The Last Housecarl

First published by Silverwood Press 2009
The right as the author of this work has been identified and asserted in accordance withr The Copyright Design and Patent Act 1988

The Last Housecarl

Battle Hill, near Hastings. England. 14th October 1066

‘Hell found me atop that bloody hill,
And French Knight’s, hostaged me to fate.
Lord our saviour, deliver me,
From enemies filled with hate.
My knees are unstrung torn weary from the fight.
Lord my saviour, honour my last right,
take pity upon your soldier,
make this, my last fight.
Why have I been abandoned to live?
I, with no more love to give.
When clemencies abound take mine,
and let the next man live.’ James’ recited the last soldier’s prayer in a whisper as his body lay ruined, and ignoring the pain in his hand he turned a prized bright green jewelled stone over and over between broken fingers.

His chest boiled to a wound inflicted from the sword of a French Knight. Blood bubbled freely from its surface. The stump of his right arm, secured in a tourniquet, bled dark clots into dirty rags used to dress it.
He remained determined to hide any trace of fear from his captors.
"I am a Housecarl," he whispered. A Nobleman’s Warrior. The King’s own Captain of Warriors." He smiled, resigned to his fate and looked into the dark eyes of the Conqueror.

The Conqueror pursed his lips and looked sideways at him in judgement. “You are James?”

James nodded.

“Captain and first Housecarl to Harold Godwinson?”

“I am, Lord.” James stiffened. A spasm wreaked havoc through his body. He felt William’s eyes study him.

“Is it true? The Royal Housecarl’s. Do they make a blood oath to die in defence of their King?”

“It is true, Lord.”

“Hmm.” William sighed, deep in thought. “A brave man, your King…I will have you tell me of his final moments. I will know it all.” He turned to one of his servants. “Bring him water.”

His cold face dissolved, and James noticed the first flicker of weariness in the Conqueror’s expression. He thought of Harold, and of his men.
He cleared his parched throat and coughed blood. “I will, Lord. I am but a humble Housecarl and my words are simple things. Yet my account is equal in its gravity to any Greek Iliad.”

The corner of the Conqueror’s eyebrow climbed up his forehead. “You know the Iliad’s? Then you are no common soldier.”

James stared beyond the Conqueror at the tapestry walls of his captor’s temporary royal enclosure. “I will tell you, Lord, of the bravery of my men, of their loyalty and devotion without reward, and of the glorious moments, of the last English King.”

William, the bastard Duke of Normandy, turned and he too stared at the tapestries that adorned his royal enclosure.” In your own time. Captain of Housecarls.”

James took a deep breath. “Like the Iliad’s, we fought in the shade of thousands of arrows and, like The Spartans we were past caring. Our shield wall had crumbled and the last of our men stood huddled at the top of the hill. We cursed at the approaching charge of French Knights...”

************

“Surround and protect your King!” James shouted his orders to the remaining Housecarl contingent. The Royal bodyguards, their numbers decimated, stood no more than twenty in number, and closed ranks. They formed a wall of shields and horses around Harold, determined to honour the pledge of loyalty to their King.

“I will let my men see their King.” Harold pressed his charger forward.

James took the reins and nudged at his Kings charger with his own. Both horses snapped at each other.
“You, my Lord, will stop being a tit, and stay here.” James nodded to another Housecarl. The man turned his horse and began to canter along the crest of the hill.

King Harold's mouth fell open, and he stared at James. Then, a broad grin swept across his face. "Perhaps, only from my Captain of Housecarls might I accept such an impertinence." He clapped James on the shoulder and turned to his men. "There will be no more formalities, this day."

Arrows continued to rain down into their shields. James watched the Housecarl reach the end of the remaining English infantry lines, untouched. His square set jaw and resemblance to King Harold remained uncanny. They cheered him and waved. Edward, the eldest of the Royal Housecarl regiment exchanged a little banter with men who knew they were about to die. He turned his mount and began his return.

James watched the trajectory of a lone arrow; detached from the others, it began a slow descent toward the Housecarl. At the last moment, Edward looked up toward the incoming threat as it buried itself into his face. James looked on as Edward rocked back, forth and to one side. Edward screamed.
The remaining foot soldiers saw it too and they groaned. At the bottom of the hill the French infantry and cavalry saw it, and a ripple of cheers echoed through their ranks.
James watched on in awe as the man regained control and cantered back to the Housecarl encirclement. An arrow protruded deep from within Edwards’s blackened eye socket and blood covered his face.
Peppered by a wave of arrows, the front legs of Edwards’ horse, collapsed. The Housecarl fell forward and landed near James’s feet sending up sods of blood stained mud and turf. The Housecarls gathered the injured man into the centre with their king.

Harold took hold of his Housecarl and in his arms he cradled the mans head and shoulders. “My King.” James heard Edward whisper. “I regret to inform you that I appear to have lost an eye.”
The King smiled, “My God, Sir, but I hadn’t noticed. However, does not one eye remain true?
Edward smiled and fought through his pain as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, “It does, sir, and I beg to report that the enemy may be upon us. This is our hour."

The arrows stopped falling. For a few moments James thought he heard birdsong rising over a distant tree line. Then the ground began to vibrate. James glanced around his shield and down the hill. A wall of snarling, foaming, horse borne death began to charge up the hill toward them.

He noticed his King, turn in his saddle. “My loyal Housecarls, England’s blood flows down this hill. As mine will soon mix with yours; know this…I promise in the presence of our Lord, that today we die defending our own soil, as brothers. We will stand at the feet of St Peter, and the gates of heaven will open.”

“I’m English. I piss on heaven. Give me a whore and a warm blanket any day.” One of the men countered.

The King laughed with them all. “Thomas, you never were a God-fearing man.”

“My Lord King, I know nothing of frigid angels, nor pious merchants shaking in prayer. So let the French have Heaven, and leave an Englishman to get drunk and lead his horse, through Hell!” Thomas raised his sword in the air and howled like a Berserker.

The King continued to smile. “I can only imagine the dread in the minds of those Knights. They charge toward us and see us speared with arrows. Yet in the face of death, we laugh at them.”

The hooves of the French chargers crested the hill. James saw them raise their swords and press their horses to further speed.

“My Housecarls, they are upon us. Our bones will bleach this hill of England, and our blood will cover them in shame. With me my brothers, this day, we will drink a toast of Kentish ale. In paradise!”

The French Knights fell on them, slicing, cutting and thrusting. The Royal Housecarls wreaked bitter havoc and held them off. The first French Knights rode past, not one remained uninjured. They slowed their horses. On the turn, the remaining infantry soldiers threw their bodies onto the swords of the Knights and sacrificed their numbers to cut them down.

Another wave of Knights charged. Armed with Lance and mace, they skewered the Housecarls, carrying several forward like speared fish. The Knights behind charged the thinning line again, with the sword.

James saw his King fight as a man possessed of evil spirits. He cut, slashed, and parried. However, a French Noble, dressed in red lacquered armour drew his sword arm high in the air for the killing blow. James saw the danger and charged forward, he raised his sword arm to parry the strike. The Frenchman’s sword dropped and swept with practised skill and James’s arm spun in the air severed high above the elbow, showering them all with blood.

King Harold looked to his first Housecarl and smiled. With their horses buckled, and their knees unstrung by axe and mace, horse and man embraced, and fell to the ground.

Dazed by the impact, James lay in a pool of his own blood, his mind fogged with tunnel vision. French knights dragged the king to one side and surrounded him. In a frenzied bloodlust they disembowelled and gelded him, and finally beheaded him. At James’s side lay his Kings sword. Its damaged hilt still housed a green emerald stone, a gift from his Queen. James picked at it until the stone dislodged and in his good hand he clenched it. A shadow fell across him, and he looked up. A French Knight grimaced over him and spittle drooled from his mouth. With a low growl, the French Knight drilled his sword into James’s chest, as James plunged his Kings sword upward and into the French Knights groin.

*****************

The Conqueror placed a hand on James’s shoulder. So, your King did not die to the arrow?”

“No Lord. He did not. He died fighting.”

William took a deep breath and exhaled, hard. He looked away in thought.

“It is done, Lord.”

William bowed his head.

“What will happen to my people?”

William looked toward his silent Sergeant at arms. “They are mine now, your people…I will take stock.”

“Gods scorn on all men governing. Some talk of freedom, while we die like lions to keep ourselves in chains.” James whispered.

William smiled. “Yes, indeed.”

“You will deliver us into the hands of new unhappy Lords; men without honour, who dare not carry swords. Some will be pure, most will be vile and none will take heed of us. They will look upon our labours with alien eyes, as men look at flies. Lord, smile at us, pass us and smite us. But do not quite forget, that we are the people of England; and we have not spoken, yet.” James exhaled and his body relaxed. His hand loosened its grip on the green stone. It rolled on the dirt floor and stopped at the foot of the Conqueror.

For several seconds William the Conqueror stared down at it, then at the lifeless body of the soldier. Then, he swept his hand over the glazed empty eyes of the Housecarl. “Go to your last English King. Do what you English do best, drink, fight and make merry with your women. You have earned it. For my part, I shall offer prayers in thanks and deliverance. This land, my land, will know the names of the warriors, at the blood lakes, of Senlac Hill.”

Saddened, William caught the eye of his Sergeant at arms.

“My Lord." The Sergeant hesitated…"Shall we at least give this English warrior, a proper burial?”

In silence William studied the hanging tapestries. An idea sparked to life in his mind. He looked into the nervous darting eyes of the man sitting across from him, “Do you think there are more like him, on this island?”

The Sergeant snorted. “Oh yes, my Lord. They are all as stubborn as him. The English will always bring a stick to a sword fight. But you wouldn't want to force one into a corner."

For a few moments, the Conqueror considered his Sergeants’ response…“Good, then this land, my land, will be safe for a thousand years...For the greatest commodity of this island, will be its people. So, yes, lest he rise up and conquer the world, for I fear his descendants will do so anyway...Bury him, and do it well.”

The final words of the housecarl are taken from a poem by GK Chesterton, The Secret People.