The English on their ridge clattered their shields and shook their swords and axes. Orm could hear their cries of defiance: ‘Godwineson!’, and ‘Bastard! Bastard!’, an insult aimed at the prickly Duke. The Normans around Orm roared back: ‘God aid us!’, ‘Holy Cross! Holy Cross!’ As the missile-men ran on the noise became tremendous, pealing back and forth across the field. Orm, immersed in it, yelling himself, felt his heart beat faster, his spirit burn like fire. But through it all he could hear the most basic and brutal of the Englishmen’s chants: ‘Ut! Ut! Ut!’ - Out! Out! Out! This was their home, and they were here to drive the Normans back into the sea, and that single word repeated over and over, a rhythmic animal grunting, communicated their determination as did no other.

Now horns blared, and at last came the order for the infantry to charge. Suddenly the world was full of motion and noise.

Hefting his shield on his left arm, his axe in his free right hand, his sword on his back, Orm strode forward with the rest. Around him powerful men in their heavy mail pushed forward, not quite running, their advance a fast determined pace. Looking over the heads of the lead troops Orm was able to see that the whole of the line was in motion, Normans at the centre, Bretons to the left, Flemings and Frankish to the right, thousands of men tramping down the hill.

The Norman missile-men were closing on the English lines, and Orm heard the cries of their commanders: ‘Notch! Draw! Loose!’ The archers’ bows were taller than they were; they held them up and drew their strings back to their chests, and the crossbows spat cruel iron bolts that splintered English shields. Orm could see a few of the English fall, and the day’s first blood had been spilled. But the English had the benefit of the height of their ridge, and most of the arrows fell short.

The lead infantry reached the field’s lowest point and began to slog up the marshy hill towards the English line. The going was hard over ground that was cut up by spiteful little ditches and gullies and ravines, and in places was too soft to bear the weight of an armoured man. Around Orm men fell, cursing, and hauled themselves to their feet, their mail coats covered in mud. Even if you didn’t fall it was exhausting to battle through this heavy English clay. Orm was reminded of how he had fallen in a bog in Brittany, not unlike this land, and how Harold himself had saved his life. But still the Normans marched, still they kept formation, still they screamed their insults and clattered their shields.