Before Harold arrived in London, he went to Waltham Abbey to pray; it was a special place for the King. It contained the Holy Rood, a flint cross, found, it was rumoured, in an ancient ruin by a tenant of Harold’s in the Somerset village of Montacute. Two teams of oxen were sent to take the cross to Glastonbury Abbey but — again, according to local legend — the oxen refused to travel north and carried the cross eastwards across the whole of southern England to the ancient Saxon settlement of Waltham in Essex. Harold had built a fine church to house the relic and endowed an abbey and a community of monks. The church had been consecrated by Harold in 1060 and, since then, pilgrims had flocked from all over Europe to pray to the Holy Rood. Now, a king in a dire plight was one of them. He was accompanied by Edith Swan-Neck and spent most of the afternoon praying and listening to the plainchant of the assembled community. In the evening, Abbot Aethelsinge said a private mass for them at the high altar.
Harold thanked the Abbot and asked him to pray for him and for England.
Then, in the hoary light of a full moon, he headed for London at a gallop.
Harold and Edith were in Westminster early on the morning of 7 October 1066, where the King immediately called a Council of War.
Hereward, Alphonso and Einar were there with all the captains of the King’s housecarls — over fifty of England’s finest, bravest men. There were at least the same number of thegns and both Harold’s brothers, the Earls Gyrth and Leofwine. Hakon, the young son of Harold’s dead brother, Svein, was there, making the Godwinson family complete.
Harold had invited all opinions and viewpoints.
Leofric, Abbot of Peterborough, spoke first. ‘Sire, the situation is grave and news comes daily of the atrocities committed by the Normans. But I beg you to consider caution. Duke William has nowhere to go; his back is to the sea. If you take time to gather your forces, you could outnumber him on a substantial scale.’
Esegar, Sheriff of Middlesex, spoke next. ‘William the Bastard’s wickedness knows no bounds. He carries the Pallium of Rome, but he is despoiling it with the blood of the Saxons. Word will soon filter back to Rome and he will lose all support in Europe. He is making a noose for his own neck.’
Godric, Sheriff of Fyfield in Berkshire, suggested a more subtle tactic. ‘Gather your forces on the North Downs, or at Penshurst on the Medway; send small units to harass his army and lay waste to the entire hinterland, forcing him to come north to meet you. In a month’s time you could have a fully armed and prepared force of eight thousand housecarls and twice that number of fyrdmen.’
Earl Gyrth was the last to speak. ‘Godric speaks well. The advice you have heard today, my noble brother and Lord King, is sound. Let me lead the raiding parties. Give me Hereward of Bourne as my second-in-command and we will make life miserable for the Normans and buy you a month to build the greatest army England has ever seen. Do not rush to battle, my brother.’
The King cast a glance at Hereward before he responded. Hereward’s nod in return indicated that he concurred with what had been said. Harold rose slowly and looked around the Great Hall of Westminster before speaking. He looked into the faces of the assembled men; there were over a hundred.
Finally, he spoke.
‘My lords, abbots, sheriffs, thegns of England, brothers in our common cause, I am grateful to you for your wisdom. I have been king for barely three seasons of a year, but already I am at a crossroads in our history. We have repelled Hardrada at Stamford Bridge, but now we are to confront an even greater threat. The people of England stand on a precipice between ignominy and glory. We have had a Roman Age in this land; we have had the Age of Alfred and the West Saxons; we have had the Age of the Danes. Now we have the chance to create an era that many of my predecessors have yearned for: an English Age for all the people of these islands, be they Saxon, Dane or Celt.
‘Hardrada tried to wrest that opportunity from us; but his daunting frame lies at rest in its shroud, soon to be consumed in a Viking funeral in his homeland. Now another stands in our way: William, Duke of Normandy. He wants this land, not to lead its people, not to protect them or cherish their culture and their traditions, but for himself, to feed his greed and lust for power. I have met this man and ridden into battle alongside him. This is not a man anyone would choose as their Lord. He is vain and capricious, ruthless and cruel. He will murder and maim our people, strip them of their lands, confiscate our abbeys and monasteries and abuse our women. He is an ungodly creature and every moment he spends on English soil is an abomination. We must not delay. This crossroads for our people is lit by a beacon and it lights the way to Pevensey. That is the road we must take. And we must take it without delay!’
