‘Then you can tell Dr Bairstow there’s a possibility that Harold Godwinson passed within twenty feet of us and we didn’t check it out.’
‘Still preferable to telling Dr Bairstow I let three historians stumble around in the dark during the aftermath of a big battle.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘There’s no way I’d let three historians stumble around in the dark during the aftermath of a big battle.’
He relaxed.
‘I’ll go by myself.’
There was a storm of protest from everyone else in the pod. Historians hate being left behind but, as I said, it was far too dangerous for them to go outside, and Bashford said that was kind of the point. Evans said he never thought he’d find himself in agreement with an historian, and while they were beaming at each other, I got the door open.
Evans sighed. ‘You two stay put. You…’ he looked at me … ‘stay with me at all times. Mess me about in any way and I’ll shoot you myself.’
‘OK.’
We slipped out of the pod.
They were heading towards us so all we had to do was move towards them, step into deep shadow and wait. The horse plodded slowly, his head held low. This was no warhorse, but an old farm horse, watching where he put his feet.
We drew back further and waited. Waited to see whether this actually was Harold Godwinson being smuggled from the battlefield. And whether he was still alive.
How had they managed this? Had they had some sort of contingency plan, or was the idea hatched as Harold fell? It was vital to get him away to safety, so he’d been smuggled away and Edith Swan Neck, having waited nearby, goes to William and begs for his body. She identifies a body, mangled beyond recognition apparently, by marks conveniently known only to her, and while she’s distracting everyone, the real king is sneaked away.
William would be desperate for confirmation that Harold was dead. Especially if, far from meeting a noble end on the battlefield, he was castrated and chopped to pieces by four knights, one of whom might have been William himself, viciously venting his frustration on a helpless enemy. He certainly wouldn’t want that story getting around, so he supported the story of the arrow in the eye. A much more chivalrous and above all, politically acceptable story, than he and his knights hacking a helpless man to death.
And then, out of the darkness comes Harold’s mistress, conveniently identifies Harold beyond doubt. requests his body, probably knowing the request will be refused, and disappears back into the night again. Everyone’s problems are solved. William has an identified body and Edith is able to sneak the still living king away to safety. Because if William had even the slightest doubt that Harold was not dead, he would tear the country apart to get at him. So here they were, smuggling Harold Godwinson into the night and out of History.
The shadows were dark and we never made a sound but they found us, nevertheless. In an instant, we were surrounded by a ring of swords. The horse stood patiently with his burden.
‘Don’t move,’ said Evans. I wasn’t going to. We were in some deep shit here. Two sword thrusts and we were bleeding to death in the undergrowth while they vanished back into the dark. And they would kill us – no doubt of that – they would kill to keep their secret.
Still no one had spoken. I’m not sure why they were hesitating. We obviously weren’t Norman knights – had they taken us for locals? Was it possible everyone felt enough Saxons had died today? Or was this just wishful thinking on my part?
I turned my head to look at the man on the litter. I might as well know the truth before I died. I had nothing to lose.
I wasn’t the only one who was going to die tonight. I looked at the ruined and blood-soaked man in front of me. A bloody bandage covered one side of his face, including his eye. So no clue there. One leg was gone above the knee. And I was pretty sure he had been castrated, as well. I struggled to compare this broken man with the mighty figure I had seen at Beaurain. Or Stamford Bridge.
There are all sorts of stories, of course. Some say that Harold survived the battle and went abroad. Others that he remained in England but lived out his days as a hermit. Although looking at the state of him, my guess was that if he wasn’t dead now then he very soon would be. I’d seen Harold Godwinson in his prime and I couldn’t believe that, while he had breath in his body, he would not have come back to fight the usurper William every inch of the way. The crown of England would have sat very uneasily on William’s head. My guess was that he would die this night.
On the other hand, there are those stories…
So now what?
We had an uncomfortably large number of swords pointing at us. They weren’t going to run the risk of us giving them away. We were going to die.
The silence just dragged on. I could hear the horse breathing. I could certainly hear my own heart pounding away.
And then, not too far away, a horse neighed. Two men immediately muffled the farm horse with their cloaks. It shifted uneasily but remained calm. I could hear voices – Norman voices – and the sounds of undergrowth being beaten down.
The escort glanced nervously over their shoulders. The riders were very close. What could they do? Any attempt to move would be heard. Staying put would lead to their discovery. Someone should do something.
Yes, well, we all know who that’s going to be, don’t we?
I put out both my hands, palms outwards, in the traditional ‘Stay where you are,’ gesture.
They stared but stayed.
I said to Evans, ‘Get yourself back to the pod.’
His response was unrepeatable, but the gist was that that wasn’t going to happen.
I made one final ‘Stay here and stay quiet,’ gesture and turned to run.
‘This way,’ said Evans.
Always run downhill. Especially when you’re trying to get away from a bunch of men on horses. We fled down the hill, making as much noise as we could. Which was a lot. We crashed through the undergrowth, snapping twigs and small branches as we went.
I enquired where we were heading to.
‘As far away as possible,’ he panted. ‘Australia, perhaps.’
Wherever we were going, it was working. I heard shouts behind us, and a second later, the sound of hooves. Evans picked up the pace.
As far as I could tell, we were heading in a south-westerly direction, with the Andredsweald Forest behind us and to our right, into which, I hoped, Edith Swanneschals and her entourage were now disappearing as fast as they could go. I knew there was a stream somewhere around here and a lot of boggy ground nearby. If we could get to that then we might yet escape the horsemen.
Fat chance. Another group of them where thundering up the hill towards us. We were pushed northwards. Uphill. And now it was dark. I could barely see a thing.
‘Keep going,’ panted Evans. ‘We’ll get back into the woods and climb a tree.’
They were gaining on us. The hooves sounded very close now. I heard a shout. They’d seen us.
We veered off left again. It was uphill and hard work. I could feel my breath rasping in my throat. My lungs were on fire. This was all Clive Ronan’s fault. If I’d completed my run that day – and the next day, and so on – instead of having him crash into my life and throw everything into chaos, then today I’d be lithe, svelte, fit, athletic, whatever.
I fell over. I know – such a cliché. In films, when running from peril, it’s always the silly little heroine who trips over her own feet. Sadly, life imitates art and I went down with a bloody great crash.
Evans screeched to a halt, whispering, ‘Max?’
‘Keep going, you pillock,’ I said, struggling to disentangle my foot from something or other. ‘Don’t stop.’
He completely ignored me, turning back to kneel beside me.
And suddenly there were horses everywhere.
I pulled him down beside me. They had torches, but there was a slight chance they might miss us in the dark. We lay in the long, coarse grass, breathing into our sleeves so they wouldn’t hear us panting.
I heard shouts of recognition as the two groups caught sight of each other and they both turned towards us.