‘We’ll stay a while,’ I said. ‘Let’s see what happens next.’
All around the little glade, the green grass had turned red with blood. I wondered how long the wounded would be left here and the answer was – not very long at all. The standard of medical care depended upon whose side you were on. Saxons who could walk were helped to their feet and taken away. Those who couldn’t were carried on makeshift litters made of cloaks and spears.
Those who weren’t Saxons were despatched on the spot. Even a young lad who couldn’t have been much more than fourteen or fifteen. He wasn’t that badly hurt, but a wound in his leg prevented him running away. He saw his death approaching and began to cry. A blank-faced Saxon stood over him, said a few words – perhaps in consolation, or perhaps a prayer to the gods. The boy’s final shriek was cut short. He spasmed once and then lay still.
And once again, we were watching people die. Real people. It’s what we do. We wrap it up in all sorts of fancy phrases – investigating major historical events in contemporary time is our favourite, but, basically, we watch people die. We sell it to ourselves on the grounds they would have died anyway. That our being here makes very little difference – or shouldn’t do. That in our time they’ve been dead for x-hundred years. That it’s always important to have an accurate record of what really happened. Before those who write History – nearly always the victors – put their own particular spin on events. And all that’s good, I know it is. But not when you’re watching a young man, a boy even, white faced, teeth clenched in agony, curled around a mortal wound and watching his own life’s blood pump into the thirsty earth on a lovely summer’s day, as the birds sing in the trees around him.
It takes a hell of a lot of getting used to. I haven’t managed it yet. And actually, would that be a good thing? Do I want to be able to watch, dispassionately, as another life departs this world? I don’t think I do. So I suppose I just have to put up with it.
I was putting up with it now.
Sykes drew in her breath with a hiss. I put a hand on her shoulder and said, ‘Keep filming.’
She did, and it was worth it. Because someone shouted suddenly and, before we realised what was happening, Harold Godwinson himself strode through the trees.
We knew it was him, because he was preceded by his personal banner, the Fighting Man. He’d discarded his mail and wore only a sweaty and bloodstained tunic. His legs were bare and his hair dark with sweat. He stood in the centre of the glade, hands on his hips, staring about him. As far as I could see, he appeared unscathed. His mouth set in a grim line as he surveyed the two piles of dead bodies – Vikings on the far side of the clearing, and the Saxons, neatly laid out on the other.
North was nearly falling over herself trying to get all the cameras focused on him.
‘He looks older,’ said Bashford, zooming in.
‘He looks ill,’ said North.
I agreed. And I could hazard a guess as to the cause. Whatever brave face he was putting on for England, in his heart, Harold was a perjured man – an oath-breaker – and he knew it. It wasn’t sitting easily on his conscience.
Kings are not supposed to have a conscience. It’s not a luxury they could afford. Medieval kings had two simple tasks. To safeguard the realm and to ensure the succession. Nothing complicated, but failure to do one or both usually resulted in catastrophe.
The very unwar-like Edward II lost humiliatingly to the Scots at Bannockburn and was only just able to force himself to father an heir. He ended his days supposedly impaled upon a red-hot poker.
Richard II – son and grandson of mighty men – was weak, fickle and childless. Eventually it cost him his throne.
Henry VI was pious, mentally frail, lost most of the English possessions in France, and was very surprised to find he’d fathered an heir. Popular opinion reckoned that, actually, he hadn’t. Henry too was overthrown. Twice, in fact.
And what about King Stephen? He wasn’t the rightful heir – that was his cousin, Mathilda. Stephen had two excellent qualifications for the job – he wasn’t a woman and his name wasn’t Mathilda, but he foundered because he couldn’t live up to the popular image of a medieval king which, basically, was to be the biggest bastard in the country. Stephen’s problem was that he was just too nice, which was not what people looked for in their king. His ability to listen patiently and sensibly to other people’s point of view all but wrecked the kingdom. His weakness and lack of resolution caused his uncle’s system of administration, so patiently assembled over the previous reign, to fall apart in what is always known as ‘The Anarchy’, and the country foundered. Not surprisingly, after his death, the crown went back to Mathilda’s line. I personally always felt the country would have done much better to have stuck with Mathilda, who would cheerfully separate any man from his testicles as soon look at him, thus easily fulfilling one of the two requirements for the job of king – conscienceless brutality – but she was a woman and therefore not eligible.
Of course, you could go too far. Edward III overdid things slightly when it came to heirs and had too many sons. The family fragmented into the houses of York and Lancaster and gave us the Wars of the Roses.
Or what about Henry II’s boys? Young Henry, Richard the Lionheart, Geoffrey and John happily schemed and betrayed their father and each other without a second thought.
So basically, all a king had to do was keep the realm safe and father an heir. Job done. Recent monarchs have added waving to the list, but let’s face it – it’s still not that difficult. The point I’m circumnavigating is that having a conscience is a luxury kings can’t afford. As opposed to politicians and bankers who could do with having one inserted and yet appear to be complete strangers to the concept. From looking at him now, however, it would seem King Harold was having trouble with his.
His hair had darkened and it seemed to me there was less of it. Although that might simply have been helmet hair. He looked exhausted but, to be fair, he’d had a strenuous week. It was the look in his eyes that gave him away. He had the look of a man whose inner voices gave him no rest.
Sykes stirred and I was conscious that things were getting very hot and stuffy inside the pod. I wished they’d get a move on and leave.
‘Suppose they decide to stay up here?’ said Sykes, wiping sweat off her face with her sleeve. ‘It’s cool, shady and pleasant. That’s why we we’re here.’
‘We could use the sonic scream,’ suggested Bashford.
The sonic scream is brilliant. Some time ago it was discovered that if you broadcast at a low frequency, only teenagers can hear it. Normal people aren’t affected. It induces feelings of discomfort and slight nausea. Not unnaturally, the teenagers don’t like it, so they move on. They don’t know why they’re moving on – they just do. I believe this is now illegal, but Professor Rapson and the Technical Section never allow little things like that to stop them, so we have something similar installed in our pods. We usually keep it for hostile animals and suchlike, but it certainly works on humans, too.
Sadly, the effects can be a little unpredictable. On one occasion we’d caused a herd of Roman bullocks to stampede, causing massive damage to private property, and then, not content with that, we’d gone on to shatter every pane of glass in Hawking.
I was weighing up the pros and cons of activating it with so many seriously wounded people still around when Sykes said, ‘Hang on, who’s this? Look.’
A rider on a sweat-drenched horse was thundering up the hill towards us, shouting as he came. Every man turned to see what was happening. Most of them drew their swords. Two or three stepped in front of the king.