The Last Conquest (60 page)

The cries of wounded men reached him. A score of arms were raised in the grass to his front. Norman losses were serious too, in men and above all in horses. They had used all their fresh mounts.
Now it was a case of change and change about until they dropped. The stud and stables at Longueville would take years to recover from this.

The corrupt Flemish infantry had let them down on the right as well as the Bretons on the left. There ought to be gaps in the line by now for the cavalry to exploit. Call themselves
professionals?

Giffard spat.

Worst of all was the hill. The damned hill. And the stream. Proper firm open ground that they were used to, and there would have been no problem. At the top too, the lopsided rampart of shields
and stakes. Behind it the wild heads in the centre and the forest of ridiculous farm tools on the wings. The only consolation was that Beaumont had been no more successful on the right. All the
more reason for Giffard himself to think of something in the centre.

He looked up once more at the Saxon line – a wild hedgehog of amateurism and out-of-date bumble. They had no right to be still there; it was all so stupid and unfair.

‘Bastards!’

Robert of Mortain reined in beside him, slid off his mail coif, and wiped his forehead.

‘If only they would move, or sway a bit, or something.’

The Duke rode up.

‘We shall give them something to sway about.’

Mortain saw the archers trudging by yet again with swollen quivers, and marvelled.

‘Brother, how did you get all those arrows out of de Clair? He garners them like a miser.’

William grunted. ‘We spoke.’

He shouted to the archer sergeants. ‘Further round still, for the sun. I want them high again.’

Their faces fell.

‘High, sir?’

‘Yes. But this time you can show off your marksmanship too. No blanket firing. I want everything in one place. You go for the tree and the two standards. All of you – understand? The
tree and the standards. And high!’

‘Sir.’

William turned to his vassals. ‘Come, brother. Come, Giffard.’

Eustace of Boulogne pushed his horse forward.

‘Please, my lord. Let me fight this time. Let Turstin carry. It may be my last chance.’

Turstin of Bec tensed himself in the saddle. William looked up the hill.

‘I doubt that.’

‘I beg you, sir.’

‘No. Come, my lords. We make them move, or at least we make them sway.’

On Telham Hill, Gilbert fumed and fretted.

‘How much longer?’ he demanded.

‘As long as necessary,’ said Ralph, unmoved.

Gilbert pointed. ‘There they go again. Much more of that and there will not be any English left to attack.’

‘That is the general idea,’ said Bruno.

Gilbert swore.

‘They are slower,’ said Ralph.

‘Hardly surprising,’ said Bruno.

Ralph grimaced in anxiety. How much closer could they go in after the bows? Much more, and they would have arrows in Norman necks.

‘Sir. You must come. They are gathering again.’

Harold replaced the two shrouds, crossed himself, and got to his feet.

‘If anything happens to me, see that my mother is told where they are.’ He paused, listening. ‘What is that noise? It comes from behind.’

‘It is the women, sir. They are down there, praying and—’

‘Weeping. With good reason. But courage, lad.’ Harold shook off the mood. ‘We shall yet give them a day to be proud of. Something for the orphans to sing about, eh?’

The messenger fidgeted. ‘Sir – your orders.’

Harold drew himself up. ‘Yes. Yes. I want all the wing housecarls to the centre again. We can yet surprise the Bastard. Thank God he is a chess player.’

In the next few minutes, no man in the English line would have guessed that Harold had only just dried streaming tears. Running with bent legs from one block of the wall to another, with his
shield held like a canopy over his head against the whining arrows, he chivvied and coaxed and cheered; he swore and blasphemed and made black jokes; above all, he encouraged and inspired.

The thinning line of housecarls turned to face the labouring Norman horses with a fresh gleam in the eye and a fresh grip on the axe.

Harold plodded up to the apple tree. One of the standard bearers was sagging with an arrow in the top of the shoulder. The Dragon of Wessex swayed. Another man grabbed it and held it up
again.

Harold was shocked at the number of arrow wounds among his headquarter staff. For a moment he considered moving his command position, but decided to assess the current battle situation
first.

He stood by the tree, laid down his shield, and put a hand to his eyes to shade them from the afternoon sun.

The attack was now being pressed. Harold was so used to the dreadful noise that he was barely conscious of it. He had to watch, and judge, and guess – and out-think the Bastard.

Nor far away a knot of Norman knights crashed through the shield wall. Kicking and hacking, they carved an avenue of death towards him. Desperate housecarls ran after them, swinging axes and
swords at stirrups, legs, haunches, hooves, anything to stop them. Fyrdmen ran in from the wings and formed a block in front of the King – stabbing, cutting, clawing the enemy down.

One of them saw Harold, pointed, and yelled something.

Suddenly Harold felt a great blow on his head, and a stabbing pain over the eye. The impact flung him against the tree. He put up a hand and wrenched the arrow from the rim of the helmet.

The blow had left him dizzy. Blood ran down into his eye and blinded it. He leaned against the trunk and blinked and shook his head.

In front of him, the leading Norman was at last dragged from his horse and cut to pieces. The one behind caught a glimpse of the King fumbling for his sword like a man in the dark. Half his face
was a mask of blood.

The Norman screamed, ‘The King is stricken!’ before an axe laid open his back.

One by one, the frantic English tore down the maddened, yelling Normans. They paused in front of their wounded king, their chests heaving, their hands red and sticky. Harold waved to show that
he was not badly wounded, but it did not look like it.

Behind them, more housecarls hewed like maniacs to stem the flood of Normans through the gap, and at last sealed it, partly with shields and partly with enemy dead.

Painfully but steadily the attack was turned back. All along the line were piles of dead and dying. Crippled horses uttered sounds to give men bad dreams for the rest of their lives. One
destrier seemed to twitch although it had no head.

No words were exchanged. No orders were given. The gaps were repaired. The wings shuffled and closed up. Severed limbs were kicked aside. Men leaned on axes and grimaced with the effort of
drawing breath.

Harold, bareheaded and with a stained bandage over his eye, walked up and down with drawn sword.

‘It can not be long now. Hold on. Hold on. We are still here. And the Bastard is still down there.’

The exhausted vassals stumbled back to the Duke, who now sat on his fourth horse of the day.

He listened to their report and to the account of their losses. A glance around could have told him anyway. At least a quarter of the knighthood of Normandy was lying up on Senlac Hill; with the
infantry it was harder to tell, but casualties had been heavy. The non-French contingent leaders painted a similar gloomy picture; they would probably exaggerate in hope of greater reward, the news
was still depressing. Even the mercenaries had suffered; Bloodeye himself was gone.

Montgomery confirmed his impression that the English resistance seemed stiffer on the right than on the left. Something about a giant inspiring the fyrdmen.

Only the archers had light losses, but that was to be expected, since they had not been closely engaged, and they had done no defensive fighting.

Men dismounted heavily and stood about in small groups. A few took drinks. Hardly anybody ate.

They gazed up to the top of Senlac Hill. The Saxon line was shorter, the ring of shields smaller, but it looked just as still and just as permanent. Above it the two Saxon standards flew by the
tree. Was it imagination, or did their golden stitchwork gleam yet more boldly in the rays of the late afternoon sun?

William looked at the length of the shadow cast by his horse. Time was now running against him as well.

He could not continue to snap and gnaw at the English line like this any more, though he felt sure that it was producing results. His men were running out of strength, and the army’s
morale could not stand much more of these repeated huge efforts and heavy losses without much apparent success.

Moreover, he had barely two hours of good light left, if that.

He banged his gloved hand impatiently on his thigh. Think of something!

Men were glancing over their shoulders at him. If he did not give them orders soon, he would find it difficult to get them to obey.

This was the time. It had to be now. There was something, too, that he had heard men shouting at the height of that supreme effort, when they had come so near to breaking through.

He could not be sure, such was the terrible noise, but it had sounded like ‘He is hit! He is hit!’ It had flown from front to rear like a flung pebble bouncing across smooth
water.

Every nerve and instinct told him that the battle could be won, or lost, according to what he now did. This was the moment.

He trotted across to Sir William Fitzosbern, who greeted him with one word.

‘Nearly.’

Praise God for Fitz and his faith and his level head!

With banishment of doubt came inspiration and decision.

‘This is what we do, Fitz . . .’

‘Why has it gone quiet?’ asked Edwin. ‘Why are they pulling right back? Have we won?’

‘No,’ said Wilfrid.

Edwin hung his head. He could not imagine lifting another weapon again, much less swinging it.

‘So they are coming again?’

‘Yes.’

‘Will they break through?’

‘Maybe.’

‘So you think they will win?’

‘Maybe.’

Edwin stared. ‘How can you say that?’

‘I like to fight beside a truthful man. I hope you do too.’

‘But, Wilfrid – if we do not win, what happens?’

‘We lose.’

Wilfrid saw his ashen face, and patted his shoulder. ‘Cheer up, lad. I only said “maybe”. And you do not really need me to tell you that. Besides, your eyes are sharp and your
legs are long.’

Edwin shook off his hand. ‘Are you suggesting that I should run away?’

‘If the King falls and we are overrun, yes. One fights only to save a cause. Why die when the cause is dead?’

‘But you are a housecarl.’

‘I was talking of you, not of me. Yes, I am a housecarl. I shall likely die in the next attack, or the next one, or the one after that. I am ready.’

Edwin gulped. ‘So am I.’

‘No, you are not. Boys of your age never are, and a good thing too.’

‘I am not a boy.’

‘You may be a lusty lover to some girl or other, but to me you are a boy.’

Edwin winced.

‘So, mark,’ said Wilfrid. ‘Fight like Hell, yes. If you try to run away before all is lost, I shall break your neck. If you do not run when it
is
lost, I shall still
break your neck.’

‘Satisfied?’ said Ralph.

The cavalry had been drawn up again, along the widest possible front. Gilbert saw the fluttering pennons of all the remaining Norman vassals. To his right – Beaumont, Montgomery, de
Warenne, Malet, Mortagne. To his left – Giffard, de Montfort, de Tosny, de Grandmesnil. There were others he did not recognise, they were so tattered. In the centre, and slightly back, was
the Duke, with his brothers, Odo of Bayeux and Robert of Mortain. Fitzosbern was at the Duke’s shoulder.

In between the cavalry contingents were the remains of all the infantry that could be scraped together – Flemings, Frenchmen, Normans, Count Alan’s Bretons. There was no longer any
attempt at maintaining separate identities; Fitzosbern had shoved men into the line wherever they were needed. Old quarrels had died in minutes; groups that had suffered heavy losses were grateful
to be strengthened by men who that morning had been life-long rivals. Soldiers were now going into battle beside faces they had never seen before.

From Telham Hill and from the wagon train, the Duke’s marshals and heralds had collected scouts, messengers, drivers, grooms, servants – anything that could walk or hold a weapon or
ride a horse.

When the call finally did come, Gilbert could scarcely believe it.

Now he found himself in this motley array, with, on his left, Ralph and Bruno, and on his right a young, pale-faced Fleming whom they had found, for some reason, tied to a wheel.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am satisfied.’

‘Good,’ said Ralph.

‘You know what he wants to say?’ said Bruno.

Gilbert swallowed. ‘Yes.’

‘Well, look after it all the same,’ said Ralph.

Gilbert eased the sword in the scabbard. He did not feel quite so eager as he had done earlier in the day.

He put up his hand to feel the outline of Sandor’s crucifix under the hauberk. He wished it were Adele’s.

Fitzosbern looked at the last archers staggering into place, carrying great wood-and-leather canisters of arrows. Bursting quivers bounced on their bent backs. They set up the
canisters on the ground immediately behind their lines, digging hurried holes with daggers and propping up with stones and earth.

‘God’s Teeth! You must have broken Baldwin’s heart!’

‘Yes,’ said the Duke flatly.

He summoned the archer sergeants. They ran over, puffing and sweating.

‘Sir?’

They glanced significantly at each other, sensing that the moment was special.

The Duke leaned forward with his hands on the pommel of his saddle.

‘You can not complain now of shortage.’

The sergeants beamed. ‘No, sir.’

‘Good. So – find your own best positions. You know the ground there well enough by now. Anywhere you like, but do not get in our way; remember we advance on a wide front. When I give
the signal, you fire high as before. Choose your best men – thirty or forty. Crossbows, I suggest, but I leave it to you. Put them to fire at the tree and standards, nothing else. The rest
– put a group on each section of the English line, and just keep going. Shoot and shoot and shoot. When you hear the advance, keep shooting.’