1066 Turned Upside Down Page 11

Language: As Latin speakers, the Roma Novans use the same Latin place names as their ancestors did. Sequana (fluvius) is the River Seine, Samara (fluvius) the River Somme, Gesoriacum was the Roman naval port at Boulogne, Magnus Portus became Bosham, Rotomagus Rouen, Iuliobona Lillebonne. Just for neatness, the port of Hunefloth was the early Norman French name for Honfleur.

  The Roma Novans, who worship the traditional gods, call Christians ‘Galileans’ as the revered Julian the Philosopher did.

  Roma Novans still wear chain mail overshirts – the lorica hamata – wield a gladius (short sword) and pugio (dagger). Phalerae are the equivalent of medals and a focale is a simple scarf worn around a legionary’s neck. Manuballistae are portable bolt throwing weapons, roughly equivalent to crossbows.

  Alison Morton

  www.alison-morton.com

  Discussion suggestions

  What would Europe – the world – be like if Rome had survived?

  In the Monty Python movie ‘Life Of Brian’ there is a famous scene about ‘What have the Romans ever done for us?’ … so what did the Romans do for us?

  AUGUST

  1066

  William’s ships were built in all the major ports along Normandy’s considerable coastline, but the large majority seem to have gathered at Dives, just north of William’s western stronghold of Caen. At some point in late August (or possibly early September), they set sail. Nobody knows exactly why.

  What we do know is that most of them ended up at St Valery, from where William eventually did launch his invasion in late September. This may have been a planned move, for St Valery was an ancient Roman port and may well have still had docks suitable for easily loading horses into ships (as in Italy). But it is also possible that this was an initial invasion attempt that went very wrong.

  Even if this was the case, we still do not know if it went wrong because of contrary winds, storms in the Narrow Sea, or an encounter with English ships – which also, around this time, seem to have left their station on the Isle of Wight and returned to harbour in the Thames with significant losses.

  Whatever happened out on the waves in that lost part of 1066, it was in neither side’s interest to divulge it…

  IN THE WAKE OF THE DOLPHIN

  HELEN HOLLICK

  Adapted from chapters of Harold the King (UK title) / I Am the Chosen King (US title)

  When the wind shifted further to the south, with his English navy, the schyp fyrd, waiting near the Isle of Wight, Harold knew things might, at last, begin to happen. There was a new uprush of expectation among the men. Daggers were eased loose, hands gripped tighter on the oars of the warships – the sturdy thirty-two and forty-oared Dragon Craft. All eyes were keening southwards. Towards Normandy.

  The English spies knew how many ships Duke William had mustered, how many – how few – would be under oar, showing that he was no sea warrior. The majority of William’s fleet relied on sail, requiring a fair-set southern wind to accompany them across the ninety-odd miles between Dives-sur-Mer and… and where? That, the English spies could not discover, only conjecture; and that too, might depend on the fickleness of the wind. Once he set sail, William could beach anywhere along the English coast. He had to be stopped before then – and the English were good at blockading against sea-borne attack.

  Cursing the poor sea conditions, Duke William would also have been waiting and watching, ready to set sail with his fleet. All summer men had been watching the wind and weather, waiting…

  At last, one day in mid-August, the wind changed….

  Eadric the Steersman stood, eyes squinting into the brightness, balancing with the lift and fall of Dolphin’s foredeck, his head up, nostrils scenting the sea wind as if he were a wolf seeking prey. They were all one of the pack, these English sailors, waiting to be loosed for the hunt. All they needed was a sight of the enemy to start the run. King Harold was relying heavily on his fleet commander’s instinct and great knowledge. The movements of tide and wind were family to Eadric, being mother, daughter, wife and mistress. He knew all its moods, its tempers and subtleties. His senses told him that William’s fleet was coming. He could not see sail or wave-thresh, but they were there, heading northward. Had anyone asked, Eadric would have answered that he could smell them, as an animal would smell an approaching storm. His bones felt them. Or at least, if William had not ordered his men to sea, then he was a fool – for this was ideal weather. If it held.

  Eadric bit his lower lip, deep in thought. Would this wind hold? Or would she, capricious as she had been all summer long, swing back to her previous hunting run across the Great Sea to the west? If Eadric could not decide the mood of the wind, then neither, he doubted, would William’s sailors. Had the Duke of Normandy committed himself to action or was he dithering? Was the pricking of Eadric’s skin, the tingling behind his neck, playing him for the fool? Happen they had all been on edge too long during this frustrating summer’s wait!

  The Norman army was growing restless, this much England knew as fact; supplies were diminishing, the eagerness for adventure dwindling into exasperation. Waiting for the wind was a desperate occupation. Hah! Duke William ought to have used oar, not sail! With oar they would already be here – but then, with oar, the Duke would have needed to find the men to row, or the time to teach such men the skill. That was a thing the King, Harold, had told Eadric of William’s nature. He was not a man to bide his time, to be patient, to wait and wait again until the thing slid right, into place.

  A voice, distant but clear, sounded from Dolphin’s steerboard side; Eadric swung round, questioning, then raised his hand in acknowledgement to Bjarni Redbeard from the Sea Star, a craft that matched the length and speed of Dolphin. Eadric cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted back; ‘Nay! I see nothing – but they are there, mark you. I know they are there!’

  ‘Aye, we all feel it! He would be moon-mad, I am thinking, to pass by this opportunity.’

  Bjarni was about to say more, but his shout was abruptly silenced for the horn sounded, distant, from the south, from where Wave Dancer was patrolling. All the men came alert, breath held, listening. Again, the long mournful cry of the war horn… and a third time. Eadric himself was the first to break the enchantment. He leapt, in four strides, from stern to mast, took up Dolphin’s own long and curving aurochs’ horn, and blew three blasts in response. The sound scudded over the creaming waves, was caught by the wind and lifted to the high clouds. In that instant, the men, too, had come alive, racing for the rowing benches. Hands tight-gripping the oars their heads turned, expectant, towards Eadric their master, awaiting his signal. For a long moment he stood there amidships, fists bunched against his hips, legs spread, feeling the eager roll of his tight-held ship. The salt taste of the sea stung against his lips, the song of the wind whistled past his ears.

  His attention snatched to a white wake that folded around the hull – and another, and another. A silver glistening back; a fin… He pointed and laughed, ‘Look, my brothers!’ he crowed, ‘we have our friends to accompany us as we go to meet this bastard Duke of Normandy! Look! The dolphins have come to run with their sister!’

  A shout of exultation was tossed to the height of the mast, the strain was taken up by arm muscles, and Eadric shouted the command they had so eagerly awaited.

  ‘Lift her! Lift her!’

  Dolphin and Sea Star began to glide forward through the choppy sea. From the west, the answering boom and boom of the war horns from Moon Crest and Sun Singer. From the east, Cloud Chaser and Gull. From behind, Shape Shifter, Sea Eagle and Red Sail; from ahead, Wind Whisperer, Wave Prancer and Spindrift… from more and more of the fleet: Sword Song, Tern, Breeze, Hawk…

  The wolf pack was loose, and running fast towards the Chase and the Kill.

  Like most of them crammed tight into the ships, Duke William was no sailor, but at least the strong wine he had swallowed before embarkation was keeping his be
lly where it ought be – unlike many of them who were hanging over the sides, spewing up their guts. How the horses were faring he could only guess, but at least the sea had calmed its heaving once they had cleared the coast of Cap d’Antifer. That had been one of the most terrifying ordeals of his entire life – and he had endured plenty. He had hidden his fear from the men as the boat had leapt, tossed and bucked, his fear heightened because he had no control over the ship, the sea, or the wind. A wind that was not blowing from as far south as they would have liked, but the decision to risk setting sail had to be made. They had already waited over long, and the opportunity, so William had been reliably advised by his seafarers, might not come again.

  ‘What are our chances?’ William had asked as they had gathered together in a solemn group outside his command tent, his thumb rubbing over the ruby set within his ducal ring. Some, not willing to commit themselves, had scratched at neck and cheek, fiddled with ear lobes. Others had slowly shaken their heads, but most had agreed that the wind was unlikely to prove kinder this side of autumn. Clearing that lee shore was the dilemma. If only the wind would back a little more! Dives, the majority had confirmed, was not the most favourable place from which to launch a fleet. This prevailing wind was too westward, the lee shore too hazardous. Further along the coast would have been better – Eu, perhaps? Closer, too, to England.

  This particular argument had swung, blade about hilt, throughout the year, but William had been adamant. His muster point was Dives, closer to his favourite town, Caen. Mile upon mile of sand suitable for the building of ships, and the encampment of men. Beyond, sufficient grazing for horses. Higher up the coast would mean a shorter, quicker voyage, but what was nearer for William was nearer for Harold. His English fleet was more capable at sea, his spies were efficient. Dives-sur-Mer was more protected because of its distance. Non, William was determined. When Harold learnt of Norman manoeuvring, it would be too late. The invasion fleet would be almost upon him.

  The captains had been right about that lee shore, however.

  William stood at the prow of his command ship, Mora, his fingernails digging into the wood of the curving bulwark. He closed his eyes, saw again the spew of wave foam against rock and cliff, heard in his ears the rush of the sea as it had beat against that rock-lined stretch of coast. The ships’ masters had known what they were doing, the wind had held, and all but three ships of the convoy had slipped past those dangerous currents and headed out into the open sea. But that still meant three ships – and all the men they carried, were lost.

  They were almost halfway across, so Mora’s commander had said. So far, all had gone to plan, even allowing for those rocks and the few difficult horses that had been abandoned at Dives or had their throats cut, their carcasses heaved overboard. The mood of the men was buoyant and eager after these weeks within the confines of the camp. A few more weeks and William would not have been certain of holding their loyalty. Loading the supplies had taken much of their attention, but once that had been completed there was nothing to do save wait. No matter, now, they were under way, the thresh of spindrift frothing the water into a white churn of spray, curving beneath the bows of more than seven hundred ships.

  William gazed with pride at the array: large, sturdy traders’ craft, smaller fishing boats, a handful of warships, all held in tight check so as not to outrun the slower vessels. So many of them! Patterned sails, plain, striped, patched; red, blue, white, green, brown and saffron. Some men in the next ship saw their duke watching them, raised their arms in salute and cheered his presence. Content, he saluted back.

  His own vessel was superb, a Flemish warship given as a gift by his wife, built and paid for from her own purse. He glanced up at the wide billow of her striped red and saffron square sail, the bronze crucifix at the masthead glinting in the late afternoon sunlight. Come nightfall, a lantern would be raised, as there would on all the boats to enable them to keep together – at least until any damned English ships were sighted. To avoid them, he was relying on the skill of his own Norman warships, riding ahead. They must discover the waiting English, signal word so that lanterns could be covered, sails reefed, course altered… Over seven hundred vessels to be brought through a blockade under the secrecy of darkness. They had assured him it could be done, his captains and sea commanders. If they kept their nerve and their wit, they had said. If.

  The Duke raised his head, sniffed at the salt wind. The sun was dipping towards the western horizon. An hour until dusk. One more hour. Come dawn, pray God, they should be seeing the grey outline of England’s southern coast.

  The Normans heard the hollow boom of the war horns before they saw the indistinct shadow-shape of ships. The white of oar stroke and bow wave, the gleam of bronze and glint of gold reflecting the sinking sun from the carved, grinning heads of the curving prows. Dragons, wing-stretched ravens, sea monsters. At their head, a craft with a prow shaped as a leaping dolphin. The English schyp fyrd; the sea wolf warriors.

  Duke William watched in morbid fascination as they approached, racing through the waves. So fast did they fly from the strengthening dusk – even against the wind, but then, they were powered by thirty, forty, oars and were carried by the run of the tide. Eight knots or so could they speed across the open sea under the power of those oars, he had been told – by whom and when, he could not recall. He could see the bank of oars to either side of the dolphin ship; could hear, now, the shouts echoing across the expanse of water between them, an expanse that was rapidly narrowing. Could hear, but not understand the meaning.

  ‘What is it they shout?’

  ‘It is the steersman, lord, calling the beat of the oar.’

  Unaware that he had spoken aloud, William stared at the man behind him who had spoken, a Flemish sailor. ‘And what ought we do about them?’ William asked caustically.

  The sailor shrugged, pointed vaguely at the sails of the Norman fleet. ‘We do as the others are already doing, my lord. We turn about and run. Or we drop to our knees and pray.’

  The blood-anger streamed to William’s face, his breathing came in rasping gasps from his throat. ‘I run from nothing and no one!’ The words burst from his mouth as his strides took him aft to where his captain stood, issuing a burst of orders to the crew.

  ‘We fight!’ William bellowed, his fists clenched. ‘Give the order on the horn – set ready the archers. We fight!’

  ‘Non!’ Mora’s captain countermanded. ‘Your warships that were ahead must surely have already been destroyed. Your fleet is made of merchant vessels for sailing not for fighting; when such encounter pirates, they flee. It is not prudent to fight one of those dragon ships – and besides, our luck is turning against us twice over. See our sail, my lord? It is flapping. The wind has cast against us. She is veering to the west.’

  Normandy’s proud and glorious fleet began to scatter in disarray. Each ship, careless now of keeping within the discipline of the convoy, broke free and fled before the westering wind. Better, the seamen all agreed, to turn for Normandy than meet the fire arrows of the English. All except Duke William, who stood rigid in the stern of his ship, with no choice but to watch. As well the words that ran through his mind were not voiced, for his oaths would have startled even sea-tainted sailors.

  Four-and-twenty ships obeyed their duke’s command to sail onward. Four-and-twenty out of seven hundred. They held his best soldiers, his archers, his swordsmen. They grouped together, the sailors doing their best to steer, to control rudder and sail; the Norman soldiers did their best to prepare to fight. But how could those who had never fought from the rolling, heaving, deck of a ship, fight? Their armour was too heavy, their weapons too cumbersome, their legs not seaworthy. How could men, used to fighting from the back of a warhorse, learn, within the space of a matter of a few heartbeats, how to protect their very lives from the experience of men who had been born to the ways of the sea?

  How could these Norman men know what
to do when English fire-arrows arced through the dusk sky that was fading from the golds and crimsons of a vivid sunset, into the purples and dark blue hues of the night? Streaking like the breath of outraged dragons, the fire came and the black smoke billowed.

  The Duke stood in the prow, stood stunned, numb of voice and movement. Stood there seeing, feeling, nothing. The screams of men, his men, his Norman men, filled his ears, but he heard not a sound. His eyes saw the ships, one by one, become engulfed in flame, saw men, also so engulfed, leap into the water. Watched them burn, watched them drown – yet saw… nothing.

  Mora shuddered as a series of fire-arrows struck her. Her tarred hull and single tar-grimed canvas sail burst into flame, the caulking between her decking running with spreading fire. William stood there, mesmerised, as the runnels of flame tore towards him. He heard his ship groan, cry out, as the stays holding her mast upright snapped, the whiplash sound of their parting tearing through the air, loud above the roar of shouting, screams, and the burn of fire. She sank, stern first. He did nothing to save himself. Nothing at all.

  One ship was spared. One, single, Norman ship.

  ‘Tell them in Normandy,’ Eadric the Steersman shouted as the first stars witnessed the night, and what was left of the burning destruction floating as debris among the rolling waves. ‘Tell them to not dare, ever again, to wake the dragon that is the schyp fyrd of England!’

  He signalled for the war horns to sound the order for the fleet to begin the long, slow, row back to England. A long journey, but a glorious one.

  That one reprieved ship took aboard all the men she could, those men who knew enough to kick with their feet, or grasp floating debris in order to stay alive, to not drown. As full night fell, the stars peered from behind wisps of cloud like a scatter of jewels spread across the black, black sky, indifferent to the single ship below. The steersman, bone weary, devastated – frightened – allowed one last man to be hauled aboard; they could not take any more for overladen the ship would sink, but then, there were no more to save. There was no comfort to offer, no blankets, no food, little fresh water. No words of compassion or encouragement. No one spoke or called out, groaned, or whimpered. Only the wind creaking in the sail and humming in the rigging, only the water creaming at the bow and gurgling along the hull, made any sound.