5

William I: A Conquering King, Normandy and England, 1035–66

As the body of William the Conqueror was carried into Caen, the crowds pressed close around. His destination was the abbey church of Saint-Etienne, long William’s favoured religious foundation. Yet as the king’s remains entered the city, fire broke out, panicking the onlookers and disrupting the procession. This would not be the only mishap to beset this event. Once within the abbey, Mass passed uneventfully enough, followed by an eloquent sermon by Bishop Gilbert of Evreux. But as the time came to inter the body, a local layman jumped up and complained that the land on which the church stood rightly belonged to him, having been seized by the duke a quarter of a century earlier, at the time of the abbey’s foundation. Keen to avoid further embarrassment, the officiating clergy swiftly paid the man off. Yet even so, the problems continued. For as they came to lower William’s body into the grave, they found that the sarcophagus was too small. The torso of the duke’s corpulent corpse now ruptured, letting off a terrible stench.1

This was an inglorious end – deservedly so, at least according to some. For William had made a career out of terror. In a violent age, the Conqueror stood out. And even sympathetic writers were troubled by the ill omens which punctuated his funeral. God-fearing men were meant to die peacefully and be buried in pomp. William’s demise had been painful and protracted, and his funeral a comedy of errors. The earth was said to open up to welcome the remains of saints; its rejection of William left little doubt that he was a sinner. Even in death, William was a figure of conflict and controversy. The emotions he stirred reflect the scale both of his achievements and of the sacrifices these demanded.


William’s stern demeanour was a product of his upbringing. After nine decades of peace and prosperity, Normandy had been thrown into disarray in 1035 by the sudden death of William’s father Duke Robert I, the second son of Richard II, while on a pilgrimage. The result was a crisis reminiscent of that of the 940s. Centrifugal tendencies developed, with local lords seeking to establish their own independent domains. Jealous neighbours also exploited the uncertainty, carving up parts of Norman territory.

One of the problems was that William was the child of an informal union. Already in his lifetime, he seems to have been known as ‘the bastard’; and legends would develop around this, presenting William as the son of an elicit liaison between Duke Robert and the daughter of a simple tanner. We must put these to one side. The Old French bâtard did not designate a child born outside wedlock (a bastard in the modern sense), but rather the child of a mésalliance (an unequal union, typically between a nobleman and a woman of lower standing). In William’s case, it just meant that his mother was the daughter of a tradesman or minor aristocrat (there are grounds to believe that her father was an undertaker).2 Under normal circumstances, a bastard would not be first in line for inheritance. But such children could – and did – step into the breach.3 This had happened in the case of Richard I in 942, without any lasting consequences for ducal power and authority; William was set to do the same. The bigger problem was William’s age, much as it had been with Richard in 942. For at the time of Robert’s death, William was no more than eight and perhaps as young as six. There had already been signs of instability in recent years; the accession of a child served to exacerbate these.

We should not underestimate the effects of acceding at such a tender age. William grew up in a world in which violence and betrayal were endemic. Friends proved fleeting, and even family members could not be counted upon. In the duke’s earliest years, others ruled on William’s behalf. But c.1040 two of these guardians were killed in a first wave of violence. The next two years saw much instability in the duchy, and only in 1042 are there signs that William was starting to emerge from the fray, with the reins of power firmly in his own hands. The Truce of God, a movement designed to limit aristocratic violence by having laymen swear to refrain from violent acts on certain days, was now instituted in the province with ducal support. The Truce was popular in northern France and the Low Countries, and its introduction was clearly a response to recent upheavals. Then c.1043 comes William’s first recorded military activity, the capture of Falaise from Thurstan Goz, the viscount of Avranches. Falaise was an important ducal residence – it’s where William himself had been born – and its retaking was symbolic of the court’s new-found power and authority.4

Respite, however, proved brief. Only a few years later, a more serious rebellion was launched by William’s cousin Guy of Brionne. Guy may have had designs of his own on the ducal throne, and his rebellion was a response to William’s growing assertiveness. Despite some initial success, Guy and his associates were decisively defeated at Val-ès-Dunes outside Caen in 1047. Later Norman sources make much of William’s prowess in this connection, but our earliest account assigns most of the credit to the French king Henry I, who rallied to William’s aid. William had formally requested Henry’s assistance as his feudal lord. And as Henry had little to gain from instability on his northern frontier, he was more than happy to provide it. The following years saw much further cooperation between duke and king.

It’s at this point that many of William’s closest friends and associates begin to appear in the sources. From the mid-1040s, for example, William fitz Osbern, Roger de Montgomery and Roger de Beaumont start to attest ducal charters, giving a flavour of the kind of political alliances William would cultivate in his mature years. And in 1049, his half-brother Odo was appointed bishop of Bayeux. Odo was the son of the Conqueror’s mother Herleva with her second spouse, Herluin de Conteville (a further sign that Herleva was not the lowly tanner’s daughter of later legend). Odo was at most in his late teens, and can scarcely have been prepared for the spiritual and pastoral duties of the post. But the move served to strengthen William’s hand in the duchy’s second city, in a region in which ducal authority had often been weak – and this is what mattered.

William was not the first Norman duke to exploit the Church in this manner. Richard I had appointed his younger son, Robert, to the archbishopric of Rouen in 989; and when Robert died in 1037, William’s regents had appointed his uncle Malger (a son of Richard II) to the post. William was now extending the policy to Bayeux in the western half of the duchy. This was the sort of politically motivated appointment that later reformers would reprove. But no complaints were raised at the time – or if they were, they were ignored. Odo himself went on to cut a distinctly secular figure within the Norman episcopate. He continued with his aristocratic lifestyle and would participate in William’s conquest of England, including participating in the Battle of Hastings.

With internal politics settled for the time being, William was in a position to begin looking to relations with his neighbours. In 1049, he took part in Henry I’s campaign against Count Geoffrey of Anjou. Two years later, Geoffrey retaliated in kind, securing the castles of Domfront and Alençon, which straddled the frontier and were held by the Bellême family (who had decided to throw their lot in with Geoffrey). William responded to the threat in person, laying siege to both castles. At the latter, the defenders are said to have taunted the duke by beating animal skins over the rampart and shouting ‘pelterer’ – an allusion to his humble origins. This was the start of the legend that Herleva had been born of a tanner. The original joke, however, was more subtle: as an undertaker (or embalmer), Herleva’s father had dealt in (human) skins.5 The point was not lost on William. And when he took the castle, he exacted a gruesome revenge: the hands and feet of thirty-two of the defenders hacked off in public sight. As soon as they caught wind of this, the defenders of Domfront were quick to submit. It was also in these years that William wed Matilda (c.1050), the daughter of Count Baldwin V of Flanders. This meant that the duke was now related by marriage to the counts of Flanders, the main supporters of the English king’s foes, the Godwins.

Relations with England were of particular importance for the future. By the early 1050s, it was clear that Edward the Confessor would not have any children with his wife Edith. In response, Edward began to break with Edith’s family, assisted by a number of Normans and Frenchmen who’d probably come over in his entourage in 1041, most notably Robert of Jumièges and Ralph of Mantes. Duke William must have been aware of these developments. Robert almost certainly passed through the duchy en route to and from the papal court in 1051 and may have taken the opportunity to raise the possibility of William’s succession to the English crown. It’s in this connection that we should interpret William’s visit to England in 1051, as reported in the D version of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. Some have suspected that the trip was a later invention, but the D text is a contemporary account for these years, and the entry was probably part of a larger (lost) West Midlands chronicle.6

If the early 1050s opened new possibilities across the Channel, soon more pressing matters claimed William’s attention. By August 1052, King Henry of France had formed an alliance with the same Geoffrey of Anjou he’d fought against with William three years earlier. This was a troubling development, for the Norman duke and Angevin count were old enemies. Sensing weakness, William of Arques, a leading Norman viscount, now took the opportunity to rebel. William of Arques was the duke’s uncle, a brother of Archbishop Malger of Rouen. He had been a staunch ally of the Conqueror in his early years, and the rebellion probably reflects frustration at the promotion of new favourites at court (men such as Roger de Montgomery). Whatever the precise grievance, Geoffrey was quick to rally to the viscount’s cause. King Henry’s motives are harder to divine, but probably relate to William’s own growing stature and ambitions on England. As events would reveal, there was little to be gained for the king of France if one of his dukes were to secure the English throne.

In response, Duke William moved swiftly to besiege his uncle’s castle at Arques, which had recently been constructed. Once there, he successfully beat off a relief force. The following year, Henry and Geoffrey returned in force, as part of a two-pronged attack. But Norman aristocrats put the second of the invading armies to flight at Mortemer, forcing the invaders to retreat once more.7

This was an important victory for Duke William. At Val-ès-Dunes, he’d only overcome the Norman rebels with King Henry’s support. Now, seven years later, he’d seen off the combined might of the king of France and count of Anjou. This left William in a strong position to extend his power and influence over his neighbours. One of the first targets was Guy of Ponthieu, whose sphere of influence lay to William’s east. Guy had fallen into William’s hands during the campaign, and the duke was now able to secure Norman influence over the county of Ponthieu. William of Arques’ lands were likewise redistributed amongst ducal supporters, while Archbishop Malger was removed from his post at Rouen and banished to Guernsey.

Three years later (in 1057), Geoffrey and Henry resurrected their alliance. Combining forces, they marched through the Hiémois and into the Bessin in western Normandy, perhaps aided by the local bishop of Sées, Ivo. Thereafter, they followed the Dives to the coast, where they turned east towards Lisieux and the Pays d’Auge. The invasion seems to have been a face-saving exercise. Henry and Geoffrey had been humiliated in 1054; now they sought revenge. Duke William, however, was too wily to take the bait. He shadowed the invading force closely, waiting for the moment to pounce. As Henry and Geoffrey crossed the Dives at Varaville, the opportunity presented itself. Tides rise fast among the marshes of Varaville and this served to distract the king and count as they crossed. Meanwhile, William attacked their stranded rear-guard. Already on the other side of the river, Geoffrey and Henry could only look on helplessly as a significant part of their force was slaughtered.8

Victory at Varaville proved decisive. Although the invading force had been smaller than that of 1054 – as Norman sources acknowledge – it was the second time in succession the duke had seen off the combined forces of his most powerful neighbours. The message was clear: Normandy was not for the taking, nor William for the beating. This would be the last hostile invasion of the duchy in his lifetime. In the coming years, William was left to secure his south-western frontier largely unopposed. He arranged for the marriage of the Bellême heiress Mabel – whose lands straddled the disputed regions of Normandy and Maine – to his close ally Roger de Montgomery. In the process, he also secured the support of Ivo of Sées, Mabel’s brother. Since 1053, William had been kept occupied by domestic concerns. But now he could dare to dream.


With hindsight, the years between 1057 and 1066 look like the calm before the storm. Yet the impression is misleading. We may be ill-informed about William’s actions, but all the signs are of feverish preparation. The primary concern was securing William’s position to the south and west. In 1063, he arranged for the succession of his eldest son to Maine and the following year (or perhaps 1065) he led an expedition deep into Brittany. It’s hard not to see these acts as a prelude to the dramatic events of 1066. The Confessor was now an old man – older than any reigning English king since Ecgberht in the early ninth century. It was just a matter of time before the throne was vacated.

In his mid-thirties and fresh from victories against the king of France and count of Anjou, William was at the height of his powers. In taking Maine and cowing Brittany, he set the scene for an extended absence. It is telling that, at this time, he chose to designate his eldest son, Robert, as his heir. It was customary for Norman dukes to designate their successors during their own lifetime. But this normally took place in their later years, often once they were ailing. An exception was if they had a particularly risky venture planned. William’s own father had – fortuitously, as it transpired – designated William to succeed him before departing on pilgrimage to the Holy Land in 1035, from which he was never to return. That William should do the same for Robert in 1062 or 1063 – at a moment of severe illness, it should also be noted – is significant.9 Risks lay ahead, and William was hedging his bets.

William’s interest in the English crown may have been further stimulated by another event: the visit, probably in 1064, of Harold Godwinson to the ducal court. The precise grounds for this remain a mystery. Later Norman sources claim (rather implausibly) that Harold was sent by Edward to confirm earlier promises of William’s succession. More likely is Eadmer of Canterbury’s explanation of these events. According to him, Harold wanted to secure the release of his younger brother and nephew, who’d been sent to the ducal court as hostages in the early 1050s.10

Harold may have also hoped to make a pact of his own with William. In 1064, it was far from clear that the succession would come down to a two-horse race between Harold and William.11 Harold must have been aware of William’s ambitions. But a more immediate threat may have been presented by Harold’s own brother, Tostig (the earl of Northumbria). Though Tostig was younger (and poorer) than Harold, he enjoyed the favour of the queen and was married to Judith of Flanders, whose brother Baldwin was regent for the infant King Phillip I of France. It was conceivable that William might choose to back Tostig rather than claiming the throne himself, a move one imagines Matilda would have happily encouraged.

But whatever Harold’s plans, they went awry. His ship was blown off course. And upon landing, Harold was captured by Guy of Ponthieu, who only released him at Duke William’s behest. This changed the power dynamic between Harold and William. Rather than arriving as an equal, the English earl was in William’s debt from the start. In the coming weeks, Harold was taken on campaign to Brittany, probably as a show of strength, before William finally exacted a famous oath from him. Later Norman sources claim that Harold promised to support William’s claim to the English throne, as Edward had always wanted. They probably protest too much. But it’s clear that some sort of commitment was made, as Eadmer’s later account, which is otherwise very sympathetic to the English plight, also mentions this. So too does the Bayeux Tapestry (a work of English craftsmanship, albeit for a Norman lord), which refers allusively to an oath (Latin: sacramentum) sworn by Harold in this connection. It may well be that this was an oath of fidelity, perhaps in connection with an act of homage – an interpretation supported by the fact that Harold receives arms from William in the preceding scene of the Tapestry (and also in the account of William of Poitiers), much as a vassal would in exchange for his fealty. If so, this was a sufficiently ambiguous act to allow room for interpretation on both sides, as was doubtless the intention. From William’s perspective, Harold had become his man and now owed him absolute loyalty, if need be in support of his claim to the English throne. From Harold’s, he’d acknowledged William’s dominance without proffering any specific promises of future conduct.12

The year 1065 was a better one for Harold. After many years of unrest, the people of York rose up against his brother Tostig in October, providing the pretext for the latter’s removal from office. Harold probably had mixed feelings, but he was able to make the most of the fallout, building an alliance with Edwin and Morcar, the sons of Earl Ælfgar of Mercia. Even better, the Confessor was now ailing. Harold was clearly the power behind the throne, deputising for Edward in connection with the northern uprising. Slowly but surely, the obstacles were being cleared from Harold’s path. The consecration of Edward’s prize foundation at Westminster was brought forward to 28 December. But even so, the king was too ill to attend; and by 5 January, he was dead.

Harold’s chances were very good. His main potential domestic rival had been expelled from the realm, and he’d just successfully deputised for the man he hoped to succeed. Harold was king in all but name. Best of all, Harold was present in London when Edward died. This meant he was able to press his advantage, ensuring that the succession took place on his terms and arranging for himself to be elected and crowned the very next day – perhaps in the same service that saw Edward’s burial.13

The grounds for this indecent haste lay in the challenges Harold faced. Tostig may have retreated into Flemish exile, but he now angled for restitution (much as his father had in 1052), while Duke William and the Norwegian king Harald ‘Hardrada’ had their own ambitions regarding the crown. There were also threats closer to home, in the form of Edgar the Ætheling. Edgar may have lacked Harold’s wealth and connections, but his dynastic credentials were second to none.

All indications are, therefore, that Harold’s accession was rushed through in the hope of creating a fait accompli. He could ill afford to spend the next six months wrangling, so struck while the iron was hot. As the realm’s leading statesman, Harold was in an excellent position to do this. In the aftermath of Tostig’s fall, he’d supported the claims of Morcar to the Northumbrian earldom. Morcar was the younger son of Ælfgar, who’d long headed the anti-Godwin faction at court. By supporting Morcar’s claim, Harold made the best of what might otherwise have been an awkward situation, using his brother’s exile to secure the support of their traditional rivals. It may be in this connection that Harold married Edith, Ælfgar’s sister, who’d previously been married to the Welsh king Gruffudd ap Llywelyn. When Harold came to press his claims in early 1066, there was thus no-one left to oppose him.

By the time of his death, the Confessor may have come to accept the inevitable. Most English sources agree that the king designated Harold his heir (or at least entrusted the realm to him). Had he lived a few years longer, Edward’s chances of lining up Edgar as heir wouldn’t have been bad. But with the threat of foreign invasion and Edgar only in his early teens (at most), a more experienced set of hands was always going to be preferred.

While Harold’s succession may not have been a surprise, because it was a coup – and a brazen one at that – it raised serious questions about the new regime’s legitimacy. For William, this provided the excuse he needed. Whatever the nature of Edward’s earlier promises, William could now paint himself as the dead king’s rightful heir, snubbed by the ambitious earl of Wessex. Winter was no time for campaigning, however, so William put diplomatic wheels in motion. An early move may have been to get in touch with the pope in Rome. William was well aware that a hostile takeover would prove controversial, so sought wherever possible to undermine the legitimacy of Harold’s regime (and burnish that of his own). By securing papal support – symbolised by a banner, according to later sources14 – William might help to lend his planned invasion the air of a holy war. This was a fight against a usurper and oath-breaker, an enemy of God and man.

William’s case was helped by the fact that he’d been supportive of papal initiatives in Normandy in recent years. Since the early 1050s, popes had been making ever more strident calls for the reform of the Church, and William now positioned himself as a potential papal ally in England. Stigand’s irregular position at the top of the English Church hierarchy was grist to William’s mill here. The appointment had been roundly condemned by successive popes. Now William cast himself as a Christian Hercules, ready to cleanse England’s Augean stables.

As spring came, preparations ramped up within the duchy. On 18 June, William had the new abbey church of La Trinité in Caen, the prize foundation of his wife Matilda (and sister church of Saint-Etienne), consecrated. The duke and duchess were aware of the dangers of the coming expedition, and this was a further attempt to court God’s favour. Divine assistance would be as important as brawn (if not more so), if William were to prevail. In fact, Matilda and William gave their daughter Cecilia over to monastic life on this occasion. As the couple’s eldest daughter, Cecilia would normally have been reserved for an advantageous dynastic marriage; William and Matilda were willing to forgo this in honour of La Trinité.15 For a pious couple, these were not trifling matters.

In the spring and summer, William placed the government of Normandy in Matilda’s hands, securing the support of his friends and allies Roger de Beaumont and Roger de Montgomery. He also toured the duchy and its neighbours, securing the frontiers. Particularly crucial was the support of Guy of Ponthieu and Eustace of Boulogne. Neither of these was in the habit of helping the duke. Guy had only recently been subdued by William, in 1052, and Eustace was an old enemy of the counts of Flanders (who were now William’s relatives through Matilda), who’d recently backed his stepson Walter’s rival claims to the county of Maine against those of the Conqueror’s eldest son. Still, opposition had brought neither Guy nor Eustace any benefit to date, and the prospects awaiting them in England were too good to ignore. Supporting William was a win-win scenario. If the venture failed, it would serve to weaken a powerful neighbour; if it succeeded, Guy and Eustace would enjoy a share of the spoils.

Indeed, William’s perambulation of Normandy and its neighbours was as much a recruiting drive as a defensive measure. The duke had need of a much larger army than usual, and many of his leading barons required persuasion to commit to this. Much of the final army also hailed from beyond the duchy, enticed by money and promises of rich rewards. By the summer, William had secured the support of noblemen from Flanders to Brittany. Just as pressing as the need for men was that for ships to ferry them over the Channel. Here an enigmatic text known as the Ship List bears essential testimony. This is a list of the ships owed to Duke William, added into a manuscript in the twelfth century. It suggests that the duke had upwards of 700 vessels (of varying size and quality) at his disposal – a mighty fleet, by the standards of the day.16 There is every reason to believe the list is a faithful copy of an earlier document drawn up to assist in the muster.

Initially, the army gathered on the Dives, just north of Caen, in late spring 1066. Estimating the size of medieval forces is a hazardous business at the best of times, and here we are largely reliant upon Norman chroniclers of later years. Historians place William’s army anywhere between 7,000 and 14,000 men, with the consensus lying nearer the lower end of this spectrum.17 What’s certain is that this was an unusually large force – one fit for a king. What drew so many men to William’s banner? In part, it was his track record. The duke had twice seen off the king of France and count of Anjou in recent years; he’d also secured Maine and ravaged Brittany. Here was a man who could achieve anything, or so it seemed. Norman conquests elsewhere also played into William’s hands. In the 1030s and 1040s, William’s countrymen had been winning extensive territories – and even greater acclaim – in southern Italy. William was well aware of these ventures – indeed, William of Malmesbury reports that the duke was spurred on by a desire to match the exploits of his southern counterpart, Robert Guiscard.18 From a recruiting standpoint, these conquests showed that William’s venture might be risky, but was far from foolhardy. And if the stakes were high, the risks were worth it. England was one of western Europe’s wealthiest kingdoms. It boasted an increasingly centralised government, capable of raising massive volumes of taxation.

It was one thing to raise an army; it was quite another to get it safely across the Channel. The summer months generally have the best weather, but William was unfortunate. He seems to have made an initial attempt to cross the Channel from the Dives, probably right after the dedication of La Trinité. However, unfavourable winds drove the fleet east, forcing it to relocate to Saint-Valéry-sur-Somme in Guy’s county of Ponthieu.19 This was fortuitous, for Saint-Valéry offered a number of advantages over the Dives. It possessed a large natural harbour and lay much closer to English shores. Already, William’s earlier alliance-building was paying off.

The winds remained against William all through July and August, and well into September. Further efforts may, however, have been made to cross. The E version of the Chronicle reports a naval conflict, and a stray reference to the same event made its way into Little Domesday.20 Still, most of the army lay holed up in Ponthieu. Keeping discipline through these months of inactivity must have been an immense challenge; so, too, would have been provisioning such a large force.21 That William achieved this is nothing short of amazing – indeed, it was probably his greatest achievement of the year.

Harold knew of William’s ambitions and made sure to keep a close eye on his southern coast. It was impossible to keep the mustering of such a fleet secret for long; and news soon reached English shores. Here Harold already had his hands full. His brother Tostig had appeared off the Isle of Wight in late April, then proceeded to ravage along the southern and eastern coasts, before seeking shelter at the court of the king of Scots. With Tostig’s first foray over, Harold raised an army and fleet ‘larger than any king had assembled before in this land’, ready to meet William. This he stationed on Wight and along the southern coasts, where Tostig had made landfall earlier (and just opposite the site at which Edward had landed in 1041). Yet Harold had no more reckoned with the weather than had William. And as one month stretched into the next, provisions started running dangerously short. Eventually, on 8 September Harold was forced to disband the army, relocating the navy to London.

Yet scarcely had Harold returned to the Thames river metropolis than he heard troubling news from the North. Tostig had joined forces with the Norwegian king, Harald Hardrada, who held a residual claim to England as the would-be heir of Harthacnut. They had met at the Tyne, then proceeded to put Tostig’s old enemies Edwin and Morcar to flight, occupying the Northumbrian capital of York. In response, Harold undertook one of the great feats of medieval logistics. He raised an army and marched north at breakneck speed, reaching the enemy force at Stamford Bridge in less than two weeks – a pace of over 25 miles (40 km) a day! Harold caught Harald and Tostig unawares – their troops apparently didn’t even have time to don their armour – on 25 September and soon put them to flight. In the resulting slaughter, both Harald and Tostig fell.

But there was no time to rest for Harold and the English. For only two days after this stunning victory, the winds changed on the Channel, allowing the overnight passage of William and his men on 27–28 September. Ironically, the lengthy weather delay had played into the duke’s hands. He now found himself largely unopposed. He landed at Pevensey, then headed east to Hastings, where Iron Age earthworks afforded an element of defence. Here William set up camp, ordering the construction of a Norman-style motte – a raised earthwork topped with a wooden fortification – to provide further protection. Then William ravaged the surrounding countryside. In part, this was a matter of necessity. William and his men could not have crossed with more than a few days’ rations, so would have to live off the land. But it was also a shrewd tactic, designed to draw Harold into an engagement. Harold’s father hailed from Sussex and William was laying torch to traditional Godwin family lands. It was already late in the campaigning season and the duke was keen to bring matters to a head. If winter came, it would favour Harold and the native English, for William could scarcely provision such a force in hostile territory across the lean months.

Fortunately for William, Harold took the bait. After riding south to London, he raised another army. Elements of this may have fought at Stamford Bridge, but the bulk must have been fresh forces, probably drawn from the army disbanded a month earlier. This army then headed south, setting up camp close to the modern town of Battle, about seven miles (12 km) north of William’s army at Hastings. The scene was set for a show-down. Why Harold was willing to offer battle remains something of a puzzle. Battles were risky affairs at the best of times; and Harold could ill afford a loss. Perhaps the decision to strike at Harold’s ancestral homelands riled the otherwise composed king. More likely, Harold was hoping to repeat his success at Stamford Bridge, catching William unawares. Either way, the mistake proved fatal.

Harold and William joined in battle on the morning of 14 October. As in earlier months, William was keen to secure divine assistance – and just as keen to be seen doing so. He therefore began the day by hearing Mass, then bore relics with him into battle – reportedly those on which Harold had sworn his oath two years previously. Whatever the reality of Harold’s promises, this was a PR victory, which served to remind William’s men that God was on their side.

Despite the many accounts of the battle, our knowledge of its details remains patchy. None of the surviving narratives were produced by a combatant; and the two most detailed, those in the poetic Song of the Battle of Hastings (or Carmen) of Guy of Amiens and the encomiastic prose Deeds of William of William of Poitiers, were written some time later for an audience at the Norman ducal court. What’s clear, however, is that the forces were roughly evenly matched. Harold’s army was arrayed on a hill, probably the raised ground running through the heart of the modern town of Battle. This placed them at a strategic advantage against William’s mounted men, who might otherwise have had the best of things. There was, however, little else to distinguish the armies, tactically or technologically.22 Where William may have had a slight edge was with his archers. On the Bayeux Tapestry, the Normans have considerably more of these than the English, while later sources claim (rather improbably) that the English knew nothing of archery. It may be that Harold’s bowmen were still marching south from London when the armies joined battle, or that he’d struggled to recruit sufficient numbers in his haste. Archers are particularly effective against massed infantry; and, since Harold’s best chance lay in defending the higher ground, this left them exposed. Still, it’s unlikely that archery was the decisive factor in the battle. Thanks to their elevated position, the English were protected from the worst of the Norman bowmanship, at least initially.

William first sought to soften the English up with his archers. Then he moved his infantry forward to attack, but they made little headway against the tightly packed English shieldwall. William’s cavalry fared little better when they joined the fray, and were soon forced to retreat in disarray. William of Poitiers suggests that the Bretons led the flight, but the Carmen places the blame (more plausibly) on the Normans. There now threatened to be an all-out rout. Rumours spread that William himself had fallen, and discipline began to disintegrate. In response, the duke famously lifted his helmet and addressed his men, rallying them to turn on the pursuing English, who now suffered significant losses of their own. In formation on top of the hill, the English lines were all but impregnable; dispersed across the plain, they were now easy pickings for the Norman knights. According to Poitiers, this became the cornerstone of Duke William’s tactics. He and his cavalry twice more attacked the English on the ridge, then feigned retreat, before cutting their pursuers down on the slopes.

It was well into the afternoon and Harold’s men were tiring. Their numbers depleted, they became increasingly isolated from one another and vulnerable. It was now that the Norman archers began making serious inroads. Still, as long as Harold lived, the long-term prospects of the English remained good. The Normans thus pressed on, going (quite literally) for the kill. The decisive moment came with Harold’s death, at some point mid- to late afternoon. The cir-cumstances remain shrouded in mystery. Our earliest source, the Carmen, has Harold cut down by a Norman ‘death squad’ led by Duke William, Eustace of Boulogne, Hugh of Ponthieu and Robert Gilfard. And one of the two possible death scenes on the Tapestry may depict this. But it is suspicious that such senior figures should be directly involved in Harold’s demise, suspicions only deepened by the fact that Guy of Amiens (the poet) places his own brother Hugh among the group.23 By the early 1080s, an alternative – perhaps more accurate – version of events was circulating. This is the famous tale of Harold meeting his fate with an arrow in the eye, the tale still taught in most British schools. The first to record this is Amatus of Montecassino, writing within the Norman domains of southern Italy c.1080. Amatus’ text only survives in an early fourteenth-century French translation (and thus at one remove from the Latin original) and is often dismissed on this account. But the translation is quite accurate – the translator’s main interventions take the form of occasional glosses and omissions. What he does include demands respect. And this death scene, too, seems to be depicted on the Tapestry, though the section in question has been subjected to restoration.24

In the end, the fact of Harold’s death is more important than its manner. With the king dead, defeat became a rout – and here the Norman knights came into their own. Alongside Harold, two of his brothers fell, as well as a significant cross-section of the English aristocracy. Most importantly, the English army was prevented from regrouping. This was as decisive as victory could be in the Middle Ages. Little now stood between William and the crown he coveted.

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