We watched his envoys leave the Norman lines, unarmoured, cantering easily up the hill. A small force detached themselves from the Saxon ranks and met them half way. Harold’s personal banner, the Fighting Man, fluttered above them. His other emblem, the Red Dragon of Wessex, remained with his army.
If this was what we thought it was, then William was offering Harold all the land north of the Humber and promising to confirm him as Earl of Wessex. I suspected the Saxons would be informing the Normans that Harold already ruled over all the land north of the Humber, and was not only already Earl of Wessex, but King of England to boot.
The Normans would go on to remind them of Harold’s oath – his very public oath – to support William’s claim to the throne. They would go on to advise Harold that he was forsworn, a perjurer and that the Pope, Alexander II, had excommunicated him from the church.
This last was a big thing. The pronouncements of a pope a thousand miles away might seem unimportant to us today, but in this time, to be excommunicated was the worst thing that could happen to anyone. Worse even than death. Because if you died then your soul went unshriven and you couldn’t get into heaven.
Harold would remind them the oath was extracted by trickery and therefore not valid. Neither side would budge from their points of view and the parley would fail.
The battle was about to begin.
We weren’t sure what to expect. All the primary sources contradict each other. We knew the battle started around nine in the morning and would last until sunset. We knew that it took place seven miles north of Hastings. And we knew that William won. Apart from that…
We were crouched at the console, cameras rolling already so we could identify which banner belonged to whom on our return to St Mary’s. We had the sound turned up, all ready to go. The uneasy calm dragged on. Both sides were contemplating the other. Horses stamped and snorted. Occasionally, one would rear up with impatience, unsettling those on either side of him. Their riders would haul them back under control again and the silence would resume. The Saxons were motionless, their banners hanging limply in the heat. If William though he could tempt them down from their advantageous position, then he was very much mistaken.
And advantageous it was. His men might be exhausted from their recent forced marches to and from Stamford Bridge, but Harold had commanded them to dig a ditch and embankment. Atop the embankment the Saxons had piled breastworks – a combination of thickly packed brushwood and outward-facing stakes to deter the cavalry. They looked impregnable.
‘Here we go,’ said Bashford and at the same moment, trumpets sounded and to roars of encouragement from the Norman ranks and shouts of derision from the Saxons, William opened the batting with his archers – moving them up the hill until they were within range.
The Saxons hooted their contempt at this move and they were right.
William’s archers might have proved their worth across the Channel, but here they were useless. They were shooting uphill and the angle was wrong. Many arrows overshot, flying uselessly over Saxon heads. Others thudded impotently into Saxon shields.
They were worse than useless, in fact. The Saxons didn’t use bows in battle – axes and swords were their weapons of choice – and because there was no returning fire, the archers soon ran out of arrows, and suddenly, far from being an effective fighting force, they were alone, exposed and defenceless.
Even worse – for the archers, that is – the Saxons might not have had arrows, but they did have axes, stones, and excellent throwing arms. Missiles rained down upon William’s unprotected men.
More trumpets sounded, and with a roar, William’s infantry hurled itself up the hill. Shouts of ‘Dex Aie’ – God Aid Us – filled the air.
Brandishing their spears and swords, they surged up the hill like the tide coming in, smashing their way through the breastworks. They negotiated the ditch only to run full tilt into the shield wall. The almighty crash was drowned out by the guttural Saxon, ‘Ut! Ut! Ut!‘
In vain did the infantry strive to reach the enemy, safe behind their wall of shields. They crashed to the ground in their scores. The Saxon axes easily penetrated the Norman armour. The ditch was fast filling up with Norman dead and wounded and the Saxons hadn’t given one single inch.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Bashford. ‘They’re going down like flies. However did William manage to win this?’
The answer being, of course, that William didn’t win it – Harold lost it.
And now, William unleashed his cavalry. Slowly at first, the horses moved forwards – a sea of colour and pennants. The remains of the Norman infantry slipped back through the advancing cavalry. As soon as they were clear, the riders picked up the pace.
They thundered up the hill in two long, solid lines. We could feel the earth shake from all the way back here. There were no lances – the ground wasn’t suitable – but the riders leaned forwards, swords raised, a solid mass of horseflesh bearing down on the Saxon front line, now only yards away.
The remains of the breastworks shattered on impact, but for William’s knights, the ditch was not so easily overcome. The front rank of horses floundered and lost momentum. Some fell into the ditch, dragging their riders down with them. Some of the second rank went down as well, their horses crashing to their knees, and many, unable to stop, rode straight over the top of their fallen comrades.
The ditch was full of panicking horses, heads straining, their eyes rolling, forelegs scrabbling in panic as they struggled to escape, their massive iron-shod hooves trampling those around them. Their riders were scarcely less terrified, clambering over each other in their desperation to escape before another wave of horses crashed down on top of them.
We could hear the screaming and the war cries from those so far uninjured, but easily over everything we could hear the Saxons, still in place and still shouting their battle cry. ‘Out! Out! Ut! Ut!‘ A terrifying sound, especially when they clashed their axes on their shields in time with the words.
With his archers out of the game, his spearmen in retreat and much of his cavalry down, things really weren’t going well for William, who showed his true valour at this crucial moment. Love or loathe the man, he was a leader to his fingertips. He led the next charge, making himself an easy target as his personal banner followed along behind him. The now familiar golden lions of Normandy rose above the chaos of the battlefield. We still have lions on our flag today.
His huge white destrier galloped towards the Saxon lines, foam flying from his bit, with William seemingly dragging his Norman knights behind him by brute strength alone. His horse soared over the ditch, still filled with struggling horses and men. He met the shield wall with a roar, his sword arm rising and falling as he hacked at those standing between him and his kingdom.
It was a disaster. His presence made no difference at all. The shield wall never wavered. The Saxons repelled this attack as they had the others and stood firm, their lines unbroken.
For William, catastrophe beckoned. His left wing, led by Alain the Red and consisting mainly of Bretons, Poitevins and Rhine auxiliaries began to waver. Losses on this wing were particularly heavy. Beaten back by swords, stones, axes, javelins, and anything else that could be picked up and thrown at them, the entire left wing broke and fled. Men and horses turned tail and ran. The whole left side of William’s army was collapsing. Fleeing for their lives. And worse, the centre and right wing began to give way as well.
It was so very, very nearly the turning point of the battle for William, and as if things couldn’t get any worse, it was at this crucial moment that his standard bearer’s horse was killed. I watched the lions waver and then, quite suddenly, they disappeared from view.
A huge groan went up from the Norman ranks. We could hear men shouting.