Lights sprang up as fires were lit. People took torches and began to move around the battlefield. I suspected Norman and Saxon alike were looking for Harold’s body.

The whole area was a wreck. In some places, the bodies were piled three or four deep. Occasionally there was a movement as someone attempted to extricate themselves from underneath a corpse. Men tried to drag themselves away to safety, inching their way along on bleeding stumps. Horses stood among the corpses, heads down, exhausted or too injured to move.

The Norman wounded were being tended. Someone had put up a row of tents for William and his nobles. Someone somewhere was cooking something. I remembered William was famous for his hearty appetite.

Sykes put the kettle on and we sat down with a cup of tea. I called up the others. Their pod was closer to the battlefield than ours and I wanted to make sure there weren’t any Normans trying to batter their way inside.

‘We’re fine,’ reported North.

‘Did you see Harold fall?’

‘No – didn’t you?’ she said, with more than a hint of criticism. Sykes stiffened.

‘Probably,’ I said, loyal to my team. ‘We covered everything, so yes, almost certainly.’

I heard a muffled voice in the background and then she said, ‘We have to go, Max – there’s a procession of civilians arriving and there are women amongst them. I think this might be Harold’s wife and mother, come to claim his body.’

These were the two most important women in the realm. Harold’s mother, Gytha Thorkelsdóttir, would offer William Harold’s own weight in gold in exchange for the body of her son. An offer William would refuse.

His handfasted wife, Edith the Swan Neck, or Edith Swanneschals, would identify Harold’s body by certain marks apparently known only to her, and request permission to take the body away. Again, William would refuse. Wisely, I think. He wouldn’t want Harold’s resting place becoming a centre of resistance, although the legend persists that Harold received a Christian burial by the monks of Waltham Abbey.

This was an important moment. We might yet catch a glimpse of Harold’s body and learn how he died.

I called up North. ‘Can you see what’s happening?’

‘Of course not,’ she said irritably. ‘William’s receiving them in his tent. Wait no, they’re coming out. Hell and damnation!’

‘What? What?’

‘They’re bringing up a body. It must be Harold. They’ve laid it on a bier. There’s torches everywhere, but it’s wrapped in a cloak and I can’t see. I think the tall woman must be Edith. She’s identifying the body and we can’t bloody see it for everyone clustered around.’

Just for a moment, she sounded nearly human. And exactly like a frustrated historian. I knew how she felt.

‘What’s happening? Tell me.’

‘Well, he’s treating both women with great respect. They don’t seem to be subjected to any … jostling … They have an escort. Norman knights obviously. They seem to have been granted safe passage. They’re talking. She’s leaving now. Without the body. No – we’ve lost her in the crowd.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Don’t beat yourself up about it. We’ll sort it all out when we get back. That’s it people – start shutting things down. We’ll jump back in thirty minutes.’

I sat back in my seat. This assignment hadn’t been a complete success. Yes, we’d got the battle. We had some really good footage. Thirsk would be pleased. But unless we could identify Harold, we were no nearer to solving the mystery of his death. On the other hand, North had some shots of his mistress come to identify and claim the body, even if we didn’t have any of the body itself.

I shifted my position and became aware my back was hot and sweaty. I realised we could really, really do with some fresh air.

I switched the internal lights to night mode and said to Evans, ‘Can you cover the door?’

He nodded, took out a stun gun and took up position by the open door. Cool, damp air flooded in and we all breathed a sigh of relief.

It wasn’t quiet out there. Apart from the ordinary noise made by thousands of men moving around or talking, we could still hear the cries of the wounded. A horse would neigh occasionally. Someone would shout an order or there would be a burst of laughter. I suspected the wine was going around.

I stepped to the door to look outside. It still wasn’t completely dark. A glow of lighter sky hung over the horizon. I took a moment to take it all in. I was at Hastings. The Battle of Hastings had just been played out in front of us and we’d been there. We’d seen it. All of it. Except for Harold, of course. I was suddenly impatient to get back to St Mary’s to view the footage and work out what was what.

I turned to step back into the pod and at the same moment, a proximity alert pinged and Evans pulled me inside.

Bashford said, ‘Door,’ because they were either fleeing Saxons who wouldn’t let anyone or anything get in the way of their escape, or they were Normans, despatched to dispose of any survivors. Neither would be good for us.

‘Two or three people,’ said Bashford, studying the readouts. ‘No, four or five. Maybe more. It’s hard to say. They’re not moving very quickly.’

‘Men searching for cover? Looking to hide somewhere?’

‘Even slower than that. I don’t know.’

‘Are they within range?’

‘I think so. Just a minute.’ He angled a camera.

I saw dark figures, perhaps six or seven of them. One man led a horse which appeared to be dragging some sort of litter. They were moving very slowly. Because the litter carried a wounded man. And one of the figures was a woman.

Every historian in the pod stiffened. Like a collection of gun dogs pointing at their quarry. All quivering noses, pricked ears and outstretched tails.

‘No,’ said Evans in alarm, moving in front of the door and blocking our way.

‘It’s only for a moment.’

‘Out of the question.’

‘It’s our job.’

‘And this is mine.’

I yanked open a locker and pulled out a blanket, tying it around me like a cloak.

‘Then you can tell Dr Bairstow there’s a possibility that Harold Godwinson passed within twenty feet of us and we didn’t check it out.’

‘Still preferable to telling Dr Bairstow I let three historians stumble around in the dark during the aftermath of a big battle.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘There’s no way I’d let three historians stumble around in the dark during the aftermath of a big battle.’

He relaxed.

‘I’ll go by myself.’

There was a storm of protest from everyone else in the pod. Historians hate being left behind but, as I said, it was far too dangerous for them to go outside, and Bashford said that was kind of the point. Evans said he never thought he’d find himself in agreement with an historian, and while they were beaming at each other, I got the door open.

Evans sighed. ‘You two stay put. You…’ he looked at me … ‘stay with me at all times. Mess me about in any way and I’ll shoot you myself.’

‘OK.’

We slipped out of the pod.

They were heading towards us so all we had to do was move towards them, step into deep shadow and wait. The horse plodded slowly, his head held low. This was no warhorse, but an old farm horse, watching where he put his feet.

We drew back further and waited. Waited to see whether this actually was Harold Godwinson being smuggled from the battlefield. And whether he was still alive.

How had they managed this? Had they had some sort of contingency plan, or was the idea hatched as Harold fell? It was vital to get him away to safety, so he’d been smuggled away and Edith Swan Neck, having waited nearby, goes to William and begs for his body. She identifies a body, mangled beyond recognition apparently, by marks conveniently known only to her, and while she’s distracting everyone, the real king is sneaked away.

William would be desperate for confirmation that Harold was dead. Especially if, far from meeting a noble end on the battlefield, he was castrated and chopped to pieces by four knights, one of whom might have been William himself, viciously venting his frustration on a helpless enemy. He certainly wouldn’t want that story getting around, so he supported the story of the arrow in the eye. A much more chivalrous and above all, politically acceptable story, than he and his knights hacking a helpless man to death.

And then, out of the darkness comes Harold’s mistress, conveniently identifies Harold beyond doubt. requests his body, probably knowing the request will be refused, and disappears back into the night again. Everyone’s problems are solved. William has an identified body and Edith is able to sneak the still living king away to safety. Because if William had even the slightest doubt that Harold was not dead, he would tear the country apart to get at him. So here they were, smuggling Harold Godwinson into the night and out of History.

The shadows were dark and we never made a sound but they found us, nevertheless. In an instant, we were surrounded by a ring of swords. The horse stood patiently with his burden.

‘Don’t move,’ said Evans. I wasn’t going to. We were in some deep shit here. Two sword thrusts and we were bleeding to death in the undergrowth while they vanished back into the dark. And they would kill us – no doubt of that – they would kill to keep their secret.

Still no one had spoken. I’m not sure why they were hesitating. We obviously weren’t Norman knights – had they taken us for locals? Was it possible everyone felt enough Saxons had died today? Or was this just wishful thinking on my part?

I turned my head to look at the man on the litter. I might as well know the truth before I died. I had nothing to lose.

I wasn’t the only one who was going to die tonight. I looked at the ruined and blood-soaked man in front of me. A bloody bandage covered one side of his face, including his eye. So no clue there. One leg was gone above the knee. And I was pretty sure he had been castrated, as well. I struggled to compare this broken man with the mighty figure I had seen at Beaurain. Or Stamford Bridge.

There are all sorts of stories, of course. Some say that Harold survived the battle and went abroad. Others that he remained in England but lived out his days as a hermit. Although looking at the state of him, my guess was that if he wasn’t dead now then he very soon would be. I’d seen Harold Godwinson in his prime and I couldn’t believe that, while he had breath in his body, he would not have come back to fight the usurper William every inch of the way. The crown of England would have sat very uneasily on William’s head. My guess was that he would die this night.

On the other hand, there are those stories…

So now what?

We had an uncomfortably large number of swords pointing at us. They weren’t going to run the risk of us giving them away. We were going to die.

The silence just dragged on. I could hear the horse breathing. I could certainly hear my own heart pounding away.

And then, not too far away, a horse neighed. Two men immediately muffled the farm horse with their cloaks. It shifted uneasily but remained calm. I could hear voices – Norman voices – and the sounds of undergrowth being beaten down.

The escort glanced nervously over their shoulders. The riders were very close. What could they do? Any attempt to move would be heard. Staying put would lead to their discovery. Someone should do something.

Yes, well, we all know who that’s going to be, don’t we?

I put out both my hands, palms outwards, in the traditional ‘Stay where you are,’ gesture.

They stared but stayed.

I said to Evans, ‘Get yourself back to the pod.’

His response was unrepeatable, but the gist was that that wasn’t going to happen.

I made one final ‘Stay here and stay quiet,’ gesture and turned to run.

‘This way,’ said Evans.

Always run downhill. Especially when you’re trying to get away from a bunch of men on horses. We fled down the hill, making as much noise as we could. Which was a lot. We crashed through the undergrowth, snapping twigs and small branches as we went.

I enquired where we were heading to.

‘As far away as possible,’ he panted. ‘Australia, perhaps.’

Wherever we were going, it was working. I heard shouts behind us, and a second later, the sound of hooves. Evans picked up the pace.

As far as I could tell, we were heading in a south-westerly direction, with the Andredsweald Forest behind us and to our right, into which, I hoped, Edith Swanneschals and her entourage were now disappearing as fast as they could go. I knew there was a stream somewhere around here and a lot of boggy ground nearby. If we could get to that then we might yet escape the horsemen.

Fat chance. Another group of them where thundering up the hill towards us. We were pushed northwards. Uphill. And now it was dark. I could barely see a thing.

‘Keep going,’ panted Evans. ‘We’ll get back into the woods and climb a tree.’

They were gaining on us. The hooves sounded very close now. I heard a shout. They’d seen us.

We veered off left again. It was uphill and hard work. I could feel my breath rasping in my throat. My lungs were on fire. This was all Clive Ronan’s fault. If I’d completed my run that day – and the next day, and so on – instead of having him crash into my life and throw everything into chaos, then today I’d be lithe, svelte, fit, athletic, whatever.

I fell over. I know – such a cliché. In films, when running from peril, it’s always the silly little heroine who trips over her own feet. Sadly, life imitates art and I went down with a bloody great crash.

Evans screeched to a halt, whispering, ‘Max?’

‘Keep going, you pillock,’ I said, struggling to disentangle my foot from something or other. ‘Don’t stop.’

He completely ignored me, turning back to kneel beside me.

And suddenly there were horses everywhere.

I pulled him down beside me. They had torches, but there was a slight chance they might miss us in the dark. We lay in the long, coarse grass, breathing into our sleeves so they wouldn’t hear us panting.

I heard shouts of recognition as the two groups caught sight of each other and they both turned towards us.

‘Shit,’ whispered Evans.

Spurring their horses, they moved uphill, strung out in a long line that left us nowhere to go, all ready to flush us out.

‘Shit,’ said Evans again.

Now what? Did we stand up and run? Where to? Did we stand and fight? With what? Did we crouch and hope they’d miss us in the dark? I’ve heard that horses won’t willingly stand on a human being, but with our luck, these horses would be ancestors of the infamous Turk, the horse allocated to me for side-saddle training, whose relationship with his rider included biting, kicking, rolling on, crushing, attempted drowning – and trampling.

I could hear the horses snorting as they increased their speed. They couldn’t see us. Yet

We began to inch our way backwards. The torches were less than twenty yards away. They would be on us in seconds.

We were concealed by long grass and some of the prickliest brambles in south-east England, but they didn’t have to see us to run us down. Which was probably what they intended to do. Yes, we both had stun guns, but frankly, who wants a stunned horse and its rider crashing down on top of them in the dark?

‘Come on,’ said Evans. ‘We have to make a run for it. Stay with me.’

Someone shouted.

I don’t know what happened next. I was nearly blind. Their torches had ruined my night vision. My ears were full of the sound of thundering hooves. They were almost on top of us. And then, someone shouted a warning. And then someone else screamed. The sound of hooves became confused. A horse neighed – high pitched in fear. And then another. I could hear furiously scrabbling hooves. And then a series of crashes. Men shouted in warning and in fear. More men were screaming. And horses too. The torches began to disappear, one by one.

Some went out, but some lay on the ground, still burning and giving us flickering glimpses of a dreadful scene.

My first, admittedly slightly overwrought, thought was that the ground had opened up beneath our feet, illuminating a scene from hell. But it was true. The ground had indeed opened beneath our feet. Here, at last, was the Malfosse. The Evil Ditch.

The story goes that a small group from William’s forces, responding to the taunts of a bunch of anonymous Saxons, were lured into an area where long grass concealed a number of steep-sided and very deep ditches. Oh my God – were we those taunting Saxons? My heart turned over. What had we done?

No time to think about that now. Unable to see in the near darkness, the Normans had run straight into one of the open ditches. And they didn’t just stumble and fall. They had been galloping headlong when the ground ended and the earth gaped for them. Horses had fallen headfirst, somersaulting over each other. We had heard the crack of broken backs and legs. Their riders, flying through the air, had hit the ground with bone-shattering force and lay helpless as they were either trampled to death or crushed by those falling in after them.

Another wave of horses and riders were following them in – tumbling and cartwheeling, to land with hideous impact. Huge, heavy destriers flew through the air as if they weighed nothing. Broken men and horses lay in a mangled mess of bodies and limbs. Any survivors of the initial fall couldn’t possibly be saved and were perishing either from their injuries or suffocation.

The dying screams of fatally injured horses and their riders echoed through the gathering night. Down below, in William’s camp, horns sounded the alarm. Already, we could hear the sound of hooves as Duke William, possibly fearing another Saxon army falling on his camp from out of the dark, despatched forces to investigate.

I tried to look away, but there are some things you can’t unsee. I saw a horse, one of the first to fall, I guessed, wedged vertically, head down, trapped and suffocating beneath a mass of bodies. Its back legs were clear, and it kicked and kicked, legs flailing violently in its frantic efforts to be free, injuring all those around it. Even as I looked, its struggles weakened and then ceased.

A solitary, riderless horse ran past us, almost knocking me over, its reins flying loose. I caught a glimpse of a wild, rolling eye, and then Evans grabbed my arm.

‘Come on. Uphill and to the left. Get into the trees.’

‘But this is the Malfosse incident. I have to …’

‘Listen. Guthrie’s gone. Markham’s gone. I’m in charge and I’m not losing you on my very first assignment. Get into the trees or I’ll stun you and drag you there myself.’

Fair enough, I suppose.

We made no attempt at concealment, running as fast as we could for the cover of the forest, finally collapsing and crawling, panting, into a patch of scratchy brambles.

I could see lights moving uphill. Part of William’s army was coming to investigate.

We crawled deeper under cover and I called up Sykes.

‘Oh, hello Max. Everything all right?’

‘A bit busy here, but I know what happened after the battle. I’ve just seen Edith Swanneschals making away with Harold. And he’s still alive. And I’ve just witnessed the Malfosse incident. And there’s any number of Normans on their way to investigate. And I’m trapped in a bramble patch with our Head of Security.’

‘Oh dear,’ she actually sounded sympathetic. ‘Well, if he gets a bit frisky, you should fetch him one with a rolled-up newspaper.’

Bashford intervened. ‘Do you know if Edith got Harold away?’

‘She must have. There’s no report of him being captured after the battle and there were always rumours that he got away.’

‘Do you think he survived?’

I thought of big, strong, vigorous Harold Godwinson. Then I thought of those wounds. ‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because if he had lived he would have fought William with every breath in his body. The country would have risen up and followed him. It didn’t. So no, I’m sorry, Mr Bashford, but I don’t think he did.’

Evans intervened. ‘Far be it from me to interrupt this intellectual discussion, but I need to get your lost historian back to the pod. Watch out for us and be prepared to have the door open in a hurry.’

‘We’ll come and search for you.’

‘No,’ I said alarmed. ‘We’re quite safe where we are.’ Evans rolled his eyes. ‘We’ll work our way back to you. No one leaves the pod. That’s an order.’

*

We struggled back in the dark. We saw no one and no one saw us. We tumbled in through the door, where Sykes passed us some tea. I don’t think mine even touched the sides. I gulped it down while Evans described what we’d seen. He had a bit of a job dissuading them from going to have a look for themselves.

Then we washed our face and hands, tidied ourselves up, because historians never go back looking scruffy, and, finally, we jumped away.

Normally, the return from an assignment as important as Hastings is a triumphant business. As many of the unit as can be prised away from their work – which is all of them – assembles on the gantry or behind the safety line and cheers us in. We wave and march to Sick Bay for them to pull us about in the name of medicine and then retire for a shower and a favourite meal. Reports are written, arguments settled, the odd margarita secretly imbibed and we sleep for twelve hours.

This wasn’t anything like that.

We disembarked quietly. I don’t know about anyone else, but I could still hear the ring of steel on steel, the thunder of hooves, the moans of the dying.

And then we stepped out of the pod into Hawking. Only a few emergency lights were on. The roof was covered with a giant tarpaulin that flapped and rustled occasionally. The giant space was almost completely empty, making it easy to see the great gouges in the walls where lumps of pod had been blown around like dandelion seeds.

Dieter appeared with a glow stick and in silence, guided us around the holes in the floor. In equal silence, we followed him. There were no dreadful jokes. No banter. There weren’t even any arguments. The effects of what we’d just witnessed, together with disembarking to a wrecked Hawking … We’d had some tough times. It wasn’t the first time St Mary’s had blown up around us, but I thought at the time that this was our darkest hour.