Spear Havoc 1066

by C. R. May

  But a few days rest in London had worked wonders on war weary minds and bodies, and their spirits had soared as they were cheered through the city and across the great bridge to the burh of Southwark. Following the old Roman road known as Watling Street for the first few miles, they had left king Harald’s army near the sleepy hamlet of Peckham and picked up another of ancient Rome’s greatest gifts to the North, the road now known as the Lewes Way. An easy day’s ride had brought them to the first assembly point, the town of Edenbridge where the earls of Mercia and Northumbria had spent an agreeable night entertaining the thegns of Kent and Surrey, getting to know the names and assessing the qualities of men they could expect to be fighting alongside in the coming days. Slowed down now by the men of the fyrd the twelfth day of October had been an even more leisurely affair than the day which had preceded it, but the weather had been fine, a watery sun and light breeze filling the air with a golden rain as the russet canopy of the great woodland of Andredes began to shed its leaves in preparation for the winter which was fast approaching.

  The sound of hoofbeats drawing near interrupted the meanderings of his mind, and an instinctive smile lit his features as Morcar came up. The earl of Northumbria called out as the horse slowed to a walk. ‘We are all set brother, and I have come to bid you godspeed.’

  The pair clasped arms as Edwin gave a cheery reply. ‘May the Almighty also ride with you Morcar, one more battle and the kingdom is secure.’ Down in the vale the harsh call of a battle horn summoned the last of the stragglers to their duty. Edwin and Morcar edged their mounts across, taking in the army with a sweep of their eyes as the sound was picked up on the breeze and carried away to the East. ‘You have the larger force,’ Edwin said, ‘and the tougher task ahead. But I watched the men of the western shires last evening as they guzzled cider and belted out their songs, and pity the Bastard and his invaders if they should ever get to meet.’

  With a final nod to his sibling Morcar hauled at the reins, guiding the head of his mount back towards the roadway and the waiting column. Edwin watched his younger brother go. Yet another of the myriad roads the Romans had left in this part of the world led directly along the Downs, seventeen miles from Lewes to Pevensey and the wooden castle which the invaders had begun to construct the moment they set foot on English soil. An unfamiliar mix of Northumbrian housecarls and the West Saxon fyrdmen of Hampshire, Wiltshire and Somerset were heading their way that morning bent on destruction, and he would lead the men of Kent, Surrey and Sussex itself along the ancient track which led directly to the king’s army twenty-five miles distant. Edwin glanced upwards as the tramp of booted feet reached his ears from the roadway. The sky was a vault of blue, the ground as dry as old bones: good marching weather. The timing was perfect. They would reach Harold’s army at the hoary apple tree just before dusk, attack the Bastard together and crush his proud neck.

  Edwin dipped his head as another bough reached out across the track, exchanging a look of exasperation with his closest hearth man as the path ahead showed no sign of widening.

  Wulfmær glanced across and smiled. ‘I have seen wider badger runs lord.’

  The earl snorted at his housecarl’s jest. Dressed for war the man shone like a newly struck coin in the gloomy surroundings, and Edgar was about to reply with a comment of his own when he saw the man stiffen. Years of hunting down Welsh raiders in country just like this had honed the big man’s senses, and the earl drew rein as he too cocked an ear to listen. Riders were approaching, the speed of their advance betraying the importance of their task.

  Wulfmær spoke again. ‘We would have heard if the scouts had run into trouble, lord.’ He cast a contemptuous look at the trees which surrounded the column. ‘The sound of fighting would have carried, even in this.’

  Edwin drew his sword from its scabbard as the thud of hoofbeats on the earthy ground grew in his ears. At the head of the army where any good leader should be, the width of the track would preclude any help from those following on if this was a Norman war party. But any attackers would be faced with the same conditions, and he had full faith in the man at his side and the deadly axe which had already appeared in his hand. They would fight their way through, hoping that the track widened out up ahead so that the rest of his hearth troop could come forward to help the pair finish the job. The rider when he appeared was clearly English, the rufous beard and shoulder length hair confirmation enough, and Edwin relaxed a touch as he recognised the man following on as one of the Sussex men who had gone ahead. The horseman skewed to a halt before the earl and lost no time in fulfilling his errand. ‘King Harold asks that you come on with all speed, lord,’ he blurted out. ‘The enemy reached the king’s position not long after dawn, and the first assault was made within the hour.’

  Edwin nodded that he understood as he pumped the man for more details. ‘You witnessed the attack?’

  The rider bobbed his head. ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘And it appeared to have been carried out by duke William’s army, it is not just the chance meeting with a strong detachment, foragers or the like?’

  The rider nodded again. ‘The Bretons are deployed on the left flank, the Flemings and French the right: duke William and his Normans hold the centre. There is no doubt lord,’ he said earnestly. ‘The enemy banners are in full view and the numbers tally with our reckoning of their full strength.’

  The Mercian earl cursed. They had barely travelled half a dozen miles that morning and the majority of that had been on the well made road which led from Lewes to Pevensey. ‘How far away are we?’

  King Harold’s man blinked and it was obvious that he had been dreading the question. Edwin sympathised. It was all but impossible to catch a glimpse of the sun in the thick press of trees, thereby marking the passage of time and by that estimate the distance travelled, but he needed to know. Thankfully the South Saxon scout had been listening in and used his greater local knowledge to supply the answer. ‘We are still about twenty miles shy of the fight, lord,’ he said. Edwin’s gaze switched to the man as his mind began to plan his response. ‘Does the track widen out further on?’

  The scout pulled a face. ‘In places lord, but never more than enough to allow three or four horsemen to ride abreast.’

  Edwin clicked his tongue as he thought. It was late morning, and despite the urgency of his task it must have taken the rider a good three hours to reach him here. If an experienced messenger dressed for speed on a fresh mount had needed that length of time to reach him, the heavily armed horsemen to his rear must take four to make the return journey. He looked back at the local scout as he came to a decision. ‘Ride with our friend here and overtake the earl of Northumbria and his army. Tell my brother all that has happened.’ Edwin snorted, drawing questioning looks from the men before him as he searched for a way to word his message in such a way that he could be sure his younger brother would act upon it. Morcar was cocksure, a perfect quality for an earl of the independently minded northerners, but it sometimes had its disadvantages. ‘Tell my brother that I strongly suggest he abandon the attack on the castle at Pevensey and hurry north to come upon the enemy from the rear.’ Edwin fished inside the purse at his belt. ‘Here, show him this token — my brother will recognise it instantly and it will confirm your message is genuine.’ He smiled despite the tension in the faces surrounding him. ‘There will be more than enough ways to die today, without being put to death as a suspected spy. I will lead my own housecarls and the thegns and mounted men of the south-east to the battlefield, with those on foot following on as fast as they are able.’

  His orders given Edwin smiled as he came to realise that he would be fighting that day after all. ‘The king has proven time and time again that he is a battle winner. He was confident that he could keep the enemy penned in with the Londoners and the men of the eastern shires alone, and I share that confidence. Let the invaders exhaust themselves in futile attacks, and we shall arrive in good time to drive them into the sea.’

  T
he Mercian felt a hollowness twist his gut as he ran his eyes across the distant ridge line. Half a mile to the east mounted knights were cascading down the slope, driving the tattered remnants of the king’s army before them like a fox before hounds. At his side Wulfmær swallowed hard as he formed his thoughts into words. ‘The standards are taken,’ he croaked, the distress he felt at the sight causing his voice to quiver.

  Edwin looked, and knew the king was dead. Even at a distance the earl could see the golden wyvern of Wessex being tossed from lance to lance. No fighting man, particularly his brother-in-law, would abandon the ancient symbol of the West Saxons and leave the field of battle alive. As the clamour of the victorious Norman army rent the cool air of an English autumn, Wulfmær gripped his lord’s sleeve and exclaimed in wonder. ‘Look!’ he said, pointing. ‘There are men still fighting!’ Near the northern end of the ridge a host of Englishmen stood back to back beneath the triple seax flag of Essex, the dying rays of the sun flashing from sword, axe and spear blade as they sold their lives dearly like the heroes of old. The sight cleared the fog of indecision from the earl’s mind, and he searched about for a place to make a stand as the first of the fleeing army plunged into the woodland to his left.

  Nearby the fading light picked out a hollow in the earth flanked by a series of ditches, and his eyes flicked to the rapidly approaching Normans and back as he gauged its value as a makeshift defensive work. The underbrush was thick, waist high grasses shielding the drop from the horsemen bearing down upon them, and Edwin knew that Merciful God had at last favoured an Englishman that day. Hauling the head of his mount around he pointed out the ridges and gullies, raising his voice to carry above the jangle of bit and mail shirt as the horse thegns of southern England began to spill from the woodland path. ‘Gather there! Form a line!’

  Guiding his own mount across he snatched a last look across his shoulder. The pursuing Normans were now little more than a hundred yards distant but he was at the lip of the drop in a trice, and Edwin’s hand closed about the handle of his shield as his feet touched the earth. He raised his voice again as men slid from saddles the length of the ditch. ‘Every third man hold the horses, the rest of you prepare to fight. We are too few to carry the day, but we shall give them a bloody nose and then retreat back the way we came.’ Edwin’s voice became a snarl. ‘Make as much noise as you can. Let’s see if Normans can fly.’

  As the shield wall formed and the staccato beat made by spear shaft and sword pommel resounded in the dusk, Edwin saw the moment when the horsemen became aware of the new threat. He mistook the leading rider for an Englishman for an instant, the man’s magnificent flowing moustache flashing gold in the dying light, but the cheeks of those surrounding him were clean shaven and a quick look at the gonfalon, the distinctive banners of the invaders, confirmed that they were about to fight Eustace, the Count of Boulogne, one of the Bastard’s most important allies. The count pointed with his lance, and Edwin’s eyes flashed with joy as he watched the horsemen wheel away from the fleeing fyrdmen of Harold’s army and gallop in his direction. ‘Keep up the noise lads,’ he called as the thunder of hooves grew in his ears. ‘Don’t give them a moment to think.’

  The leading element was little more than a dozen yards away when Eustace spotted the danger before him and began to rein in, and Edwin cursed his luck as he prepared to order the men alongside him to remount for the fight. But the mass of riders following on were unsighted, and despite the frantic attempts by the leading men to order a halt they ploughed into the rear, forcing the count and his bodyguards over the lip and down into the first of the ditches. Unaware of the danger ahead and eager to add a final chapter to the glorious tale of the day the men of Boulogne came on, and the waiting English watched gleefully as the look of triumph on the faces of the riders was replaced by disbelief and terror as the turf disappeared beneath them and they crashed to the ground. At his side Edwin was aware of Wulfmær fingering the haft of his war axe, the big housecarl straining like a leashed hound to get among those who had brought death to so many of his countrymen; a snatched glance along the line of shields showed that the rest of his men were struggling to keep their discipline as the shield wall edged back and forth like a lapping sea. But English self-restraint held, and the Mercian earl waited until the last of the riders had come to grief before filling his lungs to hurl the ancient war cry of the English into the dusk:

  Ut!-Ut!-Ut!… Out!-Out!-Out!…

  The chant was taken up all along the line, and a moment later Edwin was leading a landslide of Englishmen down the bank and into the witches brew of broken bodies and flailing limbs filling the depression. Edwin raised his sword as he ran, his eyes flicking from side to side as he searched for the count. To his disappointment Eustace had disappeared from view in the scrum, but a knight was just rising to his feet as his mount kicked and whinnied before him, and Edwin leapt the belly of the horse as his sword blade scythed the air to lay open the enemy’s neck just above his mail shirt. As the man crumpled, the sound of broken and panicked horses was swamped by the shouts and cries of the men of southern England as they too fell upon the men from Boulogne. Wulfmær had moved ahead, his axe blade a blur as Edwin’s leading man waded into the fray, heads and limbs flying around him as he gathered a deadly harvest.

  As the English fighters slammed into the invaders the tide of war momentarily left him isolated, and without an opponent to hand Edwin ran his eyes around the bowl of the depression. The dip was filled with English thegns and housecarls, axe, sword and spear blades reddening as they drove all before them, and Wulfmær backed to his lord’s side as the English crossed the floor of the gulley and began to hack their way up the opposite slope. The disordered resistance was fading quickly as the survivors of the rout abandoned their broken horses and streamed away, and Edwin searched their number for the man he wanted to kill before he too managed to withdraw from the trap.

  A knot of swordsmen had already regained the relative safety beyond the ditches, and Edwin’s heart sank as he recognised the figure of the count harden from the ruck. Guarded by a screen of knights Eustace was already hauling himself into the saddle of a commandeered horse, and the English earl cast about for a spear as his quarry threw back his heels and the horse began to move. At his side Wulfmær had guessed his intent, and he let the Dane axe drop to the ground to snatch a hand axe from his belt. The pair exchanged a look, and Edwin’s eyes widened with renewed hope as he snapped out an order: ‘Yes! Do it!’

  The housecarl drew back his arm, and an instant later the pair were willing the axe towards its target as it spun end over end through the air. Both men thrilled to the sight as they watched the axe fly true, but God it seemed still had a liking for the enemy that day as they saw the spin of the weapon bring the poll of the axe head and not the deadly blade around to strike Eustace between the shoulder blades. The count lurched forward as his retainers moved in to hustle him to safety and Edwin thought to pursue them, but Wulfmær’s hand was already picking at his sleeve as he indicated the field beyond. Hundreds of knights had left the field of death and were galloping down towards them beneath the lion flag of Normandy. It had to be duke William himself, and Edwin knew he was staring at a battle he could not win. ‘Back!’ he yelled as the last of the Boulonnais fell to avenging English blades. ‘Back to the horses! We have given them something to think about, it is time to save ourselves and prepare to fight again.’

  Earl Edwin arched his back and let out a sigh. It had been a long night of chilled air and stone cold food as they had waited patiently for the moon to light the way ahead, but it peeked above the trees in the southern sky now and it was finally time to get the army moving. It seemed like an age since he had parted with his brother on the sun blushed knoll outside Lewes but in reality it was less than a day, and he hoped that the messengers detailing the disaster and the tale of his own fight had got through.

  The retreating horsemen had reunited with the men on foot a little over five miles from the
place where they had defeated count Eustace and his knights. The heavy cloak of nighttime had been drawn across southern England by then, and Edwin had ordered all brands extinguished as he explained to the leading men what had occurred since they had parted. He had left scouts to watch the enemy from cover, good men who knew what was at stake and could be trusted to act with caution, but he hoped and believed that the chances of an enemy made bone-weary by a full day of battle pursuing them into the inky blackness were slim. To have moved forward to confront the army of King Harold in the early hours of the day meant that the Normans must have been forewarned. Edwin suspected that they had been stood to arms for the entirety of the night, before marching out to take on the English host at first light. Now, with the moon risen to light their way, the time had arrived for the men of Kent, Sussex and Surrey to move forward to renew the assault on duke William’s exhausted men.

  Within the hour the path began to open out as the track neared the hollow where they had routed the men from Boulogne, and earl Edwin raised an arm in the agreed signal that the horsemen should dismount. Gathering up his weapons from their carrying places he watched as the horses were led away, and the thegns and housecarls who would form the front ranks in the coming fight moved forward to take their places in the battle line. The moon had moved on in its celestial wanderings, the steely light of the early hours reduced to little more than a ghostly bloom as the new day approached, and Edwin cast a quick look skyward as he sent a prayer to God that he should rule that the English had now suffered enough for their sins. The returning light showed that the sky was clear, and as the stars paled only the silvery glimmer which men called the morning star remained visible in the heavens. Edwin exchanged a look with Wulfmær at his side as both men recognised that the conditions were perfect. Dawn itself was almost upon them, and the earl’s mind wandered despite the tension of the moment as he led the warriors through the trees. They had hunted a glorious stag in the Welsh Marches for a full day before they had run it to ground in a small copse. Trapped and exhausted the animal had accepted its fate, emerging from the woodland in a flurry of snorting fury as the westering sun painted its horns the colour of blood. The magnificence of the sight had stayed with him to this day, and Edwin hoped that his plan would have the same effect on the battle weary men camped on the ridge line half a mile to the East.