And the Rest Is History(72)

I turned to step back into the pod and at the same moment, a proximity alert pinged and Evans pulled me inside.

Bashford said, ‘Door,’ because they were either fleeing Saxons who wouldn’t let anyone or anything get in the way of their escape, or they were Normans, despatched to dispose of any survivors. Neither would be good for us.

‘Two or three people,’ said Bashford, studying the readouts. ‘No, four or five. Maybe more. It’s hard to say. They’re not moving very quickly.’

‘Men searching for cover? Looking to hide somewhere?’

‘Even slower than that. I don’t know.’

‘Are they within range?’

‘I think so. Just a minute.’ He angled a camera.

I saw dark figures, perhaps six or seven of them. One man led a horse which appeared to be dragging some sort of litter. They were moving very slowly. Because the litter carried a wounded man. And one of the figures was a woman.

Every historian in the pod stiffened. Like a collection of gun dogs pointing at their quarry. All quivering noses, pricked ears and outstretched tails.

‘No,’ said Evans in alarm, moving in front of the door and blocking our way.

‘It’s only for a moment.’

‘Out of the question.’

‘It’s our job.’

‘And this is mine.’

I yanked open a locker and pulled out a blanket, tying it around me like a cloak.

‘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.