CHAPTER ONE: DAY OF BLOOD
14 October 1066, Early Morning
Near Hastings, England
The King of England basked in the light of the dawn, and for one moment put all thoughts of the foreign invader out of his mind. This was the birth of a beautiful new day, entirely ill-suited to herald the beginning of the dreadful work that would soon commence. William the Bastard had already invaded England’s pleasant shores; the King would not suffer him to invade the perfect sunrise also.
“They’re here.” King Harold found himself roused from his contemplation by his taciturn brother Gyrth, his expression as ever a pensive mask.
The normally gregarious Harold did not respond. In the distance, he could hear the pleasant calls of songbirds mingling with the chattering of male voices and the sharpening of weapons. He had called for one last council of war before the great battle, and it seemed his faithful thegns had answered his summons. Harold inhaled deeply, taking in the familiar autumnal aroma of damp leaves and grass. He took one final, wistful gaze at the sunrise before turning to face his brother. “Then it’s time,” he answered with a curt nod.
Together, the two of them ascended to the top of Senlac Hill, the place where the fate of their nation would be decided. At its summit, the old hill was capped by an ancient apple tree, which had watched over the land for countless years before the birth of anyone now living. Harold cantered his horse over to the gnarled roots of the tree, where their brother Leofwine caught up with them, panting.
“At the rate you were going, you boys must have an awful craving for apples,” Leofwine grinned. “Me, I don’t fancy them this early. Turns my stomach sour, and I don't much fancy dying on a sour stomach.”
Gyrth grimaced. Their younger brother had ever sought to lighten the mood with humour, but it seemed no one was in the mood this morning.
“Heh, the lads are coming up now,” said Leofwine, answering Gyrth’s dour expression with a smirk.
“Thank you, brother,” said Harold, ignoring their unspoken exchange, “Is all in readiness?”
“Just as you said,” answered Leofwine, "The men are ready for a fight. This one's been a long time coming."
“It is well,” Harold said simply, smoothing his long warrior’s moustache with his fingers. He could not suppress the feeling of anxiety that was rising like bile in the back of his throat. He had only just vanquished a terrible foe in the north through an awful effusion of blood, and it disgusted him that he was going to have to do it all again on account of that mule-headed Norman duke.
“We must hold here, at the old grey apple tree,” Harold remarked to his brothers, as their army began to assemble behind them in the customary shield-wall formation. “Keep your banners at the centre of your lines. They must not fall, no matter the cost!”
As he strode down the ranks, Harold was able to pick out many familiar faces: his loyal thegns from his lands in Wessex; his housecarls, and those who were sworn to his brothers; his eldest son Godwine, smiling, eager to fight, uncomprehending of the impending carnage. “Loyal Englishmen!” he called out to the assembled masses, “We are not here to conquer! We have not come to drive our enemies from their lands, nor to burn their homes, nor to steal their women nor make slaves of their children. Yet that is the very cause for which they have come against us to battle! What do you say, brothers? Are we going to let them?”
“No!” came the deep rumble of the Saxon host in response.
“Look there to the King’s Banner,” continued Harold, pointing in the direction of the fluttering royal standard, “For there you will find me fighting to my last breath to defend my family, my people, and my kingdom! Fear neither the arm of flesh nor the foreign sword, for as long as the Golden Wyvern remains aloft, we shall prevail! They shall not breach our shield-wall, nor take one more foot of English soil. Take heart, stand firm, and together we shall send that Norman bastard screaming down to hell!”
Another mighty cheer arose from the English ranks.
“Now what shall we say to these foreign dogs who think they can march in and take our country from us, seize our lands and ravish our women-folk?”
“Ut! Ut! Ut!” roared the men, rhythmically chanting the simple, ancient battle-cry that had been passed down through the ages by generations of Saxon defenders.
Satisfied, King Harold returned to stand under his banner, as the chanting of the men and the clanging of weapons on shields reverberated in his ears. “Come on, you arrogant Norman bastard,” he muttered under his breath, shouldering his axe and crossing his arms in defiance, “Let it all end here.”
The battle had begun in earnest. The advancing Norman archers attempted to weaken the English lines by peppering them with arrows, but they made little impact against the sturdy shield-wall. The Saxons responded with projectiles of their own: stones, javelins, maces, hand-axes, and anything else they could get their hands on. The archers’ attack was followed closely by the Norman infantry, who crashed into the Saxons en masse. These in turn were supported by William’s heavy mounted knights.
The air soon filled with the cries of the wounded and dying as men were hacked to pieces, impaled or crushed to death in the roaring press. Yet the stalwart Saxon warriors looked to the fluttering banner of their king and took heart, resolving to drive the Normans from their lands forever.
Realizing that his own soldiers were faltering, William personally led a column of his knights in a grand charge to reinforce them. The Norman cavalry charged into the heart of the Saxon right flank, which consisted mostly of East Anglians led by King Harold’s brother Gyrth.
The heavily-mailed Norman cavalry were finally able to break through the Saxon shield-wall, as the poorly-armed fyrdsmen lacked both the armour and morale necessary to face such an onslaught, and those who did not fall back were easily cut down. However, this success soon turned against the overconfident Norman knights, for in penetrating the shield-wall they had overextended themselves and cut themselves off from their infantry support. Moreover, they were no longer dealing with inexperienced fyrdsmen, but skilled Saxon housecarls, who set about crippling the Normans’ horses with their two-handed axes.
Seeing their perilous situation, Duke William ordered his knights to retreat. Unfortunately for William, they were not able to move fast enough. Having led the charge from the front, the Duke now found himself in the unenviable position of being at the tail-end of his fleeing knights, in the midst of enemy troops.
Taking advantage of the Duke’s exposed position, Gyrth Godwinson moved quickly and sliced through the forelegs of William’s warhorse with a ferocious swing of his battle-axe. The Duke came crashing to the ground as his horse crumpled beneath him. The scowling Saxon earl finished off the fallen destrier with another swipe from his axe before he was forced to fall back as more Norman knights rushed to their lord’s aid.
William was able to stagger away from the immediate mêlée, but he was in desperate need of another horse. His presence at the front of the battle was the only thing holding his army together, and dismounted as he was and covered in blood, there was nothing to distinguish him from the common soldiers. On his left flank, the Norman foot-soldiers saw only that those few horsemen who had managed to escape the Saxon line were now fleeing for their lives. Panic spread through the Norman lines as word spread that the Duke had fallen, and the men quickly broke into a hysterical rout.
The fyrdsmen on Harold’s right flank were jubilant at this perceived victory, and immediately began to pursue the fleeing Normans, despite the fact that the battle was still raging farther along the shield-wall. The gap between the armies turned into a frenzy of confused individual combat as both lines broke their ranks.
“Blast it!” cursed Harold, desperate to maintain his defensive position, “Hold the line!” But it was already too late. Almost half his army had broken off into a disordered, uncontrollable charge. In the moment that followed, King Harold was forced to make a critical, split-second decision: should he hold fast and try to preserve what little control he had over the remainder of his army, or should he lead his remaining men in joining the reckless charge?
Against his better judgment, Harold chose the latter. Pressing his trusted hunting horn to his lips, he blew three shrill notes as a clarion call to his remaining warriors, a simple act that would nonetheless change the history of Britain forever.
***
Chaos reigned.
“I live!” shouted Duke William desperately, throwing back his helmet so the Normans could see his face, “And with God’s help I shall yet conquer!” His attempts to rally his fleeing soldiers were sorely hindered, for without his horse William could not make his presence known to his whole army. His efforts did not go unnoticed, however, for just as many Saxons as Normans were witnesses to the ducal commotion. Thus William’s valiant endeavour was cut short when he was hit in the head by a flying rock and knocked again to the ground. The Duke’s helmet saved his life, but he was left momentarily dazed. Those Normans who had already rallied to William now rushed to aid him.
William rose to his feet just in time to see the raging host of Saxon humanity that was bearing down upon him with the three Godwinson brothers in the lead. All thoughts of tactics were thrown to the wind as the horribly disorganized Saxons and Normans collided anew.
Leading his men from the front, Duke William used his broad Norman kite shield as a weapon, bashing some unwitting Saxons in the face while protecting himself from the blows of others, then finishing off his stunned foes with thrusts of his longsword. With his own shield slung on his back, King Harold was free to fight with both hands, wielding his sword in one, and a gigantic axe in the other. Harold was a whirlwind of cold mail and sharp steel as he darted from one foe to the next.
It was in the midst of this overwhelming tumult that Harold and William at last faced each other.
No words were exchanged, no taunts, no war-cries. Each knew that the swiftest way to put an end to the conflict was to slay the other. They circled each other like predators preparing for the kill, and then suddenly exploded into combat with a ferocity more befitting rabid wolves than good Christian noblemen. The duel lasted only moments, but to those who bore witness it was an eternity in which the fate of nations hung in the balance. After several blows had been traded and deflected off stout shields, the two mortal adversaries found themselves broken apart by the chaotic surge of warriors around them. It seemed destiny had something else in store this day.
Duke William would not have to wait long before another challenger faced him. The nameless Saxon housecarl was tall and broad-shouldered, his mail stained red with the blood of fallen enemies. William struck the first blow with a mighty shout, his Saxon enemy grunting as his shield took the brunt of the blow. The two fearless warriors locked in mortal combat quickly became a veritable hurricane of death to the onlookers, a blur of hauberks, helms, shields, swords and an axe. Ultimately one of the two prevailed over his opponent, and all fell silent as the killing blow that would forever change the world was struck at last.