And the Rest Is History(69)

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.

‘They think it’s all over,’ said Bashford.

‘It is now,’ said Sykes as once again the Norman centre crashed down upon them, surrounding them and cutting them off. Shouts of ‘Dex Aie‘ rose over the screams of the dying. There were no Saxon survivors.

And then, in a heartbeat, the fortunes of war again swung back the other way. As they do.

The Norman centre had gone too far too fast. Intent on returning to their own lines as quickly as possible, they fell victim to their unfamiliarity with the landscape. There was another reason why Harold had chosen this spot. The horses, plunging downhill back to their own lines, ran straight into a concealed ditch. None of them were able to stop in time. They fell, screaming, into the ditch and were crushed by those coming along behind.

We watched in silence, and then Sykes said, ‘Was that the Malfosse incident?’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said doubtfully, ‘I think that occurred at the end of the battle and there’s hours to go yet.’

She looked at the struggling men on the screen. ‘Hard to believe they’ll last that long.’

‘Many of them won’t.’

They had been fighting for hours and William had made no progress at all. The Saxons still stood around their two standards. Harold was making good on his promise not to cede one inch of English land. The ditches were full of bodies, lying in a tangle of bloody arms and legs. The breastworks had disintegrated. Absolutely nothing was left. Not even a few splinters to show where they had once been. The Saxon ranks were dreadfully thinned but the Fighting Man still stood, seemingly immoveable, and blocking William’s path to the crown.

Presumably William thought so too, unleashing charge after charge up the hill. One after the other. Both sides met with a terrible impact and loss of life, but every time, the Normans were thrown back. Every time. The day was wearing on and still William was getting nowhere.

Around mid-afternoon, there was a lull. We all shot off to the bathroom – me first, because rank hath its privileges. I splashed water on my face and returned to my place at the console.

It would seem that William had used my absence to have a bit of a think. He desperately needed to rest his knights and their horses. New tactics were called for.

He recalled his archers. From somewhere they’d found or cut fresh arrows. It seemed a new strategy had been devised. Now the archers fired into the air, over the front ranks, their arrows falling on the largely unarmoured fyrd behind the shield wall. The Saxons could do nothing but stand and endure the storm of arrows that fell from the sky, blackening the sun, but those who had shields protected themselves and their comrades as best they could. Still they stood firm. It would seem that nothing William could do would ever shift them.

The sun was beginning to set, sitting over the horizon like a giant red ball in the sky, but no redder than the earth beneath. They’d been at it for hours and hours. William must be growing desperate. The longer the Saxons stood, the better the chance that the northern Earls, Morcar and Edwin, would turn up with the reinforcements and, on the hill in front of him, still the Saxons stood, greatly depleted but still obstinate and unbreakable.

Horns sounded again for yet another cavalry charge. Although a cavalry trot would have been more accurate. Some of the horses could barely get up the hill. They dashed themselves against the front ranks. The hand-to-hand fighting was ferocious. The Saxons were crowded together so tightly that there was no room for the dead to fall, but still the Normans couldn’t break the line.