Off Shot

Funny, isn't it, the way things turn out. How something quite small
can send events careering in one direction or another. They don't
reckon anything to me now, I'm just an old man by the fire, drivelling
on about the past. But I was a warrior once. I maybe changed the course
of history!

In England, it was, the 1066 season. Me and my mate Fulk, we were with
Duke William's lot. He reckoned he should be king of England. The old
king, Edward, had promised him he could, and on top of that he'd got
one of the chief men in the kingdom to support him. At least, he
thought he had. A few years back, this bloke Harold had been
shipwrecked off the Normandy coast, and William had him to stay. Very
good friends they were, in fact William got so fond of him he wouldn't
let him go. Not till Harold had sworn to give him the crown,
anyway.

Only when he got home, he went back on his word. Soon as old Edward
popped his clogs, Harold grabbed the crown for himself. Can't trust
anyone nowadays, can you? Naturally, we weren't taking that lying down.
We had to go over and sort Harold out.

Duke William called us all together and said, 'Okay lads. The honour of
the Normans is at stake. Not to mention some very desirable real
estate. You stick with me and I'll see you right. Also, I happen to
know the England squad is up north at the moment, playing the Danes.
With a bit of luck they'll annihilate each other, or the winner will be
too knackered to take us on. Either way, we'll walk it.'

The trip over was pretty horrible, packed into small boats, men and
horses all puking their hearts out. It's no joke getting vomit out of
chain mail, I can tell you. And that stupid comet in the sky overhead,
and everyone saying it presaged a famous victory. Yes, I thought, but
does it say whose?

Just as well Harold was otherwise engaged when we arrived. Gave us a
chance to recover. We put in the time with a little rape and pillage.
Dirty work, but someone's got to do it.

Then one morning a messenger rides up shouting 'Harold's here!'.

The English army was drawn up along the top of the ridge. Considering
they'd fought a battle not a week before and marched all the way from
Yorkshire, they were in pretty good shape. And from the look of them,
decidedly peeved.

So battle commenced. The tactics were fairly basic. We charged up the
hill, knights on horseback to the fore, us infantry following behind.
The idea was for the knights to break through the enemy line, and for
us to go in after to mop up. Didn't quite work out like that. The home
team always has the advantage, you see. They held firm and kept
throwing us back. So we'd run off pretending to be beaten, hoping to
tempt them down from the hill. Nothing doing, they weren't stupid. Back
and to it went, with arrows flying around everywhere, it was downright
dangerous. We were losing a fair number, the whole thing was starting
to look a bit dodgy.

About noon both sides knocked off for a rest. Well, you try fighting
all day in armour and hung around with sword and shield and spear -
you'd want a breather now and again.

Fulk dug me in the ribs. "Hey, Ranulf, cover my back, will you? I need
to find a bush"

'You should have gone before we started,' I said.

'Sorry. Too much mead at breakfast.'

We sneaked off into the woods bordering the battlefield. Then we had a
sit down while we waited for the battle to get going again, and I don't
know how it happened, but I must have dozed off. The next thing I
remember was Fulk clutching my arm. I froze. I could hear guttural
voices nearby. The English line must have moved forward, because there
in front of us, screened by trees but barely fifty yards away was a
group of thanes and in the midst of them - Harold himself! Big bloke
with a droopy moustache. Couldn't miss him.

Fulk had his bow with him, never went anywhere without it. He fancied
himself as a marksman, his party trick was splitting an apple on
someone's head, and he managed it nine times out of ten. He crept
forward, fitting an arrow to the string. I picked up my spear and
followed.

To this day I don't know how it happened. Mind you, spears aren't too
clever in woodland. The shaft of mine got itself tangled up with my
feet, I pitched forward and we ended up in a heap with Fulk underneath.
God knows where the arrow went. Next thing, we heard the English go
galloping off down the hill, King Harold leading the charge.

The rest is history. Everyone knows how Harold slew William in single
combat, before driving the Norman army into the sea. Fulk and I nearly
didn't make it back to the boats. The journey back was even more
miserable than the one out - there was more room, and the weather had
cleared up, but we were all sick as parrots nonetheless.

Fulk never forgave me. 'I had him,' he'd moan. 'I bloody had him.
Perfect shot. Couldn't miss. We'd have had it made. Snug little manor
in the home counties somewhere. If it wasn't for you and your big
feet.'

Can't be helped now. And he might have missed anyway. But it just goes
to show, doesn't it? Little things.
Makes you think.