“God in Heaven, we’ve been damned lucky!”

“What? There’s hardly an animal for food for thirty miles, Thomas. What are you talking about, the weather?”

“No, No, not that. I mean as a Norman army.”

“Oh,” and William struggled with his charger for a minute. The horse wanted his head.

“Mais oui, We got across the most devilish stretch of water—and at night. It was already fall, the bearer of wild channel storms. We’ve got the pope’s blessing, Peter’s ring and a bunch of relics. When we landed the English army was nowhere to be found. We got off the beach without a fight. We’ve been lucky.”

“Forget it, Thomas. We’ve got to appropriate an animal or two or we’ll be unlucky enough to starve to death! Oh Shit!”

“What?”

“Look!” and Will pointed to a small ridge that traversed the valley and held the north-south east-west crossroads. The horses stood and Easy Walker pawed the ground with his left front hoof.

“May the Saints preserve us!” Thomas prayed. A triple line of armored, shielded house carls silhouetted by the afternoon sun were diffusing along the east-west road and more soldiers were appearing from the back side of the ridge filling the London road. Men in view from the ankles up, men in view from the knees up, men in view from the waist up, heads in helmets and farther back still, long pikes were evident over the height of land. The pikes became helmets, the helmets became waists, the waists became knees and still they came.

“To Hastings, Thomas to Hastings!” and the brothers wrenched their steeds about, not in viciousness, but in excitement and a little taste of fear. Nausea seemed to strike them both and sent their bowels churning. They rode their horses hard.

“Leofwine, I’ll make my headquarters here at the crossroads. You’ll know it by the apple tree. You take the left flank. Gryth take the right flank. The forest, the stream and the hills will funnel the Bastard’s army to the middle. Do not let him turn our flanks.”

“Yes Sire. the Bastard’s monk is back.”

“What? Oh yes. Everything has been said that is worth saying. I have no further word for the invader, the despoiler of England!”

“Sire, he didn’t expect us here. He says his message is from the Church.”

“Bring him on. We’ve a battle to fight.”

The Monk of Fecamp, Hugh Margot, was pushed through the crowd of men and stumbled backward into the open space about the king. He glared at his tormentors and finally, understanding the pointed finger of Wulfnoth, he spun about, his brown habit swirling after him, and bowed before Harold. He bowed again and fortunately the habit covered his quaking knees.

“My Lord,” he began sotto voice.

“Sire! You errand boy!”

“Sire, I have news from the Pope. He has tried you in absentia and found you guilty of hedonist acts. You are excommunicated.”

Wulfnoth was bent on splitting him like firewood, but Harold stayed his hand.

“Excommunicated?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Excommunicated?” and the whispered word was carried on the wind to find every ear in the English army.

“And what if we fight for a man denounced by the Pope?”

“You may be out too.”

“Who cares?”

“We’re going out to kill Normans and you’re worried about your soul?”

Some laughed, but others?

“Get him out of here, Wulfnoth. However, give him safe passage through our lines. We’ll not kill a priest.”

“Yes, Sire.”

Harold noticeably slumped. He aged before their eyes. Excommunicated! He wanted to pray, but what good would it do. He was outside the church.

“Move the men, Leofwine.”

“Come on you louts. Move. Form up ranks. Pick up your feet you laggard. Look after your weapon.” Men born to take orders soon forgot the church edict and began to look like an army.

Thomas and Will pounded into the Norman camp and reined up sharply at the commandeered headquarters of William of Normandy. They burst in on a war council as no one stood in their way.

“What’s this?”

Both Trivetts bowed briefly and Thomas began, “ The Saxon army is on the ridge traverse pouring in from the London road.” and Will continued, “They were deploying along the ridge left and right between Caldbec and Telham Hills. They were still coming over the ridge.” Thomas went on,” I would estimate three thousand men so far and could be twice or three times that number.”

“Gentlemen,” the Duke of Normandy coolly and quietly began, “The Throne of England is at hand. To arms.”

The war council was not as reserved. They bowed before the duke and with a hollowness to their abdomen hurried out to send retainers to rouse a lethargic army. It was accompanied by excitement, anticipation, anxiety, courage, bloodlust and spread through the Norman encampment like the plague. Three thousand horsemen had to be armored, horses had to be saddled, and weapons had to be readied. One thousand archers checked their bows, arrows and extra strings and three thousand infantry were mobilized, shields, swords and crossbows. Were it not for organizers like Sir Rupert and Sir Richard, chaos before creation would have reigned Under the two professionals the army was organized. Will rode for Rupert and Thomas for Richard. Their communiqués were brief and explicit and passed quickly from Duke William’s central command to the commander of the left flank, Breton Count, Alan Fergant and to the commander of the French right division, Count Eustace of Boulogne. By 6:30 am the Norman army was mobile and marching the five miles to face the Saxon axe.

The physical exertion burned off the adrenal-laden blood. Sweat began to flow as the army followed William of Normandy’s entourage somewhere between a walk and a trot.

Harold’s army was deployed along the ridge. They had spent an uncomfortable October night in the open around small fires that drove off the cool night air and warmed whatever food they had been able to carry with them. They shivered anxiously before the anticipated battle and shook themselves occasionally to ward off hypothermia. Some were lighthearted, loud, joking; some were quiet, reserved, deep in thought; some were in prayer, but all were determined to repel the Norman insurgents. An Englishman’s home is his castle; an Englishman’s land is his fortune.

Approximately one thousand house carls standing shoulder to shoulder and shield to shield would form the front rank of Harold’s army and filled the ridge from end to end. Behind them were one thousand more, heavily armed professionals and behind them a third rank of the elite Saxon soldiers.

The fyrd or part-time soldiers added five or six more ranks, nearly nine thousand men in all. Weapons were close at hand, battle axes, swords, spears, javelins, throwing axes, rudimentary home-made stone maces, ball and chains and disks with sharpened edges. The last few were the English artillery . They waited.

By 8.00am the van of the Norman army crossed Telham Hill before the English host, while the rear, marching three abreast, had just left Hastings.

“Brother, let us attack now. The Normans are strewn over the country-side. We will turn it into a sinlac—a lake of blood!”

“Gryth, this hill is the best defensive position for our army.”

“Defense be damned, Sire! We’ll turn the Normans into No men!”

“Gryth, look to your men. Maintain the shield wall.”

“Yes, Sire.”

Richard and Thomas directed the Breton Anjou Maine division under Count Fergant to the Norman left before Harold’s brother Gyrth. Rather than take chances Duke William had interspersed a few Normans he could trust and Richard and Thomas were to be the mainstays. Rupert and Will shepherded Eustace of Boulogne and his French mercenaries right before the Saxons under the loose control of Leofwine. The Normans formed the center with Duke William, Bishop Odo and most of the Norman counts. The English watched. The archers, long bow and cross bow, took up the front ranks 150 yards from the enemy. The infantry with crusader swords, spears, lances and iron maces stood helmeted and chain-mailed behind them. In the rear the knights dismounted and armored themselves and regained their saddle with sword and lance. By 11.00 am the Norman army was prepared. The English were vigilant. All was enveloped by a deadly silence. An occasional voice raised in anger, the ring of chain on chain and whispers of fear or prayer filled the killing ground between them. Two Norman horsemen galloped from right and left.

“My Lord, the army of the left is ready.”

“My Lord, the army of the right is ready.”

“Very well. We will close to fifty paces and loose our first flight of arrows. When I ride beyond the archers, advance.”

‘Yes, My Lord.” They raced away. Shouted orders were passed down the Norman lines and the sound of silence descended again. William of Normandy rode through his archers and the archers began their advance to Hell. One thousand archers in two rows with one thousand bows and one thousand arrows nocked. At fifty yards Olan commanded the front ranks kneel with cross-bow. The second rank stood with long bow. “Ready, aim.” The cross-bows were sighted, the long bows were drawn. “Loose!” One thousand feather-winged shafts took flight and darkened the sky. While the fletched missiles closed, the long bows were ready again. Another five hundred arrows were on their way. The cross bowmen were reloading, cranking their weapons for their second quarrel.

The aroused Norman infantry could wait no longer. With ferocious animal yells they burst through the archers and ran toward the English wall of shields. “God’s Help!”

“Des aie!”

“God Almighty!”

“Holy Cross!”

Across the no-man’s land hurtled the infantry, but before the Normans reached the English shield wall the English countered with missiles of their own. Over the shields came weapons of destruction. Whirling like Olympian discus throwers the rear ranks hurled deadly aerial weapons.

Sharpened discusses, stone tied to sticks, javelins, and ball and chains rained down on the unsuspecting Normans. Some made the wall and by the press behind them actually breached it only to meet the dreaded broad axe of the hill defenders.

The infantry were to open the wall for the cavalry. The cavalry did not wait. They rode hell-bent for the English wall. Pikes and sharpened stakes were set on the ground and leveled with the horses’ chests. The horsemen who avoided the stakes stabbed with their spears or fired them into the English forces. House carls when time was ripe stepped forward from their wall and swung their mighty axes. They took a terrible toll. One swing, one hit, and the axe bit through skin, muscle and bone and revealed a Norman’s innards. Horses struck, screamed and raced down the slope trailing intestine and blood. The Bretons before the Saxon warrior Gyrth turned and fled in retreat. They rode down their own infantry and archers. With death imminent the infantry ran too. The French, the Normans and the Bretons were repelled.

Gyrth saw the English advantage. “Wulfnoth, after them!” Harold’s two younger brothers launched their counter-attack. Destroy the Norman left and smash the Norman center from two sides. “Attack!” and down the slope come the murderous English axe.

“Turn and fight you Breton Batards!”

“Turn you craven coward!”

“Fight or die!”

Sir Richard , Thomas and Count Fergant rode through the men of Maine, Anjou, and Brittany to rouse a fear-crazed army. Thomas turned some with the flat of his crusader sword, but soon found himself in the front ranks defending the backs of the retreating Norman left. He slashed left and right with his sword, two-handed mighty swings. House carls on either side were downed by his blade. He swung left and only a jump left by Easy Walker saved him from the blood-stained edge of a Saxon battle axe. Easy Walker took the full force of the blow in the front shoulder. The axe sliced deeper through skin, muscle and bone. Thomas’ old friend tumbled to the axe and carried Thomas with him. Unable to get his right foot from the stirrup, Thomas was trapped under his fallen horse. His coif fell back and the English warrior with his axe poised above his head stayed his blow. He saluted Thomas and withdrew. In late recognition Thomas realized it was Wulfnoth, but the hand-to-hand combat had engulfed him outside of Thomas’ view. Thomas tugged and pushed and finally escaped from his dying horse. He ignored his injury and struck the final blow to his valiant steed.

The Norman center saw their peril on the left. Robert de Mortain turned to Olan and his archers. The English streaming down the hill after Gyrth were now open targets for Rouen archers. Flight after flight of feathered missiles were loosed left to stem the English advance. Duke William could see an imminent break through of the Saxons. He took his elite Norman cavalry to the left, threw back his coif to rally the retreating Bretons.

“I’m still here, you Batards! Fight!”

“Gyrth, we’re alone!”

“God Almighty, Wulfnoth! That idiot Harold didn’t follow our lead. He should have attacked. He’s lost this battle to maintain his wooden wall! Sound the horn. Pull the men back.”

A house carl took his horn from his belt and blew a mighty blast over the killing ground. The English began a tactical withdrawal retreating up the hill to reestablish the wall.

“God, Harold had his chance. The Normans were ripe for defeat. We even drew off the Norman center. We can’t save England by defensive action!”

Both sides withdrew to lick their wounds.

The Bretons in retreat had many casualties in the ensuing hand-to-hand combat. The English right who followed them without the support of Harold were trapped by William’s counter attack. The English ranks were thinned. Now their lines were reestablished and an eerie silence punctuated by the occasional screams of the dying and wounded settled over the no-man’s land. Norman archers needed missiles. They had shot their bolts. English artillery needed missiles and ventured beyond the wall to collect thrown articles. Olan's sharp shooters made the most of the English forays. Then with a concerted effort the archers switched to clout shooting. Olan had them elevate the trajectory. They arched their shots over the wall of shields to fall on the unprotected rear ranks. The unarmored villagers and lightly armored fyrd were taking the brunt of the arrow attack. They searched for cover with each flight. Only the lack of missiles saved the English rear echelons. Meanwhile the Norman Horse and infantry rested.

Count Eustace of Boulogne, whose hatred of Godwines and English in general led the next attack on the English wall. The Norman/French right began an archery assault followed by the infantry attack. The English wooden shield wall held. Boulogne and his knights had no better luck than the Bretons. The Saxon axes took their toll and the French beat a hasty retreat. Will Trivett was appalled by the mercenaries. The English pursued the repulsed French. When the right flank reached level ground they turned and faced their pursuers. It was cut and thrust hand-to-hand melee. The Norman horse sensing where their fortune rested attacked the errant English from the center cutting off their escape to the wooden wall. Will, like Thomas, was also unhorsed by a bearded Saxon’s prodigious leap. The English shoulder drove under Will’s raised sword arm and the two men tumbled over the horse’s body. From the ground’s thump and the enemy’s weight the air was forcibly expelled from Will’s lungs with a whoosh. He fought for two things—oxygen and his life. The English knife sought his throat and only Will’s chain mail saved his bacon. He grasped the right wrist of his assailant and gasped for breath. His adversary’s left hand sought Will’s throat. Will drove the heel of his free hand violently under the Saxon’s chin. He heard teeth break. The throttle eased momentarily. Again Will thrust upward and the heel of his hand brutally drove under the English nose. The fibrous cartilage broke from the bone and it was forced up and back through the nasal cavity of the skull like the blade of a knife. The choking hand relaxed and Will kicked out from under the knife. Always agile, but encumbered somewhat by the chain mail, Will regained the advantage and with a swift move broke the man’s neck. Will was looking about for his crusader when an enemy axeman drew back his weapon to decapitate him. With a slight whistle a Trivett fletched arrow pierced the throat of Will’s new attacker. Down fell the king’s brother, Leofwine. Will only had time to say, ‘Thank you, Father!” either Trivett or Creator. The English horn called their force back to the shield wall.

The armies withdrew to their original position, their numbers noticeably declining. Will recovered his horse and Sir Richard captured a riderless horse for Thomas. In the rest interval Olan and his archers began their artillery barrage of silent killing sticks. Flights of arrows fell from the sky on the heads of the English forces.

Attack followed attack. Harold maintained the wall. It was a battle of attrition. Death claimed the souls of English and Norman. The ranks shrank. The impenetrable English wall shortened and the Normans were aware of the exposed hill on either end of the English defenses. The mobility of the Norman force took advantage of the shrinking Saxon army. Sir Richard, Sir Thomas and Count Fergant galloped up the ridge and now on exposed level ground assaulted the end of the English right and drove behind their lines.

King’s Man

Sir Rupert, Sir William and Count Boulogne launched their attack on the right end of the English line. This turned the battle. The English were pressed on three sides. The impenetrable wall was becoming a porous box. The rear ranks had no room to fight.

Gyrth and Wulfnoth led a spirited counter attack against the Bretons. Gyrth, the warrior, slashed with two-handed sweeps of his sword, daunting all. As he countered a Breton knight, the horse reared in alarm and pawing the air before him, struck Gyrth an iron-shod blow to the head. Before he could fall a crusader sword impaled him. Wulfnoth screamed in despair and flailing horse and knight fought a bloody path to the fallen Gyrth. Count Fergant rode at the “berserker” Wulfnoth with lance leveled. Thomas yelled, “NO!” but the lance was already buried in the English breast.

One Godwine was left on the battlefield, King Harold of England. The battle lines held for six hours has degenerated into a confused melee of individual or group battles. There was no mercy asked for and none given. There were no reserves for either side. Kill or be killed. Harold who had seemingly been inactive if not out of touch with the affairs of the battle most of the day, incapable of leading or controlling such a vast army, was at last at war. Surrounded by his personal retainers he now fought a losing battle. An errant or well-aimed clout-shot arrow found its mark in the eye of the excommunicated king. William of Normandy, Eustace of Boulogne and two of their henchmen were in on the kill. Harold blinded by the archers of Olan quietly awaited his imminent death as the battle swirled around him. In rode the four men. They mutilated a king, disemboweled him, stabbed him, cut off his head and removed his genitals.

With the fall of Harold and early darkness, the remnants of the English army faded into the forest. Eustace of Boulogne gave chase and fell into an English ambush. He turned, like the coward he was, and ran, leaving his men to be dispatched by the English.

The Battle of Hastings was over.