Once the party had come to within a few feet of the king’s bench, Harold lurched unsteadily to his feet, holding his hand out before him. “Hold! Who comes uninvited to my hall, disturbing my people on this holy day. Whence come you? Speak.” Harold’s tone was curt and cold, in keeping with his mood.
The scar-faced knight showed no visible reaction to the challenge, but the monk bowed low as a mark of respect. “Noble Lord Harold of Wessex, my name is Hugh Maigrot, a monk from the abbey near Caen in Normandy. I am sent here by my lord, Duke William of that province, with a message for your Lordship.”
All around the hall, men’s jaws dropped as the realisation dawned that the monk had deliberately not addressed Harold as king. Here and there a few of the more drunken warriors shouted threats at the emissary. Harold calmly called for quiet, before addressing the delegation. “Out with it then, monk. Do not dress your words in finery as I would have you gone from my hall as quickly as you may, so we might return to our feast.”
Maigrot nodded. “Very well, Lord. My master, Duke William, would have you abandon the crown you stole from him, keeping the promise you made to him not two years since when you swore on relics sacred to us to support his claim to the throne bestowed upon him by the blessed King Edward.”
“A promise made under duress is no promise at all. As a holy man, you more than any should know that.”
“Be that as it may, Lord, it was a sacred oath, sworn over relics most holy and you stand perjured before God. This banner,” he gestured loosely towards the knight by his side, “has been presented to the Duke by the Pope himself, God’s anointed representative. It was given willingly and in good faith, in recognition of the righteousness of the Duke’s claim. God is on our side and you would do well to heed that. Should you decide not to stand aside, you risk eternal damnation for yourself and all those that follow you.”
A shocked hush fell over the hall; even Harold seemed taken aback. To be cast out of God’s grace, destined to an eternity of damnation and hellfire was a punishment worse than death itself. The thought of falling in battle and being denied entry at the gates of heaven was enough to shake the resolve of any man.
Before Harold could reply, however, Maigrot continued. “All is not lost though, Lord. The Duke is not a vengeful man; he does not seek battle if battle might be avoided. He would rather not see thousands of brave warriors on both sides slaughtered unnecessarily.
“Therefore, the Duke would have me tell you that if you willingly set aside the crown of England he would gladly cede to you all the land north of the Humber to be held under his licence. In addition, your brother, Gyrth, may hold the estates of Wessex as its earl. All this may be yours if you but step down in Duke William’s favour. Rule Northumbria in peace or suffer papal excommunication; that is your choice.” As he finished speaking, the monk held up the wooden cross that hung round his neck to ensure the solemnity of his words was not lost on anyone present.
No one spoke. No one even moved. Even the dogs stretched out by the fire waiting for scraps of meat and bones to be thrown were silent. While Harold considered his response, Gyrth, sitting to his left, rose to his feet.
“Brother, fellow countrymen. Do not lose heart. Do not allow the honeyed words of this so-called man of God disturb your minds or interrupt your feasting. All is not as he would have us believe. This monk seeks only to frighten us with this baseless threat of God’s wrath, but I say instead that if this bastard of Normandy had any honour he would not send this cur before us to do his bidding. If this Duke had faith in the strength of his host and the righteousness of his claim, he would not resort to ignoble threats. He would not waste time with this pointless parley.
“Everyone here knows that Harold is our rightful king. He was chosen by Edward himself as his successor before he died. I saw it with my own eyes. Later that same day, my brother was acclaimed king by the witan, most of whom are in this hall today, eating my brother’s meats and supping his wines. You were all there that day. You know I speak the truth. His claim to this throne is sound”
Several lords around the hall nodded in agreement, banging their wooden platters against the tables to emphasise their point.
“This duke has overreached himself by coming here. He trembles at the thought of our swords. He fears our spear-forest. He knows his warriors will crash against our shieldwall as uselessly as waves against our cliffs. Doubtless, he has heard of our great victory over the Hardrada at Stamford Bridge and now he fears both for his life and for those of his men. Why else would he waste our time with these weasel words? Why else would he make this ridiculous offer? Why does he not attack? He won’t because he cowers like a lamb before the wolf, deep in our noble king’s shire of Sussex.”
Gyrth’s words were having the desired effect. Appealing to the thegns’ sense of honour was overcoming the fear caused by the monk’s earlier threat of excommunication.
Then Gyrth held up his hand to call for peace before continuing, eager to press home the advantage he had gained. “What’s more, do not believe this false promise of Northumbria. Do not think for one moment that William would leave us to live out our days unmolested. At the first opportunity he would bring sword and fire to kill us all in our beds. I’m sure he has already promised our lands to his followers; every inch of your fields, every plank of your halls, every strand of wool on the fleece of your sheep. How else would he have secured so many hired swords to fight for him? Do you think they come here for the love of William? How else has he swollen his ranks enough to be able to challenge us? Us, the strongest kingdom in Christendom. By offering our estates, our homes and our livestock to the godless, landless men that follow this banner, that’s how! Men like this wretched knight here. This man who despoils himself by carrying that holy banner.”
As Gyrth pointed at the scarred knight, the hall erupted. Platters were hurled against walls, drinking vessels smashed against the floor as men snarled and yelled, whipped into a frenzy by Gyrth’s well-chosen words.
But Thurkill did not join in. His gaze was fixed on the knight, already consumed by hate for one he had met so recently. But in spite of that, he had to admire the man’s courage and his poise; his face had betrayed not even the merest hint of anxiety at the change of mood, retaining its disdainful smirk throughout. The monk on the other hand had become highly agitated. This encounter had not turned out as he had planned.
Gyrth was not yet done, though; he was still warming to the task. “Will you give up your lands and your rights so meekly? Will you allow yourselves to be bullied by this feeble duke and his pet snake that stands here before us? Or will you defend them with your sword, your spear, your bare hands if necessary? I for one will gladly give my life for this island if I could do so in the knowledge that we had prevailed and sent this Norman upstart back whence he came.”
Maigrot was by now literally hopping from foot to foot, desperate to escape the howling mob, but he knew he could not leave without having an answer from Harold that he could take back to William. When the noise eventually subsided to a level where he could be confident of making himself heard, he attempted to bring matters to a conclusion. In doing so, Thurkill noted, with some satisfaction, that he was now more respectful than when he had first started.
“Lord King, I have listened to the words of this noble prince of your realm, but I would know your own mind that I may convey your response back to my master.”
Harold shrugged, gesturing around the hall, spreading his arms wide to take in every bench that was filled with angry warriors. When he spoke, though, his words betrayed no malice or anger towards the monk. “I think my answer is plain to see, Maigrot. You may rest assured that my brother speaks for me in this matter; we are of one mind. We will make neither peace nor treaty with our Norman cousin. Rather we will expel him from this land, by force of arms if necessary. We will succeed or we will die trying.”
“Very well, Lord King. If conflict cannot be avoided, then consider this final offer that Duk
e William authorised me to make to you in the event that you reused to stand down. To avoid the senseless slaughter of thousands of your people, William would challenge you, the mighty warrior King Harold, to settle this dispute by the time-honoured tradition of single combat. Why must thousands die in agony when just two men need fight? Would you step on to the field of battle and take up my lord’s offer? To the victor the spoils.”
It was a canny move, Thurkill saw; the idea of it would surely appeal to Harold’s sense of honour. It also meant ensuring that no men need die in his name. The Duke was known to be a great warrior, but so was Harold. During his recent sojourn in Normandy, he had fought alongside the Duke and acquitted himself well by all accounts; even earning praise from William himself, it was said. It would be an even fight, he was sure. Who could say who would win?
As Harold considered this latest offer, Gyrth leaned in close to whisper advice. “I know your mind, brother. You are tempted to accept if it means saving the lives of hundreds, if not thousands, of our people. But I do not trust William. This offer merely hides a lack of confidence. He must think the odds of beating you man to man are greater than if his host were to be matched against ours. That tells me that the better option would be to refuse.”
Harold nodded sagely, recognising the strength of Gyrth’s argument. He slumped back into his seat, apparently wearied by the whole affair, before turning his head to the monk. “You already have my answer, we will match our swords and spears against yours and see who triumphs, whom God favours. Now be gone from my hall before I have you thrown out.”
THIRTEEN
11 October, Lundenburh
“We march today. I will not wait a moment longer.”
It was not yet dawn but Harold had called for all the lords to assemble at the abbey. He looked as if he had not even been to bed as his tunic and cloak were crumpled and still stained with wine and food from the previous day’s feast. Several others looked the worse for wear; the result of a hard night’s drinking. Thurkill was tired but otherwise unaffected. His encounter with the sneering knight had had a sobering effect, leaving him with no stomach for further carousing. Instead he had excused himself soon after the Normans left and retired to his cot. Now he stood at the back of the assembled captains, in full armour and clutching his war-axe.
“But several lords and their retinues are yet to arrive, Lord. To leave before they do would be foolhardy. At least wait for one more day?”
Harold sighed before putting his arm round Gyrth’s shoulders. “We have delayed here too long already, brother. This Norman bastard has been ravaging our lands with impunity these past two weeks; I must act now before the people start to question my right to rule.”
“That would not happen. The people would never desert you in favour of the bastard from Normandy.”
Harold smiled, pausing to allow a slow procession of monks to pass on their way to the altar at the far end of the abbey. Their sandalled feet scraping across the rough earthen floor as they shuffled past, punctuating the psalms they sang.
“Thank you, Scalpi, your words are a comfort to me. But you saw the arrogance of that monk last night. They believe they have God and the Pope on their side and you saw what impact the threat of excommunication had on my thegns in the hall. If it were not for Gyrth’s fine words, who knows what may have happened? If Maigrot can have that effect on the most senior lords of the land, think how the common people will feel when the Normans spread the same lies to them. How long before they rise up against me for fear of eternal damnation?
“No.” He shook his head wearily. “My mind is made up. I believe our army to be large enough now to deal with whatever they might throw at us. It will have to be. If we go now we may yet catch them by surprise. I don’t doubt their spies are telling them that we wait here for reinforcements. If we favour the unexpected, then perhaps we will repeat our success at Stamford Bridge, eh?” The tone of his voice betrayed the fact that he did not fully believe his own words.
“Why not just wait them out, Lord? The longer we avoid battle, the more chance they run out of supplies or succumb to some foul pestilence.”
Harold turned towards the new speaker. “My Lord, Beorhtric, would you have me cower and skulk here forever behind the walls of Lundenburh? There is no honour in that. I would not have people point and call me coward for refusing to defend my kingdom.”
Leofwine was next to offer his advice. “I agree we must fight, brother, but why risk everything in one battle? Send me or Gyrth to lead the host against the invader. That way we defend the honour of the kingdom and may also succeed in driving the Normans into the sea. Should we be defeated, however, then all would not be lost. You would survive to raise a new army either now or in the spring. You would have time to bring the northern levies to bear and bring bloody battle to a foe already weakened by us.”
Thurkill could see the sense in Leofwine’s words. Harold was also considering them as he stared at his brother, rubbing his bearded chin as if deep in thought.
“There is merit in your words, Leofwine, I’ll not deny it. To risk everything on a single throw of the dice does worry me. But what sort of king would that make me? How would the chroniclers remember me if I sent others to do my work? My place is in the front rank of the shieldwall, standing shoulder to shoulder with those who would give their lives fighting for me. They expect to see their king plant his banner where the fighting is fiercest. They want… No! They need their king to lead them to victory. I would not deny them their right.”
Harold continued, but raised his voice so that all might hear and be in no doubt. “My mind is clear on this. We leave here today to bring destruction down on the heads of the Norman invader. I will not allow them to stay unmolested in my kingdom any longer. My scouts tell me they have not ventured forth from the area around Hastings so we will meet them there. It’s as good a place as any. Let us assemble at the old muster point known to our forebears as the hoar apple tree on Caldbec Hill two days from now. Send riders now to all those who have yet to arrive here. Tell them to muster there. With God’s will and good English oak we will teach Duke William a lesson.”
***
As he gathered up his war gear, Thurkill felt anticipation mounting within his heart once again. The memory of his first battle was still fresh in his mind. The exhilaration, the feeling of power as he dealt death to foes on all sides was as intoxicating as the finest wine; he yearned to taste it once again. He had overcome his fear and wanted nothing more now than to kill as many of the enemy as he could.
“How are you feeling, son?” Scalpi’s voice cut into his thoughts, bringing him sharply back to the present. No doubt his father recalled how sick he had been on the morning of his first battle. Despite himself, his cheeks reddened at the thought of how he had lost control of his guts so dramatically.
“I’m fine, father. Eager to put the Norman whoresons to the sword.”
Scalpi smiled, playfully cuffing his son round the head as he did so. “Do not imagine for a moment that this will be as easy as that little scuffle against the Norsemen. This will be a proper fight, if I’m not mistaken.”
“How so? Why would we not send these foreign bastards packing just as easily?”
“You forget that the Norse had not much more than half their host on the field at the start and most of those were not ready for a fight. These Normans are trained killers; they will be prepared. From what I hear, William has gathered the best fighters from his own and many neighbouring lands with the promise of wealth and glory. His warriors will be wearing the best mail shirts and carrying the finest weapons that money can buy. What’s more, I’ve heard some of them fight on horseback.”
“They what?”
“I know. A good number of them ride into battle on these huge horses, as big as the ones we use to pull our ploughs. They use them to try and ride down their enemies using the sheer weight of these beasts.”
Thurkill stopped to think for a moment, suddenly feeling a li
ttle less sure of himself than he had been before. What was it like to face a horse, or even hundreds of horses, thundering towards you at full pelt? The thought of it alone would be enough to turn your bowels to water.
Seeing the look on his face, Scalpi laughed. “Don’t piss your breeches, son. Well, not just yet anyway. On horse or on foot, they have not faced a Saxon shieldwall before. Horse and man alike will not be able to break us if we stand firm. Both will fall just as easily beneath our spears, axes and swords.”
Thurkill smiled at his father’s encouraging words, but deep inside he felt a growing anxiety. Would they be able to stand against these Norman horsemen? They had no choice though; they had no mounted warriors of their own. They would have to stand – the alternative did not bear thinking about.
FOURTEEN
13 October, Caldbec Hill
The sun had not long slipped below the horizon when the first men of the Saxon host arrived at the hoar apple tree. No one knew how long it had stood there; no one remembered a time when it had not been. It certainly looked ancient, half covered as it was in dry, grey lichen that was so brittle it flaked away to the touch. For generations it had been used as a marker between three neighbouring regions and was thus frequently referred to in land charters going back, some said, even to the days of Alfred, or even his grandfather, Egbert, the first truly great king of the West Saxons.
Harold jumped down from his horse, stretching as he did so. He pressed his hands into the small of his back, arching his spine to try and ease some of the tension built up over two long days in the saddle. Meanwhile, all around the hill and on its surrounding slopes, men flopped to the ground in weariness. Those who still had the energy started small fires with which to cook up food from their forage sacks, augmented with rabbits and the odd squirrel or two that had been caught on the way. For the most part though, men gathered quietly in small groups and munched sourly on bread, apples or cheese before wrapping their cloaks around themselves and curling up on the soft turf, as close to their comrades as possible for protection from the chill autumn air. Few were in any doubt there would be a battle the next day so sleep was essential to give their bodies a chance to recover from the long march from Lundenburh.
Saxon Storm: The Huscarl Chronicles Books 1 & 2 Page 10
