Less disciplined than the elite force, the fyrdmen and the levied troops broke ranks to pursue the Normans, and William the Bastard saw his opening. When he ordered in his cavalry, the men had been slaughtered, the ranks fragmented, and Harold’s own brothers Gyrth and Leofwine left lying among the dismembered corpses.
Redwald thought back to the shattered look that had flashed across the king’s face. Did Harold realize then that the age of the Godwins was truly over? No longer able to hold the ridge, he had withdrawn the standards to the top of the hill.
The harsh beat of iron and the full-throated singing ebbed away. Only the moan of the wind with its whispers of the coming winter drifted through the stillness.
Harold peered down to the long Norman line without expression. ‘We are English,’ he called in an unsettlingly calm voice. ‘When death looks in our face, we kick it in the balls. Come then, Norman bastards. Run up this hill in your heavy armour and meet our axes.’ The king looked round at his huscarls. ‘For every whoreson you slaughter this day, you will be rewarded with gold. We have the high ground. The Normans must come to us… to die. Kill well, my men, and by the end of the night we will be raising our mead-cups to victory.’
Redwald felt his heart stir. Was there yet a chance? When he glanced around the English, he saw there was no shield wall left. No defence. Harold was right; killing was all they had.
The red sun edged towards the horizon, the shadows pooling around the huscarls. The Norman horn sounded, low and mournful.
Harold turned to Redwald, clapped a hand on the young man’s neck and pulled him in close to whisper in his ear. ‘You have been more son to me than adviser,’ he said, ‘and you have made me proud. This day make me prouder still, and if die you must, do it with honour.’ He looked Redwald deep in the eye with an unflinching gaze, and for the first time the younger man thought he saw a hint of tears there. But then the king snapped back to the Normans and the final battle began.
The cavalry charged. Behind them, the archers raced in waves. The sky blackened with arrows.
‘Shields up,’ Harold bellowed.
Driven to his knees by the thunder of shafts, Redwald saw a score of tips bursting through the splintered wood. Fear gushed through him. With so many Norman archers, the high ground meant nothing. The realization had only a moment to sink in, and then the storm broke upon them. Redwald glimpsed mere flashes in the whirl of his panic. The huscarls stood their ground, swinging their axes in furious rhythm. But the arrows flooded down upon their heads as the Norman archers fired over the top of their own cavalry.
Madness, madness, Redwald thought.
Shafts burst through faces, rammed into chests and shoulders. Heads leapt from necks. Arms fell still twitching. Grey chunks of brain sprayed from split skulls. A mist of blood descended on them all.
Redwald realized he was rooted with dread and tried to jab with his spear, but his hand shook too much. Never had he expected such horror. Through the whirl of axes and streams of arrows, he glimpsed the faces of the Normans, and thought they all looked like death’s heads, hollow-eyed, pearly teeth grinning with insane delight. No men these! Things from the night, or devils from hell.
Tears flooded down his cheeks.
Beside him, Harold threw his head back and cried out, clutching his face. Sickened, Redwald saw a wooden shaft protruding from the king’s right eye. Yet still the monarch fought on as if he could feel no pain, the arrow flashing back and forth with every movement of Harold’s head.
The sky was darkening. Redwald glimpsed the ghost of the moon, and a thought skittered through his head that he had black wings, like a raven, and could fly away.
Madness.
Gripped by the horrific sight of that arrow in Harold’s eye, Redwald only sensed the Normans were attacking from two flanks until it was too late to shout a warning. Torn apart as if by a winter gale, the huscarls could offer little resistance. Six knights on horseback rammed through the crumbling defensive line and thundered towards the king.
Redwald saw his duty flash before his eyes: with spear in hand, he should defend the king to the last, even though his master’s death was inevitable. He hesitated. What good would it do to give up his own life? Harold looked from the attacking knights to Redwald, and in the moment their eyes locked the young man saw the king’s shocked dismay at the final betrayal. Redwald cared little. He threw himself backwards, away from the line of pounding hooves. Rolling down the hill, he caught flashes of swords slashing down on the man who had raised him up to such great heights. A blade stabbed through his master’s chest. The king’s head flew from his shoulders and bounced across the sticky grass. A knight swung his axe down, rending open Harold’s mail shirt and the flesh beneath. Guts tumbled out to glisten in the fading light. And still the Normans hacked and slashed.
Dazed, Redwald came to a halt. Run, he told himself. Do not look back. But a grim fascination dragged his gaze back to the hilltop. The Normans were cheering around his fallen master. One knight stooped down with his knife and sawed at the king’s corpse. Jumping to his feet, the man waved his trophy over his head and the others roared with laughter. Sickened, Redwald realized the knight had cut off Harold’s cock.
Hot tears came for the failure of all his dreams. Turning, he careered down the hillside into the growing night.
CHAPTER FORTY
Still and silent under sable skies, London held its breath. Moonbeams limned the glistening roofs of the cramped houses, casting long shadows across the rutted streets. A dog barked; a cow lowed. The insistent clatter of hoofbeats broke the quiet as Redwald rode hard from the direction of the river crossing towards the Palace of Westminster. Snorts of hot breath clouded in the chill air. Digging his heels into the flanks of his foaming horse, the young man urged the last vestige of strength from its weary limbs. Sweat dripped from his brow. Hot despite the cold, he had taken no chances, swaddling himself in a stolen cloak with the hood pulled low to hide his identity.
He could almost sense the apprehension leaking from the dark houses on either side. He pictured the men sitting by the hearths, unable to sleep, the women anxiously tossing and turning in their beds. If they only knew the horror that would soon be marching towards their doors. Stifling his own desperation, he guided his mount towards the barred gates in the high enclosure fence. Above the palisade, cold lamps of faces glowed in the moonlight, each one filled with trepidation. The guards called for news of the battle. They looked pitifully hopeful when he said he had an urgent message from the king and could not be delayed.
Leaping from his horse, he glanced once over his shoulder to ensure he was not being watched, and then raced for the abbey church. A full day and more had passed since he had seen Harold butchered, the most dismal day he could recall. A dark night of running and hiding from Norman troops scouring the countryside for escaping English soldiers to slaughter gave way to a red dawn, a near-bungled attempt to steal a horse, and the long flight home. Ahead stretched grey days of worry. All his plans had turned to ashes, all the long years of scheming wasted. He had less now than when Asketil had taken him in after his parents’ death. And if William the Bastard’s men recognized him, his life would be lost too, his head planted on a pole beside the Thames, food for the crows.
Consumed by despair, the young man crashed through the heavy oak door into the echoing vault of the church. Candles guttered along the far wall, left by the monks for sinners desperate to pray for their souls in the long dark of the night. The dancing flames sent jewels of light shimmering across the stained-glass windows. Above the altar, the Christ glared down at the young man. Redwald saw angels too, but no devils. They already walked the earth.