I couldn’t make out the words over everything else happening at the time, but I guessed word was going out that the duke was dead. All across the Norman lines, men stopped. Swords fell. They looked ready to turn and run.
That’s the one problem with a strong leader. This was William’s army. They were William’s men. Brought here on William’s ships. To fulfil William’s destiny. And without William, they might as well go home.
I think that was the thought uppermost in everyone’s minds. Norman and Saxon alike. The Saxons clashed their shields, their guttural battle cries filled the air.
‘There he is,’ said Sykes suddenly, as a blood-splattered white horse broke free of the ranks, racing up and down in front of the Norman army. The rider pulled off his helmet and waved it above his head. It was William – still alive, still fighting, and obviously expecting everyone else to get on with it and do the bloody same.
His men recognised him. A shout went out. Slowly, ponderously, the Norman ranks began to reorganise themselves.
Not all of them were so easily recalled, however. The weak and wobbly left wing continued its headlong flight, as they thought, to safety. Sadly for them, they fell straight into the arms of the battling Bishop of Bayeux, William’s half-brother Odo, last encountered at the oath-taking ceremony, and obviously determined not to let any of those inconvenient ecclesiastical vows of humility and forgiveness get in the way of a cracking good fight.
I knew the other team was focusing on William’s army, and this was too good an opportunity to miss. ‘There,’ I said. ‘Mr Bashford, focus on Odo, please.’ Bashford nodded and angled a camera.
There has been some controversy recently about Odo’s part in the battle. Whether he was, in fact, an early example of muscular Christianity. I can’t speak for other occasions, but on this day it would be fair to say that Odo was a man who really knew how to encourage and inspire those suffering a temporary lack of bottle, and seeking the quickest exit from a bloody battlefield. I’m not sure whether, in our modern times, this skill is still listed as a ‘must have’ in a bishop’s job spec – although I do know that when confronted with an egg-throwing critic outside her palace last year, the current Archbishop of Canterbury caught it neatly and threw it back. Apparently her popularity soared and even I have to say she damned near converted me on the spot when I saw it on TV that night.
Anyway, there was no doubt that Bishop Odo was a major factor in stemming the rout, laying about him with his own staff and driving the fleeing men back to face the Saxons. He was a big man, like his brother, and wearing an odd mixture of ecclesiastical robes and chain mail. Caught between a belligerent bishop on one side and savage Saxons on the other, the left wing opted – wisely, I think – for the Saxons.
The fortunes of war changed again.
While I’d been concentrating on Odo, a large number of Saxon men at arms, lacking the discipline of the thegns, had seen the fleeing Normans and wrongly assumed it was all over. They broke ranks, left the protection of the shield wall and streamed down the hillside after them. Now William’s army showed its skill. A number of horsemen wheeled as one, reformed, and urged their horses back up the hill. Caught without protection, the Saxons were hopelessly exposed. Some tried to return to the safety of the Saxon lines and were cut down. Others tried to group together, to make a stand, and were ridden down by bloodstained horses. Only a small group remained intact and they were clustered around a body on the ground.
‘Look,’ said Sykes, leaning forwards and pointing at the screen.
Some five or six men had formed a defensive ring around someone who was very obviously dead and were endeavouring to hold off a small squadron of mounted knights.
‘That must be Gyrth and Leofwine,’ I said. ‘Close ups, please.’
Gyrth and Leofwine were Harold’s brothers and this was Leofwine’s famous last stand. When his brother fell he refused to leave him, standing over his body until the end. Which wasn’t far off. He shouted defiance, his two-handed axe whirling around his head. The Normans had learned to fear the Saxon axe. No one would engage him directly. They surrounded him with a wall of Norman knights, hiding him from view. We couldn’t see what was happening. And then horses reared and plunged and snorted, trampling men and weapons into the earth, and when they rode away again, there was nothing left to see.
There are those who say that from that moment, after the loss of his two brothers, the fight went out of Harold. If it did, he hid it well.
I straightened my aching back and reached for some water. Sykes was concentrating on the Saxon lines, watching the gaps being plugged as reinforcements were brought up. That last manoeuvre had resulted in heavy losses on both sides.
It would have been a good moment for both sides to regroup, perhaps take a moment to readjust strategy or reform lines, but already, William was unleashing his cavalry again.
Again the cavalry thundered up the hill, sweeping away final remains of the breastworks. Again, the shield wall held. A long-handled Saxon axe was easily capable of cutting through both horse and rider. William was getting nowhere.
The fighting was vicious. Unhorsed knights fought hand to hand with Saxon thegns who, shoulders to their shields, struggled to push them back. Those behind them joined in, like a giant rugby scrum, putting their backs into it, holding the front line firm and keeping the shields up, fulfilling their purpose, which was to stand firm, come what may. From behind them, long Saxon javelins stabbed over their shoulders, piercing Norman mail. Men screamed and fell backwards to be trampled by their fellows. Blood arced through the air. Horses reared and plunged and screamed. Axes cartwheeled to embed themselves into Norman skulls. And still the Saxon shield wall held.
There were bodies everywhere. Thousands of bodies. The Saxons were clearing their lines, carrying their dead and wounded back to the rear. The Normans had no such luxury, slipping and tripping over their fallen comrades. The pile of dead men and horses before the Saxon lines grew ever higher. The savagery was horrific. Even Agincourt hadn’t been this bad.
I looked at the time. We were approaching noon. I could hardly believe three hours had passed already. The sun shone down from a cloudless sky on to the sweltering soldiers.
What was William thinking at this point? If he couldn’t break the Saxon shields, then he couldn’t possibly prevail. And if he couldn’t prevail today then he had lost everything. The battle. His army. His chance at the throne. Probably his life.
There was blood everywhere. Every man was red with it. If not his then someone else’s. Horses were bloodied up past their bellies. Everywhere lay limbs, heads, misshapen torsos, crippled and dead horses.
Still the missiles rained down upon the Normans, whose ferocity was slowing. Men and horses were exhausted in the heat. Some horses could barely stand, their eyes rolling white in exhaustion, their bits dripping blood flecked foam.
Now would be a good time to take a breather.
So now, of course, was the time William hurled his right wing into the fray. It was a mirror image of his actions only an hour or so ago. The right wing charged up the hill, banners flying, to hit the Saxons hard. Again the fighting was savage, each side pushing against the other but there was no way they could break the wall. Again, they fell back. And once again, the Saxon lines broke and a large part of the fyrd pursued them back down the hill.
‘Why?’ said Bashford puzzled at this Saxon stupidity. ‘Why would they do that? Surely they saw what happened on the other wing?’
‘No,’ I said slowly, ‘I don’t think they did. Harold’s forces are in a shallow U-shape. The right wing can’t see the left wing. They have no knowledge of what happens to those who leave the shelter of the ditch and embankment.’
‘They’re about to find out,’ said Sykes grimly.
Saxon figures poured down the hill, pursuing the fleeing Normans. Thousands of voices screamed in triumph.