In this hour, however, the subtle war cunning of the duke came to his aid. The shields and the armour of the closely serried Saxons behind these remaining works prevented the shafts of his bowmen from injuring greatly the solid wedge of warriors into which the thingmen and their comrades had formed themselves around and on the hill. The battle could not be altogether lost so long as this living wall should remain unbroken. All the Saxons were on foot, and the Normans, who were mounted, gained little thereby, since their unarmoured horses were so often killed by javelins as they pressed forward.
"Shoot up! Shoot up!" shouted the duke to his archers. "Let the shafts fall upon them from above. They have no shields over their heads."
Thousands of strong-armed bowmen at once obeyed him. In a moment more, it was as if a thick hail of sharp arrows was falling among the Saxons behind, while those who were in front were still compelled to hold their shields before them. The cunning device of the duke might yet have been baffled, perhaps, but for one of its first fatal consequences. Man after man was going down, and the king himself looked up to see what this might be. Even as he raised his head, the battle was lost, and the crown of England passed to William of Normandy, for from the sky above, as it seemed, a hissing shaft came down and pierced through his right eye to the brain.
"The king hath fallen!" screamed Ned, the son of Webb. "Harold is dead! He is dead! We are beaten! England is conquered!"
"Come thou on with me, then," said Father Brian. "There are plenty of horses. We must speed away from this place. The house-carles are wearied with long fighting, but they will all die where they stand. Thou and I have no need to die with them. Quickly, now, my boy!"
Fierce, frenzied, desperate, was the last stand of the Saxons around the royal standards and the dying king. Terrible was the carnage which they made among the Normans, but it was as Father Brian had said: the warriors of Harold were worn out with long fighting, and they were now continually assailed by arrivals of fresh troops, men who had hitherto done little or nothing. Flesh and blood could endure no more, and the work of destruction was slowly completed. One strong body of Saxons, it was afterward related, was actually getting away when the darkness came. It was closely followed by the duke himself and his men-at-arms. Then the Saxons turned again upon their pursuers, and William not only lost many horsemen, but came very near losing his own life also in the hour of victory.
"Where shall we go now?" asked Ned, as he and his friend clambered into the saddles of two horses which had been tethered in the rear of the lost position on the hill.
"I will guide thee, my boy," replied the missionary. "Thou and I may make good our escape, if we are prudent."
"How on earth can we get away from the Normans?" groaned Ned. "Some of them are between us, already, and all the rest of England. I don't see how we are to get through William's army."
"We must get out of the battle, first," said Father Brian. "Then we'll ride away around into the Norman camps at the seashore. We would do well to obtain speech with him in the morning. Now that he hath slain King Harold and considereth himself the ruler of England, he will gladly welcome any from among the Saxons who cometh to him with a peaceful tongue. Be thou mindful of that, my boy. I am glad that thou art able to speak French to him."