“We’ll pray daily for their safe return, milord.” She kept her voice calm, but her heart thudded in her ears, her head ached and she was filled with a sense of dread.
Pray God he returns to me.
They’d received no word of the crossing. Had the ships arrived? How had Ram weathered the sea journey? Was he safe? She couldn’t get him out of her head, couldn’t forget the taste of his lips, the feel of his hands. It had been challenging and stimulating to sit discussing the preparations for the invasion, but now it was a reality and the potential loss to the Montbryce family, and to herself, overwhelmed her. An atmosphere of nervous expectancy, tinged with fear, pervaded the castle.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Harold's forces began arriving back on the south coast in groups throughout the day on the thirteenth of October, in the year of Our Lord One Thousand and Sixty-Six. These men had won a hard-fought battle eighteen days before, two hundred and sixty miles to the north and were now expected to fight another.
Harold, his brother, Leofric, and several other knights were poring over charts in Harold’s tent.
“Despite the hardship, morale is high,” Leofric told Harold. “Soundly defeating Hardråda has boosted confidence.”
Harold bit his bottom lip. “But not our numbers. However, we’ve recruited many more to our cause on the trip south, and collected fresh troops in London. I assume a battle is inevitable since no form of parley has been offered. I’ve made the decision to fight William, before he can consolidate any further.”
Leofric put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You’re the King the people of England want, your Majesty. They didn’t want Hardråda, and they certainly don’t want William. Edgar the Aetheling is much too young. You’re the dead Confessor’s brother-by-marriage. He wanted you to have the throne.”
Harold believed the decision of the powerful Witan to support him, instead of Edgar, had nothing to do with the Aetheling’s age. Stigand and Ealdred, the Archbishops of Canterbury and York, and the other powerful members of the Witan, recognized him as the more capable monarch. Harold knew in his heart they were right.
In the few months he’d been king, and despite the conflicts he’d been embroiled in, he’d struck down several iniquitous laws, and established just ones. He’d ordered thieves and wrongdoers arrested, and had improved England’s land and sea defences, placing infantry garrisons at key points along the coast.
Now he needed to clear his head after the long ride from the north, and concentrate on the coming battle. Some, including his own mother, advised him to wait before joining William in battle, but he was adamant. He hoped the confidence in his voice would resonate with his commanders as faced them squarely, one hand on the hilt of his sword, his back rigid, his crowned head held high. “We can’t afford to give the Norman time to make friends and allies in England. My decision to surprise the Norwegians is what brought about their defeat.”
One knight raised his hand, as if to speak, but Harold’s glare silenced him.
“We will fight William now. We need to choose the location of the battle with care.”
He looked around for any further signs of opposition but saw none. “I’ve opted for Caldbec Hill for a number of reasons. It gives a natural advantage because of its all round visibility. It’s protected on each flank by marshy ground, and there’s a forest behind it. It’s easy to reach from London and is close to William's position.”
Many indicated their understanding and agreement.
“The Old Hoare Apple Tree is a well known landmark and will make an excellent rallying point. By nightfall, I estimate at least seventy-five hundred of our men should have arrived. Preparations must be laid to challenge William as soon as possible. He’s in Hastings. Tomorrow is Saturday. I was born on a Saturday, and my mother has always said it’s my lucky day.”
At first light, the English set off towards the enemy. The common soldiers wore conical leather helmets, the wealthier helmets of iron and as much clothing as possible under their hauberks, to serve as padding. The rich knights had hauberks with hoods worn under the helmets. All were on foot, armed with battle-axes, swords, shields and spears.
Gyrth came to the King. He went down on one knee before his brother. “Harold, there will be great danger in the coming battle. Let me take your place to lead the army against the Normans. You’re too important, as our monarch, to expose yourself, especially tired as you are after Stamford Bridge. England can’t risk losing her King.”
Harold took Gyrth’s hand and pulled him from his knees. “No, Gyrth. I thank you for your love and concern. William is deliberately victimizing my people in Sussex. It’s personal now. I’ll lead our victory against him.”
***
Prayers were offered in the Norman camp throughout the night prior to the battle, and the men confessed their sins. Ram sought out his brothers and they received the Sacrament of Penance together. He wanted to clear the air, once and for all, between Antoine and himself. He’d never truly believed his brother had a relationship with his future wife, but the unfounded jealousy was there, in the back of his thoughts. Mabelle had uttered Antoine’s name at the lake. He and his brother could both die during the coming battle. Antoine had sensed his coolness, he was sure. The crackling campfire held their gazes.
“Antoine, brother, there’s no easy way to ask you this, but I must.”
“I know something’s on your mind, Ram, something that’s bothered you for months.”
“It’s Mabelle.”
Antoine shook his head. “I’ve never understood why you didn’t marry her that day. I was ashamed of you, I have to admit, the way you treated her. You’re lucky she still speaks to you.”
Ram hesitated. “You’re part of the reason I didn’t.”
Antoine looked startled. “Me?”
“I chanced upon Mabelle in the woods, on my way home that day. She seemed to be waiting for someone.”
Hugh and Antoine looked up suddenly. “And you thought it was I? Why?”
“She spoke your name.”
“My name? What do you mean?”
“When she first saw me, she thought I was you.”
Antoine had straightened his back. He stared intently at Ram. “I’m confused. You saw her in the woods, and she thought you were me?”
Ram shifted uncomfortably on his camp stool. Now he would have to tell the whole story. “She was asleep.”
“In the woods?”
“She’d been bathing—at the lake—and fell asleep.”
Antoine looked at Hugh and the two burst out laughing, drawing the curious stares of other knights nearby. Hugh almost fell off his stool.
When Antoine could speak again, he stammered, “What you’re trying to tell us, older brother, is that you stumbled across Mabelle lying naked in the woods and—but, wait a moment—did you know who she was?”
“Non. And she wasn’t naked. Not quite, anyway.”
“So, let me see if I have this right.” Antoine held up his thumb. “One, on the way to your wedding, you stopped to watch an unknown, almost naked maiden?”
He held up his forefinger. “Two, you became angry with me?”
His middle finger popped up. “Three, you were so furious with her, because she thought you were me, that you called off the wedding.”
Another fit of laughter from Hugh caused Antoine to pause.
“I knew something had happened that day. I could tell there was tension between you,” his younger brother said.
“Four,” Antoine continued, “You’re an idiot, and five, you should fall to your knees and ask the woman’s forgiveness.” He thrust his five outstretched digits in front of Ram’s reddened face.
His brothers continued to mock him, and soon he was laughing and shaking his head at his own folly. He stood and dragged Antoine off his stool and into his embrace, choking back tears. “I’m sorry, Antoine. Forgive me. When I’m near Mabelle, I lose my senses.”
“That’s called love, brothe
r,” Antoine replied.
Ram’s spine stiffened. “I have no time for love.”
“You’re a fool if you drive her away,” Antoine said gently.
They talked for an hour about their father, their family, their castle, their orchards. Each swore to bring honour to the Montbryce name. Despite their earlier laughter, Hugh’s wide eyes, tense lips and crossed arms told Ram his brother was terrified.
“Hugh, there’s no shame in feeling fear. I’m afraid, as is Antoine. My gut is tied in knots. Any man who tells you he’s not afraid this night is a liar. The important thing is not to let the fear control you. Bravery is born of fear. Engrave our family motto on your heart, as it is on your shield, Fidelity and Valour.”
“I know. I can’t stop shaking but I’m not a coward.”
***
William ordered a Mass to be said, during which he placed around his neck the relics on which Harold had sworn his oath. He assembled his army, and informed them what was expected. Astride his destrier, William proclaimed, “It’s all or nothing. There’s no going back without a victory. We will win because we are the righteous side.”
He intoned a laisse of the Song of Roland to inspire his soldiers with that warlike example.
His castles all in ruin have you hurled,
With catapults his ramparts have you burst,
Vanquished his men, and all his cities burned.
The Normans set off from the coast in a long column, because of the forested terrain, their wagons loaded with sharpened weapons, armour and provisions. Startled birds took flight as the horde marched through the trees. No words were exchanged. Did each man ponder his future, or his past, hypnotised by the muffled sounds of horses’ hooves and leather booted feet, as they made their way to the inevitable horror ahead. Did each rider focus on the swaying tail of the horse ahead, as he did, sphincter muscles clenched?
They completed the nine mile march behind the Papal banner. William set up his command post behind the cavalry. Ram joined him astride Fortis.
“It’s as well the situation is coming to a conclusion. Morale is beginning to wane amongst the foot soldiers.” William confided. “They’re less concerned about moral crusades, and promises of wealth to the nobility, than staying alive.”
Ram quickly checked his equipment, the hooded hauberk and iron helmet, spear, shield and trusty sword in its scabbard. He smiled at a brief memory of Mabelle heaving Honneur into a muddy pond but quickly banished the thought. He couldn’t afford to be distracted from the dire business at hand. His hauberk, with three layers of metal circles, looped and soldered together, would give him good protection, especially with the extra rectangular breastplate of chain mail secured to protect his chest. The bottom of his hauberk tunic, split at front and back, covered his thighs like a skirt, and made riding more comfortable. He wished it covered the lower part of his long legs but would have to make sure the pointed end of his tapering wooden shield did that. He was proud of his leather covered shield, one of the few with a coat of arms. Fide et Virtute.
Vaillon had shaved the back of Ram’s head, Norman style. He would be doing a lot of sweating this day, and couldn’t afford to have his vision obscured. The nosepiece of his helmet, protecting his nose, and to some extent his eyes, was enough of a distraction.
William positioned his army looking towards Caldbec Hill. Ram’s gaze ranged slowly over the front ranks of archers, then to the six rows of infantry behind them, and then to the cavalry, the fearsome Bretons on the left, the Flemish contingent on the right, the Normans in the centre. As he surveyed the daunting sight, Rambaud de Montbryce knew with dire certainty this would be a different fight from any he’d been in before. It would be a mighty battle to the death that would change the course of history. His own, his country’s and his Duke’s.
Immense pride and sheer terror coursed through his veins.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“We will meet his challenge,” Harold shouted decisively, seeing the Normans take up their position. “Move the men down from Caldbec Hill to within five hundred yards of the enemy. The Normans won’t deploy a shield wall.”
His housecarls were in the front rank and were responsible for forming the shield wall, developed by Alfred the Great and used ever since. This tactic was particularly effective against the initial onslaught in any battle. Behind the housecarls were the fyrd, or militia, ten deep, led by the thanes who carried swords and javelins. Many of the ordinary soldiers were armed with iron-studded clubs, slings, reaping hooks, scythes and haying forks. Harold set up his command post behind them, centrally positioned to give him an elevated view of proceedings. Confidence coursed through him, heating his warrior blood.
It was still early in the morning. He ordered the signal to be given. His standard bearer raised the Wessex Wyvern dragon and waved it proudly. Suddenly on the air came the Saxon battle cries, “Godemite”, “Oli Crosse”.
The Normans responded with a plea for God’s help, “Que Dieu nous aide.”
Trumpets sounded. The pivotal battle began.
“What’s that fool doing?” screamed William, as one of his men broke ranks to rush forward alone, juggling swords, to attack the Saxons. He was quickly cut down, after managing to slay a standard bearer of the astonished Saxons.
“Loose the arrows,” William commanded. The Norman archers let fly their arrows in a concentrated barrage. This had limited success against the shield wall. A serious problem soon became apparent to Ram. “Your Grace,” he shouted breathlessly, when he arrived back at the command post. “I’m not sure why, but the English are not using archers, and we require an exchange of arrows to keep the ammunition levels up. We’ll soon run out.”
William cursed. “If that happens, our archers are not trained for hand to hand fighting. Bring forward the crossbows.”
Ram shook his head. “But, your Grace, the Pope has forbidden the use of crossbows. We’re fighting Christians.”
William clenched his fist. “We must win. We must defeat Harold. That’s our only concern, and crossbow bolts are more effective against shields.”
“Oui, your Grace.”
With prearranged hand signals, William ordered his foot soldiers forward. The English responded. The quiet of the countryside soon filled with the clang of swords, the sickening thud of clubs on helmets and bone, the battle cries of the living, and the groans of the dying. Iron helmets and weapons clashed. The English on the high ground had the advantage. The Saxon line remained virtually untouched, the arrows having done little damage to the impenetrable armoured monster. The barrage of traditional weapons as well as anything that could be collected in the vicinity, including rocks from homemade slingshots, caused serious problems to William's men.
“We’ll need the cavalry earlier than I would have wished,” William shouted. “Too many heavy casualties.” He turned, looking for someone. “Montbryce,” he yelled, as Ram galloped into view.
“Your Grace?”
“Order the cavalry to charge on the shield wall, before it advances much further.”
Ram rode at full speed into the bloody mayhem, to deliver the order to the cavalry. Both his beloved brothers were among the mounted Norman ranks. He encouraged his horse, knowing the weight, speed and impact of Fortis might prove to be his best weapon against the unmounted Saxons. Secure in the large saddle, raised front and back to give him a solid seat, he used his spurs sparingly on the beloved horse. “I’m thankful it’s you beneath me, Fortis. Many questioned the wisdom and necessity of bringing horses on the ships, but I would wager they see the right of it now. You could be the difference between victory and defeat.”
Why is the English army not using its horses? Perhaps neither the horses nor the men are trained to fight as cavalry.
As a youth he’d learned to fight from horseback as a noble pursuit. The idea of a mounted elite was a heroic notion in Normandie and Bretagne, as Mabelle had rightly observed. But now, hard as the Normans tried, they couldn’t break down the shi
eld wall. The Saxons brought down riders and horses with a single blow of their lethal Danish battle axes. The slope, quickly becoming a muddy slide, made a speedy ascent difficult for the horses. Fortis struggled as Ram swung and hacked with his sword, severing limbs and heads.
He noticed suddenly that the much feared Bretons, on the left, were having a particularly difficult time. They retreated back down the hill, and Ram watched in horror, left with no alternative but to go back to the command post. The corded muscles of his sword arm were on fire, his face spattered with blood and muck. His heart raced. He turned back to look at the scene of chaotic terror. He caught sight of another Montbryce shield, the knight carrying it still mounted, and breathed a sigh of relief.
Hugh or Antoine?
“The retreat of the Bretons leaves us vulnerable to a pincer attack,” William bellowed. “Our men are panicking.” He cursed and Ram sensed he could see his dreams of taking the English throne in serious jeopardy. Ram thought he might never see Mabelle again.
Why do my thoughts go to her?
Rumour started to spread along the ranks that William had been killed. Panic was widespread amongst the Normans. The Bretons were in full retreat back down the hill but were slowed down on the lower slopes by the stream and marshy ground below, giving the Saxons more opportunity to inflict casualties on them.
The rumour of his death reached William and infuriated him. “I am not dead yet,” he shouted in loud disgust, pushing his helmet to the back of his head. He rode along the ranks that still stood to dispel the rumour. “Look at me! There is no way back. You are fighting for your lives.”
“You’re Grace,” Ram panted, swallowing hard. “Look. Eude is rallying the cavalry.” Two of William’s commanders, his half brother, Bishop Eude, and Eustace of Boulogne, had indeed seen the action on the left flank, and were rallying their confused cavalry. They rode to the area the Saxons had advanced to. Seeing the horses approaching, the Saxon infantry broke off battle and tried to return to their lines. The uphill trek proved to be too far, and they were cut down by the Norman cavalry. Ram suddenly saw his gentle brother Hugh viciously strike down an enemy soldier, but then lost sight of him.
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