Warwolfe (de Wolfe Pack Book 0)(11)

Enraged, Gaetan pushed in to stand guard over the body, broadsword in hand as he leveled it at some of the Anglo-Saxons who were trying to push through his men. But that action didn’t seem to do much because men were still struggling against him. So he reached out a long arm, grabbing the first enemy soldier who came near him. Snatching the man by the hair, he dragged him into the center of the circle of tussling men, pointing his sword to the battered corpse.

“Who is this?” he demanded to the man in his language. “Do you fight to regain your king?”

The Anglo-Saxon soldier was torn between panic and defiance. “He is not meant for you,” he said, spittle dripping from his lips. “Have you not done enough? Give him to us so that we may properly bury him.”

“Who is this?”

The soldier faltered, terrified. “Please….”

“Answer me!”

The soldier tried to speak but he vomited instead. Something spewed from his mouth, but Gaetan didn’t let go. His eyes narrowed. “I will ask you one question. If you do not give me a truthful answer, then I will kill you. Is this Harold?”

The man closed his eyes, trying not to look at the corpse, but Gaetan had him by the hair. When he yanked, the soldier seemed to lose whatever resistance he had left in his body. More vomit leaked from his mouth, so much so that Gaetan hardly heard his answer.

“Aye.”

That was all Gaetan needed to hear. He had the confirmation that he sought and he let the man go, watching him as he stumbled away. There was something triumphant in that softly uttered reply, that painfully spoken word. As Gaetan stood there with de Lara and de Winter, a great cry rose up as a charge of men suddenly swarmed around them, cavalry on horseback led by de Russe, Wellesbourne, St. Hèver, and de Moray.

It was clear that the Normans had broken through the shield wall. There were hundreds of foot soldiers with them as well as hundreds of men on horseback, all of them yelling and hacking and killing anything that wasn’t Norman. The wounded were being slaughtered and a hastily-erected encampment, set up when the Anglo-Saxon army arrived for the battle, was being demolished. The end of the battle was near and Normans, fed by exhaustion, could smell victory in the air, a mixture of blood and rot and the very earth they stood upon.

The earth of the country that would soon belong to them.

Gaetan could smell the victory, too. He watched the madness as the Normans swarmed and he could see many Anglo-Saxons fleeing angry Norman swords. The sense of triumph he felt was so great that it nearly weakened him, a complete sense of victory encompassing every bone in his body with relief and delight. Even the Anglo-Saxons who had been struggling around their dead king’s body in an attempt to claim it were running off, terrified they were about to be cut down. All around him, the army of England was fracturing.

“Victory, my lord,” Luc said quietly, watching the same retreat that Gaetan was watching. “This battle is over.”

Gaetan nodded his head slowly, his focus on the Anglo-Saxon withdrawal. “God was with us this day,” he said. Then, his gaze moved to the body at his feet. “And Harold is ours. God’s Bones, I’d hoped for this ending but did not truly expect it. Yet, the reality is before me. Where is Normandy?”

Denis de Winter was standing on his other side. “The last I saw the duke, he was fighting on the far right flank with du Reims,” he said. “I do not know where he is now.”

“Find him,” Gaetan commanded quietly.

As Denis headed off, Lance de Reyne suddenly emerged through the crowds of dying and surrendering men. He was leading his horse, who had a terrible gash on his left foreleg. De Reyne had been part of the charge that had broken through the shield wall and his horse showed the evidence of the difficult fight. Wearily, Lance came to a pause, pulling his helm off and raking a gloved hand through his dark hair. Exhaustion radiated off of him but, like a true professional, he refused to give in to it. He would remain strong until it was no longer needed.

“There are more nobles dead, Gate,” he said. “Two captured soldiers have identified them as Gyrth and Leofwine, brothers to Harold.”

Gaetan’s sense of satisfaction grew. “Where are they?”

Lance threw a thumb over his shoulder. “Not far from here,” he said. “They were among the wounded.”

“Executed by our men?”

“Trampled.”

Gaetan felt no remorse. Such were the perils of war. “Excellent,” he said. “Then there will be no brothers left to avenge the king and contest the duke’s throne. With Harold dead, William is now the King of England. We have accomplished our goal, good lords. Take satisfaction in your success.”

It was a simple statement but one of great impact. The first true battle that Normans had faced against Harold Godwinson on English soil had resulted in what they’d hoped for but hadn’t truly expected. Such a complete victory could have only been supported by God. At least, that’s the way Gaetan looked at it.

Even so, he knew there was much more to do before the battle was officially over and the prize at his feet was something that needed to be protected. He motioned to Luc and Lance.

“Wrap him up and return him to camp,” he said. “I want one of you to remain with the body. It is too important to leave unguarded. Meanwhile, I will find Normandy and tell him of our great prize.”