Chapter twenty

-ONE

DOGS OF WAR AT MALLFOSS

Giffard, enraged, cut off the dead Harold's head. He dismounted, picked up the decapitation, and placed it in his saddlebag. His lungs were heaving as he remounted his horse and rode around, whooping. He noticed Hugh bending over Harold's remains, knife in hands, disemboweling the dead king, taking the private parts as a trophy. His emotions were still at fever pitch. He'd seen many of his comrades' die; as well as personal friends perish. He sat in his saddle, looking at the carnage around him, the sweat on his body flooding his clothing; his heart beating so fast he felt it would burst.

Hugh straightened, then fell to his knees, exhausted and gulping for air. "My God... we've done it, Walter; we're victorious!" Hugh began laughing uncontrollably, as he tried to say more, his euphoria barely matched by his tiredness.

William rode over to survey the bloodbath where the mutilated corpse of Harold lay in a vile filth of entrails. He dismounted, took both Harold's standards, walked back to his horse, and slid them under his saddle harness. Turning, he strode over to Harold's body. Steam was rising everywhere, from the warm bodies of the dead and dying. The carrion paid no attention to the walking humans, as the birds fought amongst themselves for entrails, despite the abundance of fresh, warm carcasses.

"Who has done this vile deed?" William asked in a raging tone. "This man was a king, a warrior. He may have been a usurper, but he fought like a warrior to the very end." William glared at Giffard, "Who was it that did this to this man?"

Giffard looked sheepishly at William, his head bowed, and began stuttering, "I, I was enraged, William. I cud, cud, couldn't st... st... stop myself," stuttered Giffard, gazing down at the bloodied warrior before him.

"My king, it was I who disemboweled Harold," replied Hugh, who was now on his knees in front of William, readying himself for execution by his master's hand. He gazed at his king's feet, daring not to look up or rise.

"Yes, I am king. I am your king," said William as he gazed out across the field. A feeling of great emotion overwhelmed him. William's acute, heightened senses were much as a hawk, stalking his prey. Yet the feeling of disappointment created by anticlimax was in his heart. He couldn't quite understand what it was. It was all over; the ballet ended. The adrenaline in his veins was overpowering him. He began to shake uncontrollably, almost as if in fear. He took in a deep breath, looked once more at the dismembered corpse before him, king to king and crossed himself. "Get this body cleaned up, and make him ready for burial."

"William!" Eustace called breathlessly, as he ran towards his master, pointing vaguely in another direction. "Reinforcements have come, just over there behind the wood. They've taken up a position at a place they call Oakwood Gill. As far as I can tell, it's a strong position for them. I've no idea how many there are, but there are enough to give us battle, I'm sure. The fleeing fyrd have joined with them too, sire."

"Eustace, take Robert-of-Bec, and a good force of men, and flush them out! William ordered, "We can't afford to keep fighting forever. Be quick and decisive, the light is failing fast."

Eustace rapidly retraced his steps, gathering around him fifty cavalrymen who could still ride to reinforce the infantryman. They reached Oakwood Gill some few minutes later and attacked at once, riding forward in the dimming light. Through the brambles rode the cavalry, when a great screaming and cry rang out, from those who had ridden, and fallen, into a ravine just in front of the Saxon line.

Robert dismounted to take a look at the men and horses below him. "The carnage is horrendous, Eustace. All I can hear are whinnying horses and the cries of trapped young knights calling for our help. Shit! What should we do now?" he asked, showing the naivety of a young knight who'd just that day experienced his first full-scale battle.

"Robert, tell the rest of the cavalry to dismount." At that moment, a stone was thrown, hitting Eustace fully in the face. He placed his hand over the wound, and Robert helped him away from the danger of more missiles. The blood streaming down Eustace's face disguised the lesser wound, made it look worse that it actually was. Eustace winced as Robert poured water from his carrier over the cut. "Tell the officers to pursue the Saxons on foot, Robert. I'm placing you in direct command. Meanwhile, I'll make my way back and get this wound dressed."

"Yes sir; thank you, sir," Robert replied. The boy stood to attention. "Shall I go now, sir?" he asked, attempting a confident look.

"That would be a good idea, Robert. Go on, and look lively, lad!" Eustace watched as the young man took off in the direction of the pirrsued forces. I'm not sticking my neck out a second time. Let the young and foolish have their turn in the noose for a change. I've had enough for one day, he thought

Robert approached the noise, where the fighting was deadly and in earnest. Hand-to- hand, the bloodied Norman knights fought, killed, and finally drove off the defenders. Robert looked on into the gloom to watch as the remnants of the Saxon force fled into the night; their Saxon king was dead, and their heart was no longer in the fight.

William called his knights together, and they gathered around him. "I want my quarters set up here on the battlefield, Odo, and I want you to see that this is done at once." William turned to Giffard and placed a hand upon his shoulder. "Walter, I want you to go and set guards on full alert, for this might not be the end, and we should expect a noctirrnal attack. I want you to rotate the guards every two hours. Hugh, go with Giffard; you will need to post guards, too. Oh yes, send someone to bring the cooks and food here; for the time being, we must rest and eat."

"Leave it to me, William; I'll see to what needs to be done." Giffard said, as he and Hugh left to call pages to do their bidding. Giffard massaged his back along the way, because it was aching all over. He hobbled off to set the guards at their posts, then slowly made his way back amongst the bodies to where William's men had hastily set up a tent.

William turned to Eustace, looking at him curiously. "Eustace; how's your bloodied face? Turn around for me; the candlelight is too dim to see properly from here. Oh, that's a nasty cut you have. I have one on the back of my head, and another here, over my eye," he said, pointing to the various wounds.

"My injury is a little sore, sire, but other than that, I'm fine."

"Good. In that case, I've a job for you. Your task is to gather our dead and to bury them. See that it is done immediately. You only need to bury our dead. The Saxons can rot where they lay."

Eustace made a move to exit the tent; when he was stopped by William's comment.

"You can't dig graves in the dark, you idiot!" William bellowed; then he noticed Walter Giffard and Hugh enter the tent. "Has anyone news of De-Montford?" William asked of the newly arrived men.

"He's having a nasty laceration dressed, William, which needed attention from the physidan. I've just walked past him. Shall I call him for you?" replied Walter Giffard.

"No. Let him be healed first. That reminds me," William said, "I've a huge bump on the side of my head. Take a look; would you, Hugh?"

Hugh leaned forward to see a huge plum-shaped lump on William" s head just above his right ear, along with some congealed blood that was the remnant of the stone that had taken him to the ground at the start of the battle. "It's just a graze, my king. It could do with cleaning up, though. I'll go see to it that the boys bring you some warm water. Jesus, I ache all over!" Hugh exclaimed, as he tried to straighten up. He placed his hand to his hips, and with a grimace, straightened upright.

"I'll have to get used to the word king. It sounds rather odd. For the moment, you need to go to your duties, Hugh. We will discuss what needs to be done in the morning light," said William craning his neck,"... err, is that singing I can hear?"

A short way off from William's tent, a group of men were singing, their music creating a crescendo of harmonious voices. Knights and infantrymen were grouped together with other noncombatants, while a priest was conducting a service of remembrance and deliverance. It pleased William to hear them, and for the first time that he could remember, he shed a real tear.

The morning light brought the seagulls crying overhead, occasionally fighting with crows as they pecked at the eyes and entrails of dead warriors. The stench of flesh hung everywhere, and flies filled the air in black masses of motion.

William's men walked amongst those left dying or dead; taking from the dead chain mail, swords, and gold rings from ears, leaving those still alive to die in their own filth. The wounded Normans lay where they'd fallen, desperately waiting for help of some kind.

Walter Giffard gazed out across the battlefield, and recognized the scene for what it was, butchery, as the participants had never before seen it. William awoke, feeling his head still thumping from his wound. He called for his pageboys to come see to his needs. He looked out from his tent, surveying the carnage. "Boys! Fetch hot water and dean clothes. Hurry, or feel the power of my fist!" The boys ran out as fast as they could to boil water and make food for their new king.

William sat gazing at the ground when he heard the murmuring of women and men's voices, talking. They spoke in a Saxon tongue, which soon got the better of William. William listened to the women pleading, requesting to take their dead husbands, fathers, and brothers for burial. He cared not that the guard could not understand the cries of the Saxon tongue. Hidden from view, he merely looked on through the slit in the tent flap, chuckling at the women's animation, as they knelt, motioning the digging, depicting their wants. He then noticed from amongst the crowd two women who'd pushed forward. speaking to the sergeant, in cultured Breton voices. The two women translated the other women's needs, requesting permission to see to their men He noticed that the tall, slim, well- dressed woman was of obvious good breeding, and that the elderly woman was also of high ranking, although not in the same way. William threw open the tent flaps to see his guards looking bemused at the sight of so many women, when suddenly he noticed Walter Giffard approaching the women. William held his finger to his lips, indicating that Giffard shouldn't speak, and for him to move around to stand behind him.

"I'll take charge of this, sergeant," William said. The soldier stood to one side as William looked about the throng of distraught females. He approached the two well-dressed woman of rank, cautiously. "You're the woman speaking Breton," William said looking her over, and then glanced at the old woman beside her, who was similarly well dressed.

Edith spun round and bowed her head toward him submissively. "My lord, I am Edith Swanneck. I have come to find my man. We have come to claim Harold. I was his woman for many years," she nodded toward Gytha, "This lady is Harold's mother, Gytha. Will you give us pardon and leave to bury Harold, and allow these women to bury their men as well?" Her head lifted to gaze into his eyes. So this is the man who takes our land and will subdue our people, she thought, suppressing her outward anger.

William looked away, his hand pointing in a vague manner toward the multitude of women. "You women may bury your dead. Go find them, and then clear the field quickly." He returned his gaze to the two refined women before him. So, you're Edith, the Swanneck; you're indeed a pretty woman. He watched as the women dispersed to gather their slain men folk. Their weeping and wailing could be heard across the battlefield, and it irritated him to distraction. William turned his attention again to Edith, this time more closely.

"You ask that I allow the removal of the body of the usurper, Godwinson! Give me good reason, and I might consider your request." With hands on hips, William stared deeply into Edith's face.

"My Lord, I (would hope that you could understand that the dead should, no matter their crime, be treated with deference." Edith dropped to her knees. "As you are now my king, I prostrate myself before you, to beg your leave to bury Harold with the due honor that I held his person. The Lord, Our God, has taken his soul into heaven to await His judgment. Jesus forgives all sins after death and confession; only God can judge those who have died in battle. He leaves the judgment of the living to the living. Therefore, let my plea be heard, lest our Lord in Heaven judge you. Gytha cannot communicate her words to you, sire; she speaks not your tongue. Gytha offers Harold's weight in gold, should you so wish it in exchange for her son's body."

William stared at the old woman sternly. "Go and see the body. It is with Bishop Odo, over yonder," he said, pointing toward to the bishop, "In the meantime, I'll consider your offer, and you'll be called upon soon, with my decision.

"I thank you, my lord, for your kindness. We will trouble you only once more for your conclusion." Edith bowed, took Gytha's arm, tirrned about, and left William's quarters.

Giffard stepped forward, his anger boiling over. "The effrontery of that woman, William. Offering gold in exchange for her son! If you accept, it won't look good. Those men out there fought and died for you!"

"They were paid, Walter, and paid well, too."

"Yes, they were paid, but look at the price they had to pay! If the men got wind that you accepted a bribe for such as Harold, they might turn on you, William. You can only take loyalty so far, even you understand this much."

For the first time in his life, William felt embarrassed. He wasn't angry with Giffard, just disappointed with himself that it had been necessary for this truth to be pointed out to him. He now had to juggle his innate greed with his undeveloped sense of right and wrong.

"What would you have me do, Walter?" he asked as they walked back into the tent.

In disbelief, Giffard couldn't understand why William hadn't struck him for his insolence. Seizing the opportunity, Giffard followed him giving him advice, careful of his friend's nature to hit out at the first hint of dissent or disrespect.

"Well, I would see to it that Harold's corpse be taken to the beach, and placed under a large stone with these written words, 'By the Duke's Command, Harold, You Rest Here to Guard the Sea and Shore.' That would satisfy the men, William, and it would have a sense of irony, too. What is a chest of gold compared with the fortune you have at your fingertips? Treat the body with reverence, by all means, but keep in mind the reality of our position. As the thought has just struck me, de-Malet is good at stone-carving; I'll have a word with him, if you wish."

"You usually talk a load of shit, Walter, but in this case, I agree. I like the idea of a stone on the shore. It's a fitting tribute." William gave Giffard a broad smile, "Come, we must eat and talk of what we have to do next. I have one or two scores to settle before we move on to London. I want you to pay a visit to Romesy. Those bastards, if you recall, ambushed and killed some of your men back in September. We need to repay the favor. Then we must go to Dover to secure the port, the defenses, and any resistance there might be. After this, we must go to London, and Winchester, in that order. Is life not good when you're on top of things? Go and fetch de-Malet; we are to become masons, Walter."

"The water is making more of a hissing noise, Thridred. What's more, I can feel that we're near the end of our journey," Alan said through chattering teeth, "The water's risen close to the roof, but there is just enough room in the dome of to squeeze in five heads."

"I'm freezing to death here, Alan," Thridred replied, who was feeling decidedly ill. "If we don't find a way out soon, we'll die of cold." It was all he could do to get the words out. He heard Philippe give an exclamation, but didn't quite catch the word. Philippe then ducked into the water, only to resurface moments later. "Lumiere du soleil, Lumiere!" Philippe was jubilant, as he felt for Heribert's axe, taking the weapon, and disappearing once more underwater. Philippe came up for air, and submersed yet again, this time to be joined by Alan. There was light, not a great deal, but light, all the same. Both men resurfaced, momentarily, sporting grins as wide as a bull's flank. "Succes, voila, bon!" Philippe ejaculated.

The water began to recede, and Philippe began to sing. Alan joined in, to the bemusement of the other three as they felt, as well as watched, the water going down. The Domfront brothers had been able to smash through a small crevice, enlarging it to a hole big enough to allow not only the passage of the water, but themselves, as well. Philippe led the way through the exit, and then assisted a shaky Thridred, followed by Heribert, Alan, and Boisil.

"I wonder where the hell are we?" Philippe murmured to himself, as he stood looking about the small open cave into which they'd passed. He watched the water flowing out the mouth of the cave, and walked over to view the surroundings. He continued to shiver violently as the breeze to bit at his wet clothes. "We need to get a fire started, and then dry our clothes. We'll soon perish if we mess about in this wind," he continued.

Moments later, the breeze dropped until all was still. The noise of battle had gone. Only the rustling of the brown leaves falling off the trees could be heard. They scrambled cautiously out of the cave, picking their way down the slight slope. The sun gave the cast of morning; even the weak light made them grimace, as their pained eyes were unaccustomed to anything other than the pitch-blackness of the cavern. Heribert took a flint; bunched some crisp, dry leaves and kindling; and began to make a small fire. The day was warming as the five naked men sat around a few gathered burning branches, their clothes drying in the heat from the fire. Boisil volunteered to stand guard as the others slept. He was wondering of the outcome of the battle; he listened hard, but heard nothing other than the birds in the trees, until he, too, fell asleep.

Edith and Gytha approached Bishop Odo. Choosing her words carefully, she spoke in a soft tone. "My lord bishop, I am Edith Swanneck, and this lady is Harold's mother, Gytha. We have leave from the new king to find and identify Harold's body, and perhaps, to bury him. Might we look to see if we can distinguish him?"

Odo gazed at the women, astonished that William had not had the women slain on the spot.

"Madam, you may see for yourself. Here is the purple robe of deference to Harold as the late king of England. You must be warned. This is not a sight for a lady, and certainly not for a mother to see her son slain so. In the heat of battle, men do things to other men they would never do in any other course. I will leave you now so that you may mourn for your late king. I am going to William to see what is to be done." Odo, making the sign of the holy cross on his breast, walked slowly away, not wishing to be near, once the women had seen Harold's remains. He, too, was disgusted at the sight of Harold's butchery. He crossed himself, and prayed that he would be forgiven for his part in Harold's death and for those around him, that had been slain.

Edith held Gytha in her arms, and with Odo's words still ringing in her ears, begged Gytha to look away. She kneeled, and gently took the purple shroud in her hands. She knew it was Harold, yet praying it was not, slowly drew back the cloth that covered the body of her beloved man. "Oh, Mother Mary! What have they done to him?" She reeled backward. "Gytha, you mustn't look; please, I beg you, do not turn; Harold's wounds are not those that you should see."

"I have seen disembowelment before, Edith. I have been expectant of that. Harold is my son. I brought him into the world; I should at least have the right to see him leave it. I know what is to come." Gytha turned and looked at Harold's remains. She could feel her heart pounding as the sight of her son's wretched and dismembered corpse tore into her very being. She let the tears of sorrow flow at last. Her hand reached out to touch the lifeless remains of what was once a great and honorable man, a son she'd born with pride into this world. "It might not be Harold's body," Gytha said, but she knew it was. She turned away. sobbing, her grief now overwhelming her. Edith looked down at him. She bent, turning the naked, bloodied, headless corpse over, to reveal a small but distinguishing tattoo on his buttock, which she, herself, had made upon it, in their youth. Edith kissed the mark that she had made so many years before; then both women rose to their feet. Edith held Gytha closely. "We must see that we are allowed to take him, my dear." She saw Gytha nod her head. They turned to walk way, silently comforting each other. Not a word was spoken between them as they made their way off the field of slaughter.

At the edge of the battlefield, Edith heard a voice calling to her. It was a voice they both knew well.

"Lady Edith, please come to help me. It is I, Cedric."

Edith left Gytha's side and hurried over to Cedric, who lay helplessly underneath the bodies of two housecarls who'd died defending him. "Oh, my God! Cedric, are you badly hurt?" she cried.

"I'm sure that I have some bruises, my lady, but other than that, physically, I'm alright."

She struggled to pull away the corpse of one housecarl, trying desperately to release the youth from his entrapment. As she kneeled to take the young man in her arms, Cedric shivered. She kissed his forehead. Her joy, intermingled with her sorrow, tore at her soul. She was trying to stem the flow of tears, for seeing Cedric's face brought Harold back to life. She tried to suppress the confusion of such mixed emotions, and the vivid flashes of her man in Cedric's face. She stared at Cedric's tear-streaked features, and pulled him closer to her bosom. "Did you know we have lost the battle, and that your father was killed?" Edith said, her lip quivering. She wanted to be strong for him; yet, there was no need.

"You knew that he was my father, then. He told me so, himself," he said, as he gazed up at her.

"Yes, of course. I've always known." She held him tightly to her, stroking his hair.

"I saw Harold fight until he was killed by the Normans. He fought to the very end, the way he told me a warrior should die.

"I was told this was so, Cedric." Edith replied.

Cedric became tearful again, his emotions overwhelming him. He'd experienced battle from a short distance at Stamford Bridge. But this was his defeat, his ignominy. He pulled away from Edith's comforting arms. He stood with his shoulders firm, his back straight and tall, turning to gaze at the battlefield. As he surveyed the atrocious scene before him, he felt sickened by the sight and the smell of those fine men who'd died with their king. Cedric composed himself. No more would he shed tears. He had become a man.

"My father took care of me, educated me -- took time to talk with me, too. He was a good man and a fine king. I shall do all in my power to avenge his death. No Norman shall live on English soil as long as there is breath in my body. Lady Edith. This I promise. I will find a way to redress the wrong done to my father, and to all those Englishmen who lie here, butchered in this field. For their mothers, wives, and sisters, I give this oath."

"Come with me, Cedric, we must go to Winchester and then on to Ireland. We have plans to make. You shall have your opportunity to avenge your father and your countrymen. I speak for the queen on this, I promise. The Normans have not heard the last of this Saxon nation."

They walked to where two horses were tied to a tree. Cedric helped Gytha to mount her horse, and then assisted Edith to mounted the other. They moved off slowly into the woods, along a path that followed a stream of bubbling water. It was clear, almost pure, welling from a distant spring.

Edith thought of the queen and of what the hermit had told them upon their visit. She thought, too, of the wizard who had visited Harold before the death of Edward. Could this wizard have prevented all of this carnage? A wizard from the futurel Harold called him an angel dressed in strange clothes. He tried to touch him, he'd said, hut he couldn't. What magic could have prevented this? Why did he refuse his help? Perhaps Wizards are from the devil, she mused. These beasts, whose greed brought disaster, have left honorable men to rot on the battlefield. Never in the history of human conflict was so much owed to such men who faced, fought, and died with so much dignity. You will be avenged, my love... you will be avenged.

Cedric led them into a small clearing, and there before them, was the sight of five naked men. "Housecarls," Cedric cried, "Lady Edith, they're housecarls!"

Boisil rose to his feet and stood tall in his nakedness. "My Lady Swanneck, is that you?"

"My God, Boisil, what is going on here? We thought you were all dead on the battlefield!"

"Dead, my lady; what do you mean dead?" he asked, picking up his dried clothes, he began to dress. "You might be wondering why we are all naked, my lady. It's a long tale. Nonetheless, you might tell us what has occurred with the king?" he asked. The other men, startled awake, began to dress, as Edith dismounted and walked over to them.

"You were with Harold on Caldbec Hill; were you not?" Edith looked pale and drawn. It was all she could do to look at the bedraggled men before her.

"Yes, we were, but we fell into a crevasse, and we know nothing of the outcome. My God, you are going to tell me that the bastard defeated us!" He stared at the ground.

Edith nodded. "Yes, we are defeated. Everyone is dead.

Boisil looked at Cedric, and he saw him nod. "Our king is dead. We've let our king die, and we were not by his side!" The disbelief on his face was obvious. Boisil turned to the men who were now standing aroimd the fire. "All is lost to the Normans. Harold has been defeated. We have work to do!" He then turned to look at Cedric. "Cedric, my boy, I am heartened to see that you're safe. I need to know what happened. Sit here and tell us."

Edith and Gytha gazed searchingly at the two men that looked like Normans. The women's eyes were disdainful.

"Are these two men your prisoners?" Gytha asked.

"Indeed not, my lady; they're not prisoners. This man is Philippe, and here is his brother, Alan. They're Frenchmen, and they fought daringly with us. If it were not for these two brave men, we would be drowned. They're good men, but more of their story later." He turned his gaze to Cedric. "Cedric, we must know what happened."

They all sat around the fire as Cedric relayed his story. Cedric told of the heroism of the English housecarls, and of the Normans near defeat. He described the last moments of Harold, and of his heroic last stand in the face of certain death.