pulled her dress up to her thighs, tied it in a knot and strode into the heap of bodies. In the fading light, aided by a single lantern, it took them nearly an hour to find Harold’s body. Her mind set on her purpose, Edith paid almost no attention to the remnants of men beneath her feet. All weapons, hauberks and valuables had already been removed, so it was difficult to tell one corpse from another, but Harold bore a telltale mark that only a few had seen, an emblem that Edith knew intimately.
Without hesitation or a hint of repulsion, she pulled at the tunics of body after body to reveal their belly below the navel. At last, she found what she was looking for and sank to her knees to touch him. He was tattooed just above his pubic hair with the Wyvern, the Dragon of Wessex, and coiled around the dragon’s legs was a phallic serpent, its head and protruding forked tongue pointing towards his manhood. Only the King’s torso was intact; his limbs had been scattered and his head, severed from his body and bludgeoned beyond recognition, was only discernible by his distinctive mane of golden hair.
Edith was sobbing profusely, her dress and cloak covered in blood. She turned to William Malet and screamed, ‘You cowardly barbarian! You bastard servants of a bastard lord, you’ve hacked his manhood from his body. May you and all Normans be cursed for ever!’
When William heard Edith’s accusations and learned that Hugh de Montfort had committed the crime, he immediately ordered that he be banished from Normandy for a year. Then, in front of Edith, he was stripped of his weapons and armour, tethered to a horse, and ridden out of camp.
There was a strange irony in the severity of William’s response. Warrior knights were expected to behave savagely in battle, but to castrate a man in death was the action of a heathen. According to a knight’s code of chivalry, men fought for honour or gain, where any level of brutality was permitted, but only savages fought for barbaric prizes like an opponent’s manhood.
It had begun to rain heavily as William Malet’s men helped Edith Swan-Neck gather the parts of Harold’s body. They were wrapped in a plain linen shroud brought specially from Bosham and transported to the shore as William had instructed. A pile of stones to mark a grave was not permitted and while the monk from Bosham read over him, King Harold of England was interred in a shallow pit in the sand just above the high-water mark. Then, by following a circuitous route in total darkness, the Normans tried hard to ensure that it would be difficult ever again to find the King’s grave.
Nonetheless, Edith used every method she could think of to memorize the King’s last journey.
A few months later, in the dead of a January night in 1067, Edith was able to retrace her footsteps.
With the help of four monks from his abbey at Waltham, and after many hours digging in the sand, Harold’s body was retrieved. Later, in a clandestine ceremony, it was reinterred beneath the high altar of Waltham.
William and the Norman hierarchy never discovered the truth, but among the English people word soon spread about Harold’s final resting place and Waltham Abbey became a place of secret pilgrimage for all Englishmen from that day forward.
John Comnenus had grown concerned about Godwin of Ely. His vivid account had extended late into another night and, as he described the gruesome encounter of Senlac Ridge, his hands had begun to shake and perspiration had dripped from his brow.
‘Would you like to rest for a while?’
‘You are very kind, my Prince. If I may, I will go to my shelter and spend a few hours alone.’
‘Of course; take as much time as you need. Perhaps Prince Azoukh and I will walk in the mountains for a while when the sun comes up.’
After sleeping for a few hours, the two princes, accompanied by a platoon of bodyguards, stretched their legs in a leisurely circuit around Godwin’s mountain-top retreat.
Both deep in thought, John Azoukh broke the mood of reflection.‘It is certainly a tale of mighty warriors, my friend. I’m glad that the likes of Harold and William lived far to the north and never threatened the gates of Constantinople.’
‘My father has told me about Hardrada. People at court still talk about him with reverence, as they do Godwin of Ely. I wonder if England has benefited from the presence of men of such stature, all living at the same time? Or has it been a curse? Just imagine: the giant Hardrada, William the fearsome redheaded ogre and the two golden- haired English heroes. What times they were! The Greek poets couldn’t have invented a finer cast of characters.’
‘Yes, and there seems to be much more to hear.’
‘I hope so’
John Azoukh looked at his friend with a hint of concern on his face. ‘My friend, when you hear of the trials and tribulations of kings and rulers, does it inspire you? Or does it fill you with dread about your own succession?’
‘I suppose the answer is both, in equal measure. My father has spent his life campaigning against the many enemies on our borders. When he was not doing that, he was wrestling with our enemies within. He’s weary and now his reward is a slow and painful death. It seems a cruel end. On the other hand, he has had the power to protect our empire and change the lives of his people. He has won their respect and trust, and will be long remembered for it. Like Harold of England, he has done his duty.’ John Comnenus paused and put his arm around his friend.‘That’s my only ambition. With all the excitement and anguish it will bring, I intend to do my duty.’
The two princes smiled at one another and made their way back to Godwin’s eyrie.
The old warrior was waiting for them when they returned. He was already sitting in his chosen spot with Leo of Methone helping him to get comfortable. He seemed refreshed and eager to resume his story.
‘Come, my two lords of Byzantium, I thought you’d lost your way on my mountain. My tale is barely half told.’
18. A Presence in the Mist
For the survivors of Senlac Ridge, the return to Glastonbury was an occasion for tears of joy and sadness. Word had already reached Harold’s stronghold of the approach of Hereward and his companions, so a welcome party was waiting. As the wives and children rushed down the hill shrieking with delight, a few sturdy veterans of Harold’s hearthtroop stood vanguard. News of Hereward’s valour had reached all corners of the land and the men snapped to attention and looked on in awe as he passed. Rumours about his exploits had spread, rapidly escalating into ever more fantastic tales. It was said that it was impossible to kill him and that his immortality was a beacon that would summon men to his side to save England. In truth, his life was still hanging by the slender thread that the care of his followers had spun for him.
Torfida rushed to his side, but he barely recognized her. She could see the poison in his bloodshot eyes and immediately started to plan his recovery. Gunnhild and Estrith were hysterical and had to be comforted by Ingigerd and Maria.
Early the next day, heavily armed and fully provisioned, Einar led the group out of Glastonbury and into the Mendip Hills to find a hiding place deep in the wildwood. Torfida knew Hereward would not survive a winter on the run. She also knew that William’s ample purse would entice countless spies to divulge the whereabouts of any survivors of the English nobility or of Harold’s army, especially one as distinguished as Hereward.
Within forty-eight hours, a suitable camp had been established in the depths of the forest. A harsh winter would soon be upon them. Hereward’s prospects were not auspicious. Injured as he was, movement was difficult, exercise impossible. It would be hard for him to fight the infection, even harder for him to keep his lungs clear of pneumonia.
Under Torfida’s earnest directions, an elaborate programme began. All the adults took it in turns to lift, pull, stretch and bend him to keep his muscles supple, exercise his lungs and improve his circulation. His dressings were changed every day and his wounds cleaned. He had his own latrine next to his bed and a special diet rich in Torfida’s herbal remedies. Hereward began to improve but, as he did so, Torfida began to suffer. She worked endlessly, never seemed to sleep and began to lose weight. No amount of cajoling or berating from the others would make her rest.
By March of 1067, much progress had been made. Hereward’s life was no longer in danger and he was able to walk, even if his movements were laboured and painful. Perversely, to everyone’s dismay, as Hereward regained his vitality, Torfida lost hers. It was as if she were transferring her own lifeblood to him. When the family expressed
