by Jodi Taylor
‘Any questions?
There were none.
‘Right, we meet in Hawking at 09:30 Monday morning. Thank you, everyone.’
We arrived an hour before dawn on the 14th October. I called up Number Six. Clerk reported they were all present and correct. We wished each other good luck and closed the link.
Remembering the stuffiness at Stamford Bridge, we had the door open while we could, listening in the dark. In the distance we could hear the noises made by tens of thousands of men, their horses, the armourers, blacksmiths, cooks and so on. You can’t keep an army quiet. We could see their cooking fires dotting the landscape. An occasional voice was raised in song.
‘This time tomorrow it will all be over,’ I said.
‘It will all be gone,’ said Bashford. ‘A nation, a way of life, a culture, a language.’
‘Not so,’ said Atherton. ‘Yes, it all disappears for a while, but it’s the Normans who eventually vanish, don’t they? Swallowed up, you could say. And what emerges three hundred years from today, is England and the English.’
We stood quietly, radiating Englishness. Except for Sykes, of course, proud daughter of Caledonia, stern and wild.
The sun rose and we got cracking.
Admittedly, we were a long way off, but it did seem to us that it was William who made the effort to avoid the conflict.
We watched his envoys leave the Norman lines, unarmoured, cantering easily up the hill. A small force detached themselves from the Saxon ranks and met them half way. Harold’s personal banner, the Fighting Man, fluttered above them. His other emblem, the Red Dragon of Wessex, remained with his army.
If this was what we thought it was, then William was offering Harold all the land north of the Humber and promising to confirm him as Earl of Wessex. I suspected the Saxons would be informing the Normans that Harold already ruled over all the land north of the Humber, and was not only already Earl of Wessex, but King of England to boot.
The Normans would go on to remind them of Harold’s oath – his very public oath – to support William’s claim to the throne. They would go on to advise Harold that he was forsworn, a perjurer and that the Pope, Alexander II, had excommunicated him from the church.
This last was a big thing. The pronouncements of a pope a thousand miles away might seem unimportant to us today, but in this time, to be excommunicated was the worst thing that could happen to anyone. Worse even than death. Because if you died then your soul went unshriven and you couldn’t get into heaven.
Harold would remind them the oath was extracted by trickery and therefore not valid. Neither side would budge from their points of view and the parley would fail.
The battle was about to begin.
We weren’t sure what to expect. All the primary sources contradict each other. We knew the battle started around nine in the morning and would last until sunset. We knew that it took place seven miles north of Hastings. And we knew that William won. Apart from that…
We were crouched at the console, cameras rolling already so we could identify which banner belonged to whom on our return to St Mary’s. We had the sound turned up, all ready to go. The uneasy calm dragged on. Both sides were contemplating the other. Horses stamped and snorted. Occasionally, one would rear up with impatience, unsettling those on either side of him. Their riders would haul them back under control again and the silence would resume. The Saxons were motionless, their banners hanging limply in the heat. If William though he could tempt them down from their advantageous position, then he was very much mistaken.
And advantageous it was. His men might be exhausted from their recent forced marches to and from Stamford Bridge, but Harold had commanded them to dig a ditch and embankment. Atop the embankment the Saxons had piled breastworks – a combination of thickly packed brushwood and outward-facing stakes to deter the cavalry. They looked impregnable.
‘Here we go,’ said Bashford and at the same moment, trumpets sounded and to roars of encouragement from the Norman ranks and shouts of derision from the Saxons, William opened the batting with his archers – moving them up the hill until they were within range.
The Saxons hooted their contempt at this move and they were right.
William’s archers might have proved their worth across the Channel, but here they were useless. They were shooting uphill and the angle was wrong. Many arrows overshot, flying uselessly over Saxon heads. Others thudded impotently into Saxon shields.
They were worse than useless, in fact. The Saxons didn’t use bows in battle – axes and swords were their weapons of choice – and because there was no returning fire, the archers soon ran out of arrows, and suddenly, far from being an effective fighting force, they were alone, exposed and defenceless.
Even worse – for the archers, that is – the Saxons might not have had arrows, but they did have axes, stones, and excellent throwing arms. Missiles rained down upon William’s unprotected men.
More trumpets sounded, and with a roar, William’s infantry hurled itself up the hill. Shouts of ‘Dex Aie’ – God Aid Us – filled the air.
Brandishing their spears and swords, they surged up the hill like the tide coming in, smashing their way through the breastworks. They negotiated the ditch only to run full tilt into the shield wall. The almighty crash was drowned out by the guttural Saxon, ‘Ut! Ut! Ut!‘
In vain did the infantry strive to reach the enemy, safe behind their wall of shields. They crashed to the ground in their scores. The Saxon axes easily penetrated the Norman armour. The ditch was fast filling up with Norman dead and wounded and the Saxons hadn’t given one single inch.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Bashford. ‘They’re going down like flies. However did William manage to win this?’
The answer being, of course, that William didn’t win it – Harold lost it.
And now, William unleashed his cavalry. Slowly at first, the horses moved forwards – a sea of colour and pennants. The remains of the Norman infantry slipped back through the advancing cavalry. As soon as they were clear, the riders picked up the pace.
They thundered up the hill in two long, solid lines. We could feel the earth shake from all the way back here. There were no lances – the ground wasn’t suitable – but the riders leaned forwards, swords raised, a solid mass of horseflesh bearing down on the Saxon front line, now only yards away.
The remains of the breastworks shattered on impact, but for William’s knights, the ditch was not so easily overcome. The front rank of horses floundered and lost momentum. Some fell into the ditch, dragging their riders down with them. Some of the second rank went down as well, their horses crashing to their knees, and many, unable to stop, rode straight over the top of their fallen comrades.
The ditch was full of panicking horses, heads straining, their eyes rolling, forelegs scrabbling in panic as they struggled to escape, their massive iron-shod hooves trampling those around them. Their riders were scarcely less terrified, clambering over each other in their desperation to escape before another wave of horses crashed down on top of them.
We could hear the screaming and the war cries from those so far uninjured, but easily over everything we could hear the Saxons, still in place and still shouting their battle cry. ‘Out! Out! Ut! Ut!‘ A terrifying sound, especially when they clashed their axes on their shields in time with the words.
With his archers out of the game, his spearmen in retreat and much of his cavalry down, things really weren’t going well for William, who showed his true valour at this crucial moment. Love or loathe the man, he was a leader to his fingertips. He led the next charge, making himself an easy target as his personal banner followed along behind him. The now familiar golden lions of Normandy rose above the chaos of the battlefield. We still have lions on our flag today.
His huge white destrier galloped towards the Saxon lines, foam flying from his bit, with William seemingly dragging his Norman knights behind him by brute strength alone. His horse soared over the ditch, still filled with struggli
ng horses and men. He met the shield wall with a roar, his sword arm rising and falling as he hacked at those standing between him and his kingdom.
It was a disaster. His presence made no difference at all. The shield wall never wavered. The Saxons repelled this attack as they had the others and stood firm, their lines unbroken.
For William, catastrophe beckoned. His left wing, led by Alain the Red and consisting mainly of Bretons, Poitevins and Rhine auxiliaries began to waver. Losses on this wing were particularly heavy. Beaten back by swords, stones, axes, javelins, and anything else that could be picked up and thrown at them, the entire left wing broke and fled. Men and horses turned tail and ran. The whole left side of William’s army was collapsing. Fleeing for their lives. And worse, the centre and right wing began to give way as well.
It was so very, very nearly the turning point of the battle for William, and as if things couldn’t get any worse, it was at this crucial moment that his standard bearer’s horse was killed. I watched the lions waver and then, quite suddenly, they disappeared from view.
A huge groan went up from the Norman ranks. We could hear men shouting.
I couldn’t make out the words over everything else happening at the time, but I guessed word was going out that the duke was dead. All across the Norman lines, men stopped. Swords fell. They looked ready to turn and run.
That’s the one problem with a strong leader. This was William’s army. They were William’s men. Brought here on William’s ships. To fulfil William’s destiny. And without William, they might as well go home.
I think that was the thought uppermost in everyone’s minds. Norman and Saxon alike. The Saxons clashed their shields, their guttural battle cries filled the air.
‘There he is,’ said Sykes suddenly, as a blood-splattered white horse broke free of the ranks, racing up and down in front of the Norman army. The rider pulled off his helmet and waved it above his head. It was William – still alive, still fighting, and obviously expecting everyone else to get on with it and do the bloody same.
His men recognised him. A shout went out. Slowly, ponderously, the Norman ranks began to reorganise themselves.
Not all of them were so easily recalled, however. The weak and wobbly left wing continued its headlong flight, as they thought, to safety. Sadly for them, they fell straight into the arms of the battling Bishop of Bayeux, William’s half-brother Odo, last encountered at the oath-taking ceremony, and obviously determined not to let any of those inconvenient ecclesiastical vows of humility and forgiveness get in the way of a cracking good fight.
I knew the other team was focusing on William’s army, and this was too good an opportunity to miss. ‘There,’ I said. ‘Mr Bashford, focus on Odo, please.’ Bashford nodded and angled a camera.
There has been some controversy recently about Odo’s part in the battle. Whether he was, in fact, an early example of muscular Christianity. I can’t speak for other occasions, but on this day it would be fair to say that Odo was a man who really knew how to encourage and inspire those suffering a temporary lack of bottle, and seeking the quickest exit from a bloody battlefield. I’m not sure whether, in our modern times, this skill is still listed as a ‘must have’ in a bishop’s job spec – although I do know that when confronted with an egg-throwing critic outside her palace last year, the current Archbishop of Canterbury caught it neatly and threw it back. Apparently her popularity soared and even I have to say she damned near converted me on the spot when I saw it on TV that night.
Anyway, there was no doubt that Bishop Odo was a major factor in stemming the rout, laying about him with his own staff and driving the fleeing men back to face the Saxons. He was a big man, like his brother, and wearing an odd mixture of ecclesiastical robes and chain mail. Caught between a belligerent bishop on one side and savage Saxons on the other, the left wing opted – wisely, I think – for the Saxons.
The fortunes of war changed again.
While I’d been concentrating on Odo, a large number of Saxon men at arms, lacking the discipline of the thegns, had seen the fleeing Normans and wrongly assumed it was all over. They broke ranks, left the protection of the shield wall and streamed down the hillside after them. Now William’s army showed its skill. A number of horsemen wheeled as one, reformed, and urged their horses back up the hill. Caught without protection, the Saxons were hopelessly exposed. Some tried to return to the safety of the Saxon lines and were cut down. Others tried to group together, to make a stand, and were ridden down by bloodstained horses. Only a small group remained intact and they were clustered around a body on the ground.
‘Look,’ said Sykes, leaning forwards and pointing at the screen.
Some five or six men had formed a defensive ring around someone who was very obviously dead and were endeavouring to hold off a small squadron of mounted knights.
‘That must be Gyrth and Leofwine,’ I said. ‘Close ups, please.’
Gyrth and Leofwine were Harold’s brothers and this was Leofwine’s famous last stand. When his brother fell he refused to leave him, standing over his body until the end. Which wasn’t far off. He shouted defiance, his two-handed axe whirling around his head. The Normans had learned to fear the Saxon axe. No one would engage him directly. They surrounded him with a wall of Norman knights, hiding him from view. We couldn’t see what was happening. And then horses reared and plunged and snorted, trampling men and weapons into the earth, and when they rode away again, there was nothing left to see.
There are those who say that from that moment, after the loss of his two brothers, the fight went out of Harold. If it did, he hid it well.
I straightened my aching back and reached for some water. Sykes was concentrating on the Saxon lines, watching the gaps being plugged as reinforcements were brought up. That last manoeuvre had resulted in heavy losses on both sides.
It would have been a good moment for both sides to regroup, perhaps take a moment to readjust strategy or reform lines, but already, William was unleashing his cavalry again.
Again the cavalry thundered up the hill, sweeping away final remains of the breastworks. Again, the shield wall held. A long-handled Saxon axe was easily capable of cutting through both horse and rider. William was getting nowhere.
The fighting was vicious. Unhorsed knights fought hand to hand with Saxon thegns who, shoulders to their shields, struggled to push them back. Those behind them joined in, like a giant rugby scrum, putting their backs into it, holding the front line firm and keeping the shields up, fulfilling their purpose, which was to stand firm, come what may. From behind them, long Saxon javelins stabbed over their shoulders, piercing Norman mail. Men screamed and fell backwards to be trampled by their fellows. Blood arced through the air. Horses reared and plunged and screamed. Axes cartwheeled to embed themselves into Norman skulls. And still the Saxon shield wall held.
There were bodies everywhere. Thousands of bodies. The Saxons were clearing their lines, carrying their dead and wounded back to the rear. The Normans had no such luxury, slipping and tripping over their fallen comrades. The pile of dead men and horses before the Saxon lines grew ever higher. The savagery was horrific. Even Agincourt hadn’t been this bad.
I looked at the time. We were approaching noon. I could hardly believe three hours had passed already. The sun shone down from a cloudless sky on to the sweltering soldiers.
What was William thinking at this point? If he couldn’t break the Saxon shields, then he couldn’t possibly prevail. And if he couldn’t prevail today then he had lost everything. The battle. His army. His chance at the throne. Probably his life.
There was blood everywhere. Every man was red with it. If not his then someone else’s. Horses were bloodied up past their bellies. Everywhere lay limbs, heads, misshapen torsos, crippled and dead horses.
Still the missiles rained down upon the Normans, whose ferocity was slowing. Men and horses were exhausted in the heat. Some horses could barely stand, their eyes rolling white in exhaustion, their bits dripping b
lood flecked foam.
Now would be a good time to take a breather.
So now, of course, was the time William hurled his right wing into the fray. It was a mirror image of his actions only an hour or so ago. The right wing charged up the hill, banners flying, to hit the Saxons hard. Again the fighting was savage, each side pushing against the other but there was no way they could break the wall. Again, they fell back. And once again, the Saxon lines broke and a large part of the fyrd pursued them back down the hill.
‘Why?’ said Bashford puzzled at this Saxon stupidity. ‘Why would they do that? Surely they saw what happened on the other wing?’
‘No,’ I said slowly, ‘I don’t think they did. Harold’s forces are in a shallow U-shape. The right wing can’t see the left wing. They have no knowledge of what happens to those who leave the shelter of the ditch and embankment.’
‘They’re about to find out,’ said Sykes grimly.
Saxon figures poured down the hill, pursuing the fleeing Normans. Thousands of voices screamed in triumph.
‘They think it’s all over,’ said Bashford.
‘It is now,’ said Sykes as once again the Norman centre crashed down upon them, surrounding them and cutting them off. Shouts of ‘Dex Aie‘ rose over the screams of the dying. There were no Saxon survivors.
And then, in a heartbeat, the fortunes of war again swung back the other way. As they do.
The Norman centre had gone too far too fast. Intent on returning to their own lines as quickly as possible, they fell victim to their unfamiliarity with the landscape. There was another reason why Harold had chosen this spot. The horses, plunging downhill back to their own lines, ran straight into a concealed ditch. None of them were able to stop in time. They fell, screaming, into the ditch and were crushed by those coming along behind.
