The Fate of a King, page 7
‘Your grace,’ said the man in front, reining in his horse, ‘I am Thegn Dumfeld of Portsmouth. We received your message and called out the fyrd. I have also seen fit to bring your fleet from Southampton to make your army’s journey a bit shorter.’
‘Thank you, Thegn Dumfeld,’ said the king, and he stared down at the dock where hundreds of men were milling about. ‘Why have they not boarded yet? There is little time to lose.’
‘Your grace,’ said Dumfeld, ‘I fear there is little point in boarding at this late stage; the invaders have already left.’
Harold’s heart sank, and he swore in frustration.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
‘I already have men on the island,’ said Dumfeld, ‘they left yesterday to estimate the enemy’s strength from the sea, but all the enemy ships have gone.’
‘Even on the far side?’
‘The entire coast is clear,’ said the thegn. ‘I have also landed men in the harbours, and the locals have told them that the raiders sailed with the tide two days ago.’
‘Devil’s teeth,’ shouted Harold, causing many men to cross themselves, ‘is there no end to my misfortune?’
‘If you wish, your grace,’ said the thegn eventually, ‘we can still load the men we have and lay chase to the fleet. It is said that they headed north, following the coast.’
‘Do that,’ said Harold, ‘but first take a few hundred to garrison the island. If Tostig returns, I want him to find it impossible to land.’
‘And after that?’
‘See if you can catch Tostig. If so, engage him in any way you can, land or sea. I will bring the rest of the army north and will meet you at the Humber. If you should see any sign of them, send messengers down the coast. I will see that they are intercepted and come to me.’
‘So be it, your grace,’ said the thegn, and he turned away to ride his horse down to the dock.
‘He has eluded us,’ said Harold to Owen. ‘If we had been quicker in London, we could have trapped him on that island and put an end to this nonsense. We have to get better at preparation and quicker at marching.’
‘There have been lessons learned,’ said Owen. ‘We will not be found wanting again.’
‘What worries me,’ said the king, ‘is that he could be headed for Sandwich. If he catches those ships at anchor, he will have them away like a thief in the night. At the very least, he will ensure that they are rendered unusable. We have to get there as quickly as we can.’
‘Then we should ride back immediately and turn our men around,’ said Owen.
‘Your grace,’ said one of the officers, ‘if we head straight up to Sandwich, we will be leaving many coastal villages unprotected as we pass.’
‘It cannot be helped,’ said Harold, ‘our ships at Sandwich are far too important. Besides, he has a two-day lead on us, so I suspect we are already too late to make a difference to their fate. Come, we have no time to lose. Send messengers back to the army and tell them to turn around and head for Sandwich. We will catch them up once we have fed and watered the horses.’
‘Of course, your grace,’ said the officer, and he turned away to his duties.
* * *
Several hours later, in Stonar, Eadric the Steersman lay asleep on a cowskin in front of a roaring fire in the back room of an inn beside the dock. Over him were several sheepskins, and he was the warmest he could ever remember being, a luxury enjoyed by few sailors. The day had been long and hard, and though he usually slept aboard one of the many ships he was responsible for, tonight, he had allowed himself the indulgence of warm ale, a warm fire, and an even warmer woman.
The noise from the only other room in the tavern was muted by the thick walls, but even though he was sleeping, subconsciously, he was still aware of what was going on, a skill enjoyed by many men of war whether they be of land or sea.
Having slept for a few hours, he considered getting up and going back to the many tasks that still needed doing on the king’s fleet, but he was warm and fought with his conscience for several minutes before the decision was made for him. Through his drowsiness, he heard a shout of alarm, followed by a second, and he sat upright, straining to hear what was going on.
A naked arm reached up to pull him back beneath the covers.
‘Where are you going?’ said a sleepy voice. ‘It is still dark. At least stay until the cock crows.’
Eadric brushed away the arm and got to his feet, scrambling for his clothes strewn all across the room. This time the woman sat up in the bed, pulling the sheepskins up to her neck to stay warm.
‘Eadric, where are you going?’ she asked. ‘At least have another few hours; you work far too hard.’
‘Can you not hear that,’ he said over his shoulder as he pulled on his boots.
‘Hear what?’
‘The noise outside,’ he said, ‘something is wrong.’
The woman strained to hear what he was going on about, and although she could hear a few raised voices in the distance, this was a shipyard, and hardly a night went past without there being at least one fight.
‘I am going,’ he said, after pulling a thick jerkin over his head and reaching for his heavy cloak. ‘If there is opportunity, I will see you again tomorrow.’
‘Do whatever you wish,’ groaned the woman, and she laid back down to stare into the fire, ‘you always do, anyway.’ She heard the door slam behind her and snuggled back down beneath the sheepskin covers, her most recent customer already forgotten.
Outside, Eadric strode quickly along the narrow street towards the dock. The voices were louder now, and in the distance, he could see men running in different directions along the wharf. A strange glow lit the night sky ahead, and as the first whiff of smoke reached his nostrils, he broke into a run.
More people emerged from the buildings along the banks of the estuary and stared in growing horror at the tragedy emerging on the other side of the river. Even though it was dark, they could see the many houses already ablaze, their thatched roofs roaring into flame, fuelled by tar-soaked torches. Even more upsetting were the distant screams of pain as the hidden horror unfolded.
‘What’s happening?’ shouted a woman. ‘My son is working over there.’
‘It looks like they are under attack,’ shouted a male voice, ‘it must be the Normans.’
‘Look,’ shouted another, ‘they are even burning the ships. We have to do something.’
Eadric looked downriver, and his heart sank as he realised that whoever was responsible had set alight all the ships in dry dock. He snapped out of his trancelike state and knew the unknown man was right. They couldn’t just stand there and watch. They had to do something.
‘Men of Stonar,’ he roared, ‘grab your weapons, and follow me to the ferries, and heaven help anyone who shies away from the fight. Those are our people over there, and they need our help.’
Within a minute, two dozen men filled the first rowing boat, and it headed towards the far bank. Behind them ran more men from the village, mostly dockers, hard, strong men who could handle themselves in a fight, and by the time the first boat was mid-stream, there were ten others already following them.
‘Harder,’ shouted Eadric, straining at one of the oars.
In what seemed to the steersman like hours but was only a few minutes, the bottom of the boat struck the sandy riverbed, and all the men jumped out into thigh-deep water. They waded ashore and through the reeds to solid ground before gathering together at the side of the road leading into Sandwich.
‘We should wait until the others arrive,’ said a man bearing a pitchfork. ‘We don’t know what is waiting for us down there.’
‘We will do no such thing,’ said Eadric, ‘there are lives at stake. Follow me.’
He started running alongside the road towards the town, hunched over to avoid being seen. Within moments he had reached the first building, a stable still untouched by the flames but being showered with sparks from the nearby fires.
‘One of you stay here,’ hissed Eadric, ‘and at the slightest sign of a fire, cut the horses loose.’
‘Leave that to me,’ said the man with the pitchfork, and he ran across the road into the stables.
Eadric and his men continued forward. The air was now thick with smoke, and they could feel the heat from the burning houses. Figures passed through the smoke, searching for loved ones, some leaning on each other for support. The noise of the fires was interspersed with people calling out, or worse, cries of anguish as bodies were found.
Eadric reached out and grabbed a young man as he ran past.
‘You,’ he said, ‘what happened here?’
‘Can you not see?’ cried the man. ‘Is it not obvious? We have been attacked by pirates. Many are dead, and they have set the town alight.’
‘How do you know they were pirates?’ asked Eadric. ‘What language did they use?’
‘I heard English,’ said the man, ‘and something I think was Flemish, but I cannot be sure. Now let me go. I have to find my brother.’
‘One more question,’ said Eadric, ‘are they still here in the town?’
‘Not that I know of,’ said the man. ‘We fought back, I swear we did, but there were just too many. The last I saw, they were headed down the road to the ocean.’
Eadric let the man go, and they all breathed a little easier, knowing there would be no fight.
‘Spread out,’ said Eadric, ‘and do what you can for the wounded. Tell the others when they arrive to see about putting out the fires.’
‘Where are you going?’ asked one of the men.
‘To see if I can find out who these men are,’ said Eadric.
‘I’ll come with you,’ said the man, and they both started running through the burning town towards the sea.
Twenty minutes later, they slowed to a walk and crouched down to avoid being seen. Ahead of them, they could hear voices, Flemish, talking and laughing. Eadric dropped to his belly and crawled up a slight slope. Peering over the edge and hidden by dune-grass, he could see many men moving about on the beach. He could also see many rowing boats at the water’s edge, which caused him to look further out to sea. In the pre-dawn gloom, he could see a large fleet of ships laying offshore, obviously the vessels used to bring the raiders to Sandwich. What worried him more, though, were the silhouettes of ten vessels sailing out of the estuary towards the sea.
He had been a sailor all his life and, when not at sea, worked in the dockyard at Sandwich. He knew every ship made in the town and, recently, had overseen the construction of twenty ships. Ten of them were now ablaze in the harbour, but the other ten were right there before him, being sailed out to join the raiders’ fleet, no doubt with a skeleton crew. They were his ships and they had been captured.
For the next half hour, the two men lay hidden on the dune, watching as the raiders loaded their boats with all the stores they had taken from the town. As the dawn came, they could see that among all the barrels and sacks was a line of young men, their wrists tied together, and a long rope attaching them to each other by the neck.
‘They have taken prisoners for the rowing decks,’ said Eadric quietly, knowing their lives would hardly be worth living as galley slaves. ‘I count at least thirty, you?’
‘The same,’ said the man. ‘Can we not do something to free them?’
‘Impossible,’ said Eadric. ‘The only thing they can hope for is that someone defeats their ship in battle and frees them, or they die a quick death.’
‘Look,’ said the man at his side, ‘someone is coming.’
Out on the shore, most of the rowing boats had left the beach, and just two remained for the prisoners and the guards. A swarthy brute of a man came over to stand before the terrified prisoners.
‘You are very lucky men,’ he said in English, ‘for we could have killed all of you in the village. However, we did not, and you are now my captives. In a few moments, you will be taken out to the fleet and shared out between the ships to man the oars. Do as you are told, row hard, and you will be fed and watered as often as the horses. Who knows, one day, if you work hard enough, you may even regain your freedom.’
‘And if we don’t?’ asked a young man nearest the sailor.
‘Then I will cut your throat,’ said the sailor.
‘What do you mean?’ gasped the prisoner who had spoken.
The Flemish mercenary stared at the prisoner with amusement before drawing his knife and walking over to stand behind him.
‘For those who do not know what cutting your throat means, let me give you a demonstration.’ He reached forward and, after pulling the screaming prisoner’s head back, dragged his blade deep through his victim’s throat.
Blood spurted everywhere, and the sailor laughed as the young man struggled to his feet with his hands desperately trying to close the wound. Within moments he fell to his knees, and as his eyes began to dim, he managed to cross himself with his bound hands before falling onto the sand.
‘A pious man,’ said the sailor, ‘how interesting.’ He turned to face the rest of the prisoners. ‘Any other questions?’
Nobody said a word, though there was a lot of whimpering in fear.
‘No, good, now get to your feet, and get in the boats.’
Eadric and his new comrade watched in horror as the events unfolded. There was nothing they could do now except try to get as much information as they could about the fleet. Once the beach was cleared, they emerged from their hiding place and hurried over to the prone prisoner, but the cut had been true, and he was nothing more than a corpse.
Eadric walked down to the water’s edge and stared out at the distant fleet. The flagship was half hidden by the morning mist, but the more he looked, the more it seemed that he recognised the flag, and if he wasn’t greatly mistaken, it was the colours of the house of Godwin.
He headed back into the village, where the streets were filled with the men of Stonar. The fires were now under control. The dead were accessible, and one by one, they were brought out and laid in a row. Some had been choked by the smoke, but most had met violent deaths at the end of a sword or axe. Women cried alongside their loved ones, falling to their knees as they recognised somebody in the deathly line.
The town’s abbot prayed for the men before walking over to Eadric.
‘It was a terrible thing,’ he said. ‘Why do such men exist?’
‘Such men?’
‘Pirates,’ said the abbot. ‘May God forgive them.’
‘These were no pirates,’ said Eadric. ‘They knew exactly what they wanted.’
‘How can you tell?’ asked the abbot.
‘There were no women taken,’ said Eadric, ‘nor were there any raped, as far as I know. In addition, they did not ransack any of the buildings or, indeed, the abbey. They wanted provisions, ships and slaves. That says to me they have something else planned, something far bigger and more important than Sandwich.’
‘And do you know what?’ asked the abbot.
‘I do not,’ said Eadric, ‘but I have an idea.’
As he spoke, a rider came down the road into the town and dismounted amongst the carnage.
‘What happened here?’ he asked.
‘We have been attacked,’ said the abbot. ‘Many are dead, and the town has been ransacked.’
‘What about the ships?’ asked the rider. ‘Are they safe?’
‘They are not,’ said Eadric. ‘They have either been stolen or burned. Who am I addressing?’
‘I am a messenger from London,’ said the rider, ‘and I have brought a message for Eadric the Steersman.’
‘I am he. What is your message?’
The messenger looked around the now smouldering village and the many men who had formed a chain to throw water onto one of the burning ships and gave a great sigh.
‘It is irrelevant,’ he said eventually, ‘for the warning it contains has already come to pass.’
Chapter Eight
London, May, AD 1066
Harold stormed through the corridors of Westminster, furious at yet another report of a raid on the eastern coast. This time the attackers had only managed to get away with one ship, but they had left two more in flames and emptied the storehouses of anything worth stealing. There were also reports of ten deaths, as well as the slaughter of all the villagers’ cattle.
Since the raid on Sandwich a few weeks earlier, hardly a day had passed without news of a raid by Tostig and his fleet. Whole villages had been destroyed by his henchmen, and the longer the raids went on, the more brutal they became.
At first, it was obvious that Tostig was amassing ships, stores, and men for his army, and if a village did not resist, then there was little harm done to the buildings or the remaining population. However, as the days went on, there were reports of more and more destruction, along with news of pointless killings and the ravaging of women and girls. There was even talk of a convent being ransacked, though Harold suspected that this was the work of mercenaries and would never have been sanctioned by his brother. It had to stop, and he summoned some of his best men to a counsel.
He entered the hall, and the buzz of conversation stopped as he strode through the gathered men. He stepped up on to the dais and turned to face his officers, the fury evident on his face.
‘Well,’ he announced, looking around the room, ‘who is going to start?’
The men looked at each other, not quite understanding what he was asking.
‘Come on,’ shouted Harold, ‘some of you must know what is going on. What about you, Owen?’ he asked, singling out his second-in-command. ‘You have access to just as much information as me, so perhaps you can tell us? Why are our people being killed in their hundreds, and we are yet to lift a single sword in anger?’
‘Your grace,’ said Owen, ‘you know as well as us that it is hard enough to catch raiders when they don’t know our shores, but these pirates are led by your brother, and he has intimate knowledge of which towns are defended well, and which are vulnerable.’
‘I concur,’ said the king, ‘but we know as much as him, so we should be able to anticipate his next move.’
