And the Rest Is History

The floor was cold, hard stone; its discomfort only mitigated by the thick layer of crushed rushes spread over the top. They looked fairly fresh – maybe laid down especially for today, but I knew that if I kicked aside the top layer I would find old bones, grease, dog shit, spilled beer – and worse. I left the top layer where it was.

A raised dais stood at the far end, on which stood two ornately carved chairs of equal height and importance, because although William was Guy’s overlord, every man is a lord in his own hall. They’d resolved the problem of who took precedence over whom by moving Guy’s chair from its central and commanding position under the canopy and setting it a little to one side, with William’s chair a meticulously measured equal distance to the other. I suspected that, behind the scenes, a chamberlain or steward was going quietly insane.

The chairs were the only furniture in the place. The eating tables were temporary trestles and had been removed, so today was obviously all about business, not pleasure.

The far wall behind the two chairs was covered by a tapestry, subject unknown in all this gloom, and probably almost completely obscured by layers of smoke and soot anyway.

Two rows of hefty stone pillars marched down the hall, supporting equally hefty smoke-blackened timbers that, in turn, held up the roof – although frankly the whole place was so murky that the roof could have been supported by four elephants standing on the back of a giant turtle and no one would ever know.

We started off near the door, but such was the crush of people still fighting to get in, that without any effort on our part, we found ourselves pushed to the front, our backs to a pillar. We couldn’t have asked for a better position. We stood closely together and refused to budge. People streamed around us. There was a little muttered cursing, but we stood our ground and people left us alone.

Looking around, although the company was predominantly male, there were some women present. About one in five were female. And we were definitely among the better dressed, which made a pleasant change and was probably why, strangers though we were, people were leaving us alone.

We palmed our recorders and got what discreet footage we could. And then we waited.

Two hours. Two bloody hours.

I know the greater part of our job is to stand and wait. Wait for the charge, the fire, the battle, the murder, whatever, and then observe and document. And then we usually to have to run like hell afterwards, of course, so you think we’d be used to it. Sometimes it’s not too bad, but here in this smoke-filled cave – there really was no other word to describe it – the usual standing quietly and waiting was a bit of a bloody ordeal.

According to Markham, there’s a knack. Apparently, you don’t just stand there. That’s the wrong way to do it, according to the Security Section – famed for complicating simple situations since the beginning of time. You don’t stand with your weight on one foot, then the other, then shift it back again, and so on, because that makes at least one leg ache and after a while, your hips and shoulders as well. You should stand straight but relaxed, weight equally on both feet, hands hanging loosely. Then you ease your weight forwards onto the balls of your feet for a few moments and then rock backwards onto your heels. You’re not actually moving but you are – says Markham. Keeps the blood flowing, prevents cramp, aching ankles and knees, sore feet, blood clots and possibly cellulite as well. And for all I know he’s right. Anyway, we stood there, swaying back and forth like a thicket in a strong wind and no one fainted, so we must have been doing something right. Sadly, it does nothing to alleviate boredom. I began to wish I’d stuck with Team William. At least they were out in the fresh air. There were some nasty, wet, hacking coughs in here and a great deal of sputum was being propelled around the place. It really was a miracle anyone made it past the age of twenty.

Two bloody hours.



We heard them coming. Horns sounded above a clatter of hooves in the courtyard outside. Unseen men shouted orders.

‘They’re here,’ said North in my ear, presumably in case I wasn’t paying attention, and I stifled my usual urge to set fire to her.

‘OK, everyone,’ I said. ‘Heads up.’

And then it all went quiet.

‘They’ve gone in through another door,’ reported North. ‘Through to the count’s private quarters, I guess.’

‘Get yourselves in here if you can. We’re on the left as you come in, and near the front, so try for somewhere on the other side of the fire. Security to remain outside in case we need rescuing.’

‘Copy that.’

The link closed.

There was another long pause. Although not two hours long. Around us, people stood on tiptoe and craned their necks in anticipation. As, I admit, did I. We were going to see William, Duke of Normandy and Harold Godwinson, Earl of Wessex. The two great players of their age. Either would have been remarkable but for the two of them to share the same time period … and to be together … here … today … I realised with a shock that I hadn’t thought about Matthew for a couple of hours, realised why Leon had insisted I go on this assignment, and then shoved everything out of my head, because they were coming.

I think we could have been forgiven for not noticing the two doors either side of the tapestry; we could barely see the tapestry itself. The one on the left opened, however, and a man – a steward, I guessed from his dress – strode forwards onto the dais. Lifting his staff, he solemnly pounded the boards three times. For silence, presumably, although he’d had that from the moment he made his first appearance.

He made a ringing announcement, not one word of which I caught, but I think the gist was pretty obvious to everyone there. A stir of anticipation ran through the crowd. Well, our part of it, certainly. Bashford caught my eye and grinned. And then it was full attention on what was happening now.

The same door opened and we held our breath. What were we going to see? Who would be first through the door?

They did it beautifully.

As the lord in his own hall, Guy was first through the door. My first impression was that he looked like a fox. He was a thin-faced man of medium height in a russet red tunic. His cloak had been dyed to match and was trimmed with vair. Look it up.

Entering, he paused for one moment, gathering all eyes on himself, and then stepped to one side, allowing his overlord to make his entrance.

There are no images of William. Contemporary reports say he was dark, burly – he would be extremely fat, later in life – that he enjoyed excellent health, was a good fighter, and a tireless huntsman. They also said he was fierce and unforgiving, that he had no pretensions to intellect, and managed at the same time to be both pious and cruel. A not uncommon combination in any age.

With courtesy, but not a huge amount of deference, Guy attended William to his chair and took up his own position. Around us, everyone bowed. Even the women. At this time, there was very little difference between the bow and the curtsey. Women spread their skirts a little in what might be the ancestor of the formal female curtsey, which wouldn’t make its appearance until sometime in the 17th century, but otherwise, everyone bowed. Including us.

Their entourages followed on behind and arranged themselves behind the appropriate chairs. Count Guy’s men were dressed in similar though less colourful robes. Under their cloaks, William’s men wore their famous knee-length chainmail hauberks with the loose, elbow-length sleeves and carried their conical helmets with the noseguards. Whether they wore mail because they didn’t trust the Count Guy, or simply because they’d been riding, was not clear.

William himself wore a tunic of purple and gold, his lack of armour signifying he wasn’t here to fight. His mailed escort signified he would if he had to. Apart from a huge golden brooch securing his cloak, he wore no jewellery of any kind. He didn’t need to. He could have worn an old sack and still commanded the room.