The Text
A row of round, sturdy shields line the rim of the ridge, wielded by fatigued yet proud Englishmen. I was one such Englishman, clad in heavy iron armour atop a mail of chain and accompanied by a simple metal helmet as a burden upon my head. In my right hand was a sword due for a sharpening and in my left lay one of those great round shields, planks of wood axed into shape and encased in a metal frame.
Our unit formed a sea of dull grey, for I was alike my neighbour, and him alike his. However, I was unlike my companions in the sense that my fatigue was mild, for I had only joined the march upon its passing of my home village in the outer regions of Londinium. Many of my fellows, including those on my either side, had marched the much greater distance from the northern regions, following a battle at Stamford Bridge against the Danes which had taken many honourable men. I pitied them, both the dead and survivors.
For now, we stood high on the ridge with our varying degrees of sunken eyes, though we had enough energy to see to observe our surroundings: a large, tilted field framed by a stretching woodland of oak and populated with grass recently restored of its colour following the draught of summer. It was far from the worst place to die, the English countryside. But it was impossible to enjoy the pleasantries of the land without noting its foreign occupants.
The Enemy, led by William the Bastard of Normandy, were to no doubt a threatening force. Its body, though about equal in size, had us outmatched in skill with their trained archers and cavalrymen against us the fyrd, untrained farmers. The Normans were flanked by mercenaries and possessed the symbolic support of Rome with the Papal Banner held high and mighty. We could only hope that Christ and the Pope were split on this fray.
The Bastard was sat amongst the crowd atop his horse, a vile man who dared to think he will rule this heavenly land, that he has any claim to the throne of England! No, for now rode out the true sovereign of this island to rouse his men. Unlike the illegitimate duke, the King deserved undivided attention.
Harold Godwinson, the rightful and chosen heir to the late Edward the Confessor, scanned over his ranks from the elevation of his steed. Distinct from his soldiers, the King seemed well rested and confident in the face of the enemy, as if there was no possibility of defeat. He was adorned in armour of authority complete with trims of gold and left his blade sheathed, with no need for a shield.
While my familiarity with the King was limited due to his recent ascension and the gradual nature of travelling news, I held in my heart a great desire to resist impending invasion and he was the man capable of doing so, thus I placed my shallow faith in him.
Now he stood to address his men.
‘Angelcynn! You are before an army which seeks to cause disharmony to our land. They seek a battle which will anon be upon us, where the ignorant bastard they call a leader wilt be struck down with his ego, for hither we shalt stand! Endure until he will begone or naught of his men remain!’
Harold’s words had a profound effect on us English, laying a log upon the faint sparks of hope in our hearts. He rode once more, retreating further into the body of iron.
‘Endure!’ Harold continued. ‘Endure and you shall perchance see thy wives once more!’ Harold had returned to the ranks of his generals.
My wife. O, my wife, whose graceful voice had slipped my mind in our leagues of flight. That harmonious hum, the memory rekindled by Harold’s pledge, and too was vivid imagery. I saw the lovely Leofflæd, my then betrothed, upon the dawn of our wedding day. Dressed in a modest woollen dress, she had glided towards me under escort from her father, until she was mere paces from me. After her patriarch’s retirement, we had stood side-by-side to speak our vowels, Leofflæd’s choral voice and graceful movements giving her an angelic presence in the hall.
Following the priest’s blessing, a feast was made with all the bread adorned with butter and cheese that any newlywed could desire. It was here at this feast that I first got to know my beloved as my wife, though our names had been shared since childhood. Separated by only the width of a village, we had frequented an interaction over the years, perhaps bonding as children through a mutual moment of levity or yoked as teens to gather fuel for the village fire. By the time of age, I distinctly favoured her over the other ladies of our village, however fair they may be, meaning I was delighted upon the news that our families were arranging a marriage and discovering that the feeling was mutual.
Over the next cycle of seasons, we built our home in preparation for our first son, whom we christened Wulfric, and, by the time of my leave, was three winters old. A bright child, naturally curious and surprisingly attentive. I recalled that, on the eve of the march, I returned home from my long, exhausting work of carpentry to find Leofflæd chasing Wulfric through an adjacent field, unrelenting joy upon their faces, undisturbed by neither me nor the world. My everything, safe and at peace.
But the march came anyways.
It had been little more than a few short moments since King Harold had rejoined his generals at the rear of our ranks, yet it felt like I had relived my lifetime, an experience which was doubtlessly universal across the fyrd. However, we could not let joyous memories distract us now from the threat at hand. I just needed to remember that, as I gazed upon the Norman force, the freedom of Leofflæd and future of Wulfric lay in my hands.
Below, the Enemy sought no further delay.
A volley of arrows soared through the skies, courtesy of the seasoned bowmen of Normandy. We all collectively raised our shields, absorbing much of the volley, though the man to my right and others like him, low in attentiveness, were struck down. He lay on the ground besides me, an arrow embedded in his shoulder, just enough to immobilise him. Despite my pity, I couldn’t afford to lower my guard to save him. His screams were then drowned out by the whistling of a second volley. We held strong, endured, as was the words of the King, while the quiet screams were silenced by a precise arrow to the man’s eye.
It was at this time that I first made note of the Norman infantry advancing steadily towards the shield wall, our lack of skilled archers making us powerless to halt the charge.
They reached our line and brandished their blades, never ceasing their pace. Though this was the death of many of them, for they were quickly impaled by our spearmen who densely populated the front line. The rest held off from hasty assault, standing determined and at the ready just beyond the range of our spears. Sweat began to slip the hilt from my hand as the stand-off commenced, both us and the Enemy heavy in concentration, looking for that devastating opening or to seal it.
A Norman lunges forward, being swiftly struck down by my brethren, the attack absent of threat. The stand-off continued, my shield lifted slightly above its resting position, anticipating its need.
And its need came when another volley of arrows descended upon us from the heavens above and we once again raised our shields high, the front line among us.
The Enemy took the opportunity it had sought, with dozens charging into the exposed shield wall, striking our spearmen. Simultaneously, our entire front line was cut down by the Bastard’s men, with the man before me having a Norman blade buried deep into his neck. English blood splattered onto my sweaty face as the spearman was slain. The Norman’s cut was far from clean; his sword stuck on a tough bone and its sharpened tip pointed closely towards my eyes.
Along our foremost line, this had been a common experience. The shield wall had fallen, and it needed to be rebuilt during combat.
The Norman had now freed his blade, the spearman’s corpse dropping to the floor. Knowing my duty, I stepped forth into his place, my sword raised and ready, though my lunge was swiftly shielded by the enemy. A counter was thrown, a try of the Norman blade for my neck, just as he had done against my brother in arms. But, before his second success, my wooden shield had moved to block the strike. In this rare moment of exposure, I saw my chance, embedding my blade into a gap in the enemy’s armour, gliding through the fabric of his garment and into the flesh. With haste, I withdrew my sword, the damage done. Paralysed, the enemy collapsed alongside the spearman.
My gaze could now return to my surroundings, chaos ensuing around. The front line had become hazy, with the Enemy making more progress at some points than others. Both up and down it, hundreds were being slain, the ground alike my body, caked in a mixture of sweat and blood, both English and Norman.
The adrenaline high, I searched for my next fight, finding a distracted man wondering the battlefield, stunned by the bloodshed. I made my approach and swiftly I slew him, not a hint of resistance against my sword by the lost dog.
At that moment, a cry went out among the Norman ranks. ‘Li ducs est mors! Il est ocis sanz merci! Retraiez!’ (The duke is dead! He is slain without mercy! Retreat!)
This stirred a panic amongst the Enemy and the body began to retreat back down the hill. A cheer emanated through the English around me. We had held off the Norman force! We had defended against the Bastard’s invasion! We had saved Leofflæd and Wulfric, and his father still stands.
I stared at the cowardly army, running with haste back to their encampment, and a duty dawned upon me. This duty was evidently mutual among many of my peers, who broke ranks, dusting the reforming shield wall with a patriotic cry. I joined them as the Normans could not escape lightly, for they had already harried my brethren in the south: pillaging the villages and raping the women. We charged for them, seeking sweet revenge.
But it would not prove easy to fulfil our promise, for another cry roused the Norman force. ‘Vostre ducs vit, ici et ore! Alez avant et combatiez por Normendie, Crist le commande!’ (Your duke lives, hither and now! Go forth and fight for Normandy, Christ commands it!) Their ranks spun with this newfound faith, resuming their sprint towards the shield wall, and us before it.
By the cavalrymen’s charge, we knew there was no time to retreat to the ranks of our own. In our rashness, we had abandoned the King, and thus we had abandoned England.
Still, we held our ground and gripped our swords in the face of the horsemen, who galloped with drawn blades. I said my prayers, wishing for Leofflæd and Wulfric to be unharmed by the outcome of this fray. The riders drew nearer and nearer until they reached us, slicing through the rebel group without hesitation and, in the storm of English blood, I was slain.
Written by Harry Willoughby, completed 17/08/2026.
Transparency Notice: A limited amount of generative artificial intelligence was used to translate dialogue into the Old Norman language.
Cover: Scene 52 of the Bayeux Tapestry, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.