I Am the Chosen King (62 page)

The Hoar-Apple Tree, Sussex

Evening descended with one of those soft ripples that is barely noticed. The sky had darkened gradually, so that it was only when night actually fell that it was realised the day had ended. Evening ushered in the autumnal chill, the grass dew wet, the air nipping at fingers and face. Before many nights passed, frost would be sprinkling the bronzed leaves and dying bracken.

There was no doubting that Duke William was aware of the English muster. Normandy had scouts who knew their job—had been observed by King Harold’s own scouts. Word would have travelled before the marching army as it left London, two days and sixty-odd miles away, over the northern Weald beyond the densely thicketed forest of Andredsweald. They had marched on foot, most of them—the housecarls, the fyrd—for there were no adequate sound horses, but it did not matter. The walk was not so long from London into Sussex, and surprise and speed were not essential for this coming battle.

By the late afternoon of the thirteenth day of October several thousand men were adding their rough-made encampments to those already gathered on the wind-riddled slope of Caldbec Hill. More were coming: in small groups, pairs, ones and twos. Esegar and Godric, both Shire Reeves, settled their men at campfires after dark; Leofric, Abbot of Peterborough, joined his freemen of the fyrd with those of Abbot Ælfurg of Winchester. The men of Thurkill of Kingston and Eadric the Deacon sank wearily into the huddle of their cloaks, hardly caring that the women were offering them food, such was their weariness. Through the night men came, expecting to have a wait of a day or two, perhaps more, before their weapons and skill would be wanted. Scattered over the hill, a hundred and a hundred campfires mirrored the sparkle of the stars wheeling across the heavens: Orion the Hunter, the Bull, the Bear.

The King’s own tent was pitched within yards of the old tree, which had proved its worth as an easily recognised rallying point. Outside, his two banners fluttered, toyed with by the restless southern wind: the Dragon of Wessex beside the Fighting Man. Nearby stood the command tent of Earls Gyrth and Leofwine with their own banners. Within Harold’s tent, the lamps lit, they were arguing.

“It is senseless for you to fight, brother. If you are killed, what will happen to England? Let me take your place.” Leofwine was vehement, his obstinate stance backed by many of those leaders also present—captains, bishops, thegns…

“And what will happen to England if I did that?” Harold roared back at them, slamming his fist on the table top in front of him, making tankards and goblets, maps and the paraphernalia of war bounce. “I was elected king, as Harold the second of that name, elected as the man most worthy to lead our armies. Do I, then, abandon my responsibility at this first hint of danger?”

“But you fought at Stamford Bridge—you have adequately proved your worth…” That was a captain of his housecarls.

“And I shall fight here at Hastings!”

Leofwine swung away from the table, his hands raised. “Is there no reasoning with the man?”

“Happen you could try it more successfully with Duke William?” Gyrth said drily. “Our messenger got nowhere. You might be more persuasive.”

Leofwine tossed a lewd, dismissive gesture at his brother. The offer of negotiation sent this afternoon had fallen on closed ears; William had refused even to consider the possibility of talking. A monk from Harold’s own abbey of Waltham had ridden those eight miles to the coast, carrying the green branch of peace high. “My Lord King Harold bids you peace,” he had said, “and offers you the freedom of withdrawal, with no reprisal or savagery against the destruction that has been committed here in his kingdom. Our King was legally elected by the Council of the Witan and the people of England. He has been anointed and acclaimed by the same.”

The terse reply had been as ever it had. Earl Harold, as the Normans persisted in calling him, had sworn oath to become vassal of Normandy, had broken his pledge. As duke and rightful king, William had the support of the Church of Rome and the hand of God within his own. He had then laid down his own terms: “Let Harold surrender to me now, before blood is shed and the killing commences. I shall grant him adequate land for himself and his kindred.”

The Waltham Abbey monk had shaken his head. “King Harold already has adequate land. He has England.”

Countess Gytha, collecting empty broth bowls from the finished meal and handing them to a servant, added her own impassioned pleading to that of the men. “There is no one to lead if you should fall Harold. England can fight a second, third, or fourth time. William has but this one chance. He must win, for if he does not, how can he try again? He will not have the men. He must win or die—you do not.”

“No! I have but the one chance also! Do you all not see?” Harold whirled away from them, his fingers raking through his hair. “I am new to kingship and I am not of the royal blood. I have to prove my ability—Stamford Bridge was a start, but ’tis not enough! Will the North stay loyal if I sit idle and let you, Leofwine, do all the fighting on my behalf?” He lowered his hands, a desperate plea for understanding contorting his face. “Duke William is a warrior lord. He will see naught but weakness if I flinch from facing him—that in itself may win him the day. Have no doubt that if I do not take the field, William will crow of my reluctance to prove the truth of this thing.”

He crossed the tent, placed a hand on Leofwine’s shoulder, glanced at each man present, at his mother. “I quarrel with William, but do not wish to do so with all of you also. I have come this far and will lead my men into battle. As for the rest”—he spread his hands, let them fall to his side—“that is in God’s hands.” With a sudden display of affection, Harold pulled Leofwine to him in an embrace, patting his hand on the younger man’s back. Leofwine returned the gesture of peace.

Then, grinning, Harold shuffled through the maps spread on the table and selected the one he required. “Now that matter is settled, let us make our plans. William is encamped here, by the Hastings shore. He will be wondering whether we are to attack him where he sits, or whether he will need come to us.” He looked at the men present: his two brothers, the commanders of his own housecarls and those of Gyrth and Leofwine, at the shire reeves, the more important thegns. “He has sufficient spies watching our every movement, as we are keeping close eye on him. Come dawn, we shall both know how many of each other’s men carry the cock-pox!”

Gyrth laughed with the rest, then ran to the tent flap. “So you are watching us, eh, Bastard Born? Well, see this and take notice!” He unlaced his braies and thrust his bare backside out into the darkness to appreciative applause.

“You had better not do that when we meet in battle,” someone guffawed. “I hear the Normans are skilled with the bow and arrow—that fine rounded bum of yours would make a most suited target.”

“It is a broad one, that’s for certain!”

Harold joined in the merriment, letting it swirl a while. Laughter was a good tonic. “What we need,” he said as the chuckling subsided, “is time. Another day, two, and all those men summoned will be here. Eadric ought to have the fleet in position—seventy of our craft are blockading the sea lanes. Within a few days the Normans will not be able to get in or out.”

“Do we wait here, Sir? See what he intends?”

“That is what I propose. I have no wish to go down into the peninsula. We have successfully cut William off from moving further out into England. He can either wait out the winter, or fight us. And if he decides to fight, we shall be here.” He stabbed his finger at a charcoal line drawn on the map. “On the hill above the Sand Lake, on Sendlach Ridge.”

***

Countess Gytha left the men to their planning. She could not bear to listen to the talk of death and killing. Outside, she closed her eyes, breathed in the dampness of the earth, the lingering smell of woodsmoke and cooking—the aroma of stewing and sizzling meat, the acrid stench of a part that had scorched. Someone, she mused, had not watched and turned the spit. What would Godwine have thought and said of all this? Of Harold he would, without doubt, have been proud; of Leofwine and Gyrth also. But of their other son? Of Tostig?

She walked through the groups of men, some sitting, talking and laughing, others curled up, trying for sleep. Many of them had their weapons laid across their knees, or cradled within their arms as if the axe or spear or sword were a woman. Where the path was narrow, they shuffled to allow her passage, doffing their hats, bringing their hand to their left shoulder in salute. They all recognised the Countess. Had not many and many of them served her dead lord before this one?

What were they thinking, she wondered, of her son Tostig? Of his betrayal, of his utter stupidity? Two sons had she lost to the grave. Swegn she had never forgiven. Would she, in the years to come, think as bitterly of Tostig?

At the edge of the slope stood a copse of trees, the canopy rustling as the wind played chasing games with the autumn-tinted leaves. In a week or two, if the weather turned and the wind strengthened, the leaves would fall and the trees stand unclothed, for all the world dead and finished. But unlike men slaughtered in battle, the shoots would bud in the spring and the trees would come alive again. Two sons dead and a third, not seen all these long years, held captive in Normandy. Did he still live, or had William had Wulfnoth hanged, or his throat cut?

She sat on a fallen log, dimly illuminated by the flickering light of a campfire. If Wulfnoth had died at the Duke’s hand, then let God have seen to it that it had been quick and painless. Oh, she knew what William was capable of, how he could butcher and torture, how he could order a man—and his wife, so she had heard—shut within a dungeon and left to starve. All for defying their duke.

She gazed out at the stars, hearing the eerie call of a hunting owl, the quick scream as it caught its prey. A mouse, perhaps, or a vole. Two, three sons lost to her, and a daughter.

Edith she had tried to see in Winchester, wanting to talk sense into her, to make the fool girl realise the consequences of what was happening all around her. But Edith had refused her mother an audience, said she was too deep in mourning for her brother to welcome visitors. The rebuff had been as sharp as it had been poignant, implying her mother had no feeling for Tostig.

Oh, she was wrong in that! Very wrong. Gytha had many feelings for Tostig, feelings that were not suited to a woman, to a mother.

The message she sent back to Edith, as she left her house in Winchester, had been as succinct: “Had I known the future as I lay birthing the son who came to be called Tostig, I would have taken the cord and tightened it around his neck myself. For this one act that I did not do, I may well lose three more of my sons, and a grandson with them!”

Hastings

Before sunset, Duke William had the relics upon which Harold had sworn his oath paraded before the men. Archbishop Odo of Bayeux walked at the head of the procession, laying his hand on those soldiers who knelt before him, offering prayers and blessings. The exercise imbued the men with renewed strength; they were restless and uneasy for they were in a strange land, penned in with no way forward, no way back. The English ships had been sighted during the late afternoon and word had already spread that Harold had come…There was no getting out of this now. Either death or victory awaited. There could be no losing, for there was nothing to lose, save life itself.

William had decided no definite plans or tactics when the fleet had sailed from Saint Valéry—too much had depended on the wind and sea and on their reception upon landing—if they managed to get that far. God had been with them for voyage and landing. A few peasants had attempted to make a fight of it as the Normans entrenched themselves in the village of Hastings, but they had been cut down. As the English army would be, when they met on the battlefield.

His men were experienced, war-hardened soldiers—there was not a man here who had not at least one battle scar etched on his body. And he had the horses, the skilled and powerful cavalry, Harold did not. William’s scouts had told him that the English were mostly on foot or mounted on shaggier riding ponies, not war mounts.

It was well known that infantry fared ill against cavalry. The English stood little chance if they elected open battle. The Duke only wished he knew of Harold’s intentions. The hill where Harold had mustered his men formed an effective gateway, lying across the road that led out from this narrow strip of marsh-locked land. Were the English intending to hold that barrier, entrusting that their ships could retain an effective position seawards? Or would Harold approach the coast, provoke a fight nearer Hastings?
Non
. Any sensible general would entrench at the narrowest point through which the enemy must march to gain new ground. Cage his opponent, create an effective siege. Ah, but was Harold an effective general? Was he or not?

Duke William poured himself wine and sipped. In Normandy he had taken the English Earl to be a cock-crowing, uninspiring sort of man. A family man, a woman’s man. Look how Mathilda had admired him! Pah, she’d claimed she had no liking for him, that she had merely been attempting to find out what she could from him. Did she think her husband so naive? What was it she had said? That there was more to Harold on the layers beneath than on those that were visible to the eye? She had certainly been right where his devious double-dealing had been concerned! But what did a woman know of what made a good leader or no, of the making of battle plans?

As she had come to mind, William briefly considered how Mathilda would fare in Normandy if he were to not return. Could she hold the duchy together until their son reached maturity? He had left sound men to assist her; Robert de Montgomery he could trust implicitly, for the firm promise of a lion’s portion of English land as a reward for his loyalty, if for nothing else. Nor would her father, Count Baldwin, allow Normandy to fall to anyone other than his grandson.

He tossed back the wine, savouring its mellow fruit. No point in brooding over what may be, not when the now must first be considered. He doubted any man could hold the duchy together as effectively as had he, had no particular care of what happened after his death. He was not doing all this for the reward of others, this was for himself, for his own satisfaction. As for Robert, he had no real feeling for that irritating boy who was—God knew how—his son. Let him see to the muddle if there came one. If he could muster the manhood to do so.

“What would you do, fitz Osbern?” William asked, repeating his previous thoughts aloud, kicking his second-in-command’s boot from where it was stretched before a dying brazier.

Fitz Osbern started, grunted. He had been dozing; the day had been long and wearisome. His scouting venture with the Duke earlier in the day, covering those few miles to observe the English position, had depressed him. There were so many of the English, and they would be fighting on their own soil—they would dictate the when and where. In addition, the day had been hot and humid, the return walk to Hastings seeming twice as long as the outward trek. Fitz Osbern had felt dizzy and unwell—his stomach had the runs. This brackish-tasting English water was upsetting many of them.

They had taken their hauberks as a matter of course, but had not worn them. Once, stumbling, Will had fallen to his knees, the weight of the mail in his arms dragging him down. He was sweating, exhausted—but not Duke William. He had put a hand under Will’s elbow, lifted him up and carried his armour for him along with his own. Did nothing hamper or deter this duke? He had the courage of a lion, the heart of a stag and the strength of an ox—ah, but there were so many of those English!

Will fitz Osbern tried to formulate a helpful and suitable answer. “Were I in Harold’s position,” he opined with slow deliberation. “I would build a timber blockade and fortifications where I sit. Starve us out.”

“And that, my friend,” William said, “we cannot allow.” Decision made, he strode to the tent opening, calling for his captains and commanders. Then he swung round to grin confidently at his companion and friend. “We cannot afford to be penned up like herded cattle awaiting the autumn slaughter, nor can we allow this man who calls himself ‘king’ the chance to catch his breath.”

Men began arriving at a jogtrot: Comte Brian de Bretagne, Eustace de Boulogne, Robert de Beaumont…both the Duke’s half-brothers, Bishop Odo and Robert, comte de Mortain. D’Evreux, de Mortagne, vicomte Thours, Walter Gifford, Ralph de Tosny. Mont-fort, de Warenne, Malet, Guy de Ponthieu and more, the blood in their veins rising with the excitement of approaching battle.

“Call in the foraging parties.” William barked as his first order. His next was: “We march at dawn.”

***

First light, an hour before sunrise, on a dew-damp Saturday morning, the fourteenth day of October. A pale, laundered blue spread like an incoming tide from the east. The sky swung high and clear, decorated by skimped wisps of cloud that would tinge pink once the sun rose.

Harold had lain awake, staring into the darkness, his arm cradling Edyth, her head nestled into the familiar, comfortable hollow of his shoulder. She slept, her eyes flickering, body twitching, from a visiting dream. A smile was on her face, so it must be a good dream. They had made love twice during these few short hours of privacy, the first time with the frantic desire of need, the second for the sharing, the giving and taking, of love. He had come to bed late, close to the midnight hour, for there had been much to see to: the briefing of his commanders; a tour of the camp, talking to the men, exchanging conversation with those he knew, enquiring after family—a marriage, a birth, a death—asking after the healing of wounds received, in honour, at Stamford Bridge, exchanging anecdotes of that day’s victorious fighting. With those he knew not, asking their name, their home, kindred. All the while making it seem that each man was the important one, their king’s friend and companion. It was the way of a good commander to talk on equal terms with his men, to listen, to be together as brothers. As they would be, come the day of fighting.

As the tent lightened with the dawn, he slid from the bed, settling Edyth’s head gently on the pillow. He dressed in tunic and hose, unlaced the entrance flap and stood in the opening, looking out on to the new-born day. Men were awakening, he could hear the sounds of stirring: stretching, coughing and yawning; from the nearer tents, the cruder body functions. So many thoughts in his mind. Alditha and the coming child. Goddwin. His daughters—they at least ought to be safe. Gunnhild was receiving her education at Wilton; he had sent Algytha to join her there. Ulf he had taken to London, to be with Edgar and the remainder of the court. Edgar had wanted to come to Sussex, but Harold had forbidden it, for the same reasons that he had seen his own sons safe, and for the sake of England should things go wrong here in the South. He would rather his own son, should Alditha bear him one, follow him as king, but if William should by chance win his way out of this enclosed peninsula and he, Harold, was unable to take the fight to him again…Edgar remained ætheling. It would be for Edgar to rally the North, to fetch Eadwine and Morkere to London…He must not think pessimistically. William was the one who was caught like a rat in a trap. Not he.

He would like good marriages for his girls—it was by far time Algytha were wed. Perhaps as a wife for Edgar? It was worth considering. He must mention it to Edyth…ah, Edyth. He had not wanted her to come, not where there was to be fighting. Battle was no pretty thing. All the stories, the sagas and songs told of the glory and the pleasure in victory; you never heard the truth from the taletellers’ lips: the cries of the wounded, the screams of the horses, the stench, the spilling of gore and blood.

He was on the very edge of pulling back, of agreeing terms with William. The man could not rule both countries with the efficiency he would crave, would have to appoint some lord to rule as regent.
Would it
, Harold thought,
damage my own pride so severely if I were to abdicate? To save the slaughter, the widowing of too many wives, the slaying of children’s fathers? Earl of Wessex is no mean title—do I need to be king?

Movement behind interrupted his thoughts, a hand on his back, an arm slipping round his waist, the summer-flower scent of Edyth. He lifted his own arm, brought her closer to his side so that she too might see the glory of this autumn morning. No, he had not wanted his beloved Edyth to come, yet he was glad that she had: something beautiful to see and touch, to ward away the ugliness of conflict.

He looked southwards, towards Hastings. Was William standing, questing northwards with his mind and instinct to help him decide what to do? Or did he already know?

Small in the distance, a man was galloping down the incline of Telham Hill. An English scout. Harold’s arm tightened around Edyth’s waist. He dipped his head, lightly placed his lips on the crown of her hair, guessed the news the runner was bringing. They had known, last night when he had walked through the camp, they had all really known. He had known when he had lain and loved with his Edyth, that William would not wait.

***

At dawn, Bishop Geoffrey de Coutances had taken mass and offered Communion to Normandy’s commanders and to her duke. Had blessed them and prayed for God’s deliverance on this most especial day.

By the half-hour past six, Duke William’s army was on the move. Bretons, with Poitou, Anjou and Maine, headed the column led by comte Brian. Next the Franco-Flemish—the fierce fighting men of Picardy, Boulogne and Flanders with comte Eustace de Boulogne, Robert de Beaumont and William fitz Osbern. And then came the Normans, the infantry, together with the cavalry on foot, leading their horses so the animals would be fresh for the hardship ahead. Across the saddles lay their hauberks, the chain-mail armour, ready to be donned when the time came to form the battle lines.

Duke William himself rode his black stallion, the Andalusian charger, a gift from King Alfonso of Aragon. He was a good horse, coming from a man who could prove useful to Normandy. He would make a suitable husband for Agatha, when this business in England was satisfactorily completed. Snorting and prancing, the magnificent, long-maned beast paced beside the column of men. William, clad in leather under-tunic and braies, the mail leggings and sleeves laced and tied, rode from the rear forward, so that he might have a chance to speak to every one of them as he passed. Again and again he repeated his words as he trotted past rank upon rank—close on 18,000 men.

“Our hearts and spirits fly high this bright morning! Fight well, this day, my brothers, and your reward will be great—and for those of you who do fall, die well, knowing you enter God’s Kingdom with the honour of a warrior. The sons of your begotten sons, or the children of your brothers and nephews, will say with pride: my kinsman fought, that day, in England at the place they called Hastings!”

He was there to watch them, as the long, long column of men dispersed upon the hill that by the afternoon would be called Blackhorse Hill, the hill where the baggage wagons were to be left, the supplies minded and the wounded brought. There would be many wounded, most of them beyond helping.

The men, eager and apprehensive all together, ran their thumbs lightly across axe and sword edge, tested bow strings, set arrows loose in the quivers at their hips. Hoisted spears, tapped shields for soundness. Hauberks, for those fortunates who had chain-mail, were pulled on, fitting like a tunic that reached to knee or calf, split from hem to crotch rear and front, the loose skirting laced, for those cavalrymen who preferred it, to form crude breeches. By ill chance, William’s hauberk twisted to the left as he brought the mail coat down over his head, ending backwards about his body, the sword slit to his right side, the coif to his front. Men saw and the whisper sped quickly from mouth to mouth. Bad luck? An omen!

William laughed, his head tossed back, a great guffaw of amusement, although inside he was quaking—God’s love, but he must turn this thing quickly, in face and word, else he could lose them! He swivelled the mail to its right side, shouting, “see how I turn it from the wrong to the right with such ease? Thus shall I, this day, right Harold’s wrongs and turn my duchy into a kingdom!”

They heard and the anxious sweep of superstition fled with a yodelling cheer. The Leopards of Normandy, carried by Turstin, were set in the curve of the hill. Duke William, after signing himself with the cross, sent his men down the slope and into position in the valley beneath the high rising ground, where, upon the ridge, the English stood. Waiting.