CHAPTER ONE
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De Wolfe Motto: Fortis in arduis
Strength in times of trouble
Year of our Lord 1066 A.D.
Late September
Pevensey, England
Through the mists of time, they came.
Thousands of men disembarked vessels that had brought them across the dark and rolling sea. These titans of war emerged from the surf astride war horses that breathed fire, with eyes that bespoke of their thirst for blood.
The Apocalypse, for the Anglo-Saxons, had arrived.
It was a cloudy day towards the end of the month of September when the transports of the Duke of Normandy’s fleet moored off the coast of Pevensey, England in shallow water with hardly a ripple from the waves that came in from the south. The sea spray was minimal, as was the swell, allowing both men and materials to be offloaded without trouble. Horses, who had suffered the uncertainty of a trip across the channel, were led off the ships by their masters, kicking up the water and jumping about, smelling the salt and the sea grass, eager to be on land where they belonged.
As the army came upon the shore in waves of flesh and bone and armor, setting foot in this land for the taking, a beachhead was set up so men could recover from the journey and prepare for what was to come. But they made no secret about their arrival; they had no intention of being covert about their presence. Thousands of men raided the countryside for food and anything else they could carry while their commanders, including the Duke of Normandy, huddled in tents and planned the coming incursion.
A military action unlike anything the world had ever seen before.
With their tactics, manpower, and superior weapons, the Normans had the advantage. Harold Godwinson, the King of the Anglo-Saxons, had been far to the north dealing with another attempted invasion by the Norwegians when the Normans appeared on his southern shore. The Normans knew this, of course, through their network of spies and mercenaries, so their appearance on the shores of Southern England had been no accident. This is what they’d planned for, making sure they were able to make it ashore without any resistance from Harold and his army. Now, they were here – and it was essential that they defeat the Anglo-Saxon army in a mighty display of their power.
A battle to end all battles.
Harold had an excellent army, however, which concerned the Normans, but they were also betting on the fact that many of Harold’s ranks were full of farmers and farm workers who needed to tend to their fall crops at this time of year. At least, that’s what William’s advance scouts were telling him and that was what the duke was counting on. While Harold would lose men to the harvest, William was bringing a massive contingent that was fresh and ready to fight.
And that would be Harold’s downfall.
After the first night on the rocky shores of Pevensey, William and his men moved on to Hastings and captured the town, where William began to build the first of many castles he would build in England. From that castle, the Normans continued to raid the surrounding area heavily, gathering supplies for their foray north into England. But that particular move came sooner than expected near the middle of October, only three weeks after the landing at Pevensey.
Word had reached the duke that Harold had marched his army at a crushing pace south and were nearing Hastings, prompting William to move his army out of the safety of Hastings Castle and head north to intercept the Anglo-Saxon army. About six miles northeast of Hastings, they came within striking range and on the night of October 13, William and his army formed lines because Harold’s army had been sighted by the duke’s scouts about ten miles to the north. It was time to take a stand and the Normans did, doing what they did best as they dug in and awaited Harold.
And that’s when Warwolfe was called forth.
Gaetan de Wolfe was the tactical mastermind that the Duke of Normandy relied on. An enormous man with black hair and eyes the color of polished bronze, de Wolfe set up the lines of men and weapons that would face Harold’s army in the morning. With his generals, men who had each earned great and crushing reputations on the field of battle, the front lines of the Norman army were positioned so as not to allow any room for mistakes or problems.
The lines were to hold, regardless of the situation, because de Wolfe had given that command and all further battle commands would come down through him and his generals, trickling down to men known as the Companions of the Conqueror. These companions were unimpeachable nobles from the finest families supporting the duke’s conquest. Although they were men of battle, they weren’t necessarily on the lines like Warwolfe and his men were. Even as there were two factions advising and fighting for the Duke of Normandy – the Companions of the duke versus his Angels of War – even the Companions, these great and noble men of battle, knew well enough to defer to the Anges de Guerre, led by Warwolfe himself.
Where Warwolfe went, destruction followed.
The morning of the 14th day of October dawned cold with a hint of rain blowing in from the south. Before sunrise and amidst the snicker of horses and the heavy smell of cooking fires, the cavalry mounted, including Warwolfe and his generals, and these ten great men were separated with the three distinct lines that de Wolfe had formed. Each man had specific orders to ensure the success of the day.
Men that would lead the charge against the Anglo-Saxons.
First into battle was Kristoph de Lohr, a Breton from Lohréac, who was the great motivator of men. He was joined by Aramis de Russe, of Flemish blood, who killed with his fearsome double-blades. Lancelot “Lance” de Reyne, a Breton from Morlaix, was a man that all men would follow, and Marc de Moray, former Sheriff from Rouen, was the master of the spear. Fearsome men who struck terror into the hearts of the enemy.
But there were more – Denis de Winter, whose bloodlines descended from the Visigoths, wielded the sword of his forefathers, l’Espada, with the power of the archangels. His friend and comrade, Luc de Lara, who, with his noble Spanish blood, was a titled lord among them as the Count of Boucau. He was an impenetrable wall of destruction. Kye St. Hèver came next. He was a nephew to the Count of Anjou and man they called “The Hammer”.
Finally, Téo du Reims, bastard son of the Duke of Reims, wielded his fearsome morning star, and Bartholomew Eni yn dda, or of Wellesbourne, was a Welsh mercenary from the ancient town of Wellesbourne and the man all men feared.
These were the Anges de Guerre, men who had served with de Wolfe for as long as anyone could remember. Each man was a cog in a bigger wheel, men who fought together as seamlessly as the rain blended with the clouds. All of the men were leaders but there were those that took more easily to command and those who simply wanted to fight – de Lohr, de Winter, and du Reims were those who commanded with grace and ease. De Reyne, de Lara, and de Russe also had the ability, but they tended to lead by actions rather than words. And the rest – Wellesbourne, St. Hèver, and de Moray – were pure beasts of battle. Nothing – and no men – stood in their way and lived to tell the tale.
It was a collection of knights the world had never seen before, all of them led by the greatest knight of all, the knight known as Gaetan de Wolfe. Norse and Breton on his father’s side, Gascon and Saxon on his mother’s, de Wolfe bore all of the fighting traits of those bloodlines as a man with no weakness and no faults, only glory. Descended from the kings of Breton, he had more nobility in him than even the Duke of Normandy, a man with whom he was particularly close. They thought alike, which was why William placed so much faith in his Warwolfe. He and Gaetan had fought many battles together, but none so important as the one they were about to face on this day.
Therefore, the Duke of Normandy and his Companion nobles were towards the rear of the lines as the Anges de Guerre set up the shield wall. Given that there were three distinct lines – one in the middle and then the right and left flanks, de Wolfe himself took command of the center line while de Lohr and du Reims took the left and the right, respectively. These were cavalry lines with the infantry in the front and the archers to the rear. De Winter, de Reyne, and de Lara had command of the three groups of archers while the rest of them – de Russe, Wellesbourne, St. Hèver, and de Moray positioned themselves up with the infantry. Those men would be the first to see action.
And with the final positions achieved, all they could do at that point was wait.
But the wait wasn’t long.
Harold and his army appeared an hour after sunrise, coming over the rise from the north and seeing the Normans dug in on an elevated position to the south. Seeing the thousands of men waiting for him, Harold deployed his army on a similar rise. The armies faced each other as the sun rose and the clouds, which had gathered at dawn, began to flitter away on the sea breeze.
Now, there was a blue sky and bright light illuminating both armies. De Wolfe realized as he watched Harold position his men that somehow, somewhere, the king had picked up fresh men. He could tell because they didn’t move like men who had just marched hundreds of miles from the north. There was some energy to their step. But he also noticed that, from what he could see, Harold had very few archers. Mostly infantry, some cavalry, and limited archers.
That would be his fatal mistake.
News of the lack of archers made its way back to Normandy at the rear of the lines along with another message that the Norman archers, as a result, were going to be used sparingly. The reason was obvious – when two armies face one another and rained arrows down upon each other, archers from each side would pick up those arrows from the opposing army from the ground and reuse them. With so few Anglo-Saxon archers, the Normans could use up their supply of arrows quickly. De Wolfe wanted to conserve ammunition.
The duke understood that but he was also impatient. He had a throne to claim and another property to add to his Normandy holdings, and he didn’t have much patience. He sent orders to the front of the lines for de Wolfe to begin the bombardment before the Anglo-Saxon lines were set and de Wolfe obliged.
Under fair skies and light winds, the Norman’s didn’t wait for Harold’s army to completely set their lines. The first strike was from the Norman archers, raining spears of death upon the unprepared Anglo-Saxon army and creating a good deal of casualties at the onset. Men panicked, ranks wavered, as the Normans charged with all of their might.
After that, it was bedlam.
Eight hours later
Whoosh!
The mace barely missed his head.
Into the eighth hour of fighting, de Wolfe was forced to nearly throw himself from his horse as a Saxon cavalryman in close quarters fighting hurled ten pounds of iron and death straight at his head. That didn’t please de Wolfe, not in the least. So once he ducked low and as the mace sailed over his head, he thrust his sword upward to block it, then used his free hand to grab it. But the Anglo-Saxon warrior wouldn’t give it up so easily and de Wolfe ended up driving his big boot into the man’s thigh to force him to release it. When the warrior faltered, de Wolfe used the mace and slammed it right into his opponent’s mouth.
It was enough of a jolt to cause the enemy warrior to fall forward, spewing blood, and de Wolfe used a dagger tucked into his tunic to stab the man in the back of the neck. The enemy fell off the horse, but de Wolfe didn’t care in the least. He was more focused on the horse, a fine animal, and he immediately claimed the beast as a spoil of war. He grabbed the reins and raced over towards the edge of the field where the priests and squires were gathered, all of them watching the battle and looking for opportunities to rush in to help their masters. One of de Wolfe’s squires, a young man with the surname of le Mon, took the fine Saxon horse as de Wolfe’s big, gray wolfhound barked excitedly. Restrained by the squire, the dog was forced to remain as its master whirled around and charged back into the fray.
Even though it was late in the battle and the sun was beginning to wane, chaos didn’t even come close to describing what they’d endured for hours upon end. Harold’s army had set up a significant shield wall that the Norman’s had difficulty penetrating. As the day headed into evening, de Wolfe knew that they were going to have to do something radical to break it. Harold’s army was weakened and to not capitalize on their weakness would be foolish. Little by little, the Normans had chipped away at the Anglo-Saxons but their mighty shield wall – literally, a wall of shields to prevent the Normans from dividing their ranks – had held.
The horse de Wolfe had confiscated was his reward after a second failed attempt to break through the shield wall. He’d killed an Anglo-Saxon warrior and stolen his horse, punishing the man for the fact that he and his brethren were so stubborn. At this point, the Norman archers had ceased altogether because they’d used up too much ammunition. So it was now a job for the knights and infantry, and the situation had deteriorated badly. It was only a matter of time now before the shield wall broke down, so de Wolfe went back to the lines, swinging his sword and trying to push through the wall of Anglo-Saxon warriors who had so ably held the line.
“Gate!”
Someone was shouting de Wolfe’s name and he turned to see Kristoph de Lohr pushing his way through the fighting. The man’s horse was badly cut in spite of the leather armor the animal wore, but Kristoph seemed to be whole and unharmed. Gaetan was glad; he and Kristoph were closer than brothers and he considered the man his best friend in the world. They’d fostered together and had been knighted together, and there was a bond between them that was stronger than blood.
Gaetan reined his charger towards Kristoph, the excited war horses coming together and snapping at each other until both Gaetan and Kristoph called the beasts off.
“We should have this shield wall breached shortly,” Gaetan shouted over the noisy clamor of men. “Where is the duke?”
Kristoph had to slug his horse in the neck to keep it from snapping at Gaetan. “I do not know,” he said, his sky-blue eyes visible beneath his great helm. “That is why I have come to you. You must come with me now!”
Gaetan didn’t want to leave the front lines but he knew Kristoph wouldn’t have made such a request without a very good reason. Looking around, he spied Aramis de Russe nearby, trying to use the weight of his horse to smash through the shield wall. The Anglo-Saxon warriors on the other side didn’t take kindly to that and there was a serious sword fight going on. Gaetan shouted at de Russe.
“Aramis!” he bellowed. “De Russe!”
De Russe’s helmed head turned in his direction as Gaetan shouted again. “You have command!”
De Russe understood that order all too well and he returned with renewed vigor to the shield wall. Confident the lines were in good hands, Gaetan spurred his horse after Kristoph, who was now racing for the east side of the battlefield, where the flanks were weakening. He caught up to Kristoph.
“What is happening?” he shouted.
Kristoph slowed his horse, but only so he could answer. “Some of de Lara’s men broke through the shield wall on this weakened flank,” he said, pointing out what Gaetan had been unable to see from his position in the middle. “There is some fighting going on back in the Anglo lines and one of de Lara’s men came back to tell me that Harold is dead. He saw him fall to the north, behind the lines.”
Gaetan was seized with the news. “Dead?” he repeated. “God’s Bloody Bones, let us not waste time. Rally the men! We will break through this flank and see for ourselves!”
Kristoph was already working on it. De Lara had already broken through the lines and Kristoph sent a man for Denis de Winter, who was the closest by location to them. Between de Winter and Kristoph, they managed to rally several hundred men, now pushing through the weakened flank like a great and unstoppable tide.
But Gaetan had already broken through, charging through the Anglo-Saxon lines, swinging his massive sword and slicing through anything that moved. If what Kristoph told him was true and Harold was dead, then Gaetan wanted the body. He wanted the prize to present to the Duke of Normandy, the greatest prize of all, like the Holy Grail of battle. It was what they’d all been fighting for and dying for.
He began to suspect that the rumor might be true when he was suddenly attacked head-on by a swarm of infantry, men rushing him with their spears and short swords. The charge slowed Gaetan down but it didn’t stop him completely. He grabbed a particularly well-armed soldier and yanked him up onto his horse, using him as a shield against others who were trying to impale him.
“Where is your king?” Gaetan bellowed, his hand on the back of the man’s head, entwined in his hair painfully. “Take me to your king!”
The Anglo-Saxon soldier resisted but, suddenly, Normans were everywhere, like locusts, and the Anglo-Saxon line began to crumble. Men were beaten back as more knights swarmed and Gaetan could see that de Winter and Kristoph were joined by de Moray, Wellesbourne, and several other lesser knights sworn to Normandy. The Angels of War had arrived and the tide of Normans pushed onward, towards the rear of the Anglo-Saxon army, only to be confronted by the encampment beyond and scores of Anglo-Saxon wounded.
They’d reached Harold’s rear.
This was where Gaetan had limited patience. He yanked on the hair of the soldier he still held. “Tell me where your king is,” he snarled. “Your lines are broken and my men will soon be destroying your wounded. We will destroy everything if you do not tell me where your king is. Tell me now!”
Gaetan spoke in the Anglo-Saxon’s language, something his bedslave, an Anglo-Saxon woman he’d purchased several years ago, had taught him. He was rather fluent in it so he knew the soldier could understand him. But the soldier struggled against him, quite literally fighting for his life.
“I do not know!” the soldier insisted.
It was the wrong answer. Gaetan’s grip on the man tightened. “Tell me or I will slit your silly throat and find someone else who will tell me what I wish to know,” he said. “Where is your king?”
The man didn’t answer him. In fact, he was trying to hurt Gaetan’s horse by kicking the animal in the knees as his legs dangled off the ground. Using that sharp dagger again, Gaetan held true to his promise and the dead soldier slithered to the ground with a mortal knife wound in his neck. Now, Gaetan needed another victim and he quickly spied one nearby.
This victim was smaller, lining up a bow and arrow on one of Gaetan’s knights. Before the arrow could fly, however, Gaetan grabbed the archer from behind and hauled him onto his horse.
“Tell me where your king is,” Gaetan demanded. “If you do not, you will end up dead like many of your comrades. Tell me quickly!”
He had the archer by the throat but the sound that came forth from his captive wasn’t that of a man. It was a female, now gasping in fear and anger as a Norman had her by the throat. She started to swing her fists.
“Let me go!” she demanded. “Release me or I will kill you!”
Frankly, Gaetan was shocked that a woman had been in the midst of the battle. It was enough of a shock that he stopped trying to squeeze her throat. “A female?” he said, sounding somewhat incredulous. “What foolish commander allows women to fight?”
She twisted violently and he caught a glimpse of her face; dressed as an archer as she was, including a cap, at a distance she could very easily be mistaken for a boy but now that he was close to her, he could see that she was no boy. In fact, her features were quite exquisite.
“I can kill you just as easily as a man can,” she hissed. “Let me go and I will give you a fair fight, poubelle.”
She’d called him rubbish in his own language, which was definitely an insult. She wanted to anger him. The trouble was that he found her challenge rather humorous.
“It would be a two-hit fight,” he told her drolly. “I would hit you and you would hit the ground. Now, where is your king? Tell me and I shall show mercy.”
“I will tell you nothing!”
“You are brave for a skinny little mouse.”
That comment seemed to infuriate her, which amused him. She was in a frantic state between terror and rage, but Gaetan had her over his saddle so that she couldn’t move very well and couldn’t get to any weapons she might have on her body. Every time she tried to rise, he would slam her head down again. The second time, he’d hit her rather hard and stars had danced before her eyes. The third time, he’d slapped her on the arse and she’d bellowed unhappily. Then came de Lara aboard his bloodied charger.
“Gate!” he shouted. “With me!”
A command from Luc de Lara wasn’t meant to be questioned. Gaetan tossed the woman over the side of his horse, listening to her grunt as she landed in a heap.
“Not this time, little mouse,” he told her, perhaps with a bit of taunt in his tone. “This time, you are spared. Remember Norman mercy the next time you intend to do one of us harm.”
As she sat up, rubbing her shoulder where she’d hit the ground, Gaetan spun his horse around and took off after Luc. Quickly, he reached the man’s side.
“Kristoph said that Harold has been killed,” Gaetan said. “Is there truth in this?”
Luc simply motioned to Gaetan to follow and the two of them skirted part of the Anglo-Saxon encampment to where a contingent of Normans stood in a cluster, fighting off Anglo-Saxon soldiers who were trying to get through them. It was clear that they were guarding something and Gaetan followed Luc as the man pushed through the soldiers only to be confronted by a man on the ground and several others standing over him. Luc dismounted swiftly, followed by Gaetan, and they pushed through the crowd.
“There,” Luc said, pointing to the man on the ground. “This has been identified as Harold Godwinson.”
Gaetan could only see the legs at that point. “By whom?” he asked.
Luc looked at the Anglo-Saxon soldiers who were trying to fight through the Normans to get to the corpse. “An Anglo-Saxon knight identified him to me right before he took his own life. I am not sure if he was a personal guard to Harold and failed at his duty to protect the man, but it is evident that he no longer wished to live in light of his king’s death.”
Extreme if not understandable behavior, Gaetan thought, but he wasn’t entirely convinced. He shifted positions so he could gain a better look at the body. It was of an older man, well-dressed and well-fed, but that was where any semblance of identification ended. There was nothing on the man that would give an indication as to who he was, no belts or vests or colors.
The corpse had an arrow shaft sticking out of the left eye and the face was battered in general, muddied and grossly swollen. The body looked as if it had been tossed onto the ground because it was lying in a strange position. All around it, men were still fighting. As Gaetan watched, someone even kicked the corpse in the head.
Enraged, Gaetan pushed in to stand guard over the body, broadsword in hand as he leveled it at some of the Anglo-Saxons who were trying to push through his men. But that action didn’t seem to do much because men were still struggling against him. So he reached out a long arm, grabbing the first enemy soldier who came near him. Snatching the man by the hair, he dragged him into the center of the circle of tussling men, pointing his sword to the battered corpse.
“Who is this?” he demanded to the man in his language. “Do you fight to regain your king?”
The Anglo-Saxon soldier was torn between panic and defiance. “He is not meant for you,” he said, spittle dripping from his lips. “Have you not done enough? Give him to us so that we may properly bury him.”
“Who is this?”
The soldier faltered, terrified. “Please….”
“Answer me!”
The soldier tried to speak but he vomited instead. Something spewed from his mouth, but Gaetan didn’t let go. His eyes narrowed. “I will ask you one question. If you do not give me a truthful answer, then I will kill you. Is this Harold?”
The man closed his eyes, trying not to look at the corpse, but Gaetan had him by the hair. When he yanked, the soldier seemed to lose whatever resistance he had left in his body. More vomit leaked from his mouth, so much so that Gaetan hardly heard his answer.
“Aye.”
That was all Gaetan needed to hear. He had the confirmation that he sought and he let the man go, watching him as he stumbled away. There was something triumphant in that softly uttered reply, that painfully spoken word. As Gaetan stood there with de Lara and de Winter, a great cry rose up as a charge of men suddenly swarmed around them, cavalry on horseback led by de Russe, Wellesbourne, St. Hèver, and de Moray.
It was clear that the Normans had broken through the shield wall. There were hundreds of foot soldiers with them as well as hundreds of men on horseback, all of them yelling and hacking and killing anything that wasn’t Norman. The wounded were being slaughtered and a hastily-erected encampment, set up when the Anglo-Saxon army arrived for the battle, was being demolished. The end of the battle was near and Normans, fed by exhaustion, could smell victory in the air, a mixture of blood and rot and the very earth they stood upon.
The earth of the country that would soon belong to them.
Gaetan could smell the victory, too. He watched the madness as the Normans swarmed and he could see many Anglo-Saxons fleeing angry Norman swords. The sense of triumph he felt was so great that it nearly weakened him, a complete sense of victory encompassing every bone in his body with relief and delight. Even the Anglo-Saxons who had been struggling around their dead king’s body in an attempt to claim it were running off, terrified they were about to be cut down. All around him, the army of England was fracturing.
“Victory, my lord,” Luc said quietly, watching the same retreat that Gaetan was watching. “This battle is over.”
Gaetan nodded his head slowly, his focus on the Anglo-Saxon withdrawal. “God was with us this day,” he said. Then, his gaze moved to the body at his feet. “And Harold is ours. God’s Bones, I’d hoped for this ending but did not truly expect it. Yet, the reality is before me. Where is Normandy?”
Denis de Winter was standing on his other side. “The last I saw the duke, he was fighting on the far right flank with du Reims,” he said. “I do not know where he is now.”
“Find him,” Gaetan commanded quietly.
As Denis headed off, Lance de Reyne suddenly emerged through the crowds of dying and surrendering men. He was leading his horse, who had a terrible gash on his left foreleg. De Reyne had been part of the charge that had broken through the shield wall and his horse showed the evidence of the difficult fight. Wearily, Lance came to a pause, pulling his helm off and raking a gloved hand through his dark hair. Exhaustion radiated off of him but, like a true professional, he refused to give in to it. He would remain strong until it was no longer needed.
“There are more nobles dead, Gate,” he said. “Two captured soldiers have identified them as Gyrth and Leofwine, brothers to Harold.”
Gaetan’s sense of satisfaction grew. “Where are they?”
Lance threw a thumb over his shoulder. “Not far from here,” he said. “They were among the wounded.”
“Executed by our men?”
“Trampled.”
Gaetan felt no remorse. Such were the perils of war. “Excellent,” he said. “Then there will be no brothers left to avenge the king and contest the duke’s throne. With Harold dead, William is now the King of England. We have accomplished our goal, good lords. Take satisfaction in your success.”
It was a simple statement but one of great impact. The first true battle that Normans had faced against Harold Godwinson on English soil had resulted in what they’d hoped for but hadn’t truly expected. Such a complete victory could have only been supported by God. At least, that’s the way Gaetan looked at it.
Even so, he knew there was much more to do before the battle was officially over and the prize at his feet was something that needed to be protected. He motioned to Luc and Lance.
“Wrap him up and return him to camp,” he said. “I want one of you to remain with the body. It is too important to leave unguarded. Meanwhile, I will find Normandy and tell him of our great prize.”
Luc and Lance nodded and began to tend to the body, looking for some section of cloth or tunic left upon the field of battle to wrap him up in. Luc, seeing the squires and priests hovering over near the edge of the battlefield to the east, sent a soldier running for one of the priests that had been following the Anges de Guerre, a fighting priest known as Jathan. He was a big man, with a crown of red hair, and he managed de Wolfe’s squires and pages as well as served in a religious capacity to all of de Wolfe’s knights. These days, men accomplished many tasks in the service of Warwolfe and Jathan had proven himself a valuable asset.
Gaetan noted that his priest and two squires, including le Mon, were heading in his direction but he was more interested in mounting his horse and finding the duke. As he swung himself up into the saddle, he began to look around, making note of his men as he could see them. Although the battlefield was a vast place, it was his usual habit to take a head count of his men to ensure they were all whole and sound. They had all attended many battles together and, by the grace of God, had emerged unscathed. Gaetan, a particularly religious man, said many a prayer for such blessings.
De Lara, de Winter, and de Reyne were accounted for. He had seen de Moray, Wellesbourne, St. Hèver, and de Russe as they continued to move through the destroyed Anglo-Saxon lines, subduing pockets of fighting. Du Reims was the only one he hadn’t seen because he was somewhere off to the west with the duke, so Gaetan didn’t worry over him. He knew he would see Téo soon enough. He’d seen de Lohr earlier, as well, and but a perusal of the area showed that Kristoph was nowhere to be found. Before Gaetan spurred his horse off to the west, he turned to Luc and Lance.
“Where is Kristoph?” he asked. “He was right behind me when we broke through the eastern flank. Where has he gone?”
Luc and Lance were in the process of wrapping up Harold’s body with a cloak that Jathan had been wearing. It was the priest who spoke.
“I have not seen him, Gaetan,” he said, looking around as the knights handled the battered body.
Gaetan was looking off to the south where part of the Norman army still lingered and the encampment beyond. “You did not see him ride away?”
Jathan shook his head, his fat jowls trembling. “Nay, I did not. Shall I send a man for him?”
Gaetan’s gaze moved over the field of battle for a moment longer before shaking his head. “Nay,” he replied. “He is around here, somewhere.”
Jathan simply nodded his head and bent over to help the knights with the corpse. Gaetan, with thoughts of de Lohr quickly fading, headed off to the west where William, the Duke of Normandy, would be told that Harold was dead and that he was now king.
Normandy wasn’t difficult to find, in fact. He and Téo were found deep in the Anglo-Saxon encampment rounding up prisoners, a task that Gaetan helped with after he delivered his important news. Oddly enough, the duke wasn’t willing to believe his Warwolfe until he saw Harold’s body, which was much later in the evening when the battle had ended for the most part and the Norman army trickled back to camp.
It was almost a ceremonial event, this viewing of Harold’s body. It took place in a dim tent belonging to de Winter, a body wrapped in Normandy’s colors that, when unwrapped, revealed a gruesome sight. As the Anges de Guerre and the duke’s Companions gathered around in the cold dark tent, William grimly viewed the body of Harold Godwinson and, as such, declared himself king on that very night. It was a night for celebration, for rest and reflection, but for Gaetan, it became a night that would change the course of his life.
Kristoph de Lohr did not return to camp that night. When morning came and he’d still not returned, it became apparent that he was either dead or otherwise missing. The dreadful news began to spread over the duke’s camp, the news that no fighting man wanted to hear. They’d brought ten great knights with them to England, men who were the greatest warriors of them all, but now only nine were accounted for.
One Anges de Guerre had been lost.