Live Steel Reenactment:
the battle of Hastings event of 2006
Over my tormented domain
Over my last desires
Legions of death are breaking my army
I can't stop this hate
I'm feeling the anger of fate" -- Thy Majestie
Here's a picture of what some of the horses and riders could do: a few actually "punched" right into the English phalanx (with the cooperation of the English side, of course). But most of the horses would not get stuck right into all those noisy bodies, shields and waving weapons. The ones that did, notably William and his horse, above, really made the show look more realistic than the majority, who would ride up to the line, turn and ride along it and take weapon strikes on their shields, and deliver their own lance strikes against the English shields, then turn away in a caracole and either return to do the same over again, or withdraw back behind the archers to regroup. It was all very pretty, and without the horses the battle would not have been nearly as spectacular. But I do wish that somehow we could make it look more like a Norman cavalry CHARGE right up to, and even stuck into, the English formation.
Detail of the English line. (I included this as a bit of TFBO trivia also: the guy with the red shield with wavy yellow arms is Randall Beggs, and Michal Carson is standing in the second rank to his right, from the viewer's perspective.)
Arrow pointing at me, either during the rally, or after one of the several withdrawals to rest and reform.
This pic (taken right after the previous one) shows Company Three ready to advance again, probably rather early in the battle, but typical of our condition just before the last assault. The two green shields with swirly yellow arms, and the white shield with the blue wyvern, are Bruce Dunkle, his son Kris, flanking Arild Barrett, the maker of my helmet. The large fighter to the viewer's left of Company Three's standard is the fellow who told me to remember that I was fighting with "Wryngwyrm" that day. You can barely make out the edge of my shield behind him.
And here you see the jam of bodies on top of the English center. It was a mess (i.e. a great deal of fun). The subunit (of half a dozen guys) I started up the hill for the sixth time with, called themselves "Wryngwyrm": I was a blue and yellow (swirly) shield in the midst of black and red ones. But as we closed with the English we pushed them back until their backs were literally against the "edge of the table" (in war-gaming parlance). This was formed by the crowd barrier, the single rope marking the field. At this point, there were many English and some Breton dead behind us. I found myself in the front rank and Wryngwyrm nowhere in sight. I didn't know anyone around me. Everybody in front of me was snarling in Russian (or Polish, because I have also been told that "all" the Russians were in the Breton left; or Danish, because there were definitely Danes up there too, and in the "heat of battle" my poor ears couldn't tell the difference). One crazy little firecracker of a female fighter was suddenly pissed at something a neighbor of mine did and started smacking down hard with her battleaxe, trying to break MY spear. So I jabbed at her shield a few times just to return a little heat. I had about 5" in which to maneuver my spear, the press was so tight. I thought: "Hey? these people are not playing by the script anymore." And indeed, they seemed bent on staying on their feet unless we "killed" them free style.
Here's a view from the Saturday event of "the Fighting Man" getting captured. Harold is already dead and his huskarls surround his body fighting to the last. The "dead" carpet the ground (I'm in there somewhere).
Duke William and the papal banner. He is master of the field.
On the Saturday event, when I was in the English center, I died twice. The first time was a mix-up: after I was dead beside another corpse, whose feet were in my face (and I fancy mine in his), the fighting which had passed beyond us came back our way, then we were in this gap where horses suddenly appeared! It was quite a rush seeing hooves going by right past my face where I lay covered by shield and helm. A couple of "dead" found the experience too unsettling and got up and took shelter inside the English line. Our commander (Paddy Hinton) came over and slapped us: "Get up. The horses are back." I obeyed and oriented on the English and away from the Franco-Flemish. The next time I died for good, and almost dozed off before I heard faintly: "The dead may rise."
Those on the English side sometimes have difficulties just losing: it was explained to me later, that the very end is accepted as "free style": you take your hits, and the overwhelming numbers on the Norman side now -- with the bulk of English dead joining in to swell their numbers -- will defeat the stubborn resistance of the English center. But on Sunday it didn't work that way. Those Russkies (Danes, Poles, whatever they were) got to surrender because they didn't die. I didn't see a single one go down in front of me. I don't think they cheated either. I did hear of one shameful display by a "Norman" elsewhere on the field during the final assault, who got hit half a dozen times, just grinned, and moved off to keep playing down the line. That is not how this game is played at all, and I hope that in future such people stay away.
Anyway, on Sunday's final attack, with the "Russkies" pushing us back, I think I almost understood this reluctance. There were just two problems with it: the show was already lengthy (the minor consideration), and, the fight was starting to get out of control: we were being shield-wall pushed back onto the "dead". I made sure I didn't step on anyone, but I heard afterward of several accidental minor injuries that took place at the end. We pushed back, and this repeated a couple more times at least. The push and shove of shield walls created a crowd ripple effect: I know this, because Michael Cady (Phoenix AZ) later told me that he got physically "bumped" right out of the fighting area by the press, and spent the last few minutes waiting on the spectator side of the barrier rope.
The press during the final assault on Sunday was much worse than this picture from Saturday illustrates.