The Chosen Queen (41 page)

‘Now would be good,’ he muttered. ‘Now would be perfect.’

A sudden furore over to the left of the field pulled his eyes back. A group of William’s central Normans had stopped mid-attack, not far from the English line. They were in some chaos and
shouts ricocheted along the shield wall.

‘The duke is dead! The duke is dead!’

Harold felt his blood fizz in his veins. Was it true? How?

‘Hacked down by an axe,’ ran the whisper.

‘Jabbed with a lance.’

‘Shot by an arrow.’

The battlefield seemed to freeze, all eyes focused on the bumbling group. Avery stepped up to Harold.

‘His standard was in that charge, Sire. I saw it, and look, isn’t that his horse?’

A magnificent beast had broken in a panic from the group and careered away along the line of the shield wall before crashing into the trees at the far end, its head tossing and William’s
bright livery slipping from its bucking back.

‘It is,’ Harold agreed. ‘It truly is.’

The shield wall pulsed and pushed forward as one.

‘Hold the wall!’

Harold’s cry was taken up by his commanders all along the line but the group of Normans was still in a tangle and suddenly at the far end, the English line broke as men flung themselves at
the cavalry, axes scything the air and the great war cry breaking from their lips: ‘Ut! Ut! Ut!’

‘Hold the wall!’ Harold cried again, more a reflex than a command for he, too, was fixed on the frantic conflict at the centre of the field.

Horses failed and turned. Men screamed. The rest of the Norman attack was suspended. Harold saw Lane and his housecarls charge and felt his heart soar. They were going to win. William’s
troops were falling apart. His own men were straining to go but still he held them. Battles had turned on far less but surely here, today, God had spoken out against the bastard duke and saved
England.

And then, like a phoenix from the flames, a single man rode out from the group, a little shaky in the saddle but tall and fierce. He pulled his helmet from his head and showed himself to his
troops.

‘
Le duc
!’ they roared. ‘
Le duc
,
le duc
,
le duc
!’

William grinned. His eyes found Harold and fixed on his face so that for a moment he felt like a child again, caught in the tilting yard by a much bigger boy.

‘Hold the wall!’ It was all he could say now. He rushed to stop his left flank from bleeding away into the mass of oncoming Norman forces and the men, startled, pulled back.
‘Shields!’ he roared at them.

All around, Normans were hacking into the dispersed English ranks, carving up the crammed-in men. The English fought back fiercely and slowly the foreigners were despatched. The wall locked back
down but much damage had been done and out on the slope the battle was bloody. Harold, helpless, saw Lane caught in the midst of the fiercest fighting and turned his head from his brother’s
inevitable slaughter.

For the briefest moment he felt a crazy longing to turn and flee the battlefield, to find Edyth on the road and pick her up onto his horse and ride away from all this royal madness – but
where to? Nazeing, his heart begged, but he couldn’t go there now, not with Edyth, and he could hardly leave her behind. He was stuck with nothing but a cold throne to support him. A cold
throne and some five thousand huge-hearted Englishmen.

‘Hold the wall! Hold the wall for England!’

His stomach rumbled, though more with sickness than hunger. The day was churning on. Time swirled around them, lost in a bitter, dragging fight for life but the sun was definitely reaching for
the trees now. The men must be tired, hungry, thirsty. In that condition a man lost sight of noble concepts of right or victory and just fought to draw the next breath until even that became a
struggle too far. Harold could see the whole wall drooping. Defending took its toll; it was more draining than attack. Where in damnation were the reinforcements? He turned to Garth.

‘Can we hold, brother?’

‘Yes, but we have to pray for night now. Surely Edwin and Morcar will come soon and tomorrow, with fresh troops, we will plough through what remains of theirs. They have taken heavy
losses.’

‘As have we.’

‘But they have no one else to call on. Their backs are to the narrow sea and it is a merciless mistress. Stay strong, Harold – we can do this.’

The Normans were coming again, a great arrow-shaped attack led by William’s own troops in the centre, with his Bretons pulling in on the right and his Flanders mercenaries on the left. The
Norman had noted the light fading too and was throwing everything at them but the English were ready. Like skilled professionals to the last simple village soldier, they steadied their shields and
Harold felt his heart swell almost beyond bearing. He had not asked to be king to these people but God knows he was blessed in it. They could hold. They
would
hold.

The great English war cry rumbled up from the wall: ‘Ut! Ut! Ut!’ It seemed to shake the very ground and the enemy horses faltered as if they, too, felt the tremor of hatred. Just to
the right of William’s core, one reared and its fellows skittered sideways. Harold’s housecarls seized the opportunity to fling lethal lances into the confusion and horses fell,
screaming and dragging their riders with them. The attack faltered. William’s standard fluttered and sank in the crush of flesh.

The Normans were pulling back. Several turned tail. Harold ordered his archers to let fly with their last precious arrows. More horses fell and now the Bretons on the right flank were backing
off, fleeing, their loyalty surely shaky at best, falling away in the panic. A long wail sounded out from the Norman trumpets.

‘The retreat!’

The words fizzed through the English ranks. Shields were lifted.

‘Hold the wall!’ Harold bellowed but no one heard.

The battle cry was rising. Axes were banged on shields, lances were thrust into the air. The English strained to chase. Some of the commanders were chanting with their men and now a group of
stocky Gloucestershire soldiers burst from the wall, the light of victory in their eyes, and made for the retreating Normans at full tilt.

‘No!’ Harold cried.

He looked to William’s standard and saw the duke sitting stock still on his destrier, watching the charge with something like pleasure.

‘Hold the wall!’ he almost wept but it was no use.

His defence was tumbling apart as every man raced to spike the invaders down and charge them back to the sea from whence they had come. He could only watch in horror as the Bretons pulled their
horses round, flight turned expertly into attack as they drew the bloodthirsty English into a circle of death. He glanced at Avery and saw his own nightmare in his squire’s young face. They
had seen this sort of feigned retreat before when they had ridden into Brittany at William’s side. Why had he not remembered? Why had he not warned the men?

He looked back, hoping for his northern troops, hoping for a miracle, but none came. The skyline was resolutely bare of soldiers. All around, the remaining commanders were hustling their
horrified back ranks into a hasty wall but all that was left were the barely trained men of the general fyrd – the young lads of England’s villages whose only battles so far had been
with each other. Their shields were brittle, their swords blunt with generations of sharpening, their only true weapon their courage but that, surely, must be crumbling now.

Harold felt his housecarls gather around him, Avery and Garth foremost amongst them. These men were highly trained, they were strong and ferociously brave, but they were few and they were tired
and Harold could see from the set of their broad shoulders that they were here to die with him. He felt useless, unworthy.

‘Flee,’ he urged. ‘Do not waste your lives for mine.’

A hand gripped his arm.

‘We stand together, brother.’

Harold turned and looked into Garth’s eyes.

‘It wasn’t meant to be this way.’

‘No.’

‘We’ve failed.’

‘Not yet. If I die, I take twenty of the bastard’s men with me. That’s twenty less to terrorise England and I want one of them to be the bastard duke himself.’

Harold nodded grimly at this final spark of hope amid the dark horror of a battlefield falling apart. Some Englishmen were running for the shelter of the Andreaswald – the great forest
behind the battleground – and Harold wished them luck. He took a last glimpse up the London road and thought he caught a wisp of dust rising into the darkening sky but nothing more. They were
on their own. He turned back, set his feet in the muddy ground and lifted his sword.

‘God bless you, brother,’ he heard Garth say before the arrows came.

They flew in from nowhere – a devil’s rain. Garth screamed out and Harold turned to grasp him but then Avery fell too, his neck lolling on exposed sinews, his body dragging Garth
from Harold’s arms. Harold stumbled and even as he found his feet, he felt pain drive into his cheekbone and sear across his whole body. He put up his hand and felt an arrow protruding from
his skin. Blood flowed like scarlet tears but he forced himself to yank it out. His vision blurred. His knees buckled. He looked to God and saw only swords.

He thought of Edyth, riding desperately to reach him in time, with his son, his supposed heir, in her belly and hated himself for failing her. He had forced her to be queen and pulled her into
grief.

‘
I have cherished this time with you
,’ she had said and he caught a glimpse of her smile before the first sword fell. The Normans drove into him like devils, driving their
weapons into his flesh so that what was left of his world ripped apart and pure agony poured in. He tasted salt and mud and clutched at the air as red sucked into black and then spread slowly into
searing white. He reached out and suddenly a hand clasped him and pulled him softly, tenderly to safety.

‘Svana,’ he whispered and let himself go.

‘
C
an we not go any faster?’

Edyth looked back along the ranks of men filling the road for as far as she could see. They had moved out of London two days ago but progress had been desperately slow. Edyth had had to
continually pull Môrgwynt back into a walk though her every fibre ached to give her her head and speed south to Harold. The only thing stopping her was the knowledge that it was not her he
needed, but the rank and file she brought with her. These were the men who would swell his battle lines enough to defeat Duke William and many of them were on foot. They walked stoutly, their
communal footfall firm on the road south, but they walked all the same and Edyth’s heart thudded, dull and painful, with every ground-out mile.

‘It is not far now,’ Edwin consoled her.

He was riding at her right, high on a magnificent stallion that chafed as much as Môrgwynt at the slow pace but he held it tightly in check. He had aged years in the last few months and
now looked every inch the earl. He’d had his hair cut viciously short but his beard grew thick and new lines had been pulled out at the edges of his eyes. His Fulford scar ran down from
beneath his helmet, a warrior’s tear etched into his flesh, and Edyth prayed he need take no more. If they could just reach Hastings in time, just stand with Harold and defeat the bastard
duke, peace would be secured. Not for long enough, perhaps, to erase the lines – Edyth knew now that life’s experiences were never so easily wiped away – but at least to soften
them.

‘Listen!’

It was Morcar, on her other side. He, too, had aged but he was a handsome man yet and a spark lurked still in his brown eyes. If they survived this, Edyth vowed she would find him a worthy wife
to make mini-Marcs with. They would be troublesome lads all right!

‘Listen,’ Morcar said again, pulling her away from her foolish woman’s dreams. ‘Seabirds. We must be close.’

They all looked up and sure enough birds were wheeling over the black mass of the Andreaswald ahead, stark white against the darkening sky.

‘It grows night,’ Edyth said.

‘Good,’ Edwin replied. ‘We will arrive at Harold’s camp under darkness and surprise the enemy on the morrow.’

‘You will fight so soon?’

‘If we are not too late.’

‘You think they are engaged already?’

‘It is possible. Harold was hot to attack.’

‘But he will wait for us. Surely he will wait for us?’

‘Surely,’ Morcar agreed, ‘if he can. Listen!’

His gaze was fixed on the horizon and, dread rising in her throat, Edyth strained to catch the sounds he was hearing. Edwin turned and signalled a halt with his arm. The commanders snapped to
attention and the whole weary parade of men was brought to a stop. An uneasy silence fell, broken only by the shriek of the birds and then, far off, the cries of men.

‘They are engaged,’ Edwin said. ‘God preserve them if they have been fighting all day.’ He turned to his troops, standing up in his stirrups to be heard. ‘The king
is engaged! He may have urgent need of us. All men on horseback fall in behind myself and Earl Morcar. Weapons ready. Those on foot follow at all speed.’