Approaching Hastings By Sea

Rucher approaching Pevensey Bay, 28 September 1066

Young Benouét perched in the netting on the bowsprit, eye toward East by North-East hown. He looked out for some greensward dear to them, beyond the morning mist. Instead, upon the fo’c’sle, lit a raven, like in elden days. Carried in its beak a sprig of mistletoe. Benouét thought nothing of the portent, for this was the way of things momentous in this time. The raven was as good as sighting land. He sprung along the railings, barefoot, calling to the host assembled there that landfall, was it nigh.

So how it came upon our Guytonnet the monk hailed from Balun, that Benouét called to the men that Pevensey was nigh. Awoke he, Guy, sat up and shivering with nothing in him but poor humor. There was a cold salt mist hung down on that dawn hour which soaked the whole the galley, through and through. The men were soakèd through and through as well. Waves slapped on the hull and halyard strained.  The single-masted Rucher[1] on a bead was run unto the naked shore.

Rucher had anarrow beam and shallow draft. Fleet she under oar. Her forebears were the longships of the Norsemen. The morning fog had kept her hidden from the Saxons. God was with them on this day. While the pilot slept in the one aft-castle state room, twenty men were there at oar; Guytonnet, some other monks, and coursers three of 14 hands and goodly breadth were at the centerline awaiting landfall and debarkment. Guyton rather earnest hoped that Rucher’s sister, Nef,[2] would be along a-present, for she held the soldier’s armory and food enow for two days’ march. More’s would be for taking from the Saxon curs. The sisters had been separated in the darkness of the passage. Although the passage narrower than nine leagues wide, it took nine hours to find the Saxon’s side. Here at the commencement, Rucher was she all alone.

The morning was within the twenty-fifth week of Ordinary Time. Guy wore underthings of linen and some socks of wool. His stole, collected up from Saint-Valery-sur-Somme and local folk who wished him well, was green to mark the season. His sandals (woe to him these sandals!) were of leather in the color of Burgundians, and still they felt him fairly new. His gros ortieil d’gauche were sore at the conclusion of each day of walking to and fro. These sandals from the city, a rare treat for Guy who was used to going barefoot, would break in over time, he still held hope. As soon as he was back in Normandy, he’d buy some salve and lanolin to work the sandals into shape and ease his ailing toe. Not long now, did he still hold hope.

The Sergeant of these men, whose name Guy did not know, called then upon the host: “Préparez-vous à débarquer!” One courser sneezed with great delight and all three shook their manes out  with anticipation. T’would be hour now before the sun burnt off the mist; the bow and stern of Rucher were now strangers to the other, so it held upon the deck. Half the men pulled oars and ambulated to the bow. Shortly, sand hissed underneath as Rucher found her purchase on the rocky beach beneath.

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[1] Beehive

[2] Nave