June ran into August. Three armies and three fleets sat idling. Two were intent on invasion; one intent on defense. Harold was committed to the defense of the English south. He was not unaware of possible incursions by Danes or Norse for they had always been a threat to the peace of York in small burning, looting parties. Seldom had they invaded with the intent of subjugating the whole land , at least since Canute. The major threat to England lay to the south in Normandy. William the Bastard had spied, infiltrated and dashed off a series of diplomatic notes threatening the freedom of Saxon England. Harold had seen the might of the Norman army in the invasion of Brittany. He knew William was not a bad general; he was just outwitted by the Breton Conan and his hit and run technique. ‘Concentrate on the South’ was Harold’s plan. He still had five thousand men on the Isle of Wight and five thousand more strategically placed behind the south beaches. The English fleet was beached on Wight more or less trapped by the persistent north wind. That was not a problem. If the English could not sail north, neither could the Normans.

While the threat was imminent, while the adrenaline or the call to arms was rampant, the Saxon English were alert and ready. As the summer wore on and the adrenal high eroded, the English army began to vegetate. They were bored with the wait; they were bored with each other; they were bored with their commanders. Lassitude, ennui became their enemies for the want of a few Normans. They yearned for their home, food and stores. Boredom led to grumbling and grumbling led to rumbling. “We’ve put in our 40 days!” “When do we get to go home?” “ I’m sick of this food.” “Who says the Normans are coming?” “No Normans can sail when the wind is out of the north.” “We are missing the best fish run in years.” “ I got work to do at home.”

Food in the area was becoming scarce and had to be brought from greater distances. Only the oratory of Harold and his lieutenants kept the Norman threat real. The rumblings receded to grumblings when they were promised respite from service with the advent of fall. Nobody sailed after the equinox.

The second force belabored by the winds, the Normans, were little better off in Dives and neighborhood. Another hurry up and wait camp suffered from idleness. The Norman army had one advantage in the spread of chivalry. While the Channel provided a barrier to the Norman army it also immunized the English from the liturgy of chivalry. Like a virus it infected the Normans and spread throughout the land. The chivalrous were bound by the ideals of heroism, combining invincible strength, valor, justice, modesty, loyalty, courtesy, compassion and devotedness. At least they tried to emulate that model. Invincible strength turned some into bullies and wastrels. Invincible strength turned most to training schedules and eventual tests. There was no sense in training unless there was a contest to see how proficient you had become. The resultant tournaments were the testing ground that kept the Norman army active. The trials were not lost on the infantry or archers and Thomas and Will and troop rode roughshod over any bullies who took advantage of their power. Besides, the foreign mercenaries in want of home were living off the avails of Duke William. The grumbling was not as loud.

Six hundred and fifty miles north the third force was amassing on Solund Island. Wind was not a factor in preparing a Norse armada. These were men of the sea who unshipped oars and made their way in spite of the vagaries of nature. Viking waiting was over. They had waited two years for a new expedition to be launched as they were beginning to think Harald Hardrada too old, too vulnerable to fight again, but the old king came through. Their excitement was rising as the English’s declined. It was a hand-clasping back-slapping noisy accumulation of wild Norse warriors. They too were bound by the ideals of invincible strength and loyalty, but were not knackered by justice , modesty, courtesy or compassion. Their battle readiness was judged on blood thirst and valor.

Harald and Tostig were not hampered by perverse winds. They were sailing north to south with the wind in their backs. By mid August the Viking fleet put to sea with boatloads of Harald’s happy half army. Harald was not above mixing pleasure with war and visited his dominion in the Shetland Islands adding a few ships for the invasion force. On to the Orkney Islands they sailed. There was a tempting alliance to be considered as Harald had two marriageable daughters and Lord Torfinn of the Orkneys had two eligible sons. All went well with feasting, parties, and tentative alliances. Again blooded and unblooded warriors threw in with the Viking army for England. Four hundred miles south lay the object of their incursion, York. In early September the Vikings with a following wind made sail, for not even Vikings sailed the North Sea after the Equinox.

At 5:00 am, September 11, the bedroom door slammed against the stone wall.

“What in hell!” the startled Duke shouted and leapt out of bed, dirk already in hand.

“My Lord!” the page almost shouted.

“What is the matter with you boy!”

“My Lord, pardonnez-moi! Most important- the wind is in the south!”

“Jesus Christ! My prayers are answered. Give me my clothes!” His pet Lisa aroused by the tumult wandered in. “Lisa, see that cook has a breakfast prepared! Tell Hugh to saddle our horses! Send that other jack-a-napes to arouse my council! We meet in ten minutes for food! We go to WAR!”

Lisa gathered her shift between her legs turning it into pantaloons and raced to do her father’s bidding. The other page sped about the castle pounding on doors. The castle was alive with noise.

Cook already at the fire shouted orders at her staff. Rashers of pork, pans of eggs and hot-from-the-oven bread were quickly prepared. In strode William of Normandy followed by members of his council in various stage of dress. They wasted no time.

“Eat quickly, my men, we go to war!” Looks of surprise greeted him. “The wind is in the south.”

Not even staid councilors could restrain themselves. A spontaneous cheer startled the kitchen staff. They stood in awe of the cheering amassed lords.

“Horses are being prepared. Get your dispatch riders to the camps. We load for England and sail with the first ebb tide. GO!”

Councilors departed jamming Cook’s food into their mouths. Chaos reigned. The courtyard became a melee of stamping horses, half-dressed messengers, shouting directors, hostelers, and aides. Horses and riders ducked under the creaking rising portcullis and thundered over the bridge and away. Time was of the essence. William of Normandy and advisors were off.

“Whoa! Where do you think you are going?”

“To kill the English, Father.”

“Oh no you’re not. You take the sword and defend this castle against all insurgents. Protect your mother and the children.”

“Father!”

“Lisa!”

“Yes, Father.”

“My God, what a child! To Dives.”

As the Duke and entourage galloped out, Sir Richard’s son John awaited their exit. Dust whorled about the horse’s legs and soon was borne into small clouds engulfing the departing riders. John went inside and approached the garrison. The old sergeant crippled by a Breton axe sat disconsolately down on a chopping block outside the barracks.

“Well, what do you want, Boy?”

“Sergeant, I have a message for my brother-in-law Thomas Trivett.”

“You’ll find him in England tomorrow.”

“We are sailing for England?”

“What did I just say?”

“Marde de cochon!” and John wheeled his horse in pursuit.

“What? What did you say?” but John’s horse was already drumming over the castle bridge. He jerked his mount right and created a dust cloud of his own in quest of the fleeting backs of the invasion leaders. Besides, his message for Thomas, he had to report to his father as his page and deal with his own torn feelings.

With the army in close proximity to Dives the dispatch riders soon covered the camps. It seemed that pandemonium reigned, but that was not the case. Every unit knew their assigned vessel as they had had a summer to practice. Sergeant’s voices rose above the babble, prodding, pushing, disciplining. Infantry and archers were on adrenal charges as excitement and fear roused the glands. Ships were rolled into the Dives, men waded to the vessels and hoisted themselves over the gunwales. Armor, shields, bows, and pikes were safely stowed. Knights rode their chargers to the assigned ship. Loading horses was not an easy task. Many curses and many a neigh punctuated the work. Sometimes the ship was rocked to lower the gunwale and the steeds stepped in. On larger vessels a ramp was employed for the horse’s ascent. The descent to the floor boards was a problem. A hosteler discovered a blindfold on the horses eyes made them more tractable if there was trust between horse and rider. A few kicks, a few bites, a few tumbling horses precipitated the first casualties in the Norman army.

“Don’t let him rear!”

“Grab his forelock!”

“Watch that blindfold!”

“Marde! Don’t strike him! He’s wild enough now!”

“Lock hands over his ass and shove!”

“Watch that kick!”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Got your leg?”

“It’s bloody broke!”

“Easy Boy!”

“Hobble that damned horse before he kicks this barge apart!”

“Whose bloody idea was this?”

“Come on. God damn it. It’s an hour to ebb!”

With hard-nosed sergeants and beetled sailors the job got done. The ships slipped anchor and caught the flow of the receding ebb tide and followed William the Bastard’s flagship, Mora. The Leopard of Normandy flew bravely at the bow; a lantern and cross were lashed to the mast. The cross signified the attack for Christianity and the lantern would be the rallying point as darkness settled on the fleet.

The old men stood and stared after the fleet. “There must be six hundred in that lot.”

“More like four hundred I would say.”

“You saw that bunch ride past the farm. You couldn’t get them all in four hundred.”

“My God, Old Man. You can’t count past ten without taking off your shoes.”

“What farmer can? You little twerp!” The men went back to their hoeing.

The estuary was filled with ships. There wasn’t room to row so the craft were poled into the outgoing tidal current until they were caught by the God-sent south wind. At least they had prayed for it. The boat crews wasted no time in raising sail to clear the cove. North north east the flotilla sailed. A lazy humid southerly breeze carried men and horses north through the glittering sea. Not one man was ill, but the heat and humidity were oppressive. “Fresh water! We should have brought fresh water.”

By 4:00pm the wind fell and so did the beads of sweat. Clouds started to gather in the west;

towering cumulo nimbus pillars began at the horizon and raised to overhead.

“My Lord.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“My Lord, we are in for a storm. The clouds to the west promise teeming rain and likely lightning.”

“Sail on.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

However, little sailing was done in the calm before the storm. Sails hung limp as dish rags. Vessels with sweeps broke out oars and tried to proceed in spite of soldiers and horse’s legs. A darkling sky erased the dancing sunlight while gusts of wind abeam raised caps of white where minutes ago the water mirrored the invasion fleet. The wavelets became waves, the waves became billows and the billows became whitecaps. Thunder was blown in by the wind. The Normans could smell the fear of their ship-mates. Lightning contrasted against the ebony clouds. The gap between lightning and thunder narrowed. A jagged line of lasar light streaked mast to massive cloud bank. The roar of thunder was instantaneous and the torrent began. Now! The men had fresh water! Too much!

“Bail! You misbegotten buggers of we’ll go under! Bail!” and soldiers did. The cool air of the cold front roared through the ships chilling dripping men and beasts.

Sails were struck and wiser captains set storm sails. St. Elmo’s fire dance on some mastheads. Spray from white caps mingled with the driving rain that beat a tattoo on the soldier’s hides. The captains had no choice; they ran before the storm. Confusion in the elements, confusion in the fleet, curses by the Duke of Normandy, he shouted, screamed in the face of the tempest. It did no good.

“Where are we going?”

“East, My Lord to Normandy, Picardy, Flanders or Hell!”

“What?”

“We may sink.”

“Jesus Christ! Save these ships!”

“Father, are we going to drown?”

“No Son. The Duke has always got us through.”

“Could he save Jo-Anne?”

“What do you mean?”

“Jo-Anne was bleeding and I was sent to get Thomas. Then we were loading and I didn’t see him. Father, I’m afraid she’ll die!”

“Mother of God!”

“What should I do, Father?”

“Don’t worry, Son. I will see Thomas as soon as we make landfall.”

There was no chance to remain together. It was every boat for itself. The torrential downpour of the cold front passed into the interior of France and left behind a steady frigid rain driven obliquely by the westerly wind that spawned it. The storm driven vessels were soon upon the French coast from Dieppe to Abbeville. ‘Search out a landing, a shelter from the wind’. Some were dashed upon rocks, some were swamped in beach rollers, some made ports like St. Valery. Some men and horses perished, some men with horses deserted, and some men and horses made camp about the estuary of the Somme. William sent out foragers rounding up men, equipment and food. To forestall outright disbanding of his army he had to do something.

“Councillors, make this army comfortable. Get them food, hot food, and lodging. Keep them busy and direct their displeasure at the Saxons. Do it!”

The leaders set off.

“They’re not coming. Nobody sails this time of year.”

“What is hell are we doing on Wight? I should be home preparing for winter. The old woman will kill me. She likely thinks all we’re doing is chasing women.”

“The food is no hell either. I don’t know where the foragers are getting it.”

‘I notched a stick the first day I started service. I served my four ten’s and another four ten’s. I’m ready to go home.”

“What’s the matter with you bunch? Can’t you defend your own land?”

“That’s all right for you carls. You get paid for your service.”

Discontent and boredom were rampant from Dover to Bournemouth. What amounted to King Harold’s navy had no choice, but the ships of the Cinque Ports were ready to leave. Either they would be rolled up the beaches or they would make the best of the fall run of fish. Harold was certain Normandy would attack and in all likelihood he would see the Norman fleet in September. Because of the conundrum

he called his advisors, Gryth, Leofwine, Wulfnoth, the southern earls, his own sons and captains of the house carls to meet at his Wessex estate in Boseham on Chichester harbor. It was convenient headquarters for the king to pass away his summer wait. It was close to Wight, the channel ports and London.

Edith of the swan neck had had a hog butchered, spitted and roasted. Beads of fat dripped into the coals beneath the spit and sizzled and flamed in anger. The odor of barbecued pork and burning apple wood wafted over the participants. A cook removed sizable roasts and rendered it into portions requested by the guests. Fresh bread, hot and buttered, apple sauce from the early fall crop, some garden vegetables and fresh picked fruit completed the menu. The men talked as they feasted.

“What news?” began King Harold.

“Sire, the southeast is still on high alert. We are ready for any Norman incursion.” Leofwine reported of the Dover environs.

Gryth picked up the flow, “We too, Sire, are ready.”

“Alfred?”

“Sire, the Isle of Wight stands firm.”

“Then why is it that I hear of unrest. Stop trying to please me and give me an honest report. Wulfnoth?”

“Sire, the fyrd is becoming restless. They have been on duty eighty days. The second forty only because of their love and devotion for their king and country. I say this not to please you Sire, but as a truth. They want to go home. We approach the equinox. They worry about the coming winter, their lonely wives, their fatherless children. They want to go home.”

“Alfred, again.”

“I am sorry, Sire, but that is true. Ennui has overcome them. The sailors are no better. They worry about home, family, the fall run of fish, and the wintering of their boats.”

The report went on, the projections became truth and the truth became action. Harold had already accepted the result with nagging self doubt. Like any good leader, he gave his subordinates their say.

‘Gentlemen, release the fyrd, transport the troops home, release the Cinque Port crews. Bring our fledgling navy back to London. But—have the house carls maintain a coast watch from our signal hills. Provide them with a messenger and horse. We must have some alert.”

The wind in answer began to blow from the south. The army exodus began September 13. King Harold and personal forces rode to London. Ironically, the English fleet was engulfed by the same cyclonic storm the Normans had suffered and with much the same result.