“Do it!”

“Mais oui!” Sir Richard and Robert de Mortain seized the initiative. “Sir William Trivett, Sir Rupert and I have more experience with the coast than anyone in the army, and that is damned little. We did at least scout this shore. Rupert is a master of organization and has close ties with the infantry. We’ll get the rabble moving.”

“Merci, Count Robert. You have taken the most difficult job. It would be easier to sail again from the Somme than traverse the ten miles of beach.” With a twinkle in his eye, Richard added. “I can understand the need for Rupert, but why in hell would you want Will, the swamp wisp, the Trivett trouble-maker!” The group laughed, but also at Will’s rejoinder.

“Swamp wisp, trouble-maker—I’ll run the bloody beach and be in Hastings while you are saddling your sway-backed nag, Sir Richard!” They laughed again.

Roger de Montgomery put them back in action. “Men, let’s get this army moving!”

Thomas was not smiling and he drew Will aside. “Will, how could the infantry and archers get

off the beach if Harold is at the other end?”

“I don’t know. It’s do or die I suppose?”

“The beach is a death trap and Will, suppose the cavalry are intercepted by the English. Without foot soldiers support”—and his thought trailed off.

“Thomas, they likely see the fallacy, but have no better plan.”

Thomas crossed himself, “God and the Pope keep the Saxons elsewhere!” and he swung into the saddle and jumped Easy Walker after Roger de Montgomery and his mount.

Will and Count Robert stared at their retreating backs. “I think Thomas drew the easy assignment. You must have the short straw again, Will. Let’s get Rupert.” The two mounted and spurred their horses’ flanks.

Sir Richard stared after all four. ‘I’m not so certain,’ he thought, ‘The easy job is not clear. Blackguard Bretons and foul French mercenaries are no picnic to contend with.’ He thrust his left foot into the stirrup, mounted and rode after Thomas and Roger.

With the army locked in the town of Pevensey it wasn’t a time-consuming job to locate Rupert. He had gotten away by himself on a promontory and Will and the Count destroyed his quiescent state as they drew rein, skidded to a halt and dismounted. Down in front of Rupert’s rock equally quiet crouched the archer Olan. Pleasantries were exchanged and Robert explained concisely. “Rupert, we must move the army to Hastings, the infantry by the beach, the cavalry by road. We four drew the beach assignment.” He peered over the rock. “I mean you too, Archer.”

Rupert, you would believe, had already formulated a plan. “C’est bien! Count Robert, with your experience in supply you should handle the loading of cooks, food and goods for transshipment to Hastings. Will, take a half dozen of your bully boys from Dives and whip those laggard infantry brutes into motion. Break a few heads if necessary.” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Olan, animate the archers. Put an arrow through the first complainer.” The organizers were ready to organize.

“Mais oui, Sir Rupert.”

“C’est tout, Mes Ami.” They were off again.

Will whispered an aside to Mortain, “He is amazing.”

“Yes, invaluable man.”

Robert and his squire retreated to the camp and soon had the cooks in motion. Pots, pans and pails were piled and the plan took shape. Spits were dismantled with many a singed finger, cooled and added to the heap. Fires were doused with cook water and food, dead or on the hoof, was sent to the waiting ships.

Sheep and pigs were hoisted over the gunwales and hog-tied in the bilge. Wrestling with pigs is not an easy job and sweat soaked the tender’s clothing.

“Get in there you cochon stupid!” and the cook kicked the hog in the rear. Down went the cook. He’d broken his foot. His was the worst injury although a few took sheep kicks before the animals could be stood on end. Young cattle were wrestled to the ground by sheer numbers and unceremoniously tipped into the vessel.

“Look out! He’s loose!” A large lamb popped out of the arms of a sailor like a wine cork out of a bottle. The sailor went full length into the bilge and growing pile of manure. He rose in disgust in time to see the leaping lamb hit the thwart and sail over the gunwale and struggling heads of the loaders. It landed swimming and made for the beach faster than the wading men. Briefly, in knee deep water the men gained the upper hand in speed, but a slippery lamb is not an easy tackle. Two men converged.

“We’ve got it!” They dove. The animal side-stepped and the men had each other. The sheep hit the beach running and headed for Hastings. The cooks waved good-bye in disgust and abandoned the chase. At least the lamb was going their way.

A line of support staff stretched from the camp to the closest ship. At least the lading of inanimate supplies went without incident. Armorers, fletchers, blacksmiths and other support staff made for the vessels too, carrying the tools of their trade and hurried along by Robert de Mortain and his men.

Olan , the archer, set his lieutenants to work. The few French and Breton archers were interspersed with the Norman elite trained by Olan. It was no problem to animate his forces and obtain some semblance of order for the beach march.

Will found six of his provost corps that he and Thomas had used at Dives to maintain order in the camps. The infantry was familiar with the corps’ action. They responded after only two broken heads.

“Allez, Sac du marde! We are moving out. Take all your gear; we will not be returning. Fall in!” and the order was repeated throughout the camp by sergeants and corporals, but not without grumbling and dissent.

The archers led by Olan’s efficiency were ready and on the beach before the cooks had their fires out. Loose sand, flotsam, weed and cobbles—the highly trained physically conditioned bowmen of the Duke’s personal army lead the archery contingent onto the strand. Ten miles at twenty minutes a mile should be covered in three hours—four at the most considering the crossing of the river drains of the swamp. One hundred yards of beach and muscles were rebelling. The men stepped forward and slipped back. They had no firm footing. Hidden cobbles turned ankles and wrenched knees. Weed and flotsam tugged at already tired feet. The marchers hadn’t passed the beached fleet. Hamstrings, achilles, tendons and joints were starting to complain. They transmitted a constant stream of lament to the brain. The conditioning of Olan’s men kept them at it longer. They tried the water’s edge where the sand is usually packed by the waves. It wasn’t. Maybe that was due to the swampy base behind the dunes. The sweat rolled down the marcher’s faces. Their clothing showed the tell-tale moisture. Olan drew them along on the first mile and because of screaming muscles called a brief respite. Off shore, in the ships laden with food, the cooks shouted disparaging remarks. It was a small wonder the sea-going hadn’t received a flight of arrows. At two miles they reached the first river. Three unladen vessels ferried them across the swamp outlet. It was a slow process poling the ships back and forth. Someone hit upon the idea of a rope on either end and the ferries were then pulled bow end and stern end.

On they trudged noticeably tiring. The van were blockaded by the second river. Three more vessels were employed as ferries. It takes a long time to transport five thousand men by tiny ship. They crawled worm-like shoving the head forward, anchor, draw the tail after them.

The infantry, driven by Will and provost corps, followed disconsolately. The archers had churned the sand and the water rose in their tracks. It is never easy for the foot soldier.

Eventually, empty vessels returned from Hastings and loaded men and gear. They were so spent that they could hardly torment the plodding men left on the beach. Any trace of Saxons along the way was destroyed.

William, Duke of Normandy and his knights, mounted as a unit and cantered out of Pevensey following the scouting parties. After a few days of inactivity in Pevensey and a month of inactivity at the Somme, the Duke and his entourage were ready to ride. They checked and rechecked their weaponry. Knives and swords were loose in their scabbards.

“My Lord, we are in sight of the village of Hailsham,” a scout reported. The assemblage never changed pace. In view of the village the army became a rabble. They spurred their chargers into a gallop and ran amok. They drove the inhabitants before them. What the horses didn’t trample, the knights slew or injured. Thomas watched a Breton ride down a blonde woman and child. Thomas screamed within as Jo-anne swam before his face. He was ready to kill the Breton, but Sir Richard restrained Easy Walker. Tears formed as Thomas watched the slaughter. The soldiers ransacked the buildings. Their loot was small coins and food. If Hailsham inhabitants survived the attack, they faced starvation over the winter. Thomas was appalled.

Herstomeux, Hooe, Ashburnham, Ninfield, and Catsfield were ravaged and basely destroyed. Thomas was nauseated and took no part in the murder and devastation in the villages. On October first the army suborned Hastings and erected another wooden fort. The Fecamp monastery and the surrounding countryside were stripped of supplies in short order to feed the Norman army.

Thomas and Will, employed as scouts and scavengers, rode the vicinity. “We can’t stay here, Thomas. My God, we are hemmed in! If the English shut off the road to Maidstone they’ll starve us back to Normandy.”

“I don’t know what they are thinking, Will, but we have to move before the English react. Where do you think Harold is?”

“I’ve made York safe for you, taken you out of the hands of Norway. Now obey your liege lord and swear allegiance to your king and earls.”

“Sire.”

“What is it?”

“Sire, the Normans have landed at Pevensey with a huge army.”

“When?”

“Four days ago, Sire.”

“Holy Mother of God! Who turned the Creator against me?” He dropped to his knees in a short-lived prayer. “Leofwine, we march for London.”

“When, Sire?”

“Immediately!”

A forced march to York and a terrifying battle with the Norse and Tostig had sapped the energy of the English army and yet they took to the road again and recovered the ground to London. Four days, October fifth, they were back in London. Harold needed succor and turned from the London road to his creation , the abbey of Waltham, for spiritual guidance. He spent the day in prayer with the abbot. As he left the church he bowed to the stone figure of Christ on the crucifix.

“Jesus, Mary, Jesus!” “Look at the crucifix!” “I saw it!” “It bowed it’s head!” It’s looking down on him!” The inhabitants were astounded. What did it portend? Was the King acknowledging the King?

Harold buoyed by the miracle of the stone carving returned to London. At Thorny Island he summoned his council. Communiqués from the southeast were numerous and confused. Harold sifted through the stories searching for the grain of truth.

“Canterbury!”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Compose a diplomatic note, in a chivalrous manner or course, asking the Bastard of Normandy what he is doing in England.”

“Should I mention the succession, Sire?”

“Yes, yes, emphasize the death bed wish of Edward. Get to it.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Wolfnoth, Leofwine, Edwin, Gyrth raise the fyrd. Have them assemble in Kent. We march to drive these Norman curs into the ocean.”

“Yes, Sire,” they replied in unison.

The monk under the white flag was intercepted outside Hastings.

“I come with a message from the King”

Eventually, he stood before William of Normandy and delivered his directive.

“Thank you Father. I will consult my council and provide you with an answer shortly.”

William outlined his claim to the Throne of England once more and would submit it for judgment by the laws of England or Normandy. “If this offer is refused, I purpose the quarrel should be settled by single combat and sign it William, Duke of Normandy.”

“Would you do that, my Lord?”

“Certainly not, you idiot. Would you?”

“No, My Lord.”

Canterbury’s monk and Father Hugh Margot of Fecamp rode back to London together. There was nothing in the communiqué that Harold had not heard before. The two envoys brought pallor to the cheeks of the King with rumor from the Norman camp.

“Sire, it is obvious that Duke William has a papal banner.”

“What?”

“Yes Sire. It is said he wears the ring of St. Peter, a holy relic. He carries with him the relics of Normandy.”

“So?”

“It is said that Bishop Odo carries a papal bull for your excommunication.”

The monks instinctively drew back to avoid the inevitable wrath. Harold, pale and stunned, sat in shock.

“Sire?”

No answer.

“Sire?”

No answer

“Sire?”

In an explosion of words Harold set the machine in motion.

“We march at once!”

The envoys and council are now stunned too.

“We march to battle!”

“But Sire.”

“May the Lord now decide between William and me!”

“But Sire.”

“Return you fool! God will decide the issue!”

The monks bowed a hasty retreat from the visibly shaken king. Excommunication—a veritable blow to the heart and soul of England—was a surprise to the whole English court. Harold fled the room, but the councilors remained in discussion.

“We can’t march at once.” The fyrd won’t be assembled.” “The carls have just been forced marched London to York.” “And York to London.” Gyrth you’ve got to change his mind.” “Me? Why me?” “Well, you are his favorite.” “ Let’s consider a battle plan.” On October 10, 1066, Gyrth carried the council’s plan to Harold “Sire, may I speak as a brother?”

“Yes, Brother.”

“Brother Harold, you can not go to battle with the Bastard.”

“Why not?”

“Brother, you have just marched to York, fought a great battle, dealt with the thanes of York and force marched back to London. You are exhausted and not getting any younger.”

“Old am I! You pup!”

“Brother?”

“Go on.”

“Let me lead the army. I am bound by no oath or excommunication.”

“So?”

“It has to be a distraction when you must make momentous decisions on which the fate of the nation is decided.”

“God will judge.”

“Thirdly, Let me lead the army for if I die you lose a brother. If you die, we lose a kingdom. If I die you can mobilize the north.”

“We march to battle!”

“Brother consider this. Let me attack William keeping him locked in Hastings. Meanwhile, you scorch the earth behind me. If they drive me back empty the countryside. They’ll have no food, no shelter, constant opposition, and longer supply lines if they chose to bring in material from Normandy over stormy wintry seas.”

“We march to battle!”

“Holy Mary Mother of God! At least wait for the rest of your army!”

“Gyrth, I am your king! We march to battle!”

“Yes, Sire,” and the young man left the room shaking his head.

On October twelfth, the king left London to meet his assembled forces in the southeast.

Was Friday the thirteenth an omen?