“He’s done for,” Osmund said bleakly. “What do we do?”
Osgar hissed and swung weakly at them with his empty hand. “Get this damn thing out of me, then get back to your job...I...I have to...fight...”
Mercia’s oldest housecarl tried to stand, but then slumped back to the floor. His head lolled forward and he fell still and silent. His comrades gritted their teeth, looked to each other and then nodded. They could not save his life, but they would not allow him to pass away meaninglessly. They returned to the winch and began to turn it again, steadily opening the gates of York. This city was about to become the outlanders’ tomb.
After nearly a minute of struggle, the gates finally opened themselves fully – and just in time, the sound of men approaching the door thundered through the room. Osmund and Sigebehrt drew their seaxes again and turned towards the doors, where someone was fumbling with the handle. Osmund picked up a stool and held it aloft as a sort of shield, while Sigebehrt settled for kicking the table over to create a rudimentary barricade. The doors swung open and the two bellowed in preparation for combat – but there were no more Flemish soldiers, only tired looking English townsfolk.
“I hate to interrupt sir,” their leader grinned. “I thought you should know that the guards have rallied for a counterattack. There are too many of them for us alone, we had to withdraw here to try and hold the gatehouse.” The leader of the loyalists was a swarthy fellow with a balding head and only one good eye – he had the look of a Blacksmith, with a strong upper body and the endless stamina of one used to heavy physical labour. Osmund smiled at the newcomers, but did not lower his seax.
“Well, what’re you waiting for? Get inside before they catch you up. We’ll make them pay in blood for everyone who steps into here.”
The loyalists piled in, nearly filling both gate towers wall to wall. They were not professionals or even organised, that much was clear to a dedicated soldier such as Osmund. Numbers counted, however, and the Flemish now faced a sea of men between them and the winches to the gate.
“Men of York, you are brave and righteous!” Osmund bellowed to the crowd as the first Flemish soldiers ascended to the wall. “Know that we fight not just for the safety of your families, or for the King, but for the freedom of York!”
The loyalist leader joined in as well. “God himself has blessed our fight, let no foreign dog close those gates, for they belong to England once again!”
The first of many Flemish soldiers piled into the doorway and swung his blade wildly, slicing down a man where he stood. He scarcely had time to prepare another blow before the mob of Yorkshiremen had dragged him down. As the gatehouse transformed into a bloody melee, a single cry echoed across the walls: “For God and the King!”
Chapter 12 – Seizing the Gates
30th of September, 1066
The gates of London crumbled and collapsed under the weight of the Norman battering ram. Great ladders were hoisted into the air and angled so that they collided with the walls and the assault on the English capital began. Only a small contingent of English soldiers had been left to defend the city, and while that few hundred men were enough to hold the bridge across the River Thames, they could not adequately cover the walls against this kind of attack.
“A well-executed assault, is it not?” Odo asked with a wry grin.
Robert just nodded in response, in awe of the war unfolding before him. A sea of Norman troops piled before the gates and the walls, exchanging arrows with the men on the battlements. Thin lines clambered up the ladders and soon the splintered gates were cleared and his men were storming the city. Although this was technically Robert’s host, Odo was in charge and had masterminded the attack on London with devastating precision. The short siege was crowned by an equally short assault, for as determined as the defenders were they could not resist for long against these kinds of numbers.
Norman banners fluttered everywhere and within minutes, the Saxon flags over the gates had been pulled away and replaced with the twin lions of Normandy. The walls were theirs – now for the rest of the city. Robert made to ride forward, eager to see the battle continue inside the city, but the sharp voice of Odo stopped him.
“Hold, Robert!
The young boy looked to his uncle with a sulking gaze. “I want to see the fight!”
“The city is still too dangerous to approach; sieges are the bloodiest battles one can imagine. It is not safe for you to enter until our men have cleared the defenders out,” Odo told him sternly. “Better to begin planning our next move. Our scouts reported many people marching on the road to East Anglia, but we have been in England for some time now and I expect retaliation from the King’s army soon – it is very likely they will rush to recapture London as they learn of its fall.”
Robert was hardly listening, caught up in the battle. Somewhere in the city, a thin column of black smoke betrayed a fire. The sound of death and battle was overwhelming, echoing across the fields relentlessly. It was a distracting chaos, and Odo just sighed. “You are determined not to pay attention, are you Robert?”
“I don’t know what to do, uncle. You’re the smarter one, why don’t you just do it?”
“I will do as I please, Robert, but I’m trying to teach you lessons here. You might be the Duke someday, you must learn to pay attention and make decisions. Even a bad decision is better than none.”
That made Robert look back and think a little. “Well, those people probably weren’t soldiers, just regular people trying to get away from the war. I don’t think there’s any point chasing them.”
“Mm, that’s good, what else?”
Robert strained to think hard. “I guess all we can do is defend the city...but won’t the King’s army be large? We could die...”
Odo gave a thin laugh. “Fear is not becoming of the Duke’s son, Robert, but you aren’t wrong. It would be folly to resist against a host as large as Harold Godwinson’s. We cannot hope to face him without William’s help, and he is busy at Winchester.”
“What do we do? Father would be angry if we ran away.”
Odo clucked his tongue, clearly in deep thought himself. Long minutes passed, and soon the minutes turned into almost an hour. The day was growing late, but finally the sounds of battle trailed to a complete stop. Whatever resistance there had been was now all but gone – the towers signalled to his host that the way was clear to enter London.
“Come, we ride now,” Odo ordered his nephew, “And be careful, you never know what Saxon dogs might be lurking in the shadows, unseen by our men.”
He nodded dumbly and said, “Of course uncle...”
Again Odo fell into silence, and Robert fidgeted on his horse awkwardly, nearly driving it off course for a moment. His uncle’s cold attitude always got to him, but this time it was even worse than usual. He could tell that Odo was frustrated with a decision he had to make, but Robert wasn’t sure what to do and did not have the courage to speak up about it.
The two rode at the centre of a large banner of horsemen, all loyal knights of the Duchy of Normandy. Vassals to Duke William, they rode into the city of London with pride and purpose, not a scratch on them. Odo had promised himself that none but commoners would die on the field of battle today, and at least for the Normans his promise came true. London fell without need for the finest cavalry in Europe or their mighty lances.
“Your Grace!” a soldier called to Odo. “You’d best have a look at this – it’s their commander!”
The Bishop held his hands before him, signalling for the knights to part so that he could pass. Not one to be left out of it, Robert eagerly pushed his own horse to follow, wondering what the fearsome commander of the Saxon armies would look like. His mind had imagined many things – a fierce Northman, Danish blooded maybe, with a mighty axe, a red beard and eyes like coals. Or maybe he would be a shining Knight like his own honour guard, the epitome of Saxon chivalry and grace. Or perhaps it was an old man, a veteran of a hundred wars who stayed to defend
his lord’s castle while he was away at war. The truth was a little more shocking than anything he could have prepared for.
The dead body lay sprawled across the floor, limp and unmoving. His long chain hauberk had offered little protection against the vicious treatment he had received, and only by some miracle did his face remain intact enough to look like the boy he was. Garbed in the royal colours of the House of Godwin and bearing the wyvern emblem, his glazed eyes still held the pain of death. Much of his body had been hacked and trampled by unknown foes, and his right hand still clutched the broken handle of his sword, its blade shattered and lost somewhere in the chaos of the battlefield.
Odo examined the corpse with cold detachment. “Seems he’s one of Harold’s boys...not sure which, maybe Prince Magnus. The men must have dragged him down and slaughtered him without thinking. It’s not a pretty sight...”
Robert felt his stomach turn and he had to look away, unable to stand the sight of the poor boy. The body didn’t look much older than Robert himself – taller, sure, but still boyish of face. How could his men have done this kind of brutality? Father had taught him that it was good in the eyes of God to capture your foe and never to kill him if he was of noble blood. Should he tolerate this kind of behaviour amongst his own men?
Odo dismounted and checked the boy’s face and neck, as if to ensure that he was dead. “Damn... If they hear that one of the realm’s princes was killed in cold blood by Normans...”
Robert tried to look again, but was unable to focus on it and averted his gaze again. “He was only my age...what should we do, uncle? Isn’t this bad?”
Odo blinked repeatedly, rubbing at his temples with gloved fingers. He looked around for a moment, before his eyes became fixated on one of the Norman soldiers. “You there, bowman, come to me,” he gestured.
The archer obediently approached, bowing stiffly in respect. “Yes your Grace, what do you wish of me?”
It was not the soldier that was important to Odo, but his weapons. Plucking an arrow from the man’s quiver, Odo turned and knelt before the boy, holding it up. With a cold, calculated precision, he thrust the arrow deeply into the boy’s neck, pushing hard to make sure it stayed deep. The bishop’s retinue nodded to themselves, and the Norman soldiers themselves looked both confused and hopeful.
“You see, men? An arrow fell from the sky and felled this boy, as was God’s will. He fell from his horse and became trampled in the chaos of battle. Let none say otherwise, for the men of Normandy would not slay a disarmed royal child, even in the heat of battle.”
There was a chorus of applause and appreciative comments in Odo’s direction. They all seemed convinced that this would clear them of guilt or blame for the prince’s death – after all, the words had come from the Bishop of Bayeux and his word brought the approval of God with it, something that comforted all their consciences.
“Come Robert, we have much to do. Ride with me,” Odo ordered as he remounted his horse. “London is ours, but that does not mean we can rest idly. I have a plan, but I wish to send a messenger to your father first for his approval – I believe we have some time before Harold returns from his campaign to the North. Perhaps if we are lucky the two Kings will bleed each other dry and make England easy pickings for us.”
Chapter 13 – Loyalty to Coin
28th of September, 1066
Tostig wasn’t sure how it had happened, but it had. The crown troops had opened the gates and were about to march into York by force. He had gathered as many troops into the city centre as he could, but it was a scant few hundred with more trickling in slowly. There were no two ways about it: he was in serious trouble.
His mind raced with thought, trying to figure out how he was going to stop the King’s army with so few. It occurred to him that he could have slipped through the other gates of the city, but now that his men were looking it was a dangerous and cowardly prospect.
“Where’s Copsig?” Tostig growled, trying to look as if he was mustering some kind of organised defence. “The one time I actually need the bastard and he’s nowhere to be seen...”
“Perhaps dead or captured, my lord,” one of his mercenaries piped up. “I saw him leading a force of men to try and retake the gatehouse, but as far as I know they failed and haven’t been heard from.”
“This looks grim...” Captain Alfred of the Flemish mercenaries grunted. “There could be twenty Englishmen for every soldier in this square, maybe even more.”
“Where have the rest of the garrison gone?” Tostig swallowed hard. “Perhaps we should try to flee from the city; the west gates are still ours...”
“Flee? To the west?” Alfred scoffed. “Where would we go? Even if we can outpace them in their own backyard, the lands to the west are only friendly to the King. We have lost, Tostig.”
Tostig shook his head in denial. “No...no, we’ve only lost when I say we’ve lost!” He threw his shield to the ground in frustration and disgust.
“Don’t be mad, if we stand and fight we’ll all die; all that is left is to surrender to their merciful judgment. Fighting against these odds is pointless! Do you want all of us to die because some noble was too proud to accept defeat?”
The exiled Godwinson began to laugh; it was a soft chuckle at first, but grew slowly deeper and more maniacal with each passing moment. “I am the rightful King of England; there is no more room to surrender. My brother will not spare me this final time, and if I die then I shall not die without a glorious battle to mark my name for all of history! Long will the people of York remember how I heroically fought for my rightful throne!”
His insane laughter continued, causing Alfred to look to his troops with worry. He signalled them behind Tostig’s back and then drew his sword, placing the flat of the blade against Tostig’s neck. “I don’t think so, Tostig; this shall not be my grave, nor the grave of my men.”
“What are you-” Tostig was cut off as a forest of spearpoints pinned him from all sides, preventing him from moving. He gave an uncomfortable gurgle.
Alfred leaned in and whispered in his former employer’s ear. “I will not feed my men to the reaper so callously, Tostig Godwinson. You are now a prisoner of this company until such time as we surrender you to the King’s men – this is the end of our agreement and contract in your service.”
Tostig thought to yell in anger, to fight back against their betrayal, but his strength had drained from his limbs and his seax sword slipped from his fingers, clattering across the paved road. The pressure of the spears relented a little. His hands were roughly seized and twisted behind his back. They pushed him down to the ground and went about the rough work of tying his limbs with rope, fully incapacitating him.
“You know...” Tostig finally said. “There is a special level of hell reserved for traitors.”
This elicited a long laugh from the mercenary Captain, who fully appreciated Tostig’s angry reaction. “Then I shall see you there, Tostig the Exile, when the time comes. But not before living a long and full life home in Flanders.”
“The English are coming!” One of the mercenaries shouted.
Sure enough, the first English soldiers had begun their march towards the city centre. They were packed into a tight formation, shields locked and ready for battle. Behind the shield wall men carried torches, lighting up the streets in their wake. They had come expecting a fight, but were surprised when the Flemish garrison threw their weapons down, many with their arms raised in the air. The shield wall stopped short of the mercenaries and a chorus of mutters ran through the Saxon troops.
“Men of England, we the Men of the Flemish Company, surrender ourselves to your mercy and wisdom. We have brought the exile Tostig Godwinson and wish to parlay for your favour and safe passage back to Europe. We have thrown down our arms and await your judgment!”
A cheer of victory erupted across the English army and they gladly moved in. The taking of prisoners was a very relaxed affair – no resistance was offered by the Flemish. A few Saxon
s spat curses and insults in the direction of Tostig, but no hand was laid upon him until the inevitable arrival of the King.
Once Godwinson did arrive, all present, both Flemish and Anglo-Saxon, bowed respectfully in his presence; wearing a crown, helmet and ornate silk-trimmed cape as symbols of his office, he made for an impressive sight. From his finely trimmed moustache to his deep, heavily judgmental eyes, he was the very image of a warrior-king basking in victory. Tostig felt himself forcibly dragged to his knees by the guards, who presented him before the King solemnly. The brothers’ eyes locked, but no clear emotions seemed to pass between them.
Harold was first to speak. “See now, Tostig, where your folly has led you? You lost the trust of your people, your allies, and now your own men. You have fallen so far that God himself has forsaken all hope in your redemption. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I...I do not answer to you...brother...” Tostig spat. “Between you and Edward, you stole everything I was ever promised or given. You betrayed me and fed me to the wolves, forced me into exile! Me, your brother! This is why I deserve your crown, and I will never forgive you until I have taken it for myself.”
The King laughed at that thought. “And you think Harald Hardrada, a man legendary for his selfishness and iron fist, would grant you the crown and not take it for himself? You enlisted the devil’s aid, but he has been playing you for a fool this whole time. You talk of exile? You forget that you forced my hand; you lost the faith of the people and treated them as cows that you could milk endlessly. You were a tyrant and executed anyone who spoke up against your rule! How many rebellions did you face in so short a time?”
“They were worth less than cows, for the loyalty they displayed!” Tostig spat. “Those taxes were necessary for God and for the safe protection of England from the Scots. They simply didn’t have their priorities straight.”
Crusader Kings II - [Champions of Anglia 01] - A Fall of Kings Page 7
