07:00 14th October 1066 – Caldbec Hill, Hastings.

The air was cool and crisp but the sky was clear and the sun rose majestic to herald the new day as the army rose from its slumber. Sigeric stepped out from the tent he shared with his brother Godric, all around him his fellow housecarls were emerging from their tents, their movement quiet but determined. He lifted his iron helmet, settling it over his brow and adjusting the heavy nasal guard so it sat straight between his eyes. In his left hand he gripped his kite shield by the strap. Shaped in the new European fashion, it was longer than the standard round shields, offering better protection. In his right hand his Danish battleaxe hung low at his side, the cutting blade freshly sharpened overnight. A moment later Godric joined him, no words were spoken as the housecarls were unusually quiet, the forced march from the North and the battle of Stamford Bridge had sapped their strength. They now faced the deadliest cavalry in Western Europe – the Normans.

The brothers joined the mass of men as they headed towards the Hoar apple tree. Devoid of foliage, it was an ancient being that towered over the army and an obvious rally point. Sigeric could see the tents of King Harold and his brothers beneath the tree. Next to the largest pavilion the mighty Red Dragon of Wessex caught the morning breeze alongside the King’s personal standard; the Fighting Man, its gold thread catching the early morning light signifying its Royal occupant.

The housecarls came to a halt in front of the pavilions, keeping a respectful distance. For a long, tense minute, the morning was silent. Then, a single heavy axe blade began to beat a steady rhythm against a wooden shield. It was joined instantly by another. Before long, the morning air reverberated to a deafening roar as hundreds of axes and swords smashed against shields, the thunder of the vápnatak shaking the very ground beneath the old apple tree. The housecarls calling their generals and King to the fight. “HAROLD, HAROLD, HAROLD.” The men called as one. The heavy chanting continued, building the suspense as they waited for their leader.

Sigeric glimpsed movement within the royal pavilion. Then, the inspiring figure of King Harold Godwinson emerged into the sharp daylight, flanked by his two brothers, Gyrth and Leofwine. The Godwinson brothers cut an imposing presence; tall and broad-shouldered, they towered over the front ranks, clad in the finest glittering mail from the royal armouries.

The chanting died off as the faithful housecarls looked to their leader expectantly. “HOUSECARLS! Today we face another test, this one more deadly than Stamford Bridge. Sigeric and the army answered with a single, sharp crash of steel against wood. “Hold the shield wall at all costs!” Harold commanded, his voice carrying clearly across the ridge. “Do not be fooled if the Normans break and run. They mean to lure us out, to cut us down on the low ground where our wall cannot protect us.” The banging of axe on shield intensified, a wall of absolute assent. Sigeric felt his heart beating like a drum as the prospect of battle loomed once more. “I mean to throw these Norman invaders back into the sea, back to the dirt from where they came!” “UT! UT! UT!” the housecarls roared in response, the old tongue defiling the very idea of the Norman invaders on their soil. “GODEMITE!” Harold bellowed, raising his hand to the sky. God Almighty!

09:00 Front rank of the Saxon lines, Senlac Hill, Hastings

The legendary shield wall stretched the length of the crest of Senlac Hill. Ten ranks deep in places, it was the bedrock of the Saxon army. Sigeric and Godric were in the front rank as was customary for seasoned veterans of the household guard of Saxon kings. The brothers were shoulder to shoulder packed tightly with men they had fought and bled alongside for years in service to their King. Sigeric’s body ached. The punishing four hundred mile march down the length of the country had taken its toll, the heavy rings of his mail shirt pressing like lead against his bruised shoulders. All around him the line was weary and dead silent—every man knew today would be brutal, unrelenting work. He trusted the warriors flanking him without question. He had to, for the slightest fracture in the wall would mean disaster for the entire host. Sigeric looked to his front, the army stood on the prow of the hill and fell gradually away into a valley where the Norman army stood impassively, a mass of grey against the green backdrop.

The silence of the morning was shattered by the loud blare of Norman trumpets calling their men to battle. Answering horns echoed from the valley floor, and with a deafening roar, the grey host began to surge forward, rippling across the valley toward the Saxon line.

Sigeric felt the vibration in the soles of his boots course through his body. Duke William of Normandy’s archers stepped out, bows already strung, while behind them the heavy infantry and lines of warhorses began their slow, agonizing climb up the slope of Senlac Hill. “Brace!” the command rippled down the Saxon line, passed from veteran to veteran. Shoulder to shoulder, Sigeric and Godric leaned into the slope. They planted their boots firmly into the damp earth, overlapping the rims of their heavy kite shields until the front rank became an impenetrable wall of oak and iron. Through the narrow gap above his shield rim, Sigeric watched the enemy begin its ascent.

09:10 Front rank of the Saxon lines, Senlac Hill, Hastings

Arrows pierced the air like a swarm of vengeful hornets whose nest had been disturbed, seeking revenge. Sigeric crouched behind his shield absorbing each impact and keeping the wall intact for this was key if they were to survive this day. His shield arm was already aching as he tensed to absorb the unrelenting barrage of arrows. Beside him as always in battle was Godric who was crouched low behind his shield. Little was spoken at this point, the husecarls kept their concentration as their lives depended on it. All around him were men he’d fought and bled with for years, all weary as a result of the exertions of the recent battle at Stamford Bridge and the agonizing forced march south that followed.

Somewhere to his left he heard a pierced scream as an arrow found its mark. He was jostled as someone fell into him. They were so tightly packed even the slightest movement ripple down the line. In a moment of danger Sigeric briefly lost balance and he glimpsed the scene before him, arrows continuing to rain down on them and the invaders’ taunting cries carried on the wind. This was the moment they practised for. If a man fell in the front rank it couldspell disaster. Sigeric recovered his balance and his shield was up protecting the line. Behind him he heard a captain scream.
“PULL HIM BACK, PULL HIM BACK!” In a swift practised movement, the men of the second rank roughly grabbed the injured man and he was unceremoniously hauled back to safety and another man instantly took his place in the front rank. Order was restored. Sigeric breathed, chancing a look to his right and exchanging a glance with Godric who grinned at him.

09:25 Rear of Senlac Hill, Hastings

King Harold Godwinson stood passively behind the massed ranks of his housecarls. He was continually kept informed of events by runners giving indications of the Normans’ movements and how his men were holding up. He had walked the hill earlier and, in his mind’s eye, could see the disposition of the Norman forces. All he had to do was hold the ridge for the day and deny the Normans the route to London before help would arrive from the nearby shires. His faith in his housecarls was absolute, his fiercest fighting dogs had seen off the Viking scum and had performed heroically in the march south to where they stood today. Harold closed his eyes listening as the unrelenting arrows targeted his army. He tried to put himself in Duke William’s shoes. At some point he had to come up the hill – but when?

“Sire?” Harold’s eyes snapped open and he saw one of his captains in front of him, another breathless runner standing just behind. “What is it?” “We’re holding. There are but 12 men who have been pulled out of the front line due to injury.” “Is that it? By God the Normans haven’t found their mark yet. Christ be praised!” He turned to his brothers beside him and grinned, despite the torment of the last few weeks he felt the blood course through his veins at the prospect of drawing swords with the Normans. His brothers returned the grin. They were equally as thirsty for battle. Just then he felt the ground beneath his feet begin to tremble. Harold’s grin grew even wider as he looked at his brothers. “They’re coming.”

09:30 Front rank of the Saxon lines, Senlac Hill, Hastings

The arrows had stopped. Risking a glance, Sigeric looked over the top of his shield and saw the massed Norman ranks begin to move up the hill. Mounted knights and infantry moving as one up the slope. This was the moment the Saxons had been waiting for. He gripped his battleaxe vice tight in his right hand and breathed heavily, this was what he wanted, this was what the housecarls wanted. To get close to and kill the enemy with their battleaxes. He sensed an air of excitement as the men around him knew what was coming. “STEADY!” a captain’s voice boomed from behind the front rank. “Let the bastards tire themselves on the slope. Hold this wall, you dogs—hold for the King!” Sigeric glanced at the ground. It was wet and slippery and it would be tough going for the mounted knights before they reached the summit. He could hear them now, the Normans and their war cries as they came ever closer. The housecarls were deadly still, preserving energy and keeping the shield wall intact. He could hear the rhythmic pounding of the hooves, the terrified whinnying of horses as their riders thrashed them forwards. The cries of the Norman foot soldiers were audible now, pushed on by the mass of men behind them, a tide of men coming at the shield wall. “BRACE!” Sigeric instinctively pushed hard into the shield locking as tight as he could to the men to his left and right. He felt the man behind him get closer still to help absorb the impact. The noise was deafening, horses and men screaming as they approached the summit of the hill. And then the world exploded into splintered shields and the screams of the dead and the dying. The initial impact threw Sigeric back an inch, his boots tearing through the wet turf before the physical weight of the second rank slammed into his back, holding him upright. The front line groaned under the shock as heavy Norman shields and charging destriers smashed straight into the wall.

A Norman foot soldier, red-faced and gasping from the climb, lunged through the gap above Sigeric’s shield, his spear thrusting wildly for his throat. Sigeric caught the spearhead on the iron boss of his kite shield, deflecting the iron point harmlessly past his cheek. Pivoting, Sigeric swung his battleaxe up over his right shoulder. With a roar, he brought the heavy blade down in a brutal arc. The blade cut straight through the Norman’s mail collar and deep into his shoulder before the man realized what had happened. He screamed and fell backwards into the mass of Norman infantry behind him. “OUT!” Godric bellowed beside him, his own axe rising and falling like a butcher’s cleaver. “UT! UT! UT!” The housecarls answered as one and they set about their work with ruthless efficiency, despatching the Normans who crashed like waves on a beach only to break apart on impact. Sigeric’s world descended into a mass of blood and the screams of those around him Slowly but surely the Saxon line inched forward, pushing back the Norman advance. He lost track of time and of his brother as he ruthlessly despatched those in front of him. He could taste the metallic tang of blood on his lips and splatter on his face, his heart pumping with adrenaline.

Another Norman rushed in, Sigeric deftly side stepped the blade and the lunging Norman fell into the gap Sigeric had created. With a swift, practised motion a sword wielding Saxon standing behind Sigeric spotted the opening between helm and mail and impaled the Norman on his sword, drawing it back instantly allowing the dead man to fall to the ground. Sigeric stepped back over the dead Norman, blood covering his face, howling his defiance. Sigeric began to sense the dismay in the Norman ranks, the crazed and desperate stare in the eyes of the men he was facing. They had nowhere to go due to the sheer weight of numbers behind them creating a deadly press from which there was no escape.

“UT UT UT.” He roared his defiance against the invaders.

Another Norman soldier, his eyes white with fear, screamed as he stepped into the void in front of Sigeric who met his challenge by thrusting the boss of his shield into the man’s exposed face, causing teeth and bone to shatter. Stunned, the Norman dropped his sword allowing Sigeric a chance to strike at the undefended arm, severing it in full at the shoulder. The Norman dropped to a knee staring in disbelief at his severed arm the fingers still clutching his sword, blood pouring from the gaping wound. With a roar, Sigeric brought his axe back and over in a wide circle aiming at the soldier’s exposed neck. The Norman’s scream was cut off as the axe severed his neck and his head went flying, causing his lifeless torso to fall to ground and engulfed into the battle. Sigeric bellowed his defiance as the blood of the Norman hit his face and the familiar tang dripped into his mouth. He stepped over the body and for the first time that morning there was no one in front of him, no one to dispatch to their waiting god. Sigeric gripped his axe vice tight in both hands, aware of his breathing. His heart was pounding and his eyes were wide and glazed over as his bloody work consumed him.

After what seemed like an age, he sensed another mood change amongst the Saxon shield wall. It seemed as though the Norman press was releasing and the Saxons to his left and right surged forward with a roar. It was all so sudden, the men in front of him turned and ran. Sigeric stumbled and nearly fell over, but buoyed by the men behind him he surged forward to chase the Norman scum down the hill.

10:15 Rear of Senlac Hill, Hastings

Harold also sensed the mood shift before it happened. He could see the shield wall holding firm but then he heard the roars of triumph as the left and right flanks began to surge forward and scythe into the Normans. A breathless runner confirmed it just seconds later that the Norman had buckled and they were running for their lives. He kept his calm. This was a moment of danger. If they were to chase the invaders down the hill, they would lose the advantage and would be in mortal danger from the Norman cavalry.

“Order the men to hold their lines on pain of death.” He was decisive, the runner was away instantly. Harold looked at his brothers without a word. Both nodded and they were also away to marshal the Saxon flanks.

10:30 Front rank of the Saxon lines, Senlac Hill, Hastings

“Baceling scum, come back here and fight you cowards!” Sigeric and his fellow housecarls screamed insults at the retreating Normans disappearing down the hill. The men took stock. They were drenched in sweat and blood leaning on their axes for support. It had been tough going. All around them were the dead and dying, mainly Normans. Sigeric spotted a Norman crawling pitifully away, his left leg hacked away beneath the knee, oozing a bloody trail in his wake. The Saxon wandered over to the dying soldier and roughly pushed him over onto his backside with the heel of his boot. The Norman blinked and his eyes widened as he saw Sigeric standing over him, axe in hand. He tried desperately to crawl from the danger, but Sigeric swiftly killed the man with a crashing blow to his chest, renting his armour. He saw the life in his eyes extinguished and he lay still, joining the hundreds slain that morning.

Sigeric heard Godric call him and he looked up. He was standing away from the main Saxon line and pointing down the hill. The bloodied Saxon turned around and saw the extreme right flank of his army which contained the fyrd break formation. They were chasing the Normans. Sigeric cursed loudly. The fyrd were mainly farmers who were called up only in times of crisis – they were ill disciplined and lacked the martial skill of the housecarls who were famed throughout Europe. There was nothing he could do. Even as he watched, the fyrd screaming like banshees, reached the bottom of the hill and set about the straggling Normans with savage violence. The fyrd had lost all sense of discipline. They were oblivious to their surroundings as they slaughtered the fleeing Normans before ransacking their bodies for anything they could find. Godric gripped Sigeric’s arm. “Look, in the trees.” Sigeric’s gaze shifted beyond the killing to see that Norman cavalry was emerging from the treeline, perhaps two hundred strong. “Oh Jesus, they haven’t even seen them,” Sigeric breathed. He knew they were helpless on the hill. Even as he spoke the cavalry broke into a trot and within seconds they were cantering fast across the field toward the unsuspecting fyrd. There was a tall figure at the front of the charge slightly ahead from the others. He appeared to be powerfully built and leading the Norman cavalry, sword in hand. “William of Normandy.” Godric spoke his brother’s thoughts. William had a fearsome reputation across Western Europe and the housecarls had heard the tales of his exploits. The unsuspecting fyrd were still busy looting the Norman corpses, lost in their greed. “Look up you fools!” Sigeric shouted, but he was too far away to be heard. Even as he spoke the fyrd nearest the wood line looked up as the low rumble of the charging cavalry reverberated in the earth. Realising the danger they were in, the ransackers turned to run back up the hill, some still clutching their loot. The rest of the fyrd were now alert to the danger and joined the rush back up the hill. It was too late. The Norman cavalry was gaining fast on the men of the fyrd, the stragglers, the older or those weighed down with loot were the first to be caught up by the line of charging cavalry. Powerless to do anything, Sigeric and Godric could only watch as the Normans crashed into the fleeing fyrd, men were being scythed down and trampled to death beneath the hooves. Some of the quicker men having ditched their loot were now gaining the slope, turning, they began to form a defensive circle with spears at the ready. The Normans didn’t pursue the Saxons up the slope. Instead they picked off the remaining fyrd who had not been quick enough. Sigeric saw the imposing figure of Duke William lift his helm from his head and bowed mockingly up the hill, taunting the Saxons as blood dripped from his sword. Sigeric and the rest of the housecarls watched grimly as the enemy cavalry retreated and began regrouping. “BACK IN FORMATION HOUSECARLS,” the captains roared. Sigeric and Godric turned back and joined the rest of the Saxons back in line atop the hill.

11:00 Rear of Senlac Hill, Hastings.

King Harold digested the news of the ill-disciplined fyrds’ charge down the hill and damaging losses. He turned to his brothers. “Find two of their captains and have them hung for disobeying orders.” His voice was unwavering. “And Leofwine, you’re in charge of the fyrd for the next assault.” Leofwine grimaced, the fyrd had a poor reputation. “This will be it until the afternoon,” Harold muttered to no one in particular.

13:00 Front rank of the Saxon lines, Senlac Hill, Hastings.

“HERE THEY COME AGAIN.” Sigeric and Godric along with the resting housecarls were up in a flash, helmets replaced and weapons at the ready. The disciplined housecarls needed no encouragement, the shield wall forming of its own accord thanks to the rigorous drilling they’d received. Sigeric looked back down the hill and saw the grey tide of Normans once again begin their upward march. “ARROWS” The housecarls instantly took cover behind their shields forming the impenetrable wall that had held firm that morning. “WATCH OUT FROM ABOVE,” someone screamed down the line. Startled, Sigeric looked up and saw that instead of arrows being shot directly at the wall they were falling like lashing rain. Sigeric was quick on his reflexes and his shield raised over his head just as the arrows found their mark. He felt an arrow smack into his shield and saw more land all around him. Other housecarls weren’t so lucky. Sigeric heard the screams of those hit and felt a body fall into him, causing him to lose balance. The arrows had caused carnage in the disciplined ranks of the housecarls. Used to assaults from the front, this was alien to them. He felt a hand grab him, turning he saw the face of his brother Godric. “GET UP BROTHER, THE NORMANS ARE COMING QUICKLY” Realising the danger they were in, Sigeric was swiftly back on his feet, grabbing the man next to him to reform the line. The Normans were fast coming up the hill and the Saxon line although shaken and having lost many, was quickly reformed with the men alert to the danger. The arrows had stopped, presumably for fear of hitting their own men. Breathing heavily, Sigeric tightened his grip on his spear and pushed his body once again into his shield digging his feet into the churned-up ground. The attacking Normans were screaming their own war cries as they charged once more onto the shield wall. Sigeric admired their courage. Sigeric thrust his spear at the Norman in front of him, catching him in his exposed neck, causing blood to spurt from his artery, drenching Sigeric once again. The man’s eyes went wide with shock, his arms caught just as he was about to chop down with his sword. He went limp and fell back to be quickly replaced by another Norman stepping over his dead comrade.

The shield wall was locked again in a vast embrace with the Norman host, neither side able to deliver a decisive blow. The fighting was hard work, Sigeric was tiring. Eventually he was replaced as another fresher soldier swiftly stepped forward to replace him in the front rank. Catching his breath, Sigeric took stock of his injuries. He was aware of a large cut to his arm, which had been raked with a broadsword. His legs felt like lead and sweat poured down his face. “BEER!” He roared. One of the many camp runners came scurrying over bearing a horn of ale. Without ceremony, Sigeric drained the horn, ale dripping onto his chin. He ached all over, his eyes were wide and he panted, trying to catch his breath. A hand grasped his shoulder. He turned to see Godric next to him appearing to be uninjured, his eyes was alive with the thrill of the fight. “Are you well brother? Let us back to the fight?” Grinning, Sigeric grasped Godric’s other shoulder. “Always!”

Both men pushed through the Saxon warriors. Here and there were small groups of wounded soldiers propping each other up back-to-back. The Saxon ranks were dangerously thin, maybe three or four rows deep as the brothers made their way back to the line. Never before had Sigeric seen the line held so perilously thin. He sensed they were at the critical moment in the battle where all could be won or lost. “They’re running!” someone screamed. The Norman’s are retreating.” Sigeric was in the second row of the wall, pushing hard to support the man in front of him. He couldn’t see what was happening but he felt the pressure ease on the wall confirming the report. “The fyrd are going after them.” The housecarls groaned audibly. The whole shield wall was now in danger of disintegrating due to the lack of discipline displayed by the Fyrd. “HOUSECARLS HOLD YOUR LINES ON PAIN OF DEATH.” Grizzled captains fought to regain control of their charges. Sigeric needed no telling. Gritting his teeth, he pushed up to the front rank, helping them keep balance.

13:30 Rear of Senlac Hill, Hastings.

Harold was furious. The fyrd had once again chased the invaders down the hill and had suffered horrendous losses. What remained of the fyrd were now bruised and demoralised at the top of the hill, or dead and dying at the bottom. “How long until the Earls get here?” Referring to Edwin and Morcar of Mercia and Northumbria, who were even now gathering fresh militia near London. “At least a day Sire, the last despatch reports they’ve yet to leave London,” a veteran captain spoke up. “And the local militia?” “Fresh fyrd are now arriving from the surrounding areas. If we can keep them off the hill until nightfall we stand a chance.” Harold closed his eyes, it was early afternoon, he needed another four hours, five at most.

16:00 Front rank of the Saxon lines, Senlac Hill, Hastings.

Arrows pummelled the Saxon shield wall. The pressure was relentless. Sigeric’s arms ached with the constant stress of keeping his shield over his head. His legs felt heavy and he’d lost all sense of time as the screams of the injured pierced the air. He was jostled from all sides and the stench of death was heavy in his nostrils. Never before had he experienced combat like this, the intensity of keeping focus for hours on end and the menace from above was consuming him. The Normans had sent up fresh infantry to test the resilience of the wall, but Sigeric sensed the beginnings of desperation. For the attackers coming up the hill it would be even more exhausting. Sigeric was now back in the front rank, his axe sang as he went about his bloody work. The housecarls were standing on bodies. They were piling up as the shield wall refused to give way. There were no fresh housecarls, they were exhausted. “Harold has been struck!” Sigeric howled with anguish as the Norman battering ram cheered and pushed with renewed vigour. Sigeric had no time to digest the news. The men in front wanted his head and if now, not for Harold, but for his fellow housecarls he needed to keep his discipline.

Sigeric sensed once again the mood shift. He had trained and drilled with his men for years. They’d fought, bled and died together at Stamford Bridge. They were redoubtable and made of iron. He was forced to take a step back which turned into another and another. The Normans had the advantage and were pressing it home. He felt the men behind him slacken, no longer was a fellow housecarl supporting him.

He realised he’d lost sight of his brother; the fighting had consumed him to such an extent that he was losing his battlefield awareness. Sigeric remembered the promise he’d made to their mother, to keep a watch on Godric the younger by two years and he felt the sense of duty in that moment.

The shield wall was giving way under relentless pressure, the man to Sigeric’s left was pulled forward and hacked to death by howling Normans who were giving no quarter now they smelt blood. Sigeric was valiantly holding his own, a feared axeman he was determined to take as many Normans with him as possible if they were to lose this day. All around him was chaos, Saxon captains were screaming at the men to hold the line but all the while they were surrendering ground.

Just then the Norman wave parted and Sigeric saw to his horror a line of charging cavalry pounding through the partition straight at the shield wall. He saw the lead knights screaming and swords raised and they slammed into the Saxon line breaking it into two as they carried on into the rear ranks. Sigeric was sent flying by a charging horse, swatted away as you would remove a fly his shield was broken in two but he managed to hold onto his axe. He lay stunned, staring at the sky before a fellow housecarl grabbed him and pulled him away from the danger by the scruff of his neck. Grimly he knew the shield wall was lost; Normans were running amok all over the hill.

He scrambled to his feet, catching his breath a Norman charged him sword raised to strike. It was in slow motion, Sigeric parried the blow with his axe handle, he used the weight of his body to slam into the Norman knocking him off balance. He delivered a crushing overhead blow to the Normans torso causing him to fall to the floor lifeless. He was caught up in the retreat, he looked to his left and saw the still flying banners of Saxon kings but they were being swarmed by Normans, already cut off.

“The fyrd are routing, we need to retreat now or we’ll be cut off” A captain shouted over the din of battle. Sigeric was in despair, housecarls did not retreat, as the bodyguard of the King it was his duty to kill or be killed next to his lord but they were being forced back by the tide of Normans. He couldn’t see Godric, he knew he had been to his left so might be with the cut off housecarls defending the King. His mind was at peace with this, they were both housecarls and the only death worth having was in service to your King, if Godric were to die then it would be a noble and glorious death. The housecarls around Sigeric had formed a new shield wall, even in retreat they kept their iron discipline. Shield less, he joined the second rank as the small band of housecarls retreating from the hill in good order. Of the few thousand housecarls who had started the battle there were perhaps a hundred in the group he was in who were retreating from the hill.

Sigeric knew the battle was lost.

To be continued

© October 2026 Jack Harding