‘Lord, this is no jesting matter,’ De Toeni said seriously. ‘We fear that our ships have been intercepted by Harold’s fleet.’
The Duke said: ‘My good Ralph, I had certain tidings at Dives that the English fleet had been forced to put back into London to revictual. Send me my valet, and do not think you see a wolf at every turn.’
He came out of his cabin presently to find the barons gathered in an anxious group in the stern, trying to catch some glimpse of the sister vessels. He laughed at them, and they jumped round to find that he was munching his breakfast. He had a hunk of cold venison in one hand, and some cocket-bread in the other, and bit into each alternately.
D’Albini started towards him. ‘Seigneur, I implore you, let us turn back! We are defenceless here, and indeed we are sure there has been a mischance.’
The Duke said with his mouth full: ‘O faint heart, what abodement do you fear now? There has been no mischance; we have but outstripped the other vessels.’ His eye fell upon a sailor who was standing at some distance and watching him in great awe. He took another bite of the venison, tearing the meat away from the gristle with his strong teeth, and summoned up the man with a jerk of his head.
Thrust forward by his comrades, the sailor advanced nervously and knelt.
‘My man,’ said the Duke, ‘you cannot serve me in that posture. Up with you to that masthead, and let me know what you can see.’ He watched the sailor climb up the rigging, thrust the last morsel of bread into his mouth, and brushed his hands together to be rid of the crumbs.
D’Albini touched his arm. ‘Beau sire, it pleases you to be merry, but we, your servants, are much alarmed for your safety.’
‘I perceive that you are,’ said the Duke. He looked up at the masthead, and called: ‘Well, fellow. What tidings?’
‘Lord, I see only sky and sea!’ shouted the sailor.
‘Then we will heave-to,’ said the Duke. He looked up again. ‘When you see more than that, my man, you shall come and tell me.’
‘Seigneur!’ D’Albini sounded despairing.
‘Come to my cabin, Néel,’ said the Duke, taking Saint-Sauveur by the arm. ‘We will play a game of chess together, you and I.’
At noon the Duke’s dinner was spread upon a trestle-table on the deck. Several of his barons had no appetite, but the Duke ate heartily of some freshly-caught eels stewed in brewet, followed by hashed porpoise in frumenty, and brawn served with chibolls and Lombard mustard.
The Mora rocked lazily on the swell of the waters; at the masthead the sailor gave a sudden shout, and came clambering down to tell the Duke he could espy four vessels upon the horizon.
The Duke tossed him a gold piece. ‘You have sharp eyes, my friend. Keep a watch for more of my ships.’
FitzOsbern had started up from the table to gaze out across the water. ‘I can see nothing,’ he said.
‘You will see soon enough,’ said the Duke, and bordered a pasty with his own hands, and began to eat it.
It was not long before the sailor came down from aloft in a great excitement. ‘Lord, I see a forest of masts and sails!’ he declared.
‘Do you indeed?’ said the Duke, licking his fingers. ‘Well, come, FitzOsbern. Let us try the power of our own eyes.’
A couple of hours later, the fleet having drawn up close, the Mora set sail again, and bore for England.
The line of coast came into sight in the late afternoon, and grew gradually more distinct. Chalk cliffs gleamed very white across the sea; the men who crowded in the bows of the ships could soon see green trees, and a few squat dwellings. No hostile craft appeared to bar the fleet’s approach, nor was there any visible sign of life on the shore. The Mora pulled in to Pevensey and ran up on to the shelving beach.
The men-at-arms would have leaped ashore straightway, but were called to order by their leaders, and drew hastily into two ranks. The Duke passed down the line, set his hand on Raoul de Harcourt’s shoulder, and sprang lightly on to the bulwark. He measured the distance, and jumped. A horrified groan went up. He had missed his footing in the shallow water, and fell half-in, half-out of the sea.
‘Ill omen! Ill omen! God aid, he has fallen!’
The Duke was up in a flash, and turning showed his hands grasping sand and pebbles. His confident voice checked the dismay. ‘Normans, I have taken seisin of England!’ he cried.
Four
The Normans disembarked at various coves and beaches along the coast between Pevensey and Hastings.
Pevensey was deserted, and fires smouldering in the hearths told that the inhabitants must have fled at sight of the fleet. A camp was formed, surrounded by a ditch and a palisade of stakes driven into the ground. The Duke next ordered one of his wooden castles to be erected on a slight eminence commanding the harbour; and while this was doing he occupied his time in surveying the countryside, to the considerable alarm of his friends. The same fearlessness which had prompted his rashest exploits long years ago at Meulan still possessed him. Accompanied by a mere handful of his knights he would sometimes be absent from his camp for many hours together. He found the country very wild, with treacherously marshy valleys, and hills covered with dense woodland. The roads were often impassable, and so full of ruts and swamps that riding was a danger. There were wolves and bears in the forests, and very often herds of wild cattle could be seen moving across the valleys.
The country was sparsely populated, whole tracts being folc-land, belonging to the state; but a collection of small towns and hamlets were dotted along the coast. These seemed to be void of any soldiery, but the Norman barons, seeing their lord ride out day after day attended by no more than twenty of his knights, lived in constant dread of his death at the hands of the sullen peasantry. Once, when at dusk he had not returned to the camp, a party led by Hugh de Montfort set out to search for him, and met him at last tramping towards them on foot, with FitzOsbern’s hauberk as well as his own upon his shoulders, not in the least tired, but laughing at his Seneschal’s exhaustion, and as cool as though he walked for his pleasure in his own Norman fields.
Hugh de Montfort relieved him of the extra hauberk, and said severely: ‘Beau sire, do you never think how the inhabitants of this land might set upon you?’
‘No, Hugh, never,’ the Duke answered cheerfully.
His expeditions soon showed him that a more convenient base than Pevensey would be Hastings, several leagues to the east. This town commanded the London road, and its natural harbour was better fitted for the shelter of the fleet. Leaving a garrison at Pevensey, the Duke led his host eastward, and ordered the half of his ships to sail round to lie under Hastings’ white cliffs. His second castle was then erected upon a mound enclosed by a stockade. It consisted of a single wooden tower. A moat was dug round the foot of the mound, and a large levelled space beyond formed a bailey, where sheds were put up to house men and horses. An outer ditch with a fenced bank upon the counterscarp surrounded the whole, and a smaller tower protected the drawbridge.
Men were still at work on this building when a messenger reached the Duke from one Robert, a man of Norman birth dwelling not far from the coast. He brought greetings, and a letter laboriously written on sheets of cotton-paper. This contained tidings of great import. Tostig and Hardrada, wrote the Duke’s well-wisher, had landed in the north, and defeated the young Earls Edwine and Morkere in a pitched battle at Fulford, near to York. Harold, gathering the thegnhood and the huscarles to his standard, had marched north two weeks before the Duke’s landing, and meeting the invaders at Stamford Bridge on the twenty-fifth day of September had defeated and slain both Tostig and Hardrada, and practically annihilated the whole of their army. The writer went on to inform Duke William that couriers had fled hot-foot to York, where Harold lay, to convey the tidings that the Normans had landed, and he advised William not to stir from his entre
nchments, for King Harold, he assured him, was marching south in force, having sworn to die in battle rather than let the Normans advance a league into England.
‘Tell your master,’ said William, ‘that I shall give battle as soon as may be.’ He waited until the messenger had withdrawn, and turned his head to look at Raoul. A grim smile hovered round his mouth. ‘Marching south,’ he repeated softly. He glanced at the letter again. ‘He is advised to hold London, and await me there. Very good rede, Harold Godwineson, but you will not take it.’ He threw the letter on to the table before him, and leaned back in his chair. He said: ‘Brave words, but they did not come from his brain. My Raoul, well did I judge Earl Harold when I told you he would act on the impulse of his heart. He will meet me on these coasts, just as I have planned.’ His brows twitched together. ‘Eh, but he is a fool!’
‘He is also a very brave man,’ said Raoul, looking at him.
‘Brave! Yea, as a lion, but he will lose England by this folly. He will not let me advance one league! Why, spine of God, he should lure me on, further and further from the coast and my ships, into a strange land where mine army might be surrounded. Thus did I when France brake my borders. I made no speeches to fire men’s loyalty, but planned how best I could save my country. Harold will not waste the fields he has sworn to protect! There spoke his heart: proud, noble, if you will, full of hardiment, but uncounselled by his head. I tell you, Raoul, had he stayed in London he might have ruined me.’
‘And yet you braved this chance?’
William gave a laugh. ‘No. From the day I set eyes on him I knew that I had nothing to fear from his strategy.’
When the castle at Hastings was finished, and the ships beached below it, the barons led their men out on foraging parties. The south coast was ravaged for many leagues, and only at Romney did the inhabitants make a stand. Here a force composed of serfs and burghers, armed with what weapons they could come by, beat off Hugh d’Avranches and his men with loss. It was the first taste the Normans had of the Saxon mettle.
A second message reached the Duke from his unknown countryman. On the first day of October the news of the landing had reached Harold at York. Upon the seventh he had arrived in London with his thegns and huscarles, leaving Earls Edwine and Morkere to rally their battered forces and join him with all speed.
William Malet, knowing the distance from York to London, was incredulous. ‘Seven days with all his army!’ he ejaculated. ‘It is a feat beyond the power of man!’
But corroboration of the tidings soon reached the Duke. Harold had left York immediately upon hearing of the Norman landing, and he had led his army southwards on a nightmare march that allowed of no more than a few hours’ sleep snatched upon the road from time to time.
The Saxon in William Malet cried out: ‘Heart of Christ, they are men, these English thegns! Where can they have rested? When found they time to break their fast? Stubborn, dauntless foes, worthy of our steel!’
He spoke to Raoul, but Raoul did not answer. He was thinking of those legions of fair-headed bearded men, of whom Edgar was one, marching, marching, all through the day and the night, to defend their land from the foreign host. Battle-weary they must be, many of them bearing wounds dealt at Stamford Bridge; foot-sore; perhaps blind with fatigue; but indomitable. He fancied that he could hear the tread of many thousand feet marching nearer and nearer, and see, somewhere in the ghostly ranks, Edgar’s face, dogged and tired, the eyes looking straight ahead, the mouth set hard as he had so often seen it.
Harold stayed four days in London, mustering the fyrd to his standard. They flocked in, peasants, burghers, farmers; he left London upon the eleventh day of October, and all along the line of his march more shire-levies joined him, some armed with byrnies and shields, some carrying only stones bound to wooden staves, or the tools of their husbandry.
Two days later word was brought the Duke that the Saxon host had reached the outskirts of the Andredsweald, and was encamped three leagues distant from Hastings where the London road crossed a hill above the Senlac bottom.
The Duke at once dispatched an envoy to the English camp, a monk, Hugh Maigrot, learned in the Saxon tongue. At dusk Hugh returned to Hastings, and waiting upon the Duke in his tent, faithfully recounted all that had befallen.
Tucking his hands into the wide sleeves of his habit, he said: ‘Beau sire, when I came upon the Saxon encampment, I was led straight before Harold Godwineson, and found him seated at his dinner under the sky with his brothers, Gyrth and Leofwine, and the thegnhood gathered round. The Earl received me with courtesy, lord, and bade me state my business with him. I then did deliver the message entrusted to me, speaking in the Latin tongue, and commanded the Earl in your name to relinquish unto you the Sceptre of England. I did make known your offers to him, saying that all the land north of the Humber would you bestow on him, and that Earldom of Wessex which his father Godwine ruled over. While I spoke the Earl listened, smiling a little; but those about him interrupted me often with mockery, and words injurious to your Grace. When I had ended, the thegns who were seated with Harold at the board lifted up their horns, and shouted Drink-hael! and Skall! to him, and having drunk this toast, cried “Death to the Norman dogs!” and so drank again. This being spoken in the Saxon tongue the others gathered near heard it, and such a roar went up as might have come from an hundred thousand throats. “Death! Death to the Normans!” sounded upon all sides, but I, standing firm and unmoved, convinced of the righteousness of my mission, waited in silence for the Earl to answer me.’
He paused. ‘Well, what then?’ demanded Mortain impatiently.
The monk cleared his throat. ‘While the tumult lasted the Earl sat still at the head of the board, with his head a little flung back, looking not at the thegns but at me. He lifted his hand presently, and the shouting ceased. He then said to me: “You are answered.”’ Again he paused. Raoul drew back softly to the opening of the tent, and stood looking out into the gathering darkness. Hugh Maigrot drew a long breath and continued: ‘Again I spoke with him, urging prudence, and reminding him how he had sworn upon holy relics to support your Grace. At that a growl went up from all who could understand what I said, and black looks were cast at me, and men spake angry words. These I heeded not, but exhorted Harold the more, he sitting very still, and hearkening to me without speaking or turning his head. When I had done he was silent a while, with his eyes upon my face, yet as though they saw me not. He then said so that all might hear him that he would rather die in bloody combat than betray his country to invaders. His oath, he said, was got from him by force, and could not bind him. He bade me bear this message to you, that he would yield him never, and while breath stayed in his body he would bar your passage, so help him God! Whereupon the Saxons broke into cheering, and swords tossed in the air, and men cried with one voice, “Out, out!” which is the Saxon battlecry. Again I waited for the clamour to abate, observing the while the demeanour of the thegnhood. Hot for battle they seemed to me, fierce dogged men with shaggy heads, and short tunics woven in barbaric colours, hand-locked byrnies, and helmets of wood and bronze. They had eaten and drunk very heartily; many were flushed with mead, and their hands clasped on the hilts of the knives they call their seax. Some looked threateningly upon me, but I stood still, and after some minutes Harold again commanded silence, so that I might speak. Then, being assured that all men waited upon my words, I stretched forth my hand towards the Earl and pronounced upon him Holy Church’s excommunication for his perjury, saying that the Holy Father had declared his cause unhallowed. No man lifted his voice when I had done. The Earl’s hand closed upon the arm of his chair: I saw his knuckles grow white; his eyes were veiled from me; he neither flinched nor spoke. But those about him were sorely troubled, many making the s
ign of the Cross upon their breasts, and shuddering to hear the Church’s ban pronounced. I saw some with blanched cheeks, and some with eyes turned in great alarm towards their lord. But he gave no sign. Then Gyrth Godwineson rose up from his seat, and maybe deeming that I had no knowledge of the Saxon speech, addressed the thegns in a loud voice, saying these words: “Fellow-countrymen, if the Duke of Normandy feared not our swords, he would not seek to blunt them with a papal anathema; had he confidence in his knights he would not trouble us with envoys. Would he offer us the land north of the Humber if he did not tremble for the consequences of his rash venture? Would he parley if he felt strong in the justice of his cause? Let us not be the dupes of his artifice! He has promised your houses to his own followers; I tell you not one hide of land will he leave to you or to your children. Shall we beg our bread in exile, or shall we defend our rights with our swords? Speak!” And at that, being moved by his brave words and unafraid countenance, the thegns thundered out their battle-cry yet again, and shouted: “Let us conquer or die!” Then Gyrth, turning to Earl Harold, spoke with him, saying very earnestly: “Harold, you cannot deny that you swore an oath to William upon holy relics, whether by your own accord or by force it matters not. Why then hazard the fate of war with perjury on your soul? I have not sworn to anything, nor has our brother Leofwine. To us it is a just war, for we fight for our native land. Let us alone encounter these Normans; if we are repulsed you may advance to our aid; if we fail, you shall avenge us.”’
‘What answer made Harold?’ asked the Duke as the monk paused for breath.
‘Lord, he got up from his chair, and taking Gyrth by the shoulders shook him gently to and fro in the way of love, saying, half-chiding: “Nay, brother: shall Harold fear to engage his person? Though I take the swan’s path, and die unshriven in the fight, I will yet lead my men, and it is my standard shall float above their heads, no other man’s. Be of good cheer! Right is with us; we shall conquer, and drive the invaders from our coasts. Who follows Harold? Let every man declare his will!” Then Edgar, the Thegn of Marwell, whom your Grace knows, sprang upon a bench, and cried: “We follow none but Harold! Saxons, out swords!”’