1066 Turned Upside Down Page 16

  Edgar died childless at the age of seventy-five, the last male of the House of Cerdic, the original English royal family. Edgar’s sister, Margaret, fared better – she married King Malcolm III of Scotland and their daughter, Edith, married King Henry I of England.

  London Bridge – Late November

  Inside London’s bursting walls, anxious citizens cram the streets, grudgingly sharing their town with the newcomers – the vanquished soldiers from the battlefield and refugees fleeing atrocities. Throughout the thoroughfares rumours of gruesome massacres, merciless maiming, butchery and barbarism at the hands of the Normans are spreading like the plague. People are asking questions of each other. What was it like at Stamford Bridge? What was it like at Hastings? Where are you from? Why did they burn it down? And the question, ‘Is the same fate in store for us?’ hangs on everyone’s lips.

  With similar thoughts running through his mind, Edgar Edwardson, the sixteen-year-old King of England, stares out of his chamber window in the Royal Palace of Westminster. His gaze follows along the stretch of cold, grey river to the City of London, shrouded in dread. The last leaves have fallen from the trees and only black, skeletal branches appear against the skyline.

  Over the horizon, Duke William of Normandy and his army are heading remorselessly towards them, swarming over the countryside, destroying everything in their path. He will arrive within hours but the mighty Thames should offer protection from the fury of the Normans. As long as the English can hold the single bridge leading into London the city will be safe. Edgar shivers and pulls his cloak tighter to keep out the cold.

  The Witangemot, the Great Council, proclaimed Edgar as king only a few weeks ago. His coronation, yet to take place, is set for Christmas Day. Most of his subjects see him as their only hope but he knows there are others who have an alternative ruler in mind. The northern earls, Edwin and Morcar, have made sure that their sister is safe, hundreds of miles away in the city of Chester where they hope she will give birth to a healthy boy, the late King Harold’s son.

  King Edgar is well aware of the unreliability and lack of fighting prowess of the earls. The brothers are not fearless warriors, but their men are sorely needed. Their sister, Queen Aldytha, has done the right thing in fleeing London. But now people are asking the question - if they can’t even protect their sister, who can they protect?

  Staring out of the window, King Edgar hopes to find inspiration for the task ahead. True, there are soldiers at his disposal but they are demoralised and he is untried as their leader. Earl Waltheof’s housecarls tasted glory at the Battle of Stamford Bridge but they are just two hundred in number – will they be able to have a decisive impact in the forthcoming clash?

  The rest of the trained troops number several hundred more but they are the remnants of Harold’s men, lost souls with spirits shattered by defeat. Who cannot pity them? After all, did they not lose the biggest battle in England’s history? And worse still, failed to defend their former king. Can they now successfully defend their new one to set themselves up for future winter nights at the fireside, recounting tales of a glorious victory?

  Edgar is sure that none of them relishes the thought of fighting for an inexperienced youth. He has heard the mutterings – if Harold, the victor of Stamford Bridge, lost to Duke William, what chance does a mere lad stand? He has heard them and, worse, he fears they are right.

  Edgar knows the fate of the kingdom hangs on this next battle. His heart pounding, he heads for the great hall to make plans with his commanders – the three remaining earls and his senior housecarl, Bondi Wynstanson. Tall, blond and muscular, his long hair hanging halfway down his back and a mutton-chop moustache any Saxon would admire, Bondi has a strong presence and he is unswervingly loyal. It is easy to see why King Harold held him in such high esteem.

  All the men have their war gear close to hand; swords and a couple of big battleaxes lean against the wall of the great hall. Edgar too has his own sword and a hand axe, useful for close combat and for throwing. Both were inherited from his grandfather, the legendary Edmund Ironside. Still not able to grow any real facial hair, Edgar wonders if he has the right to carry such weapons.

  ‘How did you take Stamford Bridge?’ he asks Bondi, wishing he’d been there.

  ‘By surprise,’ Bondi answers laconically, adding, ‘the Vikings had no idea where we were until we attacked them.’

  ‘Well, we know when the Normans will be here, so that’s one advantage they won’t have. What is our situation now?’

  ‘We have a full body of men guarding London Bridge. They may not be many but their position is strong; they can stop an army.’

  ‘They will have to.’

  ‘Trust me,’ says Bondi, ‘Duke William does not see us as real opposition and that works in our favour.’

  ‘With so few troops, is it possible?’

  ‘We have to trap him somewhere where we have him at our mercy, and that will be on the bridge.’

  ‘Yes. It is our only hope.’

  There is a knock on the door and a servant enters, bows low.

  ‘There is a messenger here who wishes to speak with Earls Edwin and Morcar.’

  ‘Show him in.’

  The messenger creeps in, bowing low to Edgar, but when he eventually speaks it is the northern brothers he addresses:

  ‘Lady Aldytha sends word that she has given birth to a son.’

  Edgar sees both Edwin and Morcar’s eyes light up as they register that they are now

  uncles to the late King Harold’s heir. They have never, he thinks bitterly, shown an interest in any of Aldytha’s other children but, then, her other children are not the sons of a king, albeit a dead one. This is no ordinary child and Edgar is as aware of this as his earls. Sitting silently on the dais, he observes them in animated conversation, happy to accept the congratulations of Bondi and Waltheof and his fears are confirmed.

  ‘Join us in a toast, my lord,’ says Edwin with a broad grin.

  As the small party raise their drinking horns, Edgar realises that he always thinks of Edwin and Morcar as though they are one. The brothers always act together and are twice as strong for it. In fact, they hold the strongest position in the country, yet they appear to have little interest in using it for the general good and Edgar is the first to realise Duke William may now not be his only cause for concern. Who knows what those two might get up to?

  But that is a concern for the future. For now the northern earls are as trapped as he, for the only thing standing between Duke William and the crown is Edgar and his tiny, battered army. He stands decisively – he is England’s elected leader and must act like one, however afraid he feels inside.

  ‘Waltheof, what do you think? Can we hold the bridge?’

  Waltheof is only in his twenties, but has already proved himself in battle.

  ‘If we hold the bridge, then we hold the city, I am certain.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But that is not enough, my lord.’

  ‘What do you mean, not enough?’

  ‘We have to do more than that to stop this Norman upstart. If we do not, he will cross upriver and fall on the city from the north where our defences are weak.’

  Edgar eyes Waltheof closely.

  ‘What do you have in mind?’

  ‘We have to do to them what they did to us. We have to remove the head from the body – we have to kill Duke William. None of the rest of them has a claim to the crown. Remove William and we remove the threat. Then they will go home.’

  Bondi nods slow agreement. Even Edwin and Morcar look convinced.

  ‘You speak true, Waltheof,’ says Edgar.

  They will have to find a way to rid themselves of William permanently. And soon.

  As darkness falls, Duke William, flanked by a few of his closest comrades, arrives with his army at deserted Southwark on the south bank of t
he Thames, opposite the walled city of London. The Duke, a powerful-looking man, sits astride his horse appraising the scene. Burned-out houses and farms are all he can see on this side of the Thames. The locals have already crossed the river looking for protection inside the city walls and they have taken their possessions with them. What they could not take, they have destroyed.

  William looks across the river to where he can see the warm glow of lights in London. He is disappointed that the city has not surrendered to him - though he keeps his thoughts carefully from his ice blue eyes. No one knows what William is thinking – he makes sure of that.

  ‘My lord,’ a scout calls, riding up out of the half-light, ‘the bridge is blocked. The Saxons are manning a barricade on the far side.’

  ‘Never mind,’ the Duke replies in his gruff voice. ‘We will cross it in the morning. By this time tomorrow we will be supping beer in Westminster Palace. At first light, we will storm the bridge. Tonight we sleep in tents but tomorrow we will be staying in the finest accommodation England has to offer!’

  Next day, the dawn breaks to reveal the first hoar frost of the year. All round a cold, thick fog rises up from the Thames, obscuring the far bank. The long bridge, shrouded in mist, vanishes into a grey void, heading toward the unknown. His back firmly to it, William addresses his commanders, Sir William Warenne and Sir William Fitz Osbern:

  ‘My lords, first we will parley with the English. We will tell them we understand their desire to defend London. We will say that if they surrender now then no harm will come to them or their city, but if they put up a fight we will make them suffer.’

  The knights nod in approval but although they are brave, none of them are keen to cross the river. The sight before them looks like the entrance to the afterlife. Stretching out into the void is a rickety looking bridge made of rough-hewn planks supported on oak trestles. To prevent travellers falling into the river a railing runs along each side. William de Warenne eyes the mist-shrouded bridge curiously.

  ‘My lord, I wonder, should we not take Sir Hugh with us?’ he says eventually.

  ‘Why would we want to take anybody else with us, William?’ the Duke asks.

  ‘Because when we arrive on the other side of the river, the four of us will appear out of nowhere,’ he replies, with a roguish grin. ‘We will look like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse – and add a little spice to their English fear.’

  ‘Very well,’ says William, also grinning, ‘we will take Hugh.’

  Sir Hugh Grandmesnil joins his comrades and the fearsome looking four begin to make their way slowly through the greyness on to the bridge. Their horses’ hooves thud on the wood as they walk toward their enemy. As they cross the river, they feel the temperature drop, chilling them to the bone. The horses clop over the bridge, the sound of their hooves echoing the drip of the cold, moist air on the water below. Each man is trying hard not to shiver so that when they make their dramatic arrival, they do not look as though they are trembling with fear.

  ‘My friends, how do you think the English will react when they see us emerging from this fog like spectres?’ Sir William Warenne says.

  ‘They’ll probably run for their lives,’ replies Fitz Osbern.

  ‘If they haven’t run away already,’ quips Warenne.

  The group progress steadily, as though they know that no matter how slowly they travel, the outcome will be the same; Edgar will submit. There is no doubt, no need to hurry and they continue taking their time, prolonging the anticipation; hoping the slowness of their advance will allow dread to fill English hearts. But as they make their approach they can barely see each other and their own hearts are far from steady.

  As they reach the far side of the bridge, the Duke makes out the barricade looming up through the gloom. It is a makeshift affair of wagons, broken furniture, old barrels and even sheaves of straw; primitive but effective. Five feet in height, it makes a formidable obstacle and the Duke assesses the grim and anxious faces of the defenders behind its protection.

  Amongst them, he sees someone he takes to be Edgar, standing beneath a blue and gold banner, which hangs limp in the still air. The young man is wearing a full chain mail coat but it is his distinctive helmet with a brightly gleaming gold boar crest that singles him out. William recognises some of the thanes and notices a resolute young nobleman who he believes must be Earl Waltheof. He looks for Edwin and Morcar and sees them standing determinedly behind their king. He almost laughs at the youth of these so-called English leaders. These young men, he gauges, will give him no trouble.

  As the English are all on foot, they have to look up to the horsemen and, having succeeded in intimidating them, the Duke’s men are enjoying their advantage. Warenne produces the finest of arrogant sneers and Hugh encourages his stallion to rear, shod hooves sharp above English heads.

  From amongst the defending army, the fresh-faced Edgar calls out. ‘Duke William, what is the purpose of your visit?’

  ‘That’s King William to you!’

  The Saxon housecarls greet the comment with a roar of abuse, which takes a while to subside. William Warenne, who speaks very little English, only gets the gist of the conversation but he is pleased to see the defenders are upset. When things quieten, Edgar speaks again.

  ‘Let me remind you, it is I who am the rightful King of England and that is why I and not you wear the crown. If you, Duke William, want this meeting to proceed, you need to recognise that. Now, what is your question?’

  ‘My question is, does your mother know you are here?’

  Edgar swallows the insult and thrusts back as hard.

  ‘My Lady Mother dressed me in my armour and handed me my Grandfather’s sword! Have you merely come to insult me? Have you naught better to do this day?’

  ‘I have much to do but I thought while I’m here, I might as well poke at the beardless boy I see before me.’

  ‘I think you had better leave, sir, while you still can.’

  ‘And I think you had better submit to the rightful King of England and save a lot of bloodshed.’

  ‘I am the rightful King,’ Edgar replies slowly, as though to a simpleton.

  ‘We will see about that,’ says the Duke menacingly.

  ‘Yes, we will,’ Edgar agrees.

  As they turn their horses to leave, Warenne looks King Edgar in the eye and runs a finger across his throat, grinning wickedly all the time. It makes a fearsome sight but Edgar reacts well, laughing as though at a mischievous child.

  ‘Look,’ he says, ‘he is cutting his own throat!’

  His response is appreciated by the defenders and the Normans kick their horses into a canter to escape the jeers, grateful now for the safety of the fog.

  ‘Tell me, what do you think of them?’ asks the Duke of his commanders as they ride back over the bridge.

  ‘Edgar is too young and too inexperienced to command a robust defence,’ Warenne says. ‘The others are not much older. I think they lack the stomach for a real fight.’

  William is boosted by this opinion.

  ‘You are right. There was more lost at Hastings than Harold Godwinson’s life. England’s lost its head and its heart. Prepare the infantry. Once the barricade has been breached, the wretches will panic and run, then England will be ours.’

  Fitz Osbern organises the men. William’s plan is for the infantry to breach the barricade by sheer weight of numbers, after which they will charge through the streets of London with the cavalry. The infantry lines up shoulder to shoulder, packed in as tightly as herrings in a barrel, and the Normans advance. Crossbowmen line the banks of the river to either side of the bridge, while the defenders chant the familiar Saxon war cry: ‘Out! Out! Out!’

  The river is shrouded in wraiths of fog as the Duke’s men advance, grey shadows in the thick mist. The muffled thud of their Norman feet is a comfort as they march forward into dank, grey o
blivion. On the bridge the English also hear the approaching thud, thud, thud of footsteps but can see nothing. Only the sound of the advancing army escapes the murk. As at Hastings, the English continue their rhythmical smashing of weapon against shield to drown out the sound of the ominous footfall.

  Guessing his enemy is now in range of his Saxon archers, lined along the northern banks, Edgar gives the command to shoot. Those who had failed to complete the journey from the north in time to be of use at Hastings, now make their presence felt. The Normans swarming across the wooden bridge hear Edgar’s command – hear but do not understand the English words until arrows rain down on them.

  The English archers may not be able to see their targets but they know the bridge and know where they must be. There are soon many fatalities amongst the Normans. In the sightless haze, disembodied cries are heard all around as men, pierced by arrows, fall screaming to the rough-hewn wooden planks or over the rails into the cold, unforgiving water below. A wounded man, lying unseen and bleeding, is no longer a soldier but an obstacle over which a comrade might trip or stumble. He is ignored, trampled, crushed by the boots of the men pressing ahead across the bridge.

  Edgar continues to bellow commands: ‘Keep shooting! Keep the pressure up. Even if you can’t see a target. We’ve more than enough arrows to complete this task!’

  Whoosh follows whoosh as hundreds of arrows soar through the damp air and then a clatter as they land on shield and armour, and a softer sound like a sigh when they find flesh. Visible only when too late, appearing from nowhere, they mow the Norman soldiers down. The grim reaper moves amongst them like a phantom harvesting his gruesome crop but determined, the Normans continue to advance and at last they reach the far side.