proudly aloft. By Haakon’s side rode Skalpi, the golden dragon of Wessex flying above his head. Edmund, Harold’s friend and spiritual mentor, was by his side, as always in times of trouble. Behind them were his own housecarls with Finn and Thorkell at their head, followed by Azur and his men. After them came the thanes he had recruited in London, including sheriffs and abbots from Berkshire, Buckinghamshire, Oxfordshire and Kent; then there were the men raised by the fyrd, mainly from southern England, including a few from East Anglia. Bondi would join Harold at the old apple tree with men from the southwest. Behind the column came the camp followers - wives and lovers, girlfriends and daughters and unrecognised in her veil, Edyth Swan neck with Lady Gytha for company.
Leaving London had been a sorry affair. Aldytha begged him not to go. Ulf and Edgar begged him to take them with him. Stigand and Wulfstan blessed him and his troops and were there to see them leave, watching as the procession turned over London Bridge to cross over the river, disappearing from view, snaking southward.
Harold hoped to reach Rochester by nightfall but his hopes were in vain. Twenty-eight miles were a few miles too far for his tired foot soldiers; they slept at the side of the road in tents, hastily made bivouacs or under the stars in their leather sleeping bags.
The following day was a struggle. After breakfast and an early start the army made its way into the arboreal depths of the Andredeswald. The leaves on the trees ranged through every hue of gold, red and yellow; there was still some green amongst the ferrous colours of autumn. Underfoot was wet and muddy. For those in the rear the conditions were made worse by the thousands of feet in front churning up the ground.
The journey to Hastings, though shorter than to Stamford, was no less arduous. Any man without a horse, and there were many, had to walk, carrying his own weapons, equipment and supplies. They covered much less distance in a day than they had done on the way north, but felt much more tired. The forest unsettled them. Every man present had heard tales of beasts and hairy men with no necks that killed travellers and ate their children alive. Some said there were people who had lived in the forest since before Roman times and would murder an Englishman on sight. None looked forward to passing the night there, with who knew what lurking in the shadows, ready to spring out and savage a man at any moment. But at least there was plenty of firewood to keep the fires burning big and bright once the sun went down.
Friday, 13th October
After a restless night, Harold’s army began the final leg of its journey, leaving the quiet forest behind them; the army began to encounter evidence of the Norman presence.
By late afternoon, the head of the column arrived in what was recently Whatlington. This was one of Harold’s villages, a place he knew well, where his late father was still fondly remembered. There was an eerie stillness about the place; even the wheel on the water mill hung rigid. It was obvious for all to see that the horror stories they had heard from refugees were all too true. Skalpi, without thinking, handed his banner to Haakon, dismounted and raced over to the mill. He stopped in his tracks when he came across the body of Aelfryth’s brother lying outside the doorway, in the street where he had fallen. Tentatively, he made his way into the building where he found the stench overpowering. He felt himself heave and instinctively made for the nearest window; leaning through as far as he could, he retched violently. It was only after he had emptied his stomach that he noticed the body of a baby, his little son, trapped in the mill wheel. Staggering back in shock he noticed the congealed blood all over the floor. He looked up to see dark stained wood above his head. Stiff limbed like a cadaver, Skalpi made his way up the stairs. When he got there the sight that greeted his eyes made him wail; he knew it was his wife, his true love.
The instant he heard the soul-searing sound of Skalpi’s scream, Harold realised his friend had stumbled upon something terrible. He entered the mill to hear Skalpi whimpering upstairs. When he entered the room, his comrade was on his knees beside Aelfryth’s body. Tears streaming down his face, his mutterings incoherent, he surely wanted to hold his wife once more in his arms. What husband would not? But decay and its fragrant accomplices kept them apart.
‘There’s nothing we can do for her, Skalpi. Come with me. I’ll send a party in here and we’ll give her a proper Christian burial in the church grounds.’
‘And the baby?’
‘The baby?’
Harold looked around for a baby but saw nothing.
‘He’s trapped in the mill wheel. They must have thrown him there.’
Harold helped Skalpi to his feet and guided him to the top of the stairs. The housecarl moved slowly down the steps of the mill that he had worked so hard for.
Harold turned and took a last look at the body. In the silent mill the only sounds he could hear were Skalpi’s footfalls and the buzzing of flies.
‘Edmund,’ called the King, his hand placed gently on his old friend’s back for comfort, ‘I need you to form a burial party. I’d like you to start with Aelfryth.’
‘Oh no. They didn’t …’
‘I’m afraid so. Would you take care of her?’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘The body of their baby’s trapped in the mill rush.’
‘Oh God, poor Skalpi.’
‘Her brother’s body is lying just outside the mill where they killed him. Would you see that they’re all buried together?’
‘Of course, my Lord.’
While Edmund pressed members of the fyrd into helping him, Harold rode to the remains of the church. Its walls were still standing and a few roof beams remained. The body of Father Aethelweard lay where it had fallen, as did his parishioner’s. Like the roof beams, they were charred. Three crows perched in a line upon the body of the parishione
r, helping themselves to a free meal.
As Harold stared at the remains of the priest, struggling to come to terms with the emotions he felt, his brothers rode up beside him. Leofwine, extremely agitated, looked this way and that, pointing, swearing; giving voice to his rage, anger and grief. But Gyrth sat white-faced and silent astride his horse. He was the first to speak.
‘Let’s get down to Hastings right away and teach the bastard a lesson.’
His speech was calm and measured but he did not look directly at anyone. He stared into space as though talking to himself, in a quiet but determined kind of way.
‘Yes. You’re right,’ replied Harold, eager to prevent another massacre. He then gathered the men together, leaving Edmund to direct the burial party. Lady Gytha stayed with the priest in order to see what could be salvaged and to give help and comfort to those few villagers who remained. Scouts were sent up to Caldbec to check for the enemy. The English army left more resolute in its purpose to destroy the invader. Weary limbs had been infused with vitality by Norman barbarity.
Making his way across Sussex, Harold came across more evidence of savagery. Each village he came to had been wasted. At each one a party was left to take care of the dead and any survivors brave enough to show themselves. Exhausted, the tired army marched on towards the old apple tree, were it would camp. Tomorrow the soldiers could rest and probably on Sunday too, for now they would concentrate on reaching their destination.
All around them the sun shone, picking out the colours of autumn in the trees, a truly glorious celebration of nature. All around, falling leaves would spiral to the ground, sunlight making them flicker as they fell. The sun also brought out the rich, sweet scent of the warm, damp earth.
At twilight that Friday, Harold led the English army to the old grey apple tree high on Caldbec Hill. When they saw the skeleton of the tree against the skyline, almost every soldier to a man gave a sigh of relief before taking heart and pressing on with renewed vigour. The first men to arrive were the least weary, but even these men were fatigued. Ponderously they went about lighting fires, setting up tents, building shelters and preparing food for the pot, watched by three horsemen further down the hill, hidden in the dark shadows of the woods. The horsemen were Norman scouts returning from patrol. Their leader, Vital, had stopped to relieve himself against a tree. Idly looking about him, he heard, and then saw, his enemy approach. His heart skipped a beat and then pounded a little faster with the excitement of knowing they were entirely unaware of him and his men. Within a minute Vital had finished his business, mounted his horse and with his comrades, quietly dissolved into the darkness. Within an hour he would appear in Hastings to tell Duke William, who would order his men to stand to until dawn. He informed his commanders that in the morning they would ride out to meet Harold. While William made plans, priests heard confessions all through the night.
In the swelling English camp there was a relaxed atmosphere. The men had achieved their objective; they had blocked the road to London and trapped Duke William in the Hastings peninsula. Now they could look forward to a good night’s sleep and wake in the morning at their leisure. If the Normans should spot them tomorrow, what would it matter? It would take at least three hours for Duke William to bring his men to face them. It would be noon at the earliest before he could fight and no matter how good the Normans were at fighting, no matter how brave, how determined, it would take more than an afternoon to beat the English.
Yes, tomorrow should be an easy day, each man told himself. William would probably stay hidden behind his palisades. Sunday would probably be quiet too. The English had heard how the Normans were reluctant to fight on the Lord’s Day. So after a nice rest, Monday would see them busy.
Harold entered his tent, fastening the flaps behind him. Inside, already curled up in bed, lay Edyth. She had never accompanied him on any previous campaign, but he was glad she had come with him this time.
‘Hello, I didn’t see you come in,’ he said, when he saw her.
‘I can be sneaky when I choose.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Harold replied, sitting on the bed to take off his boots.
They were both thinking of the day’s journey, although it was not the ride but the horror they had seen that had taken its toll; hellish visions of devastated villages ran through their minds. Harold was acutely aware that as much as they had disturbed him, for Edyth, who had never seen such sights, the effect must be so much worse.
Harold climbed into the bed made warm by his lover. As they embraced she held him firmly and said, ‘We have to destroy him, Harold, we have to. We have no choice.’
‘I know, Edyth, I know. Don’t worry. This time next week we’ll be back in London.’
But, she thought, they would not. He would be in London; she would be in Waltham.
Harold read her thoughts in her eyes. ‘All this will work out, you’ll see,’ he assured her as he leaned over to blow out the lantern to prevent their silhouettes showing on the wall of the tent.
As they made love, the English army, full of tired men lying in the darkness under a cloudy sky, struggled to sleep on the cold, hard ground and in the chilly night air.
14th October, 1066
Harold woke in the grey light of dawn; beside him Edyth lay sleeping. Quietly, without disturbing his lover, he rose from his bed. Shivering, he peered out through the tent flap to see the ghostly sight of the dew-sodden English camp. He was surprised to see no sign of frost. Mist was all around, hanging in the air, joined by the eager smoke from a few fires. He decided to dress and make an inspection of the camp.
Enjoying the warmth of his heavy winter cloak, Harold made his way through tents and bivouacs. It was a little lighter now and the sun was warming the soldiers, who through the long cold night had had difficulty sleeping. Comfortable at last, they slept on while Harold sneaked stealthily round the silent camp, totting up their number. There was much guesswork. Some men slept in the open but those who had the shelter of cover he had to estimate. He needed to know how many men had arrived during the night. By the time he had finished, he guessed seven or eight thousand men, perhaps enough to do the job, perhaps not, but he reassured himself with the knowledge that more troops were on their way to join them. Most would be with him before nightfall and many more the day after that.
Satisfied, Harold began to make his way back to his tent. The sun felt warm on his face as he returned to Edyth. On the roof of his tent the dew drops had collected like jewels, sparkling brightly. As he pulled aside the door to enter, many of them slipped to the ground. Once inside he found Edyth still asleep. He sat down on the bed, leaned over and kissed her. Slowly she stirred. Harold looked at her in the early morning light, surprised to see the face of the girl he had first seen all those years ago. In all that time she appeared not to have aged at all.
Six miles away in Hastings, Duke William had already attended mass and was now astride his horse, addressing his men before preparing to lead them into battle. He made an impressive sight on his black charger, his noblemen ranged behind him. Around his neck he wore the relics on which Harold had sworn his oath, a reminder to all that the oath was broken and for Harold, the saints’ protection was forfeited.
As the troops filed by, William began to make a speech designed to raise morale. ‘This is the day on which you will show the English your strength and your courage. Remember, victory is sweet but defeat is bitter, bitter as death. Today you will fight for your very lives, but victory will be yours and with victory comes honour and fortune. But should your courage leave you, should you find emptiness instead of boldness in your hearts, then you may expect to be butchered by the merciless barbarians.
‘Look around you. Behind you is the sea, where an English fleet waits for anyone cowardly enough to desert the field of battle. Ahead, the English army blocks our way to London. But, you must ask yourselves, what kind of army is it that stands before you? I’ll tell you: it is an army that has been cut to pieces by our kins
men, the Norsemen. It is an army whose best men lie dead in Yorkshire; an army exhausted from its long marches. There is no escaping destiny. Today we will be victorious. Only be bold! Be bold!’ William waved his mace above his head as he spoke. His men cheered in response.
‘Onward! Follow me!’
The Duke jabbed a spur into his horse’s side and moved off, his nobles and his men following in jubilant mood. After a few paces, William FitzOsbern moved up to his side.
‘So, the day has finally dawned,’ announced Duke William.
‘Finally, my Lord. Finally.’
‘Oh, I knew this day would arrive, FitzOsbern. You knew it too, even when we were stuck on the Dives, even when the fleet was washed up on the shores of Ponthieu.’ Then the Duke focused straight into FitzOsbern’s eyes. ‘But I knew it even before Godwinson set foot in Normandy. I’ve always known it.’
‘Ah, you mean the dream.’
‘Not so much a dream as a prophecy, eh? But it’s not just that; it’s a question of will. You simply decide what you want and then you grasp it with all your determination. You do not flinch; you do not allow yourself to be distracted. You disregard criticism, you dispose of enemies and discard those who call themselves your friend but simply get in your way. Of course, you need to be favoured by God as I am. I know I can rely on divine intervention. Do you know why?’
‘Why, my Lord?’
‘Because my faith is unyielding.’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘The Pope must think so; he’s given me his blessing. And do you know what else, FitzOsbern?’
‘What, my Lord?’
‘Tomorrow I shall be King of England,’ said William with absolute certainty.
Twenty miles to the west of Duke William, Bondi was eating breakfast with eleven hundred men from the western counties. They were mainly thanes, but volunteers had joined them on their journey. None of them had been at Stamford Bridge; all of them were fresh, well equipped and eager for battle.
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