‘He is dead.’ A huscarle let fall the limp hand he held. ‘Dead, and the day is lost!’
‘No, no!’ Alfwig, the Earl’s uncle, clasped the body in his arms. ‘Not dead! not now, with the end so near! Harold, speak! Speak, I charge you! You have not lived this day through to die thus! What, is all then in vain? Alas, alas!’ He let the body fall, and sprang up. ‘It is over! The King lies dead for whom we have fought and died, and there is no hope left to us, but only flight! What guard we now? Nothing, nothing, for Harold is slain!’ He tottered, for he was badly wounded, and would have fallen but for the thegn who caught him.
Down the slope the Normans could see the line above them waver; the archers fell back, a last charge was made. William of Moulines-la-Marche, yelling his battle-cry, led a party of his knights straight for the Saxon shields with a ferocity that cleaved a passage through the ranks right to the foot of the standards themselves.
The Saxons were already flying from the crest of the hill. The Lord of Moulines slashed at the standards, and they fell, and a roar of exultation went up from the Norman ranks. Harold’s golden banner lay trodden in blood and mire; two of the knights, mad with a savagery that equalled their lord’s, hacked at his body where it lay.
All that remained of the Saxon host were escaping northwards towards the dense forests that lay behind the hill. The descent upon this side was no gentle slope, but a precipitous drop leading to a fosse at the foot. The thegns flitted through the half light down the steep sides; a party of Normans, riding in pursuit, blundered over the edge of the scarp, unable in the dusk to see what lay before them. The treacherous fosse afforded no foothold for the horses; destriers and riders rolled headlong down to the bottom, and there the Saxons, rallying for the last time, turned and slew them in one brief desperate encounter. Then, before reinforcements could come up, they fled on into the darkness, and the forests swallowed them from sight.
Five
The noise of the fighting at the foot of the scarp reached those above and inspired one man at least with a lively alarm. Count Eustace Als Grenons, thinking that the levies of Edwine and Morkere must have come up, rode towards the Duke quite pale with dread, and catching at his bridle-arm advised him in the strongest terms to retreat.
The Duke shook off his hand, and turning from him with a look of disdain gave orders that his tent should be set up where Harold’s standard had flown all day. ‘Clear me a space,’ he commanded. ‘It is here that I will spend the night.’
The camp-varlets were busy with this work when the Lord of Longueville came riding up in a bustle of disapproval. ‘Beau sire, what are you about?’ he demanded. ‘Surely you are not fitly placed here among the dead? You should lodge elsewhere, guarded by one or two thousand men, for we know not what snares may be laid for us. Moreover, there is many a Saxon lies bleeding but alive amidst the slain, and would be glad to sell his life for the chance of killing you. Come away, seigneur!’
‘Are you afraid, Walter? I am not,’ said the Duke coolly. ‘Join Als Grenons if that is the mind you are in.’ His gaze swept the battlefield; he said on a note of anger: ‘Bid the leaders look to their men. I will have none of this plundering of the slain. Let each side bury its dead, but Earl Harold’s body do you find and bring to me presently to my tent with all honour. Raoul, I want you.’
It was over an hour later when Raoul at last slipped away from the Duke’s side. He had stripped off his battle-harness, and washed the bloodstains and the sweat from his person. His squire, a zealous lad much devoted to him, had brought him water, and a clean tunic of fine wool, and his long scarlet cloak.
Binding the straps around his hose Raoul nodded to where his discarded garments lay in one corner of the tent, and said curtly: ‘Burn them. Throw that hauberk away; it is smashed across the shoulder. Have you cleaned my helm?’
The squire held it up, and the sword too, both burnished very brightly.
‘Good lad. Buckle the sword round me.’ Raoul stood up and fastened the mantle across his chest while the squire knelt to adjust the sword.
The Duke was at supper with his brothers and the Counts Eustace, Alain, and Haimer. The tent was lit by candles, and the meats were brought to table as though the Duke sat in one of his palaces. No one entering would have dreamed that all round the tent dead and dying men were lying in heaps on the festering ground. The Duke, who showed no other signs of fatigue than a certain taciturnity and a slight furrow between his eyes, ate and drank sparingly, but the noble Counts, smelling the spices that flavoured the dishes, smacked their lips, and made to forget the day’s turmoil in feasting.
Raoul escaped as soon as he was able and made his way between the cluster of tents to the spot along the ridge where he thought he had seen Edgar in the press of battle.
He carried a horn-lantern and a costrel full of wine. All over the hill-side other lanterns were moving to and fro, but the moon was coming up and a faint cold light threw the mounds of slain into silhouette.
Raoul found that already priests and monks were moving amongst the wounded, some Norman, some English. A monk of Bec looked up at him as he passed, and recognizing him advised him not to walk over the field unarmed. ‘There are many Saxons who still live, Messire Raoul,’ he said, ‘and they are dangerous men.’
‘I am not afraid,’ Raoul answered. He turned the light of his lantern on to a crumpled figure that lay face downwards at his feet. The big shoulders had something of the look of Edgar’s; Raoul bent, and with a shaking hand turned the body over. It was not Edgar. He drew a sigh of relief, and passed on.
His foot slipped in something; he knew what it must be, but he had seen and shed so much blood this day that it no longer had the power to disgust him. Or perhaps he was too tired to care. He did not know, but his eyelids were heavy and his limbs ached. Sleep was all his need, sleep and forgetfulness, but even this held off while Edgar’s fate was still uncertain. A faint hope lurked in his breast that Edgar might have been amongst those who escaped into the woods to the north. He had been searching this shadowed field for a long time now, but the task was too great. It seemed as though the world contained nothing but dead men, lying in still, twisted attitudes under the stars. There were thousands of them, tall and short, old and young – thousands of Saxons, but not Edgar.
Some of the mercenaries were sneaking along the sides of the hill to strip their ornaments from the slain. No, thought Raoul, you cannot stop an army such as ours from plundering.
He passed a priest kneeling beside a dying huscarle. The priest looked up at him in vague alarm, but in the glazing eyes of the huscarle hatred gleamed. Raoul saw him drag a hand to his seax; a rush of blood poured from his mouth and nostrils; he fell back dead, and the priest gently drew the lids over his eyes.
It was very quiet along the hill, strangely quiet after the day’s din and clamour. The only sound was a low moan that seemed to come from the earth itself. Sometimes it would resolve itself into a single voice, sometimes a shattered form would stir, muttering: ‘Water! water!’ but mostly the sound was confused and indistinct, made up of many voices.
A hand clutched at Raoul’s ankle, but there was no power in the stiff fingers. He saw the sheen of moonlight on steel, but the knife fell to earth. He hurried on. Something writhed at his feet; the lantern light showed a mangled form, still breathing. He stepped over it; it neither shocked nor revolted him. He remembered how he had turned sick at Val-es-dunes at the sight of far less horrible wounds than these, and supposed that either he had grown callous or his nerves were dulled by fatigue. If he could only be sure that Edgar had escaped he would not care who else lay dead on Senlac field, he thought.
Then he found Edgar. As soon as he saw him he realized that he had known all the time, known since that moment of prescience long, long ago in Rouen, that this was how he would find Edgar, lying at his feet
with his golden curls dabbled in blood, and his vigorous limbs sprawling and limp.
He dropped on his knees and raised Edgar in his arms, feeling for the beat of the heart under the shattered byrnie. The lantern standing on the ground beside him showed blood welling from many wounds. Across Edgar’s brow a sword had slashed a deep furrow; the blood from it had matted his hair and trickled down his face; his beard was sticky with it.
Under his fingers Raoul thought that he could detect a feeble flutter of the heart. He snatched the costrel from his belt and set it to Edgar’s lips. The wine slowly trickled past the shut teeth, some of it running out of the corners of Edgar’s mouth and spilling on to his breast.
Raoul set the flask down and quickly unfastened the cloak from his shoulders and managed to fold it with one hand into a pillow for Edgar’s head. He lowered him on to it and began to tear strips from his tunic to bind round the gaping wounds. Edgar stirred, and lifted a hand to his head. Raoul bent over him to catch the words he muttered. ‘Something in my eyes … I cannot keep it out.’
Raoul wiped the blood away, and fashioned a bandage from the strip of woollen fabric. He took Edgar’s hands, and chafed them. Under the grief that clogged his tongue a curious sense of fatality possessed him. He picked up the costrel again and forced some more of the wine down Edgar’s throat.
The blue eyes opened; Edgar was looking at him. ‘The fyrd broke,’ he said.
‘I know,’ Raoul answered. His voice was steady and low. ‘Don’t think of that.’ He tore another strip from his tunic, and tried to staunch the blood that oozed continuously from a deep shoulder wound.
Recognition crept into Edgar’s eyes. ‘Raoul,’ he said. ‘I saw you. You rode at me, your lance to my axe, just as you said once, oh, long ago!’
‘I did not know until I was upon you. Ah, Edgar, Edgar!’ Raoul bowed his head, shaken by bitter grief.
‘Well, it is all over,’ Edgar said dreamily. ‘Harold fell.’ He moved his head as though in pain. ‘Soon I too shall take the swan’s path, following him.’
‘You shall not!’ Raoul was slitting the thongs that fastened Edgar’s byrnie. ‘Edgar, no! You shall not die!’ But he knew that he spoke vain words. It was of no use to bind the wounds, no use to force wine between those strong teeth.
Edgar said: ‘Do you remember how I told you once that Duke William would only reach to the throne across our dead? It was many years ago: I can’t recall. But you see it was true.’ He paused, and his eyes closed. Raoul had cut away the byrnie and was trying to stay the bleeding of three wounds at once. ‘Let be, Raoul. O God, do you think I want to live?’
Raoul took his hand. ‘I cannot let you die. I know – oh, I know! What need to tell me? Would to God I too lay dying, for my heart is dead long since!’
‘No.’ Edgar roused himself. ‘No, you must not die. There is Elfrida. Care for her. Promise me! There is no one else now. My father was slain, my uncles too, both, fighting side by side. I am the last. It was too much, and God was angry. Tostig came with Hardrada. We slew them at Stamford. That was a long time ago.’ He raised his hand to his face. ‘My beard is all sticky – oh, it is blood! Well, no matter. I hoped you would come, Raoul. Friendship does endure. When we heard of the landing I thought it did not, but it is different now, or maybe I am too tired to hate.’ His hand clasped Raoul’s feebly; his speech was becoming laboured. ‘We marched on London, league after league. I cannot remember. After a time we could see only the road, stretching on and on. Then we came south, not waiting longer for Edwine and Morkere. And Harold had prayed in his Abbey at Waltham, and we knew that God was angered, for when Harold came from the chapel the tower fell to the earth. And Gyrth would have led the army in his stead, but he would not have it so.’ A trickle of blood ran down from the corner of his mouth. ‘How cold it is … The sun went down so slowly. We needed the darkness, and prayed, each man in his heart, that God would send it in time. But He was angered, and held off the night. If Edwine and Morkere had been true! if Harold had not fallen! We could have held till darkness. We could, Raoul!’
‘I know it. No men have ever fought as you did.’ Raoul raised him again, and holding him against his shoulder wrapped the scarlet mantle round him.
‘We were driven back, but the shields did not break, did they? Do you remember Alfric? An arrow slew him at my side, but we stood so close that he could not fall. That was very near the end, round the standard. Thurkill said the day was lost, but it was not. The day was ours while we held the hill and Harold lived, even though we could no longer move in that press.’ A shudder ran through him. ‘It was worse when the arrows came. But the light was fading, and we thought – But Harold fell after all. It was cunning of William to loose the shafts in the air.’ His eyes closed; he seemed to sink into a sort of stupor. The blood had soaked the bandage round his head, and was running down his face again. Raoul laid him down, and tried to tighten the strip. Edgar gave a fretful moan. He roused himself; Raoul saw that he was smiling. ‘Harold sent two spies to observe your camp. They brought word the Duke had mustered an army of priests because you had short hair and no beards – shaveling.’
Raoul could not speak. After a moment Edgar said: ‘I saw FitzOsbern. And Néel too. Do they live yet?’
‘Yes, they live,’ Raoul said drearily.
‘And Gilbert? I am glad. They were my friends. Not Alfric, nor Thurkill. All those years in Normandy: I wanted to be at home, but then the Duke let me go, and it was all so changed – or maybe I was. I don’t know. I shall die very soon now, and it will be ended – all the heartache I have known, and the bitterness, and the strife in my breast.’ His eyes were wide open, looking into Raoul’s. ‘I would have slain even you if by that I could have saved England from Duke William. But I could not; even Harold could not. I hated you. I hated every Norman I had ever known. I wanted to slay and slay, sparing no man amongst you.’ He sighed; his voice sank to a whisper. ‘But I am tired now, and you are by me, and I remember only how we rode to Harcourt, and your father gave me an eyas of his own rearing, and how we hunted at Quévilly, and how you thrust a brat into my arms when we took that town in Brittany.’ He groped for Raoul’s hand; it clasped his, and again he sighed, almost contentedly. ‘I try to think of England under William’s heel, but I cannot. I can only think of the jests we had in Rouen, and the way you used to call me Als Barbe, and Barbarian, you and Gilbert.’ He gave a little laugh which changed to a cough and brought a rush of blood to his mouth.
Raoul wiped it gently away. ‘O Edgar, friend of my heart, carry only those thoughts with you down your swan’s path!’ he said. The hands in his were very cold; he tried to warm them in his breast.
‘Elfrida …’ The word fluttered wearily past Edgar’s lips.
‘I will care for her,’ Raoul said steadily. ‘I would give my life for her. That you know.’
‘Yes. You said you would have her in despite of us all. And you will. Well, I always wanted to be able to call you brother.’ His breath caught; he tried to struggle on to his elbow. ‘I shall not do it now: it is too late. But you will be kind to her, and perhaps it is best after all.’ He heaved himself up still further, struggling for breath; his eyes stared past Raoul, and widened; he made a huge effort, and flung himself clear of Raoul’s hold. ‘’Ware, Raoul, ’ware!’ he cried, and fell back on to the ground.
Involuntarily Raoul looked round. A dark form was crawling towards him; the lantern-light glinted on the blade of a knife. He grabbed at it, felt the steel sear his arm, caught a wrist, and twisted it hard. The knife fell; he threw his assailant off, and quickly picked the knife up. Hardly caring whether the unknown Saxon had strength to come at him again or not, he turned back to Edgar.
He knew before he touched him that Edgar was dead. He had spent his last strength in warning his Norman friend against a danger threatened by one of his own countrymen.
For a long time R
aoul sat quite still, holding the lifeless hand. In spite of the bloodstains that disfigured his face Edgar looked very peaceful, he thought.
A great sadness stole into his heart, yet he knew that if it were possible for him to conjure Edgar to life again he would not do it. Nothing remained on earth for Edgar since all that he had striven for had passed with Harold. Saxon England had died on Senlac field; the England of the future would be Norman, and there would be no place in it for such as Edgar.
This was where friendship had led: to bitterness, and bloodshed, and to death. Gently he laid Edgar’s hand down, and drew the folds of his own scarlet mantle round the body. He covered the face: it was not thus that he wanted to remember it, gashed and blood-dabbled.
A light was moving towards him; he stood up, and waited with folded arms for it to come closer. It was carried by a Saxon monk who was making his slow way across the field, tending the wounded, and shriving the dying. He seemed, from his black hood and white cassock, to be of the Benedictine Order. When he saw the strange knight standing motionless by the dead he paused, looking a little nervously up at him.
Raoul spoke to him in Latin. ‘Come forward, Father. I shall not hurt you, nor am I here for plunder.’
‘I see that you are not, my son,’ the monk said, drawing nearer. ‘But alas! there are many among your ranks who do not scruple to rob the dead.’
‘Many,’ Raoul agreed. He looked down at Edgar’s cloaked form; the monk, watching him curiously, thought that he had never seen so sad a face. ‘My father, do you know a vill called Marwell? It is by Winchester, I think.’