by C. R. May
William savoured the moment as he raised his sword, steadily, deliberately, and the drumming and bugling petered away. He was certain that he stood on the very cusp of greatness and although the English, animated and mocking in their battle line were a distant interruption, the silence of the valley floor was heavy and pregnant with expectation as every man in the army tensed. William’s arm stilled for a heartbeat and then the long blade chopped down. As he put back his spurs and his mount gathered speed, the Norman army let out a great roar and surged forward.
Hacon placed the bloodied axe blade against the curve of his instep and rested the great haft against his waist. Reaching out he took the bowl with a smile, before lowering his head to savour the aroma. ‘Ah, pease pudding, my favourite!’
The king’s voice carried across from his position at the head of the roadway and a rumble of laughter rolled along the shield wall. ‘Hacon, every type of food is your favourite. You would think the Bastard never fed you while you were his captive.’
Despite being well intended his uncle’s jibe had drawn the humour from the moment, and Hacon set his face into a frown as he called out for all to hear. ‘I, Hacon Sweynson, hereby pledge to make this duke a captive of your own, lord. That you may ransom him dead or alive for our kinsman, my dear cousin Wulfnoth.’
The smile fell from the king’s face as he too recalled his youngest brother, held against his will in Normandy these past fourteen years, and the pair — king and nephew — exchanged a look of determination across a field of helmeted heads. But Hacon’s words had thrilled those within earshot, and they let their feelings known as the hillside shook once again to a noise like rolling thunder, spear shafts clashing on shield rims as men called their challenges for the hundredth time that day to the invaders massing at the foot of the slope.
He had been barely five years old when other Normans had spirited him away to the duchy, and his memories of that time were hazy. But if he only dimly recalled the flight, and indeed the face of his own father Sweyn — the eldest of earl Godwin’s sons who had died the same year — he knew how much he owed the boy who had been snatched alongside him. Wulfnoth Godwinson had been twelve at the time of their abduction, and it was a truism that during the years which followed he had become as a father to him. Harold had brought a great ransom in an effort to retrieve them two years hence, when old king Edward still lived and his uncle was still an earl, but although Hacon had been released the wily duke had insisted that Wulfnoth remain. Now, after what felt like a lifetime of desire, he had the chance to take his vengeance for the wrongdoing.
A gusting wind brought raindrops as large and hard as peas to drum against his face, and Hacon swept a hand across before flicking the water away; turning his back to the downpour he gazed down the slope to the bedraggled army lined up at its foot. Duke William was in plain sight, cajoling his closest companions into attacking again, and Hacon marked their armour so that he would easily recognise each man should they venture within the swing of his axe: Odo, bishop of Bayeux; William FitzOsbern; Turstin son of Rollo beneath the papal banner; Walter Giffard….
Spooning another mouthful, he reflected on the hectic month he had just lived through as the Normans reformed their battles and prepared to attack again. Four weeks previously it had seemed as though the great invasion scare of 1066 had been just that, a scare. After a summer spent scanning the horizon from the clifftops of the southern coastline, the king had released the levy men of the fyrd as harvest time arrived with no sign of the promised holt of masts. Leaving only a token force on watch, the king had released his southern thegns and returned to London with his housecarls. Only a madman would cross the channel so late in the year, and Hacon had advised his uncle the king that duke William was anything but.
But the Lord was not yet finished with the English that year and in mid September Harald Sigurdsson, king of Norway, had appeared in the North with yet another of his uncles, the king’s brother Tostig. Moving on York they had swept the army of the northern earls aside. Message bearers had arrived in London around the same time that the armies had clashed outside the city, and the king had hurried to reinforce his loyal countrymen. Men had flocked to his banner as the army sped north, gathering strength as men grasped the chance to repay the Vikings for centuries of wrongs. Arriving like a thunderbolt from the summer sky they had fallen upon the Norwegians and all but annihilated them, but as the army had retired to York to celebrate the victory and honour the dead, a messenger had hurried in from the South. The wind had finally turned and William had seized his chance. King Harold had gathered the cream of his army, the mounted housecarls and thegns, and set off back along the Great North Road.
But the same westerlies which had carried the invasion fleet to the coast of Sussex had also brought the first heavy rains of autumn in their wake. Penned in against the marshes and lagoons by the dense woodland of Andredes Weald the Norman army had begun to flounder almost immediately. Utilising their local knowledge to the full the southern thegns had shadowed the force, and soon they were witnessing the first Normans succumb to the bloody flux. Illness and fever had risen wraith like from the marshlands, and within days the invaders had begun to cut the seat of their breeches away in a desperate attempt to ease their discomfort. Fearful of moving away from the sea and his only source of reinforcement, the duke had hesitated to venture inland. King Harold had gathered his force in London and bided his time as the enemy grew weaker with each passing day, and finally God had rewarded his patience. Desperate to escape the fetid marshlands and safeguard his coastal supply line, the duke had withdrawn his army to Hastings. Word had quickly reached the king in London and he had seized the opportunity. Moving south the English army had thrown itself across the Hastings road, the only route out of the peninsula, as the fyrdmen of the southern shires had flocked to reinforce them. The fighting that day had been hard as the Normans fought to escape the trap. But the shield wall had held, and each attack had been turned back with increasing ease as the invaders tired and fresh men arrived to bolster the English line.
The rain redoubled, and Hacon drew in his head in a vain attempt at keeping the icy fingers from penetrating his neckband. The deluge had persisted for most of the day and he was soaked through; now the wind gusted to add to their discomfort, howling through the grove of trees which anchored the battle line at each end of the ridge as if God and his angels were mourning the day that Christian men hewed each other to bloodied corpses.
The strident call of battle horns chased away his daydreams, and Hacon glanced down at the enemy. The Duke was hauling himself into the saddle, and Sweyn’s son watched as the gaily coloured war flags and gonfanon he knew so well curled and snapped in the freshening wind. As the Norman foot soldiers shuffled back into line, Hacon glanced back to the west and saw that the wan light which marked the position of the sun was now barely above the woodland backing Telham Hill. The shadows were lengthening quickly in the valley below and every man — Norman, Dane, French and English — knew that this must be the final desperate charge of the day.
Hacon hefted his Dane axe, rolling his shoulders as the distant figure raised its sword and urged the ragged army forward. Fourteen years he had spent as an unwilling guest of the duke, years in which he had grown from childhood to manhood, and he hawked and spat his disdain for the shining figure in the valley as he took his place in the battle line.
William craned forward over the neck of the war horse, hunkering into his shield as he spurred the beast up the rise. Ahead of him he could see his adversary beneath the twin banners which had tormented him throughout that long day, safely ensconced within a protective fort of housecarls and thegns. The usurper’s personal banner, the golden warrior called the Fighting Man he had recognised from Harold’s time in his duchy, but the Wessex Dragon was new to him, and he had resolved earlier that this would be the last time that it would fly over an English army, ancient symbol or not.
The Duke risked a glance to his left at the bulk
of his army, cursing as he saw that they had barely begun to climb the escarpment. The valley side had cut up badly during the course of the fighting, as the repeated attacks of the foot soldiers and mounted knights churned up the grassy banks. The slope was fully in shade now as daylight fled the land, and William knew that he must kill Harold this time or lose everything.
Horses edged to his side, and he saw that Hugh of Ponthieu and Walter Giffard had taken up position on his flanks in support. Sure now of the Norman tactics, the English would wait until they turned off the roadway to run side-on to their shield wall before they moved forward to hack at the flanks with their murderous axes. But the Normans too had learnt that day, and this attack would be different. No horse could be made to run directly into a solid wall of snarling men any more than it would a tree, but they were herd animals and they would blindly follow the leading stallion if denied the chance to make a decision for themselves. A well trained destrier could be trained to shoulder his way into a battle line and William’s mount was one such horse, the finest on the field.
Curbing the reins, William began to check the headlong rush of the animal as the English shields came up, and raising his long spear he took up the overarm stance which he knew the enemy would now expect him to take. It was the sign that he was about to work his way along the front ranks as he stabbed down above the shields and attempted to break their formation, before wheeling away to circle back and try again. As the enemy brought their shields up to cover their heads William struck, gripping his reins tightly as he urged the horse on into the dense hedge of shields, spear points and axes. The ruse worked beyond his wildest hopes, and taken by surprise the defenders were bowled aside as the horse shouldered its way deep into the English ranks. William snatched a look ahead. His mad dash had brought him almost within reach of the man who wore the crown which was rightfully his, and the duke felt a kick of excitement as he skewered a housecarl, leaving the spear imbedded in the Englishman to draw his sword as he cleared the densely packed front ranks and guided the horse towards the Fighting Man.
The raindrops stung his face as he broke free from the cover of the hill and came into the full force of the gale, and he desperately blinked away the water as it threatened to blind him. Walter Giffard was still at his side, and although Hugh of Ponthieu was suddenly unhorsed and disappeared from view, the mount kept pace with their own and continued to shield William’s charge. Behind him he knew that the Norman wedge would be pushing forward through the crush as others poured into the breach, widening it with every passing moment, and with victory finally within his grasp he looked on, elated, as Harold drew his sword and prepared to defend himself.
No man could have hoped to survive as long as he had as duke of the Normans without developing an awareness of imminent danger, and William flicked a look across to his left as he sensed it now. Among the men who were fighting desperately to remake the battle line following his irresistible charge, William blinked in surprise as he recognised an axeman shouldering his way through the crowd. The Sweynson brat was a few yards away, moving forward with purpose, and the duke raised his shield to deflect the blow as Hacon cried the name of his cousin and swung.
The Norman charge was almost upon them, and Hacon shifted his grip on the haft of the axe as men to either side raised shields and hurled their insults. The duke himself was leading this attack, flanked by Walter Giffard and yet another French bastard, Hugh of Ponthieu, and he took a last look to the south as he sought to reassure himself that all was well there. As he had expected the Norman foot soldiers were barely half way up the hill, slipping and sliding as their bodies, already weakened by weeks of illness and fever struggled to make headway on the slick ground underfoot. The valley side had become a quagmire over the course of the day as attack followed attack, and the Norman horse had been pushed further and further to the North where the English straddled the only road out of the peninsula. By mid afternoon it was clear that the clinging mud on the valley slope was becoming almost impassable to the enemy, and king Harold had shifted his own position across to bolster the left wing as the Normans began to concentrate the attacks there.
Despite the difficulties, every Norman assault that day had been a carefully orchestrated affair, each element working in mutual support, and Hacon suddenly realised that this was different. By beginning his attack at the same time as the foot soldiers and leading his knights up the Hastings road, they would reach the English position long before the supporting spearmen could arrive. Either the Norman duke had lost control of his army or the plan had changed. He of course knew not only duke William, but the majority of the Norman leaders: they were calculating men, men not given to hasty action or desperate gambles. As his comrades locked shields and prepared to receive the attack, Hacon hung back and watched.
Still waiting for the Normans to struggle up the slope, the English warriors were clashing their weapons against the boards of their shields and hurling abuse. The age-old rhythmic chant of the English army rolled out through the dusk at their approach, Ut!-Ut!-Ut! — Get out of my land! and the young Sweynson, convinced now that the Normans had changed their tactics began to drift instinctively towards his king. Hacon fixed his eyes upon the duke as he walked, the lion flag of Normandy which marked his coming bone-fire red in the dusk, but although the enemy leader raised his spear high to stab into English faces in the same old way there was something in his movements which gave them the lie. A moment later his fears were confirmed as the duke tugged at the reins, angling the horse to meet the defenders head on. Hugh of Ponthieu and Walter Giffard were at the duke’s shoulders, and as the trio spurred their mounts deeper into the English defence Hacon watched in horror as the shield wall, impregnable throughout that dank autumn day, finally lost its cohesion. A flash of steel away to the left showed where the king’s housecarls had recognised the threat, raising their axe blades as one, and as king Harold drew his sword and began to move against the foe, Hacon locked his gaze on the duke and shouldered his way through the crush.
A spearman darted in, skewering Hugh of Ponthieu and sending the knight flying from the saddle as if snatched away by the hand of a giant. Run through by several spearmen as he fell count Guy’s brother was swallowed by the crowd, but his horse, unable to turn away from the mass of men amid the sky ripping clamour of battle came on regardless.
Hacon was almost up with the attackers now, and he shoved men aside as his eyes remained locked upon the duke. The riderless horse slowed and veered away as a gap in the mad scrum opened up before it, and Hacon gripped the haft of his war axe and wound his body as a clear path to the duke presented itself. Something, a sense of unseen danger, caused duke William to shoot a look in his direction; Hacon ensured he would be recognised as he roared his cousin’s name and the Dane axe swept down:
‘Wulfnoth!’
William’s eyes reflected the fury of battle as he angled his shield to parry the strike, but Hacon felt a stab of triumph as he saw that his old gaoler had misjudged where the blow would fall. As William’s shield came up the Englishman’s axe blade sang its death song as it cut the air, and the moment duke William was unsighted Hacon dipped a shoulder to alter its trajectory. Honed to a perfect cutting edge the blade slowed for a heartbeat as it connected with the horse’s nape and then it was through, slicing down through spine, muscle and tendon to emerge in a wellspring of blood. Hacon sprang back as the mortally wounded horse thundered past, narrowly dodging the duke’s retaliatory sword swing, and he watched transfixed as the war horse slowed and its forelegs folded. As the horse crashed to the turf the duke was thrown from the saddle, and before he could recover he was pinned to the ground by a knot of baying spearmen.
Satisfied that the enemy leader was taken Hacon turned away. The defenders were fighting hard to close the breach, spear points and sword blades glinting in the dying light; Walter Giffard was attempting to ride to his lord’s rescue, but the press of Englishmen was forcing his mount to a standstill and within moments an
axe blade hooked his shoulder and the Norman began to fall. Giffard was an old enemy from their youth together in Normandy, and the chance to settle old scores had Hacon running across to be in at the kill. A glance towards the battle line showed that the Norman knights were being slaughtered as word of their leader’s fall spread, each man looking to extricate himself from the melee as panic gripped them.
Walter Giffard finally slid from view, the knight’s expression a mask of horror and disbelief as an English spear pricked his guts, and Hacon thrilled at the sight of so many of the men who had thought themselves his betters finding their death on a rain lashed English hillside. As he drew nearer it became clear to Hacon that the short time it had taken to cross to the place where the knight had fallen had cost him his chance. The men there were already straightening their backs as they prepared to return to the fight, and Hacon marked the death wounds with relish as he recalled the man’s taunts and loftiness of old. A red gash marked where a sword had cut through the mail shirt to open his enemy’s chest; beneath this another had opened his belly, the ropes of blue-grey guts spilling out to steam in the cool air. Beheaded and eviscerated as he was Walter Giffard now resembled a slaughtered hog, and in a final indignity Hacon looked on as a spearman drew a knife to emasculate the corpse before turning to throw the handful of gore over the heads of the shield wall to land among the last of the Norman horsemen. It was the final act of the day as they took the unmistakable parts to have belonged to the duke, and within moments they had hauled at their reins and spurred back down the slope.
As the knights retreated and the English ranks came back together a great rolling roar shattered the gathering dusk, and Hacon shared looks of joy with those nearby as it became clear that word of the duke’s fall was moving like a brush fire along the length of the ridge top host. Hacon had little doubt that the whole of duke William’s army was now streaming back down the slope, desperately attempting to regain the coast before news of the disaster reached the ship masters and they cut their cables and ran. A familiar voice sounded at his shoulder then, and he turned to smile at the king.
