William's Invasion
Part Sixteen
NORMANDY: the same day
Gilbert relented and committed his fleet. The delay forced
on them the last few days by the storm had proven to be the most
humiliating disgrace of his life. The Lords of Normandy had great
fun at his expense, endlessly protesting the delay. William had not
urged him to change his mind until today, but he had been clearly
swallowing his impatience. The storm was nearly spent. Now he
must prove himself.
"Load the horses."
THORLEY: three days later
Aethelwold hefted the last of the dressed calves onto his
back and followed the cook's assistant back to the kitchen.
Cook had commandeered the manorhouse at Thorley for his
factory, and was busy issuing requisitions around the countryside.
Harold's army was fed, and the prisoners were next in line. He
need not bother much with their round of gruel, and so used the
hour to begin the next day's English rations. Forty men, including
young Aethelwold, busily cut the meat from the bones of three
hundred head of livestock.
When this task was done, Aethelwold hoped for a meal
himself. He had not eaten since before yesterday's victory.
The annihilation of the Vikings had been so complete, that
of the three hundred ship's companies taking part in the invasion,
only twenty four ships were required to return the wounded
survivors to Norway.
As a large thirteen year old does, Aethelwold had grown
furiously hungry. He stared at the wealth of cut meats before him,
and actually began to salivate uncontrollably. His piteous look
caused a lot of amusement in the room, and moved the cook's
assistant to beckon him eat, but of the porridge only.
Overcome for relief of his appetite, the youth grabbed the
largest bowl at hand, and the largest spoon on the table. Mumbling
thanks, he clenched the spoon in his teeth. freeing both his hands
for the task of serving himself. He grabbed the nearest cauldron
and tipped it roughly on edge to spill the meal into his bowl. It
almost burned his rough hands, but he was quick enough about it
to avoid that. Then he stuck his big spoon into the porridge so that
it stood up like a victory standard.
Picking up the bowl in both hands, he hastily strode with it
out of the kitchen to the outdoor servery, where milk was set out
on tables in row upon row of buckets. He sat the porridge bowl on
the ground by the wall. Grabbing the smallest bucket of milk
within reach, he lifted it up to his lips and drank a long draught of
the rich white liquid; so delicious that he could not stop himself
from drinking too much. Then, after leaning down and pouring
the rest of the milk onto his overflowing breakfast bowl, he sat
down, placed the bowl in his lap, plucked the spoon out of it, and
began to eat.
As he fed, he saw Edmund run round the far end of the
manorhouse and headlong towards him. Seconds past and his
good friend stood there catching his breath as he spoke. "The
Normans have landed! We are already on the march." Edmund
wheeled about and called back as he entered the house, "Don't eat
too much!"
.....
Gospatrick could not believe the bad timing. He had just
come from delivering the news of victory to the abbey where his
young cousin the Princess Margaret stayed. Prepared only for a
rest, he now faced further exertions on Harold's behalf. So, Duke
William was going to force the point, was he? Well, who really
cared, anyway? The fall and rise of his own family throughout his
lifetime had taught him that power came from the edge of a sword.
Accommodations were made. He would serve the crown, whoever
wore it.
Gospatrick pictured Margaret s father, his cousin Malcolm,
who was now the King of Scotland.
When Gospatrick was a boy, his uncle Duncan was the
King of the Scots. But then Macbeth had attacked and uncle
Duncan had been killed in the battle. The usurper, Macbeth, may
have governed well, but he had not survived the vengeance of
Duncan's family.
Years later, Gospatrick, his father Maldred, and cousin
Malcolm, with their grandfather Crinan, all donned weapons of
war and took the sword to Macbeth. They had benefited from the
support of the English army. Glorious victory they enjoyed at
Birnam Wood. Macbeth had fled the field, then, and retreated up
into the north. They pursued him all the way to Lumphanan and
killed him there.
Gospatrick tried to get it straight in his mind. They crowned
Malcolm as King and, if he remembered it right, after that they had
a feast, and it was then they bedded all those girls. That's right,
that was the feast. They served roast chickens and salmon and
plum puddings. And that French wine. And those little buttery
sweet shortbread cookies. Now that was a fine meal. By faith,
those were the days. What fun! Those were the best days of my
life. And how I ve missed those cookies over the years. No baker
in England has the proper hand. Stupid clods. Make hopeless
shortbread.
Thinking of old Scotland made a lump rise in his throat. He
wished he could be his father's son again. These days in England
he felt so far from home.
As he made his way over to the camp of his overlord, a pair
of youths ran across his path. The larger of the two was holding
his very fat belly and making a face as though his recent lunch was
about to come back up. Just look at that belly stick out. How
much did that fellow just eat? And now he s going to pay for it!
Gospatrick laughed out loud. Then, for some reason, the sight of
that lad also caused him to recall the night Harold sent Tostig into
exile. Tostig s goose was cooked that night. That was a goose
dinner. They had lamb, too, but he took goose off the tray. That
was a good goose, very tasty. And a nice big meat tray it was, too.
The meat tray? Yes, that was him! The boy with the meat tray.
He d grown some.
Two Weeks Later
HASTINGS FIELD:
King Harold lay dying. Unbelievably, a lucky Norman
arrow had found his eye. Not that the Norman archers had simply
been lucky. They had covered their odds with a devastating series
of barrages issuing from the longbows they carried. Each arrow
carried more impetus than a twentieth century 30 caliber bullet.
Most of them carried right through the Saxon s heavy walrus hide
shields. The iron arrows from on high caused fearsome injuries to
heads and major organs. Hundreds of Englishmen were cut down
in the first few minutes, and the relief when the barrage ended was
great.
Then the Norman infantry attacked. The Saxons closed
ranks as fast as they could, and prevented the breakthrough of the
frontal charge. There was furious hand to hand combat, and the
English overwhelmed the enemy frontline. The attack began to
falter.
When the attackers fell back, and then began to run away,
the English were hard pressed by their own men to hold the line.
Harold's yeomen had their orders to maintain the line of closed
ranks in defensive posture. But the knowledge that the archers
would strike them again, once they stood apart, made them unsure,
and the certainty that they could cut down the straggling rear guard
without trouble, proved too great a temptation. Harold's line broke
up as the more intemperate Englishmen led the charge, and were
followed forward by the rest.
The English did not expect any surprises from the Norman
arsenal. But the sudden reversal in the temper of the Normans
who turned and fought again caught them off guard. Then, the
Norman light horse entered the field.
From far away, the sound of cheering rose out of the
Norman ranks. Then the low rumble began to get louder, becoming
a rolling thunder of approaching horsemen. The violence unleashed
by William Algernon's mounted horse mowed the Saxons down.
The English army was now in total disarray, having taken
the bait offered by Duke William's false retreat. Even their
rearguard was being decimated by the Norman cavalry.
The Duke watched with satisfaction as the vicious Algernon
led his mounted troops in the all out attack. He was a true
berserker, thought the Duke. A real Viking s son. I'm glad to have
put up with him all these years. Today's victory is his.
In several places, Saxons regrouped and formed pockets of
strong resistance. Then the word went out. Harold had fallen. The
King was dead. His brothers, Leofwine and Gyrth were dead.
There was nothing left to defend. The fight went out of the men,
and it was over. Duke William had won the field. He would be
King.
...
Turning in to his cold bed that night, Aubrey De Vere gave
himself over to a vivid recollection, his horseride across the field
at Hastings was fresh in mind: breakneck speed, wind, and dust
flying, a thousand pounds of muscular beast saddled between his
legs, hoofbeats pounding a staccato thunder from the blur of earth
rushing below. The entire Saxon army getting closer and closer,
His sword gripped for dealing death, his arm straining, reaching
steady into the backswing, at the last moment falling forward hard
and swinging the great blade in a long and low accelerating sweep
of heavy iron, and then they all three, horse and man and sword,
crash at speed into the wall of snapping, bleeding Englishmen, his
sword wrenching to a halt in the crunching bone and butchered
flesh of another man s face. He strains every muscle, twisting and
thrusting and in the sport of blood and iron he exults in the killing
of men.
It was the one face, though, that would disturb him for the
rest of his days. That gentle Saxon face looking right at him as he
forced his sword to wrench it from its body like a cabbage from
the ground. Recognition struck him the instant sword met flesh.
Those clear eyes looked right at him now. Here in the quiet of his
bed, he opened his own eyes to banish the ghost of his favorite
cousin, but it was dark in the room and the ghost remained. His
mind played tricks with him. He heard voices. He sat up in the
dark, wide awake, and knew he would not sleep for this killing. He
rubbed his head with both hands and crossed himself, God have
mercy on me. God forgive me.
Part Sixteen
NORMANDY: the same day
Gilbert relented and committed his fleet. The delay forced
on them the last few days by the storm had proven to be the most
humiliating disgrace of his life. The Lords of Normandy had great
fun at his expense, endlessly protesting the delay. William had not
urged him to change his mind until today, but he had been clearly
swallowing his impatience. The storm was nearly spent. Now he
must prove himself.
"Load the horses."
THORLEY: three days later
Aethelwold hefted the last of the dressed calves onto his
back and followed the cook's assistant back to the kitchen.
Cook had commandeered the manorhouse at Thorley for his
factory, and was busy issuing requisitions around the countryside.
Harold's army was fed, and the prisoners were next in line. He
need not bother much with their round of gruel, and so used the
hour to begin the next day's English rations. Forty men, including
young Aethelwold, busily cut the meat from the bones of three
hundred head of livestock.
When this task was done, Aethelwold hoped for a meal
himself. He had not eaten since before yesterday's victory.
The annihilation of the Vikings had been so complete, that
of the three hundred ship's companies taking part in the invasion,
only twenty four ships were required to return the wounded
survivors to Norway.
As a large thirteen year old does, Aethelwold had grown
furiously hungry. He stared at the wealth of cut meats before him,
and actually began to salivate uncontrollably. His piteous look
caused a lot of amusement in the room, and moved the cook's
assistant to beckon him eat, but of the porridge only.
Overcome for relief of his appetite, the youth grabbed the
largest bowl at hand, and the largest spoon on the table. Mumbling
thanks, he clenched the spoon in his teeth. freeing both his hands
for the task of serving himself. He grabbed the nearest cauldron
and tipped it roughly on edge to spill the meal into his bowl. It
almost burned his rough hands, but he was quick enough about it
to avoid that. Then he stuck his big spoon into the porridge so that
it stood up like a victory standard.
Picking up the bowl in both hands, he hastily strode with it
out of the kitchen to the outdoor servery, where milk was set out
on tables in row upon row of buckets. He sat the porridge bowl on
the ground by the wall. Grabbing the smallest bucket of milk
within reach, he lifted it up to his lips and drank a long draught of
the rich white liquid; so delicious that he could not stop himself
from drinking too much. Then, after leaning down and pouring
the rest of the milk onto his overflowing breakfast bowl, he sat
down, placed the bowl in his lap, plucked the spoon out of it, and
began to eat.
As he fed, he saw Edmund run round the far end of the
manorhouse and headlong towards him. Seconds past and his
good friend stood there catching his breath as he spoke. "The
Normans have landed! We are already on the march." Edmund
wheeled about and called back as he entered the house, "Don't eat
too much!"
.....
Gospatrick could not believe the bad timing. He had just
come from delivering the news of victory to the abbey where his
young cousin the Princess Margaret stayed. Prepared only for a
rest, he now faced further exertions on Harold's behalf. So, Duke
William was going to force the point, was he? Well, who really
cared, anyway? The fall and rise of his own family throughout his
lifetime had taught him that power came from the edge of a sword.
Accommodations were made. He would serve the crown, whoever
wore it.
Gospatrick pictured Margaret s father, his cousin Malcolm,
who was now the King of Scotland.
When Gospatrick was a boy, his uncle Duncan was the
King of the Scots. But then Macbeth had attacked and uncle
Duncan had been killed in the battle. The usurper, Macbeth, may
have governed well, but he had not survived the vengeance of
Duncan's family.
Years later, Gospatrick, his father Maldred, and cousin
Malcolm, with their grandfather Crinan, all donned weapons of
war and took the sword to Macbeth. They had benefited from the
support of the English army. Glorious victory they enjoyed at
Birnam Wood. Macbeth had fled the field, then, and retreated up
into the north. They pursued him all the way to Lumphanan and
killed him there.
Gospatrick tried to get it straight in his mind. They crowned
Malcolm as King and, if he remembered it right, after that they had
a feast, and it was then they bedded all those girls. That's right,
that was the feast. They served roast chickens and salmon and
plum puddings. And that French wine. And those little buttery
sweet shortbread cookies. Now that was a fine meal. By faith,
those were the days. What fun! Those were the best days of my
life. And how I ve missed those cookies over the years. No baker
in England has the proper hand. Stupid clods. Make hopeless
shortbread.
Thinking of old Scotland made a lump rise in his throat. He
wished he could be his father's son again. These days in England
he felt so far from home.
As he made his way over to the camp of his overlord, a pair
of youths ran across his path. The larger of the two was holding
his very fat belly and making a face as though his recent lunch was
about to come back up. Just look at that belly stick out. How
much did that fellow just eat? And now he s going to pay for it!
Gospatrick laughed out loud. Then, for some reason, the sight of
that lad also caused him to recall the night Harold sent Tostig into
exile. Tostig s goose was cooked that night. That was a goose
dinner. They had lamb, too, but he took goose off the tray. That
was a good goose, very tasty. And a nice big meat tray it was, too.
The meat tray? Yes, that was him! The boy with the meat tray.
He d grown some.
Two Weeks Later
HASTINGS FIELD:
King Harold lay dying. Unbelievably, a lucky Norman
arrow had found his eye. Not that the Norman archers had simply
been lucky. They had covered their odds with a devastating series
of barrages issuing from the longbows they carried. Each arrow
carried more impetus than a twentieth century 30 caliber bullet.
Most of them carried right through the Saxon s heavy walrus hide
shields. The iron arrows from on high caused fearsome injuries to
heads and major organs. Hundreds of Englishmen were cut down
in the first few minutes, and the relief when the barrage ended was
great.
Then the Norman infantry attacked. The Saxons closed
ranks as fast as they could, and prevented the breakthrough of the
frontal charge. There was furious hand to hand combat, and the
English overwhelmed the enemy frontline. The attack began to
falter.
When the attackers fell back, and then began to run away,
the English were hard pressed by their own men to hold the line.
Harold's yeomen had their orders to maintain the line of closed
ranks in defensive posture. But the knowledge that the archers
would strike them again, once they stood apart, made them unsure,
and the certainty that they could cut down the straggling rear guard
without trouble, proved too great a temptation. Harold's line broke
up as the more intemperate Englishmen led the charge, and were
followed forward by the rest.
The English did not expect any surprises from the Norman
arsenal. But the sudden reversal in the temper of the Normans
who turned and fought again caught them off guard. Then, the
Norman light horse entered the field.
From far away, the sound of cheering rose out of the
Norman ranks. Then the low rumble began to get louder, becoming
a rolling thunder of approaching horsemen. The violence unleashed
by William Algernon's mounted horse mowed the Saxons down.
The English army was now in total disarray, having taken
the bait offered by Duke William's false retreat. Even their
rearguard was being decimated by the Norman cavalry.
The Duke watched with satisfaction as the vicious Algernon
led his mounted troops in the all out attack. He was a true
berserker, thought the Duke. A real Viking s son. I'm glad to have
put up with him all these years. Today's victory is his.
In several places, Saxons regrouped and formed pockets of
strong resistance. Then the word went out. Harold had fallen. The
King was dead. His brothers, Leofwine and Gyrth were dead.
There was nothing left to defend. The fight went out of the men,
and it was over. Duke William had won the field. He would be
King.
...
Turning in to his cold bed that night, Aubrey De Vere gave
himself over to a vivid recollection, his horseride across the field
at Hastings was fresh in mind: breakneck speed, wind, and dust
flying, a thousand pounds of muscular beast saddled between his
legs, hoofbeats pounding a staccato thunder from the blur of earth
rushing below. The entire Saxon army getting closer and closer,
His sword gripped for dealing death, his arm straining, reaching
steady into the backswing, at the last moment falling forward hard
and swinging the great blade in a long and low accelerating sweep
of heavy iron, and then they all three, horse and man and sword,
crash at speed into the wall of snapping, bleeding Englishmen, his
sword wrenching to a halt in the crunching bone and butchered
flesh of another man s face. He strains every muscle, twisting and
thrusting and in the sport of blood and iron he exults in the killing
of men.
It was the one face, though, that would disturb him for the
rest of his days. That gentle Saxon face looking right at him as he
forced his sword to wrench it from its body like a cabbage from
the ground. Recognition struck him the instant sword met flesh.
Those clear eyes looked right at him now. Here in the quiet of his
bed, he opened his own eyes to banish the ghost of his favorite
cousin, but it was dark in the room and the ghost remained. His
mind played tricks with him. He heard voices. He sat up in the
dark, wide awake, and knew he would not sleep for this killing. He
rubbed his head with both hands and crossed himself, God have
mercy on me. God forgive me.
Gilbert relented and committed his fleet. The delay forced on them the last few days by the storm had proven to be the most humiliating disgrace of his life. The Lords of Normandy had great fun at his expense, endlessly protesting the delay. William had not urged him to change his mind until today, but he had been clearly swallowing his impatience. The storm was nearly spent. Now he must prove himself.
"Load the horses."
THORLEY: three days later
Aethelwold hefted the last of the dressed calves onto his back and followed the cook's assistant back to the kitchen. Cook had commandeered the manorhouse at Thorley for his factory, and was busy issuing requisitions around the countryside. Harold's army was fed, and the prisoners were next in line. He need not bother much with their round of gruel, and so used the hour to begin the next day's English rations. Forty men, including young Aethelwold, busily cut the meat from the bones of three hundred head of livestock.
When this task was done, Aethelwold hoped for a meal himself. He had not eaten since before yesterday's victory. The annihilation of the Vikings had been so complete, that of the three hundred ship's companies taking part in the invasion, only twenty four ships were required to return the wounded survivors to Norway.
As a large thirteen year old does, Aethelwold had grown furiously hungry. He stared at the wealth of cut meats before him, and actually began to salivate uncontrollably. His piteous look caused a lot of amusement in the room, and moved the cook's assistant to beckon him eat, but of the porridge only. Overcome for relief of his appetite, the youth grabbed the largest bowl at hand, and the largest spoon on the table. Mumbling thanks, he clenched the spoon in his teeth. freeing both his hands for the task of serving himself. He grabbed the nearest cauldron and tipped it roughly on edge to spill the meal into his bowl. It almost burned his rough hands, but he was quick enough about it to avoid that. Then he stuck his big spoon into the porridge so that it stood up like a victory standard.
Picking up the bowl in both hands, he hastily strode with it out of the kitchen to the outdoor servery, where milk was set out on tables in row upon row of buckets. He sat the porridge bowl on the ground by the wall. Grabbing the smallest bucket of milk within reach, he lifted it up to his lips and drank a long draught of the rich white liquid; so delicious that he could not stop himself from drinking too much. Then, after leaning down and pouring the rest of the milk onto his overflowing breakfast bowl, he sat down, placed the bowl in his lap, plucked the spoon out of it, and began to eat.
As he fed, he saw Edmund run round the far end of the manorhouse and headlong towards him. Seconds past and his good friend stood there catching his breath as he spoke. "The Normans have landed! We are already on the march." Edmund wheeled about and called back as he entered the house, "Don't eat too much!"
.....
Gospatrick could not believe the bad timing. He had just come from delivering the news of victory to the abbey where his young cousin the Princess Margaret stayed. Prepared only for a rest, he now faced further exertions on Harold's behalf. So, Duke William was going to force the point, was he? Well, who really cared, anyway? The fall and rise of his own family throughout his lifetime had taught him that power came from the edge of a sword. Accommodations were made. He would serve the crown, whoever wore it.
Gospatrick pictured Margaret s father, his cousin Malcolm, who was now the King of Scotland.
When Gospatrick was a boy, his uncle Duncan was the King of the Scots. But then Macbeth had attacked and uncle Duncan had been killed in the battle. The usurper, Macbeth, may have governed well, but he had not survived the vengeance of Duncan's family.
Years later, Gospatrick, his father Maldred, and cousin Malcolm, with their grandfather Crinan, all donned weapons of war and took the sword to Macbeth. They had benefited from the support of the English army. Glorious victory they enjoyed at Birnam Wood. Macbeth had fled the field, then, and retreated up into the north. They pursued him all the way to Lumphanan and killed him there.
Gospatrick tried to get it straight in his mind. They crowned Malcolm as King and, if he remembered it right, after that they had a feast, and it was then they bedded all those girls. That's right, that was the feast. They served roast chickens and salmon and plum puddings. And that French wine. And those little buttery sweet shortbread cookies. Now that was a fine meal. By faith, those were the days. What fun! Those were the best days of my life. And how I ve missed those cookies over the years. No baker in England has the proper hand. Stupid clods. Make hopeless shortbread.
Thinking of old Scotland made a lump rise in his throat. He wished he could be his father's son again. These days in England he felt so far from home.
As he made his way over to the camp of his overlord, a pair of youths ran across his path. The larger of the two was holding his very fat belly and making a face as though his recent lunch was about to come back up. Just look at that belly stick out. How much did that fellow just eat? And now he s going to pay for it! Gospatrick laughed out loud. Then, for some reason, the sight of that lad also caused him to recall the night Harold sent Tostig into exile. Tostig s goose was cooked that night. That was a goose dinner. They had lamb, too, but he took goose off the tray. That was a good goose, very tasty. And a nice big meat tray it was, too. The meat tray? Yes, that was him! The boy with the meat tray. He d grown some.
Two Weeks Later
HASTINGS FIELD:
King Harold lay dying. Unbelievably, a lucky Norman arrow had found his eye. Not that the Norman archers had simply been lucky. They had covered their odds with a devastating series of barrages issuing from the longbows they carried. Each arrow carried more impetus than a twentieth century 30 caliber bullet. Most of them carried right through the Saxon s heavy walrus hide shields. The iron arrows from on high caused fearsome injuries to heads and major organs. Hundreds of Englishmen were cut down in the first few minutes, and the relief when the barrage ended was great.
Then the Norman infantry attacked. The Saxons closed ranks as fast as they could, and prevented the breakthrough of the frontal charge. There was furious hand to hand combat, and the English overwhelmed the enemy frontline. The attack began to falter.
When the attackers fell back, and then began to run away, the English were hard pressed by their own men to hold the line. Harold's yeomen had their orders to maintain the line of closed ranks in defensive posture. But the knowledge that the archers would strike them again, once they stood apart, made them unsure, and the certainty that they could cut down the straggling rear guard without trouble, proved too great a temptation. Harold's line broke up as the more intemperate Englishmen led the charge, and were followed forward by the rest.
The English did not expect any surprises from the Norman arsenal. But the sudden reversal in the temper of the Normans who turned and fought again caught them off guard. Then, the Norman light horse entered the field.
From far away, the sound of cheering rose out of the Norman ranks. Then the low rumble began to get louder, becoming a rolling thunder of approaching horsemen. The violence unleashed by William Algernon's mounted horse mowed the Saxons down.
The English army was now in total disarray, having taken the bait offered by Duke William's false retreat. Even their rearguard was being decimated by the Norman cavalry. The Duke watched with satisfaction as the vicious Algernon led his mounted troops in the all out attack. He was a true berserker, thought the Duke. A real Viking s son. I'm glad to have put up with him all these years. Today's victory is his.
In several places, Saxons regrouped and formed pockets of strong resistance. Then the word went out. Harold had fallen. The King was dead. His brothers, Leofwine and Gyrth were dead. There was nothing left to defend. The fight went out of the men, and it was over. Duke William had won the field. He would be King.
...
Turning in to his cold bed that night, Aubrey De Vere gave himself over to a vivid recollection, his horseride across the field at Hastings was fresh in mind: breakneck speed, wind, and dust flying, a thousand pounds of muscular beast saddled between his legs, hoofbeats pounding a staccato thunder from the blur of earth rushing below. The entire Saxon army getting closer and closer, His sword gripped for dealing death, his arm straining, reaching steady into the backswing, at the last moment falling forward hard and swinging the great blade in a long and low accelerating sweep of heavy iron, and then they all three, horse and man and sword, crash at speed into the wall of snapping, bleeding Englishmen, his sword wrenching to a halt in the crunching bone and butchered flesh of another man s face. He strains every muscle, twisting and thrusting and in the sport of blood and iron he exults in the killing of men.
It was the one face, though, that would disturb him for the rest of his days. That gentle Saxon face looking right at him as he forced his sword to wrench it from its body like a cabbage from the ground. Recognition struck him the instant sword met flesh. Those clear eyes looked right at him now. Here in the quiet of his bed, he opened his own eyes to banish the ghost of his favorite cousin, but it was dark in the room and the ghost remained. His mind played tricks with him. He heard voices. He sat up in the dark, wide awake, and knew he would not sleep for this killing. He rubbed his head with both hands and crossed himself, God have mercy on me. God forgive me.