And the Rest Is History(42)

Every historian in the place strained for a closer look. Actually, everyone in the cathedral strained for a closer look.

The altar was actually a hollow box. The Bible on which Harold had sworn his oath concealed a small compartment which itself contained a small golden casket.

Bishop Odo himself stepped down from the main altar. Taking the casket from its hiding place, he reverently opened the lid and displayed the contents. Firstly to William, who nodded grimly. There was no sign now of the affable duke.

Turning, he showed the casket to Harold who stood, stiff as a board, exposed and alone, in the light of a thousand candles.

The casket contained three or four small bones, nestling in folds of rich, purple cloth.

A huge gasp ran around the cathedral.

Harold staggered backwards, somehow regained control of himself, and stood frozen. At no point did he meet William’s eyes. The net had closed around him. He had sworn a public oath not merely on a Bible as he had thought, but upon the blessed bones of Normandy’s saints. He had sworn a sacred, unbreakable oath. William had outwitted him.

Every eye, including that of William himself, was fixed on Harold. What would he do? What could he do?

He pulled himself together. I had no idea what the effort cost him. He must have known that from that moment on, he and William were on a collision course from which only one of them would emerge. He drew himself up, perfectly in command of himself. For all anyone knew, he might only have tripped on an uneven stone and temporarily lost his balance. William, of course, knew better. And so did we.

Harold turned to William who, with the same superb self-control, had not for one moment allowed any flicker of satisfaction to cross his face. Then Harold bowed his head slightly, turned on his heel, and strode from the cathedral, his blue cloak flying behind him. His entourage trailed uncertainly after him.

It was an insult, but William wisely let him go. He had what he wanted. There was no point in forcing a confrontation now.

No one could leave before William, and he was in no rush to depart. He spent some time talking to the ecclesiastical officials as the relics were carefully and reverently returned whence they came. From there, he took some time to speak to members of his own retinue, possibly issuing instructions to keep an eye on Harold, although there was no point now. Now that Harold had sworn away the crown, he could return to England any time he liked. Now that it was too late.

Eventually, he left as he came, with his half-brother the bishop, and everyone else was free to leave. I eased my aching back and legs, sighed with relief, and collected my teams.

It was late afternoon when we finally fought our way out of the cathedral. There were people everywhere. Notwithstanding the traditional Norman weather, the streets were full of families enjoying themselves. It was possible they feared their fierce duke, but they were proud of him as well. Barrels had been broached and somewhere, I could smell roast meat, reminding me that I was starving. William had spared no expense to ensure this day would be remembered by the people of Bayeux.

We meandered our way through chattering groups and I became aware that all was not well with my teams. Vigorous discussion was taking place. Actually, vigorous discussion is St Mary’s speak for a bloody great argument.

The divisions were team based. Team Harold was having a go at Team William over his deception. Team William was giving as good as it got, claiming Harold was a perjurer and oath breaker. Team Harold was countering with the claim that the oath was worthless since it had been extracted under false pretences. Team William was maintaining that whether he meant to keep the oath or not, he did actually swear. It was binding. And how duplicitous was he, swearing an oath he never meant to keep in the first place?

‘Not so,’ countered Team Harold. ‘The oath could not be valid because he was tricked into it.’

‘He never meant to keep it,’ shouted Team William. ‘He’s forsworn.’

‘Not important,’ argued Team Harold. ‘The crown was never his to give away. The decision rests with the Witan.’

‘He broke his word,’ began Team William again, and were shouted down by Team Harold, informing us that politicians break their word all the time. Any politician will promise anything to anyone to get a vote. Everyone knows they have no intention of ever keeping their word.

Team William were maintaining their position on the moral high ground. ‘You can’t disregard an oath just because you don’t like it.’

Team Harold were red-faced and waving their arms around. ‘The oath is not valid. It was taken on Norman soil.’

They were face-to-face and about to come to blows. People were looking. I should intervene. Markham and I got between them before we were all arrested for being drunk and disorderly. Well, disorderly, anyway.

‘Enough,’ I said, sharply. ‘For God’s sake, don’t we have enough trouble with things that could normally go wrong on assignment without starting on ourselves as well? Back to the pod all of you and behave yourselves.’

It was interesting though, to see that emotions could run so high even one thousand years after the events at Bayeux took place. What passions must they have raised at the time?





Dr Bairstow lost no time informing me that he’d told me so.

‘I’m sorry sir?’

‘I did wonder whether not varying the composition of the teams was a good idea. I was a little concerned that each team might become too involved with their own particular protagonist and lose the detachment necessary for effective observation and documentation.’