And the Rest Is History(40)

While I was keen to see him again – and Harold, of course, because they were becoming old friends to us – I was also eager to see the Bishop of Bayeux, William’s half-brother, Odo of Conteville, who was in his own way at least as remarkable as William.

Odo supported his brother throughout his life. Not just a clergyman, he was a warrior and statesman as well. In addition to providing ships for the crossing to England, he would fight at Hastings, albeit only with a wooden club, since clergymen weren’t supposed to wield a sword. Those who thought this might hold him back were wrong. Apparently he still managed to do a formidable amount of damage. It would be Odo who would commission the famous Bayeux Tapestry, and William, who valued personal loyalty above all things, would reward his war-like brother with enough land and property to make him the largest landowner in England – second only to William himself. In 1067, Odo would become Earl of Kent.

We spent an hour slowly working our way as far forward as we could get. Which wasn’t that far. We were still quite a long way back, but that’s what the close-up function is for.

And then, we waited. Because we’re historians, and if we’re not running – we’re waiting. And vice versa, of course.

I whiled away the time by looking around me. They’d pulled out all the stops for this one. I could see the altar. Gold and silver plate and candlesticks winked in the candlelight. An enormous golden cross, encrusted with what I took to be rubies stood in the centre. The contrast between the pristine white cloth and the brilliance of the rubies was breath-taking.

The area in front of the altar, hitherto empty and guarded by soldiers was beginning to fill up with richly dressed men. These would be the movers and shakers of the day, and all of them invited so William could have impeccable witnesses to the events. My heart went out to Harold. Stitched up by a master.

In our game, it’s always tempting to play ‘What If?’. What if Harold had never been shipwrecked? What if – as the legitimate choice of the Witan – he had become king in the normal manner? Without the backing of the Pope, would William even have considered crossing the Channel? Would he have been able to assemble his enormous army if he had? If Harold had been a strong king, would Tostig and Harold Hardrada have dared to attack and draw him north at that vital time? And if William had never attacked and Harold remained king, if Anglo-Saxon culture had remained intact – where would England be today?

It’s fashionable to say that at the time of the Conquest, England was a backwater – a tiny half-island off the coast of Europe and nothing more – and that William’s invasion dragged it into mainstream Europe. Then there are those who say that England was doing very nicely thank you, and only became a backwater after the Conquest, because it was just a small part of the Norman holdings. That the Normans still looked to Normandy as their heartland and that was where their kings spent most of their time.

And what of our language? If the Saxon tongue had prevailed, then we would regard something as kingly rather than royal. Miss North would be fair rather than blonde. We would have selfhood cards rather than identity cards. We would sunder rather than sever. We would eat cu, not boeuf, swin, rather than porc, cicen rather than pouletrie, deor rather than venesoun.

Fortunately, before I became too entangled in the game of What If? – and it does happen – Markham nudged me, because the important people were beginning to arrive, and the first one up was Harold.

He entered from the side, emerging out of the gloom. Another man, slightly shorter but with a strong facial resemblance, stood at his elbow. I wondered if this was his brother, Wulfnoth, held hostage here for years, because he seemed to have become more Norman than Saxon.

Harold was politely escorted. Or guarded, if you want to give it the correct name. He wore a brilliant sky-blue tunic, heavily embroidered around the neck and hem, that fell to just past his knees. His hose were green. A jewelled belt hung on his hips and his cloak, a darker blue, was fastened at the right shoulder by a jewelled pin. His shoulder-length, fair hair was neatly trimmed and he’d retained his unfashionable and unflattering moustache. I didn’t blame him. Everything he wore – everything he owned – had been given to him by William, the soul of generosity. The only thing he still possessed was the prospect of becoming King of England one day, and even that was about to be taken from him.

There was a huge air of expectation. No one knew what Harold would do. Maybe even Harold didn’t know what Harold would do.

On the other hand, of course, no one knew what William was about to do, either. I had to remind myself again that apart from William, Odo and a few others, we were the only people here who knew what was about to happen today. As far as everyone else knew, Harold was about to take a simple oath of loyalty and then push off back to England.

William was making him wait, but Harold showed no signs of impatience or damaged ego. He stood, one hand on Wulfnoth’s shoulder, head bent, apparently listening to an amusing story. I admired his composure.

William didn’t make him wait long. Trumpets sounded, the chanting began again, louder this time, and here he came, entering from a door opposite that used by Harold. He wore a long, crimson tunic that suited his dark colouring well. An ornate golden chain hung around his neck. His belt was of soft leather, set with rubies. In contrast to Harold’s bare head, he wore a small circlet of gold. It was as if everything had been contrived to isolate Harold. The predominant colour amongst William’s supporters was crimson. Looking around, Harold was the only blue in a sea of red. Even Wulfnoth wore crimson.