He was invited to sit and wine was brought. The two men sat and sipped. Their escorts eyed each other. No one seemed to be armed although I wondered how many daggers were tucked into sleeves, or hidden in the folds of a thick cloak.
There was polite conversation. Both men smiled with their mouths. Count Guy politely offered a refill, which was as politely refused. You could have cut the air with a knife, and such was the tension that if they didn’t get a move on then someone probably would.
There was no doubt who was in command here. William, obviously considering he’d more than fulfilled polite convention, stirred impatiently in his chair, and at once Guy beckoned a man forwards and whispered in his ear. The man left immediately.
William and Guy sat quietly in their seats. No one was moving anywhere. One of the most fateful encounters in History was about to kick off. The silence was so complete I dared not even whisper to North. I just had to hope she and Clerk were here, somewhere, and recording their bloody socks off.
As we had done, Harold and the remaining survivors of the shipwreck had to make their way through the tradesman’s entrance. They’d been found dry clothes from somewhere, but Harold, as if to underline his position here, was significantly less magnificently dressed than his hosts. Or gaolers, if you like. He himself seemed more or less intact. One of his men had a bandage around his forehead and could walk only with assistance. Another seemed to have a broken arm. There were only eight of them altogether. There were no other survivors.
A path was cleared for them and Harold led his party to the foot of the dais, paused some six feet away, and stood waiting. He was making them come to him. Power games.
Both William and Guy rose, and Guy stepped down to greet him formally. Harold answered him politely enough, inclining his head to what I guessed was an enquiry as to his health.
I had a fat stone pillar on my left and Markham on my right, shielding me from view. To an uninterested observer, it must have seemed as if I was holding my cupped hand to my face. With the exception of Markham, who never allowed what was going on in front of him to blind him to what was going on around him, we were all recording like madmen.
Finally, Count Guy stepped aside. William, who had waited and watched, now stepped down and for the first time ever, Harold and William were face to face.
Harold was the taller of the two. In his chronicles, Ordalis Vitalis describes him as very tall and handsome, and he was. His hair was light, but not blond, worn longer than the Norman fashion, and with one of those huge, droopy moustaches that Saxon men so mistakenly thought were a good look. His cool blue eyes met William’s heavily lidded, dark ones. William stretched out his hand and they stood together, hands clasped, for a very long moment, eye to eye, each appraising the other. Polite. Smiling. Affable. Wearing their public faces. And neither of them giving any clue as to their inner thoughts.
It is possible, I suppose, that both Harold and William were aware of the importance of this moment. Of the implications for the future. They were on a collision course. Only one of them could survive. They wouldn’t know that it would all end in savage and bloody slaughter at Hastings, of course, but they might have been aware there was only room in this world for one of them.
Guy coughed discreetly and both men moved apart. William to proffer a goblet of wine, filled with his own hands, and Harold to accept a hastily found chair. The three of them sat on the dais, and now William had the dominant position in centre, with Guy on his one hand, and Harold on the other. They drank and talked and laughed as if not one of them had a care in the world.
We recorded until our arms ached.
At last, Guy rose from his chair and gestured to his steward again. William set down his goblet and rose without haste. Harold did the same. The room bowed, again in silence, and Guy escorted them back through the door in the tapestry. For a private meal was my guess.
I looked up at the louvre. The sky was darkening. Shafts of light no longer illuminated the clouds of swirling smoke. The day was over. We would return to the pod and then tomorrow, we’d hang around the gates to catch a glimpse of them riding to William’s castle at Rouen. There was no real need – we had what we needed – but a glimpse of the size of the party and Harold’s position within it would round things off nicely. There was no doubt he was a prisoner, but would he ride at William’s side as all accounts seemed to say, or at the rear, under guard?
I imagined them riding through the crisp, sparkling afternoon air, experienced a moment’s unexpected claustrophobia, and was suddenly desperate to get out of this dark and smoky Hall. The great men and their entourages had disappeared. Time for us to go as well.
The greater mass of people was heading for the tiny door. The more intelligent were holding back, giving the crowd time to disperse. I caught a glimpse of North and Clerk standing by the central fire, looking around them. Clerk caught my eye, gave no sign of recognition, took North’s arm, and began to lead her to the door.
We met up outside the gatehouse. The sun was sinking and the still strong wind had turned cold. Dark purple clouds were moving up from the horizon. I became aware I was parched, starving and desperate for a pee. Definitely time to get back to the pods.
We nearly missed them the next morning. They must have been up well before dawn. It was eighty miles and more to Rouen and they obviously wanted an early start. We weren’t able to get to the town in time, but we stood on the small rise and watched them canter out through the gates and away.
William’s banner, the golden lions of Normandy, led the way, with William himself a few yards behind. Earl Harold rode alongside him. On a good horse. There was no sign of any of the other members of his group. I wondered what became of them. Had William left them with Guy as compensation for the bigger prize he had snatched from him?
We watched them down the road, pennant fluttering in the still strong wind. They breasted a small hill and then disappeared into the distance.
‘Time to go,’ I said.
‘What went wrong?’ said Dieter as we exited the pod.
I looked around. ‘Nothing. Why do you ask?’
‘No one’s injured. No one’s bleeding. Nothing important is hanging off. Either from you or the pod. There’s no smoke. No alarms. Are you sure you actually left the hangar?’
‘I know it’s difficult for the Technical Section to keep up with the rest of us, but we do occasionally have assignments that go without a hitch, you know.’
‘We could take an axe to the console,’ said Sykes helpfully. ‘Knock it about a bit if that will make you happy.’
‘Actually, I think I may have broken one of the cupholders,’ said Markham, holding some sad remains in his hand. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise,’ I said. ‘You’ve made his day. Fixing this will keep his entire section busy for weeks and even then they’ll probably have to call in specialist help.’
Dieter silently relieved him of the broken cupholder and indicated we should leave as quickly as possible. Clerk’s team were already heading for Sick Bay. We followed on behind. Half of me was eager to see Leon and Matthew again. The other half wasn’t quite so sure.
It seemed strange to crash through Sick Bay doors and find a strange doctor waiting for us. We’d all been gabbling away and suddenly silence fell. We looked at him. He looked at us. I felt a little sorry for him. It wasn’t his fault he wasn’t Helen Foster.
‘Dr Maxwell, would you like to come this way? I expect you’re eager to see your family again. Anyone else in a rush?’