The Bastard King (32 page)

So they went out and although they could easily find the body of Hardrada they could not find that of Tostig.

‘I shall go myself and search for him,' said Harold. ‘I shall know my own brother.'

A battlefield was a terrible sight in the light of day. Among the mutilated bodies Harold searched for Tostig. It was not surprising that others had not been able to find him. Harold himself would not have been able to but for one small thing.

As he looked in vain among that mass of corpses he was thinking of Tostig as a boy, when they had played together, fighting their mock battles. They had not dreamed then that the day would come when they fought against each other in earnest and one should be killed.

Harold pictured Tostig clearly as he had been one day when they were in a forest together and came upon a stream. Tostig had thrown off his jerkin and plunged into the stream. A vivid picture came into Harold's mind. The laughing boy looking over his shoulder. ‘Come on, Harold. Are you afraid of cold water?' And he had plunged in and they scuffled with each other in the water. Would he ever get out of his mind the memory of Tostig standing naked in the sun. Every detail seemed suddenly clear – the hair that curled about the nape of his neck, the odd-shaped wart between his shoulders.

The wart! There was no other such wart in such a place on any other body.

Frantically he searched and found it. There it was as it had looked that day in the forest stream.

He could not bear to look at that head which had been split by the axe of one of his own men.

He ordered that Tostig's body should be carried away and given decent burial.

As he stood by his brother's grave, remembering so much from their boyhood, a messenger arrived with urgent news.

William of Normandy had landed at Pevensey Bay and was now encamped at Hastings.

Harold conferred with his brothers Gurth and Leofwine.

‘If I had not been at Stamford Bridge,' he said, ‘I could have prevented the landing.'

‘If Tostig had been with us instead of against us . . .' said Gurth angrily.

‘He was never with me,' said Harold. ‘He is dead now. Let
us not speak of him. It is usual to say if this and if that. The situation is that William has landed and is now doubtless erecting his fortifications. What we have to decide is what we shall do.'

‘The Army is depleted,' pointed out Gurth.

‘It needs rest and reforming,' added Leofwine.

‘The point is,' said Harold, ‘should we stay here or march south?'

‘If we stayed here, the Norman would be forced to march north to us,' said Gurth. ‘An army which has had a long march to a battlefield is never as fresh as one which has rested there.'

‘If I could stay here and muster an army, I would do so,' explained Harold. ‘But could I? If I called men from all over England to arms, they would not heed me. All I could hope for is to march south and attempt to muster men to my banner as I go. I will send messages to Edwin and Morcar but I don't trust them. They may not want the Norman but they don't want me either. I must think of this. On it could depend the outcome of the battle.'

After a great deal of deliberation he came to the conclusion that his greatest hope of success was to march south.

IN HIS NORMAN
camp William heard the news that Harold was coming.

The battle would not now be long delayed.

Harold, it was said, had defeated Harold Hardrada. a giant whom many had believed to be unbeatable. Harold was flushed with victory; he had slain his own brother Tostig, and now nothing could hold him back. He was coming to deal with the Norman who had dared invade his shores.

William pointed out to his captains, ‘He and his army will be weary. He has fought a great battle at Stamford Bridge.
Have no doubt he is a fine general. We shall not have an easy victory. But we are the stronger and we have right on our side. He will remember that he vowed on the bones of the saints and that memory will be with him throughout the day of battle.'

He decided that he would give Harold a last chance. He called one of the monks who had accompanied him on the voyage to England and said: ‘Go to Harold. Tell him that my right to the throne of England is the true one. Edward the Confessor promised me the crown and he, Harold, vowed to help me to it.'

The reply came back. The oath had been forced from Harold and no oath taken in such circumstances could be regarded as valid.

‘Go back to Normandy,' warned Harold. ‘I will compensate you for the expense you have incurred and we will form an alliance of friendship. But if you insist on a battle, I am ready.'

He knew of course what William's reply would be.

In his tent William was preparing for the battle.

‘Bring me my hauberk,' he said; and his servant brought it but in putting it on William turned it the wrong way round.

There was a hushed silence in the tent, for this was indeed an evil omen.

The Duke hastily turned the hauberk round and looked at the watching faces.

‘Ha,' he said, ‘so you will tell me now that this is a sign that I shall die in battle and this makes you fearful. Let me tell you this. I know that many among you – and brave men – would not dare go into battle on a day that had happened. But I never believed in omens and never will. I trust in God, for He does in all things to His pleasure and I commend myself to our Lady. The hauberk turned wrong and was righted by me. Well, if you want signs you can see one in this. The Duke has been turned even as the hauberk – turned from a Duke to a King.'

‘He has no fear,' said those about him. ‘He welcomes the battle.'

William mounted his horse, a present from the King of
Spain, and never had a finer been seen. It served only one master and whither the Duke went there his horse would go with him, without fear while the Duke was on its back.

He surveyed his soldiers. A goodly band. Fresh and ready for the fight – the cavalry first and the foot-soldiers behind with their bows and arrows.

His confidence grew as the hour for battle drew near.

Friday, the 13th October, and Harold with his army had encamped about the heights of Senlac. William had left his camp at Hastings and was on the march.

The battle, said William, should take place the next day; and the night before should be spent in prayers for Divine help.

At the end of that day he had reached the field and sighted the English. Harold would be there close to the spot where his banner fluttered.

‘Oh God,' prayed William, ‘give me the victory and I will build an abbey on that very place.'

He knew that he faced a general as skilled – or almost – as himself; and it was generals who won battles. A good general with an inferior force could wring victory from a great army, ill-directed. But he had a great army; he was a great general; his men were not wearied by a battle so recently won, by a long march south. At his neck he wore the bag of relics. His men knew it; and they knew too that Harold had sworn away his kingdom on those very bones.

God must be on their side together with those saints whose bones had been treated so disrespectfully by Harold.

‘We shall win,' declared William, and added: ‘If it be God's will.'

It was nine o'clock of the next morning when the battle began.

It did not go as William had thought. The spears and javelins of the English were formidable and from their catapults they hurled sharp flints into the enemy's ranks.

William gave the order for the cavalry to charge but this did not achieve the success he had planned and the English
wielding their axes clove many of the horsemen through the head. The rain of flinty stones had wounded many and as they were flung from some distance there was no immediate way of stopping them.

The first phase of the battle went to the English.

As the morning wore on, William was unhorsed when his beautiful steed was killed beneath him. He went down but one of his men sprang forward to kill his would-be assassin.

The cry went up: ‘The Duke is dead.'

The effect was immediate. The Normans believed they were beaten. Into their minds rushed the memory of William's fall as he had stepped ashore and the story of his putting on his hauberk back to front had been repeated throughout the camp.

With the English roar of triumph in their ears they began to retreat.

William however had found a new horse and was up again.

‘You fools!' he cried. ‘Do you want to be mown down? What will happen to you if you run? Where will you go? You face death if you retreat. Turn back and fight.'

He took off his helmet that they all might see him.

It was dangerous and an arrow could pierce his eye but it was better to risk that danger and to have the men know that he was alive, as vital as ever, and that they dared not turn and run while he was there to lead them.

The retreat was a blessing in disguise, for the English, believing they had won, had come down from the heights in pursuit. William realized his advantage at once. He gave the order to turn, and there were the English before them, vulnerable, called sharply to a halt in their rush to victory.

Savagely William led his men to mow them down. They were convinced now of the invincibility of their Duke. He could turn defeat into victory. They had to fight or face his wrath, and what could there be for them now, on foreign soil, if they did not fight?

The afternoon wore on; the position had been reversed. The English were becoming exhausted.

William called a halt to the battle and ordered his archers to shoot their arrows straight into the air. He could see that
these would fall directly among the troops who were now holding the hilltop under the standard.

They obeyed, and it was one of these arrows which pierced the eye of Harold.

Gurth seeing his brother fall and knowing that Leofwine was dead also, galloped out with a little band into the heart of the Norman troops. He was going to kill William of Normandy, the usurper who had come here and had killed two of his brothers.

So determined was he that he found the Duke – a not very difficult task because William was bareheaded. The onslaught was sudden and William's horse was killed under him.

William lifted his lance and ran it through Gurth's body.

Thus died the last of the Godwin brothers.

Evening had come. Forays continued and outbreaks of fighting continued on the hill of Senlac and in the forest beyond; but the tragic battleground was covered with the bodies of the dead and the battle of Hastings had been won by William of Normandy.

With dawn came the sorrowing women to search among the dead for their own that they might take them away for burial.

Among them was the beautiful Edith of the swan-like neck. Quietly, with her despair clear in every gesture, she moved among the dead.

Others had tried to discover the body of the dead king without avail, but Edith found him.

She knelt down beside a body and unfastened the mail. Even as Harold had recognized Tostig by the wart between his shoulders, so did Edith by a birthmark on Harold's chest.

She laid her face against it and stayed there until monks who had been sent by Harold's mother to claim his body begged her to come away.

She rose and stood straight and stately among the dead; then she said to one of the soldiers whom she knew to be Norman: ‘Take me to your master.'

He shook his head but she cried out: ‘Take me to him or I will curse you in the name of the man you have slain.'

William received her in his tent. He had removed his armour and just risen from his knees when he had thanked God for the victory.

He looked imperiously at the beautiful woman so stricken in her grief, so careless of what happened to her. For what could it matter now that Harold was dead?

She hated this man, this Norman usurper who had come and taken Harold's life as well as his crown.

She said: ‘I have come to demand the body of Harold.'

He looked at her intently. He sensed her sorrow and respected it, for he knew who she was. He had rarely seen such beauty and her long neck was remarkable. So this was the woman whom Harold had loved!

‘None make demands of me,' he said. ‘They may make requests.'

‘I request you, then, to give me Harold's body that I may take it from this field of carnage and give it honourable burial.'

‘Harold is a perjurer,' he said. ‘He does not merit honourable burial.'

She looked at him with burning hatred in her eyes. Many will look at me thus, he thought, when I go about my new kingdom. I must be harsh with them, or they will think me weak and rise against me.

What if he gave this woman her lover's body? She would bury it with pomp; she would make a saint of him. Nay, he would bury Harold where he deserved, in an obscure grave. There must be no shrine, no pilgrimages.

He had no illusions about the task before him. He had won merely the first battle; he had opened the door as it were. The great war was before him and he had an idea that he would go on fighting it for a very long time.

So, no weakness, no giving way.

‘Have you no pity?' she asked.

‘I am a just man,' he replied. ‘I see no reason why a perjurer should be given an honourable burial.' He turned to the man who had been standing at the door of the tent. ‘Take this woman away,' he said.

She went but before doing so gave him such a look of hatred that he was to remember for a long time. He respected her courage for he could have ordered her to her death. He understood her grief for she loved Harold and he thought that Harold had been fortunate to win the love of such a woman. He bore her no malice. This was an example of how he must rule this land. There would be no sentiment; nor did he want revenge. He would give harsh justice and if any failed to recognize him as their master they would be met with punishment and death. Yes, they should be robbed of their lands, their limbs and if need be their lives.