London - Edward Rutherfurd [106]
“We shall await your decision,” Silversleeves interposed smoothly, and raised his beaker. “There is, by the way, one small condition,” he began to add.
But what this was, Leofric did not discover. At this moment, one of the lay monks burst in at the door, and as Silversleeves looked up in annoyance, the fellow cried out wildly:
“Sirs! The king is dead. The Duke of Normandy has beaten him.”
“Where?”
“At a place by the coast. Near Hastings.”
The Battle of Hastings, which so profoundly changed the course of England’s history, took place on Saturday, 14 October.
William of Normandy had several advantages. He attacked at first light, surprising King Harold. He had formidable contingents of bowmen and trained cavalry, neither of which the English king possessed. Also the English hilltop position was too narrow, allowing the bowmen to concentrate their fire with deadly effect.
Yet even so, the battle went on all day. The bowmen failed to break the English defence. When the cavalry charged, they wilted before the tremendous two-handed axe blows from men like Barnikel, which bit through their chain mail. They fled, and only William himself prevented a general rout.
Hour after hour they continued. Twice the cavalry advanced and pretended to flee, luring many of the English down the hill into a trap. Gradually, as their leaders fell, the English were worn down, but even then, as the long, grey afternoon began to darken, their battle line was still standing, and might have held till nightfall, had not a single arrow, loosed, it is said, at random, chanced to fall into the socket of King Harold’s eye, wounding him gravely. Minutes later he had received a deathblow.
Then it was over. The Staller of London, badly wounded, was carried from the field. Amongst the little group of stalwarts with whom he had fought by the king’s standard, Barnikel and his son survived to accompany him.
It was two months later, on a bright December morning, that, in the churchyard of St Paul’s, where the Folkmoot had just finished meeting, several hundred of London’s citizens witnessed a curious scene.
Barnikel of Billingsgate was red in the face. He was glowering at his friend Leofric, and he had just bellowed, in a voice that could be heard halfway down the West Cheap, a single, terrible word:
“Traitor!”
Not that his rage was directed only at the Saxon merchant. The huge Dane was furious with them all.
The weeks after Hastings had been tense. William could not immediately press home his advantage: his troops were weakened after the battle; disease broke out in his camp. He had to wait at the coast for reinforcements. Meanwhile, contingents from the north and other shires had finally begun to arrive in London. The Witan hastily named the legitimate heir, old Edward’s foreign nephew, as king.
“Why don’t we strike again?” Barnikel would roar.
Yet even to young Alfred the situation had been plain enough. The city was full of armed men, but there seemed little direction. The Staller, still wounded, was carried about in a litter. The young prince, king in name only, was seldom seen. The northern nobles were talking of returning home. Even the apprentices heard rumours that the Archbishop of Canterbury was secretly negotiating with the Normans.
On 1 December, William of Normandy had finally made his move. Advancing up the old Roman road of Watling Street, through Canterbury and Rochester, his advance guard had reached the southern end of London Bridge itself. The wooden bridge was defended; the city gates closed. The Normans had contented themselves with setting fire to the houses on the southern bank before retiring. “He’s too clever to attack the bridge,” Leofric remarked. “He’ll wear us down instead.”
Which was precisely what the Norman did. Slowly flanking the city, he crossed the river upstream, beyond Windsor, and then circled to the north, burning the farms as he went. “A few more days,” Leofric had grimly noted, “and he’ll come to our land.” By mid-December both the archbishop and even the Staller