And the Rest Is History

The area in front of the altar, hitherto empty and guarded by soldiers was beginning to fill up with richly dressed men. These would be the movers and shakers of the day, and all of them invited so William could have impeccable witnesses to the events. My heart went out to Harold. Stitched up by a master.

In our game, it’s always tempting to play ‘What If?’. What if Harold had never been shipwrecked? What if – as the legitimate choice of the Witan – he had become king in the normal manner? Without the backing of the Pope, would William even have considered crossing the Channel? Would he have been able to assemble his enormous army if he had? If Harold had been a strong king, would Tostig and Harold Hardrada have dared to attack and draw him north at that vital time? And if William had never attacked and Harold remained king, if Anglo-Saxon culture had remained intact – where would England be today?

It’s fashionable to say that at the time of the Conquest, England was a backwater – a tiny half-island off the coast of Europe and nothing more – and that William’s invasion dragged it into mainstream Europe. Then there are those who say that England was doing very nicely thank you, and only became a backwater after the Conquest, because it was just a small part of the Norman holdings. That the Normans still looked to Normandy as their heartland and that was where their kings spent most of their time.

And what of our language? If the Saxon tongue had prevailed, then we would regard something as kingly rather than royal. Miss North would be fair rather than blonde. We would have selfhood cards rather than identity cards. We would sunder rather than sever. We would eat cu, not boeuf, swin, rather than porc, cicen rather than pouletrie, deor rather than venesoun.

Fortunately, before I became too entangled in the game of What If? – and it does happen – Markham nudged me, because the important people were beginning to arrive, and the first one up was Harold.

He entered from the side, emerging out of the gloom. Another man, slightly shorter but with a strong facial resemblance, stood at his elbow. I wondered if this was his brother, Wulfnoth, held hostage here for years, because he seemed to have become more Norman than Saxon.

Harold was politely escorted. Or guarded, if you want to give it the correct name. He wore a brilliant sky-blue tunic, heavily embroidered around the neck and hem, that fell to just past his knees. His hose were green. A jewelled belt hung on his hips and his cloak, a darker blue, was fastened at the right shoulder by a jewelled pin. His shoulder-length, fair hair was neatly trimmed and he’d retained his unfashionable and unflattering moustache. I didn’t blame him. Everything he wore – everything he owned – had been given to him by William, the soul of generosity. The only thing he still possessed was the prospect of becoming King of England one day, and even that was about to be taken from him.

There was a huge air of expectation. No one knew what Harold would do. Maybe even Harold didn’t know what Harold would do.

On the other hand, of course, no one knew what William was about to do, either. I had to remind myself again that apart from William, Odo and a few others, we were the only people here who knew what was about to happen today. As far as everyone else knew, Harold was about to take a simple oath of loyalty and then push off back to England.

William was making him wait, but Harold showed no signs of impatience or damaged ego. He stood, one hand on Wulfnoth’s shoulder, head bent, apparently listening to an amusing story. I admired his composure.

William didn’t make him wait long. Trumpets sounded, the chanting began again, louder this time, and here he came, entering from a door opposite that used by Harold. He wore a long, crimson tunic that suited his dark colouring well. An ornate golden chain hung around his neck. His belt was of soft leather, set with rubies. In contrast to Harold’s bare head, he wore a small circlet of gold. It was as if everything had been contrived to isolate Harold. The predominant colour amongst William’s supporters was crimson. Looking around, Harold was the only blue in a sea of red. Even Wulfnoth wore crimson.

William was followed by his coat of arms. A red banner with two golden lions. Or, if you had looked it up beforehand so as to be able to describe it accurately – gules, two lions passant or.

I looked around. Everything was crimson and gold. The hangings, the banners, the canopy over the chair. Everything was in William’s colours. And reinforcing his position as the top dog here, William was accompanied by his half-brother, Bishop Odo. There was a strong family resemblance, which I’m sure both brothers cultivated.

An acolyte preceded them, bearing yet another ruby cross.

I whispered, ‘Miss North, report.’

‘We’re in place. Everything’s fine.’

Sykes was some little way off. I could just see the top of her head with Evans standing next to her.

‘Miss Sykes, report.’

‘We’re good,’ she said in my ear. They both sounded preoccupied so I left them to get on with it.

Bishop Odo was dressed to impress. As burly as his brother, he wore a long, snowy white tunic with sleeves, and his stola hung around his neck. His overgarment, the dalmatic, was made of some stiff material and slit up the sides. His chasuble continued the crimson silk motif, beautifully embroidered in light-catching gold thread. Everything was in crimson and gold to match William. Just in case anyone had failed to get the point.

His crozier, held in his left hand was heavily ornamented and inlaid with ivory, and his pectoral cross was – again – of gold and rubies.

William himself walked alongside, but a polite half pace behind. I was convinced he’d made a conscious effort to associate himself with the Church. And modern politicians think they invented spin, bless them.

William bowed to the altar and strode to his chair, paused for a moment and then, in complete silence, he seated himself. I stole a glimpse at Harold, who stood quietly nearby, politely attentive, as if attending a pleasant diversion Duke William had set up for his amusement. You couldn’t fault his self-control.

The bishop was followed by a whole raft of chanting clerics who, in turn, were followed by two men carrying a box suspended between two long poles. I craned my neck. This was it.

With great care and reverence, the box was set up in front of the main altar. After a suitable pause to collect everyone’s attention, the heavily embroidered cloth was removed. A stir ran through the crowd and as one, people knelt. It was another altar. A portable altar – the kind a household would carry with them as they travelled from one home to another.

Duke William was making doubly sure. One oath – two altars. Harold’s wiggle room was getting smaller by the moment. Lying on top of the altar was a huge Bible, leather bound and already old even in this time. Under that was a blood red cloth, again embroidered with the lions of Normandy.

It would appear Harold had only to take a simple oath on the Bible. I looked for signs of relief in his face. To break a simple oath was not so serious. His face was expressionless, however. William was not the only one giving nothing away.

We rose to our feet, along with everyone else.

The bishop greeted the clerics who, in turn, bowed to William. No one spoke to Harold.

Even in this huge space, and even with all these hundreds of people around me, I could hear only silence. Complete silence. No one even coughed.