Hell Comes on the Wind

Prologue

England, June IQth, 1110

(A small secluded village somewhere in the south of England)

The birds sang merrily that warm hazy morning, as if rejoicing in some magnificent event
of which only they knew. A robin fluttered down from the tall apple tree and perched on the
open windowsill of a small, thatched dwelling. The proud-winged creature, with its bright
red breast worn as if a medal, hopped down onto a small oaken table next to the bed. It
looked about the bedchamber, chirped, ruffled its fine plumage, and fluttered to the bedpost
beside Philippe's head.

Poppa smiled at the bird then gazed lovingly into the face of her sleeping father, Philippe
Domfront. He was just a few days away from his seventy-ninth birthday. She knew the date
well because her father and his long-departed brother, Alan, had never forgotten each
other's anniversaries or those of their children, Emma and Poppa.

Philippe opened his eyes to gaze back at his red-breasted friend staring down at him.

"Thora and Alan, they're waiting for you, Philippe," the robin chirped fluffing its
plumage. "Come along, we have a journey to undertake."

"Just a little longer, old fellow . . . I'll come with you in a little while. 1 wish to remember
my friends," whispered the old man, smiling at the feathered messenger sitting impatiently
beside him.

Poppa gestured around the room, her pride shining like a beacon into her father's eyes.

"We're all here. Father. Cedric is here, too, as are your beautiful grandchildren, Cynwise
and Hereward. They've come to say goodbye to the sweetest, bravest, gentlest man that ever
lived." Her face was wet with tears.

Philippe scanned the room and noticed Cedric step forward, and he grasped his hand
gently in his own. Philippe gazed deeply into Cedric's azure blue eyes and smiled. "You're
now a full-grown man, the son of a great warrior king, and the good father of my
grandchildren. 1 knew you would never let your father down, or my daughter." Philippe
stated, as he squeezed Cedric's hands with affection.

"Your hold is still vice-like, sir," Cedric said, smiling. "When you visit with my father,
would you tell the king that he is always with us?" Cedric's eyes filled with the glistening
wetness reserved only for such great men.

Poppa's hand reached out across the bed to place it upon that of her husband as her
children slowly surrounded their grandfather.

Emma moved beside Poppa. In her arms, she held a baby girl; the child was not more
than a week old. Emma leant over her Uncle Philippe, to show him his first great-niece. The
old man's hand rose to touch the sweet softness of the sleeping child's cheek, and smiling
proudly, he nodded his patriarchal approval of the family's latest addition. "The child shall
be called Aleine. Alan would appreciate such a beautiful name," Philippe said as he looked
into the face of the child he would never see run and play.

"Father," Poppa said softly, "there are people from the village outside. They have come to
visit with you, to say thank you for being their friend— might they come in?"

Philippe again nodded his approval, his eyes widening as a multitude of people from the
village began gathering around his bed to pay homage to a legend. Each visitor kissed
Philippe's hand and said 'thank you', before moving on to allow the next to show their
appreciation to the man who was the only living soul that knew the entire truth.

After a while, the room quieted once more and Philippe looked at the robin still sitting
beside him, and he winked impudently at the impatient bird.

Philippe closed his eyes and drifted into a deep sleep, to remember again his brother,
Alan, his friends, and the adventures they'd shared.

From the clouds, Philippe's long dead wife, Thora, looked down to her husband.

"My sweet husband, you might begin to tell your story," she whispered.

"1 think this would be a good time, my beloved," Philippe replied.

HELL COMES ON THE WIND

A novel by Antony E Bradbury © September 2007
CHAPTER ONE

ESCAPE FROM HELL

A small French border village: August 20'" 1065

Philippe leaned upon the half-gated barn door, his idle gaze wandering up the steep hill.
The morning bustle of the adults up and down the thoroughfare had subsided to the peace
and relative quiet of birdsong. Mid-day summer afternoons were always sleepy in the village
of Briare. It was the time when the adults dozed in the shade out of the hot afternoon sun,
rising again in the cooler part of the day to resirme and complete their work in the evening.

On the hot breeze, Philippe's ears caught the distant, barely perceptible, yet nonetheless
raucous sound of frivolity as children danced and played, while others swam off the banks
of the Loire River to challenge the children of Bedoise on the other side. From the Normandy
bank, the Bedoise boys threw sticks at the swimming French youngsters. They jeered at the
playful jibes of the opposing force, as they clambered up the steep, muddy banks to
participate in mock fighting games with their Norman counterparts across the border.

Philippe smiled then momentarily glanced over his shoulder toward Alan, his brother,
who was using a new grinding wheel that Philippe had bought the previous day, before
returning his gaze to the bright, sim-lit yard. He noticed his brother's wife, Maria, with her
daughter, Emma and his own daughter. Poppa, strolling down the hard-rutted dusty street
that dirring a rainy season became a quagmire. In Maria's face Philippe saw her twin sister
Thora, his long departed wife. Like Maria, she had been voluptuous, pretty, so natural and
every bit a woman. Her deep brown eyes and dark, almost black hair glistened in the sun.
Tears welled up in his eyes as he recalled that fateful day when Thora had died giving birth
to their daughter. Poppa. "Thora," he whispered, as he so often did when he was alone.

Philippe removed his tunic to reveal the sweat glistening upon the rippling muscles on his
tall, athletic frame. He hung his tunic on a peg and began lifting an anvil five times above his
head. He returned the anvil to the wooden block and turned once more to gaze at his elder
brother, Alan, who was swarthy and similarly built and with a single year between their
ages. Philippe's body was supple, and he was physically the stronger of the two through his
two years training with the French king's vast army at Orleans. He practiced every morning
the exercises he'd learned to remain fit, and was proud of his strength and abilities in the
field of warfare.

He noticed that Alan had a gleam in his dark brown eyes; Alan's jet-black hair glistened,
glinting blue-black as the sun shone through the slats in the barn walls. His brother had a
beaming smile as he caressed the blade of a scythe while seated on a three-legged stool, his
legs astride a large stone-sharpening wheel. Philippe looked on as Alan began to pedal the
treadle once more against the perfectly balanced wooden frame to turn the spindle, almost
effortlessly spinning the attached sharpening stone.

Philippe moved to stand over him, motionless for a few moments. His attention
momentarily diverted, he gazed out of the door at the fast flowing stream next to the barn,
daydreaming of a water wheel doing much of the work for them, then snapped back to the

present reality to look down at Alan and nod at his obvious appreciation of their new toy.
He grinned at this stubbly, unmistakably mustachioed face, whose whiskers followed the
contours of his mouth, and then around to his ears to meet up with unkempt sideburns that
grew down to his cheeks.

Philippe's hand felt for his own clean-shaven face then over his short hair, shaved way up
his neck, another remnant of his time in the king's army. He spent considerable time
grooming his face, and had a complexion akin to that of a baby's bottom. He knew that he
was a tough man, and was known to his peers to be as hard as nails, because few things
upset him; he dealt with trouble as he'd been taught, calmly and efficiently.

He impressed upon Alan the need to pay attention to his attire. "It's good to dress
smartly," Philippe had said after his return from the king's duties. "You should take a pride
in your appearance, as you do with your work, Alan," he'd told him. Philippe had made
sure that Maria saw to it that Alan obligingly followed Philippe's lead, and both men now
dressed alike, although he knew Alan preferred soft deerskin shoes to his hard leather boots.
Their tunics were loose fitting, and made of linen that fell to just above their knees and were
drawn in at the waist, with a wide leather belt containing a brass buckle. The sleeves ended
at the wrist, and Maria had finished the work with an embroidered collar embellishment
around the neckline and extremities.

Philippe's thoughts flitted here and there, moving on to Bigger, his large destrier horse.
She was a heavy, four-year-old mare he'd acqirired whilst working for the king. He'd
removed the beast from a Norman knight he'd captured during a defense of a small,
disputed town in the north. The horse had become a status symbol that he knew all those in
the village admired and many coveted. He was rudely jolted back into the world of the
moment by Alan's jovial and raucous whooping.

"Woo, I've fallen in love with this! Gee-up!" Alan cried, his delight all too evident as he
pushed furiously with his feet on the paddles.

"Huh? Sorry, 1 was elsewhere. What was it you were saying? My thoughts took me— oh, it
doesn't matter." He turned to look at Alan, attempting to appear interested.

"This new sharpening wheel is going to be really helpful. See, I've honed four scythes and
a sickle whilst using it already. You did, indeed, get a good deal! I've never seen anything
like this before. From whom did you buy it?"

"In the market, of course. Now and then, a couple of Saxon merchants bring with them
the odd miracle or two, and this was one of them." Philippe bent down on one knee and
began adjusting the treadle, when Alan patted his arm.

From over Philippe's shoulder, Alan noticed a figure approaching. "Here comes Maria
and the children."

As Maria drew nearer, a stray movement caught Alan's attention. From behind her he
saw what could only be smoke rising from the direction of the village. "Merde! Look, there's
a fire in the village!" cried Alan, pointing with growing concern.

Philippe sprang up and raced to the door of the barn, with Alan scurrying closely behind
him. Philippe saw a sight that worried him even more than any fire. Norman horsemen, in
full mail armor, were harrying the entire upper village area. Philippe saw twenty or more
dismounted soldiers throwing lighted torches onto the dry, thatched timber dwellings. In
shocked horror, he saw more riders destroying the ripe cornfields. The piercing, raucous

noise of whinnying horses and the thundering sound of hooves, along with the terrified
screams of women and children, could be heard in the distance. He heard the shouts and
calls of men desperately trying to defend their homes and families echoing along the narrow
valley.

Philippe watched the older boys in the distance, trying frantically to gather the children
to the perceived safety of the timber church. He heard the calling of riders, the deafening and
terrifying sound of horseflesh on the move, coming closer, too close, then veering off
towards other crop fields farther away.

Moments later, Philippe noticed more smoke rising from his own fields, as the near ripe
and ready crops in these fields, too, were now ablaze. The gray debris-filled cloud began
dropping its hot, smoldering ash indiscriminately upon the ground around them. Bushes
and trees began to burn in the dryness of the hot summer's day, setting off a chain reaction,
as the wind it created became a fierce draught of burning hell around them.

"Quickly, Alan!" Philippe commanded his brother. "Gather the girls and Maria. Take
them to the woods to hide. If the riders come this way, ITl try and head them off!"

Alan just stood in stark amazement at the sight a few hundred paces before him.

"GO! For the sake of the saints, GO!" Philippe cried once more. A desperate look was now
upon his face that was rapidly turning to anger. He knew he had to control himself in order
to do what was needed for them to survive this outrageous, senseless attack. He pushed his
brother towards the cottage where Maria and the girls were heading.

Alan ran as fast as he could, gathering the two girls into his arms with Maria, panic
stricken, following. She suddenly veered off her course and into the house and hastily filled
a sack with some provisions of soft cheese and bread. She scrambled back through the
doorway, her sack of food little more than an inconvenience, as panic became a concerted
effort to escape.

Philippe ran to the stable, untying and leading out Bigger. He rapidly attached the horse's
harness. To this, he coupled a sled that he had placed some implements onto earlier that
morning, ready to be taken to the fields. This is a dangerous chance to take. Philippe thought. If
the Normans enter the ham, I'll have to fight for my life, hut at least Alan, Maria, and the children
will he safe. Bigger is the only working animal we have. I'm not ahout to lose her to fire or the
Normans.

From the top of the hill where the village church stood prominently, Philippe watched as
a pack of dogs came running past in terror, one with its tail singed, yelping. He heard scared
children screaming for their mothers, but there was no one to stop and calm their fear. Most
of the village inhabitants were being cut down by the Norman troops as they ran, falling
beside others who had been slaughtered moments before.

The soldiers fired the church with all it contained, including those within its walls taking
refuge. Philippe knew all too well that the Normans were no respecters of human life or the
church, except when it suited them. From the church, the loud, pitiful wailing and weeping
of women and children, all now fatherless, could be heard. The wailing turned to screams as
the flames began to rage around them, trapping all inside the wooden structure. Soon there
was silence except for the crackling and hissing of burning wood. The air was thick with
smoke darkening the sky, creating a choking brown mass of debris.

As his nostrils caught on the wind the stench of burning flesh, Philippe felt sick. He was
aghast at his inability to help his fellow villagers. As he looked around from the barn door,
he could see his way was now clear of any Norman troops. He quickly fitted the bridle onto
the horse, and tightly gripping the straps, led the beast out of the barn and took the path
made by his family with Bigger dutifully following. His mind was racing, searching for an
explanation. In God's name, this is not Normandy, he thought. What are the Normans doing on
French territory! By the saints, why our village! He searched for any sign of the Normans
approaching, but saw nothing. Philippe sensed that the Normans had completed their work
for this day by singling out this village.

He moved through the woods that were still untouched by the raging inferno to reunite
with his family in hiding. As he looked back, the fire had taken hold of the trees nearby,
burning all around it. He watched as wind it had created for itself blew the fire in the
direction of their property. Within minutes, it reached their humble homestead, setting it
ablaze. There was nothing left— the devastation was total. He felt so powerless that it was all
he could do not to cry. He looked at Alan, sensing that he, too, was near to tears.

The brothers said nothing as they each picked up a weeping child. The five, now homeless
and penniless people, had no option but to make their way along the riverbank to the home
of Maria's parents in Courson-less-Carrieres, which was two days' walk from their village.

In a sandstone cliff-face on the other side of the river, Alan spied what he thought was the
entrance to a cave. It appeared partly hidden by scrubs and trees. He motioned Maria and
the girls to sit on the thick branch of a fallen tree while he and Philippe reconnoitered. He
drew Philippe's attention to it, pointed towards the cave and spoke to him in a fiat voice.

"We need to cross over to take a look. There's at least some shelter for us if we can cross
somewhere near here," Alan said, gazing expectantly at Philippe, remembering that his
brother had at one time trained for such river crossing duties.

"We have a rope on the horse, but 1 doubt whether there is enough to stretch across the
river." Philippe replied. "Besides, the children need warmth and shelter from the wolves and
boars, as do we, so we have to make an attempt to traverse the water."

Philippe knew that the moment of decision was upon them, when he spotted what he
could only describe as a benevolent miracle. From up-stream came a boat. It was empty and
bumping the banks from side to side as it made its lazy way down the slowly fiowing river.

Without a word, Philippe unpacked the rope from the horse and began to make a
makeshift grappling hook utilizing two scythes. From the bank, he began to swing the
ungainly implements around his head. At the right moment, he released the rope. With a
great clatter of iron on wood, the boat was hooked. Slowly, he drew in the rope.

'Don't just stand there! Get hold of the boat!" Philippe bellowed. He looked on as Alan
quickly took off his shoes then waded into the slime, grimacing as he stretched out his arms,
just able to gain a grip on the bow and, with a great effort, just managing to pull the vessel
into the reeds. The mud was sucking him down, even though it was only to the depth of his
knees. Nonetheless, Alan was not keen to participate for much longer as his nostrils took in
the stinking, putrefying gasses he'd released from the sludge. The mud made slurping,
sucking noises as he maneuvered himself across and to the side of the boat. He managed to
extricate his legs from the slime and lie fiat across the reed-bed, allowing Philippe to heave
the vessel closer, leaving two holes in the sticky mass behind him.

Philippe managed to haul the vessel from the reed-bed to a shallow position that allowed
the boat to float with one person aboard. As Philippe pulled the rear of the boat towards
him, Alan clambered clumsily into the vessel. "1 want you to take the boat a little further
downstream to the bend. There should be a pebble bank where it will be easier for us to
embark," Philippe remarked confidently.

Alan nodded. He felt almost giddy with relief when he discovered paddles still in the
boat. He picked up a long piece of rope that had been cleanly severed and held it high to
show Philippe. The Normans must have just sliced through the mooring rope as they rode past, he
thought as he felt Philippe push the boat out into mid-stream.

Alan's leggings were caked in heavy mud that gave him the sensation of his legs being
twice as heavy as normal. He realized that comfort was not his priority at the moment and
dismissed this momentary discomfort as occupational inconvenience.

Within a short time, he'd reached the bend and just as Philippe had told him, was the
sandbank. There was also a bit of nature's dock where they could get down to the river
without hindrance or sinking into mud.

Philippe was soon by his side with the horse, followed closely by Maria and the children.

"Philippe," he called, "what about the horse?" Alan stepped out of the boat looking very
concerned that they might have to leave the beast behind. "Are we to leave her here?"

For a moment, Philippe looked thoughtful. "1 have a plan that should get us all across this
river, as long as the horse doesn't panic," he replied, scratching the back of his head.

"And that is?" Alan asked, looking perplexed as he always did in such moments of
tension. He'd had enough for one day without the added complication of getting a horse
across a flowing river.

"When we're all settled in the boat, I'll play out the rope. Hopefully, she will come into
the water. If all goes well. Bigger will be persuaded to swim across." Philippe replied.

"If the horse refuses— what then?" Alan queried, standing with his hands upon his hips.

"Then we'll just have to leave her," Philippe replied, whilst preparing the rope. He turned
his head to look back over his shoulder at Alan earnestly. "Please, Alan, trust me. 1 know
what I'm doing— she'll come," he said, attempting to remain confident.

Philippe noticed that the girls looked decidedly unhappy about the venture, and were shy
about getting into the vessel. He kissed them both reassuringly and ushered them to Alan.

Alan said nothing to the girls as his strong arms easily lifted them, each in turn from the
bank and placing them into the front of the boat. They sat, huddled together, while Maria
placed her shawl aroimd them, giving the girls some measure of comfort.

"Alan! We have been sent a sign from God! Look here," Maria called, lifting up a sack
from the stern. "There's a small cask of wine, more cheese, and bread, too." She noticed a
cassock rolled up and tied with a cord. "Alan, this boat can only belong to our priest. Father
Henry." The realization then struck her. Oh, my God. Our priest has been killed, too, she
thought. The children must never know what has happened hack there. Maria placed her arms
comfortingly around the children, as she glanced toward the brothers, who just looked at
each other, and in unison shrugged their shoulders. She knew at that moment, the brothers
couldn't have cared less whether the previous owner of the boat had been a monkey, as long
as it got them across the river; their immediate needs over-rode their personal feelings.

Philippe held Bigger's halter and gently stroked her soft velvet nose. "Sometimes, my
precious lady, you need to learn to do things that you've never experienced before. Will you
swim across the river for me?" Bigger gave a long, mucus-filled snort, spraying all over
Philippe's hand. Her head nodded as if she understood what was expected of her. "Good
girl," he said, gently patting her neck while passing the rope to Alan.

Philippe pushed the boat off into the water and heaved himself onboard, while Alan paid
out the rope that Philippe had attached to the halter. Paddling hard, they were nearly across
the river when the rope went taut. The beast began to move into the water, slowly following
the gentle but insistent tugging.

"By the bells of heaven, Philippe, she's coming!" Alan cried. The large, ungainly looking
creature continued deeper into the stream. Up to her neck she waded, her nostrils lifted high.
At last, she gained a firm aquatic footing and began to rise out of the murky brown river.

"Father," called Poppa to Philippe, "Bigger can swim!" She began waving encouragingly
to the destrier the girls had named "Bigger," because of its enormous size.

Soon the family was out of the boat and onto the opposite bank. The brothers made their
way to the cave, cutting down the dense undergrowth with a scythe to make a pathway. The
cave was small and cool, yet large enough to give adequate shelter from the elements. There
was a smooth covering of sand on the ground within the cave that made sitting comfortable.

Maria moved away some debris that had been deposited by various animals that she
thought might have been used for nesting material. She unrolled the woolen blankets that
she had hastily rescued from the homestead and began to make their shelter snug.

With Bigger now safe, Philippe began scouring the brush for kindling and firewood.

Alan sat with the girls and told them where they were going and what they were going to
do when finally they reached their destination. The day's horrific experiences had left the
girls drained and sleepy. Alan made the children a makeshift bed then did his best to settle
Emma and Poppa down with a story, while Maria prepared some food, such as it was. Soon,
the girls were fast asleep.

Alan was tired, they all were; but there were things that needed to be done before they
could settle to sleep. He gazed at his beloved Maria; she looked so beautiful dressed from her
neck to feet in a light brown, tight-fitting linen gown brought in snugly at the waist. The
neck of her gown was round and slit down the front, almost to the top of her cleavage. Alan
admired the stitching of the neck and sleeve bands, which came to her elbows with a blue
diamond pattern set between two parallels. She's so muddy . . . she'll want to clean and wash her
clothes when we arrive at Father's cottage, he thought. "Did you say the boat owner was Father
Henry, my dear?" he asked. He saw Maria nod her head and noticed a tear well up in her
eyes.

"We've lost so many friends, our home, everything. My God, they all died— 1 heard their
screams as those men fired the church." She turned to look at Philippe as he entered the
cave, not understanding why he looked so passive. "You've seen this before, haven't you,
Philippe? Have 'you' ever been told to do this by the king?" Maria asked as she tried to keep
her voice as quiet as possible. She noticed Philippe's glare and realized that she'd
overstepped the mark.

Philippe pivoted and walked to the cave's entrance. As he did so, he glanced towards
Alan, speaking softly.

"We'll pull the boat up to the cave and hide it with brush. Who knows? It might come in
handy." Alan nodded his compliance, and without a word followed his brother out of the
cave to the riverside, where they hauled the boat onto the bank. They soon had it turned
upside-down and camouflaged with brush. Their task was completed just as the light began
to wane, and they wearily trudged back up to the cave.

Alan entered to find Maria asleep and gazed down once more at her loveliness. He noticed
that her hand was wrapped around her loosened girdle. The girdle Maria wore was made of
several differently colored twines that were plaited together to make a flat rope. This she tied
in an elaborate knot at her waist, the loose end falling to her knees. She was ever a picture of
youthful beauty that he appreciated beyond measure.

In silence, the brothers sat and ate a little cheese, with a couple of apples from Father
Henry's sack; there was nothing to be said as at last melancholia and sleep overtook them.

The morning sun heated the precious liquid flowing below them, creating a mist that
hovered just above the water. The breakfast of cheese and wine was good, very good. The
bread, too, was welcome, if rather stale by now. They planned the last part of their journey to
the home of Maria's parents.

Philippe began giving instructions on what they should do if anything dangerous
happened along the way. "Maria, you and the children will ride Bigger. Alan and 1 will
walk, so that if we are waylaid, you can quickly ride off. We will be able to track you from
Digger's hoofprints."

Maria nodded her understanding of Philippe's reasoning as the two men lifted the three
females onto the horse.

Philippe thought of his last words to Maria before she and the girls had left to go up the
hill into the village the previous morning. It's a hard life, yet prosperous if you're willing to push
yourself towards an abundant old age. "What an odd thing to say . . . old age," Maria had
replied. "Such a long way off, fifteen seasons at least," That was yesterday, he thought, an age
ago; now there is nothing left.

They set off up the bank to the south, heading towards the large bustling town they
sought. The wind, now no more than a gentle breeze, made the air a little cooler and their
journey more comfortable. It was nothing like the heat of the late summer's furnace that they
usually welcomed to dry off the barley and corn before harvesting.

The brothers talked of their prospects now that the Norman harrying the day before had
shattered their dreams. Alan argued that their lord was weak and had allowed trade to fall
behind that of other provinces. Philippe took the opposing view, stating the Normans were
just flexing their muscles. They were making sure that their boundaries were secure. That
encroachment would unequivocally not to be tolerated.

"After all," Philippe said cautiously, "Bishop Amald had taken some land for himself on
the west side of the river which was not a wise move. It may well have been some remark
that our lord, the Bishop, might have made that provoked the raid it's common knowledge
that Amald and the duke have argued in the past. These can be the only reasons that 1 can
think of, Alan." Philippe brushed away the flies that were bothering him, spitting one out
that had entered his mouth. "1 sodding hate flies!" he said as he wiped his mouth on his

sleeve. "If you could make a cloth so fine as to see through, you could walk about without
the bother of these bloody things."

Alan chuckled at his brother's vehemence before stating, "The regular Norman forces get
paid well, or so I'm told. The duke, everyone calls him the 'bastard,' trains his men to be self-
sufficient and reliable. He's a good master when all is going well, by all I've heard."

Philippe's mind raced, his mind going back to the days in training at the barracks of King
Philippe. He'd learned a great deal about tactics, crossbows, and men, too. "1 know that the
king didn't like the Normans all that much. Duke William, for all his power, is still a vassal
of the king; that 1 do know. The duke pays his men well, and the troops get a share of any
booty, too, by all accounts. While I'm not sure about their loyalty to him, it keeps them
wealthier than the king's forces; that's for sure."

"What happens if the men fall short of expectations, Philippe? How does the Norman lord
deal with such weaknesses?" Alan asked.

"They don't. They're trained to be tough and to ignore any feelings regarding the
gruesome work that they sometimes are called upon to carry out. They demonstrated that to
good effect yesterday. We have to be realistic, Alan. 1 might see if 1 can join them and secure
a regular income."

For a moment, Alan looked shocked, but listened as Philippe explained how their
experiences of the previous day were rare indeed, even for such as the Normans.

"We need some way to make money to feed our family. We can't stay with Father very
long, because his farm is too small to support all of us; you know that, surely."

Philippe watched the play of emotions across Alan's face, knowing that Alan wanted
desperately to stay with his wife and daughter, but realized it was impossible, at least for a
while. Alan would have to follow him; it was the only way.

Philippe's eyes narrowed as he flashed back to the previous day, and clasped his hands in
a prayer-Hke fashion over his face. He said a silent prayer for those that had perished and for
forgiveness for being imable to help those who'd lost their lives that day.

A cramp in his intestines violently gripped him and made him crouch down. "Jeez, 1 need
to do a private. Carry on along, while 1 sort myself out, will you?"

Alan strolled on while watching Maria, the girls, and Bigger as they ambled gracefully in
fiont of him. He tamped down the spring of emotion as it welled up. I am a man. These things
happen to men. We just have to put up with our lot, get on with it and start again. His thoughts
turned to their neighbor the recently widowed Matilda, a woman of extremely good
manners and unusual taste in men. Matilda had married a dwarf by the name of Duffy,
who'd performed great feats of prestidigitation at the court of King Philippe until injuring
his spine in a fall while tumbling. The king had granted him a pension, but he'd never
recovered enough to work with his magic and tumbling tricks in public. Duffy had
entertained Maria and the children with stories of the opulence at the royal palace. He would
amaze them with his sleight-of-hand, producing eggs from their ears and ducks from under
their gowns. In return, the girls had baked small cakes for him. He grieved at not being able
to save her. Moments later, he noticed Philippe jogging the few hundred paces back to be
with him. "You're all sorted then?" Alan asked.

Philippe nodded, smiling. It was the genuine first smile he'd had on his face since they'd
begun working with the grinding wheel some twenty-foirr hours before. Alan reached out to

touch his arm. He looked at the concerned expression in his eyes, hidden beneath the forced
confidence.

"Working for the Normans— I guess it makes sense, at least for now. If you join with the
Normans, 1 will follow you. Although 1 doubt that Maria will be happy about us being away,
that is, especially if we join up with 'their' forces. She hates the Normans; you should know
that! I'm wondering what are the chances of us— 1 mean, could we gain employment with the
king?"

Philippe shook his head. "Not a chance, at least not now; there are places for trained men,
yes, but the king's method of payment is far from ideal, Alan. Half of your pay would be in
coins, with the rest paid as royal favors. We could never save enough to regain anything like
we had previously. Our only hope is to join the Normans. The duke actually pays twice as
much as the king and in full, too. Promotion is guaranteed, especially for educated men with
good minds, such as we."

Alan clapped his hands together, startling Philippe. "Right, that's settled then," he said,
his face now less of a frown than it had been just hours before. "Though just how Maria, her
father, and the children will take the news of our decision is a matter of conjecture."

Some short time later, as they came over the brow of a hill, Philippe could see clearly the
town of Courson-less-Carrieres before them. It was a large, thriving town with a new, almost
completed church, and the children pointed excitedly towards two men perched
precariously atop the tall spire as they worked.

The Domfront family continued on toward the town and along a dry, dusty road that was
littered with horse and oxen droppings. The smell was awful, with the nuisance of busy flies
causing the girls to swipe at them continuously. They all wrinkled their noses and held their
breath. It was all any of them could do to stop themselves from retching at the sights and
smells they encountered.

As they came into view of their parents' home, Maria caught a glimpse of her father,
Charles, milking a goat.

Noticing movement, Charles looked up and squinted at approaching figures. He rose to
his feet, scratched the back of his head, and waited for the visitors to get closer, finally
recognizing his family. "By the joys of Heaven, it's Alan and Philippe, with Maria and the
girls!" He exclaimed. "Maria! Boys! What are you doing here?" He bent low to receive his
beloved granddaughters. "How are my sweet little flowers growing?" The goat's leash fell to
the ground and the animal skittered away, quickly disappearing around the rear of the
house.

The two girls squeezed their grandfather. They squealed as they kissed and embraced the
old man who adored and loved them so much. He'd always spoilt them with his handcrafted
dolls and playful conjuring tricks he'd learned as a boy.

Philippe placed his hands prayerfully to the tip of his nose. He felt ashamed that they'd
done nothing to help the villagers escape their fate. He looked over at Alan, who stood
staring fixedly at the ground. He raised his eyebrows and then turned away, only to see the
woods from which they had emerged. "We've been made homeless. Father. The Normans
destroyed our village. We've lost almost everything except our horse and a few
implements," Philippe said, his head bowing.

"What . . .? You'd better come inside. Your mother is visiting with her sister, but she
should be back soon." Charles shooed his daughter towards the entrance. Once Maria and
the children had disappeared into the house, he turned to Alan and Philippe, his expression
grave. "Now, boys, you'd better tell me what happened."

The brothers looked at each other, and then Philippe stepped forward and took out a few
gold and silver coins from his purse. He placed the coins in the old man's hand, and dosed
his fingers over them. Smiling sweetly into the face of his father-in-law, he felt the stinging of
tears in his eyes, but managed to squelch it. Philippe knew that Charles understood fully. It
was a situation that Charles, as a young man, had experienced before under similar
circumstances.

"We know there's no room here for us all. Father. This will take care of Maria and the
children for a while and you may also keep Bigger with you to help out on the farm. Alan
and 1 are going to look for work."

Poppa ran outside, interrupting their words by calling to Philippe and Alan that they
must come see the new baby goat. Alan nodded that he'd go and ushered Poppa around the
side of the house, leading Bigger to the barn as he went to indulge his niece while leaving
Philippe and the old man alone.

"Where will you find work, my son?" the old man enquired.

"Alan and 1 want to work for Duke William. Lately, there have been things happening
that have seen him lose a lot of his forces in skirmishes with the king. He'U be looking to
recruit trained men. As you know, 1 am skilled in the craft of war. I've passed many of these
skills onto my brother. We can earn more employed by the Normans in a month than we did
in a year tilling the land." Philippe stared the old man squarely in the eyes. For a few
moments, there was silence. He sensed the old man's solicitous concern for him, until a fly
landed upon Charles's large, knobbly nose. Charles brushed the fly off in irritation.

"The Normans?" Charles muttered.

Philippe's gaze flickered to the hills, feeling embarrassed to admit this intended crime, but
he needed his step-father's approval, and Phillippe wasn't going to move until he'd obtained
this man's blessing for their venture.

Philippe started as Charles's hand landed upon his shoulder. He glanced towards the
cottage, and he felt Charles twist him around to face away from the doorway as they strolled
around the yard, making sure no one could hear what Philippe knew would be an
admonishment.

Charles lowered his voice an octave, and his tone was terse. "Are you out of your senses,
boy? These men come to your village— they burn your home, take your livelihood away from
you, and you want to join them! Philippe, look me in the eye again. Tell me once more what
you have planned!"

Philippe felt his stepfather's snappish tone biting into his normally passive sensibilities
and wasn't sure if the old man's annoyance at his decision to join with the Normans wasn't
personal. Charles's distress became more than evident to him as he continued pressing him
in a manner that Philippe felt was less than fair.

Philippe glared into the eyes of his father-in-law, his manner challenging. "You wish that
we should starve? Is that what you want for your grandchildren, daughter and us, your
adopted sons? All the money we had went into building that farm. Now it is all dashed, and

12

why I haven't a due, but we'll rebuild the property once more with the money we can both
earn. To be honest with you, 1 don't at this point care too much who pays me. This farm can
scarcely support you and Mother, let alone five extra souls. The land is poor beyond belief,
and crops don't grow well here, you know that." Philippe finished in exasperation.

"We've no other option! The king pays scarcely enough to keep one man, not a family.
You know that our only option has to be with the Normans." Philippe tirrned away and
began to chew on his lip, wondering what he could say next when he felt Charles take hold
of his arm and turn him.

The grief in Philippe's eyes was all too evident as he endeavored to suppress his disbelief
at his family's misfortune and of those of their fellow villagers; the flashbacks from the
previous day were haunting him. He hoped desperately that Charles would begin to
understand their decision.

Charles spoke quietly but forcefully, "Damn! Must you work for that 'bastard,' William?
It's not quite what 1 expected of my boys." Charles grated his teeth, his frustration evident.
Momentarily, he glared at the young man before him before his posture weakened, and he
lowered his head and sighed. "If you must find work with the Norman duke, and you can
see no other way, ..." he paused again, and his expression grew resigned." Then, my son, 1
have no other option except to give you my blessing." He cleared his throat and shrugged,

"Philippe, do what you have to. 1 understand that sometimes even a good man has to cut
bread with the devil." Taking Philippe's hand in his, he continued, "You boys are the sort of
sons that make a man proud." He grinned, blinking away the tears. "1 comprehend your
reasons, though 1 don't feel that 1 have any empathy with the master you seek. If the duke
pays well, you might soon have the means to start again. Maria and the girls are welcome to
stay as long as they need. Please, don't forget to come back; you hear?" He smiled broadly
and once more embraced his beloved son-in-law, their differences finally resolved.

"On our way here, Alan and 1 discussed our options at length. Obviously, the girls and
Maria are oirr priorities. We've a responsibility to them, to you, and to each other.

"When wiU you go?" he asked. He felt a great sadness, and gazed longingly at Philippe.

"The sooner we leave, the better. In the morning would be a good time to go. We have
enough gold coins to pay our way until we get to Caen. Once there, it's just a matter of
getting hired; it should be easy enough. 1 have the skills, and Alan will take his lead from
me. We will be just fine. We will send the money we earn here, so there will be no problems.
The girls have made a small business from making towels for the women of the village back
home. Perhaps they can be just as industrious here?" Philippe looked over the shoulder of
the old man, "Ah, here comes Alan." Philippe smelt the air, noticing that distinctive odor he
knew meant rain, then looked up and saw heavy rain clouds approaching; he pointed
northward. "It looks as if you're in need of rain. Father, and the Lord is about to smile upon
you!"

Alan made his exit from the cottage and ambled across the dusty yard toward the two
men, unsure of what to expect from his father-in-law. "Has Philippe told you of our plans.
Father?"

Charles stepped forward to embrace him. "You have my blessings, Alan." He then
pushed Alan at arms length before his finger prodded Alan's chest. "Not without
reservations, mind," Charles said, smiling

Alan looked over at Philippe, who returned his gaze with a wink and beamed the smile
that told him all their plans had indeed gained the old man's approval. He noticed that sharp
shadows around them had become dull replicas of their former selves and he glanced up
again to see the sky quickly darkening with menacing clouds as they drifted closer.

With a mighty flash, a deafening crash threw everyone to the ground. A blast of
expanding air blew a lime tree, roots and all, through the air. The smoldering, splintered tree
landed next to the thatched barn, narrowly missing Charles' home. The men jumped up and
hurried into the house to join Maria and the girls. As lightening bolts crashed, rain poured
down in torrents around them. The yard soon became a quagmire as the rivulets raced past,
carrying debris in its wake. As quickly as the storm had begun, it finished. The black clouds
moved on to terrorize some other village and the sun shone as brightly as before. Steam rose
all around, with a stench of rotting vegetation that made even the hardiest man retch.

Alan crossed the yard and entered the barn to tend to Bigger, establishing her own space
in the building's occupancy. He talked gently to Bigger as he brushed her down and cared
for her, his tone sad as he told her of their plans and why she had to remain behind. The
light dimmed in the open doorway, and Alan turned to see Maria standing there, listening.
He clenched his teeth, and averted his eyes from his wife, lest she see just how badly he
wanted to stay with her, his resolve teetering. He continued his methodical brushing while
silently cursing at the fate that was separating them. He felt a soft hand on his arm, stilling
his movements. As he glanced down into Maria's face, he saw a pained understanding of
their reality. He heard the girls chattering excitedly with their grandfather and Philippe as
they gathered vegetables for an evening meal and tended the garden patch on the far side of
the house. In anguish he dropped the brush, crushing the soft curves of Maria to his body,
rocking slowly with her and trying to keep the lump in his throat from becoming an
unmanly wail. Maria squirmed a bit in his tight hold, and her leg eased out to catch the edge
of the door, shoving it closed.

The next morning was brightly dear, warm and humid. Philippe helped to fill his
brother's carry-pack whilst occasionally looking through the open louvered window in the
direction of the hills to the north. He mapped the route out in his mind's eye, distractedly
making him oblivious to the flurry of activity.

Alan packed his spare boots, some clean hose, and a pot of goose grease to keep his boots
dry and supple. His packing finally complete, he approached Emma, throwing his arms
around her to cuddle and kiss his beloved daughter.

Philippe noticed Poppa sitting on a stool, looking forlorn. "Poppa, my sweet flower-come
to my arms," he said. He watched her as she rose from the stool and ran to him, her arms
outstretched and eyes tearful. He struggled to hide his sadness from her as he held her close.
In their hearts they both knew they would not see each other for a very long time.

Philippe glanced across at Maria; he knew that she was strong and philosophical. He saw
her gazing deeply into Alan's eyes and saw the longing and deep melancholy. Philippe
watched as Maria embraced Alan tightly before kissing her man gently on his lips and
whispering almost inaudibly into his ear. Philippe hungered so much for Thora to be with
him now, to hold him as Maria did Alan.

Maria's head fell against Alan's chest. "1 understand it may be a long time, my husband,
before 1 will see you again. 1 want you to know that you are loved more than you can ever
imagine. My father chose you both well. When he agreed to our matches, he knew that you
were good men from a good family. 1 am lucky. Many women are not blessed with such
good fortune in a man." She released Alan, turned towards Philippe and embraced him.

"Philippe, 1 am with you both on this journey into the unknown. 1 pray that Thora will
look down upon you and give you comfort and good heart for what will be ahead of you,
my dear beloved brother. Look after my husband and see that he comes to no harm; will you
promise this?" Maria bit her lip as a tear trickled down her cheek.

Philippe held her at arm's length. He bowed his head a little and stared deeply into
Maria's eyes. "Have no fear, Maria, for 1 have a vested interest in this family's safety, too."
He smiled, drew her closer, and kissed her forehead. "When 1 look at you, 1 see my beloved
Thora. She speaks to me sometimes. Did you know that?" he asked.

"I'd hoped so, Philippe— My beautiful sister comes to my dreams, too, " Maria replied.

The door opened and there stood Maria's mother, Adela, bearing fresh bread, cheese,
some young apples and a flagon of wine. Philippe could see her surprise as Adela embraced
the brothers while tears began to stream down her cheeks. Poppa held on tightly to her
father, her hand gripping his tunic fiercely. Philippe picked Poppa up and held her close to
him, her head in his neck. She kissed his cheek and muttered loving words into his ear. He
turned his head to look lovingly into the eyes of his daughter. Poppa. "1 will try to be back
very soon, my cherub. Alan and 1 will build a new farm for us; then we will make a future
for our family. It will be yoirr job to look after your grandmother and grandfather. You will
be their helping angel from heaven, my darling, hmm?

"1 will be good. Father. 1 will wipe the tears away from Grandmother, and 1 will be strong
for her."

"What's going on?" Adela asked, obvious confusion upon her face. Philippe started
forward, but Charles took Adela by the arm and walked her through the door to the yard,
where he explained the situation to her. They stood talking for what seemed an eternity
before returning indoors. Adela embraced the brothers in turn, her grip so tight that each
wondered if he would be crushed!

Philippe wondered what Poppa would be like when he returned. He knew it would be
more than a year, perhaps two, even and both girls would be young ladies by then. He felt
his resolve faltering. Perhaps Alan and I ought to stay and help our father work his farm. He
gritted his teeth. No, to give our family a future, we must make our own lives and our own way.
Whatever comes to us, we must endure.

Charles stepped forward. Into Philippe's hand he placed a tiny wooden case, no more
than the size of a walnut.

Philippe opened the keepsake and looked inside. Within the box, four snippets of hair
curled into plaits. He glanced up at Charles, and saw the old man smiling at him, almost
embarrassed.

"It contains a lock from each of the girls, along with those of Maria and Thora." Charles
said as he rested his arm upon Philippe's shoulder.

Philippe's emotions were now in utter disarray, and he embraced the old man. Philippe
once more opened the keepsake and placed a finger inside to touch the remains of his long-

dead wife. He excused himself and headed for the doorway, tears streaming down his
cheeks. Adela went to follow him, but Charles held her arm, restricting her.

"Leave him to his grief, dear. He needs to be alone with Thora."

"But..."

"1 said leave him." Charles placed his finger to his lips.

Adela understood and took a step forward, her arm outstretched to grasp the hand of
Alan.

"You will look after him, won't you?" Her eyes implored him to keep Philippe safe.

"Yes, of course. Mother, 1 promise." Alan turned to Maria. They both knew this was the
moment. She kissed his lips softly. Emma and Poppa held out their arms, reaching up as
Alan bent forward to kiss both girls on their cheeks.

"Be good for Mama, you hear?" To hide redness in his eyes, Alan turned his gaze towards
the roof beams.

"We will," the girls said, in unison.

He composed himself just long enough to say a few last words. "Make sure your
grandfather doesn't get into any trouble," he said, smiling.

The girls giggled aloud at the prospect of their grandparent in trouble with anyone.

Alan picked up the carry-bags that contained their provisions, and he followed his
brother. Outside, he saw Philippe sitting silently on a log. His tears had subsided and he
appeared composed.

Philippe looked across at Alan, smiled and rose to his feet. He walked over to him and
they embraced each other.

"Are you ready?" Alan whispered into his brother's ear.

"As ready as 1 will ever be, 1 guess," Philippe replied. "I'm sorry, Alan, it's just that ..."

"It's all right," Alan interrupted, "we imderstand. Come, we need to get a move on, or it
will be tomorrow before we get on the path to Caen." Alan passed his brother's knapsack to
him. They turned to look at their family standing at the doorway.

Philippe saw Maria holding back the girls; he knew that they really wanted to restrain
their departure.

From the doorway, Charles and Adela waved goodbye to the departing duo with tearful
eyes. As the boys returned their wave, Charles called out to them. "Be safe, and be true and
honest with your dealings with the Normans. We want you back in one piece, do you hear?"

The brothers set off on their long journey to Normandy with a wave and a call from Alan
stating that they would soon be back, more for the benefit of Emma and Poppa than
anything else.

Their route was free from robbers and the remnants of any Norman soldiers, for which
Philippe remarked that he was particularly thankful. They followed a tree-lined pathway
that shaded them from the hot sun with dappled, dancing shadows. Wild flowers welcomed
their passage, seemingly waving to them in the breeze, their bright colors bringing some
comfort to their hearts. As the late afternoon became early evening, their tired legs made the
walking arduous and endlessly uphill until they reached the outskirts of a small village
they'd espied from a previous hilltop.

"We ought to rest awhile by the edge of that small wood," Philippe advised.

Under the shade of an ash tree he took from a knapsack some provisions of bread, cheese,
and boiled ham and they began to eat their fill.

"Can you smell something? It's that stench of decomposing flesh. 1 think we should move
away to find a spot where there's no rotting badger or fox to contend with" Alan said.

Philippe didn't hear him, as his thoughts had drifted to those of his beloved Thora. He
remembered when he and his brother had married the sisters on the same day. They were all
ecstatically happy for that first year, until his contentment was dashed. His leave-taking of
Poppa earlier that day had rekindled the memory of the dreadful morning three days after
giving birth to their daughter when Thora had died. Maria and Thora had given birth within
a day of each other, and their daughters were growing up as sisters. Philippe's emotions
overwhelmed him and he once more felt tears well up in his eyes. He glanced about at their
surroundings, more to avoid Alan noticing his ongoing grief and the sadness that often
tormented him. "Can you smell something?" He noticed a couple of rooks fighting over
some carrion or other, when his perception narrowed all senses to a focal point.

"1 asked you that just a moment ago, but you were off in a world of yoirr own!"

Not ten paces from where they sat, the body of a man lay over the branch of a fallen tree.

Philippe motioned to Alan with a finger to his lips that he should he keep perfectly still
and quiet. He looked about him for signs of people, anything that might have moved or seen
him. On hands and knees, he crept forward to inspect the body before him. The shaft of a
broken lance, its shank made of ash, was poking out of his back. The tip had been driven
right through the man and out of his chest. He recognized the tip to be of Norman origin.
This man has been dead about three days, he thought, as he crossed himself and mumbled a
prayer for the victim.

Nearby, Philippe noticed a dump of wild dill and grasped a handful, crushing it against a
stone and rubbing the herb upon his sleeve. He lifted his arm to his nose to help stifle the
stench of decomposing flesh.

A few paces farther along the path, he saw another body. It was that of a man with the top
of his head sliced almost completely off. With only the skin holding the remains of the head
together, it looked a bloody mess. The man's brains were spilled out over the ground before
him. It reminded Philippe of a skirmish he'd been involved in when a Norman raiding party
had been caught unawares with the Normans coming off the worse for their exploit. It had
been his first experience of warfare.

Once more, he made the sign of the cross and said a prayer for this fallen man's soul. He
returned to the first body to snap off the spear tip then made his way back to where Alan lay
in the tall grass out of sight.

Philippe offered Alan some dill. "Here, use this to help deal with the smell." Philippe then
nudged his brother and pointed towards the trees beyond. "1 think our luck has just
changed, Alan. Look over there, is that a mirage?"

"What is it that you see?" Alan peered, but couldn't detect what was obvious to Philippe.

"Well, if that is not a tumbril with a horse attached, then I'm the king of France! The
carriage is trapped between two trees. 1 wondered why these men were out here alone with
no implements of any kind."

"Where? 1 still can't see it," Alan asked, feeling rather stupid.

"It is just beyond that copse, to the left of the fallen tree. Can you see it now? 1 have a
feeling these two bodies are the work of Normans in the vicinity. What's more, 1 think we
might have crossed over into Norman territory, too."

Alan was still peering into the trees searching for the tumbril. "Why do you think that?"

Philippe held out the offending article for Alan to inspect. "Well, the spear tip is Norman,
look at the mark— each one is numbered— the duke likes to keep track of his weaponry."
Philippe answered, "The village has probably been harried, and 1 see that the crops are still
intact. You don't burn your own territory's crops. You get your own men to harvest them
later, and bring the yield into Caen. Then you leave the village to think about their sins. They
then have to make out as best they can until next year. The thought of losing it all again
keeps the people in line. Do you see? At least, that's the idea. If you ask me, this sort of
treatment just breeds resentment. Eventually you will end up with a full blown rebellion on
your hands."

Alan moved over a little and the tree that was blocking his view revealed the horse and
tumbril that Philippe had spotted.

"My guess is that the horse panicked and ran off, leaving the Norman soldier chasing the
fleeing men. 1 think it was one man on horseback, and he might have spotted these two on
their way out in preparation to harvest a crop. 1 guess he left the main harrying party to do
this little job, or had even been ordered to ride off to get them. 1 see very little in the way of
hoofprints. The use of a lance and then a sword would give this away. You tend to pick up
little clues like this as you go."

"Philippe, do you suppose this is just a coincidence?"

"How do you mean?" Philippe asked.

"Well, we found a boat with oars, food, wine and now this. If I'm not mistaken, either all
this is a dream, or God is trying to tell us something."

Philippe shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps, but if he's telling us something, then 1 doubt
it's a dream," he said with a chuckle. "We shouldn't take the Lord's generosity lightly. 1
guess our journey will be a little less arduous from now on. Come on, before someone else
takes our prize from us," he said, still smiling.

They untangled the horse and tumbril. It was undamaged and full of implements in
pristine condition. They freed the horse and made their way towards the village. Philippe's
suspicions were confirmed when they neared the smoldering remains of what was once a
community. Bodies lay here and there, some scorched, others charred beyond all recognition;
the vile stench of death lay over the ashes like a fog.

Alan gazed about, but no females or children could be seen; the decimation was complete.

Philippe turned to look at Alan with tears in his eyes. Alan turned away to stare again
over the ruined village. Without discussion, they retraced their steps rather than risk any
chance of incurring the wrath of potential survivors they might encounter. We've had enough
problems of our own, without taking on the heartbreak of others, Philippe thought.

"Those two men back there were the aldermen of the village, Alan. It was their horse
we've taken. They've engraved their status here upon the bridal— brothers, perhaps? 1 guess
they were like us, prosperous, but just a little older, that's all."

Three days later, the brothers entered the great bustling dty of Caen. It was a metropolis
unlike any other they had ever seen. The skyline was dominated by wooden scaffolding that
surrounded a great cathedral that was under construction. Tradesmen were everywhere,
their driving bustle a wonder to behold. Even Philippe, who was used to crowds, had seen
nothing like the activity they were now experiencing before them. As they made their way
deeper into the city, Philippe stopped an old woman to enquire the whereabouts of the
duke's garrison, but the woman bared her breasts and snarled at him. Philippe deemed her
obviously mad and to be of no help at all. He cursed his ill luck, that of all the people in the
world, he'd have to pick out a lunatic from whom to ask directions.

"There's too much bustle, too many people, all too busy to stop and speak. I'll tell you
this— if 1 manage to attract someone's attention for more than the count of three . . ."

Philippe caught Alan chuckling, and admonished him. After all, he mused, Alan hadn't
seen a mad person before. He shrugged his shoulders and geed the horse onward.
"Our priority is to sell the horse." Philippe said, matter-of-factly. "We should get a
reasonable price for her which will keep us alive for a few months, or at least until we get
work."

Alan said nothing, and Philippe realized that his brother was overawed with everything
he saw because Alan had never been to a dty before, he had never been anywhere for that
matter.

Philippe pulled the hack up, halting their progress. He leaned in the direction of a
merchant who was waiting for them to pass. Philippe called out in a no-nonsense voice to
the man. "We need to get to Duke William's garrison. Could you give me directions?"

The merchant glanced up at him, then at what they had in the tumbril. Philippe noticed
that the merchant was staring thoughtfully at him, sizing him up. He could tell the man
considered them to be country bumpkins, and that they weren't crossing to sell their wares.

"The cost will be very high if you're going to take the beast and the tumbril across the
river with you. In any event, the crossing is farther south, which is about an hour's ride with
the hack you have there. Am 1 right in thinking you have come looking for work?" the
merchant asked.

Philippe had the feeling that he might be on to something to their mutual advantage.
"Something like that," he replied noncommittally. "We're looking for a buyer for this most
valuable pair." Philippe grinned. "Would you know where 1 could find someone who might
possibly be interested? Perhaps you might be interested in making us an offer. As 1 said, it
would have to be for both the animal and tumbril with its contents." He gazed down at the
man confidently.

Philippe watched as the merchant strolled around the horse, running his hand down the
animal's flanks. He checked inside the horse's mouth, then the eyes, and finally the hooves.
He stood expressionless as he contemplated a deal. "Hmm . . .I'll make you a reasonable
offer for both. How about seven himdred?"

Philippe had never heard of such a vast amount of money before, let alone owned such a
fortune. He laughed and shook his head vigorously.

"Eleven hundred, or we go elsewhere," Philippe replied firmly.

The man walked around once more, looking over the horse and tumbril even more
closely. "Nine hundred silver pieces, not one shekel more. 1 have a living to make, my boy,"
he offered.

"Well, it's been nice speaking to you," Philippe said, bidding the man good day. He began
to ready the reins to move on when the merchant grasped the horse's bridle.

"Wait," the merchant barked, "You drive a hard bargain, young man, but 1 will give you
what you ask. There is a matter of the tax, though. That will be fifty, so you will receive one
thousand and fifty. Is that understood?"

Philippe nodded. He nearly fell off the tumbril as he dismoimted, more from surprise and
shock of this acceptance than anything else. "That will do nicely," Philippe replied blandly
as they gripped arms to seal their bargain. "I'll leave them in your good hands, then."
Philippe smiled wryly toward Alan as his brother dismounted, and they both walked inside
the small merchant's shop to collect the money due them. The merchant's box was locked
and very secure. It took a little while to get it unfastened and the chains that held the box to
the wall released. Payment was made, with Philippe counting the silver and biting at each
gold coin as it was placed upon the table before them.

Soon, the brothers were on the way south to find and cross the bridge that led to the
garrison.

Alan looked at his brother with utter admiration. "I've never seen such money. How did
you know how much to ask?"

"1 didn't," Philippe replied, carrying a smirk. "1 just guessed that he would offer me the
lowest price possible. So 1 took the lead from him. We were probably robbed, all the same.
I'm sure that in Caen, we would have to pay four times that price if we had to buy what
we've just sold."

Alan gave Philippe a grin that his younger brother knew well.

"Well, big brother, we now have two years' money for each of us in our purse. That's not
bad going for a couple of dumb country boys. The garrison can't be too far. I'm feeling quite
confident, Alan. I'm sure that the recruitment officer will not turn us away. Come on, let's go
and find ourselves some employment."

As they walked towards the bridge crossing at St-Andres-Orne, Alan felt the sea breeze
for the first time upon his face. It was cool, salty and very wet, but not the sort of moisture
one feels from rain. This was somehow different. He couldn't quite put his finger on how to
describe such dampness.

Philippe halted for a moment and put a finger into his mouth to wet it. He pulled out his
finger and held it high above his head. Alan stood watching this action for a moment and
wondered if Philippe was losing his mind. "It's going to be a good day. The wind is coming
from the west. Soon you're going to see something that will utterly amaze you. 1 have seen
the sea a few times. It is huge and a body of water you could never imagine in your wildest
dreams." Philippe said.

The hot August simshine, tempered by the seaward breeze, made the journey a pleasant
stroll. They walked along the riverbank until they came across a queue of people. They were
waiting to traverse the narrow, arched stone bridge that linked one part of Normandy to the
other.

Alan had never seen such a huge bridge. It was the last stone crossing before the river
reached the sea. The river Orne was narrow enough at this point to cross without a ferry.

As they got closer to the toll, Philippe pulled out a few coins in readiness to pay the toll to
the other side. At that moment, there came a clattering of hooves behind them. The people
moved away quickly, knowing that there was no mercy from a galloping horse. A lone
warrior approached and rode past carrying the duke's colors on a gonfanon attached to the
end of his lance. He continued through the toll without paying the man at the gate.

"This is how we will ride through this toUgate soon," Alan said, naively.

Philippe, of course, knew otherwise. He'd noticed the look of awe on Alan's face as the
man had ridden past them, but said nothing until they had paid the toll and were across the
bank on the other side. They walked along a dusty road, following the directions given to
them by the merchant a couple of hours before. The heavily rutted track led up a gentle slope
for what, to Philippe, seemed an eternity. As they rounded a bend near the top of the tree-
lined hill, Alan stopped in his tracks.

He dropped his knapsack to the ground and gasped in awe. In front of him was a sight he
would never forget.

"That, my brother, is the sea!" Philippe exclaimed gleefully.

"Clucking Bell! That's amazing! 1 know you said the sea was big but you never said it was
that big! Do you mind if we just sit here a while, Philippe? 1 really need to take this all in."

"1 guess so." Philippe said as he plopped down under the shade of a tree and opened his
bag to reveal the little box given to them by Charles a couple of days before. He touched the
contents within. As he passed it over to Alan, their eyes met, and smiling in remembrance of
the ones they loved so dearly, the brothers crossed themselves. They basked in warm sun
while a gentle, salt-laden breeze bathed their faces. Philippe removed his footwear and
began to massage his feet.

"We should make a move, Alan. If we are going to gain employment here, we need to
show a little willingness. Here, take a drink." Philippe passed over his goatskin water-carrier
to his brother who took a long refreshing swallow. He donned his footwear and they rose to
their feet, packed away their bits and pieces, and then headed onward.

As they strolled, Alan continually gazed at the sea. Further around a bend, he saw the
most imposing vision he'd ever seen. Made of large white stone, the castle was impressive.
Alan could see that there was a large wooden gatehouse built above a dry ditch moat. A
massive drawbridge led to an inner wall that held yet another gatehouse within. Four armed
guards stood around the entrance to the castle, stopping and questioning all who wished to
gain entry.

As Alan followed Philippe onto the outer drawbridge to wait in line, Philippe grasped his
arm, and spoke softly to him. "1 want you to leave all the talking to me. Just follow my lead."
Philippe gazed at Alan's unkempt hair. "Wait a minute . . . I've changed my mind. We've got
to go handle a small chore first!" Philippe turned Alan around, pulled him out of the line
and made him walk briskly back down the route.

"What the—?" Alan cried, his confusion and bewilderment obvious.

"We're off to get a Norman haircut. 1 don't know why 1 didn't realize that before now."

As they trudged off, Alan began feeling unwell. It was too hot for him. He held Philippe
back, pulling his arm.

Philippe halted in irritation before getting a good look at his brother. He motioned Alan to
sit. Removing the water-carrier from his knapsack, Philippe bid him drink the water as they
sat out of sight under the shade of an oak tree. "You're suffering from heat exhaustion. I've
seen the symptoms many times. We need to find some lodging. The most important thing is
a meal, and then tomorrow, we'll get ourselves a shave and a haircut."

Alan nodded, and lay back against the tree. His eyes rolled upwards as his head fell to
one side and he fell fast asleep.

Philippe checked his brother and considered readying himself to take a nap, too. First of
all, I need to secure our money. Using his dirt shovel, normally reserved for toilet use, he
removed a sod of earth and dug a small hole. He placed their money into it, then replaced
the grass sod over the top, and made himself comfortable. At least if we get waylaid in the
darkness, our money will he safe, he thought confidently. He sat down under the same tree as
the snoring Alan and studied the wooded area. Our surroundings seem secluded enough, at least
until tomorrow. He felt drowsy and a yawn took him by stealth.

Philippe felt a hand upon his shoulder that gave him a start.

"My darling, Philippe." The sweet voice of a lady was in his ear, a voice he recognized
well.

"Thora? Is that you?" He turned to look into the face he'd loved and cherished, the
mother of their daughter.

Thora moved to sit by his side.

Philippe started to speak when Thora stopped him, kissing his lips softly. He fell into her
arms, and kissed her back longingly. He felt her breast rise and fall, and the beating of her
heart thundered next to his own. As their lips parted, Thora put a finger to his mouth.

"I've come to look after you, my darling, to see you're safe from any harm. No greater
love has a wife for her husband than to give herself for the future of her family."

In his dream, he reveled in the softness and warmth of her lips as they once more sealed
upon his.

CHAPTER TWO
OUT OF THE FRYING PAN

The morning light brought the screaming of seagulls to Alan's ears. He reached for the
water carrier, taking a long draught. With the container still in his hand, he rose to his feet,
leaving Philippe sleeping.

Wishing to be closer to the water he ambled down to the shore. He sat on a rocky outcrop
looking out over the sea, a vast expanse that fascinated him. He stared out over the horizon,
where the sky met the sea. I wonder, he mused, what would happen if you sailed to the edge of the
sea? Would you fall off? He took another long drink of water, making sure there was enough
for Philippe when he awoke from his slumber.

"Over there lies England, the home of the Saxons," Philippe whispered into Alan's ear.

Alan nearly jumped out of his skin at the words. He'd never expected Philippe to creep
up on him like that. "Jeez! You nearly gave me a stroke. Please, don't ever do that again!"

"That will teach you to be more alert," Philippe grinned wickedly as Alan moved over to
give him some space. "You obviously feel better this morning. You're looking better, too."
Philippe placed a large friendly hand upon his brother's shoulder.

"I'll live. Now what about this shave and haircut? Do 1 need to cut off all my whiskers?"

"Nah. The Normans like the chin shaven, but you'll be fine leaving your mustache intact.
It gives a sort of tough look about a warrior. Just have your head shaved closely, like mine,
to the base of your head. My hair needs some attention, too. It's all in the mind, really, and it
helps the officers know that you don't have rats living in there." Philippe rubbed the top of
Alan's head, grinning as he did so. "You know, 1 never knew just how ugly you looked in
the morning until now, Alan."

"Huh . . . we're related, so is Normandy big enough to take on the might of two more ugly
souls on its territory?" Alan replied, placing his arm around his brother, squeezed him
tightly, and laughed.

They got to their feet and went back up the incline to gather their gear. As they walked,
Philippe touched Alan's arm. "Oh yes, 1 nearly forgot to tell you. I've made a safe place for
our money, so that if we get attacked, the robbers will only have stolen from us the money
we intend to spend today. Not that they would live long enough to escape 'my' long arm."
Philippe stooped to lift up the clod of grassy earth that hid their money. "1 made two holes
and halved the money," Philippe pointed to the second spot. "Here is the other clod." No
one will find our gold, Alan, you can be sure of that. We ought to mark the tree, too, so we
have a reference." Philippe did so, taking out his knife and cutting two marks from the bark
designating the exact distance from the tree.

Picking up their knapsacks, they set off down the road to find an inn, eat their fill and get
tidied up. Alan looked over his shoulder once more at the sea, feeling that he wovild never
get used to seeing to such a vast stretch of water. His thoughts wandered to the Saxons, and
he remembered that Philippe had met some at the market on a few occasions. They'd spoken
Norman French to Philippe, but he could never grasp their heavily accented English. Alan
was proud that he could speak reasonable English. Duffy, Matilda's husband, had been
English and had taught him to speak the language well enough, but unfortunately he'd not
met any Saxons with which to practice his skill. Duffy had only spoken in English to him, so

his learning was the hard way. The dwarf's French was good, very good. Alan had had to
teach him some rude words, though, so he could insult their local priest. Duffy had used to
love to bait the priest with arguments about God punishing him by making him being born
with dwarfism. He remembered the man with great affection, but sadly the ailing Duffy had
died.

"Philippe, how do you get to England? After all, if you can't see it, how do you know
where it is and how to get there?" Alan scratched the back of his head, totally confused. He
couldn't grasp the concept of not falling off the edge of the sea where it met the sky.

Philippe halted and pointed to sea. "You sail over there, of course. It's not too far, only
half a day's sailing in some places, so they say. There's a lot of trade back and forth between
France and England; they have always been best of friends. The Normans, though, seem to
have a testy relationship with the Saxons in England. 1 don't fully understand why, so don't
even ask." Philippe said in a knowledgeable tone. "You might find out one of these days."

"Look here— are you pulling my leg? If you sail a boat to where the sky meets the sea out
there, you'll fall off the edge. A blind man on a galloping horse can see that!"

"All I know is that men sail to England and then they come back. They've not fallen off
the edge, as far as 1 know. Why not go and ask someone who sails out there? I'm sure
someone will have the answer," Philippe replied flippantly.

They finally arrived back at the bridge. There was no one waiting in line on this side to
cross to the other bank, so they paid the toll again and walked over. They caught sight of an
inn set back a small distance from the bridge.

Philippe entered to see if they were serving customers yet. The room was dark, with just
four oaken tables and benches. The windows were slatted, keeping out the hot sun, and
another door led to the cooking area. A third door led out to some sort of brew-house yard,
as Philippe could smell the fermenting ale.

Each table held a small candleholder affixed with iron nails to protect it from falling. The
candles had thin, protective slithers of cow horn slipped around each one to allow dim light
to escape yet stopped the candle from being accidentally extinguished.

Philippe sniffed the air; the inn smelled clean and fresh, not of the puke that he'd been
used to when frequenting inns with the king's forces. Philippe nodded to Alan that it was an
acceptable tavern and that they should enter.

It was quite early and there was no one about, so Philippe called out into the gloom.
Service!" Philippe's voice reverberated around the empty room and the echo came back a
moment later, taking him by surprise. The brothers smiled at one another and laughed.

A young girl came hurrying through a door and stopped before them, her head bowed.
She's about fifteen years old, pretty, too, Philippe thought. He noticed that she had a withered
arm, and wondered if it was the result of an accident or perhaps it was a birth defect.

"Yes, sir. Ale or wine, if it's your pleasure, sir?" the girl enquired.

Philippe looked kindly at the girl. "We would like bread, a roll of cheese, so we might
take it with us, and fruit of some kind. We also need fresh water for our carriers, too, and a
couple of flagons of ale to quench our thirst, along with a bit of cooked meat or chicken,
perhaps?" he requested. Her face shows a resemblance to Poppa, he mused. Her sweet smile even
reminds me a little of Thora.

Eleanor's voice startled him out of his momentary dream-like state, and he stared at her
nymph-like face.

"Yes, sir, we have some chickens cooking now, but the meat won't be ready until after
dark, sir. Will that be all, sir?" she asked.

Philippe looked into the soft sadness of the girl's eyes and nodded. He felt an empathy
with her but didn't comprehend just why the feeling was so strong. Perhaps she is an orphan,
he mused, as he watched the girl walk away.

Philippe loosened his belt and made himself comfortable, addressing Alan as he did so.

"We ought to sleep here until we are enlisted in the duke's service. After that, we might
have to sleep with the pigs, and 1 don't just mean the four-legged variety, either," he
commented wryly as he pulled off his heavy leather boots.

"1 was too tired to notice last night; the journey was long and exhausting and the thrill of
the sights was just too much for me, especially the sea!" Alan exclaimed as he rose to his feet,
went outside to urinate against the wall, before re-entering the tavern to see the girl carrying
ale, bread, and cheese along with two refilled water-carriers. She placed the food on the table
and smiled as she withdrew.

"Did you notice her demeanor? Do you think this girl's been beaten, or abused in some
way? She looks to be a frightened little soul," Alan said.

Philippe didn't reply; he was staring through the doorway with a thoughtful expression.

Upon her return, Philippe spoke gently to her. The feeling of compassion was
overwhelming him, and he was painstaking in his phrasing to her.

"We need a shave and a haircut. Is there a place we can go to get this done?" Philippe
asked of the girl.

Eleanor returned Philippe's smile, feeling more relaxed, and wondered why these
strangers were treating her with kindness. It wasn't something she was used to from
customers. Most men tried to touch or grab at her, often kissing her forcibly. She hated it!
There was something different about these two men that she couldn't put her finger on.

"1 shave my father, sir. 1 give a good haircut, too."

Alan exchanged looks with Philippe.

Philippe noticed that Eleanor often turned her ear when either one of them spoke, then he
realized that she might be confused by their enunciation. "We're not Normans. We're
French," he said.

"1 knew you weren't from here, sir. Your accent is very different. It's soft and sweet-
sounding, not like the local people who always seem to be shouting at me."

They both listened to the girl's story with sadness of customers' treatment of her, and
Philippe displayed his sadness that she was left to deal with ruffians.

"Well, about this shave. 1 need to know how much you would charge for that, and a
haircut, too." Philippe asked.

She moved around to the side of the table to be a little nearer to him. She looked at the
back of his head then took a look at Alan's unkempt bush and giggled. "Do you want to look
like the Norman soldiers?" she inquired before turning her full attention to Alan. "This one
might take some extra work, and with a scythe, too," she teased, giggling as her fingers
combed through Alan's hair.

Philippe nodded in mock seriousness. "He does look like something the dogs might have
dragged in." He raised his hand to ruffle his brother's head, but Alan dodged, grinning.

"Tomorrow, when you finish your breakfast meal, I'll shave you both. There's no
payment to be made as long as you stay one night in a room here," she stated.

"I'm not sure that 1 need a haircut or a shave," Alan groused, whilst brushing back his
thick black hair.

"Take absolutely no notice of him, err . . .?" Philippe said wanting to know the girl's name.

"I'm called Eleanor, after my mother. She's dead, sir."

Philippe held out his hand to her. She looked perplexed as she allowed him to hold her
hand in his. "1, too, have a daughter without a mother," Philippe gave Eleanor's hand a
gentle squeeze. His instincts told him that Eleanor was a good, honest girl, and he liked her.

"You seem to be such kind people. 1 wonder if 1 might ask— why would you want to come
here to find work?" Eleanor asked with flagrant curiosity.

"We need work to feed our families, nothing more than that," Alan replied. "What is your
story, my dear? I'm sure that you have many tales to tell about your experiences here."

Eleanor told them about her father, who kept the inn; he was a deaf-mute. Duke William's
father, Robert, had punished him many years ago by cutting out his tongue for some
infraction.

The brothers ate on, absorbing all that Eleanor had to say.

She described how men would come into the inn on their way to the garrison looking for
work, and of how they would get drunk, mess about, and fight with each other over the
silliest things. She deliberately hid away until the men left, then went to sleep in the brew-
house.

Philippe leant forward, cupping his head in his hands. "It's odd that we've been the only
customers in here all day, Eleanor. Why is this?"

"It's the day the troops train inside the garrison. You can gain entry, but no one leaves
except messengers; it's just the rule. I've no idea why, and I've never bothered to inquire,
either. Those men who are garrisoned there are a law unto themselves. If you're seeking
work there, you'd better be good. They only employ the best tradesmen at the garrison. The
fighting men don't come here. It's the artisans that cause all the trouble. They've too much
money, too little brain, and no noticeable common sense. Speaking of which, you both look
like you could do with some sleep. This ale is very potent, and you've downed three flagons
each. I'll make a cot ready for you, but 1 must ask for payment first. We have hammocks, too,
as some men prefer them."

Alan nodded his head, realizing that this wasn't the time to drink too much ale.

"Ah ... a night's sleep in a real bed. 1 think that's just what we need then, Alan," Philippe
said, dropping a few silver coins on the table. "Will this be enough, Eleanor?" he asked.

Eleanor looked shocked, because she wasn't used to such honesty. "1 think it's a little too
much," Eleanor replied, giving him two coins back.

Philippe shook his head and opened his hand widely to her, indicating she could keep the
coins. "Go treat yourself to something in the market, Eleanor. For now, we need to sleep."

She led them to a room that was small and sparse, yet to two tired men, it was
comfortable enough with shutters that made the room dark when dosed. The room smelled
musty, as if it hadn't been aired or used for a while, but the brothers didn't care too much;

anything was better than the previous night's ground. They both fell onto the horsehair
mattresses and within moments were fast asleep. Eleanor closed the door and left. . .

Alan awoke and looked out the window to a sunny morning. He left Philippe snoring,
oblivious of the world, and eased from the room to be greeted by Eleanor, who was carrying
in her arms the trash.

"Are you ready for your haircut, sir?" she asked, smiling.

Alan nodded, and felt his hairy face. "Goodbye, beard, you'll be sorely missed."
"Come with me," she said and beckoned with her head.

Alan followed her outside where she had a bowl of warm water ready for him. On a
bench was some ash-lime soap she'd made the week before.

Alan looked about the small yard that was enclosed by a high hurdle fence. There was
little to be seen, other than a few oaken barrels and a very large outhouse where Eleanor's
father brewed ale. Ah, I could stay here all week, he thought, as he spied the barrels of freshly
brewed ale nestled within the confines of the yard. Yep . . . I could get to like this place.

"1 know how your hair should be. You'll trust me to shave your head correctly."

He nodded his permission and sat down upon a bench. He took off his tunic to reveal a
man whose muscles rippled at the touch of her soft hands. He bowed his head forward,
while Eleanor, with a pair of sharp shears, began cutting his hair from the back.

She chatted along as if he was some old friend while she clipped away merrily.

Alan closed his eyes as he thought about Maria and the girls back home. He could
visualize the two girls playing with their grandfather and Maria milking goats. He
wondered what they were doing, and whether their grandfather was coping with the girls'
boisterous ways.

The shave was very close and Alan appreciated her deftness with the razor. The warmth
of the creamy suds felt rather pleasant as the dexterous strokes of a badger-haired brush
prepared him for his first day as a Norman. I hope that I don't let my brother down, and that I
can measure up to him, he thought, as the sharpened blade did its work.

"You sure look a pretty boy, big brother. Your face is now like a baby's cute little arse,"
Philippe said, bending forward and placing his hands on his knees while tilting his head in a
considering fashion as he viewed Eleanor's handiwork.

"There— you're finished. Just out of curiosity, you haven't told me your names. 1 know
that one of you is Alan and the other . . .?"

Alan laughed loudly when he realized that they had not introduced themselves.

"1 am Alan Domfront and this is my esteemed younger brother, Philippe." Alan rose to
his feet, wiping his now smooth face of suds. He then moved to stand next to Philippe. Alan
nudged him and they both bowed low to her.

She laughed at the antics of the two men who stood grinning before her. "Well, Philippe
Domfront, 1 do believe it's your turn to be given skin like that of an infant's arse. Will you
please sit here?" Eleanor motioned with her outstretched arm towards the bench.

Alan moved to sit on another bench, placing his feet upon a barrel and grinning.

Philippe removed his tunic, startled as Eleanor gasped at his muscular body.

"I've seen some men in my short life, but never a body so perfectly formed as yours. It's
so beautiful, Philippe," she said with a shy look.

27

"I keep fit with special exercises," he replied. "Alan is, or was, our the village blacksmith,
but that's a story for another day."

She cut away the locks of the most gorgeous hulk she'd ever had the privilege to witness,
snipping and shaving as before. After she'd completed Philippe's shave, she wiped his neck
dry, once more admiring his muscular form as she did so. "There you are, Philippe. Isn't that
the best shave you have ever experienced?" Eleanor stated confidently, stepping back to
allow Philippe to appreciate her handiwork.

Alan threw Philippe a linen cloth, which his brother caught and preceded to wipe his face
of the suds. He spied a bucket of warm water and dipped his finger into it. Picking up
Eleanor's soap, he dipped his head into it and began to lather his hair.

From the front area of the inn, came the sound of men calling, wanting service. The
raucous voices echoed around the inn. It gave Philippe the impression that a party of apes
had entered the tavern.

She smiled. "1 won't be long— it's not unusual for customers to call out whilst I'm in the
brewing room," she said as she turned to walk inside.

Philippe circled around his brother, nodding his head, admiring Eleanor's very practiced
art. "You look very smart, Alan. Indeed, quite seemingly the professional soldier."

"1 was wondering— do you think that 1 will pass the tests the Normans might give me
before they would hire me?"

Philippe smiled wryly and took the opportunity to pull his gullible brother's leg. "You
have to learn this battalion song by heart, Alan, or you'll be rejected; I'll sing it to you."
Philippe cleared his throat, and with a serious look, he started his song. "Big men with big
balls will fill your heart with joy. When women see you ..." Philippe's invented song
seemed to go on forever, and he encouraged Alan to join in a raucous and impromptu
chorus.

Eleanor was relaxed as she entered the public drinking room. Thinking that her new
friends might become regular customers and perhaps, close and dear to her, lifted her heart.
She shook off more thoughts to give her full attention to the four men in front of her. Two
were sitting on one of the tables, whilst two others sat on a bench. They were grinning,
perusing her body in a way she had seen before and was accustomed to, but didn't like.

She wondered if she should return to the yard to ask the brothers for their presence. That
way, these men might not try touching her breasts or reaching under her gown to interfere
with her most private and intimate parts. She moved towards the men warily, keeping out of
arms' reach while looking at each of the men in turn.

Her senses heightened with the sensation of danger as their grinning subsided, and for a
moment there was silence. All that could be heard were seagulls, the rumble of a tumbril
passing by, and the clopping of hooves.

"Food and ale, girl!" The order came from a man whose beard had grown down to his
waist. "We don't want any stale bread, either." All four men were scruffy and unwashed,
with little to distinguish one from another, apart from the length of their beards and the
color of their hair.

For a moment, Eleanor was startled. She noticed there were four flagons already on the
table. Cheese and bread lay scattered around. The objects were partly hidden from view, and

she hadn't noticed them when she had walked into the room. Do as they ask, there is no use in
antagonizing them. Father has obviously served them while I was shaving Philippe, she thought. She
heard Philippe singing in the yard, and wished he were beside her.

"Yes, sir, 1 will go and bring fresh bread and ale." Eleanor's tone was matter-of-fact. She
turned towards the kitchen area and began to walk away. Her eyes lifted to something
hanging before her and she almost bumped into it. Her chin dropped in horror and her legs
began to tremble at the sight of her father hanging from a rope thrown over a beam above
her. She felt faint. The scream, which she so desperately wanted to emit, eluded her.

A hand reached out to grasp her arm and turned her around. In one movement, her gown
was ripped from her to reveal the nakedness of her youth while another man's hand grasped
her throat.

Eleanor knew nothing of the rape. She'd passed out with the fierceness and shock of the
strangulation. When they were each done with her, two of the men lifted her defiled and
naked body onto a meat-hook that hung from a ring attached to a beam, its sharp point
penetrating the back of her neck and entering the base of her brain.

Philippe laughed at the silly song he had made Alan learn, until something made him put
his finger to his lips and make a shushing sound as he looked towards the inn. His eyebrows
lowered and his head tilted slightly to one side. There was not a sound to be heard. "There's
something not quite right here, Alan. 1 think we'd better take a peek inside." He walked the
short distance to the entrance, beckoning Alan to follow. At the doorway, Philippe stood
aghast at the horrific scene before him.

Peering over Philippe's shoulder, Alan realized that the four strangers hadn't noticed
them entering from the yard doorway. With his fists clenched, Alan began to rage. His face
pulsated with anger and he lost control. He pushed against Philippe, propelling him to cross
rapidly to the opposite doorway, blocking any escape as Alan continued covering the yard
exit.

"Your fun is over, gentlemen!" Philippe called emphatically to the four men who had
finally realized they had company.

Philippe noticed that Alan was about to lunge at the group, and raised his hand,
cautioning Alan to hold. He took from his belt a long dagger, its blade as sharp as a razor's
edge. He chose his victim and began to pace out the steps toward him. He reached out as the
man began to scramble away, pulling the bearded devil by his chin's growth. Philippe's
blade entered the man's throat and the man fell to the floor, shuddered for a moment and
was dead.

The three remaining men looked about at each other, searching for an escape to the street.
Then a flash of steel rapidly turned end over end, locked on its target; the knife pierced the
villain's heart and another man slid to the floor. Alan had learned his brother's lessons well.

The Domfronts moved menacingly forward as their remaining victims recoiled, with their
backs now against the wall, cowardice written upon their faces.

Philippe stared into the eyes of the murdering rapist directly before him. His boot shot out
at the man's groin. Its objective engaged and as the man bent double, Philippe bore upward
with the thrust of his knife, shoving the man's head backward as the dagger entered his
throat. Pulling upwards on the knife, the blade sliced the head almost completely off. Blood

pumped and spurted from the dying man, covering Philippe with his victim's life-giving
fluid.

Alan bent down, never taking his eyes off his next intended fatality. His hand felt for and
removed the knife from the cadaver sprawled in a bloody heap below him. Alan strode with
agonizing purpose to the shaking, cowering cretin — the last remaining vestige of a foursome
of vagabonds who'd known no respect for human life. It was now this man's turn to die.
Alan grabbed the man by his throat, easily pushing the struggling toad down to the floor.

Philippe bent over and yanked the man's belt from around his waist.

Alan cuffed the man's head, rolling him facedown and gripping the terrified man's arms,
pulled them behind his back. Taking the belt from Philippe, he tied the belt tightly around
the man's wrists while the sobbing criminal whimpered, calling for mercy.

Philippe walked to the remains of the sweet Eleanor. He gently lifted her off the meat
hook, and moved towards a table clear of any items. Tenderly, he laid the girl down upon
the boards, his face streaming with tears for a wonderful creature taken so soon and in such
a horrid way. Not a word had been uttered throughout, until Alan placed his arm around his
brother.

"We have to take her father down, Philippe."

Philippe nodded, then glared in the direction of the pathetic turd that lay squealing
behind them. He turned back to once more gaze into the face of the beautiful girl that lay
before him. Raging he swiveled about and lunged forward. He bent down to grab hold of the
murdering bastard who lay at his feet. The man rolled onto his back, his knees coming to his
chest.

'Tt is time for you to get up!" The man struggled awkwardly to his feet as Alan assisted
him rise with a hand grasping the rapist's hair. He stood shaking uncontrollably, saliva
swelling the wretched tirrd's unkempt beard. The low, guttural, wheeze squeezing from his
larynx filled the room, as Philippe bodily lifted the man above his head. In his anger, he
stalked the short distance to the position where Eleanor had died, and placed the man on the
same bloody hook on which his last victim was made to suffer.

As the implement entered the villain's brain, he began to shake violently as he hung,
impaled upon his own device of death. His eyeballs stared, bulging. At last, the man slipped
into unconsciousness, receiving his just demise.

"Die, and die slowly!" Philippe muttered, grimadng with teeth bared.

Alan had never before seen his brother take the life of another human being. He felt
almost ashamed at what they had justifiably done.

Alan imtied the noose, while Philippe eased Eleanor's father down from the beam where
he'd been hung. He carried the man outside and laid the lifeless body down upon the earth.

A crowd began to gather in front of the inn. The noise became a riotous uproar as
shouting and calling came from the mob outside.

Philippe walked briskly back into the room. Gently, he picked up the girl in his arms and
walked to the door that led to the street outside. The crowd pushed forward as he held the
girl to show what the men inside had done to this child and her father. Three tall soldiers
wearing mail armor pushed past the crowd, ushering Philippe back inside and following
him into the inn. As one of the soldiers entered the yard, he saw Alan on his knees, crossing
himself as he said a prayer for the man who had died defending his business.

30

"What the hell happened here?" the soldier asked as he stood in awe of the destruction
around him.

Tears were streaming down Alan's face as he turned his head to gaze up at the man
standing above him.

"These gentle people were murdered by the men you see lying dead inside," Alan replied.

The man gazed down at Eleanor's father then turned to look into Alan's eyes.

Alan rose to his feet, wiping the tears from eyes upon his sleeve.

"What was your role in all this?" the soldier asked. "You'd better come inside, out of the
heat," he said, and listened intently as Alan relayed to him the story of the morning's events.

"So you're looking for work, then?" the soldier asked with an almost unconcerned
attitude toward the carnage.

Alan nodded affirmatively. "Yes, it's why we came here . . .but where is my brother?"
asked Alan, looking around bewilderedly. "Have you arrested him? We were so angry, that
we just killed those men for murdering the girl and her father. They put Eleanor, for that was
her name, on a meat hook after raping her, and hung her father from that beam." Alan
pointed to the beam above him.

"The other man is still outside, holding the girl's body. Clearly, there is nothing more to
be asked. You are obviously innocent of any crime, at least as far as 1 can see," said the
soldier

Philippe returned with Eleanor's body to the yard accompanied by the other two soldiers.
He placed her gently on the ground, then knelt beside her and said a prayer. He kissed her
forehead, crossed himself and slowly rose to his feet.

The soldier twirled the thick, bushy handlebar mustache that grew around to his ears. His
bright blue eyes peered over his button nose, exuding a kindly, almost a fatherly look. He
was tall, not quite as tall as was Alan. Philippe noticed an ochre-colored band on the
soldier's left arm, denoting that he was a sergeant. Sewn onto this was a green stripe,
indicating an elevated rank.

"My name is Sprig, the master sergeant here. I'm satisfied there's been no crime
committed by your hands. Therefore, you are free to go at your convenience." He turned to
leave, then halted and spun about. "Oh yes, 1 forgot to mention something. The local law
states that under such circumstances, if there are no other relatives, you now take on the
responsibility of the business. 1 wouldn't like to say spoils, but for the want of a better word,
the place now belongs to you."

Philippe was astounded at this statement. He gaped at Alan and he in return at him. He
wanted to speak, but the words didn't come to his lips.

"1 am Alan Domfront, and this is my brother, Philippe, sergeant. 1 must ask you if you
know of any relatives in the vicinity?" Alan asked naively. One of the other soldiers
whispered into the ear of the sergeant, who shook his head.

"No, no one; it looks as if you now own the place— oh yes." The sergeant looked at
Philippe. "Your friend, here, told me you're looking for work. We need good men, such as
you. If you're still interested in work, come to see me in the morning. Ask for me by name at
the main gate. I'll leave word with the guards that you are expected. There's no income in
running an alehouse, at least not in this town. My men get food and ale, it's part of their
allowance."

31

"We'll sleep on it, sergeant," Philippe replied. "Meanwhile, we need to give these two
good souls a Christian burial."

"I'll see to it that the four bodies inside get thrown into the river for fish food," Sergeant
Sprig replied, and threw a wink at Philippe. "1 like honest men— I'll see you in the morning
then."

Philippe smiled back. "Err, sergeant. Is there a means of delivering messages from here? 1
need to write to our family back home. They need to know that we've arrived here safely."

Sprig looked puzzled.

"Are you telling me you can read and write?" Sprig asked, startled.

"Of course, we are both literate." Philippe scratched his head at the sergeant's
astonishment.

"You're hired! Come to the barracks at noon, 1 will see to it that you are expected."

Philippe stood to attention. "Yes, sir, at noon," he replied.

The sergeant nodded and walked through the inn, and gave orders to his men to dispose
of the murderers' bodies in the river.

Alan began looking about the premises for implements with which to dig two graves.
What he found were not the sort of digging tools with which they were accustomed. He
came across a couple of deer antlers and a shovel made from the shoulder blade of an ox.
Nevertheless, they made do with that they had and began digging the grave. Philippe found
some linen cloth and shears, which he used to cut it into sizes suitable enough to wrap the
cadavers.

They laid the bodies into the grave, placing stones around the edges. They began to fill the
grave with earth, and placed more stones on the top. They knelt beside the mound, with
Alan beginning the prayer that would speed the souls to the arms of Mother Mary.

"There are no nails or cord with which to secure a cross, Alan." Philippe rubbed his eyes,
his emotions bringing a tear to them for a sweet girl whose future was so cruelly taken.

"1 don't think God will mind too much. Crosses are for the living to remember the
position and to place posies on, nothing more." He looked to the sky above him. "The light is
beginning to fail. 1 think we need to get some rest, don't you? Tomorrow we have a long day
ahead of us."

CHAPTER THREE

YOU LEARN SOMETHING NEW EVERY DAY

"It's going to be a very hot day, Alan, and it will probably freeze tonight, too. These
bedrolls had better be good because 1 used two blankets in the roll with a couple of down-
filled pillows. Those are the lirmps, by the way, just in case you're wondering about them."

"The other men are going to think we are a couple of soft townsfolk," Alan replied with a
chuckle. As they walked away from the hostelry, he turned to look backwards. He put his
sadness forcibly aside, feeling invigorated by the newness of the day and their imminent
employment. They would both keep a place in their hearts for the girl of the inn.

Perhaps it was too early for townsfolk to be up and about, for when they came to the toll
bridge there was no one around to take their coin. They climbed the hill to the barrack gates,
stopping only to retrieve some of their hidden stash of money.

They approached the drawbridge and advanced confidently towards the two guards that
stood at the gates. The younger of the two soldiers seemed to be no more than a teenager.
The other guard was about thirty, tall, and scruffy; he seemed to carry a permanent sneer
while sporting a disproportionately hooked Roman nose that gave him a comical, goose-like
appearance. He held onto his spear, treating the weapon as if it were a crutch, and slouching.

Philippe gazed at the face of the slovenly excuse for a soldier that stood before him and
realized that this is why he'd been placed on guard duty. Ms eyes are so close as to be almost
touching— and that nose! He thought.

The guard spoke to Philippe with a Breton accent that he understood well enough because
of his encounters with Bretons in previous years.

"What's your business here . . .?" the guard asked, his stance and questions aggressive.

Philippe disregarded this man's manner, preferring to answer only what was necessary.

"We've been hired by Master Sergeant Sprig, and were told to report here for duty at
noon." Philippe stared deeply into the guard's eyes and didn't like what he saw. He had a
cold, aggressive aura about him: the kind that usually made Philippe cautious of such men.
Philippe didn't regard Bretons highly as fighting men, though they tended, on the whole, to
be loyal to their paymasters. He noticed an ochre-colored band tied around the Breton's right
arm, just like sergeant Sprig, but with no green stripe. It indicated that he was an under-
sergeant, but Philippe had cause to wonder why this man was placed with a private soldier
on guard duty.

"You can enter," said the guard, and nodded to the private, indicating that he should
open the gate.

Philippe wondered why it was they were the only ones awaiting entry. It was now mid-
day, and he thought how odd it was that there was no one about. He picked up his knapsack
and waited for the gates to open.

"Yes, Sergeant Waddle," the young soldier replied as he lifted the long oaken beam that
kept the twin gates closed from the outside. He pushed hard upon one side of the gate.

Philippe entered first onto a sand-filled courtyard that was very deep. He recognized it as
a specialty training ground for war-horses. In the far right-hand corner were young boys
grooming some of the magnificent destrier horses. To his left were stone buildings. Philippe

thought they might house the duke's servicemen. Some wooden buildings of better quality,
standing on short stilts, rose next to them, and he wondered if they could be where the
mounted knights would be billeted when they were called to do service. He noticed that the
main stone building was square and strong, being some four stories high. It probably housed
the duke, his family, and his personal servants, he mused. There were small glazed windows set
in lead frames with slatted shutters that could be pulled dosed, keeping out the hot summer
sun.

Alan stood looking in awe at the sight before him. He turned toward the sound of a
blacksmith working on an anvil. The huffing and puffing of the huge bellows could just be
heard in the background. He caught the scent of horses and the odor of fresh feed and the
pungent aroma of dung being loaded onto a tumbril; it reminded him of home. Along the
battlements, he saw guards patrolling, occasionally looking out to the flat lands and the
estuary below them. He noticed movement in the stables. Two men were in conversation,
and one, whose back was to him, was giving instructions to another who was preparing to
mount the horse that a boy had led out from a stall.

The man mounted the animal, a pirre white destrier mare, and began to canter around the
yard as the horse's snorts echoed around the arena. The brothers stood watching as the rider
approached the objective, which appeared to be a small square gray board placed upon a
pole measuring a man's height. With careful aim, he speared the center of the target, and
with another skillful movement withdrew the lance as he rode past.

"That was excellent! Did you notice how he did that, Alan? That takes real skill and years
of training," Philippe remarked admiringly. He was gearing into a train of thought that he'd
felt was behind him. The adrenaline began coursing through his veins once more as he
continued to watch the rider swing around and repeat the maneuver several times, his
practiced art now honing to perfection.

Following the motions of the rider, something caught Philippe's attention. It was a lone
figure, some way off. The man was bending down to place Hessian sacks, filled with sand,
against a wooden wall. He watched closely while the man set up sticks varying in thickness
against the sacks.

The sun rose higher in the sky, its rays burning exposed skin, and Philippe cautioned
Alan that they should move into the shadows so that they would be more comfortable and
yet still be able to observe the activities. Against the glare, they became nigh invisible to all
that might look their way. Philippe nudged his brother and indicated with a nod that he look
in the direction of the person placing targets against the sacks.

Aligning with Philippe's gaze, Alan peered across the courtyard. They saw the man walk
back some distance from the target, and wet his finger, then hold it up into the air. He was
carrying a weapon that Alan had never before seen. It was a short, rectangular wooden
object, no more than the length of a man's arm. Across one end of the device was affixed a
wide bar made out of a material he could not quite distinguish from such a distance.

"What's that man doing with that curious-looking implement he's carrying?" Alan asked,
by now totally engrossed in this intriguing enigma.

"It is a crossbow and one weapon that you would do well to avoid." Philippe turned his
head sharply and looked seriously at his brother. "Believe me, Alan. If one of those arrows,
which they call bolts, were to hit you from close range, it would likely pass right through

34

your body. Those bolts do nasty things to bones, too. So, you'd better remember that, and be
wary of them. They are just as dangerous in the wrong hands, too. I've had training, and
they frighten the daylights out of me, not the crossbow itself, but when in the hands of
others."

Alan watched in continued fascination, as the man strode away from the sacks to take up
a position at a mark he'd previously made in the sand. He pulled back on the thick sinew
cord, setting it gently onto the cock. As he did so, the prod curved backwards like a bow, its
composite spring fully tensioned. The bowman carefully loaded the bolt onto the stock.
Taking careful aim, the bolt was then released and it shot through the air in a perfect arc and
reached the intended destination to split the narrow wooden target in two.

Alan noticed his brother's deep frown because it was an expression he rarely held when
watching men at their sport. His curiosity grew when Philippe winced as the crossbowman
loosed six perfectly aimed shots at the targets, splitting each stick in two.

"What's the troubled look for, Philippe?"

His expression anxious, Philippe glanced quickly at Alan.

"That crossbow is a highly accurate and lethal weapon. Do you see the stock? It is maple
wood, which is hard when left to season. Take a close look at the prod; that's the crosspiece
at the end of the stock, which is very strong, barely flexible and tough and is made from a
layered sinew and horn construction. A lot of work has gone into a crossbow like this and
would have taken a year to create, and was made specifically for this man. The men who use
them are loners, and such men converse with few others. They're a breed apart and not to be
trusted," Philippe said, his tone strangely distant.

Alan had never seen his brother quite like this before. "Are you telling me that the duke
has hired this man for a special mission, to kill an important person, perhaps?" Alan gripped
his brother's arm, becoming concerned at Philippe's continued staring.

Philippe placed his hand upon Alan's shoulder and spoke with a warning inflection.
"This man is a hired killer, one who specializes in seeking out and destroying high ranking
and heavily guarded people. His victims would be kings, dukes, earls, and other rivals.
They're an expensive but convenient and private means of elimination because such men are
meticulous in the way they seek out and annihilate their intended victim. He's been brought
into Normandy for one specific task. When that service has been discharged, he'll be
handsomely paid, then seek employment elsewhere. In some instances, the course of a
nation might be decided by this man's actions."

Alan gazed with wary fascination at the crossbowman and his hand went to his chin,
wondering how the mind of such a man could work.

Philippe motioned his brother to follow him, and he moved out of the shadows, his head
bowed as he made his way across the courtyard while keeping close to the wall until he
reached the stables, and stopped by the door that led into the interior of the stable block,
waiting for Alan to catch up.

Philippe called out to the stable-hand, asking the whereabouts of Sergeant Sprig, already
smiling as he heard the sergeant reply from within as Sprig exited into the bright sunlight.
His harsh, buttoned-nosed face hid a kindly interior that Philippe had recognized even at the
inn as being akin to that of their father-in-law, Charles, and had taken an instant liking
towards him

35

"I knew you would come; you're the sort of men that would never let anyone down,"
Sprig said, motioning them to follow him to the stone billet. They followed him through the
heavy oaken door that was held together by iron straps, which crisscrossed heavy vertical
planks held by rivets that were pointed and sharp. On the left, a keyhole was prominent, but
appeared to be out of use.

Inside, the room had a number of low-to-the-ground cots that held horsehair mattresses.
Around the walls were hooks where the inmates would hang their equipment. Some were in
use, with various pieces of clothing hanging from the clasps. Placed against the walls, there
were oblong wooden shields. From the oaken beams above them were racks of spears and
practice lances. Philippe was impressed with the accommodation. This largesse was
something he had lacked while working for the French king.

"There's two free cots at the end of the room," Sprig said, and nodded towards an area
further into the gloom.

Philippe strolled across to the end bed, past the fireplace that sat in the center of the billet
and dropped his knapsack upon the bed and sat down. His hands tested the condition of the
mattress, and he nodded his approval. It's much better than those sodding things the king offered,
he thought. He glanced up to see Sprig and his brother approaching with Alan hanging his
equipment on one of the hooks next to the free cot.

"Well, 1 can't fault the accommodation," Alan commented as he looked about the room.

Sprig took this opportunity to sit down on Philippe's bed. He looked at the brothers,
glancing first at Alan and then Philippe. "I'd like to know what brought you to Caen, and
why you want to work for the duke. Your actions at the inn tell me a great deal about yoirr
character." Sprig stated, patiently awaiting a reply to his request.

Philippe thought that he was well suited to tell their story, and so began their tale.

Sprig sat in silence as he listened to the long, drawn-out details that had placed the men in
his path. After a couple of hours. Sprig heard the last words that brought him up-to-date.

"By the balls of Lucifer, that's some story, Philippe!" he exclaimed.

From the door, a young boy made his entrance. He was of average height, with blond
hair, cut short in the men's fashion. His bright blue eyes sparkled as the light from the slatted
windows reflected off them.

Alan glanced up, catching sight of the young man whose fair skin and flaxen hair gave the
boy an angelic appearance. He wondered at the boy's age and settled for nine years, as he
watched the lad capably roll along a small barrel of ale.

The boy picked up the barrel to place it on the table, struggling a little as he placed the
container upright next to some flagons. He punched a wooden stopcock into the bung to
extract the ale and then turned around to leave the room.

Sprig noticed Alan's stare.

"He's a good boy, Alan. His father is Saxon," Sprig said, recognizing Alan's interest.

"Oh?" Alan said, looking surprised. "What's he doing in Normandy?"

"His father is here with the diplomatic service. They'll be traveling back to England soon."

"Oh, really?" Alan replied

"Yes, the duke has close ties with the English king, Edward. It would seem that the

English king is about to meet our lord." Sprig leaned forward, beckoning them both to lean
towards him. "I'm told— and this goes no farther, mind you— that Duke William is to be the
next king of England."

Philippe watched Sprig puff with pride at having such inside knowledge.

The creaking sound of the door revealed the Saxon boy's return. He was carrying bread,
cheese, and freshly cooked chicken on a wooden platter covered with linen cloth, which he
placed on the table.

"Would you mind if 1 tried my English with the boy. Sergeant?" Alan asked, "It's
suffering from serious disuse." He smiled at Sprig's nod of approval.

The boy went to the men, offering them the platter containing offerings of bread, cheese,
and apples.

"Err . . .good afternoon, young man. What name are you known by?" Alan inquired,
hoping that the boy grasped some of his English, and smiled again at the boy's start of
surprise.

"1 am called Guthrin, sir." The boy took a deep breath, then paused for a moment, turning
to look uncertainly at Sprig. "Might 1 reply to the gentleman. Sergeant? He speaks in my
mother tongue words 1 have not heard for some months."

"Of course," Sprig replied, "but don't be too long in your conversation, Guthrin. These
gentlemen have work to do."

"1 recognized the accent as being that of a man from Kent. Is that where you're from?' he
asked, looking back at Alan.

"No, I'm French, and so is my brother." Alan said, gesturing to Philippe.

Philippe listened eagerly, straining to comprehend the odd word.

"My father is Saxon, sir, and he works for King Edward. 1 am very pleased to hear your
English, and you speak my language extremely well. There're only two others here that 1
know who can speak my mother tongue. The monk, Cecil, who is also the duke's
ambassador, is one, and the other is a man 1 only know as Eumer. His English is very good,
almost as if he had lived in England all his life. He's been shooting with his crossbow in the
courtyard. Perhaps you saw him when you arrived? You might speak with him while you
are here," Guthrin said naively.

"I've never been to England, Guthrin. 1 learned your language from an Englishman who
once lived in my village. He was a wonderful man, a dwarf, actually, and a strange fellow
with an odd sense of hirmor. Now, would you please supply me with a flagon of ale, and for
these men, too?" Alan nodded in polite conclusion, pleased that he'd actually understood
every word the boy had spoken, despite the natural speed of the boy's speech.

Yes, of course, sir," Guthrin replied with an ear-splitting smile.

Alan reached out and playfully rubbed the boy's head.

Guthrin walked to the ale barrel and began filling flagons with the amber nectar,
returning within a few moments and giving one to each man.

"I'm sure that you'd like England, sir, with its rolling hills, dales, and windmills."

Sprig motioned the boy to sit beside him and placed an arm around the boy, pulling him
close. Looking down at the lad, he gave a gentle squeeze to the boy's shoulders.

Philippe saw Sprig looking affectionately down at Guthrin, and wondered if the sergeant
had taken the lad imder his protective wing.

"I love this boy as my own son," Sprig said; "there are few boys that have the qualities 1
see in this young man. Indeed, his father has instilled in him the seeds of greatness. Only last
week, this boy performed a deed that few men would have attempted, and did so
fearlessly."

The brothers leaned forward as Sprig continued his story.

"Toll, a gray destrier mare, was bitten on the fetlock by one of Duke William's dogs. The
horse, in pain, bolted as a trainee warrior began to mount the beast. The man was dragged
along the sand of the courtyard, attached to the horse only by his foot caught in a stirrup.
Guthrin had gained a special relationship with Toll through his hours spent with the horse
and constant grooming in the stable. He bravely stepped in front of the charging animal. Toll
came to a shuddering halt before him, and he calmed the alarmed giant with soothing
words, gentle touches, and blowing his sweet breath into Toll's nostrils."

Philippe gazed admiringly into Guthrin' s face and realized just why Sprig was beaming
pride from every pore of his being. "You were brave, indeed, Guthrin, and 1 guess that your
relationship with Toll must be very strong. 1, too, have such a horse. Her name is Bigger, and
she's a fine destrier. 1 understand how you fostered a love and understanding with your
four-legged friend." Philippe held the flagon to his mouth and quaffed his ale before offering
the boy the empty container, indicating with a nod that a refill was in order.

Sprig turned his attention to Alan and Philippe with a serious air.

"Tell me, Alan. Would you, if asked, be prepared to go to England?" Sprig asked, smiling
wryly at Alan's astonishment at the mere thought.

"I've never been to England. In fact, all 1 know of Saxons is from my Saxon friend, Duffy,
and what Philippe has told me from those he has met at the village markets. 1 would be lost
in such a strange country," he replied slowly, looking uncertain as to what Sprig might have
in mind for him.

Sprig placed a hand upon Alan's shoulder. "When King Edward dies, the new king will
need officers, intelligent men such as yourselves, to control the Saxons. I'll need to speak
with someone higher up because 1 might have an important task for you two to perform.
You would be a translator for giving and receiving orders, that sort of thing. Would you both
be willing to travel?" he asked, looking back and forth at interaction between the two men.

"1 know that 1 speak for both of us. Sergeant." Philippe glanced at Alan, who nodded
approval. "We've come to find work and to do what is required within that sphere. Alan has
one or two reservations about some of the tasks that your forces are required to perform.
Other than that, yes, we would be willing to travel."

Sprig nodded, appreciating that Alan had concerns. "Your comments are noted, Philippe.
What 1 have in mind is more important than policing territory, and I'll be honest with you
two. My instincts are driving me to do something I've never before done. I'm about to put on
chance my entire career! I've spent less than half a day with you both, yet the compulsion to
speak with Cecil on your behalf is overwhelming. I'd already had good men chosen and
ready to do this task first thing in the morning because the decision as to who is to
accompany Cecil is ultimately my responsibility. 1 now need to be about that business, so if
you gentlemen will excuse me, I'll leave you to sort out your things." Sprig rose to his feet
and beckoned to Guthrin to follow him as he walked briskly out of the billet.

Guthrin looked at Alan and smiled, then turned to pursue Sprig out the doorway.

Philippe sat with chin in his hands, realizing that Sprig had garnered their trust and a
healthy, mutual respect, as well.

"Well, what did you make of all of that, Philippe?"

"Search my boots. It would seem that Sprig has a job for us in England, though just what
that might be is speculation at this stage, but I've no doubt that we'll find out soon enough.
For now, 1 guess we'd better unpack our knapsacks and sort out our things. Damn, we didn't
get the chance to speak with Sprig on the matter of pay— arse to my forgetfulness!" Philippe
frowned as he pulled the heavy backpack over and began to untie the cords that held its
contents firmly within.

Alan lay back, placed his arms behind his head, and began to whistle a tune.

"If the boss walks back in and finds you posing like that, we might find ourselves hung."

"Would you care for another drink?" Alan asked absently as he rose from the bed and
ambled over to the table. He quite liked this ale— but then again, he liked any ale. As long as
it was wet and amber looking, it was okay by him. He filled his flagon, slugged a drink and
belched appreciatively. Grinning broadly, he poured out a second flagon for Philippe. He
turned around with both vessels in his hands, when from the doorway came a great
clattering, and the raucous sounds of men laughing and chattering; the noise startling him,
making him spiU a little of the ale.

A gang of men, ten in all, made their boisterous way into the room, but gradually ceased
all talk.

Alan realized the men were staring at him as they ambled to their cots. He looked over his
shoulder at Philippe and shrugged. He guessed they hadn't expected two strangers to be
waiting for them. In silence, they all sat on their cots and pulled off their boots, still studying
the new arrivals. Alan blinked owlishly into the expanse of human intrusion as the ale
continued to drip from the flagon.

Philippe rose to his feet and strode to the center of the room, passing Alan who was still
standing motionless. He gazed about the room slowly and deliberately, before bowing low.
As he straightened, he puffed out his chest proudly, placing his fists on his hips as he
proclaimed in a stentorian tone, "My name is Philippe Domfront, and I'm an arrogant
bastard. Behind me is my brother, Alan. He, too, is an arrogant, but dumb bastard. We
prostrate oirrselves before you." Philippe then fell face down on the floor.

The room filled with riotous laughter as men approached to pick up this giant buffoon
from the wooden planking. One man stood directly in front of him. Grinning broadly, he
held out his forearm.

Philippe grasped the man's arm tightly and felt himself being yanked enthusiastically to
his feet.

"Well, Philippe Domfront, you arrogant down, 1 welcome you to the madhouse. I've no
doubt you will fit right in. 1 am Robert of Bee." Robert guided Philippe around to each man
in turn. "This is Robert . . .this is Robert . . .this is Robert. We are all named Robert, except for
one."

Philippe laughed so loudly the roof could have lifted off its walls, as the room once more
became an unruly din of cheering and humor. Philippe turned to see his brother standing
with his mouth agape, the flagons still in his hand, as another Robert approached Alan, his
right arm offered in a friendly gesture and the left taking the offending leaky flagon.

From the doorway, a lone figure appeared, carrying a knapsack under his right arm. He
walked to his cot and threw his pack to the floor beside the bed before sitting down to
remove his boots, a gruff look upon his scared filled face.

Philippe gazed blandly at the figure that had just entered the billet, and then noticed the
man sneering at him, an action that was enhanced by a scar extending from his right ear in
an arc to his cheek and ending at the lip.

Robert placed his back to Snap, his head dose to Philippe's ear. "That is Sergeant Snap, as
mean a moron as you'll ever come across and you would do well to avoid him. He's
dangerous, so keep him in front of you at all times. Oirr masters only tolerate him because
he'll take on those tasks that others utterly refuse to perform. We're not killers, despite our
work, but him, he's mad, like a rabid dog. He has a goose-faced sidekick who goes by the
name of Waddle. You might have come across this chap at the front gate this morning,"
Robert said as he led Philippe further into the room and behind the fireplace, out of Snap's
sight.

"We did come across Waddle this morning, and there was something about him 1
distrusted. I've gained an eye for such men, Robert. Am 1 to understand that Snap gives the
orders around here?" Philippe asked.

"Unfortunately, yes. But we try not to take much notice of him. Master Sergeant Sprig is a
good man, and he keeps Waddle and this lunatic apart as much as he can because together
they cause havoc. 1 happen to know that if Sprig could rid himself of these two reprobates,
they would be out of here, sharpish. Not so long ago in the town, they both raped the young
daughter of a merchant. The law here says it's acceptable if you do such a thing inside.
Outside, it is a hanging offence. We all have wives and children, so we don't take kindly to
this sort of behavior."

"We think along the same lines, Robert. To be honest, my impression was that all the
people here would be Normans. Some of you, 1 noticed from your accents, are French and
others from elsewhere." Just then Guthrin entered the room, making a beeline for Robert,
who smiled affectionately at him.

"Sir, Sergeant Sprig wishes to speak with you right away and Cecil wants to speak with
Alan and Philippe. He is on his way here even now." Guthrin nodded respectfully at
Philippe, who winked back at the boy.

Robert gave a gentle push to the boy's back, ushering him ahead. "I'll be right along,
Guthrin." He glanced back at Philippe as he strode off. "Well, I'd best go see what Sprig
wants, then we can all eat." He met Cecil on his way through the door.

Cecil stood looking about the room, searching for the new men amongst the milieu of
masculine physiques.

Alan, recognizing a monk's habit, sidled up next to his brother. He'd blearily missed the
finer subtleties of Philippe's earlier introduction and was feeling a bit unsteady on his feet as
his mild inebriation was beginning to conquer his legs. He looked at the floor, studying the
small sandaled feet peeking from the hem of the monk's robe.

"Alan and Philippe?" Cecil enquired. He spoke dearly in perfect Latin, which for a
moment stunned them both. They had not expected it at all, let alone as a first speech.

"My name is Cecil;" he dipped his head politely. "It has been brought to my attention that
you are both fully literate in Latin. One of you, 'Alan,' I'm led to understand, speaks

extremely good English, also. Please, 1 wish to converse awhile with you. Would you follow
me to my quarters?" Cecil gestured towards the door as he walked off without waiting for a
reply.

The brothers looked at each other and shrugged before following the monk out into the
bright sunshine and through another small doorway a few paces from the main billet room.

As he entered, Philippe noticed a table with a high-backed chair behind it and seated on a
bench opposite were Sprig and Robert of Bee. Philippe went to stand with Alan against the
wall near the doorway, its cool stone refreshing against his back.

Cecil went around the table to sit on his chair. He pushed some parchments to one side
and took a drink from the flagon that Guthrin had placed there earlier.

Cecil continued speaking in Latin slowly and methodically, choosing his words carefully.
He had noticed Alan's slight inebriation and his eyes crinkled with amusement.

"The ale here is potent, Alan, so you might be watchful of your consumption. Now, 1 need
to know where you were born, your parents' names, and your current situation with regard
to your families." He listened closely as Philippe spoke carefully; his Latin nearly as perfect
as that of Cedl, but with a slight accent that brought another smile to the monk's face. It
seemed to take an aeon for Philippe to tell his story, when at last Cedl interrupted him to
speak with Alan.

"Can you corroborate your brother's story, Alan?" Cecil asked, wishing to hear his Latin.

"What my brother tells you is correct. Philippe has left out some of the finer details as to
how we arrived here, but those are of no consequence to you; I'm sure."

Cecil switched now to converse with Alan in English. "I'm not so sure of that. Please
continue in English, if you will."

Alan gazed searchingly at the monk and saw an inquisitor of immense learning. He was
grateful that the ale was only affecting his legs and not his thought processes.

Cecil leaned back against his chair; his hands prayer-like to his nose as he gave his full
attention to Alan's explanation of the final events, nodding now and again in comprehension
of his admirable linguistics. He finally raised his hand, indicating that he'd heard enough.

"You may now be seated," he stated as he motioned the brothers to a bench across the
room, his gaze unfathomable. The silence stretched, and all that could be heard were the
extraneous sounds of courtyard activity mixing incongruously with those of the birds
chirping merrily in the summer sun. Cedl suddenly slapped both palms down upon the
table, ale sloshing over the flagon's rim to run off the table and onto the floor.

"Well, gentlemen, 1 think we have found two worthy companions for tomorrow's journey
to England!" Cecil looked at Robert. "Two of your boys can stand down, Robert. I'm sure
that you'll understand my reasons, and your chosen two won't be too disappointed by my
decision, as there will be other opportunities to travel. Unfortunately, there is one position
that 1 can't replace, and that is by the duke's order."

Sprig glanced across the room at the men before grinning broadly.

Robert rose to his feet and thrust out his hand to Philippe and then to the ailing Alan.

"You jammy buggers— you've been here only half a fucking day, and now you're both
fucking generals! Welcome to the party, boys, because we'll be traveling together. It's just
unfortunate that we'll have that toe-rag Snap with us, but 1 guess that's better than having

Waddle in our company. I'll take great delight in informing him that he's to remain behind."
Robert said, beaming away as if it was his birthday.

Philippe found it difficult to suppress his satisfaction, and for reasons he wasn't sure of,
everyone including Cecil, laughed aloud.

Cecil raised a hand in an attempt to quell multiplying humorous remarks.

"Ah-um! Gentlemen, please," Cecil called, still trying to suppress his own mirth. The
merriment subsided to something approaching partial normality, allowing him to continue
giving details of the next day's events to the brothers.

"At first light, six of our finest horses will be taken down to the coast, where God willing,
we will have the wind to take us across to England. We should land before nightfall at the
port of Dover, where Earl Leofwine will meet our embassy. He will escort us, along with the
six horses, to London. We are to present a horse to each of the earls and one to King Edward
himself. We shall spend a few days in the king's company; then we'll return to Normandy.
It's as simple as shelling peas from a pod. Your job," he looked at Philippe, "will be to see
that our charges, the valuable horses, are looked after because the Saxon peasants would
love to waylay us and take the beasts. It's happened many times in the past, but we now
have the king's protection."

Cecil took a drink from a flagon and then continued. "When spoken to by any of the earls,
you'll answer politely; in your case, Alan, you're to reply in English. Philippe, you're to reply
in Latin. We have to show these Saxons just who their educated masters are. 1 alone will
converse with the king. He might wish to say a few words to you. If so, then bow low and
reply, 'Thank you, sire.' Step ten paces in reverse, and only then will you stand to attention.
Under no circumstances are you to turn and walk away from the king as if you were
strolling across a courtyard. If, by some remote chance. Earl Harold approaches you, you're
to say nothing unless you absolutely must. Upon being questioned by him, you will use
these words. 1 apologize, my lord. I'm not permitted to speak on such matters. My master
will be able to answer all your queries.' Earl Harold is a dangerous man to know. When the
time comes, we will deal with him in our own way. For the moment that is all you need to
know."

Sprig motioned at Cecil, trying to attract his attention.

"Yes, Sergeant, you have a question?" Cedl asked.

"1 think, sir, that we ought to discuss remuneration with these fellows. It's never been
mentioned."

Cecil smiled. "Ah, but it has. Philippe and 1 discussed it in fine Latin. It's all been
organized, including sending a good portion of their pay to their families."

Philippe nodded, his face wreathed in smiles.

"You made a fine choice. Sergeant Sprig. 1 commend your good judgment. Now if you
will excuse me, 1 have a great deal of work to do."

As Alan staggered out into the hot sunshine, he noticed Guthrin riding around the
courtyard on the back of Toll with another Robert giving the boy instruction.

"Earl Harold is to receive Toll as a gift. Such a fine horse, don't you think, Alan?"

Alan nodded groggily, but could no longer reply. The excess of drinking was now taking
control of his facial muscles and he wondered if the vicious brew was deliberately searching
for other areas with which to play games upon him.

"Our ale is really potent stuff, Alan. You would do well to moderate your intake until you
become accustomed to its compelling strength." Sprig said, and then turning to Philippe,
saw that he was watching the boy's progress with interest.

"You may be wondering, Philippe, why it is Toll that is to be given to Earl Harold. Of all
oirr fine mares you're to cross to England with. Toll has a special temperament, one that
Harold Godwinson would appreciate. Cecil has informed me that Harold holds a valuable
position with the English king, and when the time comes, it could easily be stripped from
him. If he cooperates with us, there will be rewards beyond his wildest dreams. With a weak
and ailing King Edward, he controls a powerful nation. Harold has to be brought subtly
under our wing. He has to be shown where and with whom his loyalties lay. Diplomacy is a
learned art that takes years of training to attain. Any away, 1 have spoken long enough on
the matter. We need now to rest because getting horses aboard ships makes for hard work.
Go settle your bones and be fresh for the morning's tasks." Sprig turned to the ailing Alan
and gazed at him sympathetically. "Alan, 1 think you'd better go and drink some boiled
water; it will do you good." Sprig bid the group good day and strolled away to his private
quarters, leaving the men to their rest.

The men slept soundly through the night, with only Philippe noticing Alan's heaving
from the courtyard outside, his retching and spewing upsetting him more than it did Alan.

Alan staggered clumsily through the door of the billet to at last fall into a deep slumber
where the vivid flashes of dreams took him back to the inn. He looked across a distorted
room, and stared into face of the man he'd killed, the man's terrified expression beginning to
haimt him. The shock and horror in the face of a person who knew that he had but a second
longer to live flashed into his mind's eye... knife... face... knife... face... He saw the lethal
instrument of death leaving his hand, turning end over end as it traveled effortlessly through
space, its blade piercing the flesh of the man he was sending to eternal hell and damnation.
The thud and sharp crack as the heavy implement broke through the chest cavity and split
the mature bones of his victim echoed in his ears.

Philippe shook Alan's shoulder, jarring him awake. "I'm guessing that you've the aches
and pains of a hangover," he said as Alan peered blearily up at him. "Your pathetic look cuts
no ice with me, Alan. It's a self inflicted wound, and you should be bloody well hanged for
your stupidity," while wagging his finger under his brother's nose.

Alan grunted then retched, no longer able to bring up any more bile, his gastric
ejaculations leaving him lethargic.

"My legs cramp while my stomach knots from such a poisoned and venomous brew. 1 feel
bloody awful, and every other muscle in my sodding body aches. I'm never going near that
stuff again, ever!"

Grasping Alan's shoulders, Philippe yanked his ailing brother to a sitting position.

Alan's head drooped to his chest, and he felt a sharp slap to his cheek in retribution.

Philippe's eyes narrowed as his normally placid temper became stretched in unfeigned
annoyance. "You have about as much time as it takes to shit to get up, get outside, and get in
the bloody saddle. If not, you are going to be hung by your bollocks! Is that dear? Now, get
off yoirr fucking arse and move it, or 1 will kick your lazy butt out myself! Drinking, for you,
is a thing of the past. You're coming with us, ill or not." Philippe looked over his shoulder
and grimly nodded to the group of Roberts, who roughly hefted the ailing Alan to his feet.

His leg cramps crippled his senses, causing him to be half walked, half dragged outside to
the courtyard.

Philippe motioned towards a horse trough with another nod of his head. With a great
splash, the freezing cold of the trough's contents brought the useless Alan back to the land of
the living. A wealth of laughter followed by myriad hands helped the soaking Alan from his
aquatic clinic.

Sprig ambled over to the men standing around the partly revived Alan. "1 see that Alan
has been drinking in the trough. 1 shouldn't let on to the horses, as they might get a wee bit
upset at the prospect of someone thieving their drink," he quipped, as more riotous laughter
echoed around the courtyard.

Philippe had his own private chuckle as he gathered his knapsack and that of his brother,
listening with interest as Sprig snapped orders and supervised the final preparations. He
came over to watch as Sprig gave a final inspection.

"Attention!" Sprig barked, his voice bellowing loudly enough to wake the sleeping and
dead alike. All the men in the courtyard moved to stand perfectly in line. "Robert, Philippe,
Alan, Snap, Eumer . . . load your personal belongings and any other equipment onto the
tumbril. The rest of you, mount up! Cecil should be here shortly." He walked briskly about,
checking each saddle and patting the leg of each mounted traveler before finally reaching the
intrepid Philippe.

"Good luck to you, Philippe. I'm sure you will discharge your duty wisely. Just keep your
brother away from excessive quantities of ale; do you hear? If you can do that, I'm sure he'll
be just fine."

"Have no fear. Sergeant. 1 feel Alan has learned his lesson. He's a good man, despite this
disagreeable interlude. It's been many years since the last time 1 had to cajole him from such
a wretched state. No, you'll have no cause for later concern on that matter." Philippe
straightened in the saddle, his confident smile designed to reassure the sensibilities of a good
and wise master sergeant. He looked over at his brother to see that the sun's heat created
steam from Alan's wet clothing, causing it to rise into the still air and giving Alan a ghostlike
appearance.

Sprig nodded approvingly, then turned his attention to the soaked but revived Alan.
Sprig looked into the eyes of the embarrassed man seated above him. He reached out to
touch Alan's knee. "You know, Alan, you remind me of a brother 1 lost to smallpox some
eighteen months ago. Just don't go causing any wars between England and Normandy;
understand?" He grinned, and patted Alan's leg.

Alan winked at Sprig to let him know that he was fine, reinforcing a much-dented pride.
Alan gazed after the sergeant with renewed respect as he strode over to Eumer and Snap as
their moimts huddled closely together.

Sprig glared up at the expressionless face of Eumer sitting passively astride his mount,
before passing the same displeasure on to Snap.

"1 don't want to hear any reports of you misbehaving. Snap. There are plenty of men here
only too eager to take yoirr place," he seethed. "You're with this party only to see that the
horses and men arrive without incident. When your charges are delivered safely into the
hands of King Edward's stables, you will return immediately. If one eyebrow is raised in the
wrong way, 1 will hang you myself; is that clear?"

Snap's shoulders moved in the semblance of an acknowledging shrug, and his head
dipped in Sprig's direction.

"1 hear yes," Snap replied in a tone akin to that of a contemptuous teenager.

Sprig returned his attention to the vacant eyes of a man for whom he'd even less affection.
"1 don't even want to know what your role is here, Eumer. Whatever it is, do it, then leave. 1
never want to see your face in my barracks again."

Eumer made no movement at all, his silent insolence obvious even to an observing Alan.

Cecil finally came through the doorway, followed by servants who struggled laboriously
to carry his large trunk. He looked on as they filled the tumbril with his personal
accoutrements.

In irritation. Sprig turned to stalk in Cecil's direction.

Cecil leaned towards him. "The time has come to register a new beginning in the annals of
history, John. In a short while, God willing, we'll be part of a royal household. What is more,
it will be accomplished without a cup of blood being spilled."

The sound of dogs barking echoed around the courtyard, when as if from nowhere a tall,
fit, and very muscular man stepped from a doorway. All heads turned to look as the man
stepped briskly with the dogs by his side.

Philippe had just managed a glimpse at the duke out of the corner of his eye, when Sprig
called the men to attention again.

Philippe watched as Duke William of Normandy, the man he knew by reputation to be
vidous, murdering, cunning and tyrannical, strode over to Eumer and the contumelious
Sergeant Snap. He studied the men as the duke approached Eumer, who looked down at his
paymaster. This encounter, Philippe realized, was very personal, and he watched the
tableau, deriving amusement at the frustration on Snap's face as he strained to make out the
words of intrigue to no avail.

"You know what must be done," the duke whispered. "You will have the rest of your
payment in gold as soon as you have discharged your service to me. If anything should go
awry, though, you must leave England immediately. You've never been to Normandy, nor
have we ever met." William passed to Eumer a bag of gold coins. "Are you perfectly sure of
your target?"

"Yes, My Lord; 1 am fully cognizant of my intended quarry. You have no reason to feel
any doubt as to my resourcefulness. I've plenty of time to observe him and to plan for the
event in detail. 1 leave nothing to chance; you can be assured of that. There will be no trace or
evidence that would lead back to your person." Eumer replied as he took the bag of gold. He
placed it deeply into his saddlebag and sealed the compartment securely.

William patted Toll upon his neck, before approaching the now mounted Cecil. "You're to
make it dear that Toll is to be presented to Earl Harold and that it's a spedal gift from me,
personally. Subtly remind him of his oaths and promises. Harold is to secure England for my
arrival upon the death of King Edward. One more thing— you've never before in your life
clapped eyes on Eumer; is that clear?" William stood authoritatively, leaving no question as
to what he meant.

"1 will carry out my orders to the letter, my lord. Indeed, 1 know of no such person
bearing that name, nor do any of the other gentlemen in our party." Cecil whispered.

William nodded, his lips pursed tightly, then pivoted to return to his private apartments.

"We ought to now make our way to the coast, because the tide waits for no man," Cecil
said looking about the company. He gave a nod to Sprig that they should get moving.

Sprig called for the gates to be opened, and the mounted men trotted across the courtyard
and out to the track beyond. Philippe and Alan brought up the rear, followed closely by the
tumbril.

As they rode past the tree, Philippe leant across to Alan and pointed at the place where
their stash was hidden. "1 hope someone doesn't decide to clear the ground and build
something on top of our stash," he remarked to Alan with a chuckle.

"Easy come, easy go," Alan replied, who was making a mental note of the location.

"1 can't wait to experience the sea first-hand. It's just like being a kid again. You know,
the excitement of discovering uncharted territory. I'm going to gain a whole new
understanding of our environment, Philippe. To see something new that is totally amazing,
and to sail on a real ship, on such a vast stretch of water, too."

As the party began to ride across the bridge, Robert dropped back to join the brothers and
took up the rear position between Philippe and Alan.

On the other side of the River Orem, the riders grouped into two lines of three; Cecil,
Firmer, and Snap at the front. They trotted past the inn where, not so long before, all hell had
broken loose and where now only sadness occupied its empty remains.

Philippe leaned a little towards Robert, his curiosity getting the better of him. "Tell me,
Robert. What else do you know about Eumer and Snap?" he whispered.

Robert looked into Philippe's eyes, and they slowed their pace a little, allowing those in
front to get dear of any words that could potentially be overheard.

"1 know from experience that Eumer can only be a hired killer. I've seen him practicing
with his weapons. They're the types of weaponry that are used by men who can afford only
the very best. I'm guessing he's an assassin. If you ask me, he is to kill King Edward. You
saw the duke speaking to him. He gave him something that looked to me suspiciously like a
sack of gold. Then we have that thieving bastard. Sergeant Snap. He's just a madman. He
would kill a man for farting too loudly. With him, you should never leave anything other
than a slug alone. He will steal anything remotely profitable. He rapes children, too. The
moment 1 get a chance to be alone with him, 1 will kill him and send him back to his father,
the devil."

Philippe began to wonder if Robert had already planned the death of Snap, or if he'd at
that moment decided that since he now had allies, he might just as well ask for assistance in
Snap's demise.

As they turned into the port, the sea was clearly visible, with hundreds of boats of every
kind either anchored or drawn alongside wooden jetties. The six men made their way down
the gentle slope towards the jetty, where two ships were awaiting their arrival.

Cecil dismounted and strode down onto the landing stage to meet with the captain. One
hour later, the horses and baggage were loaded aboard the two ships.

The tide was high, the breeze blew from the south, and the ships slowly began their
journey to England, the land of milk and honey.

"Bloody hell!" Alan called. For the first time in his life he tasted the salty sea. "Merde!
This is undrinkable filth!"

Philippe just smiled and shook his head as he watched Alan feeling the briny ripples flow
through his fingers.

Alan tirrned to look back at the coastline slowly receding behind them. The horses don't
seem to mind the rocking, he thought. He glanced at Philippe, who was seated, his head resting
on his arm, before turning to see what Robert was up to. He saw him feeding a large seagull
stale bread. He moved to sit beside Philippe, his concerns still troubling him. "Are you sure
we won't fall off the edge of the sea?" Alan asked with a mixture of excitement and just a
little trepidation.

On hearing the question Robert looked back and smiled, before slowly shaking his head
and returning to the task of feeding the hungry seagulls.

"I'm quite sure, Alan. We'll be just fine," Philippe replied, gazing aimlessly out to sea.

Alan noticed another boat with full sail heading their way, but paid it no heed until he
heard the captain's yell for all men to come to arms.

"Pirates!" came the cry as an arrow pierced a nearby coxswain's shoulder.

Philippe shoved Alan down behind the railing as he spied two bowmen popping up over
the far ship's side. While scrabbling to get to his weapons, his peripheral vision caught
Eumer appearing from the far side of the ship where he'd been indolently lazing.

With no apparent emotion showing at the sudden mayhem breaking out around him,
Eumer withdrew his crossbow from the carry-sack, loaded the weapon, and took aim. The
shot entered the head of the opposing bowman who fell into the water.

As the boat drew alongside, Philippe dove headlong into his brother, knocking him back
down behind the rail as the other bowman loosed a shot. He could hear Snap's footsteps
pounding across the deck, his curses harsh as he looked for leverage against the pirates
making ready to board them. He looked over his shoulder in time to see Snap scraping the
wood of the deck as he seized the iron and with one mighty heave, threw a grappling hook
aboard the other ship.

Realizing Snap's intent and their sudden advantage, the captain made a grab for the
rudder and swung the ship around, pulling the smaller pirate ship side-on. The wind caught
the pirate ship's sail and with the weight of the pirates on one side of the now unstable
vessel, the attacker's boat capsized.

Snap sliced through the grappling rope, watching with wicked glee as the pirates fell
overboard while the others gathered around the stern to watch the ship sink beneath the
waves, the screams of the bobbing heads diminishing as the wind and distance took them
on.

Philippe assessed that the danger was now behind them and turned his attention to
insuring his co-travelers were still all with them. He eased his way over to remove the arrow
from the coxswain's shoulder, instructing Robert to hold the victim on his side and still.
"You'll live, but this is going to hurt," Philippe stated grimly as he pushed the arrow
through the man's flesh to reveal the bodkin. The coxswain fainted with the pain as Philippe
snapped off the arrow's point and pulled out the shaft. From his bag, Philippe removed a
linen shirt, ripped it into shreds and dipped the linen into the salt water. Using the wetted
cloth, he cleaned and dressed the wound. He placed the arrow against the man's arm as a
splint then tied coxswain's arm into a sling.

"Where did you learn to do that, Philippe?" Robert queried in admiration.

"I did my allotted time with King Philippe. You learn a great deal as a serviceman in the
royal household. The training was good, even if the remuneration was poor." Philippe
replied, realizing his remark was becoming repetitious; he smiled, almost embarrassed, and
looked away. He felt a bonding, a sort of closeness toward Robert, a kind of kinship, yet he
deemed it odd that an attachment was forming between them, for they had known each
other for barely twenty-four hours. He felt a hand upon his shoulder and turned to look into
the smiling face of Robert.

"Then I'd better stay by your side, just in case, eh," Robert breathed as he patted Philippe
affectionately on his shoulder before he noticed everyone ringed around them. 'T'm
surprised to see that the horses didn't panic," he blustered gruffly.

"The horses are trained to ignore rough weather on board a ship; they'd be no bother."
Snap sneered as he moved off to resume his unconcerned position near the bow.

CHAPTER FOUR

ON OUR WAY TO HEAVEN

Alan gazed in awe at the sight and majesty of the tall, fortress-like white cliffs, standing
proudly before them, halting the progress of all those that wished to enter the sacred portals
of that sceptre'd isle called England.

Cecil made his way towards the bow of the ship and gave a bag of coins to the master as
the vessel drew alongside, before disembarking onto the jetty. He looked about for the
reception party that was supposed to meet him. He watched, assessing six muscular Saxons
as they approached, striding briskly along the jetty to the visitors' ships. After an
acknowledging nod to the gesture of obeisance, he carefully studied their skill with the
bargaining tools he'd been entrusted to deliver.

Philippe was impressed as he watched the Saxons in their handling and disembarking of
the horses. He remarked to Cecil admiringly, "They never worried or panicked during the
journey."

"We train them as foals to become accustomed to being loaded on and off ships, Philippe.
We do lose the odd horse overboard, but that's to be expected. The Lord, our God, is so
proud of our breeding of them, that he occasionally takes one back for himself. Duke William
has special stables for the procreation of such fine specimens. There are none in the whole of
Christendom that can compare with these wonderful animals. Come, we must say a Mass for
our safe deliverance."

The men strolled along to the end of the jetty and onto the dry cobbles and to the safety of
English soil. There they met Snap, who was standing next to his mare.

"You shall all kneel," the monk ordered. Three men knelt to take the bread and wine of
the Mass. Cecil glanced across at the sneering Snap, a man he hated only a little less than he
did the cruel assassin, Eumer. "Are you not going to join us in our joyous gift from God, our
Father, Snap?"

The other men looked at Snap who had moved his steed further away to be with the
horses, his disrespect clear to all as he watched the men take the blessing of the sacrament.

Cecil glared pointedly at the heathen as he intoned, "...and the devil will one day soon
receive evil men into his fiery bosom — Amen."

"True to form, the devil rides within this man, Philippe. We would do ourselves a great
favor if we avoided him as much as possible," Robert said, spitting on the ground.

Philippe shrugged. He didn't care either way, as long as Snap left him alone. Such men
eventually gain their comeuppance anyway, he thought, as he gazed about the scene before him.
"Robert, have you seen Eumer? I've not cast eyes upon him since we landed."

"1 saw him amongst the baggage train as we docked. After that, he just disappeared. If
you were to ask my opinion, he's going to perform his task alone. He has his orders from the
duke, and I'm wondering as to the eventual victim." Robert stated as he placed an arm along
Philippe's shoulder.

Philippe was thoughtful. "Well, if the king has named the duke as his heir and Edward is
dying, then what do a few extra months matter to the duke to wait for his crown?"

Robert gazed curiously at Philippe, raising his hand to his chin. "My guess is that Eumer's
target is Edgar, the ^theling. He'd be the one to be disposed of in any dispute. It's not
beyond reason that Eumer's quarry could well be one or even several of the king's
archbishops. It could be Ansgardus, the commander of the Saxon garrisons, or he could be
targeting Brithnoth, Edward's top man and commander of the king's housecarls. Whoever
he might be setting out to terminate, 1 just hope he doesn't cause a war."

"There would be war between England and Normandy? It wouldn't take a genius to see
that England, with all its resources, would defeat Normandy. Don't misunderstand me,
Robert. I'm not saying that the Normans aren't strong, but from what Alan has told me,
England is much bigger than Normandy, so it stands to reason that the Normans just don't
have the manpower to fight England."

Alan listened with interest, trying to put this puzzle in order. "That's an interesting
perspective. Do you think Earl Harold wants to become king?"

"Nah." Robert shook his head emphatically. "Harold has made oaths with the duke. He's
William's man, all right. Not so long ago, 1 was summoned to escort Earl Harold back to
England after making his oaths. From what 1 could make of the situation, the earl seemed to
be happy with whom-ever is king. In any event, the duke needs Harold alive, to run the
country for him.

"I'm sorry, Robert. To my mind, little of that made much sense, and what is more, I'll tell
you why"

"Attention!" Snap barked to the waiting men. "Stand to receive Earl Leofwine." Despite
their dislike of Snap, the group did as they were ordered.

Striding toward the end of the quay came a tall man sporting a magnificent ginger
mustache and very long hair, down to his shoulders. He was young, well built, and very
healthy. His bright blue eyes seemed to shine out at anyone who looked into them.

Leofwine strode straight to Cecil, his arms outstretched. "Cecil, how are you, my good
friend? 1 see they're still starving you in Normandy then; you need some meat inside you,"
he said, his deep voice booming.

"It's good to see you again, Leofwine. " Cedl motioned the earl's gigantic frame towards
the horses. "Are they not the most beautiful beasts you have ever seen?"

Leofwine stepped forward and closely inspected the animals. "Indeed, they are, Cecil.
Unfortunately, my good friend, 1 can't offer you the normal hospitality that would be due
you upon your ail-too- infrequent visits," he grimaced at the shocked look on Cecil's face.

"The king has ordered a general muster as a test of his forces against attack. His orders are
that everyone, including your envoy, must leave while his forces carry out military
maneuvers. I'm sorry to be the harbinger of such bad tidings, Cecil. You and your entourage
will have to return on tomorrow's tide. I'm as disappointed by all this as you must be: 1
really am, but orders are orders, and 1 have no influence at the king's court."

Alan listened closely to this conversation, interpreting under his breath each spoken word
to Philippe.

Noticing Alan's whispering, Cecil took Leofwine to one side, out of earshot. "What's
behind all this, Leofwine? Come on; I'm your friend; you can tell me. What you say will go
no further, you have my word. Have 1 ever lied to you?" Cecil's hands were on his hips, and

even for him this stance was unusual, and he could see that his posture intimidated
Leofwine. Cecil would gain an answer from this man, even if he had to kick it out of him.

Leofwine's hand went to his forehead, rubbing it with the palm. "If 1 tell you, it shall stay
in your heart, is that understood, Cecil?" He waited for an affirmative nod before continuing.
"Intelligence has informed us that there may be an imminent invasion from Magnus, or it
could be Svein. Oh, curse it, 1 can't remember. Don't ask me why — I'm not part of the inner
circle. All 1 know is what I'm told, and that is precious little. I'm sorry, Cedl." Leofwine
looked flustered at having only half a story and no other explanation to offer.

"Uh, oh. It looks like the shit's going to fly," Alan whispered, straining every muscle in
his neck trying to gain an advantage on the extraneous noises around him. Alan was shaking
his head sorrowfully. "The journey's over, boys; we're going home."

Robert craned at Alan, trying hard to catch his attention. "What the hell is going on,
Alan?" he whispered.

Alan shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows? 1 didn't quite catch all that was said. Cecil is
looking really annoyed about something."

Cecil could clearly see that Leofwine was frustrated, and that his rambling and mumbling
was brought on through nothing more than embarrassment.

"Oh yes — In October, the king will be sending a delegation with some sort of offer to the
duke with, 1 suspect, terms of establishing a Norman garrison at Dover. It's all so confusing
because the king is messing everyone about. Nobody knows what's going on in his head,
Cecil, honestly. Anyway, you are allowed to return next month, and the king will welcome
you here at Dover. In the meantime, Harold has asked that you be lodged in his own
quarters atop the cliffs. Cecil, do you know how hard this is for me? 1 feel such so bad about
this but I'm the one chosen by the king to do the shit jobs. It's me that he sends to come and
tell you all this. I'm a warrior, not a storyteller!"

Cecil patted Leofwine's shoulder reassuringly, slowly shaking his head and chuckling
softly. "Look, my old friend. Just take the horses back to London, and 1 will see you again
soon. Oh, and by the way. Toll is a specially trained horse, a present to your brother, Harold.
That particular beast has a tiny black spot on his white forehead."

Leofwine looked relieved, the sickening tension easing his posture as they strolled back to
the others who awaited further orders.

"Gentlemen, general military maneuvers have been brought into effect throughout this
kingdom. That means the ports and coastal areas are being cleared of anyone not born here.
I'm sorry to say that we must return on the morning tide. This is a disappointment, 1 know.
You were all looking forward to perhaps meeting those exclusive men at King Edward's
court. However, there will be another time when we will all be welcomed here again." Cecil
turned to face Leofwine. "1 want to introduce you to three men, and they are rare, indeed.
These men will be a most valuable asset to you and England when the time comes." Cecil
ushered the earl forward and placed a hand upon the Robert's shoulder "Robert-of-Bec has
skills that even the great Hardrada would be proud to possess. Along with being one of the
most trustworthy souls you'd ever come across, he's passing fair company, as well!"

Robert looked directly into Leofwine's eyes then dropped his head respectfully.

Cecil continued on to Philippe and spoke in perfect Latin. "Tell Earl Leofwine where you
were born, Philippe, in Latin, of course."

Philippe spoke what was required of him, acknowledging Leofwine's impressed
expression.

"We come to Alan, a man who likes his ale." Cecil winked at Alan's sheepish face. "Alan
speaks both English, Latin and Greek, too. He is the elder brother of Philippe. All three have
exceptional talents that you would find useful at court."

"1 must say, Cecil, that you know how to choose your men."

"All our garrisoned men speak English and Latin fluently, because it's now the policy that
all men in Normandy are to be educated to the highest standards. Duke William has ordered
it so," Cedl stated, his confident expression designed to engender belief in the lies.

"Well, I'm very impressed with such high standards, Cecil. I'm sure my brother, Harold,
and Queen Edith will be glad to hear such news."

"Ah, yes. Queen Edith. How is yoirr dear sister? 1 trust she is in good health. She's a fine
woman indeed, and very astute, too. 1 was hoping to meet her again whilst we were here.
Alas, such is the way of politics." Cedl shook his head sorrowfully. "Would you pass on my
personal greetings to your gracious queen? Tell her that she has a special place in my heart.
You must give Earl Harold my devoted love and respect. 1 wish him well in aU his
endeavors, too. Tell him that we in Normandy are all thinking of him, that he is constantly in
Duke William's thoughts."

Leofwine nodded. "And the king?" Leofwine asked, gazing directly at Cecil. "What
message have you for Edward?"

Cecil withdrew from under the habit his personal pouch, which contained a parchment. "1
was to give this letter personally to King Edward. It contains a private greeting from my
lord, Duke William, and 1 was to take the king's words of reply back with me." Cecil replied,
as he passed the letter to Leofwine, who took the parchment displaying the seal of the duke.

"Have no fears, I'll see to it myself that this is delivered safely into the hands of the king.
Now, if you will excuse me, 1 shall escort these fine animals to London."

They embraced, and Cecil watched as the earl and his men slowly wended their way
westward along the old Roman road to London.

"1 guess we'd better find someone willing to take us to Earl Harold's lodgings," Cecil
stated ruefully as he continued to look in Leofwine's direction, wondering if perhaps he'd
been too obvious.

The men went further into the town looking for a means of transport up the steep
gradient to their temporary lodgings above the cliffs, but Cecil found no Saxon willing to
give any form of assistance.

"1 can't understand why the townspeople are so unwilling to help us, Cecil. Everywhere
we've inquired, we've been snubbed — why?" Philippe asked, his curiosity getting the better
of him.

"It goes back a long way, Philippe. Fourteen years ago, Eustace-of-Boulogne paid a visit
here with a huge retinue, and demanded lodgings for his entourage. The long and the short
of it is he kicked the townspeople out of their homes to house his own people here. His
contumacious behavior led to major bloodshed when the birrghers of the town took a dislike
to Eustace's disdainful attitude towards them. It was not a healthy situation, to be caught
between two such rival factions. Many people died on both sides. The king ordered Earl
Godwin to pimish the town's people for being disrespectful to his guest, and Godwin's

52

refusal to do so ultimately led to earl being exiled. The incident left a bitter taste in the
mouths of the townsfolk."

Resigned to walking, they trudged up the steepest hill they'd ever encountered, until at
last they came to the lodgings of the great and all-powerful Earl Harold.

Alan, Philippe, and Robert idly conversed among themselves as they waited by the tall
entrance gate, whilst Cecil negotiated his way into Harold's summer retreat.

Turning back, for a moment, Cecil spoke in the general direction on his entourage. "I shall
presently organize your victuals and quarters." The monk then entered the inner sanctum,
the doors closing behind him and the sound of a lock being turned could be heard.

"Hmm, it appears that we might have a decent night's resting quarters, boys." Philippe
said nodding toward the impressive lodgings, before glancing at Robert to find him staring
back curiously. "Go on, Robert. What is it? Spit it out. You've wanted to satisfy yoirr
curiosity since we arrived at the barracks," Philippe seated himself comfortably on a log
looking directly into Robert's eyes. He folded his arms, his face curious as to Robert's
questioning demeanor.

"Phillippe. What's truly going on, here? Your arrival at the barracks and your instant
employment has been puzzling me. If you're part of a secret plan, you can be sure it will go
no further. I'm nothing, if not discreet," Robert said, drawing nearer to Philippe, eager to
learn what he perceived to be a forthcoming revelation in the truth of their mission.

Philippe's eyes lit up mischievously, but he lowered his lids before his friend could notice.
"Robert, 1 might as well come clean with you." Philippe glanced around furtively before
returning a sincere gaze to Robert, his pause giving him a moment to gather thoughts, his
mind racing to concoct this tall tale.

"I've come from a land far away known as Barsutaland. 1 have been summoned here, and
for my own safety I'm wearing the disguise of a peasant searching for work. Alan is my
servant boy; he takes care of all my business. My security is paramoimt, and my true identity
must not be revealed until the appropriate time. Yes, Robert, 1 am to be the next king of
England." Philippe's face was expressionless. He saw Robert pull back, his stunned look
draining his face white, and for a moment, nothing was said.

Oh, my God! I'm in the presence of a real live princel I knew there was something different about
Philippe. Now what do I do? I'm the only one who knows. No wonder Eumer and Snap have come
along with us; they're to protect him on the journey. So much secrecy and I misread everything I
heard or saw. Robert bowed his head obsequiously so as not to offend Philippe with a direct
gaze. "Sire, forgive me; 1 did not know."

For a few moments, there was a deafening silence; then a roar of laughter came from
behind him. Robert spun about to see Alan on his knees, helpless with mirth. He swung back
to see Philippe fallen off the log, wrecked with laughter. Robert's face turned red and his
embarrassment all too evident. His hands mockingly reached out for Philippe's throat.

"You bastard, Domfront! I'll wring your fucking neck."

The mock wrestling ensued until the sound of snarling a few paces away brought to their
attention Snap fending off a vicious dog that had taken a dislike to him.

Robert cheered as the dog attacked Snap's leg. "Eat the bastard! Bite his head off; there's a
good boy," he called.

Philippe saw an old man hobble towards them, obviously looking about to see why his
dog was barking. He saw him grin at the sight of his dog taking a Norman lunch.

"Bite the Norman bastard, Shagger! Bite his fucking Norman balls off!" the old man
growled as he walked past Snap, and began to chuckle as the animal continued to tear into
the sergeant.

"1 suppose you men need a place to sleep," the old man stated.

"That's about the size of it," Alan replied.

"Are you a Kentish-man?" he asked, somewhat confused at Alan's accent.

"No, I'm French. The pig over there, he's the Norman," Alan replied, nodding in Snap's
direction.

"Well, 1 hope that Norman bastard doesn't poison my dog with his leg, eh," the old man
replied still chuckling at the site of Snap trying to fend off the vicious hound. "Shagger's
took his knife from him, already. 1 trained him to do that neat trick." Turning about, he
pointed to the barn. "You can sleep in the barn, over there," the old man said. "The barn is
full of fresh hay, and you're welcome to settle yourselves down. If there's another Norman in
your group, then you'd best tell him that he'd better not go near the dog. Shagger doesn't
like arrogant Normans, and he's not eaten a live one in nearly a year. By the way, 1 thought
you should know that your priest friend has made himself comfortable in my master's
chambers. When Earl Harold comes down next and hears what I've got to tell him, he's not
going to be too pleased with that priest. My master don't look too keen on folk forcing
themselves into his private bed, see." The old man turned and walked away, still chuckling
loudly at his dog's growls.

The men made themselves comfortable amongst the hay. A few minutes later. Snap came
into the barn, looking the worse for wear. He was rubbing bruised legs, a bleeding wrist and
seeking solitude some distance from the other three men. "There's never any fucking food
when you need it. Bastard Saxons!" he exclaimed as he hobbled past.

"1 see that the dog's eaten," Robert said with a smirk.

Alan settled himself down with hands behind his head and heaved a heavy sigh. "Yea,
know, 1 sure was worried that we would all disappear off the edge of the world. It's good to
be on dry land again."

Robert swiveled his head to look over at Alan, wondering what he was talking about.
"Edge? What edge is that, Alan?" Robert scratched the back of his head, looking confused.

"You know, the edge where the sea meets the sky, of course. 1 was afraid that if we went
too dose, we might fall off and end up in hell or something. 1 was very apprehensive; 1 can
tell you." Robert seized the moment with both hands. He was going to "explain" to Alan the
secrets of the deep, enlightening him as to the fate that awaited the unwary who ventured
too near the edge where the sea meets the sky.

"Yes, it's true." Robert nodded sagely, eager to get his own back for being taken as a total
fool earlier. "There is a story that when men fall off the edge, they swim like salmon trying to
get back up the falling water. Some, they tell me, are still trying. 1 once met an old man who
had actually made it back home. He'd been swimming uphill for forty years!" Robert leaned
over, closer to Alan's ear. "Apparently, he's the only known survivor, and they say, his legs
had turned into something akin to that of a fish's tail. I'm guessing that he was the lucky one;
as for the rest, well, who knows? Naked women with golden skin and tails like fish called

mermaids eventually saved him. He told me that he survived because they allowed him to
feed from their huge milk-laden breasts."

Philippe turned away to hide his amusement from his naiVe brother, who he could see
was enthralled at this tale of fantastic escape from the abyss.

"That's amazing! Is the old man still alive, Robert?" Alan interrupted, his wide eyes
staring directly into Robert's dark pools.

"No one really knows. Apparently, the mermaids wanted him to come back to them so
they could breed from him. The story goes that they returned one night to his cottage on the
seashore. They were pulling at his legs, just as I'm pulling yours."

For a moment, Alan stared in amazement at this tale of a seaman so close to paradise, yet
so stupid as to refuse the charms of those wonderful females who would make him
ecstatically happy forever. When suddenly, and with a blinding flash, Alan realized that he
had just been had. Alan's finger stabbed in Robert's direction. His sheepish smile and bright
pink cheeks were unable to hide his disappointment. "I'll have you one of these days, Robert
just; see if 1 don't."

The morning light brought a cold breeze to the four men who had been settled warm and
snug into an old hay-filled barn. Two servants entered the barn bringing to them bread,
cheese, and a large flagon filled with ale. Snap appeared from his seclusion to take whatever
he could eat, pushing aside the servants to grab at the food. The others stood back and
allowed the pig his fill before at last, they began to eat. The men sat chatting until Cecil's face
appeared through the open door.

"1 tried to get you quarters befitting your diplomatic status, but the Saxons were not
having any of it. 1 was nearly relegated to the barn with you boys, despite my rank." Cecil
apologized, his pseudo-altruism radiating like a beacon in the murky night.

You lying toad, thought Alan, as he chewed his way through the stale bread that had been
provided. He was beginning to imderstand the meaning of the word diplomacy. He glanced
in the direction of the man he felt was a disgrace to his faith. Never before had he felt so
disappointed in a man. He's lied to us, and what's more, he's a selfish bastard, too. I'll bet he told
the servants that we men should have old bread. No one serves food such as that. Why? He wants us
to hate the Saxons. He wants us to feel bitter, but why? I wonder what Philippe thinks; he'll know
what's going on. He's really astute. There's much more about this monk I need to learn. I want to
know what's going on with this bastard. Shit, I've not even had a decent drink since we landed.

Cecil surveyed the barn, as a lord controlling the destiny of those who were his
playthings. "Well, if you gentlemen are ready, we shall make a move to the ship."

"Just one moment, Cecil." Philippe rose to his feet. "1 think we ought to talk."

Alan watched in shock as his brother approached the monk. My God, he's read my thoughts.

For a moment, Cecil looked startled as Philippe took him by the arm and turned him
around to face the barn door. He led him out into the bright sunshine.

"What do you think you're doing, Philippe?"

Philippe raised his hand and pointed to the now-chained dog. For what seemed an age,
Philippe said nothing. He just gazed at the dog with his hand still raised toward it. "Do you
see that dog over there?" Philippe paused for effect. "Last night, that beast was in the process
of trying to eat Sergeant Snap, not that it would have been much of a loss to us." Philippe's

grip on the monk's arm tightened a little more. "Cecil, you have one or two things to explain
to me. Why was that dog let loose? Why were we given stale bread and hard cheese this
morning? Why were we given no meat? Last night you cleared off to sleep in Earl Harold's
bed, a rest I'm sure you found most delightful." Philippe glared narrowly at Cecil, and
continued his admonition. "This is a process of conditioning us to pay scant regard for the
Saxons and to breed a dislike for them. I'm not as imbedlic or as easily led by my nose as
you apparently think. This talk you had with Earl Leofwine on the quay, what was all that
about?" Philippe noted Cecil's fury with him as the monk yanked his arm from his grasp.

"You have no idea why we were not allowed to proceed to London, Philippe, no idea
whatsoever. The king had ordered maneuvers, and you know that. Besides, you are here
only to do as the duke, your master, orders." The monk stood tall, his arms now folded.

"Don't you dare take me for a fool. I'm a thinking man, and what's more, 1 know why
Eumer is here, and why he was allowed to sneak off from us. He is to assassinate a high-
ranking official. 1 doubt that it's King Edward. The feeling that 1 have is that Eumer's victim
is to be Earl Harold. 1 don't want to be lied to, Cedl. If my brother and 1 would die here, or
anywhere else, come to that, it should be for a just cause. I'll play your game, as long as 1
know what it is, is that fully understood?"

Cecil nodded. "You understand politics then, Philippe. You then know how the game is
played, and that we're all pawns, pieces of wood to be moved across a map. You gain a little;
you lose a little; it's as simple as that. You worked close to King Philippe; you did as you
were told."

"Yes, 1 did. 1 gained a position as one of the king's personal bodyguards. 1 listened and
learned a great deal under the tutelage of various monks and scribes ..."

Cecil gazed up into the eyes of a man the Saxons would call a housecarl. His hand rose to
touch Philippe's arm. "1 will make this promise to you, Philippe. 1 will never lie to you,
because you deserve more than that. You must understand that we have a job to do, no
matter our personal feelings. Yes, 1 did do those thing you said and for those very reasons.
As for Eumer, 1 can only guess."

Alan, Robert, and Snap stood at the barn door, watching as the monk and Philippe
strolled slowly on the grass, discussing what might become of England. Their direction went
across Earl Harold's recently scythed garden, and they stood watching the gardeners gather
in the hay and place it in small piles to dry in the last of summer's heat.

"Philippe, 1 understand that you learned much from your priest brother, Thomas. Tell me
about him."

Philippe sensed that Cecil was about to strike a sore nerve, and held up his hand,
stopping Cecil's words, as Philippe's mind receded amongst the fog of a million thoughts.

"We ought now return to the ship, Philippe, but first 1 shall buy us all a fine meal before
we depart." Philippe smiled in appreciation as they once more headed in the direction of the
barn to gather the men for the walk down the steep hill into the town of Dover.

Cecil led the entourage into one of the eating establishments frequented by fishermen and
searched for a table that was unoccupied. "We have to wait until past noon before the tide
allows our vessel to sail back to Normandy, so there's plenty of time to partake of a good
meal," Cecil stated as they all seated themselves around the table.

A few moments later, the iraikeeper approached the table.

"Well, gentlemen, what can 1 do to serve you?" he asked looking at Cecil.

"Could we have fish with vegetables and some beef with bread and plenty of ale?" Cecil
replied with a smile.

"Yes, sir, but the beef is not available, unless you're satisfied with salted meat. We used
the last of the fresh meat two days ago," the innkeeper replied.

"Then fish it is to be, innkeeper."

Snap sat sneering as he gazed about the room at the local Saxons chatting amongst
themselves. "So, this is the place where Eustace kicked the shit out of the Saxons, eh. They all
look like a bunch of arseholes, if you ask me," he scoffed, his broken Saxon echoing around
the dark, musty room.

"Snap, shut up!" Cecil muttered fiercely under his breath. "We're here to eat, not to upset
the local populace with your stupidity."

Robert and Philippe stared fixedly at Snap in a manner that suggested that he ought to
curb his tongue.

"These Saxons will soon be under the yoke of us Norman rulers. Then they'll see who are
the masters around here."

"Did 1 hear you say Eustace and Normandy?" came a voice from the semi-darkness.

"Yea, 1 did," Snap replied sarcastically. "Do you have a problem with that?

From the gloom, a bench flew at the detested Snap, hitting him squarely on his back. Snap
toppled to the ground, and in a thrice sprang to his feet to meet the challenge, returning the
bench with gusto. He followed his throw with a dive at the first man he saw standing. In
seconds the room was in uproar as Saxon men pounced upon the visitors with fists flying
and anything else that came to hand. Alan ducked a punch thrown by his attacker and dove
into the fray with Philippe and Robert, beating off as many as they could, while Cecil hid
himself away under the table.

A few minutes later, the ground was strewn with injured men, with Snap nursing a
broken arm. The brothers each sported bruised eyes and cut lips, and Robert, sucking on a
bleeding knuckle, escorted Snap outside followed closely by Cecil on his hands and knees.

"It's too bad the Saxons have a problem with foreigners, or is it just Snap?" Philippe
groused, unable to resist popping Snap on the back of the head. "Unfortunately, I've a
feeling that we'll be back," he said as he looked back at the plethora of bruised and bloodied
Saxons now pulling themselves up from the floor.

"It would be a good idea to make for the ship. The sooner we embark, the better," Cecil
muttered, smacking Snap's arm and smiling with grim pleasure at the resultant groan.
"We've lost our dinner because of it ... "

CHAPTER FIVE

ONE DOWN, ONE TO GO

London, England. 5th January 1066. Early evening.

Queen Edith's private quarters were comfortable, warm and spacious. The oils and other
aromatic herbs set in small baskets here and there gave a fresh, vibrant smell to the
atmosphere within the queen's accommodations. The swishing and sloshing of water was
the only sound in the room as a hand gently bathed the queen in her sunken marble bathtub.
Now and then, one of the ladies would, on a summons from the queen's hand, step forward
to administer to her needs. Her ladies never spoke in her presence — it was not allowed.
Edith trusted no one with her private thoughts, except Monika, her lady in waiting, a friend
and confidant from childhood.

These were dangerous times. No one was to be trusted, least of all the servants closest to
her. The women who attended to her needs were there to dress their queen, and nothing
more. They were young, not one older than nineteen years. The girls were daughters of
thegns, noblemen with land. Gaining positions with the royal household gave their fathers a
sense of power. She knew her ladies well enough; young girls were talkative in the company
of men. Edith had been well schooled these last few months by her brothers, Harold, Swein,
and Gyrth. She knew that even her closest friends could, inadvertently, betray her. Edith was
bright, very bright. She constantly reminded herself that she was a Godwinson, first and
foremost, from the most-powerful family in England.

Queen Edith stepped out of the hot bathwater to be dried and gently massaged in total
silence. Her supple, pink, youthful skin shone with the light rose oil her maids applied. It
brought to her the softness and aroma she so loved. She felt that the silken undergarment she
had donned was extremely comfortable. It hung loosely, giving her ample bosom freedom of
movement.

As the maids held her dresses for queenly perusal, she indicated her choice for the
evening. Edith chose to be adorned in a loose, yellow, silken gown, which fell to the floor
creating a train. Edith favored this gown. It seemed to brighten this night's sadness. She
particularly admired the square Grecian pattern around the edges sewn in gold thread.

Edith was tall and slim, with not a hint of fat on her beautiful body. Her long golden hair
fell to her waist. The maids washed and made it in to plaits after arduous drying. Her hair
was then rolled to form three twirls. Two were pinned to the side of her head, covering her
ears, the remainder, set above the nape of her neck. She chose a blue silk wimple to cover her
head around her neck to fall at her back and was pinned with a gold brooch. Her toilet
complete, Edith then slipped her feet into her soft lambskin slippers. She motioned to
Cynwise, the eldest of her maids, to bring her Bible, and sat in her comfortable but plainly
carved high-backed dark oaken armchair. Its embroidered cushions depicted heavenly
scenes of angels. The cushions were heavy and thickly filled with duck-down, which
matched exactly the contours of her body. Looking about, she gazed at a tapestry upon the
wall. She had commissioned the embroidered figures of all her brothers depicted within
hunting scenes. The fine, detailed work looked excellent, even to Edith's critical eye, and she
felt pleased with the workmanship.

She felt ready to embrace the soUtude she required to help her compose herself; to rid
herself of thoughts of hatred for her experiences of times past. She must return to the
bedchamber, where her husband, the king, lay dying. Her maids stood silently, patiently in
line, awaiting any requests from their queen.

"You will leave me now," Edith said softly. She watched as her maids bowed, then moved
towards the door to exit from the room, quietly. Childric, the pageboy, closed the heavy oak
door behind them. She now sat quite alone in her private chambers. On her lap, the weight
of the magnificently illuminated Bible pressed down upon her knees. It was a present from
her husband, given two years ago to celebrate her thirty-fifth birthday.

A log on the fire hissed and crackled. She turned to stare into the flames, the flickering
light of dancers, darting aimlessly hither and thither. The stone fireplace, prominent on the
long wall of this oblong chamber, held its own show of dancing figures, as if in contest with
the minuscule athletes from the candelabra. The spitting and hissing of the burning logs
were contemptuous of the opposing tallow's pathetic attempts to light the room for its
mistress. Her thoughts drifted here and there as the pictures in her mind wandered back and
forth to bring images of her life with Edward and of her time in exile. They were not happy
times.

Both hands pulled the mighty book of writings to her hips. It was as if she were afraid
that if she let go of it, her faith in God would leave her. Her eyes looked down, staring at the
book's leather covering embossed with angels, entwined with scrolling and with knotted
ropes that ended in two serpents' heads. Prominently in the center, in gold leaf, there was a
cross with the depiction of Jesus bearing the pain for the sins of mankind. The book had an
iron clasp and hinge with which to secure and lock the precious words from preying mouths
of insects. Her grip on the book loosened as she carefully opened the heavy cover to reveal
the first page. It was beautifully illuminated with embossed gold and lapis lazuli. The
angelic figures, holding the large capitals in the margins, stood out of the page, inviting her
fingers to roam lightly across the wonderful scrollwork of an unknown scribe.

'Tn the Beginning," she mumbled to herself. "Life was good." Her eyes looked up towards
the flickering yellow flame of a candle no more than an arm's length away. The rising smoke
from its flame seemed to twist, curl and spread out evenly, to creep along the ceiling in
search of a space to rest. The years of pain and torment she had endured from this man she'd
been forced to marry all those years before would soon be at an end. The hours passed. Her
mind now rested; she felt prepared for the arduous climax of the events ahead.

Outside the queen's bedchamber, Childric, the queen's personal servant and messenger
sat on a small stool in the candle-lit corridor; he waited patiently for his mistress to call for
whatever her desire of him might be.

From a short distance away, Childric heard the steps of someone approaching, slowly; the
tap, tapping of a stick, the labored breathing and the shuffling of poorly lifted feet told him it
could be only Archbishop Stigand. As the figure came into view, he saw the rounded
personage of Stigand, the Archbishop of Canterbury. Childric rose to his feet to greet him.
He stood to attention and dropped his head reverently as he waited for Stigand to speak.

"Your Grace," Childric said in respectful salutation.
"Is the queen at home to me, boy?" Stigand asked breathlessly.

Childric nodded then turned to face the portal and tapped lightly on the door.

The knock was unexpected. For a moment, Edith was startled. Her concentration lost as
she heard from outside in the corridor, the voice of Childric calling.

"You have a visitor. My Lady. It is His Grace, The Archbishop Stigand, requesting an
audience with the Queen," the boy called, his alto voice easily penetrating the oaken door.

Stigand gazed directly at Childric, looking to see if the smile on the boy's face was indeed
a smile or a smirk. Stigand shrugged his shoulders, smiled back at the boy, and returned to
gaze blankly at the door.

Raising herself from her chair, and moving gracefully across the room. Queen Edith
placed the heavy Bible on the beautifully polished chestnut table. She stood looking at the
door, waiting, her right hand resting upon the great book.

"Bid the Archbishop enter," Edith replied. Her voice had a gravel-like roughness about it;
her stress becoming evident as she realized the hour was near when she would become a
dowager; a queen in name only, without power or force to command. She stood perfectly
still, her eyes now closed, as if in prayer.

The boy opened the door, bowing, and watched the Archbishop enter the room slowly,
his long robes sweeping the floor. Childric closed the door behind him then ran towards the
exit to the courtyard. Once outside, he burst into uncontrollable laughter, until he was able to
thoroughly compose himself, he returned to his role to sit outside the door of the queen's
chambers and await instruction.

Edith held out her right hand, and watched as Stigand bowed a little, kissing her hand
lightly, returned upright and flinched with the pain in his toes.

Grimacing, his pain stiU clearly apparent upon his red, pockmarked face; the arthritis and
gout he suffered, brought on by an excessively epicurean lifestyle, was now torturing his
physical attributes, and he waited patiently for his queen to speak.

Edith nodded towards his miter, trying hard to suppress a laugh, which she managed to
reduce to a broad smile. How funny, she thought, this small man looks absurd in such a silly hat.
It was something she remembered from her childhood as hilarious and she'd brought this
humor with her to this very day. She raised her finger towards his head, trying not to lose
her queenly dignity and smiled. "Take off that silly headgear, Stigand, you look ridiculous,"
she said nonchalantly as she turned to look away momentarily, her smile now hidden from
his view. He removed his heavy round miter with its long, gold threaded tails, placing it on
the table next to the Bible.

"Do sit, Stigand," she said, motioning him to a comfortable chair near the fireside. She
looked on sympathetically as he moved towards the chair and managed to seat himself
without too much distress from his painful feet. For the moment, Edith elected to stand
"What news do you bring of my brother, Harold? Has he not yet returned?" Edith inquired,
looking down at him. She could see clearly, from his embarrassed expression, that Harold
was not yet to be found. Edith read faces and demeanor very well. It was a practiced art
she'd learned through the many years of court intrigue.

Stigand sat uncomfortably, his gout-ridden toes refusing to give him any relief from his
suffering. "No, My Lady, not yet. I've asked that Brithnoth send out a party to search for
him. It's Harold's way to be alone; he clears his mind that way, and can thus focus his
thoughts on the problems ahead. If you recall, your father used to ride out alone, and for the
same reason."

She smiled, relieved that Stigand knew her brother's habits well enough. Edith's
expression and demeanor began to change to one of solemnity. "The time of my husband's
death is at hand, and I'm afraid for the future." She said wringing her hands nervously.

Stigand gazed at her, trying to read her facial expressions. "The future. My Lady? Though
Harold and 1 are close friends, 1 am not yet privy to his thoughts on all matters pertaining to
the succession. I'm as confused about what will come next, as is the man tilling the fields.
When yoirr husband, the king, departs on his journey to the bosom of our Lady Mary, it will
be Harold we must look to, surely." Stigand coughed and cleared his throat. "The current
situation of the king having no legitimate heir complicates the succession, and of this, you're
completely aware. 1 wish, therefore, to speak with Harold on the matter immediately upon
his return. Before 1 do that, 1 need to speak with you first on an issue that may allay the
many fears of the Witan on the problem." Stigand swallowed deeply, not knowing how the
queen would react to his forthcoming suggestion. "As you know, the Grand Counsel, that is,
the Witan, are gathering here in a full Gemot. They have the right to choose and ratify who is
to be their new monarch." Stigand hesitated; he knew he was close to overstepping the mark.

Edith stood looking down upon him, her arms now crossed. Stigand irritated her at times
with his incessant meddling, despite his high office. "Go on, Stigand, you may speak your
mind." She sensed he was going to put his foot in his mouth, and not for the first time in his
career.

"1 . . . I've come to ask if you would consider becoming sole ruler, to be queen in yoirr
own right, with full regal powers — if the Witan approves, of course." Blurting out the words
almost unthinkingly, he realized that he had asked the wrong question at the wrong time.

"What!" Edith stood upright, her shoulders back. "Oh no, Stigand! If you think 1 am to
become sole ruler of England, you can put aside such ideas. Are you out of your mind? 1
would need to take a husband and produce a legitimate heir. I'm no-longer of childbearing
age, nor am 1 a brood mare to be used as a whore for England's pleasure!"

Stigand's mouth dropped. He began to stutter as his words refused to cohere. His nerves
overtook his sensibilities as both sides of his brain fought for dominance in an effort to take
back his foolish remark.

Edith walked over to the table and placed her hands upon the Bible. She bent down and
lightly kissed the Bible's ornate cover, then returning upright, she crossed herself. She turned
about and walked a few paces towards him to face the pathetic-looking man in front of her.
She looked down at him with the softness of a mother upon a child and saw his
embarrassment. "You ought to have discussed your ideas with my brother, Harold."

"Time is so short," he mirmbled, his foolishness at last dawning upon him.

"You are a good man, but 1 won't be forced into something against my wishes. Harold
will show the way. He is the light, the only hope we have of stability. I've spoken with
Edward on the matter some days ago, and he has agreed that all promises he may have
made to others in the past are now void. My husband is to pass his kingdom on to Harold.
Harold doesn't yet know of this decision, and Harold may wish not to take on the
responsibility; it's a heavy burden."

"My Lady, would the Witan accept Harold as their rightful and legitimate king?"

Edith gazed deeply into Stigand's eyes. Her face became severe and controlled. "You
must understand, Stigand, that 1 know that you are counseling the members of the Witan as
they arrive, and in favor of Harold, too." She saw Stigand's surprised look.

"Don't be alarmed; 1 understand your motives aren't malicious. You are looking for a way
to avoid warfare, and to keep your position." She patted the back of his hands, as a mother to
a child then turned to walk over to look out of the window as if to see what could not be
seen in the blackness of the night. Her thoughts drifted elsewhere, and she turned about and
retraced her steps.

"When Edith Swanneck arrives, show her to me. 1 need to speak urgently with her. Now 1
must go to my husband." She looked at the door. "Page!" she called. The door opened and
Edith made her exit, smiling at Childric as she passed him made her way towards the King
Edward's bedchamber.

Stigand struggled to his feet to retrieve his miter and slowly, laboriously, followed the
queen out of the door, only to meet Brithnoth, Earl Harold's right-hand man. Stigand looked
sad and confused as he glanced up into the face of this giant man. The two men stood staring
at each other for a moment. He knew that Brithnoth never could stand the sight of him, but
for peace, they showed an overt due respect to each other, with their private thoughts always
kept to themselves. Stigand was well aware that Brithnoth would prefer a fighting bishop,
not unlike Odo of Bayeux. Why, he thought, does this man, who commands such respect treat me
as if I weren't here?

On reaching the king's bedchamber, Stigand's nose wrinkled with the offensive odor of
dried sweat emanating from the giant. Brithnoth had bathed, he could see that much, but
Stigand noticed that Brithnoth was, as usual, wearing a quilted jerkin that was ribbed
vertically. Each rib was almost as thick as a man's arm. On top of this, Brithnoth wore a full
mail shirt that dropped to just above his knees. Stigand sighed. He's donned that filthy,
unwashed, flea-ridden jerkin once more, Stigand thought. Nonetheless, Stigand had an
admiration for this man who stood nearly seven feet tall, and was always supremely
confident. He knew that nothing bothered this man who'd fought and beaten some of the
bravest men on the planet.

"What's the situation with the king, Brithnoth?" he asked, as he observed dosely the face
of the great warrior, looking for any sign of news of their lord's condition. He saw Brithnoth
smiling broadly, and his head nodded in the direction of the king's bedchamber.

"The king's ladies are running about like chickens without heads, Stigand. No one seems
to know what's going on. Though when the queen enters the king's bedchamber, she'll
secure some sort of order; she is good at that sort of thing."

"And Harold?" Stigand was looking perplexed and worried as the moment of the king's
death approached.

"As you asked earlier, I'm to have Osfrid search for Harold now; the lad will be told to
bring him back here. 1 hope that if and when he finds him, Harold comes immediately.
Though God-alone-knows where he is. 1 can see my having to send out boys looking
everywhere. You know, Harold really is an ass-hole, sometimes. He just goes off, and leaves
not a word with anyone as to his whereabouts. But that's Harold for you."

Stigand's nose wrinkled to the smell of another obnoxious odor emanating from the
king's bedchamber some way off down the corridor.

"You get used to the stench after a while, Stigand. I suggest you pick up some herbs on
your way to be with the king," Brithnoth said whose own smell normally neutralized any
odor. Brithnoth left Stigand to make his way briskly towards the exit and out to the
courtyard. At the door, he looked out into the blackness, his eyes adjusting to the night.
"Osfrid!" The guttural call of the head of the king's bodyguard could be heard across the
courtyard into Normandy, France and beyond. Brithnoth stood looking through the damp,
mist-laden night, patiently waiting for the young man to appear before him. He peered into
the darkness towards the stables fifty or so paces away where candles enclosed in lanterns
dimly illuminated the scene. He was looking for any sign of the young man he had taken
under his wing to answer his call. As he waited, he took from his sheath a dagger and began
sharpening it with a fine-grained stone he kept in a small utility pouch on his leather belt. He
smiled for a moment as he looked on into the night. Hearing the call of an owl, he called
back, his reply returned by this beautiful feathered creature. He smiled broadly. This old dog
still has the knack, he thought. "Now, let me see," he mumbled. One, two, three, four, five, six,
seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen." He stopped counting momentarily. I'll give
him to a count of seventy -five, then I will give him one hell of a headache, he thought, and then
resumed his count. "Fourteen, fifteen, ..."

On hearing the call from his master, Osfrid, a strong, muscular, handsome youth of some
eighteen years, took to his feet. He ran past Fredrick, the head stable boy at lightening speed,
and entered the courtyard, rimning as fast as his tired legs could carry him. At last, he
reached the feet of his mentor, the great warrior, Brithnoth, the strongest, and best fighting
man in England. Brithnoth was his mentor, a man who was, in the eyes of all under him,
god-like.

"Sixty-four . . . Ah, Osfrid, so you're not dead then!" Brithnoth faked his sternest look,
designed to put the fear of God into men; even stone statues stood to attention at his
command.

Breathing heavily, he stooped to place his hands upon his knees, his face flushed. "Yes,
sire?" Osfrid replied, whilst his chest heaved deeply for more air. "You're bidding. Sire?"
Osfrid gulped; his heart pounded as the thought of severe admonition from Brithnoth
gripped him. His stomach was churning; the adrenaline flowing through his veins
heightened his sense of being. He stood upright and took in yet more air. His exhaled breath
drifted into the night through the light of the doorway. The young man readied himself for a
punch from this man known for his harshness towards those men whose work was less than
that he expected from his housecarls. Not allowed to hit back or fall, his muscles tightened
and strained — yet he was less ready for what was to come next.

Brithnoth turned away momentarily, looking for the owl that once more hooted his
territorial call into the night. Brithnoth hooted back a long call, again to have the call
returned by the beautiful bird of prey. "He thinks 1 am another male encroaching on his
territory. He wouldn't call back if my call had not sounded genuine. I'm surprised he didn't
swoop down to see me off his feeding ground. My father, Guthrin, taught me so much when
1 was but as tall as a blade of grass." Brithnoth crossed himself then mumbled inaudibly, one
sentence in prayer for the man he'd loved so much and who'd died so many years before.

Osfrid sensed there was something less severe about Brithnoth this night, despite his
initial stern look that he gave when he arrived before him.

The young men Brithnoth took pride in were treated fairly, yet no quarter was given for
slackness, and a punch to the face was nothing unusual. The boys aspired to, and were to
become the best warriors in the world. Pain, they were told, was to be treated like washing in
ice-cold water; you ignored it; working through their training they learned through
confidence and skill to fear nothing. They fought for their king under Earl Harold, who was
greatly admired, and renowned for his courage and ability.

Brithnoth often practiced his art with Harold. The two were a match, often inflicting
wounds upon each other, almost as severe as in battle. Both gave no quarter to the other
until exhaustion or blood in the eyes of one of the men left them blinded.

'T'm pleased to see you ran here, Osfrid. You have been told by your trainers to run at the
double at all times. For a period of three months, you will wear this full double- weight mail
shirt, Osfrid. You will sleep, eat and shit whilst wearing it. You will soon get used to the
armor's weight. By this time next week, if you bend to take breath, 1 will have your head off.
Is that understood?" Brithnoth looked sternly into the eyes of the young man.

"Yes, sire, at all times. Sire." Osfrid, was feeling somewhat relieved that the great man
had not punished him. Brithnoth, too, wore double a mail shirt, taking it off only to bathe.
Osfrid was desperately trying to suppress a smile, but too late; nature allowed his relief to
show through. He saw Brithnoth wink at him, and he almost relaxed, but stood firm. He
would do anything for this man, anything.

Brithnoth bowed his head a little towards Osfrid' s face. He sniffed the sweet smell of rose
oil emanating from the boy. Looking over Osfrid's shoulder, he noticed bits of straw
entwined between the links of his mail shirt.

"1 take it 1 took you from more important business with my daughter Fara?" Brithnoth
asked, who was now sporting a mischievous grin as wide as a barn door. Osfrid had a glint
in his eyes that Brithnoth knew didn't require an answer. He liked Osfrid, a young man with
much potential and a sharp brain. Lifting the youth to his full height with his right arm and
looking towards the stables, Brithnoth turned him around and motioned with his
outstretched arm and pointing finger through the gloom from whence the boy had come.

"1 want you to have Fredrick saddle a horse, because I've an important job for you, you're
to take a message to Earl Harold. 1 will be ready with the message as soon as you've made
your steed fit for the road."

"Yes, sire. 1 know where he is to be found," Osfrid replied confidently.

"You do?" Brithnoth replied with relief showing on the face of the old master. He smiled
at the thought of at least knowing that a manhunt for Harold would not have to be made.

"Yes, sire, he always goes to the same place when he needs time to think."

"And that place is?" Brithnoth stared quizzically at Osfrid.

"By the old Sandwich Fork Road, Sire; it's quiet there. He looks out to the river and listens
to the wind in the trees. He said it gives him inspirational thought, whatever that is."

"Well, don't just stand there, boy; go and ready a horse." Brithnoth shoved Osfrid lightly
but firmly forward toward the stables then returned inside to write his message.

Grinning broadly, Osfrid sprinted back from whence he came, to be greeted by Fredrick,
that was grooming a sick mare he was nursing back to health after an attack of colic, when
Osfrid came running in through the stable door.

"Hey, what's the rush, Osfrid?" asked the boy, looking with astonishment towards his
older friend and companion. "1 expected you to come back with a frown and a black eye,
especially after what you have been up to. What's going on?" he asked, as he placed the
brush on the shelf above him and walked over to the stable where Toll, had been taking a
drink from a now empty pail. The beast lifted her head, stared at Fredric seeming to smile.
Stroking her nose, he whispered a few words to her, then picked up the bucket and then
ambled back to where Osfrid stood. He nonchalantly dropped the bucket to one side, placing
his hand on his hips, and waited for a reply. "Well?" Fredrick asked. "Brithnoth didn't call
you over to share his supper, now; did he?"

"I've to take a message to Earl Harold, and you're to saddle a horse for me at once. I'm to
meet Brithnoth at the courtyard door as soon as 1 have a horse ready, so look lively."

"It's about the king, isn't it? He is dying. I've had to stable and look after so many thegns'
horses tonight. 1 overheard some of the thegns talking about the king being on his deathbed.
It frightens me to think about it.

"That might please Brithnoth. 1 don't think he ever did like the king. 1 overheard him once
speaking to Harold. He said the king was a pompous asshole."

"Well, he is an asshole," Fredrick replied indignantly.

Osfrid grinned broadly then laughed. He composed himself with the realization of the
duty he was about to perform for his master. "Fredrick, just get on and saddle that horse;
will you. Asshole or not, Edward is still the king, and if nothing else, you should respect his
office." Osfrid looked on as Fredric made his way out of the stables to the saddlers'
workshop where all saddles were stored and repaired.

Osfrid sought out Toll. She was Harold's second horse, beautiful, powerful and fearless.
"Hello, old girl," he said smiling; "You're coming for a canter with me tonight. We're off to
find your master." Toll snorted as her head rose sharply and appeared to give a nodding
approval to the venture. The youth blew warm breath into the nose of the mighty beast, and
in reply. Toll snuggled her head into the shoulder of the human she often had upon her back.
She snorted gently, her exhalent warming Osfrid' s neck.

"Be good for me tonight. Toll. This is a special night. We may have a new king very soon.
Who that may be, no one can tell." Osfrid opened the cubicle door and Toll was led out to
wait for Fredrick to arrive with the saddle. "1 have a new treat for you. It's a carrot for my
favorite lady. I'm sure you'll like it. That nice man, Eumer, brought them over from
Normandy just for you. Here, 1 have a little honey dip for you, too." He dipped the purple
root into the honey he held in a small glass vial. Toll seemed to like it, unlike the white
carrots, and chewed with relish the hard yet sweet taste the honey added to it.

Osfrid noticed Fredric grimace as he struggled through the door with the heavy wooden
saddle that was really too cumbersome for him to carry without assistance, and offered to
help Fredric lift the saddle onto Toll's back. Fredrick didn't object; he just smiled his
appreciation for Osfrid' s help.

"You really didn't need to bring such a large saddle." Osfrid remarked.

"Toll is used to a wooden saddle, Osfrid; you know that. Harold has told me it is the best
training a stable boy could have. Wrestling with heavy equipment builds up the muscles. 1
might even be able to train, like you, as a housecarl, one day, if I'm strong enough, that is."

"Well, if nothing else, you're keen and able. I'm sure that one of these days you will, as 1
have, become a trainee housecarl. It's hard work, and the men treat you unkindly sometimes.
You have to be hard, and you to learn how to cope with pain and learn to ignore it."

Fredrick frowned. He knew from watching the housecarls in training just how tough they
were. Broken bones were an everyday occurrence, and death not that unusual while in
practice with the two-handed battle-axe.

"Tighten this strap a little more for me; would you, Fredrick?" Osfrid stood with hands on
hips, his head nodding towards the strap.

"You should always check your own saddle, Osfrid, you know that." Fredrick replied.

"Well, go on, finish the job, I'm not your slave."

"There's no putting anything across you, Fredrick, is there?" Osfrid asked, grinning.

"Ha! If you fall off it's your own fault," Fredrick replied, beaming as he patted the patient
Toll on her withers.

"I'm not going to argue with you. Toll is ready for the journey, and I'd better make a move,
before 1 get my butt kicked." Osfrid led Toll outside and made his way across the courtyard.
He called out to the guard and asked of Brithnoth.

"1 hear you, Osfrid," Brithnoth called out as he rounded the corner corridor that led from
the king's anti-chamber. In his hand, he held a rolled parchment.

"You are to take this to Earl Harold. He is to return at once; do you understand?" He
handed Osfrid the parchment that had the Queen's personal seal upon it.

"Yes, sire, at once." Osfrid stuffed the roll into his jerkin underneath his mail shirt so as
not to lose it on the journey.

"Now, be off, and don't come back without Earl Harold." Brithnoth looked on as Osfrid
mounted the horse, trotted towards the gates and rode into the night. He turned to the
guard, Ragbrid, who was stood rigidly to attention.

"He's a fine boy, Ragbrid, a fine boy." Brithnoth smiled then walked slowly back inside
the palace.

In the gloom, some way out of the city of London, three men stood waiting. One of these
men, Eumer, had been back and forth to Normandy. He was a dark, reclusive character who
rarely spoke to anyone. He was tall, strong, and handsome. He was clever; he could plan
strategically, and move about Europe taking payment from anyone with enough money
looking for someone to give him the work he specialized in, and that is, the disposal of
dangerous and unwanted people, not just ordinary people but powerful people: those who
were, normally, under heavy guard. Kings, dukes, earls; it didn't matter too much, as long as
the money was forthcoming.

Tonight was to be an exception, an easy target for him. He'd hired a couple of disaffected
thugs from a local tavern where he'd been staying. They were strong enough and stupid
enough to wait for payment after their task had been completed. As a corpse could tell no
tales, he would dispose of them soon after tonight's task was complete.

As he waited for Earl Harold, he could see his two henchmen making the rope between
two trees taut. Moments later, their task complete, they retired to the undergrowth to hide in
wait for their victim.

After he'd dispatched Harold, he would then return to the tavern for a few weeks while
the Saxons ran around like demented chickens searching the ports on the south coast for
him. Meanwhile, until all was dear, he would utilize the serving ladies. These girls were
keen for some attention, especially when they could earn a little extra for their family's
needs. He always slept alone, though, never allowing himself the privilege of sharing what
nocturnal words that he might utter with anyone.

To mine-host, he was a passing journeyman carpenter plying his trade, earning a little
here and there. He'd just finished working on the newly completed Westminster Abbey, he'd
told the landlord. Now, he was going to enjoy the proceeds of his labors then he would move
on, to pastures new, perhaps to repair a church or bridge?

Eumer had used his two contacts within the king's household well. These two fine,
upstanding ladies, who'd been in his paymaster's pockets, had been Duke William's willing
servants for many years, and would soon be rewarded for their work, the Lady Saethryd and
the Lady Ethelfrith. He would have to dispose of them, too, but that would be an easy
accomplishment. They'd done a creditable job in supplying the information on the habits
and whereabouts of Earl Harold Godwinson. The stable boy, Fredrick, and his friend Osfrid,
were always willing to be helpful in any way they could. For a few purple carrots, they
would tell you their life stories, loan you a horse too, if it came to that. It's amazing what you
can get away with as a journeyman carpenter.

In the distance, Eumer heard the thumping hooves of an approaching horse, the snapping
and cracking of brittle twigs and small, fallen branches, but from an unexpected direction.
With the hoot of an owl, he signaled to the two thugs, who were waiting to do their deadly
task, to dispatch the rider, whoever it is, quickly.

Osfrid rode on into the mist, towards where he knew Earl Harold to be. Now and then the
clouds and the mist cleared to reveal a fuU moon that shed ample light on the path ahead. A
bell in the distance sounded eleven of the hour. The clouds once more took the light from the
path ahead; all was now darkness. Toll knew the way instinctively and cantered on needing
no reins from Osfrid. Here and there, the dripping of water off the trees fell into his face.

As horse and rider rounded the copse near the fork in the road that he sought, he was
taken from his horse by a rope stretched across two trees. Osfrid fell to the ground, stunned.
From behind the trees, three men jumped upon the now scarcely conscious rider. The tallest
of the men held onto Toll's reins, whilst, with professional efficiency, another of the men
took out a sharp blade, and, with one movement, sliced Osfrid' s throat almost to the bone.
Osfrid's looked up in shocked horror as consciousness left him.

Eumer noticed the message and took it from his tunic, leaving the now limp, blooded, and
lifeless body to the thugs, who quickly dragged the corpse behind some bushes to cover the
body with brush and scrub. In the darkness, the rope was once more pulled taut between
two trees.

The clouds cleared, and once more the moon shed light enough to read. Eumer broke the
seal, unrolled the parchment and read the letter's contents. "This isn't the man we seek; it's

his messenger. We'll have to wait a while longer," he said as he motioned the thugs back to
their previous hiding place, whilst he led Toll into the woods and tethered her to a tree.

Harold stared at the moon; his thoughts filled with apprehension for his fixture and that of
his fellow Englishmen. He thought of those he knew, and of those who would see their last
sun when the day of reckoning, that surely must come, finally arrived.

It's getting late, and I ought to he at the palace, he thought as strolled toward his horse that
he'd tethered to a tree nearby. He mounted his steed, and pulled his cloak's collar up over
his neck and rode into the night following the path back to the king's palace to be with the
man he knew was soon to be in paradise.

The night was cold and damp, colder than it had been for many weeks. The clouds, smoke
gray, as though hiding within their midst a host of evil, moved from the east over the south
of England, fleetingly covering any light the moon may have wanted to shed upon this
English isle.

Harold rode onward, unaware of the trap menacingly set for him. "What— huh!" Harold
exclaimed as he was caught by the rope and thrown from his horse. An owl, startled, flew
low to find elsewhere the serenity of a feeding watch. The fall momentarily stunned Harold.
He heard the sound of a sword being withdrawn from its scabbard, and he scrambled to his
feet, his wits becoming heightened to his lethal situation. Two men emerged from the
darkness, running the few paces toward him. From the front and rear, both men were
quickly upon him, one of them attempting to seize him from behind dropped his dagger, but
managed to hold the winded earl in a vice-like grip, while the other approached menacingly
towards him with the sword drawn, his intention clearly to skewer Harold through, then
leave him for dead. As the blade was about to thrust and penetrate, Harold lifted his legs
and pushed the man away, causing him to fall on the ground some paces before him, the
sword falling at Harold's feet. With a twist of his body, Harold was at last, able to turn the
man who held him to the ground. The attacker scrambled for his grounded dagger then tried
to stand. In a flash, Harold grappled the instrument from the attacker's hand, and with one
action slit the man's throat.

A break in the clouds allowed the moonlight to illuminate, momentarily, the scene before
him, giving Harold a clear look at the first attacker who now lay dead. Harold grasped the
sword that was now lying before him. As he swung around, he caught another glimpse of
the figure that was returning to attack once more. In one swift and almost gracious
movement, Harold threw the sword. It turned end over end, and then, with a thud and a cry
from the searing pain of a blade penetrating flesh, the man fell dead.

From behind a tree, Eumer took careful aim; his crossbow steady, he loosed off the deadly
bolt, its target fifty paces away. It flew with deadly accuracy toward the man whom it was to
send to heaven. Just as Harold bent down to take a closer look at the attacker, he felt the rush
of wind pass his ear, and, a second later, heard the thud of the crossbow's bolt hit a tree
some distance away. Harold turned to look towards where he thought the crossbow bolt had
emanated, but could see nothing. Moments later, he heard the sound of hooves receding at
speed into the distance.

Harold's eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed. "He's bound to try again. I'll be waiting
for you next time; you can be sure of that," he muttered clenching his fists. He took the

sword and dagger, and with the tunic of one of the dead men, wiped them clean of the
assassins' blood and placed them in his belt. With his fingers to his lips, the earl blew a
whistle, and moments later, his horse returned to his side. He then readied himself to stride
the saddle once more and rode on into the night, this time taking an alternative route back to
the king's palace.

A short time later, Harold entered the courtyard of the palace at Westminster to be
greeted by the stable boy, Fredrick. The boy held on to Harold's steed as he dismounted.

"Take my horse, boy; rub him down, and make sure he's kept warm."

"Yes, sire. 1 have warm covers for him ready in the stables."

"You're a good boy, Fredrick. Be sure not to feed him oats; he will be sick if you do. Hay
and a few turnips is all he needs, some fresh water, too, and not too much, mind."
"Yes, sire. Only hay and turnips." Fredrick said with puzzled look. "Sire, where is Osfrid?"

Harold stared at the boy with an intense gaze. "Tell me, Fredrick, who is it that has taken
Toll out tonight?" Harold asked wondering why Toll was not in his stable.

"Osfrid rode out on Toll, to meet you. My master, Brithnoth, sent him to fetch you, and 1
see he's not with you?"

Harold patted the boy's shoulder, and without answering, strode briskly toward the
palace entrance, where, stood Brithnoth in the doorway, awaiting him.

"Ah, Harold, you took your time; where have you been? We sent the boy, Osfrid, to bring
you to us. 1 trust he had no problem finding you."

"I had a welcoming party waiting for me, one that 1 severely disagreed with, and 1 didn't
expect. 1 fear Osfrid has not returned," Harold replied gazing intensely at Brithnoth.

"No, 1 imderstood he would accompany you, Harold." Brithnoth noticed that Harold's
clothing was in disarray, when the sad tone in Harold's words fell upon him. "My God, man,
you've been ambushed!" Brithnoth's puzzlement was beginning to realize the grim reality
that Osfrid would not be returning. He stared at the ground; his expression of guilt was
obvious as Harold began to relay his story.

"Then Osfrid has been mistaken for me. If this is the case, then 1 fear he won't be
returning. 1 was beckoned into a trap, and 1 nearly didn't make it back, because two of my
assailants gave me a rough time of it, and were hired ruffians, but their leader was a
professional assassin. This encounter was well planned. Two of them 1 dispatched, but the
other one got away; you'll find their bodies by the fork on the Sandwich Road. We must
search him out and make it our priority to seek out his master."

"Assassins, Harold! You go nowhere without a housecarl in future; is that clear?"
Brithnoth took Harold's arm in his grip. The earnest look upon Brithnoth's face said more
than words.

"1 can look after myself, but good advice for all of that." Harold's thoughts drifted to who
might have planned this attack.

"I'll see the bodies are brought in right away; perhaps we may be able to identify them. If
my hunch is correct, they're William's men. It's his favored tactic; this much 1 know."

"Whoever their master is, they'll not be receiving their pay for this night. 1 want Osfrid
found. If he is alive, bring him to me. If he's dead, then see that he has a good burial at my
expense. Is that clear, my good friend?"

"Perfectly clear, Harold. 1 fear for the boy, and 1 hope and pray by the Lady Mary, that he
is alive. You can rely on me to see what is needed to be done is done according to your
wishes. He was my most promising trainee, and 1 had high expectations of him." Brithnoth
felt sad, almost distressed, a feeling that for him was almost alien, but he recognized that
although his feelings for the boy were such, he knew there were more pressing matters that
were forthcoming this night.

Harold placed his hand on Brithnoth's shoulder, and looked up to his friend's face. He
wanted to show his heart; he didn't need to, because Brithnoth knew it. "You are, indeed, a
good and trusted friend, Brithnoth. My father trusted you with his life, as do 1. In future, you
will see to it that any messenger will be accompanied and armed." Harold looked upon
Brithnoth as an equal in arms and friendship: a brother in all but blood. To Harold's mind,
no one else came near to this man, in either companionship or comradeship; he loved
Brithnoth dearly.

"That's understood. Your father thought me his friend, and 1 was proud to be by his side
as a youth. 1 saw you brought into the world, and 1 saw your father out of it. This night is a
lesson well learned." Brithnoth gave a half smile towards his fellow cohort. "There's another
thorn you might need to excise, Harold. Your lady, Edith Swanneck, is inside; she arrived a
short while ago. You might go to see her, since she is looking pensive and asking questions,
and of the wrong persons, too. 1 feel you ought to speak about her presence here at this time.
You should go inside, Harold; the Witan awaits your attendance, and it looks as if we have a
long night ahead of us."

Harold shivered. His body's sweat was now cold and clammy, and he was feeling
uncomfortable. He gave a despairing look of resignation, only to have the look returned by
Brithnoth.

"Edith Swanneck, damn! That is all 1 need at a time like this. No, you should speak to her,
try to steer her away from my path until things get sorted, would you? She can be very
trying at times. There is a time and a place for everything, and Edith is in the wrong place at
the wrong time. 1 really need now to speak to Queen Edith and Stigand, so would you let
them both know I've arrived... oh, and do one thing for me; will you, my dear friend? Make
your peace with Stigand. He is an idiot sometimes, but he is the head of the English Church,
and he's on our side, and one of us, as it happens. Yoirr mutual coldness does neither of you
any favors, Brithnoth. Can 1 rely on you both to come to terms?"

"Well ..." Brithnoth said feeling uneasy.

"Never mind. I'll speak to Stigand, and you two will become firm friends or feel my
wrath! Now, go see that Edith is sent to my rooms — and, if you have to, lock her in."

"The job's as good as done, Harold. Go, get into some warm clothes."

With a wave of his hand, Harold made his way to his dressing room where Tosser, his
beloved eighteen-month-old gray whippet, greeted him. He bolted the door behind him and
threw his riding gloves upon the table. He bent down to pet her head and Tosser snuggled
her long nose into Harold's groin, her tail wagging furiously, whining of pleasure to see her
master. "Hello, old girl. Have you been for a walk today?" Tosser ran around the room, her
excitement plain, jumping up at Harold for yet more fuss. They played tug with a leather
strap for a few minutes with Harold losing the game, as usual.

"Calm down; calm down," Harold said, settling Tosser on a large cushion, where she
chewed on the leather strap, contented, but with one eye on Harold, in case he was to make a
move to leave.

Tosser's ears pricked up, looking at the door. She barked then looked at Harold then
looked back at the door once more. Harold sat comfortably in a low-backed chair and began
unlacing his boots when he heard a knock at the door. Tosser barked once more, ready to
move, but Harold stopped her. "Stay," he whispered softly, his index finger to his lips as if
she were human. Harold moved swiftly to stand behind the door, his blade drawn.

"Who is it?" Harold called through the door. His heart was pounding, the adrenaline
coursed through his veins and he was ready to act at the slightest sign of anything out of the
usual.

"It is 1, your sister. Queen Edith. Are you dressed Harold?" she asked.

Harold felt relieved. He was used to stress, but this was different, there were dark forces
abroad, and they'd already come too dose for comfort, and now he understood why.

"Yes, do come in, Edith, but take a look about you for anyone who may be in sight of
you." Passing his dagger to his left hand, he drew the bolt back slowly and silently. After
Edith entered the room Harold dosed and bolted the door behind her. He gazed at her as she
turned towards him with her head bowed low. Before she could wipe it away, he saw a tear
fall to the floor. From her demeanor, he noticed that his sister's distress was very evident.
Taking a linen doth from the table, he wiped her tears. He looked into her face to see her
pain and her suffering taking hold of her delicate constitution. Tosser, wagging her tail,
jumped up to greet Edith who patted her head. Tosser returned to her cushion to chew on
the leather strap.

"Am 1 too late, Edith?" Harold placed his arms around his sister, puUing her close to him
as a lover would, and comforted her, stroking her hair. For a moment, there was silence as he
thought of reassuring words for her.

As her words spilled into his chest, she gripped him tightly, and she felt his heart beating
hard and fast, emanating from an anxious desire for normality. "He is still with us, but it will
not be long now, of that I'm certain." Edith pulled back to look up at the tall man before her.
Her eyes were reddened and swollen and her complexion pale and drawn. Her hair looked
lank, and its sheen was now diminished, dry.

"A new beginning will shortly be upon us, Edith. You must be brave and look to the
family for comfort and strength. There is nothing more 1 can say to console you, my dear,
beloved sister, except that oirr Lady Mary will take your husband to her bosom in peace. His
suffering will soon be over, and you will be free from your torturous anguish."

"You're a good and wise man, a fine brother. 1 shall reward you with the lands 1 hold
from the king," she said as she let go of him and moved to seat herself in a comfortable high-
backed chair, wringing her hands nervously. She stared at the floor, her despair for the
future of England evident. Only Harold holds the key to our permanence and stability, she
thought.

"Do you know me, Edith? You nor England needs not to buy my love! 1 don't require
them. It is your welfare and that of our country that 1 need to administer to. 1 have enough,
and as much as this, 1 have enough love. Go to your husband; he is your priority just now; 1
will be with you shortly. 1 need to speak to Stigand, but first 1 have to change out of these

71

filthy clothes." Edith kissed Harold's cheek and smiled. Harold pulled back the bolt and,
slowly opened the door to check all was safe outside.

Edith began to sob as she left the room into the protection of her ladies waiting in the
corridor. Harold decided to escort her and her women, and saw her to the safety of the
king's bedchamber. She entered to be with her husband, leaving Harold to return to his
dressing room.

As he entered, he closed and then once more locked the door behind him then moved
closer to the log fire and began to undress ready to bathe and change into more suitable
attire, when Tosser barked and rushed to the door. A moment later another knock came at
the door.

"Harold, it's Stigand," came the unmistakable voice of the archbishop.

"Ah, Stigand, are you alone?"

"Yes, Harold, I'm quite alone." Stigand replied.

Once more, Harold took up a position behind the door, his dagger poised, ready for use,
should he require its service, and drew back the bolt. Harold wondered if this situation were
to be the future for him, at least until he could resolve the problem of his personal safety.

"You can now enter, Stigand, and close the door behind you."

Stigand opened the door and entered the room, hobbling along pathetically from his
tortured gout. Closing the door behind him, he looked about the room. He was startled
when Harold stepped away from the door behind him.

"1 am sorry, old friend, but I've had one or two problems this evening. 1 couldn't take any
more chances. Please sit; we need to talk." Harold slid the bolt to the locked position.

"You look cold, Harold. Have you been far? We had Brithnoth send out a messenger to
bring you back. Where, on God's good soil, have you been? The situation here in the last few
hours has moved on, and you obviously need to know what is in the wind."

"1 know what's in the wind. I've not been on this earth without learning how to smell out
the snakes of Europe, my friend." Harold moved toward his clothes chest and opened the
large leather-covered wooden lid to reveal a wealth of fine silk and linen garments that even
the overdressed Stigand had to admire. Picking out his fresh attire, Harold stood with the
clothes he was to wear in his hands and warmed them dose to the log fire before donning
them, finally pulling on his soft sheepskin boots, lacing them up to his thighs. I really need to
bathe, but I guess that will have to wait a while, he thought.

"1 have been ambushed. 1 took a ride to Richmond along the river, more to gather my
thoughts without distraction than anything else. Someone knew exactly where 1 was. Suffice
to say, there was an attempt to assassinate me. 1 thank the Lady Mary their work was in
vain."

"You were ambushed! By the Holy-Cross-of-Jesus, assassins — but you're safely here! Did
they escape?" Stigand asked, his eyes narrowed and brow furrowed in concerned relief. "I'm
shocked that you, our locum princes, should be the target of some power that would see
England engulfed in bloody strife."

"They nearly had the better of me. I'm fit and strong, and my training through my father
and Brithnoth gave me the edge over them. It looks as if these bastards might have killed the
boy, Osfrid, too. Two of my attackers' bodies are being brought back to be identified; the
third escaped. For the moment, we have more pressing matters to attend to. Have all

members of the Witan arrived yet? If so, what's their mood?" Harold seated himself, taking
in the warmth of the log fire.

"There are still a few of the Witan who've not arrived, but of those that are, generally they
are hopeful that they will arrive at a consensus that will see you crowned. You will be their
choice; this 1 already know. All 1 have spoken to agree, that the ^theling, Edgar, could not
see England safely through what might lay ahead. We need unity, Harold. Only you are
capable of bringing this about successfully. The Northern Earls, Morcar and Edwin are likely
to oppose you. They have other ideas; that's understood, but with some persuasion they may
be brought over to us."

Harold looked thoughtful, and wondered if the time might soon be upon him to decide
the fate of his beloved England, whether it would be upon his decision that men would live
or die.

'T'm not keen, Stigand; you know that. Is there no other way to overcome this difficulty?
The crown is not mine by right of natural succession. I've spent half my life in diplomatic
embassies throughout Europe, ensirring that the natural line of succession is correctly
followed, and it all has come to naught. The last legitimate heir to the throne, Edward- the
^theling, died of some ague or other before we arrived in England. We ought to keep to the
natural Saxon lineage; that's how it should be, and it's why I'd brought the young Prince
Edward back. Apart from Edgar-the- ^theling, who else is there left?"

Stigand' s hands rested upon his knees as he bent forward, head upward and eyes directed
into those of Harold sitting before him. "The Edward episode was nearly ten years ago, and
there's no other offspring of Edmund Ironside left. Should the crown then go to Harald
Sigurdsson or Svein Estrithson? 1 say an emphatic 'No!' Stigand said adamantly, shaking his
head. "You said yourself that we must have a king of Saxon linage."

"Not necessarily, but I'd prefer it that way. Estrithson surely has a good claim through the
rightful line of succession. Of course, 1 wish to see a Saxon on the throne, but crowns won in
battle produce a new house and linage. Look to Cnut. There are many more examples
throughout Europe. My father helped him to gain his English crown, and the new king
brought stability and law."

Stigand rose to his feet, moved closer to the fire, and with his hands behind him, felt the
warmth of the flames invigorating him. He turned to face the flames, warming himself, this
time with a look of mischief about him that Harold shouldn't see. "Well, you see, Harold, the
church has certain obligations to Rome. If either Sigurdsson or Estrithson were to take the
crown, it would foUow that "Peter's Pence" would not reach the Holy Father. The Pope
would surely excommunicate the whole nation. This would lead to an outcry amongst the
common people. There would be rebellion, dvil war and bloodshed." Stigand turned about
to face Harold.

"Bullshit!" Harold ejaculated. "Look Stigand, I've known you long enough to know that
you're afraid that you'd lose your archbishopric, and that your seat would go to some
Scandinavian sycophant. So don't give me bollocks. This is Earl Harold Godwinson, the
learned son of my father, who was the only man King Cnut trusted, with whom you speak."
Harold rose to his feet and looking him in the eyes, smiled, placed one hand on the shoulder
of the archbishop and chuckled.

"In the past, you have always been honest, Stigand. You don't need to bullshit me. We're
both men of the world; I'm your friend, for God's sake. Embarrassment is something we
should take in our stride. If you're afraid you'll lose your incumbency, then say so. 1 don't
need you to give me excuses. We have a trust in each other; don't allow that trust to slip. If 1
become king, I'll need to be sure that trust is ultimate and absolute. If you mess up, you mess
up. All you need to do is just admit you made an error; you know me well enough. Yes, 1
may be angry at some major crisis caused by a balls-up of your instigation or anyone else's.
But when it boils down to it, at least 1 can be sure of your honesty and integrity. That's worth
a great deal to me, more than you can imagine, perhaps."

Stigand stood looking with amazement fully settled upon his face. It turned to relief as
Harold smiled and offered him a glass of wine. "I'm sorry. 1 guess 1 should have been more
honest with you than 1 have been this evening. You read me well enough, and you know my
personal convictions. 1 do have England's welfare in my bosom, yours, too; you know that,"
Stigand said, smiling apologetically.

"Yes, you are but human, as 1, with the frailties that come with it. I've been on God's good
earth long enough to know how men are, and what they can be like, given circumstance and
opportimity. Put your embarrassment aside. Come, embrace me as a brother." Harold
embraced Stigand. "1 am overjoyed that at last we know everything there is to know of each
other, and we can go forward in perfect candor."

"1 loved your father, Harold. He was a good man. You know what he did for me, don't
you; and 1 would not be here but for him. He loved England, and he loved his fellow
Englishmen."

"My father did what he did for his own reasons; he was no fool. He was clever, an astute
organizer and pragmatist. The only time anything ever got past him was when King Edward
confronted him across the river, way back in fifty-two. Do you recall the moment?" Harold
poured two more goblets of wine, passing one to Stigand.

"1 do, indeed, Harold. Edward threw an ace that even your father couldn't counter. Mind
you, the king was raging about having your father bring the king's murdered brother,
Alfred, back to life, as 1 recall. Your father was willing to stand trial and be heard, but he
couldn't trust Edward. The king was not a man to be trusted with a promise of any kind; this
1 soon learned. Earl Godwin, on the other hand, was a man of integrity, a man of his word.
When 1 look at you, and see your ways, 1 see your father."

Harold looked almost embarrassed. He wished above all to emulate his father, whom he
looked to with pride for his distinguished career. Stigand sneezed, smiling as he wiped his
nose.

"Might our Lady Mary bless you Stigand." Harold said, grinning. "Yes, 1 was there, 1 saw
it all firsthand. You did your best, Stigand, and our family appreciated your efforts. It wasn't
a good time to be playing chess with the king. And all because my father wanted an English
church, and not a church taken over by that cunning Robert of Jumieges and his Norman
sycophants. My father was a true and honest man."

"Indeed, he was, and is so sorely missed by all those good Saxon men of England. The
likes of your father we shall never see again." Stigand said moving to sit in a rather
comfortable horsehair and wool chair; its lightweight frame made of iron with scrollwork so
intricate that the ironwork welding defied the imagination. There were three such chairs in

the room, a chest for clothes, and a rather impressive oak wardrobe that stood opposite the
large stone fireplace holding the robes the king would have worn to meet foreign dignitaries.
Stigand placed his feet on a large pouffe so that he could warm them. Harold did likewise
and turned to gaze at the Archbishop.

"Well, Stigand, what do you suggest we do?" Harold asked.

Stigand leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands pressed together as though in
prayer. His slightly bowed head rose slowly, as he began to answer Harold's question. "If we
invite any of the three main claimants to be our king, we will have war with the other two.
On the other hand, if we have you as our king, we might have war on three fronts. To have
the ^theling as king — well, we would soon have civil war and a possible invasion by all
three claimants, possibly at one and the same time. It's a double-edged sword. More than
that, I've spoken with your sister, Edith. 1 asked her view on how she would feel if she were
to be offered the crown, to become sole ruler in her own right."

"She won't hear of it. I've already sounded her out on the matter. She is adamant that she
will not participate in any way, no matter the consequences. She gives sound argument for
her reasons, and I'm in agreement with her views, and 1 respect her wishes. We're not
getting very far; are we," Harold said searching for another way of resolving the problem.

"No, we're not. If you take the crown, assuming that it was offered, of course, then you'd
have a loyal and responsive population behind you. We could easily defend ourselves
against any odds. We have over half a million adult males to fight on oirr side and repel any
invading forces."

Harold looked thoughtful. The ridge furrows on his forehead became prominent as his
fingers scratched his head. "1 see your reasoning, but half a million is far too big a number. 1
would put the figure at nearer one hundred and fifty thousand, and that would be pushing it
a little far. The reality is twenty thousand. Men have to work their land, teach their children
the art of farming and other crafts. You can't just pull these men away from their homes on
the off chance that we may be at war in the near future. They would need feeding and
housing, and the training would cost a fortune. And what of the forty-two day's service the
law requires? They could, in right of law, return to their homes and we'd have too few men
left ready to fill the ranks of the fyrd. We have to arrange something better to cover these
things. Then these men would need to be gathered in the right places, and the
communication between the three groups would be a horrendous problem, too. No, it
doesn't work that way, my old friend. A standing army of fyrds-men needs payment. They'd
soon get bored with nothing to do, and what's more, they'd be a drain on the fiscal
resources. I've a much better idea, one that will be cost-effective and soimd." Harold reached
for another goblet of wine, stirred it with his finger, and then looked slowly up from the
goblet. The wheels and cogs of Harold's brain were churning. He knew what he had to do.

"And that is?" Stigand, his thumbs holding his chin, listened intently to Harold's ideas.

"A small, but reliable force of housecarls, backed up by the select fyrd, trained and highly
mobile. We could get away with twenty-five thousand split to cover three areas. A body of
dispatch riders would be set up every five miles from a central point to communicate our
needs and reqirirements. That way, our forces would be ready to move at a moment's notice.
Given twenty-four hour's warning, this force could move anywhere in England, either by
land or sea, we might counter any invasion. 1 have feelers in all three coimtries to feel the

mood as to what is going on in each. If there is the slightest threat, we would be ready to
deal with it/' Harold replied looking confident and matter-of-fact.

"Did you think up all this just now, Harold?" Stigand asked, looking astonished.

"No, of coirrse not. Swein and Gyrth have been working closely with me on this for some
two years. Swein has created an impressive intelligence network, too. Gyrth has the
housecarls' training the select fyrd to fighting fitness and readiness, and they're fully armed
to the teeth. Brithnoth has the navy with fully equipped ships, at his own expense, too. His
commanders are fine men; 1 know; I've seen them on maneuvers. If 1 were an invader, they'd
seriously worry me."

"How are you going to pay for all this, Harold?" Stigand lifted the goblet to his lips, his
eyes meeting Harold's head on.

"I'm not; you are. The church lands can fund the fyrd. 1 will fund the rest from the
resources at my disposal, should 1 become king." Stigand almost choked on his wine,
coughing the red liquid over his feet. He wiped his mouth, as Harold looked on grinning.

"What if you don't become king; what then?"

"That's not my problem, and then it becomes the problem for whoever is the next king,
but I'll have the resources at the king's disposal, should it be needed," Harold said, smiling.

"You're a true Englishman, Harold. I'll be proud to serve as your Archbishop. Now 1
guess we ought to go to the king. It may well be the last we see of him."

Harold cautiously unbolted the door, looked along the passage then made their exit to the
corridor.

"1 saw Tostig a little while ago. 1 wonder, Harold, is he back for good or just for Edward's
last days on this earth?"

Harold gave a sigh, shaking his head slowly from side to side. "I'm sorry to have to say,
he'll be gone by the end of the week. He's not shown any contrition whatsoever for his anti-
social behavior. 1 asked him to come for the week only. He could stay longer if things change
with him, but, in any event, 1 have laid out the conditions to him that he must be gone as
soon as possible. He has to show he can control his temper." Harold scratched the back of his
head, the indication being that he'd not a clue what to do with his contumacious brother.

"You know, despite his effeminate ways and his flamboyant dress, 1 really like him. I've
always got along well with Tostig. The queen told me that she would like to see him return
to England permanently, not at court, but just retired to some small town out of the way.
Supply him with a few of his kind, and he should be no trouble."

"I'm afraid he wouldn't take kindly to being in England and to being left out of court life.
He'd become a nuisance, and his disrespect for protocol would raise some eyebrows. I'm
sorry, old chap, as much as 1 love him as a brother, he cannot be trusted to behave."

"What about yoirr other brothers? Have they expressed an opinion?"

"All have spoken their minds, except for Wulfnoth. He's never really had dealings with
Tostig. He's been schooled most of his life and has had little contact with him since he was a
child. Swein and Gyrth aren't keen to see Tostig return. Though privately, Gyrth would like
to have more contact with him. Leofwine, on the other hand, can't stand the sight of him; he
says Tostig is an embarrassment to us all. Swein is just too much for Tostig. They never could
get along together, and both have always kept their distance."

"I take your point, Harold. It's a pity, really. Tostig is quite clever in many respects, but he
wasted his talents," Stigand said with a sigh.

"Yes, 1 know. He'd be an asset, if it were not for his temperament." Harold said.

Harold words were cut short by shouting coming from the corridor that interrupted the
calm of the night.

"You bastards!" Let me in; do you hear? Let me in!" Tostig shouted hysterically.

"What the hell is going on?" Harold called from the far end of the corridor. Harold left
Stigand' s side and strode toward the disturbed Tostig who was being restrained by two
guards. Upon reaching the doorway to the king's private rooms, Harold saw that his brother
was being held forcibly to the floor. He looked down at his brother, and then nodded to the
guards that it was all right to release Tostig from their grip.

"Who was it that gave you permission to leave your quarters, Tostig?" Harold asked.

"1 don't need permission from anyone to visit my beloved Edward." He replied angrily.

"You were told that 1 would have you brought to see Edward when the time was right to
do so, and not before. 1 made that abundantly clear to you. As it happens, 1 was about to
have you brought from your quarters. What do 1 find when 1 arrive outside the king's door?
1 see my own brother ranting and screaming like a mad man." Harold said.

"You were going to let him die without my seeing him."

"Look, here is Stigand approaching. You can come inside with us, eh. Be warned, Tostig.
If you cause any sort of a scene, I'll have you arrested for disturbing the king's peace; is that
clear?" Harold said in firm tones.

Stigand reached Harold, and seeing that aU was well, tapped lightly on the door.

Garner, a trusted manservant of the king's bedchamber opened the door and ushered the
three men inside to a room in semi-darkness.

CHAPTER SIX

A DECISION TO DIE

Harold, Stigand and Tostig entered the room in a solemn mood. Monika, Queen Edith's
maid, brought a basket of herbs over to them. She gave to them a small linen cloth each, and
they all reached for a handful of the herbs then wrapped-up the herbs in the cloth.

"My God, Harold, the stench is unbearable." Stigand whispered as he gazed about the
room to see other newly arrived nobles also holding the herb-filled cloths to their faces,
who'd been summoned for one purpose; they'd gathered to hear the last words of a dying
king.

King Edward lay in a majestic oak-framed bed with beautifully turned posts at each
corner that snaked to the ceiling above. Intricately carved curls directed the eye to the
heavily woven woolen canopy, depicting angels. The room was filled with flickering light
from large candles in clusters. A roimd iron candelabra hung by chains from a massive, oak-
beamed ceiling. More light came from giant candles, which were set into niches, casting
shadows of the occupants on the walls. Iron stands holding thick tallow candles cast their
yellow light, which combined tantalizingly with the black smoke as it rose, the soot
depositing on the lime-plastered ceiling.

Harold stood passively by the king's bedside, dropped his herbs onto the bed and held
out his hands towards his sister. His eyes closely followed her movements as she
approached him.

"I'm sorry, Harold," she said as she placed her head upon his chest.
Harold looked over her shoulders, gazing down at his king as he stroked Edith's hair then
winced as Edward's breath brought forth an obnoxious odor that Harold tried his best to
avoid.

The king's living, yet decomposing body fought a desperate battle to stay alive. It was a
battle that he could never hope to win. The will within him to live had now gone. Harold
listened to the king's mumblings as the visions of his delirium took him back and forth to his
youth and to his cerebral battles with Harold's father. Earl Godwin.

Those assembled in the room looked on, remaining silent throughout, watching every
interaction of their queen with Earl Harold. Now and then someone would move over to the
open window to gain a breath of fresh air, then return to allow someone else to do the same.

"Look around you, my dear, you're loved more than you could ever imagine," Harold
whispered placing his arms around her.

The king made him feel sick, and he wanted to spit on him. Hurry up and die, you bastard,
the country is waiting for a real king. Restrain yourself, Harold. For the love of all that's right, you're
so close; don't ruin this opportunity, he thought. He let go of his sister, his arms falling to his
sides and shook his head despairingly.

Edith looked down upon her husband; her ambivalence toward him put aside.

Harold knew all too well that it was not just the man before him that was dying; the house
of Cedric was to fall and die, too. He didn't care all that much, as long as a Saxon was on the
throne. Harold approached his brother, Swein, grasping his arm, and he led him to the
window. "You know that this circumstance is so dire that the kingdom he ruled could die
with him. Well, I'm determined that's not going to happen." Harold said in a low voice.

Swein nodded. "I understand. You've made up your mind," he replied

Harold was now in a world of his own thoughts as he stared at the king's wretched body,
watching the flesh putrefying before him. Harold's heart was full of bitterness. If only the king
had been wiser in his political judgments. Our family's relationship with him would have been less
stressed had the king been kinder to his country than Edward had allowed. Bastard! My father should
have killed him. Now I shall make my move. I just hope Swein has all our plans in place, he thought.
Harold further contemplated the problems of the coming year, and the prognosis didn't look
good.

Harold then turned to whisper to his sister. He reached out, touching her hand gently,
whilst looking apologetically towards Stigand for the interruption to their discourse. He
wanted to say something positive to her, but for the moment there was nothing forthcoming.
"Edith, how long do you think it will be before the end?" Harold asked.

"He will surely expire before the morning. He's peaceful at the moment, but then he
becomes fitful and appears frightened for his mortal soul," she said. Her eyes were moist as
she looked into her beloved sibling's face. She read a mixture of emotions emanating from
Harold's eyes and ever-changing facial expressions and remembered the time when she
sought comfort in many of Harold wise phrases. We're but children in the bodies of adults, she
would often be reminded.

Edith detected that Harold had switched to another mode; she sensed in him coldness,
and ambivalence. It was something she wasn't used to from Harold; then she noticed Harold
staring dispassionately at his king.

"Many would take the view that Edward has much to answer for to our Lady Mary. By
procrastination and stealth, the king did our country much damage. Though his reign
peaceful was, on the whole, though it might have seemed different from his perspective.
What might come next only God and the angels above can see. We make our fortunes by our
own decisions. Edward held the fortimes of his people in his hands. He didn't understand
that by his actions they would be affected, too. Nor could he understand that he had a
responsibility to protect his subjects," Harold said shaking his head and groused under his
breath. "His tendency to proffer correctly from a false premise is, surely, the perfection of
sophistry, Edith. He was a fool, a bloody fool." Harold said looking about the room making
sure he wasn't overheard.

"Credo-ut-intelligam," Edith whispered. She'd never really comprehended her husband
or his often erratic and impulsive decision-making, or his sometimes, odd behavior. But now
she understood the past reasoning of her father and that of Harold, and it comforted her.

She kissed Harold gently on his cheek, then picked up some aromatic herbs from a basket,
stepped slowly towards Edward, and placed the herbs imder his pillow and aroimd the
bedside. She bent to kiss her once estranged husband and king on his forehead, and winced,
withdrawing quickly; the pungent odor of Edward's breath was too much for her
sensibilities, making her feel nauseous. Holding her rosary, she began to recite prayers then
moved aside so that Stigand could sprinkle holy water upon the dying man, mumbling a
prayer as he did so.

Harold stood against the wall next to Swein, speaking in whispered tones.

Edith knew that Harold was a man out of his time, a good man, better than most in his
position and status. At forty-two years, he looked, she mused, much younger than many

men his age. He was strong and muscular, rugged, yet handsome and stood taller than most
men, was well-proportioned, and very fit. She liked his fresh, yet ruddy colored complexion
that, she thought, had a slightly used look. He'd grown a very long ginger moustache that
flowed around almost to his cheekbones that hid a small scar, a relic he'd gained from the
wars he'd fought against the Welsh as a young man. Edith admired his balanced fierceness
that was within him, yet this was tempered with kind blue eyes. She'd often asked him to cut
his bright auburn hair that she thought was far too long. It was curled, and always looked
somewhat unkempt, giving him a too youthful flair for his age. Edith often watched as he his
deep blue eyes, warm and inviting, would make women swoon to him, and she smiled to
herself as Harold so often had to fend off their advances, sometimes to the point of rudeness.
Brithnoth had told her that Harold was fearless in the heat of battle, but not to the point of
recklessness. There were few men with minds as sharp, and with an intelligence that few
could match. He was, she mused, a general, a tactician, a politician, and diplomat beyond
reproach, born years before his time.

Harold gazed about the room, with its heavy, colorful tapestries depicted various scenes.
In particular, he admired a victorious hunting scene, with the likeness remarkably like that
of the king standing over a deer, while children frolicked in the background with mythical
beasts in dark green forests and near waterfalls.

Stirring from his fitful narcosis, Edward's cold, clammy hand slowly reached out to be
clasped in that of his wife, Edith. The maid, Monika, adjusted his head on the pillow, and
straightened his linen head-cap, then wiped the king's mouth of his saliva.

Edith reflected upon her early years with him, and she had always been aware that
Edward had despised her all their married life. She felt nothing but resentment that she'd
been forced to marry Edward by her father. Earl Godwin. The marriage had been a political
maneuver many years before, which they'd both bitterly regretted, and she'd grown
aggrieved, and hated being a political pawn in a game of court politics and intrigue.

Edith patted Edward's hand and spoke a few soothing words into his ear, then replaced
his hand across his chest, and rejoined her brother, Harold.

Harold was whispering in Latin into the ear of his brother, Swein.
She caught only the words: aut-vincrere-aut-mori, and was shocked by them. Edith fastened
her head veil as her maid, Monika, tidied her yellow silken gown; its blue diamond-edged
sleeves with gold stitches reflected the flickering light of candles. Her mood changed, from
growing grief to that of bitter regret, that intrigue once more was rearing its ugly head.

Harold took her hands in his, and gave a little squeeze.

She saw the reassurance in his eyes, and it gave her some comfort, but it wasn't enough.
There was something missing inside her, yet she cotild not quite understand what it was.
Edith stuttered out the words that were in her heart; her private thoughts, but she didn't
expect they would come to her lips.

"\ hated our father for coercing me into this marriage." As she spoke, she turned to look at
her husband. "Edward's homosexuality made me feel awful, just the thought made my skin
crawl, and it sickened me." She turned again to gaze at Harold. "1 never felt married because
he made me feel like a leper— not so openly, but enough to show his misogyny towards me.
I've no child by my husband, and now look at our predicament. It has complicated the
matter of legal succession and has brought about the crisis the kingdom now faces. What on

earth is going to happen to England, and what will become of our family? Oh, Harold. I'm so
sorry!" Her head fell onto Harold's chest; Edith felt less queenly now than she ever had.

"It's all in hand, Edith. The Witan will dedde the issue one way or another. As for the
problems facing us from other quarters, well, we'll deal with them as they arise. Plans are in
hand to keep England safe from the evil forces that Edward once courted. As for you, you'll
be looked after; I've seen to that. Fear not; there's no need for you to worry." Harold said.

"What are you to do with Tostig? Are you going to allow him to stay here with us? He has
always been close to my heart, despite his waywardness." She looked across the room at
Tostig, and saw that he was apprehensive. "You know about he and Edward; don't you? In
his mind, Tostig is still a child. Edward forced him to be this way; he is bound to be hurtful."

"The world knows about the love affair between Tostig and Edward. They didn't exactly
keep it a secret. Tostig will need to be out of the country a while longer, at least until we can
sort the problems out in the north. Then Tostig will have to show contrition towards the
people he hurt so grievously. They won't let him back into the earldom if he doesn't. Then,
and only then, will we have a chance of consolidating our position, knowing we have the
strength to resist any two-pronged diplomatic approach."

Harold was thinking. He knew that Edward had no use for any Godwinson, except
Tostig, his tall, thirty-nine-year-old brother. Harold looked across the room at his brother's
rugged complexion and staring eyes that gave one the impression he was elsewhere whilst
one was in his company. He's showing little compassion, and I wish he wasn't so open and an
overtly effeminate homosexual. He's greedy, jealous, perverted and hitter, now all hut powerless, thank
goodness, Harold thought. Harold reminisced to the days when Edward and Tostig would
often go hunting alone together, spending their time away in small lodges in the hunting
grounds of the south of England. All that was now over. Harold ushered Tostig to come and
witness his lover's last moments and to stand amid his brothers.

Tostig wept, moaned, stepped forward, then threw himself onto the king's bed in a vain
attempt to kiss Edward one last time. Tears ran down his face as he saw his lover fading
away.

"In the name of Odin, get him off the king, and get him out of here, Swein!" Harold
ordered becoming irritated with Tostig' s imdignified behavior.

Harold's brothers, Swein and Leofwine stepped forward, attempting to pull Tostig off the
bed, but it took the added intervention of Gyrth to remove their brother. At last, they were
finally successful in extricating the traumatized man from his physical expression of
emotional grief. Tostig's body was almost limp as they reached the door.

"Take him out, and get him drunk or something, anything to pacify him, but keep him
away, even if it means killing him, do you hear? You had better go with them, Wulfnoth.
Tostig may cause them some trouble." Harold whispered tersely to his brothers, in an
attempt to bring some sort of dignity to the unfolding drama before them.

"Come on, Tostig. We can't have a scene in the king's bedchamber now," Gyrth
whispered in his brother's ear. His brothers took hold of Tostig and led him away toward the
door. Harold followed them into the corridor as his bothers had to almost drag Tostig.

Swein and Gyrth half carried the weeping and distressed Tostig to a place where he could
at least be out of harm's way.

"You bastards could never leave us alone. You were always trying to keep us apart! We
could have ruled together, did you know, ruled together! Edward told me as much. You
bastards, you've only allowed me into the country to see him die, and then you'll exile me
again! You bastards! I'll show you all; just you wait and see!" Tostig bawled.

Harold knew that Tostig was in no condition to fight with his brothers; his brother's grief
was too overpowering for that. Harold looked on as Tostig' s legs, hardly able to sustain his
own weight, shuddered along, his brothers assisting his temporary exile. At last, they
arrived at a place where Harold could be sure that Tostig would do no more harm to either
the king or himself.

As they approached the secured room, Harold ushered the guards who were playing five-
stones on a bench to come forward to assist them.

"Guards, look after Earl Tostig. Make sure he doesn't leave this room; he is under arrest
until such time as 1 give orders for his release. Keep the door locked; is that clear?" Harold
ordered emphatically. The guards rose from their seats and then, taking hold of their almost
prostrate charge by his arms, led Tostig into the cell. They sat him down and left the room,
closing and locking the door behind them, leaving the weeping Tostig alone to his grief and
torment.

Tostig sat on a small bench weeping in the room that was to be his cell for the next few
hours. In his grief, he thought back on his time with Edward, his lover. He drifted off in a
vivid world of fantasy, going back to when he'd last made love with Edward. They'd had sat
under a tree in the forest, naked, as Tostig drifted off in the warmth of the sirmmer sun.

"I wanted you to rule by my side, Tostig, you know that, hut your father made me marry Edith."
Tostig opened his eyes a little, but the sim was too strong to allow him to look clearly at the
man he loved. He moved closer to be able to see Edward more visibly and to gaze into his
eyes, his deep blue pools looking at him lovingly and longingly.

"You really mean that, my precious?"

"Yes, you know I do. Tostig bit his lower lip. He could feel his loins swelling once more. He
caressed Edward's long white hair, smelling the scent of rose water on Edward's skin. He
kissed his shoulder and then his neck. Edward responded, his hands searching....

Tostig was startled by the noise of laughter emanating from people in the corridor; his
dream was over. He heard the two guards laugh at a joke one of them had told the brothers,
Wulfnoth and Leofwine. Tostig looked through the bars, and watched as his brothers stood,
fascinated, held deep in conversation with the guards who were now engrossed once more
in the game of five-stones they had resumed playing. Tostig returned to his bench to mope,
his dreams shattered.

Swein and Gyrth walked a few paces down the corridor, allowing the harassed Harold to
walk on alone. When Gyrth thought they were safe from the ears of others, he stopped to see
what the other brothers were doing. Seeing they were occupied, he took the opportunity to
have a private talk with Swein; something they'd not been able to do for a while.

"I've been thinking about you, Swein. You really don't like Tostig at all. You love him as a
brother, as I do; yet you seldom used to sit and speak with him as you do with me. We
played together as children; we confided our innermost thoughts. Yet, Tostig never grew up.
Why couldn't you ever seem to communicate with him?"

Gyrth took from his under-tunic a piece of linen cloth that he had cut from their late
father's shroud on the morning of his burial. He wrapped it around his fingers as his
thoughts went out to their father. Earl Godwin. Tears to well in his eyes and he turned away
from his brother for a moment. He dabbed the wetness and replaced the cloth within his
clothing once more. The tears were more for his brother, Tostig, but he couldn't show his
grief to Swein. He wanted so much for Tostig to return to the fold, to be a true Godwinson.

A break in the cloud brought the moon into view, illuminating both men through the
glazed window set deep into the niche. There were a few moments of silence as Swein
collected his thoughts. He'd always been impressed with Gyrth's ability to understand,
decipher and disseminate all political and military equations with ease. He placed a hand
gently upon Gyrth's shoulder. Why he did so, he was not sure. He detected sadness in his
brother's demeanor but could not comprehend why he felt this way.

"You are a man of few words, Gyrth. 1 guess it's because you're the wiser of the two of
us. You always were the tactician, working closely with Harold. 1 look up to him so much.
He's wise and brave, yet with that softness about him one doesn't often see in a warrior. He
has this honesty that 1 admire so much. You also have similar qualities."

Swein looked at his younger brothers some few paces away, still engrossed in playful
contentment with Tostig's guards.

"Could you see oirr brother, Harold as king? No, seriously, could you?" Swein asked gazing
into his brother's face, looking for some kind of empathy for the question.

"As for Harold, well, he's way ahead of both of us. He has those special qualities that are
rarely found combined in one person. I'm not sure that we should count Harold as king yet
though. I'm sure he doesn't want kingship. In any case, it'll be the Witan to decide who is to
become king. If it comes down to it, Harold will be high on the list of those in the running."

"You know I'm close to Harold, and we get on well. He knows that 1 have my cerebral
limitations, and 1 trust him. He trusts me to do what is required when needed. Though
younger than myself, Harold is the boss in this family, and we should be grateful we have
such a brother."

"Hey, don't put yourself down, Swein; you are a good man. All right, so you can't keep
from womanizing. We all have some vices, some more, some less. Just look at Tostig!
Compared to him, you're a saint! How many children from different women have you to-
date?" Gyrth smiled at him because he knew Swein was a tolerable sort of guy.

"God alone knows. 1 just wish 1 could leave women alone, 1 really do. But like water
falling from the sky, it just happens. 1 can't help falling in love with a pretty face. 1 always
seem to get into trouble for it, though. I've always looked after any offspring 1 knew of; you
know that. The king put me on trial for raping the Abbess of Leominster, and 1 felt that that
was unfair. We were deeply in love. To be accused of abducting and raping her by her family
wasn't a good thing to be dealing with at that time. I've always known that Edward felt we
are a contumacious family, and apart from Tostig, he hated all us Godwinsons. He loathed
me, especially. Then he had me outlawed, too! At least 1 don't screw boys and get involved
with animals. Mind you, I've slept with a few women who've looked like dogs in my time,"
Swein said, grinning. He was almost embarrassed at the thought.

"Me, too," Gyrth grinned, "Me, too."

"Look here. As we are alone for a few moments, I need this opportunity to speak to you
on a serious matter." Swein looked about for Wulfnoth and Leofwine, and seeing they were
still engaged in conversation with the guards, he motioned Gyrth to follow him a few paces
farther down the corridor. He led him to a niche that allowed them to see in all directions,
yet permitted some privacy. Swein spoke in a low, barely audible voice.

"We've a job to do shortly, Gyrth. Two female Norman spies have been identified. Now
we've discovered them; we need to cease their operations."

"Who are they, and how did you discover them?" Gyrth said with a look of utter surprise.

"They're Lady Ethelfrith and her cousin, the Lady Saethryd. If you recall, they came to
court as children when Edward had the Normans by his side. They stayed behind when the
Normans were expelled. No one ever thought that they would turn and become tools for the
Norman cause. We took them in, educated them, and now they have turned on us! That was
their gratitude! As for how we found them, well, we knew information was leaking from
sources dose to Harold. So, we looked for the least noise. By that, 1 mean the least likely
source. That would be where the danger lay. Follow the silence and filter out the sounds."

Swein lowered his voice and brought his mouth closer to Gyrth's ear. "I've already been
utilizing their network for our own cause. We uncovered a plot to kill Harold. It's time to
clear up the scum and look after our own fortunes. Harold knows nothing of the activities of
these two women. He likes them both, and 1 doubt he would take kindly to their deaths.
How we accomplish this task is another matter, though. We could make their demise look
like the result of a robbery, but we must do it alone and in total secrecy."

"So, we eliminate them both, then." Gyrth looked down at his feet. "I'm never keen on
killing women, and in cold blood, too. Couldn't we use them to our advantage? 1 don't like
it. It smells like we are no better than Normans." Gyrth looked up into the face of his elder
brother, frowning.

"Oh, getting a conscience, are we? What would you say, if knowing some weakness, the
Normans walked into England and were able to do so because they knew our every
movement? Come on, man; get some reality. These women have to die; we just do it quietly;
that's all. I've replaced them in their network with those loyal to us. Only information we
deliver to them gets back to both the bastard and Sigurdsson." Swein paused for a moment
and coughed. "Rumor has it that Svein Estrithson is thinking about making his presence felt,
too. It happens that Sigurdsson's old-time rival, Magnus, is in conflict with Estrithson,
chasing each other around the country, cat-and-mouse style. That, my brother, is good news
for us. We gain time to strengthen our forces, and keep their morale high. If an early invasion
comes, we will be ready for a two-pronged assault. We will have supplies in place, ready to
use in case of any eventuality. Harold and 1 have spoken at length of the possibilities, of oirr
options when the king dies. We must first deal with these two women who have sold their
souls to the devil. Are you agreed?"

"You speak with fair and strong arguments, Swein. If it needs to be done then we must act
quickly. 1 suggest we eliminate them as soon as we are clear of any curious eyes."

Swein smiled with relief, and he patted Gyrth on his shoulder.

"These women meet to have privacy in the corridor that leads to the palace bell-tower.
The court thinks they're lovers, so they feel safe in their deliberations; we will wait for them

there." Turning to see their youngest brothers approaching and too close for comfort, Swein
and Gyrth walked slowly back down the corridor.

"Ah, Wulfnoth, Leofwine, You have finished playing with the guards, then?" Swein
inquired.

Wulfnoth looked at Swein, and with an inquisitive voice asked yet another of his
annoying questions of his long-suffering brother.

"Though I've recently finished my formal education, there's still much to learn. 1 have
been distant from my family through my schooling. Now it is time my brothers enlightened
me to the world of intrigue and reality. There is a lot 1 don't understand about the king, my
brother Tostig, and our sister, Edith. Why didn't Edith bring forth issue, and why did
Edward marry Edith if he did not wish to have children by her? These things 1 must
understand." The face of the youngster looked on longingly, missing Swein' s irritation.

Swein halted. He stood still, looking pensive for a few moments, and turned to face
Wulfnoth. He really wanted to suffocate his youngest brother, or at the very least sew his
lips together. He mused. If only I could finish the boy's education in one sentence. Only then would
I gain peace from this youth's pathological need to ask questions.

"Little brother, indeed you're not yet wise in the ways of this world. You have to
understand how things happen at court. The king is a homosexual; you know this already.
He has to secure the succession, and that means he has to be legally married and have
legitimate children. Look, this is not easy for me, Wulfnoth. To be absolutely blunt, this is
what happened. What 1 am about to tell you goes no further than the end of your nose, is
that fully understood?" He saw that Wulfnoth eagerly nodded his agreement.

"Well now, the king has boys in his bedchamber. They look after his every need, and that
includes his physical needs, too. 1 don't know why I'm telling you this, but 1 guess you need
to know. Edward cannot gain an erection unless there's a male in his thoughts." Swein,
feeling decidedly uncomfortable, beckoned Wulfnoth to a small private room and gave the
young man the gory details of how the disgusting act was accomplished. He really didn't
want to, but did so to shut him up about this, once and for all.

"Well, our sister was a dutiful wife and did as she was ordered. She then left the king to
his boys, in the sure hope that she was now pregnant. This went on for some time until it
was obvious that Edward was not going to comply with the wishes of the Witan and the
clergy for an heir. Anyway, when our family fell out of favor with the king, we left the
country. So Edward seized the opportunity, and Edith was then sent away to Wherwell
Abbey, and shortly after to Wilton nunnery to await divorce. Edward was claiming that she
was barren. That, my brother, is how things are done under these circumstances. You were
just a babe-in-arms when aU this was happening." Wulfnoth looked visibly shocked and was
seething with hatred.

"The bastard! The absolute swine! My sister is treated like a cow, to be used as a meat
factory for that turd, and then she's discarded as if she was some old rag! 1 hope his end is
slow and painful, Swein, 1 surely do!" Wulfnoth grimaced as he clenched his fists in anger.
The thought of this ill treatment of his elder sister meted out by the king sneaked like a
worm into his mind. If God doesn't take him this night, I will surely help him on his journey
another day, thought Wulfnoth, as he gazed into the blackness of the night, seething.

Swein sensed the youth's aggression overwhelming his normal sensibilities, and placed a
hand upon his youngest brother's shoulder and slowly shook his head. Wulfnoth, you really
don't have a clue, he thought.

"He's the king," Swein replied. "If he orders you to shit, you shit. Got it?"

With a look of disgust written upon his face, Wulfnoth nodded. His body language was
reinforcing his obvious contempt for his king. He was trying hard to compose himself, at
least outwardly.

"And what are we to do about our brother, Tostig? Is he to stay within the family,
Swein?"

"Tostig is exiled for his cruelty and stupidity in the north, you know, excessive taxation,
the usual stuff. He and Edith were accused of the murder of Gospatric. He was a member of
one of the powerful Bambrough families from Northumbria. He was killed in an ambush
when he and Tostig were returning from a pilgrimage to Rome. It was thought that he and
our sister had something to do with his death, but it was never proven. Between you and
me— and this goes no further, mind-he and Edith were as guilty as hell. As you know, he
ended up losing the earldom, and we, your elder brothers, along with the king, decided it
was best for him to be sent away, out of the country for a while. He upset a lot of people.
Morcar was given the earldom until such time as Tostig could learn to behave himself. Not
all of his problems were his own fault, but most were."

They strolled on down the corridor, stopping now and then for Swein to gather his
thoughts. I guess I might as well fill him in with the gory details; I'll get no peace, otherwise.

"Did Tostig raise an army against Morcar, and his brother, Edwin?

"Only against Edwin, and he got his arse kicked royally for his trouble. He thought better
of it than to go against his kin. We may have made a bad decision under the circumstances,
but we now have the north under some control. Though, it might not remain that way for
long if Harold can't make some headway with Morcar and Edwin. Tostig became a laughing
stock. He could no longer hold his head up in a brothel, let alone the king's court, Wulfnoth.
You heard he raped a nun, didn't you?" Wulfnoth nodded. "He did much more besides. So
you see, he has to be out of the way, or the people will show their discontent once more, as
they did some years back. We cannot risk civil unrest now."

"There is still a lot 1 need to understand, Swein. Edith wasn't happy to see him leave; she
was very upset. She loves Tostig dearly. 1 can see they're very dose. Do you think that she
could persuade Harold to allow him to stay?"

"Perhaps, but we've all agreed this way is best, at least for a while. In any case, Edith had
her own problems with Tostig. With the threat of divorce hanging over her head some years
before, she could have done without the added problems of Tostig's contumacious behavior.
We Godwinsons were never exactly agreeable to Edward. We needed to retreat into self-
imposed exile, too, and lost everything. When we returned, our father had a head-to-head
encounter with the king. As luck would have it, the forces of the king sided with our father
and slunk away. The king was left with all too few men to make a fight of it. So it was with
strength, that we negotiated our way back once more into England. We had the Normans
banished from the court and an English archbishop again. The king had little option but to
agree to our father's terms. You were, again, but a baby, and obviously, you were never
privy to such matters until now."

"I know so little... tell me one thing. Why is William referred to as the Bastard? Didn't he
have a father? 1 thought he was Robert. This is all so confusing." Wulfnoth looked on
intently, picking a booger from his nose. His anger subsided as his education advanced to
that of intense fascination.

"Oh, 1 thought they would have taught you that in yoirr schooling. Well, now, let me see.
William's father, Robert, fell for a young girl by the name of Herleve. They say she was a
tanner's daughter, but, actually, she was from good stock. Her father controlled all tanning
for fifty miles around. Well, the girl got pregnant, and William was born. Robert, who was a
madman, poisoned his brother at his castle at Falaise, so there would be no problems to his
now becoming Duke. Robert needed an heir who would not be sought out and killed. To cut
a long story short, he wanted to make sure his son, William, was to be his heir and not his
brother's offspring. Anyway, he kept the baby, William, and got rid of Herleve, by marrying
her off to Herluin, the Vicomte-de-Conteville. She had two sons by Herluin. The first of these
was Bishop Odo, now the Bishop of Bayeux, who is Duke William's half-brother. The other
half-brother became the Count of Mortain. Their mother, Herleve, died about sixteen years
ago; if my memory serves me well."

"Robert was a cunning bastard, too. He cleared off to fight in the crusades and never came
back. It left the young William fatherless, and he became the new Duke of Normandy at
about the age of six. He had a rough time in his youth, surviving assassination attempts
along the way. He became hardened by his experiences, cruel and vicious. He rules his
duchy with fear. So, now you know, little brother, why he is known as William the Bastard.
He's bastard by birth and by nature." Swein appeared relieved that he had got it off his
chest, that his brother now understood a little of the history. With a little luck, he may now just
leave him alone, he thought.

"And the Abbess of Leominster, what became of her?"

"Wulfnoth! Shut your mouth, do you hear?" Swein's tone and demeanor turned vicious.

"If you ask me one more bloody question, 1 will twist your head around so that when
you're walking north, you wiU be looking south! Is that fully understood?"

Wulfnoth nodded sheepishly, his education gaining ground on his innocence.

Swein motioned that the group should now follow him down the corridor.

"Come along; we had better get back to witness the king's final moments." Swein said
feeling hard to contain his annoyance, and indicated as much to Gyrth with a look.

Leofwine walked beside Wulfnoth along the corridor that was just wide enough for two
to walk comfortably, side by side.

"Oh, you touched a nerve, Wulfnoth. You'd better not mention that in future. Swein gets
very touchy when the subject of the abbess is brought up. You may have an education, my
brother, but you need an education in brotherly diplomacy, too. I'll fill you in on the finer
details one of these days."

"Thank you, Leofwine. 1 will remember that."

"For the sake of Job, stop saying 'thank you,' it gets on my nerves, too!" Leofwine growled
as the brothers re-entered the king's bedchamber.

On seeing his brothers enter the room, Harold motioned towards Wulfnoth for him to
come and stand beside him.

87

"I want you to stay with me, Wulfnoth; you must witness the events as they unfold."
Harold's soft, almost fatherly tones were mellow and controlled.

The king stirred for a moment, the flickering yellow light catching the pallor of his
complexion. His breath smelled of the sweet odor of internal decomposition. His skin was
now a pale yellow, almost jaundiced, and his long white beard was drenched from the water
he perpetually demanded to quench his thirst.

Stigand approached the physician and asked for an opinion on the king's condition.
Edward's doctor tasted the king's urine for the last time and returned with the diagnosis that
the king's mellitus was an untreatable disease, and physicians could do nothing. Edward's
diabetes made his judgment cloudy and his temper short.

There was little noise in the bedchamber, other than the low weeping of the ladies, who
saw to the king's needs, and the low, barely audible mumble and whisper from one or two of
the assembled members of the Witan.

In a little niche in the private chapel next to the bedchamber, five monks sang their chants
softly in Latin for the safekeeping of the king's soul. Their lilting harmony provided a
comfort to all that were able to attend Edward's final hours on this mortal earth. The room
was now filled with those summoned to witness the king's last will and testament. Edward's
dying words to them were wishes to be recorded and attested by all those assembled.
Archbishop Stigand stood nearby and was ready to hear the king's last confession. Edward
clumsily lifted his hand, feeling around blindly, and asked for the Earl of Wessex.
"Harold, are you here?" Edward asked searching the room with eyes that were useless.

Harold spoke softly to his king. "My Lord, 1 am here," replied Harold, glancing about the
room, beckoning those present to stand around the bedside. "It is 1, Harold, My Lord. What
is it you wish of me?" Edward stuttered for a few moments, his mouth dry and in need of
more water. Edith wet his lips, while the maid, Ebba, the wife of the thegn Regnhere of
Coventry, fluffed his pillow, so that he felt a little more comfortable. Harold looked around
to all those present, then ushered them closer with a wave of his hand, making sure they
heard all that was to be said and would be witness to the king's words.

In a soft but well audible voice, Edward spoke once more to Harold. "Harold, come
closer; 1 have something to say," Edward whispered, his right hand reaching out towards
Harold's voice, beckoning to draw him nearer. His eyes were now blind from the last stages
of the disease that had brought him to the edge of death. Harold took the king's hand in his,
and leaned forward to Edward's ear. He held his breath, as the smell emanating from the
king was nauseating. Harold winced and turned his head so as not to breathe in the
sickening fumes his king was exhaling.

"Harold, you must take care of my people. 1 leave and entrust the safety of the kingdom
in your hands. Do you understand?" Edward coughed, almost choked, but regained his
composure. Edward was failing fast and all about him could see he was not in any comfort,
no matter what was done to ease his pain.

"1 comprehend your wishes, and 1 will do your bidding. Sire. You may rest in the
knowledge that England will be well and fairly governed by my hand." Harold replied as he
felt Edward clasp his hand more firmly and nodded his agreement to Harold's reply.

Edward turned his head towards the sound of the now weeping Queen Edith, and lifted
his hand once more. As Edith took Edward's hand in hers, he felt a teardrop from his queen

fall onto his wrist. His head turning towards her voice, his unseeing eyes opened to the
blackness of his world, grasping in frustrated yearning for one last glimpse of his queen.

"Take this woman, Harold, and keep her safe from harm; she is a goodly woman. 1 have,
in past years, treated her unkindly. Might the Lord forgive me my ill-treatment of her?"

Edward's eyes closed, falling into a dream world of assorted images and memories until
his sleep became deeper that was soon to be a deep coma.

Harold moved back to stand beside Wulfnoth, leaving their sister beside her husband.

"The king is very still, Harold; is he now dead?" Wulfnoth whispered, and glancing at
Harold, his youthful innocence and naivety dearly obvious to all in the room.

"No, but it won't be too long, little brother. Be patient, our Lord God will call him when
he is ready to take him into paradise. That is when our troubles will begin. He will test our
resolve to govern this land as his vicar here on earth. Only Edward can answer to God for his
life's deeds. I'm sure we could do no worse in his stead." Harold placed his arm reassuringly
around Wulfnoth's shoulder and noticed Brithnoth enter the room with Tostig.

"Will Tostig behave, Brithnoth?" Harold asked looking for reassurance from the old man.

"He promises nothing, Harold." Brithnoth replied.

Edith turned to speak to the assembled magnates who were now kneeling around the
bedside before their king. "Gentlemen, 1 would ask you all now to leave the king's
bedchamber while we prepare oirr king for death. As the moment approaches, 1 will
summon you all to witness the moment of the king's journey into paradise."

The Queen and the Ladies of the king's bedchamber solemnly prepared the comatose
Edward for his last journey. They washed his person, brushed his long white hair, and tidied
his bedclothes. The ladies then sat in prayer for a short while. Then, seeing that the time had
come, ushered the Witan and Harold back into the bedchamber. Archbishop Stigand and
Bishop Wulfstan, both tall, well-fed men, came forward.

Stigand, his face scarred and pockmarked, which was a remnant of smallpox from his youth,
commanded the assembled to kneel. He gave a long oration about the king's life and led a
prayer for Edward's soul.

Edward's breathing became shallower and then altogether ceased. They all fell silent.
Edward's dying body convulsed momentarily, then again, so that the ladies held him down
until the convulsions ceased. King Edward's twenty-three years reign was over. The king
was dead - the House of Cedric was no more.

"Bastards! You're all bastards," Tostig shouted. "You let him die; you killed him.
Bastards!" Tostig said as he felt a hand grip his jugular, and he fell to the floor unconscious.

CHAPTER SEVEN

BRITHNOTH THE KINGMAKER

Brithnoth gazed toward his queen. The flickering candlelight upon her face reflected her
tears like stars on a frosty night. He'd been a warrior all his life, and there was nothing he
hadn't seen. Yet this situation was different. He felt lost, but he understood that only Harold
held the key to what may happen in the forthcoming months. He raised his hand to gain
Edith's attention. Earl Godwin had given Brithnoth charge to protect his daughter, and he'd
known her throughout her childhood, and he knew that Edith trusted him completely. He
became her surrogate father, and he was much more than a friend; he was her confessor and
confidant.

Edith never felt close enough to Stigand to confide in him her innermost thoughts, as she
could with Brithnoth. Together, she and Brithnoth would often walk in the garden. She
continually felt his strength of character, and he was always truthful to her. He was like a
protective wall around her. Nothing could harm her when he or Harold was in her presence.
My condition and situation have changed. Even Harold and my beloved Brithnoth might not he able
sort out the entangled web that my late husband has left behind, she thought. She noticed the aged
warrior vying for her attention and smiled tearfully at him.

At last Brithnoth caught Edith's attention and returned her smile. She will never be alone.
This dear, sweet child; the mother of our country has put up with so much. Harold and I will be strong
for you, Edith, Brithnoth thought as he reached out his hand to her.

"Edith, might 1 come closer? We need to talk." Brithnoth asked as he watched Gyrth and
Swein escort the distressed Tostig from the bedchamber.

Edith took Brithnoth's outstretched hand in hers. Her sobbing became obvious to everyone
about her. It was so hard; her emotions were barely under control, for she knew that her life
was about to change dramatically. All her fears were now turning to grim reality as her head
fell onto his chest.

"Brithnoth, my dear friend," she said as she gripped him tightly.

"Be calm, my dear. Harold has told you — look whom you have around you. The
kingdom will be safe in Harold's hands. Your brother will see to your needs and those of the
people; rest assured," Brithnoth said, as he reached out with his free hand to clasp Harold's
hand in his.

Edith felt Brithnoth's warmth, even through his mail armor, and didn't notice the odor of
his unwashed jerkin as she turned her head to gaze into the eyes of her beloved brother,
Harold. Her heart was thumping, her mind radng; the palms of her hands were moist.

"All will be well; won't it, Harold?"

Harold nodded, smiling reassuringly. "Of course I'll see that you're safe. Edith, my dear, 1
want you to go to Winchester. 1 will arrange for the journey after we have buried Edward's
body," he said, in an attempt to keep Edith busy with thoughts of an impending journey.

Edith, wiping the tears from her eyes with a linen cloth, spoke softly to her brother.

"1 understand, Harold, but 1 fear war will come to England now that my husband is gone.
You're not safe, nor are your youngest children, Gunnhild and Gytha, or your sweet love,
Edith Swanneck. The boy, Cedric, he's special to you, too; he's an innocent, Harold. Your
elder children must be given safe haven, too. The five boys must go to Ireland; they will be

safe there. I have to tell you now, that if all goes to the wolves, I will use my wealth and
power to rid this country of any foreigners. Edward told me of a dream he'd had. It foretold
of a great calamity, of death and sorrow. He knew what was to come. I fear it is all in
revenge towards our father and our family. Harold, what is to be done; will we survive this
impending nightmare?"

Harold bent low to meet his sister's eyes. "Of course we will. We're strong-just as strong
as any family can be. All will be well. Will you put your faith and trust in me, Edith, hm?"

Edith was not so sure. She felt that even Harold couldn't work a miracle.

Harold took Edith from Brithnoth's grip and held his sister closely in his arms, kissed her
brow, and ushered her to the door. He opened the door, but as she turned to speak, he put
his fingers to his lips, indicating there was nothing she could say that he'd not thought of
previously.

Reassured, England, Edith knew, was in good hands.

"We will talk in the morning, Edith. Go, and get some rest; you look so tired." Harold said
as he led her through the door, and watched as she walked with the arm of Monika around
her, who had been waiting dutifully for her outside the door.

Monika turned to gaze back over her shoulder at Harold.
Harold smiled back and nodded. He knew Monika well and understood that her look was
one of reassurance; that she would see to Edith's needs, both physical and mental. He dosed
the door and turned to face Brithnoth.

Brithnoth placed his hand upon Harold's shoulder and whispered, his tone thoughtful,
and above all, careful. "I'm genuinely worried for Edith's capacity to handle the coming
days. I sincerely hope that Edith will be able to cope with her distress. I'm not sure she's
really capable of being on her own at this time, Harold."

Harold nodded, his face wearing a look of resignation. He stared blankly back at the door.

Brithnoth tugged at his arm, bringing Harold back from wherever his thoughts had taken
him, to the present.

"Harold, we've witnessed, and understood what the king said. The Witan have gathered
to form the Gemot. I have them waiting in the Great Hall for us, and lateness of the hour is
going to be in our favor. We must acknowledge and confirm Edward's inviolable bequest of
the kingdom before his death. Can we rely on you, Harold?"

Harold felt stunned as he gazed down at the late king's body. He had the world upon his
shoulders; he needed to compose himself, to summon up superhuman strength. His
determination was going to get England through this annus horribilis. He returned to look at
Brithnoth with a reassuring expression now upon his face.

"Yes, you know you can, but some of them might feel that I'm not fit for the office,
Brithnoth. As for the rest of the Witan; well, we'll just have to wait and see." Harold went
towards the door, when once more Brithnoth held his arm, and gripping it firmly, he
murmured close to his ear.

"Good. I will go to the Great Hall and brief them now. Not all are with us, Harold. Edwin
and Morcar will put up some resistance, for all the good it will do them. I'm sure the others
will make good any shortfall in the voting, but with a twist of an arm here and a severe look
there, we'U gain a unanimous vote. Be of stout heart, for you are respected, with many

friends who love you," Brithnoth said looking a little apprehensive at the thought of his first
major role in the making of a king; he left, leaving Harold alone to his thoughts.

Harold thought back on how stupid Edward had been to court such troubles from rulers
who were but distant claimants. They will surely come forward to press their claims to England's
throne. That stupid bastard, Edward, promised the crown of England to foreign magnates upon his
death in return for peace. I told him it was unwise. The Witan has to decide what is to be done about
it, or accept me as their king. Time is short, and a decision has to be made this very morning, and it's
already past the hour of one. Their decision is final and shall determine whether the peace of the
kingdom lies with me, or abroad.

Harold felt ready to face the Witan. He took one last look at Edward's lifeless corpse. He
prepared to leave the room with the dead king's body lying foul smelling, and ready to be
wrapped and prepared for burial. As he opened the door, he saw the king's chambermaids
waiting outside, sobbing, and he motioned toward the Lady Marion, the eldest of the
chambermaids. As she stepped forward, Harold placed a hand on her shoulder and
whispered to her.

"You may now see to the late king's body. 1 take it you have been briefed as to your duties
this morning?" he asked. He didn't envy them their task. He knew they would have a
dreadful hour of preparation under the most arduous conditions.

"Yes, My Lord. His Grace, Archbishop Stigand has spoken with me on the matter. I'm
cognizant of what must be done this hour. Rest assured. Sire. My ladies will see to it that
everything will be ready for the interment in the abbey when the time comes. The chamber
maids will see that the bedchamber will be made dean and fresh for the new king, sire."

"Good. Go about your duties, and then see that your ladies are rested."

He turned to walk toward the Great Hall, when he noticed Wulfnoth standing by the
large oaken door, waiting for him. Harold smiled confidently, for he knew the youngest of
his brothers would, this night, complete his education. Harold knew the real test of his
statesmanship was just beginning. Leadership, he thought, was one thing; kingship is quite
another.

Wulfnoth moved closer to him, keeping in mind his earlier order, so that he might learn
what the process would involve when the Witan met in a full Gemot.

"What will happen now, Harold? Isn't it so" Wulfnoth asked cheerfully.

"This is not a game, Wulfnoth! What we have before us is a serious situation." Harold
tempered his tone. "Just listen closely to the deliberation, and you will learn how the Witan
works. Your adult education starts here, my boy. Whilst inside, you say not one word, is that
abundantly clear? If you interrupt, you wiU feel my wrath; is that understood?"

For a moment, Harold's sharpness unnerved him. "Yes, of course, Harold. Before we
enter, 1 have to ask you something. 1 don't understand why these claims to the throne came
about. Would you explain to me why foreigners want to be king, and not a Saxon?"
Wulfnoth looked eager for an answer to his ill-timed questions.

Harold's eyes narrowed and took in a deep breath; he wasn't amused. There're times when I
could gladly strangle you, he thought. "This is not the time, Wulfnoth!" Harold snapped, but
then reconsidered, and decided to put the boy out of his misery.

They stood behind the large oaken door that led to the Great Hall. Harold was a patient man
and thoughtful of the story he was about to tell. He took in another a deep breath, and tried
to explain the situation as best he could, leaving out much, as time was short.

"You have the time it takes to walk once around the yard, so 1 will try to be brief, for
there's not much time to tell the full story." The two men walked out to the courtyard and
Harold began Wulfnoth's swift education.

"Well, Edward had been brought from Normandy on the death of King Harthacnut, who,
it was suspected, was poisoned. Harthacnut had already made Edward joint ruler for
reasons 1 will explain another time. Suffice to say, that he needed Edward by his side, as he
was so hated. He had no option if he was to keep the throne unless Edward, who was
English by birth, could pacify the clergy. Harthacnut didn't last long. Even at his coronation,
he'd had to leave to have a couple of whores in his bed, and had to be brought forcibly back
to the coronation banquet. Right from the start, his attitude was not exactly seemly. Our
father was suspected of having had a hand in the king's death, and 1 guess, that if he did, he
had good cause; the king was a young upstart.

Harthacnut had a brother, Magnus, who was king in Norway. He was to take the throne,
but never came to claim it due to wars in his own country. So, it was offered fully to the next
in line, Edward. He was the son of King ^thelred-11 and Queen Emma; she became King
Cnut's second wife. Emma took the baby Edward to Normandy in northern France to be
brought up at the Norman court, fearing if they had stayed in England, she and Edward
would be slain in some political English plot. Edmund Ironside's children were Alfred and
Edward. Alfred was sent to Hungary to be brought up in the court of King Yaroslav for
safety when he was still young." Harold ceased; he was becoming irritated.

"Look, Wulfnoth, because his account really is a bit involved, I'll need some time with you
alone. There's far too much going on here this morning to think clearly at the moment. Do
you mind if 1 finish the chronicle at some other, more appropriate time? As an aside, didn't
your tutors teach you anything of our past?"

"Of course they did, Harold. 1 didn't expect a full account and history, just the bare bones.
That way 1 can see what is going on in court and understand the decisions being made."

They made their way back to the Great Hall, and Harold motioned Wulfnoth to open the
door. They both entered the Great Hall to a multitude of the Witan and their attendants
awaited them. The noise of voices was deafening, causing Harold to raise his voice to be
heard by the young man.

"If you promise not to make a nuisance of yourself with your questions, I'll find the time
for you, but now 1 need to see just what is being prepared." Harold's eyes caught sight of the
one person he did not need to see just then. "Oh dear, here comes Edith Swanneck. 1 could
have done without her presence right now. I'd better hide away somewhere before she gives
me hell . . . too late, she's spotted me, shit!"

Edith Swanneck moved slowly through the crowd of people and sought out her man,
Harold.

Harold gazed at her from behind a pillar and saw her approach, her tall body moving
through the crowd. She was approaching forty years, and he loved her long and slender
neck, hence being given the name Swanneck by her peers as a child and had never shaken off
the nickname, even as a woman, nor had she felt the need. She sported a fine figure that he

thought was good for a woman who'd born him seven children, and was still well
proportioned. He loved the way her light brown hair fell when not tied, with a little gray at
the temples. Part of her hair was arranged into a bun at the back, and the rest descended
again into two long plaits that fell to her waist. It was a style she pioneered that had been
copied by many at court. Her eyes resembled deep brown pools that made Harold melt
whenever he gazed into them. Her complexion was that of a young girl, for Edith looked
after her skin; and Harold feeling that after her breasts, it was her most attractive physical
feature.

Harold looked about, searching for a place for them to talk in private.

"Come with me. There is little time to talk," Harold said, as he led her away down a short
corridor to a room where they could be alone.

"Edith, my love, what are you doing here? We have serious business to attend to, so this
visit had better be important," Harold said impatiently.

"Oh, Harold, 1 have heard from Oswald what has happened. The king is dead, and it was
heard from his lips, that you are to be the next king. There's also talk of the Witan ratifying
Edward's words. Is this true? Please, Harold, teU me it's not," Edith begged with an almost
resigned look and pleading eyes. She wanted desperately to hear him say he was not to
become king.

He took her face with one hand and gently felt her smooth cheek with the back of his
fingers, tracing the contours of the face of the woman he loved.

"Edith, my love. This is no place for you. You should be with our children. This is men's
work. Affairs of state come first. 1 order you to leave at once or be confined. Is that clear?"

The starkness of his words shook her. She frowned and pulled herself away.

"If you think the man 1 love, and the father of our children, the next king of England, is
going to deny me my right to see him crowned, then you'd better think again, Harold
Godwinson!" She stammered for a moment. "1 knew this would happen, 1 just knew it. Why
us? Now our children will be in mortal danger. You bastard!"

"You're being irrational, Edith. You and the children will have safe passage to Ireland.
You will stay with my good friend and ally, Diarmait Mac Mael-na-Mbo, the king of
Leinster; he'll look after you. Gimnhild and Gytha will be safe until we have secured stability
here in England. He's a good man, and he'll see they are safe, no matter the consequences
here; it's already been arranged. The older boys will go to Wales, where they will be out of
harm's way," he said reassuringly, as he saw her tears swell once more and began to weep.

Harold placed his arms gently around her, wiping her tears with a linen doth. He'd
always had a hard time coping with her emotional swings.

"Here, don't get upset, Edith. In any case, it has not yet been decided who is to become
king. There are other claimants to the throne, not least Harald Hardrada and Svein
Estrithson. More than that, that greedy, baby-eating bastard, Duke William of Normandy,
has seen fit to poke his nose into our affairs these last few months, too!" He spat on the floor
in utter disgust at the mere thought of William, the cruelest person after the devil, himself."

"Yes, 1 know, and this frightens me so much. If it weren't for you, Harold ..."

"Edith, go to my bedchamber and make yourself comfortable. My servants will see to
your needs, but please keep your head down. 1 don't need complications just now, my
darling."

"I'm always pushed to the back, Harold. I'm second bloody best to this God-forsaken
country, second bloody best!" She pushed him away, sat on a chair, her hands and fingers
wringing as if they were an imaginary piece of wet clothing.

"Don't be so bloody melodramatic; it's my job. I'm a politician, a statesman. The people
look to me to lead, to be pragmatic about dealing with our country's affairs. God alone knew
Edward never made any sensible decision without me. All you can think about is a warm
fire and bedroom play. 1 will try to explain the situation later, but for now 1 need to see how
the wind blows with the Witan."

"What's wrong with a quiet life? You're forty-two, not twenty-two, and you're getting
slow. One of these days, you're going to get hurt, and when that happens, who will look
after our children? Ulf, Godwin, and Edmund are almost men. Magnus and Harold are so
young, and in need of your company more than ever. They need a father! Gytha and
Gunnhild will be in need of good husbands in the next few years, too. Who is to negotiate
dowries and provide for them if you're killed in a war? You know it must come to us, surely.
For God's sake, Harold, retire gracefully. Let other, younger men do the fighting." She
bowed her head.

"I'm sorry, but 1 only want us to be happy and have a contented life together, a qiriet old
age in retirement from the hassle of all the troubles at court." Edith burst once more into
almost uncontrollable tears.

Harold held her close to him. He could feel her heart pounding and the trepidation in her
voice. There wasn't much in his armory with which to console her, and he chose the only
course of action he knew, firmness.

"What is, must be— and that's that! Do you want this country to be ruled once more by
foreigners— is that what you want, hm? If William gets the crown, you and 1 and the whole
country had better look out!"

"But what of Edgar, the ^theling? He should be king, surely.
Harold saw the earnest look in her eyes, and saw her lips tremble; he was used to her
sheepish look and wet, pleading eyes. He could see that she was desperate to hear the words
that would most comfort her, anything to relieve her disillusionment.

"The ^theling, well, he's too young, and you know it. Do 1 have to spell it out to you?
We're in crisis. What chance would a boy have of commanding an army, if and when the rats
come gnawing at the barn door? A king has to command, and if he can't do that, he'll be
despised. Commanders will do what they will, and the kingdom will fall to tyranny from
within, as well as from without. Do you now understand? Oh, Edith, please go to my
chambers, and 1 will see you later." Harold's voice had a hint of exasperation. This wasn't
the time for argument; he tried his best to keep his composure with her.

She nodded, kissed him gently on the lips, and with her head bowed, used her sleeve to
wipe her wet, reddened eyes. She turned to and walked slowly through the doorway and
out of sight.

Harold felt sorry for her. He sorely put upon her feelings, neglecting her often for affairs
of state. The bloody lame excuses the king put forward to stop us marrying, but now I can, I can't.

Bah! She would never be accepted in Rome. In any event, we were never ojficially wed. She's my
common law wife of relative low birth. Like me, others, too, have unofficial wives. If I'd married her
when I was young, then, perhaps, there wouldn't have been a problem, he thought.
He recalled his own education. More often than not, their official wives were just that,
nothing more: tools when alliances were to be made, and for future use when expediency
called for it. Edith and I had been lovers from our youth. That lover's heart she tattooed on my
buttocks, the only tattoo I ever had. I allowed her to do it because I love her, he mused, as he strolled
back to the Great Hall.

"It's the custom to do such things." His father had told him. Many men carried on the
practice throughout their lives, often covering large parts of their bodies as a sign of their
warrior lifestyle. Men do the oddest things to each other, he mused.

The palace was now full of thegns and earls. They were all trying to make sense of what
the king's death would do to the political structure of England now that there was no adult
heir to take the throne. Only they, the members of the Witan in a full Gemot, could decide
England's fate now.

Guthfrid-the-Monk, the official court officer and scribe, approached Harold.

"The Witan awaits. My Lord." Guthfrid said sliding his arms under his habit, and moved
away to wait further orders.

"Thank you, Guthfrid, 1 will be along presently," Harold continued down the corridor
that led to the Great Hall. Turning to the left, he entered the hall to be greeted by tumultuous
cheering and thumping of tables, with whistling and whoops from the assembled Witan.
Harold raised his hands and the Witan slowly quietened to a deep hush.

Harold felt for and twisted his long moustache, trying to hide his embarrassment at such
a rapturous welcome. Composing himself for a few moments, he began to speak to the
magnates that were amassed below him.

"Gentlemen, we are in mourning, for our king is dead, and no matter how you felt about
Edward, we must respect his office. As many of you know, my family has been through
some hard times in personal confiict with the king, not least the conflict the king had with
my father. Earl Godwin. Nonetheless, we have a crisis on our hands. We have to decide who
is to be our next king. Will it be Harald Sigurdsson, known to some of you as Hardrada?
Sven Estrithson has a claim, too. Both have distant but fair claims. Some of you have heard a
rumor that the bastard, Duke William— well, 1 think we all know how we feel about him and
his claim. 1 leave the discussion open to you all."

Many of the assembly spoke all at once, and not a coherent message could be understood
from all the chatter and clatter.

The revered warrior and sage, Brithnoth, took the floor. With a mighty roar of "Enough!"
the hall fell silent.

"Harold, what you say is fair. We have the authority to choose our king from whom we
wish. Claims to the crown have to pass through and be ratified by us, the Witan. We must
agree unanimously to whom the crown will pass. We reject any claims, for we are all agreed
as to the new king; are we not?" Brithnoth said looking at all assembled for approval.

"AYE! HAROLD!" came the cry, to a man. Brithnoth stood firm and gave Harold the vote.

"All votes favor you, Harold, and none against. Do you, Harold, accept the crown, and
agree to be our king? Do you promise to rule with righteousness, to uphold the ancient laws
with goodly might, and above all, fairness in the sight of our Lady Mary and our Lord
Jesus, to lead us through the hard times we know are ahead?" Brithnoth asked looking to
Harold for a sign of acceptance, before once more taking his place at the table.

Harold stood up, studying all those present. He was mindful of the occasion, being
careful of his forthcoming words. His eyes met those of Morcar. He nodded his thanks
towards the young man and his brother, Edwin.

"Gentlemen, 1 thank you, but why me?" Harold asked uncharacteristically.

Brithnoth arose once more, and looking Harold full in the eyes, replied passionately,

"You, Harold, were appointed by Edward, next to rule as our rightful king, who, on his
deathbed, bequeathed his crown to you. The will of a king is inviolable and was witnessed
by the clergy and others of the Witan, including myself. Harold, you're the only man able to
lead and rule, as we, the Witan, would expect a good king to do. 1 ask you once more— do
you accept?"

Harold gazed about the hall, a barely imperceptible anxiousness about him.

Brithnoth seated himself one, more at the great table.

Harold rose to his full height and walked slowly around the great table shaking the arm
of each member of the Witan; collecting his thoughts, he made his way back to the head of
the table. There was a charged, electrified silence.

"1 feel humbled that you wish me to be your king, for it was never my intention that it
should be. There is one other who has the right, Edgar, the ^theling. 1 understand fully that
Edgar could not, at this stage in his short life, take on the responsibility of the office. 1,
therefore, accept— under the condition that it will be only until Edgar comes into full
manhood."

Harold looked on as the Witan erupted into a tumultuous roar of approval with fists
banging upon the table for a full three minutes of merriment and cheering, before finally
Harold could calm them down.

"We will now say a prayer for our late King Edward. Good Bishop, Wulfstan, youll lead
the prayer?"

Once more, Wulfstan stood and led the assembly in prayer for dead King Edward's soul.
In the silence of the prayer, the monks in the chantry could just be heard, singing softly their
incantations.

Harold broke the silence. "Amen. Now, Gentlemen, we have to be about our business. We
have to bury Edward in the new Abbey, as 1 have promised. 1 feel it expedient to have the
coronation later in the day." Upon hearing Harold's last words, there was much muttering
amongst the multitude.

Wulfstan rose to his feet, and with his arms in the air called for silence.

"My brothers, we have to bury Edward and see to the business of crowning our new king.
Some of you may feel that such haste is indecent. There is no precedent saying we must wait
to crown our king. Indeed, as Harold stated, it would be expedient to do so. Let us rejoice for
the soul of Edward and that of Harold, in one voice. We also have to consider those outside
influences that may befall our kingdom if we should procrastinate on the matter."

Harold nodded toward Brithnoth.

Brithnoth once more stood and spoke to the assembly. "Would you all, after what Bishop
Wulfstan has just told you, agree in one voice? Consider the argument: we might well have
to fight for our country on three fronts. What if the two main claimants to the throne decide
to make an early move? The country needs our king installed immediately. It is imperative
for the safety of this realm. The old king nominated 'Harold' his heir. We have agreed on
electing Harold, and he has accepted our decision. You all know Harold. He is a good man,
so there's no trickery. After his crowning, we can then return to our families to wait what
may come. You all understand the situation we face. Gentlemen, are we agreed?" Brithnoth
implored those present.

The men around the table looked at each other, and there was nodding consent. Brithnoth
rose again to his feet, asking for an answer, and spoke once more.

"Are we all in one voice?" he asked. Then, at last came the answer. One by one, each
member of the Witan called out aloud his reply, "Aye!"

With great relief upon his face, Brithnoth shook Harold's hands and smiled broadly at his
new king. For him, a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. England was now safe
in the hands of a mighty general with whom the Lord had chosen to lead them.

"You should all assemble at the new abbey by cockcrow in the morning. Go now... and
rejoice. Let God take care of the soul of Edward. Business is now therefore concluded.
So gentlemen, this Gemot is terminated," Brithnoth said, and one-by-one the attendants
arose, and each departed to their lodgings.

"We must inform Eumer and the monk, Charles, at once," Ethelfrith said who stood
watching the proceedings from a niche above the great hall with her companion, Saethryd.

"Duke William must be told what has happened this night. Quickly Saethryd, we must
away to tell Charles. He must send a message to Mary at once, and thus, she will send a
courier across the sea to Normandy.

"Does it make any difference? Eumer is to make another attempt to kill Harold tonight.
We should wait until he has accomplished his assassination. Then we can inform Mary to
send her message to the duke that Harold is dead.

"No, we must send oirr message right away. If Eumer fails to kill Harold as he did on his
first attempt, what then? Either way we must inform Charles of the situation. He will decide
what message will be sent to Mary. We must hurry to the bell tower where Eirmer is hiding
and inform him of where Harold will be in the morning." Ethelfrith said.

"There's no need," Charles said as he moved from the shadows. "I've been close by. It
would seem that England has a new king."

"Charles! You gave us a fright. Don't you ever do that again," Ethelfrith said with a gasp.

"The message has already been sent, my dears. We can't rely on Eumer. He might make
yet another mess of the mission he's been given. 1 doubt that the duke will pay him his due,
even if he does accomplish his night's task. By his bungled attempt and foolhardiness, he's
made himself known, and likely to be caught, too. The Saxons would soon tear out from him
the information as to who is Eumer's paymaster. 1 think that you ought to know that Swein
Godwinson has men posted everywhere, and Eumer would never be allowed to get a shot in
Harold's direction. Go and see Eumer, if you like. Personally, 1 don't like him; he makes my
skin crawl. You must remember one thing. If it's found out that Duke William is involved.

then he will never be able to become king in England. The pope and other magnates would
never allow him the privilege to reign here," Charles said emphatically.

"We understand, Charles. Now, if you will excuse us, we will be on our way," Saethryd
replied. The women made their way out of the great hall's landing and headed for the bell
tower, to meet with Eumer.

Swein sat with Gyrth, eating a boiled fish with peas that they'd had the maids in the
kitchen cook for them. Swein pulled at the bread and placed the fish between the two crusts.

'T'm nervous, Swein, very nervous. I've made it known to you that 1 don't like killing
women. Though 1 see no other alternative; nonetheless, it still turns my stomach to think
about what we're about to do.

"Think of it as a service to your country, like gutting fish so that the people might be fed,
that sort of thing. We've been through all this. In any event, we will have rid the kingdom of
two dangerous spies. Swein replied with half a mouth full of food.

Gyrth took out his scramseax and began to sharpen it with a hand stone he kept in his
utility bag on his belt. "Tell me something-how does the chain of command come from
William to us?"

"There are runners that sail back and forth to Normandy. They're easily picked up, and
replaced alternately by my own men, so that the line is never broken, and we always know
what information is being passed along. The chain starts with a monk known laughingly to
you as Charles-the-hairy."

"What! You mean the bald-headed fellow that used to take confession from the king?"

"Yup, the very same. As 1 was saying— he passes on the information to a woman called
Mary, who runs an inn near the coast, and she has men who run her little errands for her.
This is where I've slotted in my men. We discovered the link quite by accident, when a
drunken messenger tried his luck with one of the maids here. It was she who told us about
the man, and we showed him how to tell us what was going on. All good stuff, eh?"

"How long ago was it that all this came about?"

"It must be five or six years ago," Swein replied rubbing his hands. He rose to his feet and
brush off the crumbs. "Well, are you ready for some country saving exercise, Gyrth?"

In the shadows of the bell tower corridor stood two women and a man. The Ladies Ethelfrith
and Saethryd were talking in whispers with the assassin, Eumer, when the sound of
footsteps was heard

"There's someone approaching, Eumer. Hide yourself, quickly. Saethryd, kiss me full on
the mouth, and make it a very passionate kiss." Ethelfrith said as she clasped Saethryd.

Two men approached, and the taller of them, Swein, spoke first, his voice soft and gentle.
He motioned to Gyrth to move to position himself behind Ethelfrith while he looked into the
face of Saethryd.

"1 see you are sharing intimacy once more, ladies," Swein said sarcastically, noticing how
the women looked, their faked surprised looks plainly obvious as they gazed back at their
unexpected visitors.

"You take care to see we are alone often, Swein. Gyrth, you look pensive. Pray, what is
with you this lamentable night?" Ethelfrith replied. Her gaze held a confused look; she

99

wondered if the brothers wished to use them for their sexual gratification, and she was
willing to appease their desires.

Gyrth was hesitant about the work that he was soon to see completed. He knew it had to
be done, and his personal feelings for this sickening business were now to be put aside.

"Your lord and master must pay you well; does he not?" Gyrth asked. His tone had
become rough, sharp and low-pitched. He felt his heart thumping, and he could hear the
blood rushing in his ears. The killing of these two women was to be now or never.

"He does, my lord?" Saethryd replied looking perplexed at the question.

The brothers stepped forward, each toward their chosen female. Swein walked around to
Ethelfrith's back, placing one hand on her shoulder. She turned around, and the two women
were now back to back, each looking at the man before her.

"Your master will, no doubt, be mindful of your loss to him," Gyrth said coldly, as his
razor-sharp scramseax sliced into the gut of Saethryd.

Simultaneously, Swein pushed his blade into Ethelfrith. Both of the females' faces looked in
shock and horror into the eyes of their dispatchers, as they collapsed, their lifeblood
streaming from under their clothing and spilling to the floor. The gushing sound of blood
pumping and flooding the corridor mingled with the last choking moans of two
contemptible spies. No more would they take the coin of William, Duke of Normandy.

Something caught Swein's eyes— in the moonlight, the glint of a blade's movement
triggered an instant reaction. His arm reached out to pull a shadowy figirre from behind a
pillar, and with one swift and decisive action, a man dropped to the floor gurgling and
coughing. Swein's scramsax had severed the throat of the assassin. Firmer.

The man shuddered violently, then fell still, his blood no longer pumping its life-giving
qualities to a man so deserving of death.

Gyrth stood looking on; stunned by what he'd just witnessed; his chin dropped. He
turned to look at his brother, and stuttered.

"Mm . . . my God ... he was going to kill you!"

Swein bent down to look at the face of the man whose life he'd just taken. He seemed to
recognize the face, but from where, he couldn't recall.

"1 know this man, Swein. His name was Eumer, and he was with Tostig's entourage."

Swein once more bent down to take a closer look at the face. The moonlight gave him a
clear look at the man. He then noticed the man's hose and feet were bloodstained, too. Swein
stood upright and took a kick at the face of the corpse. Alive or dead, he didn't much care.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Swein? For the love of Mary, the man is dead!"

Swein swung himself aroimd to face his brother, the anger dearly showing upon his face.

"This is the bastard who mirrdered Osfrid. What's more, he's the man who tried to kill
Harold." Swein pointed to the congealed blood on Eumer's hose and feet.

Gyrth bent down, looked closely, and saw clearly that the blood was, indeed, as Swein
had said. It was copious, congealed and was old, but no more than a few hours.

"Gyrth, take their gold and jewelry, and then we'll throw them in the river. This killing
must look as if it were by robbers. Nothing of theirs must be found on our persons. We must
wash our blades, too."

Gyrth shook his head and held tightly onto Swein's arm.

"No, Swein! I have a better idea. That bastard over there has solved all our problems for
us. He killed the women— we killed him after we caught him robbing them. It's much simpler
that way. What's more, we've found Osfrid's killer, too. We'd better see that Harold is
informed as to what has occirrred here. Leave the details to me."

Swein nodded his agreement and smiled. "You've a good head upon you, Gyrth. 1 think
that it's safe to assume that we can have the guards come and take this meat away. I'm sure
that Harold will temper his sadness with the knowledge that we have the killer of Osfrid,
and his own attempted assassin, too. Come on; we've work to do.

Swein turned around and held his brother's arm. "We had to do what we had to do,
and that's the end of it, Gyrth— don't forget that."

"Yes, 1 know, but 1 really have to be ready to kill. In battle, you're in a frame of mind to do
such things. 1 pray 1 never have to do such a thing again."

"Sometimes, there's no other way or course of action. To take the lives of others in such a
way as we've done this morning is not to my liking, either. These women would have seen
our land overrun with a foreign lord and our people put to slavery. They had no qualms
about our feelings, beloved brother. Their end was justified, of that 1 have no doubt. As for
that bastard lying down there, well, some lessons have been learned from our actions. He was
coming back for another try. He must have been paid very well." Swein bent down and
collected the jeweled belongings of the females, then placed them inside Eumer's jerkin.

"Once more, you've shown great courage and justification, Swein. I'll always be mindful
that your heart and love for your country are uppermost. What you've done is out of love for
all Saxons of this nation. A mirrderer is not what you are. You're a good man. You can sleep
peacefully in your bed, knowing that your actions are that of a loyal servant of England."

As they entered the quarters of the palace guards, Swein gave orders that the three bodies
be brought down from the tower. The body of Eumer was to be brought to the stables, ready
for Harold to see and for Fredrick to identify.

"Gyrth, like you, 1 need to rest a while. Later on this morning we've to attend Edward's
funeral. 1 shall first go to see Brithnoth and inform him of our discovery. Sleep well, my
brother."

"You, too, Swein." The brothers moved off in opposite directions, Gyrth to sleep, and
Swein to inform the aged warrior, Brithnoth, of their adventure.

Wulfnoth stood beside Harold. For a moment, he hesitated. I have to find out, " he thought.

"Are you going to allow Tostig to stay? Wulfnoth asked with a puzzled look.

"If Tostig can demonstrate to me that he can behave himself, 1 will reconsider. Look,
Wulfnoth, Tostig is foolish beyond belief. He can't keep his private parts inside his leggings.
He upsets everyone he deals with and never listens to reason. You saw how he reacted while
he was in the king's bedchamber."

"Oh, 1 see." Wulfnoth said.

Harold noticed his brother's disappointment. His eyes narrowed, as he gripped, tightly,
his little brother's arm. "So, if you behave like Tostig, you may find yourself in exile, too.
You're a good boy, well educated. You have a fresh mind, and values of which our father
would be proud. Now, if you don't mind, Wulfnoth, I'm off to my bed. I'll see you in the

morning. Oh, I almost forgot, you'd better, at first light, go with the guards, and let Tostig
out. After the coronation, 1 want him to be escorted to Dover. Is that clear, Wulfnoth? Don't
you dare cross me, or you'll join him. For now, 1 need to sleep, and it's been an exhausting
night."

"Yes, Harold, 1 understand. A good night's sleep to you," replied Wulfnoth sheepishly.
Harold was feeling jaded, and retired to his bedchamber.

Edith Swanneck, dressed in her heavily embroidered nightgown, had been listening to the
meeting from a location hidden from view. As she heard Harold approach, she slid back into
bed and awaited him. Harold entered the bedchamber to find Edith looking longingly at
him.

"You will be king tomorrow." She said resignedly. "Tell me; how do you feel, my
beloved?"

"1 understand that you've been listening in to the Witan's Gemot, Edith," he said, with a
mild tone of irritation in his voice. He sat on the side of the bed and stroked her hair,
admiring its sheen in the candlelight.

Edith rose from the bed and closed the shutters in the leaded glass window niche.

"Yes, of course, what woman wouldn't when she senses her man is about to become
king?" She moved to the bed and dropped her gown, unveiling her beautiful breasts and
lithe body. She stood still for a moment, eager for his look, and then slipped into bed,
fanning her hair on the pillow provocatively.

Harold undressed, and sliding between the covers, felt the warmth of Edith's nakedness
against his own, snuggled his body against hers, and felt her lips gently kissing his cheek.

"Your pleasure, my king?" Edith's finger glided gently over her man's muscular body.

"You know, 1 should tan your hide for your insolence, woman." Tired as he was, he could
never resist the temptation of Edith's passionate embrace and lovemaking, until at last they
both fell, exhausted, into a deep sleep.

The monks struck the bells of London's Westminster Abbey to signal the hour of three. By
the light of candles and torches, four men began to take up the stones under the high altar.
They were watched over by the abbey's monks, as they worked through the cold night.

"1 don't like this one bit, Edmund, 1 really don't. It's not natural. 1 mean, our old king is
dead, and Earl Harold wants to be crowned the same day as we put Edward into God's
earth. It's just not right; 1 tell you." Giso said as he readjusted his linen tunic and pulled his
woolen scarf a little tighter to help keep out the night's chilly air.

"Just get on with your job, Giso. We just do as we're told. The new king can do what he
likes. In any case, the archbishop ordered this job done now. Why? It's so that in the
afternoon you can have a new king. Don't ask me why this should be the case, but they must
have their reasons, and it's not for men like us to ask. You tell him, Guthorn. You're the one
with the brains around here."

Guthorn scratched the back of his head. "Well, 1 was told— and this information goes no
further, mark you. There is to be a war with the bastard, Duke William. Now, 1 don't know

the truth of it, but if you ask me, we'll just wait and see. If it's true, then 1 suggest we all
collect our families and clear off to Ireland. A good living is to be made there; they tell me."
He leaned on his pick and wiped his brow.

"Ireland! It's full of Danes. No law-abiding citizen can walk the street without being
robbed of what little he has, Guthorn. That's what 1 heard. What have you to say to that,
Edmund?"

Edmund dug deeper, trying to keep out of the discussion. He hated being asked for his
opinion. He never really had one, just his own thoughts on what he heard others say. He
looked above him and saw his companions chatting away, leaning idly against digging
implements. He was feeling rather annoyed at his co-workers inactivity, but felt it better to
say nothing.

"War or no war, 1 still say it's not right. In any case, 1 don't like Earl Harold. He's too
quick to jump into the old king's shoes. 1 think Queen Edith should rule over us; she's a good
woman," Giso said with a smug look upon his face.

"Anyway, as much as that, 1 say we just keep digging until we get this grave deep enough
for the old king's corpse; otherwise, we will be in big trouble with Stigand; do you hear?"
Guthorn said as he noticed the glare in Edmund's eyes.

"There's nothing wrong with Harold as our new king; he's been good to the shires. He
saw to it that Edward had Earl Tostig exiled, and he was his own brother, too. Many would
have let Tostig carry on his wicked ways without a care. Harold never overtaxed us; he was
always fair about that. No, Harold will make a fine king; I'm sure of that." Giso looked at
Guthorn, then raising his hand and with his finger pointing menacingly, he growled the
words he'd never thought he would ever utter aloud to his comrades.

"1 don't like this talk of running away to Ireland, Guthorn; it smells of cowardice, if you
ask me. If that bastard, William, comes here, we'll stand with our brothers and fight with our
king, no matter. We'll do it for oirr king and our country, and succeed or die together, like
men. If the new king is prepared to stand and fight, then so should we. It's as simple as that.
It's not our king who will pick a fight, but it's the bloody foreigners. This is our land, and it
has nothing to do with Normandy."

"Well, if you two have finished, 1 want to complete this task and get some bloody sleep.
So if you don't mind giving me a moment of your time." The men nodded toward each other
and set to work, feeling sheepish at being admonished by Edmund's curt remark.

In the distance, two masons chipped away furiously at a slab of lime to act as a makeshift
gravestone for the old king's interment.

CHAPTER EIGHT

EDUCATING EDITH AND THE GOLDEN ROBE

Edith Swanneck rose early from her stolen night of passion and hummed to herself as she
made her plans for the day. She looked toward the window, and noticed the morning light
stream through, playing with the particles of dust that it illuminated, as they floated without
a care reflected within its beam. The thin shaft of white moved slowly across the room, past
each object as if counting down the minutes on a sundial clock.

The man she loved slept on, dreaming, sometimes mumbling a few incoherent words that
were lost to his pillow. Edith smiled lovingly at him then bent down over the bed and softly
kissed his forehead, trying not to wake him.

She had many preparations that morning. After all, she thought, Harold is now free to marry
me, and then I'm going to be a Queen. I'm going to rule with my man; and Harold will do as he is
told. Her daydreams drifted hither and thither. I've so many plans, and so much to do.

She called a maid to dress her in a blue, full-length silken robe, her almost-golden fair hair
falling to her waist. She stretched her arms and breathed in deeply. Despite her short sleep,
she felt bright and cheerful. She opened the door and walked out into the corridor, dosing it
behind her. She motioned towards the waiting maids to attend her. She felt powerful, as she
gave orders to various servants, who really didn't know what to make of this.

To the palace chambermaids, Edith was Harold's paramour, a veritable prostitute, yet her
bidding that morning, was carried out without question.

She re-entered the bedroom, dosing the door behind her and walked briskly to the door,
paused to tidy her gown, brushing off the fluff that the bedclothes found so attractive.

Harold stirred, rolled over and snored even louder.

Edith turned to gaze at him lovingly. She blew him a kiss and moved towards the bed to
gently shake her sleeping Harold.

"Harold, my love; It's the time to rise. The bishops will be waiting. They'll be sending
word very soon that they're ready for you." Harold stirred from his slumber, but his eyes
were still closed.

"Waiting for what?" he asked; he's bleary eyes opened, to see Edith sitting beside him. 7s
she part of my dream? He wasn't sure if this was a continuation of yet another dream or if he
was awake. He soon realized that he was conscious and was back in the world of the living.

"You've been dreaming, and as usual, talking in your sleep," she said, softly kissing his
brow and stroking his hair.

He wasn't quite fully awake and looked a little bewildered, as if he didn't recognize her.

"What did you dream of, Harold? Do tell me. 1 wish to share your dream." Edith said
looking interested.

Harold turned to lean on his elbow, his hand supporting his head and looked thoughtful.

"How do 1 begin? Do 1 smell flowers' lavender?"

"Go on; you were going to tell me about your dream."

"Oh, yes. Well, err — there was a wall, as tall as this one. It was silver- white with people on
it, like a mural, except the picture moved and the people moved within the picture. 1 could
hear the people talking from out of the wall, and then 1 saw you, Stigand, the bastard, and
Sigurdsson. Then an odd thing happened. The word Harold appeared on the great wall. 1

could hear my voice making great decisions as to our country's future. Men appeared
wearing strange clothing and offered to help me. They said that with their help, I'd win all
my battles. They showed me many strange and powerful devices. They were great wizards
from God, Edith; then 1 awoke, and you were sitting beside me." He rubbed his eyes and sat
upright.

"I have dreams like that, too. They are not quite the same as yours, Harold. 1 once
dreamed that 1 was amongst an enormous crowd. 1 could see our boys in a huge field
running with a large brown egg. They were throwing the egg to one another and running up
and down being chased by other men who wanted to hold their legs."

He gave her an odd, perplexed look, rolled his eyes, and grinned like a nine-year-old boy
who had just found a gold coin.

'Tt would be best to keep our dreams to ourselves, Edith. Now, what is it that you wanted
of me?" he asked, shrugging off her words, and making a half-hearted attempt to get up.

She pushed him back down onto the bed. "You have to bury Edward, of course. Not long
ago 1 heard the beUs toll eight. 1 let you sleep a while longer. You were so tired last night,
and you wore me out, too, remember?" She kissed his forehead and gently rolled him onto
his stomach. He felt obliged to conform. He knew the routine well enough. She rubbed and
kneaded his shoulders with the aromatic oils he so loved. Edith's fingers were those of an
angel, a temptress par-excellence. She knew her man, and she understood his body as he did
hers.

"You know 1 have to be dressed and ready soon, my love. There's the coronation after we
have buried Edward's body. There will be a celebration banquet after the crowning
ceremony, too. As much as 1 enjoy the sweet touch of your hands, 1 really have to move,
wash, dress and eat. What's more, 1 need to be shaved; 1 feel awfully undressed without my
chin shaved."

Harold's implored her to finish his massage, and he felt her kiss the nape of his neck, her
teeth nibbling and tenderly biting his flesh, ignoring his demands.

"Ouch! That hurt! How many times have 1 told you not to bite my ear, woman? You know
1 don't like it."

"That is why 1 do it to you. It keeps you alive and alert, and makes your blood run. You're
my man, Harold Godwinson, and 1 will do with you what 1 like and when 1 like," she said
and smacked his buttock with the palm of her hand then jirmped backward away from his
searching arms.

"Bloody hell — That smack hurt! Do you have to play like that? Where are my robes?"

Edith pointed at a chair that had Harold's clothes draped over it, ready for him.

"They're all there for you. 1 had the boys bring them here while you slept. The pages put
the crowning robes in the king's wardrobe for you, too. I've decided that as you are, with the
exception of the crowning, the new monarch of this realm, you may as well get used to
dressing as a king. The attendants will dress you now. All that dressing for yourself is
finished. My man is king and shall be treated as such. Ooh, I'm so exdted!" She strolled
across to look out of the window to see and hear the various goings-on in the courtyard
below. Her exuberance clearly was spilling into the room as she twirled about and sang a
sweet tune to herself.

"So, 1 now have to walk all that way down the corridor to get dressed?"

"Don't be silly, Harold, we'll sleep in Edward's old bedchamber; you're king now. It's all
been organized. You see; 1 have my uses, you adorable man."

Harold interrupted her. "Will you please stop reminding me that I'm now king. It's getting
on my nerves."

"I'm sorry," Edith replied.

"1 must admit it's a nice bed. King Cnut had it made for him and Queen Emma. It has
always caught my eye on the rare occasions when 1 have been in the king's bedchamber. I'll
have a new mattress made for it, though. 1 couldn't bear the thought of Edward dying on
that old mattress. I'm sure it's still the original one made for the bed."

Edith sat in a comfortable chair, took off her lambskin slippers and massaged her feet.

"1 understood that you were in a hurry to get dressed, Harold. 1 need to get myself
dressed in royal robes, too. 1 have decided to use this as my dressing room from now on. The
ladies can use the ante-chamber for their purposes, and we can have a connecting door
fitted."

Harold's facial expression changed dramatically to one of exasperation and near despair.

"Edith! The king's body is not yet cold. My sister is hardly a widow of six hours, and you
are talking as though you are queen of England! You will get a grip on yourself and on
reality, woman! We may have seven children, and we may have been together for more
years than 1 can coimt, but don't you understand that you cannot become Queen of England?

"1 don't see why not, Harold?" Edith looked puzzled. He'd promised her the known
world, and now she was becoming more than suspicious of his motives.

Harold rose to his feet and took a stance. He raised his arm with a finger pointed at her.
He dropped his hand behind his back, his frustration with her clearly evident. He looked
down at his feet that were poking from under his shirt and he felt silly.

"Look. You obviously don't understand. Now that I've become the King of England, 1 have
to sustain my position. 1 have to have the blessing of the pope, the people, and the magnates
of this land, and the rulers of other countries, too, if it comes to that. 1 rule with their consent.
In order that 1 keep England safe from the wolves that would have me off this throne, 1 may
have to make alliances with other states. 1 will need to protect our trading routes, thus
keeping the country economically buoyant. To protect that state, 1 may have to take a wife
from some foreign country. I'll have to produce a legitimate heir to carry on when 1 die, thus
securing any alliance with a bloodline. 1 have to keep peace in this land, Edith. 1 doubt the
pope would allow you and 1 to marry now that I'm king. So just remember that." He stood
staring at her face, not knowing if she had taken in what he'd told her.

Edith threw down her slipper, then she stood taller than normal; a fierce, burning look
aimed straight at him.

The look took Harold by surprise. He saw that Edith's temper was boiling over, and he saw
her face scowl, it was a look that Harold knew only too well. He went to speak, to calm her.

With her hands placed firmly on her hips, she leaned menacingly forward, as if steaming
smoke and fire from her lips. She stopped him.

Harold's chin dropped to the floor. He knew that the moment had come when the sun
would fall from the sky.

"So, you're planning to sleep with another woman? You Bastard!"

"No. It's not like that." He turned to look out the window. Bollocks! Now what do I do? He
thought. He gazed through the glazed portal, his mind working overtime.

"Yes, it is. You just said so! Don't you turn your back on me, Harold Godwinson! We have
a family to consider. You told me you'd always be faithful; you promised always to be my
man. Now that you're fucking king, you're going to cast me out! Just so you can bed some
foreign fucking whore! You bastard, Harold!"

He turned to face her. The light from the window eclipsed by his figure shone like a
beacon of fire around him when anger momentarily gripped him.

"You will keep your tongue in its place, woman!" He shouted throwing off his night
attire, and in silence, began to dress. He gazed at her, and the pathetic appearance of this
once proud woman alarmed him.

Edith stood shaking with uncontrollable anger burning her every being, turning here and
there, walking about the room; her hopes dashed. She halted and stared at him, her eyes
reddened and swollen. She grimaced. "I'm not good enough for you, hmm? Want another
woman, do you? Just you wait, Harold Godwinson; I'll make you regret this; just you wait
and see," she said cursing through her teeth.

"Edith! Oh, for the sake of Heaven! Get a grip on your emotions, woman! At some point, 1
have to produce a legitimate heir. It's not likely that 1 will enjoy having some other woman
in my bed, now. . .is it? You know 1 would rather be with yow— the woman 1 love! Put yourself
in my position. If 1 were in your shoes, 1 would hate knowing someone was taking my man,
let alone her having a child by him. It's only natural to feel that way, but the country is much
greater than our personal emotions or desires. Those duties must always come first. We are
but tools to be used for the stability of our people, and our country. 1 will have to grin and
bear it, just as you will, and that's the end of the matter."

"1 suppose that you were fucking all the women in Normandy when you were away for
nearly a year, too. Come and have a fuck, Harold. I've some lovely girls here for you to
choose from. Is that what the bastard offered you? You fornicating bastard!" She threw a stool
across the room, and one of stool's legs broke off, hitting him, as it crashed against the wall
beside him. Edith seated herself on the side of the bed, weeping.

"What? Do you know what 1 had to go through, to get back to England after my ship was
wrecked off the coast of Ponthieu? Let me tell you, Swanneck. 1 had to suck up to that
bastard, William. Yes, 1 had to bloody well suck up to him. We were left to rot in one of Guy
Ponthieu's jails. 1 had our son, Hakon, and my brother, Wulfnoth with me, too. They were
taken as hostages. Do you know how that feels, Edith, eh?" Harold paced back and forth
about the room, his arms behind his back, looking at her, turning his gaze away from her
and then repeating his glance.

Edith sat, gazing blankly at the door.

"1 can guess, Harold," she said, and stood up wringing her hands, nervously, and turned
to gaze blankly at the wall, sulking, trying desperately to find a counter to Harold's
arguments.

Harold crossed the room towards her, reached out and grasped her arm, turning her
about. He was beginning to boil at her selfishness. It took all of his willpower to control his
slipping temper.

"You stupid, shallow woman, you have no idea! 1 repeat — when the Normans discovered
who 1 was; 1 had to leave the boys behind as hostages. 1 had to run around with him in his
sacred bloody Normandy, killing innocent people so he could keep his downtrodden
population under his control. Then 1 had the added humiliation of making oaths and fealty
to him. These, 1 may add, were made under duress. Do you understand what that does to a
man, hmm? And why is that? You may ask. Well, so 1 could get the boys released, and get us
back to the safety of England. These are the people 1 will have to deal with. Now do you
understand?"

Edith shook off Harold's grip and strode away from him, looking sheepish. She turned to
look out of the window, avoiding his gaze.

Harold approached her from behind, hesitated for a moment, then put his arm around her
to embrace and comfort her.

Once more, Edith shook off his touch.

"Edith, 1 love you more than you could ever in this world imagine. 1 want us to be
together, always. You should know that by now. I've been forced into a situation that is far
bigger than both of our desires. The love that we have for each other must be tempered with-
-Oh, Edith. I'm not allowed to be selfish with my love of you. It's my greatest wish that 1
should be allowed to be with you. If 1 could have you by my side, to marry and have you as
my queen, all would be well. 1 don't have any say in the matter. If 1 married you, many
thousands in this coimtry would die because of our selfishness." Harold's pleading eyes
welled as he followed her movements. I've failed, he thought. She's not heard a word I've said.
What else can I do? Surely she knows we can be together as we are now, only not officially; that's all.
He looked longingly towards her. He moved once more to comfort the woman before him.

Edith walked away, throwing her remaining slipper contemptuously to the floor. The
mere thought that the man she loved would even contemplate sleeping with another woman
disgusted her. They had always been faithful to one another. Her heart was broken, her
dreams quashed, and the world would no longer be her oyster.

Harold reached out an arm, but again Edith turned away.

"Don't come near me, Harold! You're no better than Swein or Tostig. The whole
Godwinson family is made up of nothing but womanizers!" She remained silent for a
moment. She smelled the food cooking from the kitchen nearby. I will never eat again, she
thought. Her disappointment was welling up inside her. She felt pushed away, shut out and
discarded, superfluous. She wanted to hit him, to hurt him as he had hurt her. England can go
hang, for all I care. England is not a person with feelings and emotions, she thought. "You Bastard,
Harold!" she muttered under her breath.

From the door behind him, there came a gentle knocking. Harold turned to look at the
door as if someone was about to walk through it. "Yes, what is it?" he called out.

"Your breakfast, sire, and archbishop, Stigand, wishes to speak with you, also," Cedric
called through the door.

"Tell the Archbishop that 1 will be with him in a short while, Cedric. Go and make him
comfortable," Harold called back. He looked once more at Edith, determined to make his
point understood. He knew he was fighting a losing battle, but he had to try, just once more.

"You see, my life is no longer my own. 1 now belong to the State. Come along, Edith; we
can work through this. You know what we will soon face from these greedy foreigners. You
know that 1 have to do what needs to be done." He noticed her face begin to grimace angrily.

"Oh, go to hell!" Edith made her way briskly towards the door, collecting her shoes as she
made her exit. Her face flushed with the rage boiling inside her. Her eyes narrowed, and her
lips pursed. Moments later, the heavy oak door slammed shut behind her. There was now
silence but for the receding echo of the door slamming.

Harold sat upon the bed, feeling miserable, where, not a few hours before, he'd been
happy with the woman he loved. He knew that he had to see the archbishop, but he didn't
feel like it. He opened the door and smiled at Cedric.

"Summon the pages, Cedric. 1 need to dress appropriately," he said and made his way out
toward the old king's wardrobe to make ready for the coming hours.

His dressing finished, and followed by an entourage of pageboys, he ambled toward the
Great Hall where he met Stigand who was waiting outside the oaken door. The old man was,
as usual, leaning against the wood paneling, with a crosier in his hand and one foot raised
off the floor. Harold looked pale and morose and thinking of the day ahead, he clicked up a
gear. And this, too, will pass; it'll be all right with Edith soon enough, he thought. He smiled at the
aging Stigand, and held out his hand toward him.

"Ah, Stigand, we have a fine day for the interment of our late king; do we not" He lightly
tapped his friend upon his shoulder, taking care not to touch the old man's foot with his
own. He gazed down at Stigand's wrapped toes and shook his head a little. "You need to get
that seen to, or they'll be cutting it off."

Stigand ignored the humor. "Indeed, My Lord," Stigand said mindful that Harold was now
king. "We've been waiting a little while for you— have you not eaten?" A shaft of bright light
illuminated his gold and silver staff, and shone on the silver-threaded robes giving the bent
primate the appearance of a fallen angel.

"No, I've had no time, really. I've just had one hell of a row with Edith, and she's very
upset. She's got it into her head that she we will marry and will be my queen. I've had to set
her straight on the matter." Harold shook his head and nodded towards the pageboy who
then opened the door before them.

"She is a good woman and mother, Harold, but has no training in the art of court
procedure, etiquette, or international diplomacy. What else can you expect of her? She'll
have to learn to accept her place, and that is all there is to it. 1 know you love her deeply, but
you chose this path, and she needs to understand. She'd been to speak with me some weeks
before on the matter of a proper marriage with you.

"1 tried to explain, 1 really did, but you're dealing with a woman, one who has her own
ideas as to what should and should not take place at court. She had a fit when 1 told her that
1 might have to marry from out of the country to provide an heir. That really went down
well; 1 can tell you," Harold said with a sigh.

Stigand moved to sit on a bench, his gout-ridden toes making their presence felt as he
grimaced in painful contemplation of the day ahead.

"1 can well imagine her feelings. You've been together so long— you're peas together in a
pod. What did you expect? Come, Harold, let's get our stomachs filled." They moved to a
side room, where Cedric waited on the two men while maids brought a breakfast of fish.

Harold chewed on his buttered bread, cheese, and an apple, while Stigand munched through
more than his fair share of fish. Harold looked deeply into Stigand's eyes. Oh, Stigand, why is
it that you're sometimes so foolish? Do you ever consider and think things over before you speak? You
and I have never spoken about God. I sometimes wonder if you really believe in God at all. You're
selfish to the core, Stigand, selfish to the core. I know that deep down you're a good man; just be
truthful and faithful; that's all I ask of you, old man, he thought.

"So, tell me. What's been done with regard to the burial of Edward?"

"The grave was dug during the night. It's before the high altar, but we'll have to wait a
while before the stone can be inscribed."

"I'll leave the wording to you, Stigand. Something simple will suffice for now. Is it too
much of a rush to organize?" he asked watching Stigand fill his mouth with yet more fish.

Stigand leaned over toward his new king, and with his fingers pulling down the lower
skin under his eyes, showed the redness of his bloodshot orbs. "Harold, look at my eyes. Do
these look like the eyes of someone that has had much sleep these last few days? The
ceremony has all been organized. Abbot Edwin will officiate at the funeral. We'll place
Edwards body in the grave, and with due deference, throw in a few trinkets, the purple state
robe, and then we'll have your coronation in the afternoon. How does that sound?"

"What have you organized with regard to the coronation?" Harold asked.

"Archbishop Ealdred will officiate at the coronation; nothing has been left to chance. It's
not a good idea for me to crown you. 1 received my pallium from Pope Benedict-X. If you
recall, he was stricken from the official pontifical records eight years ago, and we don't want
any comebacks in the future, that is. You could be accused of not being properly crowned, if
1 were to officiate. Ealdred and 1 have it all worked out, you'll be crowned at two after the
hoirr of noon. You must prepare yourself to be anointed with holy oils. 1 should warn you,
too, that the anointing will be a messy affaire, at least for you."

Harold looked puzzled. He had never experienced a crowning before, much less heard of
it being a messy business. "Ah, yes, Benedict — that could' ve complicated the matter. Just
one moment, Stigand; what do you mean, by messy?" Harold enquired giving Stigand a look
of utter bewilderment.

"Well, you have to have your hands and feet anointed with holy oil, then your chest,
head, back, elbows, oh, and," Stigand gave a forced cough, "Your codlings, too, of course."

"My codlings?" Harold said gasping in utter disbelief, and soon realized his leg was being
pulled, and allowed Stigand go on all the same, playing along with his wicked humor.

"Oh, yes. If at some later date, your queen is to bring forth legal issue, then you must have
the holy oil rubbed upon your codlings. God's seed blesses the anointed codlings, Harold.
Then there is the drinking of the holy goat's piss, too. The ceremony is not completed until
all the rituals have been concluded in full, according to the Holy Scriptures." Stigand said
smiling broadly at Harold as he passed him a hot hog's leg from a silver platter.

Harold raised his head and nodded his thanks for the sweet ham. "I'm not so sure about
the anointing part of the ceremony, but I'll look forward to drinking the holy goat's piss,
Stigand. Have you ever tried it? You ought to; you know. It's really quite palatable," he said,
then ate on, smiling.

"1 thought you might need to smile, Harold, so 1 threw that last line in just to see the look
on yoirr face, but as always, there is no catching you out. Come along, we must be at the

abbey. We have a funeral to attend, and we can't keep the guest waiting now. He'll start to
smell if we procrastinate too long."

"He smelled bloody awful before he died; let alone what he must smell like now," Harold
replied with a chuckle, and helped Stigand to his feet.

At the main palace entrance, Harold and Stigand met with Ealdred, the Archbishop of
York. Together they walked slowly out of the palace to be greeted by a crowd of weeping
burghers. Abbot Edwin gave the order to bring forth the coffin, and then led the solemn
ceremony of the casket's passage from the king's bedchamber through the palace doors. The
Witan and the inhabitants of London followed the abbot behind the coffin in order of rank
into the newly consecrated Abbey of Westminster.

Outside, the crowd was silent; all that was heard was the sound of weeping and the
monk's sorrowful chant in Latin as they processed ahead. As the procession walked slowly
forward, Stigand looked up in wonder at the new and beautiful abbey. He felt the pain in his
legs and feet beginning to recede, helped by the herbal remedy that his apothecary had given
him earlier in that morning, and was grateful that it was at last taking effect. He looked at
Harold and could see that he was nervous.

"After Edward's burial, and when we've finished these proceedings, you'll follow me
back to the palace. All the State robes and regalia will, by then, have been brought over
ready to don. All you have to do is follow my whispered instructions," said Stigand.

"Well, 1 have never been crowned before, so 1 guess 1 had better follow your lead."

"I'll be by your side at all times, so there will be no chance of any embarrassing moments
to foul up the modus operandi. Are you nervous, Harold?"

"I'm about to be crowned King of England, and you ask me if I'm nervousl You sometimes
ask the dumbest questions; you really do."

Stigand smiled and hobbled on, making the sign of the cross to the crowd here and there
as he passed by.

Harold looked up at the abbey that soared way above him, the long nave filled with
people awaiting the arrival of the body of their late king. It was dark, with light slipping
through the small but plentiful windows, the dust-laden beams of light illuminating those
who stood below. The altar, magnificent and resplendent with gold leaf, was lit up like a
beacon by the shafts of sunlight streaming from narrow windows on either side. The king's
throne was placed perfectly and symmetrically in front of the chancel to await the
afternoon's enthronement. In front of the altar, a grave lay vacant, awaiting the arrival of its
regal occupant. Here and there, starlings flew in and then out again as if looking for their
king. High above, vast oaken beams held up a roof that was so magnificent a monument to a
God, the crown and its country. Carved angels flew in splendor from their static wooden
perches, set to look down upon the congregation below, and light flooded the nave. A few
moments later, Harold, Edwin, Ealdred and Stigand entered the abbey, and at Stigand's
signal, the monks began to chant a lament for Edward's soul, followed by laments sung by
the children of court.

Harold and his bishops sat beside the Alter; then the abbey fell quiet. As Edward's body
was lowered into the grave, there was a deep sigh from the congregation. AU that could be
heard was the weeping of Queen Edith and her ladies.

Abbot Edwin gave an account of the life of Edward, recalling his deeds; and how he had
honored Harold by giving the final edict that he was to be crowned their new king.

Bishop Ealdred said the mass, and each attendant took bread and wine. The rushed
ceremony was now over, but for the filing of the people round the grave to see Edward for
the last time.

Harold and the other dignitaries proceeded slowly out of the abbey and into the cold
January sunshine. Behind them, the congregation began to file out of the abbey to be
informed at the door that they must return later when the bells rang for the people to be
present at their new king's crowning.

Stigand and Ealdred followed Harold into the royal antechamber, where a blazing fire
roared and spat, throwing its warmth around the room as if declaring itself the center of
attention. The three men warmed themselves against the cold of the winter's day.

Harold gazed at the flames thoughtfully. "You really don't know where you go when you
die, Stigand. 1 mean we could have thrown his body in the river for all Edward knew of the
proceedings. 1 think I'll be buried in some form of sarcophagus; 1 don't like the idea of being
buried under the ground. What if you weren't really dead, just in some deep coma, perhaps?
When you recovered you could at least push the lid up and get out. You know, like the nun
who hanged herself, some time back. The other nuns were going to throw her body into the
river. Well, blow me down with a feather; whilst they were carrying her body away, she
came back to life; that was amazing! I'm going to have a bell attached to a cord through a
hole in my sarcophagus, just in case."

"Yes, indeed," replied Stigand, "1 was witness to this woman's plight. She was to become
a nun after she repented of her sins. God works in ways we can only hope someday to
understand, Harold." Stigand sat in a comfortable seat, feeling the warmth of the fire on his
feet before him. "Well, we're on our own for a while. 1 suggest we take a little meal before
your coronation. This last ceremony took exactly an hour, not bad for a bishop of my years."

"1 shall go and see that the preparations for your coronation are at hand, sire," Ealdred
said, looking for permission to leave the king's presence.

Harold thanked Ealdred for his work, and bid him leave to finish his arrangements.
Harold then sat by the fireside, smiled, and imbibed from a silver goblet a mouthful of his
favorite red wine. "1 think the queen will come in to see me very soon. 1 noticed she entered
her quarters without joining us, which 1 thought was odd, for her."

"Oh, no, she is seeing her doctor just now. She informed me that she was not in good
humor. The stress of the last few days has been more than she is able to bear. She'll be with
us later," Stigand said and promptly fell fast asleep.

Harold made himself comfortable, and he too dozed off into a deep slumber.
A few hours later a knock came at the door, and the pageboy called out that Bishop Ealdred
was waiting outside. There was no reply, so the boy opened the door and entered the room.
"My lord," the boy called, and Harold woke startled. "Bishop Ealdred is here, sire."

The Ealdred entered the room and apologized for the boy's intrusion in waking him.

"Are you ready for me, Ealdred?," Harold enquired as he shook the snoring Stigand from
his slumber.

"Very soon. My Lord. The abbey is now quiet, but for the laborers who'd set to work in
filling Edward's grave with earth. When 1 left them, they were struggling with the

112

gravestone, which they're to place over their late king's remains," Ealdred replied as he
looked out of the window to see that the laborers had collected their tools and were making
their way out of the abbey. "1 can see a few pilgrims mingling about outside the abbey, but
they'll be gone soon, I'm having everyone ushered away while my men finish preparing for
your coronation. I've taken care that the nobles, that is, the earls and thegns are seated at the
front, with the lesser, common people at the back and outside. We should hear the bells
soon, so we'll know when to prepare to leave."

"How long will that be, Ealdred?" Harold asked.

"With respect, you can't rush these things, sire. I've asked that the monks come for you
when they're ready to start the preliminary proceedings.

"In that case, come and enjoy a little wine and a bite to eat. While you're here, I'd like to
hear from you what has been going on in the north, these last few months. Also, I'd like your
views on one or two matters," Harold said offering Ealdred a seat. 1 need to change into my
coronation robes whilst listening. Page's, bring me the stately robes, and dress me," Harold
requested, and the pageboys did as they were asked. While Harold was being dressed,
Harold listened to Ealdred's news, and soon, Harold was dressed and ready.

Some time later, there came a light knocking at the door. A young pageboy opened the
door, and there stood three monks in the corridor ready to accompany Harold, along with
the two archbishops, to the abbey.

"How do 1 look, Stigand?" Harold twirled about, his heavy purple and gold robes belling
out like a tent in the breeze.

"You look just perfect, Harold," Stigand said, grinning. "All you have to do now, is stand
upright and walk with due dignity to the abbey. Leave the rest to Ealdred and myself,
though I'm only helping, of course, not officiating, remember."

"Can 1 change my mind about aU this, Stigand?" Harold asked.

"If you do, 1 will kill you with my own bare hands. Now, get out there, and become our
anointed king," Stigand replied grinning when he heard the bells toll.

"You know, Stigand, I'd never met such an ungodly person in my life, until 1 met you."

Harold shook his head, and made his way through the door and into the corridor,
followed closely by the archbishop of York who was to officiate.

Harold made his exit from the palace to an exuberant crowd, all cheering for their king
elect. His heart was thumping, and he felt that the throng could see the movement through
his robes as the entourage made their way towards the abbey. He could hear the gushing of
blood in his ears, almost drowning out the crowd's cheering; it was all too surreal. His legs
felt weak, so that he almost stumbled on the cobbled street.

He stood for a moment looking at the magnificent Abbey of Westminster, not more than
one hundred paces away. Once more Harold slowly crossed the street. He soon felt the
abbey steps beneath his feet. Each step felt like a high wall to climb. He felt the nervousness
of the occasion as his legs began to shake almost uncontrollably. As he entered the great
doors, there was complete silence imtil Harold had at last reached the enthronement chair.
The abbey doors were closed, and the interior fell into semi darkness.

The Archbishop of Canterbury, and the Archbishop of York, Ealdred, approached and stood
beside the now seated Harold. Ealdred took a few paces forward, and holding his arms out
to the crowd, called out.

"Good People of England, 1 present to you, Harold, our duly appointed king. If there is
anyone amongst you who does not wish Harold as your king, let him leave this holy place
now, and go in peace to another realm."

At that moment, the abbey doors flew open, and a mounted and armored knight rode into
the abbey. Harold began to feel decidedly nervous as the man rode towards the high altar,
and then turned his horse to face the assembled throng of ennobled and low persons alike.
He took off his mailed glove, threw it down towards those assembled, and called out in a
loud voice that reverberated around the abbey.

"Is there one amongst you who wishes to challenge my liege king's authority to rule this
kingdom? Let him who dares come forward, come now, and challenge me to a fight to the
death."

Harold leant forward and tugged upon Stigand's robes. "Stigand, what the hell is going
on here?" Harold whispered.

Stigand looked down towards his king, grinned, and winked at him. "Your father did the
same thing for King Cnut, and we thought Brithnoth was the right man to carry the
challenge for you; it's only fitting, Harold. Ealdred and 1 thought it would make a nice start
to the proceedings." Stigand said grinning broadly at the theatrics, and chuckled softly.

Harold gazed in disbelief at the antics that his primate had asked of Brithnoth. "Well, it
put the fear of God into me; 1 can tell you. Just get on with the procedures, Stigand. 1 feel
silly enough in this garb as it is, without your tasteless stupidity," Harold said, tersely.

Not one person answered the call to challenge the knight. The tall, blond haired rider
dismounted and led his steed out of the abbey to cheers from those waiting outside while
Ealdred and Stigand, with arms raised, stepped out in turn, and looked down upon Harold.
He smiled sweetly, and turned to face the crowd before him.

"Do you, the low and common folk, and the noble people alike of this kingdom, trust and
implore, Harold, to be your anointed and sovereign king?" In one loud and resounding
voice, the throng called out.

"We accept Harold to be our lawful king, under God!"

Ealdred turned towards Harold, beckoned him to stand, and he removed the robes of
State from Harold's shoulders, and bade him to be seated once more upon the throne.

Stigand held the golden ampulla containing the anointing oil in his left hand. With his
right hand, he lifted up Harold's arms. Ealdred took the golden spoon, and taking a little oil
from the ampulla, he anointed Harold under his arms, legs, elbows, head, feet and back.

"Don't you dare come near my coddles." Harold whispered inaudibly, with a grin.

Stigand smiled wryly.

Ealdred gave Harold the Orb, and Stigand passed Ealdred the Sword of State to give to
the king. Ealdred then collected the crown from its box and placed the crown upon Harold's
head. The sweat began to pour from Harold's face, and his hands became clammy; this was
the moment that Harold had waited for. It was the pinnacle of all ambition, yet he felt a tinge
of sadness for the woman he loved. Edith Swanneck could not be there by his side. His
children were here to see their father crowned, but their mother . . .?

Where on earth was Edith? Harold thought as he gazed about the abbey. The whole scene was
but a dream, like he was looking on as if a bystander. All at once, Harold was startled by the
call from the congregation.

"God save the King!" Ealdred called to the people.

Harold heard a great shout from those assembled that startled him.

"God save the King!" the loyal people of England replied.

He shivered nervously, his self-consciousness almost overwhelming him. I would rather
fight fifty men, unarmed, than go through this again, he thought. He looked to see what Stigand
and Ealdred were to do to him next.

Stigand took from the altar the heavy, leather bound and bejeweled Bible and passed it to
Ealdred. Its gloriously gold-leafed inlay shone like the sun as the light from the glazed
windows fell upon it. Holding the holy book in front of Harold, who placed his hands upon
it, and in a loud voice that reverberated resoundingly around the abbey, the Ealdred
performed his last major role of the ceremony.

"Harold, oirr anointed king, do you promise to keep and uphold the ancient laws of this
kingdom-to serve God, protect, and keep the faith of the Holy Church?"

"1 promise so to do," Harold replied unfalteringly.

Ealdred whispered to the king his instructions as to what would come next.

Harold looked up into Ealdred' s face, and finally, began to relax.

"Now, you just sit tight. My Lord. You're not done just yet because you have to accept
fealty from each nobleman here. They know what to do and say. When they come to you,
just touch their head and reply with, '1 accept your fealty.' That's all there is to it. You rise
from your throne; then proceed outside to meet your people. After that, everyone goes off to
enjoy a great feast." Ealdred said smiling.

"And that's the end of the ceremony. I've never been so worried in all my life, Ealdred.
You've no idea how stupid 1 feel sitting here, dressed up like a strutting cockerel."

Ealdred smiled, and in one dignified movement, bowed low, then kneeled before his king.

Brithnoth, now horseless, brought each noble forward. Each spoke to their new king with
the words: "1 love my lord and king, and give you fealty and promise to serve my king
faithfully imto death." Each man then strode outside to line the way to the king's palace.

At last, the ceremony was over. Harold, accompanied by Ealdred and Stigand, walked
slowly down the nave to the abbey entrance to be greeted by riotous cheers and shouts of
"God Save The King!" from the throng of loyal subjects.

Harold felt hot and imcomfortable. He just wanted to change out of his cumbersome
robes, and sleep. He stood at the abbey door when he noticed the unmistakable Edith
Swanneck moving towards him from out of the crowd, and he saw a guard stepping forward
and stopped her approach, pushing her back into the milling throng.

Harold's love about-turned and walked slowly back towards the palace with tears
running down her cheeks.

Queen Edith noticed what had occurred, and on seeing Edith Swanneck walking away,
called out to a guard standing near by. "Guard, bring the Lady Swanneck to me, at once!"
She saw that the guard was hesitant for a moment. "Well, go on then!" The queen said
looking decidedly annoyed, and glared at the man. The queen, her hands upon her hips,
watched intently as the man, at last, obeyed her royal command.

"Yes, My Lady," the guard replied, and rushed off, pushing through the crowd with his
lance, calling for space. The guard caught up with the Swanneck and ushered her back to the
dowager queen.

Edith Swanneck bowed low, and on one knee, felt the queen's hand fall gently upon her
shoulder. "My Lady?" she said as she raised herself to face the queen.

"Edith, I understand how you're feeling," said the queen, "I tried to talk to you before you
talked to Harold, lest he should make some stupid comments that would hurt your feelings.
You know he truly loves you, and with this in my mind, I feel there is some things of which
you should be aware."

"What is that. My Lady?" Edith Swanneck looked puzzled, wondering what on earth it
was that the queen had to tell her.

"Do you know that England may soon be embroiled in war?" the queen asked.

"Yes, My Lady; it is expected. Harold has spoken of it."

"I had a dream that you found a much younger man, a mere boy, to be your lover. Does
that not sound odd to you? His name was Hereward." The queen saw that Edith was now
even more confused.

"What a very odd thing to dream. My Lady. Have you consulted a priest as to why you
had this dream, and why is it of me?"

"There is a hermit in Winchester. It is said he will know the meaning of such a dream. You
will come with me to see him, and together, we will understand its meaning. Edith, don't be
afraid, for no harm will come to you or your children. You are under my personal
protection."

"Thank you. My Lady," whispered Edith Swanneck looking to the ground. Edith bade the
queen farewell, and turning around, took one last glance at the man she loved.

As he stepped down toward the cheering throng below, Harold saw her gaze. He felt the
elation, yet the loneliness of his high position. He stood motionless, looking at her. He felt
the tears welling up as he gazed at her beauty, and he wanted her by his side, but she looked
away, turned about, and walked into the crowd, to disappear amongst the multitude. He felt
that all this was but a dream; everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. He looked
about for Stigand, who was being helped down the steps by Brithnoth.

The new king made his way amid the cheers of the crowd, followed and surrounded by a
guard of brightly dressed housecarls. Their shields were painted in brilliant colors, with the
bosses on their shields polished and gleaming in the sunlight. He mounted his horse, a great
bay charger. He paraded slowly through the streets of London, clearly enjoying the
adoration of the crowd; he was used to that. They were waving and cheering. He called out
to them, "Be joyful." Then, after some considerable time, he rounded the corner of the abbey
once more, and into the palace square, where he entered the gates to ready himself for the
last part of the festivities.

Harold entered the king's palace to bows from the servants and staff. He reflected at how
he had bowed to Edward in much the same manner. It felt somehow alien to him. He felt
alone, isolated. He wanted to be approachable, yet remain aloof, as a king should. God
hadn't touched him; he knew that. Neither was the devil about his person. It all seemed
rather strange. 7s this reality or is it all a dream? No, I am king! The King of England, too, he
thought.

Next to him, Stigand laughed. He'd never felt so good.

Harold felt the relief that it was all over, and called for wine. They both needed the relief
that copious amounts of alcohol would bring to nirmb their now heightened senses.

"Come along, Harold; we have a banquet to attend. By the way, the queen and 1 will
smooth things with Edith. She will soon accept how things have to be; you'll see," Stigand
said.

Harold felt Stigand's jolly tone becoming somewhat of an irritant to him, but said nothing;
it wasn't the time or the place to tell him to shut up. "Thank the Lady Mary that the
ceremony is over and done. Now, I'll rid myself of these cumbersome robes and dress in my
usual and comfortable attire." He stopped what he was about to do; he was thoughtful. He
turned to Stigand and gazed into his eyes.

Stigand could see the sadness within his king, and it troubled him. "What is it, Harold?
Please, tell me."

"Stigand, 1 want you to pray with me for the soul of the boy, Osfrid."

Stigand looked shocked. He wanted to ask why Harold was so concerned for the soul of
this lowly youth of no importance, but thought better of it, and did as his king bid him.

Harold knelt before the archbishop, and placed his hands as in prayer. In silence, they
prayed; then Harold stood up, coughed, and thanked his confessor.

At that moment, he understood the goodness and humanity of the man he had just seen
crowned king. He looked on as Harold donned his normal clothing and took a sip of wine.
"You know, you should now be dressed by your servants, Harold. Now that you're king; it's
expected."

"It may have been the way of Edward, but 1 am not Edward. In this land, 1 rule as king,
yet 1 rule with my people as my equals." For the moment, he didn't feel like debating the
point with him. AU Harold wanted to do was to get this wretched banquet over with and
sleep. "Let's get this celebration done with, and then to bed. 1 am so tired; 1 could sleep for a
week."

Stigand looked wearily into Harold's eyes. "Have you room for two in that bed, Harold?

I'm just as tired as you, 1 can assure you," Stigand said as they walked out of the room.

CHAPTER - NINE

THE LION"S DEN

Normandy 8lh January

Bitter north winds were blowing that January morning as the messenger from England
finally landed on the Norman coast. As he made his way inland, ice on a primitive cart-track
road made the traveler weary when his horse occasionally slipped, and stumbled in the
frozen amalgam beneath its feet. He made his exhausted way to find the lodgings of Robert
Fitzerneis. His hands felt so numb from the cold that he no longer had sensation in his
fingers. Upon arriving at his destination, he knocked hard on the solid oak door, eager that
his journey was nearing its end.

"Messenger, Messenger!" he called. His voice had a tone of earnest anticipation that
turned to relief as the door opened.

Before him stood a tall, slim woman of about twenty years with fair hair and large,
brightly piercing blue eyes, which had a kindness about them. Her nose was small and she
had full lips that complemented her outward features that reminded him of a girl he'd
known as a youth, but her name flittered about his consciousness elusively. He noticed her
astonishment at his unexpected visit and followed her as she beckoned him indoors.

"1 am Hilda. Please, follow me," she said softly. "Come, you must warm yourself; you
look ill," she said as she led him into the kitchen to an inviting fire.

He looked at the hearth with its flickering blue and yellow-orange flames that seemed to
motion him closer to receive their somnolent warmth; he then smelled freshly baked bread,
which made his saliva, flow profusely. On a spit, a hind leg was roasting. It smells like horse,
he thought. He saw a kitchen maid barely out of childhood slowly turning the spit, and his
salivation gained ground; it had been two days since his last nourishing meal then he
swallowed his saliva, before regaining his composure.

Hilda shooed the maid, ushering her to leave the kitchen, and she watched in silence as
the maid left. As the girl closed the kitchen door, Hilda began speaking in soft, caring tones
to him. Yet, despite his bedraggled state, she noticed his dignity and familiar personal power
exuding from him.

"My God, you look awful," she said, as she observed his hands, which were blue from
cold. "1 can see by the seal on your bag that you're no ordinary messenger. Please, sit down.
Tell me, where have you come from and what is your business?" She motioned him to sit
closer to the fire.

She placed his leather messenger's bag down upon the table, and noticed the wax seal still
intact upon the clasp. Taking his hands in hers, she began gently rubbing them, warming
and reinvigorating the flow of blood to his numbed fingers, and heard his teeth chattering,
barely managing to speak. She saw him nod his thanks to her as she tried to calm his
shivering.

"M— My name is Henry. 1 have to find Duke William. 1 have brought the gravest news
from England. 1 am told that Robert Fitzerneis dwells here, and that he will know where the
duke is to be found." Henry said through chattering teeth.

"First, you must warm yourself. You look as if you will drop dead at any moment. Just
rest here while 1 go fetch my husband." Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she looked him
over before leaving the room.

As Hilda walked off to another part of the lodge to find her husband, Henry sat and
enjoyed the warmth of the fire. He could feel the unpleasant tingling in his fingers and toes
that he recognized as a sign of mild frostbite. His damp clothes, such as they were, began to
steam from the nearness of the fire. He turned the spit and smelt the juices as they dripped
into the fire, making crackling sounds as fire and fat met to fuel yet more flames. On the
table was a large leather flagon. It still contained some wine, and he wondered if it would be
right to take a sip. He thought better of this act of theft, and resisted the temptation.

His noticed the sweet smell of lavender that cast his thoughts back to the beginning of his
journey, when a lady he had known as Mary had given the message he was to deliver. She
was an undersized woman with flame red hair who received her orders from a monk who
was a remnant of the days when confessions were given in the private chapel at the court of
King Edward. The monk, known only as Charles the Hairy because of his total baldness,
always had Edward's ear. He was the messenger of the king's private thoughts, which flew
back and forth to the king's family of sycophants in Normandy. Charles was a wily man,
with a network of runners to the coast, and kept Duke William informed as to the state of
affairs in England.

Mary was just such a runner in the employ of Charles. She was a strong-willed woman
whose husband had died in a fight with a peasant farmer many years previously. She gave
Henry succor when he needed to have the company of a woman. He didn't have feelings for
this woman other than an appreciation for her intelligence and her skills in bed.

On the morning of his departure to Normandy, she had passed over to him three gold,
and ten silver coins, and the sealed bag containing the message he was to deliver to Duke
William. Henry felt privileged that he'd been chosen to perform this momentous task.

He'd never had positive feelings for the Godwinson family, so this mission, for him, had
become a sacred task, a crusade of good over evil. They run the place as if they were bloody
kings. Now that thieving Harold really has stolen my master's crown. Boy, when Duke William gets
hold of Earl Harold, he'll twist his head so that when he's walking north, he'll he looking south. He
chuckled at the thought. My lord will have his coddlings for this transgression; that'll teach the
usurping toad to steal my lord's crown.

Henry was pulled from his reverie by the sound of voices from another part of the lodge
that became louder as the speakers approached the door. Soon a tall, muscular man opened
the door and walked into the kitchen followed by his lady, Hilda. He had large, dark brown
eyes, a Roman nose, and very short black hair. He wore a sheepskin jerkin and fleece boots
that covered his linen hose that finished well above his knees. The man had an athletic
appearance about him, and Henry took and educated guess that Robert was a trained
warrior; a man who knew the hardships of fighting and the suffering that the elements could
bring to any man when exposed to such extremes, just as he'd done in oft times past.

Robert approached him and looked for something on the back of Henry's right hand,
something Hilda had seen. Robert clasped the man's wrist and looked carefully at the back
of Henry's now normal, pink hand. The tattoo, amongst the wrinkles, depicted a goose. It
was faded, but confirmation to Robert who now knew this man was no serf. He lifted his

own youthful hand to the eyes of the messenger; the goose was clearly visible. A knowing
look of admiration and respect, and a smile rested upon Robert's face, for he knew Henry,
too, had been a warrior in his youth. Robert felt sympathy for Henry's bedraggled and
distressed state.

There was a note of respect in his voice that Henry sensed and welcomed.

"My wife informs me that your name is Henry, and that you've brought important news.
Tell me, Henry, what is it?" Robert asked as they sat taking the warmth of the fire. There was
silence for a moment as Robert once more looked at the back of Henry's hand.

Then Henry spoke abruptly; then he realized that he'd taken Robert by surprise. "Sir, my
message is for the Duke's ears only. What 1 can say is that there is a new king on the English
throne. My orders are to convey my message to the duke, himself. 1 need to find him soon,
and 1 am told you know where he is to be found."

Robert gave the man a hard look. He knew what this news would mean. Once William
had this information, there would be a full-scale mobilization.

"Duke William's current location is at his hunting lodge, a little to the south of Quenilly.
It's a good day's ride, and clearly, you look very ill; 1 should accompany you." Robert
poured two goblets of wine and passed one to Henry, and watched as Henry sipped from it
slowly.

Henry took a bite of bread and a slice of hot horsemeat, washing it down with another
mouthful of wine. His appetite was now returning to normal, and he felt the fire warming
the deepest parts of his being. He was tempted to ask for shelter for the night, but he had a
mission to accomplish. The pleasures of a warm bed, he pondered, would have to wait.

"No, sir; as 1 have said, I've strict orders. 1 have been told that 1 must be totally alone
throughout my journey."

"As you wish, but you must take this path." Robert said reaching out for a stick and using
the implement, Robert drew a map in the smooth ash deposit on the hearth, giving detailed
instructions of the signs that Henry should look for en route.

Henry looked on, taking in the information he needed to complete his task.

"There're robbers on these roads, and this path should keep you safe. Perhaps the night
journey would keep you out of harm's way, but the coldness of this night might slow your
progress. 1 can see you're a good and reliable servant, Henry, and I'm sure you will fulfill
your mission," Robert said as he looked for Hilda; seeing her through the partially open
door, he called to her.

"Hilda, bring Henry some food to take with him." He turned to look once more at Henry.

"I'll see that you have a fresh horse. You shall have warm clothes, a new sheepskin jerkin,
and a good hat." Robert reached out and gently, touched Henry's arm. With a kind look in
his eyes for a man dedicated to his task; he then lightly squeezed his arm, and noticed that
Henry's response was one of embarrassment. Robert smiled and apologized.

"1 thank you, sir. You're a good man. 1 will inform the duke of your kindness and
generosity." Henry looked up to see that Hilda had brought fresh clothing, allowing Henry
to change into comfortable attire for the first time in many days.

Robert called for a stable boy to ready a fresh horse, whilst Hilda prepared some food for
Henry to carry on his journey. After fastening his boots, Henry rose from the chair, took the
bag from the table and placed it over his shoulder.

120

"Now, I must be on my way." He said as he reached for Hilda and held her hands in his.

"Be safe. 1 know what you are. 1 noticed the tattoo on your hand. You are a good man."

Henry made no reply; he was feeling self-conscious about being recognized. His head
bowed a little, and he just smiled; then he turned toward the door where Robert was waiting.

Robert shepherded the messenger through the door and outside to the waiting horse.

"When you've completed your task, Henry, you must return to spend time with us,"
Robert said, as he patted Henry's leg, his smile sincere.

Henry smiled back and whispered, "Thank you; 1 wiU," Henry said, then kicked the horse,
and he started the last part of his journey. As he rode off into the night he looked over his
shoulder and saw Robert and Hilda waving goodbye.

Henry rode hard for the first few minutes or so to warm the muscles of his fresh steed.
His steed was a good horse, intelligent, too, and he sensed it, responding well to his reins. To
conserve the beast's energy, Henry then slowed the animal to a canter as he made his way
through the darkness to Quenilly, where Henry suspected that William would be quarrying
his prey with hounds, the next morning.

The frost-laden air once more took a grievous bite at the man who fought back like a
dragon slayer, falling; then picking himself up to fight back against the freezing foe.

After some time, Henry was still pleased with his mount; it seemed to just want to gallop,
with no thought for its tired limbs. But he felt he ought to stop and rest the horse. As he
came across a small clearing, he pulled up the horse and dismounted. The moon was full and
bright, its rays almost as if they were for him only, illuminating the scene as if it were
daylight. He walked the horse for a while to avoid its shivering, and tethered the snorting
beast, its sweat steaming off like hot water from a boiling cauldron. He couldn't feel his
fingers, but in the darkness, couldn't see the damage the frost had done to them. As best he
could, he hitched the animal to a tree then took from his saddlebag a pig's bladder that held
the wine he had been given. He took some food, ate, and drank his fill; then he remounted.

The cold night air became his enemy once more, the wind more vicious and menacing. He
felt his bones as he had never felt them. His skin, despite his sheepskin covering, was
clammy and cold; and the shivering became intense. Henry was beginning to feel inwardly
cold and very tired, almost exhausted. He rode on utilizing what the moonlight afforded to
him to light his way, taking the safest route towards the lodge where Walter Giffard, Duke
William's right-hand man and childhood friend, would be taking care of the duke's business.

The morning light was just showing when at last Henry came in sight of the duke's lodge.

Alan was brushing out the coat of his first horse of the morning when he noticed
something. He paused at the sight of the weary traveler, who was slumped across the neck
of the horse that was walking towards him. Alan approached the man and took the bridle in
his hands. Philippe ran towards the rider and helped him dismount. Henry could barely
stand, so Philippe half carried him to a log a couple of paces away and seated the man down
upon it. Alan passed over to Philippe the horse's woolen blanket, and led the horse away to
stable the beast.

"Leave the horse for now. You'd better call Walter Giffard, and quickly, Alan. This man is
near to death." He noticed the leather bag that carried a seal upon it. He looks like a messenger,
too, Philippe thought as he rubbed Henry's ice-cold hands observing the man's acutely
blackened fingers. He glanced at the rider's nose, and he saw that, too, was in a blacked

state, and the flesh was fl-ozen. PhiUppe knew, fl-onr experience, this meant the death of the
man's extremities, and soon the messenger would die of exposure or gangrene.

Henry was breathless and exhausted after his long and arduous journey. Fighting to get
the news out, he almost collapsed forward, trying to fight off the desire to sleep. Gulping in
his breath, thick in the freezing cold morning air, Henry was weary, but trying his hardest to
collect his thoughts.

In side the lodge, Alan spoke with Walter about the rider. "He looks very ill, sir, Philippe
is with him, and we're not happy about his condition."

"Very well, Alan. 1 suppose 1 ought to go and see what he has to say," Giffard replied, as
he tied his straps around his leggings. He looked upwards, his ears straining to hear the
noise in the distance. Dogs barked, and horns began to blow. When Giffard approached
Henry, it was with cold curiosity. Giffard waved Philippe away from the messenger, and
Philippe strolled back to join Alan in the lodge.

Henry looked up at Giffard, and observed that he was not a tall man, but strong and
stocky. His hair was blond and his eyes a soft light blue-gray.

"He's a messenger, alright." Philippe said as he looked back from the doorway "It looks as
if he's come a long way, too. What's more, we ought to have brought him inside, and
warmed him by the fire."

Alan shrugged his shoulders. "The man is all but dead, and the warmth of a fire wouldn't
be of any help to him; you know that." Alan replied as he warmed his hands by the fire.

Philippe closed the door; then joined his brother by the fire. "You're right of course. It's
too late for him, and 1 hope that the man is able to pass on his message, though he has a bag
with a sealed clasp.

Outside, Giffard gazed down at the wretched soul before him. He nudged his boot,
disturbing then man, who was still desperately trying to keep from falling asleep.

"Well, what is it you've come here for? Is it a message?" Giffard asked indignantly.

Henry tried to speak, but as before, the cold had once more taken its deadly grip on him.
He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn't do his bidding; he'd lost all feeling in them.

"In God's name, man, what is it?" Giffard demanded, dearly irritated with the man's lack
of instant cooperation. Giffard held him by his tunic, pulling him close, almost nose to nose.
Giffard realized that the messenger's physical exhaustion was total, and he allowed Henry to
sit back down.

"King Edward is dead, sir. On King Edward's death, Harold Godwinson took the crown,
and was enthroned on the very same day as the funeral of the old king." Henry said.

Giffard was astounded and visibly stunned at this news. Thinking fast, he knew he had to
tell Duke William, but how? Giffard looked at the poor, wretched man thoughtfully, and
placed his hand on the man's shoulder and saw that the messenger was now barely
conscious and desperately fighting to stay alive. His thoughts turned to how William would
react when he received the information.

"Harold Godwinson is now King of England! Stay right where you are, and 1 will come
back for you. You must tell the duke exactly what you have just told me. Exactly; got it?"

"Yes, sire, exactly." Henry replied groggily, his eyes began rolling, looking to hide behind
his eyelids. His head slumped down onto his chest, and he fell asleep.

Giffard walked briskly towards his horse, and was visibly shaking and was barely able to
mount his horse. At last, he set himself onto the saddle and geed up his mount. With
trepidation in his heart, he rode off into the hunting grounds to find Duke William. In the
distance he could hear the hounds barking, and it was not long before he saw them chasing
the duke's quarry through to a clearing towards where William would be waiting to kill his
deer.

Giffard caught sight of the Duke, who was standing behind a tree with a crossbow and
made sure the duke had killed his deer before going anywhere near him.

As the deer fell before him, Duke William heard Giffard, who was some way behind, call
to him.

"William! William! News! News!" Giffard called at the top of his lungs.

Duke William Forkbeard was aged twenty-nine years and stood taller than any man in
the dukedom. His body was supple, of solid rippling muscle. To his enemies, he was known
as William, the Bastard. His bright red hair was always in disarray giving him a wild look.
He sported untamed sideburns, an unkempt red beard, and bright piercing blue eyes that
would turn a man to stone at a mere glance from him. He was a cunning, murderous man,
with a temper that would have put the fear of God into God!

William mounted his steed and looked towards Walter Giffard, who was waving to catch
his attention. With a puzzled look, he rode hard towards him. "What the hell is going on,
Giffard? This had better be good, or by God 111 have you stripped and whipped!" William
said, staring at Giffard demanding an explanation.

"You must follow me, William. A messenger has news of the greatest importance."

William sat upright, and looked about him, and beckoned with his arm toward his retinue
that they should follow.

"This had better be the best news 1 have ever heard, Walter, because 1 was having the
finest hunt 1 have had in months. So, you'd better tell me; what is it?"

"A messenger from England, he has news of the greatest concern and needs to tell you
from his own lips." Giffard replied hoping the wrath from William would fall on anyone but
him.

William glanced at Giffard with a hardness he reserved only for fools and rogues. "You
know something, Walter Giffard. You're thoughts reek of pig piss. Now; tell me; where is
this messenger?"

"Yonder, about five hundred paces; follow me; he is exhausted from his journey." Giffard
turned his horse about, and William followed cantering a few paces behind. Coming into the
clearing Giffard saw the messenger just as he'd left him, and the messenger was seemingly
asleep. To the messenger's side was his mailbag. Giffard approached the messenger and
shook his shoulder to awaken the man, but Henry fell to one side, lifeless.

Giffard froze. He felt faint. What was he to do now? Walter looked up at William, and
panic gripped him as he felt his stomach muscles tighten. He could handle anything, but this
was something he had never trained for.

"Oh, my God, he's dead!" Giffard exclaimed. His legs began to shake, his mind racing.
What, he thought, am I to do now? Giffard picked up the messenger's mailbag and gave it to
William, but William tossed the bag back to him.

He saw the duke glare back at him, for William was illiterate and Giffard knew it, too.

"You'd better open the bag Walter. After all, what is the point of paying a monkey if you
have to do all the work yourself?" William's frown changed to a smile; the duke then
chuckled; then winked at Giffard.

"It's sealed. My Lord. Look, the seal is unbroken," Giffard replied holding up the bag.
Giffard broke the seal, opened the bag, and took out the contents, guessing what it would
read. Giffard sensed that his nervousness was now becoming acutely visible to the duke.

William could see Giffard's posture and suspected he knew the contents of the letter.

"You know what it says; don't you, Walter?" William barked, his eyes narrowing to a
frown.

"The bag was sealed, William, and the letter has a seal, too. Look, it's intact." Walter lifted
the letter to show his master, his arm shaking violently. Thinking he would now be
whipped, Giffard moved a pace or two backward keeping well out of range.

"Well, you'd better read the contents, then," William ordered becoming irritated.

Giffard gingerly broke the second seal and unrolled the parchment, his mind working
overtime, knowing that William would explode; and he didn't want to be on the receiving
end of his master's fury. Visibly shaking he managed to read the message. "Out loud, sire?"
Giffard asked, politely, as if he needed to ask.

"Yes, out loud! Well, let's have the news. What does the letter say, man?" William
demanded, impatiently.

Giffard sensed William was becoming more irritable by the second. As he looked at the
words, his mind raced to make sense of the contents, wondering how he could soften the
blow of this momentous message he held in his grasp. He felt the sweat run down his cheeks
making him feel uncomfortable. The palms of his hands became tacky, and he took in a deep
breath, but it made no difference.

"To . . .to my noble Lord, William. 1 have to inform you that our gradous King Edward,
whom God gave us ... so ... so .. .so did God take from us on this the fifth day of January,
in . . .in . . .in the twenty-fourth year of his reign." Giffard gulped for more air, desperate to
compose himself. He felt the warm, yet horrid trickle of urine run down his left leg.
William's eyes lit up. His face beamed a grin that would have made the top of his head fall
off if the edges had met. Giffard crossed himself and whispered a short prayer imder his
breath. "How on earth," he thought, "am 1 going to relay the rest of the message's contents?"

"Edward is dead. Then we must make haste to England. Giffard, we must go prepare
ourselves for a coronation," William said jovially.

Giffard threw a hesitant look towards his master; he stammered as he searched for the
words he knew would make the duke explode. He knew that William would never be able to
contain his anger so fierce, that Giffard feared the sun and would run and hide from the
duke.

"M . . . my. Lord, there is more," Giffard blurted wondering if this was to be his last day
on earth. This was something he had not experienced before. His imagination began to take
control; he saw himself burning at a stake, the flames licking at his legs, when he was
startled abruptly, back to reality.

"What do you mean; morel" William asked quizzically, leaning forward, as if hard of
hearing.

Giffard felt faint; he really wanted not to be there any longer.

124

"Giffard!" William roared. "What else is there 1 should know? Come on, spit it out!"
Giffard looked at his feet, and with a stammering voice, Giffard exclaimed. "Harold
Godwinson has been crowned King of England, my lord."

William's face turned bright blue, and his surge of anger, made everyone near him back
away for fear the duke would lash out and kill.

Giffard ran to the bushes, as his legging filled with a wetness unusual for him, and hid
out of sight, leaving his mount to trot off into the woods, where it stopped and grazed.

William's eyes bulged, and the muscles in his face began to pulsate. He began huffing and
puffing as the saliva was forced from between his teeth. A deep gurgling sound came from
his throat until he at last was able to articulate the words his brain forced through his vocal
chords.

"BY THE BLACK BALLS OF LUCIFER, 1 WILL HAVE MY REVENGE, GODWINSON! 1
WILL TAN THE HIDE OFF YOUR BODY, AND ALIVE; 1 WILL BOIL YOUR BLOODIED
BODY IN TAR!"

If Harold Godwinson could not hear this promise, the rest of the world surely did!
William was so enraged that his horse tried to bolt from under him. William took control of
the reins and brought the horse once more imder his control, then tirrning in his saddle,
looked about for any sign of Walter Giffard.

"Where the hell is Walter Giffard? GIFFARD!" William bellowed, whilst looking about for
and not seeing any sign of him until Giffard crawled out from behind the bush he had
hidden in some moments before and showed himself to William, who pointed to Engenulf-
of-Laigle, a companion of many years.

"Engenulf, 1 want you and the Domfront brothers to inform Matilda. Tell her that the
household is to be made ready for our immediate return," William ordered.

Engenulf beckoned toward Alan and Philippe to follow him, and without a word, Alan
and Philippe each mounted a horse, and the three men then rode off in the direction of the
castle.

William watched the riders receding for a moment and turned to Giffard. "Walter, you stay
by my side; is that understood?"

Giffard nodded and re mounted his horse.

William turned his horse about, and the rest of his retinue followed him back to the
hunting lodge to change horses at the stables.

On their journey to the castle, Engenulf looked at Philippe, smiling broadly. "You two
reprobates have joined our merry band at just the right moment. It would seem we are in for
a fun time, Philippe."

Alan looked confused and leaned towards Engenulf, eagerly wanting to have his curiosity
satisfied. "Tell me, Engenulf, what the hell was all that about? I've never seen Giffard so
frightened in all the time 1 have been here. He's a tough neck, but heck, he pissed himself
when the boss raged. Are you going to tell us what went on? You were the nearest to him."

"What do you know of England, where the Saxons live?" Engenulf asked.

"Philippe and 1 have been there only once, and then only for a couple of days. Their king
is called Edward, other than that, not much else. Why do you ask, Engenulf?" Alan replied.

"Not to put too fine a judgment on it, Alan: William was promised the English crown
when King Edward died. It looks like one of his top earls has taken the crown for himself. So

there may be some arse to be kicked when WiUiam decides he needs to collect his due
reward." Alan looked across at Philippe, who, in return, looked back, shrugging his
shoulders. Philippe drew his horse nearer to Engenulf, their legs almost touching as they
cantered along the muddy road back to the castle.

"So, what happens now then?" Philippe asked, looking intrigued.
"I've no idea, Philippe," Engenulf replied shrugging his shoulders, and pulling a face. "As
William's bodyguards, we will, no doubt, be required to accompany him to England while
he endeavors to wrestle his throne from whoever has it. 1 doubt it will mean a fight or
anything, just a matter of a hand-over of power, 1 should think. It's quite normal for someone
to step in to look after the place when the king dies until the rightful heir is able to return
from wherever he is."

"Who has control until then?" Philippe had a look of intrigued excitement about him.

"Harold Godwinson. It seems he may have overstepped his boundaries somewhat."

"You mean he has taken the crown for himself, and made himself king?"

"That's about the size of it, Philippe. Though, between you and me, he'll give it up when
Duke William comes to claim his rightful position. As for Harold, 1 quite like the man. He
has balls, and is very clever, too. He was on an expedition with us when we had to quell an
uprising in the south, not so long back. My guess is that their council has just put him in
charge of things for a while. 1 don't think he's really been crowned king or anything like
that," Engulf looked quite confident in his evaluation of the situation and gave a smug grin.

"But the duke blew his top. What was all that about?" Alan asked curiously.

"It's his way; he's always doing that. 1 would pay little attention to it." Engulf said as the
trio approached the castle gates, in time to see them opening before them, and they entered
the courtyard. As they dismounted, three stable boys took their horses and began to
unsaddle and feed their steeds.

"I'd better go seek out Matilda, and tell her what 1 know, and keep my head down; she can
be fiery, too, you know. You two can go and get yourselves rested for awhile if you like."

"It's a warm fire we need, Engenulf. But I'm sure Alan and 1 will find sufficient warmth,
once we get to the kitchens and fill our bellies," Philippe replied waving towards his
colleague as Engenulf strolled off in the direction where Matilda held court.

Engenulf walked briskly to the duke's private quarters and made his entrance into the
anti-chamber, to be greeted by Matilda, Duke William's long suffering wife.

"My lady, there is news King Edward is dead. Earl Harold has been crown king; and my
master will soon be approaching the castle, and 1 need to brief you in full all that has been
said by a messenger sent from England," Engenulf said, trying to find a line that would not
upset her, too much.

"1 hope that I'm not to lose my husband to yet another campaign. My husband nearly
died once, Engenulf. 1 almost lost him to the worst enemy of all, 'illness'. However, he did
recover, but not before being given the last rites by his chaplain." She placed her hand upon
the young man's arm and smiled warmly at this trusted servant.
Engenulf smiled and nodded lightly; he understood well enough.

"Thank you, Engenulf; you look like you could do with a hot bath and a good meal; go to
one of the chambers to rest, Jenny will see to your requirements," she said as she motioned
to a maid to escort Engenulf to a room.

Matilda strode over to, and looked out from, a window high above the courtyard. She
carried her twenty-eight years very well. Her body constantly pregnant and rounded, yet not
fat. Her large, voluptuous breasts gave the impression that they started from her midriff and
ended just short of the base of the short stub of her neck. She had a round face, a small,
petite nose, and bright red hair. She was small, almost a midget, unlike her father, Baldwin,
Count-of-Flanders, who was as tall as William.

Matilda was the mother of three of the twenty or so children playing in the courtyard.
Devoted to them as she was, she was stern, almost to the point of cruelty. She knew only too
well that they must learn to stand on their own two feet, for their father had many enemies,
and they were in constant danger of kidnapping. She recalled their father, William, had been
the victim of a couple of rather touch-and-go abduction attempts when he was just a small
boy. He made sure that Matilda kept a careful watch on them at all times.

Robert, the eldest, was quite a handsome child, a happy go-lucky-boy of thirteen years
with a strong physique and bright blue eyes who was always running away and hiding and
avoiding confrontation. Richard was a shy eleven year old and was physically an
underdeveloped child. Being a careful person, he avoided anyone with an illness for fear he
would catch it and die of some ague. WiUiam Junior was six years of age. He was a strong,
but thin boy with coloring like his parents, but much redder in complexion. The capillaries
on his face stood out and spread like roots of a plant. His brothers took every opportunity to
remind WiUiam that he was a red face or Rufus.

Matilda thought of her daughters and of those that she'd lost shortly after childbirth, and
a tear for he dead children occasionally took her by surprise. Today was to be no exception,
for she named each of her dear departed before they were buried. She crossed herself and
mumbled each of their names as she strode into her bedchamber.

Jenny, Matilda's personal maid, walked into the bedchamber, where she put the clean
linen in fine cedar chests, carved with animal designs and intertwining ribbons like snakes.

Matilda swiveled about, and she noticed Jenny with an arm full of linen. "Go and collect
the children, and bring them here, Jenny," Matilda ordered.

Jenny bowed her head submissively. "Yes, ma'am. Will that be all, my lady?" the girl asked.
Matilda nodded and strode over to another window giving her yet another commanding
view, then waved her arm, sending Jenny from the room.

Matilda's thoughts were of William, her yoimgest son. Thinking aloud was a trait Matilda
had possessed from childhood, "1 must see to it that he is taken care of now that Harold has
been crowned king. That means that William will make plans to invade England. Their
father may die in battle; if the boys have no father then it is 1 who must rule the dukedom of
Normandy against the wolves, securing the dukedom for Robert until he comes of age. Oh,
William. Do we really need England? Do we really not have enough?"

Her thoughtful musing was broken by the noise of movement and voices in the courtyard
below. She looked down once more to see Jenny walking below, gathering the three boys
while the other children were being ushered away to play outside the boundary wall. Deep
in thought, she mused to herself, "1 must ask William for permission to send young William
to be educated away from Normandy, where he will be safe from harm, should calamity
befall us."

She thought on WiUiam's expected reactions to this request, but she hoped that he really
would not mind. He nearly always granted her every desire, but this was a little different.
He often took the boys hunting with him; and he trained them in the art of warfare himself.
From the hall, she could hear her boys running up the stairway, and the calls from Jenny to
be careful.

"Not so fast masters; please, not so fast!" William was first through the door.

"Mother, Robert has killed fifteen men with one blow from his sword!"

"Did he now?" Matilda replied with a smile so wide that she could hardly control her
delight at their playfulness.

"Well, it's only pretend fighting. We just made up a game that we invaded Main, and the
occupants were too frightened to come out. So we went in and slaughtered the mayor and
his retinue until the townspeople surrendered the town to us," Robert replied in a matter of
fact tone.

"You have your father's cunning, Robert." Matilda smiled as she patted the boy's head.

"Indeed, no. Mother; for it was William's idea. He thought up the plan; he is very good at
that sort of thing, you know."

"Is he now? Well let us see how good your cunning is in class. Your tutor has been here
for over an hour, so you had better make your way to your rooms for schooling, my boys.
Jenny, see to it they wash and are clean of clothing before they go to their tutor. Go on, boys;
off you go, and be courteous to the tutor."

"Yes, Mother," said the boys in unison, and off they went with Jenny in hot pursuit.
An hour later, the soimd of horses came to Matilda's ear as she looked out to see her
husband and his entourage slowly approaching the gates of the great castle. William rode
slightly behind with two knights leading the way.

"Open the gates!" came the call from below. The men who manned the gates pulled on
the great wheel, which drew the ropes that, in turn, pulled the great gate open. William
entered, along with thirty or so men-at-arms. The smell of horses and the steam of sweating
horseflesh always made Matilda feel nauseous. She looked away, and made her way to the
Great Hall two floors below to await her husband. Calling the servants together, Matilda
ordered them to ensure the fires were well stacked and cauldrons hot. The cooks were set to
feed the men-at-arms and the livery boys sent to see the horses stabled. Her orders were
always obeyed to the letter and at once.

"Jenny, make sure there is plenty of hot water in the master's bedchamber. Be quick about
it, girl; the master will want to bathe the moment he comes through the door." Jenny curtsied
respectfully and made her way to the duke's bedchamber, taking with her several under-
maids to do the bidding of their mistress.

Shivering from the cold, William and Giffard entered the great hall. William threw away
his gloves to land unceremoniously onto the floor. They walked straight towards the great
open fireplace, roaring with a wood fire that crackled and spat. The fire's warmth was the
most welcoming feeling to the two men as they rubbed their hands and stamped their feet.
William spoke in a soft but meaningful tone as he warmed his hands.

"If it had been anyone else, Walter, 1 would have torn out their throats for giving such
news. As soon as summer is upon us and we have the necessary men, material, and ships,
we'll be on our way to England. Gilbert, the Bishop of Lisieux, is ready to be off within the

128

next few hours to see the pope. He's writing the letter giving full details; he has a full clerical
entourage, and will leave tonight."

"You don't hang about, William. Do you think the pope will give us leave and money for
the venture?" Giffard asked.

"He will. He knows there are riches in it for him when we take England. The greedy toad
won't turn down a chance to get his hands on a fortune. Such an investment would yield
him more than a fair return, Walter." William's nose wrinkled. "What the hell is that smell?
It's you, Walter, you stink of piss! Jesus, go stand over there, or change those leggings or
something." The duke watched as Walter dutifully moved out of reach of William's nose.

"I'm sorry, William. 1 pissed myself back there. You know— full bladder and all that, the
excitement of the moment, too, of course."

"The fear of my wrath, more like. Well, see you get bathed and changed. You just stay
where you are for the time being," replied William, who was now happily warming himself
by the blazing fire. He gazed up towards the wooden beams, contemplating his next move.

"We will invade England and knock the usurping swine off of his ivory tower, Walter."

"You jest, of course? You don't have the resources for such an invasion, surely; even with
the help of the pope," Giffard replied, wishing he could be dose enough to gain some of the
fire's warmth.

William glanced at him, smiled, and threw him a sly wink. "1 will, soon enough, Walter.
Messages were sent out before we left the hunting grounds, whilst you were hiding from my
rage. Don't worry, Walter, 1 fuUy understood. 1 would have killed the next man who'd
spoken— be it my father, mother, or whoever. 1 was so enraged, but you were only delivering
the message; 1 understand that."

"Well, you can be a bit drastic, William. Impulse was always your way, since we were
boys." Giffard said. Giffard was William's only true friend, and the only person on the planet
who understood the great and ferodous duke.

"1 know that 1 can get a bit hot at times, Walter, but heck, the place is full of idiots and
fools of every kind; they drive one's patience to distraction. What with those dever bloody
clergy, and their clever bloody scribes who look down upon me because 1 can't get a grasp of
reading and writing. Scribes with quill pens never won a battle, Walter. Only brave men win
battles, not bloody quill pens," William said, with an indignant tone. "If they knew what 1
had to contend with as a child, they might just understand," William said noticing Giffard
smirk.

"Don't mock me, Walter. For sure 1 will kill you stone dead if you do! 1 will be your king
one day, very soon. So if you value your position, you had better secure your mouth."

"Hey, steady on, William. 1 was just thinking of all those clergy and scribes lined up for
battle, ready to throw quills at the enemy, and to be honest, 1 nearly laughed at the idea. No
more than that, 1 assure you. One day, though, some scribe will write a great book all about
your great adventure. So you can't put them all down."

William looked at Giffard, his nose wrinkled at the stink emanating from his urine-stained
friend. "Well, it's not a good time, Walter. I'm a king now; 1 need time to prepare to gather
my thoughts about my kingdom. You're getting too dose again, Walter. Now, get out of my
sight; go and bathe; you stink of piss.
Rex illiteratus asinus coronatus, Walter thought.

129

"Before you go and bathe, what think you of the two new boys?" asked WiUianr,
inquisitively.

"You mean the Domfront brothers, Alan and Philippe? To be honest, William, they are
very bright. It's why the monk, Cecil, hired them when we were recruiting in Caen. Philippe
has had full training with the French king, and has passed this training on to his brother.
They will be an asset to us I'm sure of that. Philippe, especially, can give commands and
never needs telling twice. His brother, Alan, speaks good English. He will be useful, too."
William stared at Giffard, nodded his head and held his fingers to his nose.

"For the third time, are you going to get rid of the smell of piss, or what, Walter?"
Giffard smiled and turned to leave, passing Matilda as he did so, smiled, and walked on.

Matilda crossed the great hall to greet her husband, smiling and with her arms out-
stretched. "My dear husband, you're looking a little pensive. We need to talk about your
plans for England. But first, you need to bathe and eat, as you bid Walter. Your bath has all
been prepared, and we can talk about your plans later my dear."

"My sweet plum, we have no plans to invade as yet, but they will come together as the
weeks go by. Godwinson should have been dead weeks ago. It looks like my man, Eumer,
messed up. Be assured, my love. 1 will come to no harm. 1 can see in your eyes that you are
concerned for my welfare. Think positively, Matilda. We will soon have a kingdom for our
children to inherit, with power and riches beyond your imagination. You will be a queen, my
dear."

"The price for all this . . . is?" Matilda asked standing, staring at him with her arms
crossed.

"What do you mean, price? There will only be war if Godwinson refuses to relinquish my
throne."

"William, many good men will die. Some of them will be your closest friends. Do you
wish this fate on your associates, just so that you can be King of England? Don't we have
enough, my dear?" Matilda's eyes had a pleading but resigned look about them. "If you're so
determined to have a kingdom of your own, think on. You're powerful enough to declare
Normandy a kingdom, separate from France. The defense of our territory would be far easier
than mounting an expedition to England."

"No, my love, it doesn't quite work like that. The pope would back the French king,
Phillip. As Baldwin is his man, he could be very persuasive. He would, likely as not, offer the
pope half of Normandy, if he sided with him and won against us. We would lose through
force of numbers against us, Matilda. No, England is a good land, and rich, too. We could
take it easily with the pope's money and his blessing. Godwinson will be hard pushed to
defend England, if 1 could make certain alliances to split his forces. After all, even Harold
Godwinson can't be in two places at once, my sweet little plum." William rubbed his hands
together, smiled and winked at her.

"You have a scheme brewing, William. 1 can smell it."

"Indeed 1 do, my love, indeed 1 do," William said grinning; his natural cunning was once
more showing signs of re-emergence. "Come here, my petite wife, 1 feel a little. . . ."

Matilda stopped him with her finger to his lips. "Not before you have bathed. 1 could
smell your odor from the courtyard." She strolled away, looking back over her shoulder, a
romantic glint in her eyes.

CHAPTER TEN

A MEETING OF MINDS

The morning sun, having just burned the early mist from the surrounding pastures
seemed without energy enough to warm the air. The clouds were mere wisps of horsetails,
and the sky was a light blue with a hint of red on the horizon. By its natural cooling
freshness, the breeze tempered any warmth that the bright yellow, life-giving star wished to
endow. High above, the last of the migrating birds were arriving from their wintering
grounds. The seagulls called out, screeching as if to warn of an ill portent about to befall the
listener.

Harold stood atop the Dover cliffs, scanning the sea. As he peered across the choppy
waters of the English Channel, he felt the chilly north wind which made his teeth chatter,
which was not unusual for a late July day. Harold could see the coastal cliffs of France, some
nineteen miles to the south. The silent white streak of the French coastline broke the sky
sharply from the sea. He looked at the fishing vessels of every kind working between the
two shores, some taking lobster, others cod. Harold was happy that trade was flourishing
between the two countries as the vessels plied their wares back and forth.

Harold had lain awake all night looking up through the window at the clear night sky,
observing the strange star with its long tail, and he wondered if the fortune-tellers knew
something that he didn't. The peripatetic star had seemed to have an odd, ghostly
appearance and could be see from many coimtries; visitors had told him that they, too, could
see the star. His advisors were very worried, telling him that this great object foretold that a
great calamity would befall the country.

"Bah! The streaking star looks over the Normans just as it is does over England!"
exclaimed Harold, his expletive comment lost to the wind. His thoughts turned to the Witan
and the imminent threats that the country now faced from two fronts. He mumbled on, as if
talking to an invisible friend. He kicked at a dead seagull, sending it tumbling down the
white cliffs into the foaming waves below. That's how I'll deal with any invasion, he thought.
The Witan cannot foretell what will happen. They may he a wise and noble assembly, but they can't
see how my mind will deal with the forces of evil we are about to face. I did my level best to see that the
rightful heir to the throne had his opportunity to rule after Edward died. I didn't want to be king, but
there was no alternative. The bastard, William, would have made a misery of the Saxon nation and
brought ruination upon us if his claim had been accepted by the Witan. I know what must be done. I'll
consult with my brothers, Swein, Gyrth, and Leofwine, for the time is now at hand. Harold turned
about, and slowly walked back to the castle that stood a few hundred paces from the cliffs.

His thoughts shifted to his wayward brother, Tostig. Damn that dimwitted brother ofminel I
can't believe that he was stupid enough to ravage the southern coast of England. He took the Isle of
Wight, stripped it of all its resources, and then hied himself off to shelter in the Norman ports. At least
the duke saw fit to eject him from his lands. Now he's seeking shelter with Harald Sigurdsson. You
stupid, queer bastard, you screw up everything! Harold fumed at the times Tostig and Edward
had gone behind the dosed and very private doors of the king's bedchamber. "He screws
ducks, pigs, children, husbands, their wives, even nuns, and then he screws the bloody king!
Now he is trying to screw England!" He seethed, muttering his thoughts through his teeth.
Once more, Harold's words were lost, this time to the sound of seagulls screeching above

him. What if I gave the crown to William, and I served him as my lord, he wondered. Could I
possibly control him? No, he would never allow the privilege of life to me, or my family. He would kill
all us Godwinsons, and then he would fill England with sycophantic Normans, just as Edward did.
Perhaps I should invade Normandy. I could take him in the rear and nip his claim in the bud. I would
need to discuss with Swein and Brithnoth the possible logistics of such an operation.

Harold's eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed, as a stern, determined look molded his
features. His fist smashed into the palm of his left hand. "I'm king of this land! Those who
wish to come fight and die; let them come. 1 will give them only as much land as they are
tall, nothing more!" he muttered through clenched teeth.

Harold turned towards a voice calling against the cold, driving wind. A tall youth of
fifteen years of age stood in a side doorway of the castle. He was waving frantically as he
tried to attract Harold's attention.

"My lord, the council awaits you!"

Harold smiled at Cedric. He was proud of his tall and muscular yet illegitimate son, with
bright, almost ginger hair. His blue eyes were full of the innocence of youth, yet they were
searching, questioning, sometimes unnerving. Harold thought that Cedric looked smart and
tidy when he wore a short, quilted ochre-colored jerkin that was fastened with several seal-
bone toggles. His light gray linen hose wrapped tightly, and crossed diagonally, with turned
linen strips that his sweetheart had embroidered with green diamond patterns. Harold
approached Cedric, his frown had long tirrned into a broad smile as his arm outstretched to
greet him. The girls love this boy so much, and they will never leave him alone; ah, the joys of youth,
Harold thought.

"Sire, through your absence 1 feared you were lost to the Normans."

Harold noticed Cedric's worried look because he often had to search for his master. With
the loss of his friend, Osfrid, thoughts of assassination were always in the back of his mind.

"It would take a bigger man than Goliath to clap me once more in chains, Cedric."
Harold gazed lovingly towards the youth and touched the boy's head softly as he thought
back to the time he really had been caught and jailed.

"Chains? What chains? Were you once a prisoner?" Cedric asked looking very confused.

"What happened? Did the Normans capture you, and were you hurt?" continued the
questions.

Harold placed his arm around Cedric's shoulder and gave the boy a gentle squeeze.

"No, not by the Normans, Cedric; 1 was on a diplomatic mission for the king; when of all
things, pirates from the northern coast of France attacked my ship! 1 saw that a storm was
brewing when the clouds darkened the sky, and the sea became fearsome. The light faded
quickly, so we were forced to follow the coastal lights. The lights had been laid falsely by
these thieves to lure ships in such conditions from their courses and onto the rocks off the
coast of Ponthieu. It was the custom of Lagan, which had become a law that dated back to the
days of Charlemagne. These men, by their local laws, had sole rights to every wreck they
found and they made a lawful business of it. Nonetheless, to my mind, they were pirates. My
crew and entourage were well out-numbered. My crew and 1 scrambled ashore, and 1 was
taken prisoner. A Norman fisherman who sent word of my capture to Count Guy recognized
me. 1 found myself jailed and chained by Guy of Ponthieu"s jailer at Beaurain, Guy's fortress

near Hesdin. He owed his fealty and land to Duke William. 1 was put in fetters to be
ransomed to King Edward for one hundred pounds of gold."

"A hundred pounds of gold! Were you not cross, sire?" Cedric's eyes were wide open; his
jaw dropped with astonishment at this very horrid, yet very true story.

"Yes, 1 was, and I'm still cross. 1 thought 1 was worth a lot more than that," Harold replied
grinning. Harold sat down on the grass to adjust his leg straps that had become loose. He
looked up to gaze at the boy. He loved Cedric so much, and wondered if he should tell the
youth of his true parentage?

Cedric interrupted Harold's thoughts with another question. "What happened then, sire?
Did you escape?" Cedric asked eagerly wanting to know more.

Harold looked thoughtful, and almost winced, then gazed earnestly into Cedric's eyes.

"Luck takes on many guises, Cedric. My boatman, a man called Sabert, managed to
escape our jailer's clutches. He then made his way to Rouen, where he related our story to
Duke William. The duke dispatched word that Guy was to personally bring me to Eu, where
1 met the duke for the first time. 1 was taken to William and made to swear oaths of fealty to
him. At that time, Cedric, 1 would have agreed to anything to get out of the clutches of that
sadistic maniac. There is much more to this story, and one day, I'll relate to you the full tale."
Harold pointed towards the sea. "The next time I'm traveling across that stretch of water, I'll
be on my guard for counterfeit lights, and make no mistake about that, my boy." Harold
chuckled, shaking his head from side to side in disbelief at his own flawed judgment.

"What happened to Guy? Did he get his ransom paid to him?" Cedric asked, and he knelt
down beside him, eager to delve deeper into the thoughts of his king.

"As it happens, yes, he did. However, he didn't gain what he'd expected. He received
one hundred pieces of gold and a manor on the Eaulne. Not a lot really, but a heck of a lot
more than he'd held previously." For a few moments Harold stared out to sea, his thoughts
drifting elsewhere.

Cedric felt comfortable in the king's company. He often wondered why the king favored
him, showing him such kindnesses, giving him so much of his time and attention. Not once
did he recall Harold ever raising his voice to him. No country could ever have a finer king,
Cedric thought, and he wanted so much to hug his master.

Harold reached for the boy's arm and held it lightly, then spoke softy,

"You did say the meal is ready, and my platter is full, Cedric?"

"Yes, but it may be cold by now. You have roasted duck, as you requested.

"Yes, you did tell me. 1 had better get moving then. You look tired, Cedric. You've not
been entertaining the girls; have you?" Harold said and laughed as he nudged Cedric.

"Have you slept, boy?"

Cedric sighed; he was tired, and he really wanted to sleep, but the time with his master
was predous, and he was not going to waste it.

"No, sire, not playing with the girls. I've been watching the star with the great tail.
Everyone says it brings ill to all the land. Look, you can still see the star, even in the day,"
Cedric replied squinting, and pointed skyward towards the streaking light that seemed to
hover in the sky above them. Cedric looked towards his king, who, in turn, looked upward.

"You think it will bring a great calamity upon us; don't you?" Harold peered skywards.

"1 am fearful that it might." Once more, Cedric gazed up quizzically.

"Have no fear; the land is safe in my hands. In other kingdoms, the star with the tail can
also be seen. Does that not mean that misfortune will befall them, too? 1 don't think so.
Come; let us both eat. Then you, my boy, wiU go and see to your duties as 1 will to mine."
Harold rose to his feet. He placed both hands upon Cedric's shoulders, bowed his head a
little, and spoke in an earnest tone.

"After I've eaten, 1 will face the Witan Cedric. 1 must reaffirm my position. 1 must be sure
that what 1 have planned for my people is right and just." Turning into the doorway, Harold
led the way down the corridor that would take them to the Great Hall, where a meal and the
Witan waited.

Harold entered the Great Hall to be greeted by the sound of cheers, clapping, and whoops
from the more exuberant members of the assembly. Harold calmed the joyous throng with a
wave of his arms, and the hall fell into silence. He looked about at the men before him, and
then glanced at the antlers, shields, and spears that hung on the white limestone walls.

In prominence above the great fireplace, two-handed battle-axes of warriors past were
displayed, along with those of Earl Godwin, Harold's father. Above Harold's seat were those
personal weapons that had belonged to the long dead King Cnut. An elongated oaken table
held huge candelabras, which burned all day. Daylight in the Great Hall, which entered only
from a few small, glazed slits in the walls, was minimal. There was barely enough light for a
scribe to work.

The muttering of a few lowered voices from the great table, the noise of dogs barking, the
neighing of horses from the royal stables, and the rush of the sea nearly five hundred paces
away, could be heard. Some forty members of the Witan from all over the kingdom had
come together to voice their opinions of the imminent threat arising from the two great
powers— that of King Harald Sigurdsson, known to many as Hardrada, and of William, Duke
of Normandy.

He sat down at the table to eat his meal, picking at it almost nervously. His thoughts were
upon what his father would have done under such circumstances. He picked at his roast
duck and turnip. Despite his lack of an evening meal the night before, he was not that
hungry. Harold had other, more important things on his mind. This gamble of mine had better
work, or England will fall to rivalry and petty grievances, then foreigners will enslave our land, he
thought.

Wiping his hands, Harold took a sip of wine from a silver goblet. He then rose to his feet,
dropping his linen cloth on the table. He looked once more towards his father's gleaming
shield and battle-axe before turning to face the assembly. The Witan stood up, and in unison,
bowed. Harold motioned for them to be seated again and harken to his words.

"Gentlemen, it is for great deliberation that we have gathered here to discuss what shall
be done about the two men that potentially threaten this kingdom. 1 wish you to be of one
voice, for delay and dissent will not further our course. As you know, we have received two
claims to this kingdom. You all know the history of the two claimants. We must look at the
assertions to this throne and decide upon their legitimacy." Harold hesitated for a moment.
He took another sip of wine from his goblet. It's now or never, he thought, I just hope that
Brithnoth and the bishops read the wind, or they'll doubtless feel that I've betrayed them. Harold
continued apace. "If, unanimously, you decide that either of the two claimants have
legitimate cause to be your king, 1 am willing to abdicate, that is, to give up the crown.

135

Gentlemen, the fate, therefore, of this kingdom, is now in your hands." Harold returned to
his seat and watched as the Great Hall exploded into an uproar. Harold glanced at Brithnoth,
saw that he was waiting to say something, and nodded his assent for him to speak.

Brithnoth was a stout, yet muscular man of senior years, with long flowing white hair,
wide nostrils, and a flowing moustache. He'd fought many battles alongside Harold's father.
Earl Godwin, and was known to a trusted and reliable speaker of truth, and a man of great
integrity. He was also a fine orator, a rare attribute for a warrior. He returned Harold's gaze
and began to vocalize what was in his heart.

"My lord, the Witan have gathered for this Gemot to hear a great oration, yet you speak
as if in defeat. This is quite against your character. Like your father, you're a great warrior, a
nobleman, wise and fearless, yet thoughtful. You have seen many battles, and you won your
spurs at the tender age of sixteen. 1 fought alongside you when we subdued the Welsh. Yet
now, you, sire, are willing to give up the throne to Sigurdsson, or the bastard, William, and
without a fight, too," Brithnoth said with a puzzled look.

Loud murmurings from the assembly filled the chamber as Harold leaned over to whisper
in Brithnoth's ear. "My good friend, trust me, 1 know what 1 am doing. You just speak your
mind; be true to yourself," Harold said confidently, and gave his friend a wink.

Brithnoth stuttered for a moment then caught Harold's wink, then turned once more to
look at those gathered as the Witan sat dumfounded before him.

"For the time being, that is all 1 have to say," Brithnoth said as he returned to his seat to
gather his thoughts. He looked about the hall observing the commotion amongst those who
were aghast at what their king had put before them.

The Great Hall began to rumble with disturbed voices and the thumping of fists upon the
great oaken table.

For a moment, Harold was visibly shaken. He wondered if he had miscalculated. He'd
never before been accused of cowardice, albeit his friend and companion had fallen short of
articulating that word.

Wictred, a respected thegn, stood up, waving his arms. "Hear me, hear me!" he called,
and once more silence reigned. He looked at Harold for permission to speak, and seeing his
king nod his approval, he took the opportunity to vent his thoughts to his king and
countrymen.

"Indeed," Wictred said, graciously, "We stood behind you, and your father before you,
Harold. When the old king wanted to give the kingdom away to the bastard, and to deny
Edgar, the ^theling, and let us be overrim with Normans at court, you and your father
fought against it, eventually defeating the odds, despite the king's resistance. You wish now
to give up? In God's name, what has come over you?" Wictred looked about the hall, and
then resumed his seat.

Harold looked on, passively gazing at the faces of those before him, his mind racing,
feeding his thoughts with the knowledge that the Witan might just allow him a dictatorship.

Once again, Brithnoth rose to his feet and looked sternly at his king. Suddenly, he
understood the remark that Harold had made to him earlier. You old dog, you're going to pull it
off, he thought.

"It is right that the king should call us together. For if the king didn't consult with us on
this grave matter, we'd be seriously aggrieved." Brithnoth paused as a wave of nods and a

mutter of aye emanated from the Witan. "The king needs to have your approval to act on
your behalf, rather than call you together every time he needs to make a decision on this
particular matter. Time is against us, and what is more, only the king has all the available
information that will enable him to act immediately to counter an invasion, and it will come;
be assured of that," Brithnoth said as he paused to gain what reaction the Witan held, and
saw that there again was a nodding of heads and calls of aye. Brithnoth looked directly at
Harold.

"We are of one mind, sire; you are our rightful king. Did not Edward, on his deathbed,
bequeath his kingdom and throne to you? Did he not implore you to guard the country and
keep it safe? Did the clergy, along with senior members of the Witan, and the late king's
wife. Queen Edith, not witness these words? We, the Witan, confirmed you to your office. It
is the law that you are oirr rightful king, and nothing can or will change that. Unless of
course, you resign your rightful office, abdicate the crown, and abrogate your responsibilities
to favor another. To give up your crown to a Norman Duke, a bloody foreigner is
unconscionable!"

Brithnoth was finding his form. Harold was going to take the power from the Witan, and
they were going to willingly transfer their responsibility to him. "My lord, surely you shall
never give up your throne to Sigurdsson, or that Norman bastard?" Brithnoth dramatically
huffed into his seat, suppressing a smile. His eyes turned slyly towards his king. The Great
Hall rumbled with the renewed sound of low voices.

Brithnoth again surged to his feet, and with a great crash of his axe on the table, called
out, "1 have but one king! 1 pledged my allegiance to my one true king, Harold! To be
subjugated under a Norman king, it shall never happen, neverV
The Great Hall echoed to the call of "Never! Never! Never!"

It's not over, not quite in the hag, Harold thought. Harold rose to his feet, raised his hands,
and called to the assembled. "My honored friends, earls, thegns, and aldermen. 1 hear that
you are of one voice, and 1 accept your charity and affirmation. 1 had to be sure that it is
what you wanted and that you accept my complete leadership through these uncertain
times, despite the fact that the path may be painful. We have Sigurdsson to think about, for
he has a distant, yet valid claim, and will pursue this claim with vigor. As for the bastard,
well, well deal with him as and when he makes his move. In the interim, 1 need to speak to
each of you alone. As individuals, you will have a particular part to play." Harold paused to
take a sip of wine.

"Mark this; the fight, when it comes, will not be easy. You must stand fast. Your men shall
be fully trained and the housecarls fully equipped and ready. The fyrd shall be well armed,
fed, paid, and able. They shall be well versed in the knowledge of what is required of them.
We are a brave nation. Gentlemen, being one is not enough. We must have resolve, and a
mighty fist with which we can defeat and crush those who wish to usurp our rightful crown.
We will utterly disarm those that come here to take our country and lands from us. Good
and prodigious men, we are in a time when we can say that this land is ours. We are right,
and we will use our might and our power or die in the attempt. Our Lord, Jesus, with our
Mother Mary, will be in our hearts when we rejoice and have peace in our house once more."
Harold gazed about the room, smiling broadly. He retook his seat and gave the hall what it
wanted, an excuse to rejoice and make merry.

Harold was never a drinker. He didn't handle alcohol too well. He rose and left the Witan
to enjoy their celebration. I'll change clothes and then have some quiet recreation, he thought.

Harold left to amuse himself with Thecla, his favorite hawk, and strolled out into
sunshine and onto the lush green grass of the land that was now rightfully his. He caressed
the plumage of this fine predator that he'd raised himself, and they were rather attached to
each other. It felt pleasant to stroll with the bird, and it also delighted him to see Thecla bring
down pigeons and seagulls by the dozen, which added variety to his table. He noticed
Cedric watching from a doorway and called him to join him.

The youth came running to his side, happy to accompany his king on another excursion.
Cedric stroked the bird that Harold had tethered to his arm. He looked up to gaze at his
king, determined to grasp an understanding of what was happening at court. The rumors
buzzing of war worried him, and he hesitantly approached the subject.

"My lord, 1 just don't understand what's happening. Why did you offer to give up the
throne? Is it true that we're going to war with Duke William? Who is Harald Sigurdsson?"
Cedric asked confidently.

Harold thought that they should sit and rest awhile, and he looked for a suitable place.

"Cedric, it's about time we talked man-to-man. You're of an age to understand what the
world has in store for you." Harold smiled, placing his arm over Cedric's shoulder; he felt
secure in his company, for Cedric was an innocent, lost to the ways of the world, knowing
nothing of state affairs.

It was the time to teach the young lad a little history, to introduce him to the world of
men, and to sound the young man out for his thoughts. Harold sat the boy against the wall
of the old Roman-built lighthouse while he found a thick wooden crossbeam and tethered
the bird to it, firmly, and whispered a few engaging words to her. Harold ambled back over
to Cedric, who was now laid back chewing a long blade of grass. He settled beside the young
man and looked up to the roving star above. For a moment he was thoughtful, choosing his
words carefully.

"Cedric, you're bright, and very sharp, yet naive. You know nothing of the ways of
politics, but this must now change." Harold said as he sat with his knees close to his chest,
clasping his hands around his ankles. He watched a toad as it hopped, waited, then hopped
again; only to be snatched up by a sharp-eyed seagull to view the world from another angle.

Harold's lips twisted wryly, wondering if the scene he'd just witnessed wasn't somehow
prophetic to the words he must now utter, with Cedric being the toad to the evil seagull of
men.

"Listen carefully, my boy. 1 have to make sure that what 1 do as king is with consent of the
people. If 1 am to go to war, it's to secure the safety of this kingdom. 1 needed to confirm it is
'I' that the people want at the helm. 1 had to have their backing. A king can't rule without
this consent, for otherwise he would be just one man, alone. He has to show leadership and
wisdom. If the king lacks these qualities, he'll not rule for long." Harold cleared his throat.

"Cedric, war is a dreadful thing, something you've thankfully not experienced. To take a
nation to war without good cause and without the consent of the people is unwise. I've been
given by my people the privilege to act as 1 see fit." Harold said.

"What does that mean?" Cedric asked.

"Well, there has been a tentative but legitimate claim to my crown, one that would avoid
war. However, the claims to the crown have to be accepted by the Witan. A second claimant
has also lodged his want to be on my throne. However, both claims have been rejected by the
our learned council, as King Edward, along with his office and power, passed the crown to
me; and this, too, was reaffirmed by the Witan; again, the decision was theirs. I've no
alternative but to defend our country against these assertions being pressed by foreigners. It
is the wish of the people that 1 continue in my office on their behalf. The Witan abrogated its
responsibility to me, its king. This is called democracy, a word the Greeks used for
government by consent of the people for the people.

"God chose you, too." Cedric replied.

"Yes, I'm your rightful and anointed monarch. I'm also a figurehead, a diplomat, too.
Diplomacy is a learned art, and it's a skill 1 will teach you. 1 had to give the Witan the choice.
Weakness of the people or their king is not tolerated. A good and wise king should show he
is strong, yet fair and just. Though the people chose me as their king, without their consent
to rule, 1 am nothing."

"1 imderstand," replied Cedric, "the Witan chose a wise and powerful man, and I'm
proud to have you as my king."

Harold rubbed Cedric's head, ruffling the youth's hair. "Thank you, Cedric; 1 appreciate
that kind remark. Now, 1 have something to tell you that you ought to know. You've been in
my household since you were seven years old. Your parents brought you to me, asking that 1
take you in and educate you. Oswald, the man you called father, was dying. He'd been a
faithful manservant, very good and strong. He was true to Edward, his king, and bondsman
to myself. Your mother, Hildilid, was a fair woman, a good wife to Oswald. She was with
child at the time of your father's death. Sadly, one month after your father died, your mother
died, giving birth to a stillborn child."

"1 remember little of my parents," said Cedric, staring at the ground, "for my father was
either away at war or working in the fields, but 1 loved my mother. She was sweet and
gentle, and would tell me stories from the church scriptures. 1 cried until Easter for my
mother. She was buried in Winchester at your expense. Why did you do this?"

Harold stared deeply into the boy's eyes, and took his hand. Harold felt tears welling up
that he tried hard not to show.

"Cedric, you must know that 1 am a man of conscience, and 1 did a wrong to your mother.
As a younger man, 1 lay with your mother. From this union, you came into the world. My
father took me away to fight against the Welsh, so your adopted grandparents, Osfrid and
Eadgyth, took in your mother. Their son, Oswald, was to become your father on my behalf."

Cedric was not only speechless, but in a numbed shock to hear his real father was Harold,
the King of England! He stared wide-eyed and mouth open as Harold continued.

"So, now you know who you are, my boy. You've had the best schooling. You're able to
read and write in Latin, French and Greek. Soon you will be placed in a monastery to learn
the true meaning of the Holy Scripture. My son, one day you will be crowned the
Archbishop of Canterbury. Your life is mapped out, with your safety and welfare assured.
Come, 1 wiU tell you more of the troubles the kingdom faces. You must know all if you are to
understand what is to come about."

Harold rose to his feet, helping Cedric to do likewise. As they walked back along the
cliffs, Harold gave the lad a concise history of the previous few years, so that the boy would
understand the complexity of the world he was about to enter as a young man. Cedric
listened intently, and then stopped Harold with an unconnected question.

"Is it true your father died of poisoning, and that King Edward was the murderer?"

Harold stopped in his tracks, flabbergasted, and stared at Cedric, frowning fiercely.

"What sort of question is that? I'm trying to teach you the ways of things and — ^hell, oh,
since you ask, no, lad, he died of a stroke. 1 saw it with my own eyes. My brothers and 1
carried him out of the Great Hall to see to his needs. 1 have seen stroke victims many times.
One has to live with death every day. When the Lord Jesus calls, one must enter the
Kingdom of Heaven in whatever way the Lord, our God, desires. We know not why He
takes our lives the way He does. It's not for us mere mortals to question His reasoning. Oh,
and before you ask, no, he did not say the alleged words proffered by the tall taletellers of
the street market. For many years the king had a seething suspicion my father had a hand in
the murder of his brother, Alfred. The king was drunk, and made the allegation that my
father was responsible for his brother's death. My father denied any involvement.

''What happened then. Father?" asked Cedric excitedly.

"My father was so drunk that he could neither speak a coherent word nor hardly stand.
He fell on his side into my lap and that was it-end of story. My father died three days later
in his bedchamber. He was a good man, but liked his wine, and you, my son, should stay
away from drinking to excess. Anyway, my father was King Cnut's right hand until Cnut
died." Harold held his finger to his lips, indicating continued silence from the young lad.

"Before you ask, no. King Cnut did not sit on the shore demanding the tide be gone. It
was actually in conversation with his ministers that one of them, named Witred, proclaimed
that his king could move mountains and holds back the tide. Cnut replied that he was
neither God nor wizard. He could prove to them he was just as mortal as they by sitting on
his throne, demanding that the tide retreat and nothing would ever change. It was said
thusly, recorded by the scribes, and misunderstood by the readers of the scrolls in the
library. My father was with him and told me the exact words that were said."

Cedric looked a little disappointed at this explanation. He twisted his head to look at this
man whom he so loved, his eyes squinting, with his right hand to his brow, shading himself
from the sim. He was looking for a smile, a hint that perhaps his master might have, at some
point, been playing with him.

"They were good stories, all the same. 1 can guess that there're many more tales to
recount, but 1 know you'll disappoint me with the truth." Cedric said smiling.

"You'll always have the truth from my lips, my son. Sometimes the truth is far harder to
believe than a tall tale," Harold said, then noticed a quizzical look in Cedric's eye. "There's
something else you wish to ask of me? Come on, spit it out, what is it?"

"1 will, as your king and master, allow just one more, then we're off to do some work."
Cedric moved to face his father with the sun fully behind him. For a moment, Harold looked
on, perplexed. "You want to see if I'm going to be honest. This must be a real dog of a
question you're to throw at me."

"Father, could you tell me why you accepted the throne? 1 mean . . ." Cedric hesitated, the
words now lost, as the coherent thought escaped him. Harold noticed the frustration in the
boy's face.

"I'm sorry, Cedric, but sometimes, to fully understand the reasons for my actions, 1 have
to justify myself with sound and reasoned argument. Misunderstanding my motives might
lead to problems. To be honest, the thegns that make up the Witan are as capable of sound
control and judgment as a flock of birds. They'd be fighting amongst themselves while the
vultures swooped— someone has to take the reins."

"Oh, 1 see," Cedric replied.

Harold slowly shook his head. "Perhaps this can wait until another time. 1 really do have
work to do. England doesn't govern itself; you know, just as a ship needs to be guided to its
destination, sometimes against the wind." Harold placed his left arm on Cedric's head,
pulling him gently to his bosom. He tenderly slid his fingers through Cedric's hair and
shook the boy's head. "Come on, boy; let's watch as Thecla takes a couple more seagulls. 1
feel the wind has veered and is coming from the north. In a short while, we must go back to
face the Dragon of Wessex."

"The Golden Man banner, too." Cedric said, brushing off the grass from his tunic.

"Yes, and the Golden Man. 1 must tell you one day how those pennants came to be here.
Would you untie Thecla and bring her to me?" Harold asked sporting a wide smile and
passing him his hawking glove. Never before had Harold allowed anyone but himself to
handle Thecla.

Cedric felt this privilege to personally handle the bird to be a passport to his father's
heart, and he strode off to where the hawk was impatiently waiting, ruffling her wings.
Cedric untied the jess releasing to his arm the beautiful bird.

The next morning found the Witan milling about the Great Hall, each waiting to have his
personal audience with the king. First to be called was the great man, Brithnoth. Harold sat
in a large room richly furnished with tapestries. In front of him was a table covered with
maps made of pure white lambskin parchment. Upon these maps were the names of the
largest towns and cities. The coastline and major ports depicted probable landing areas
where either WiUiam or Harald might land, if they decided on invading England.

The light from large glazed windows bathed the room with almost perfect clarity; it was
one of the few rooms that didn't need the assistance of candles.

Brithnoth found Harold in deep concentration, surveying maps, oblivious to his entrance.

"Ahem." Brithnoth made the usual apologetic noise.

Harold looked up from the table and his eyes lit up when he saw the face of Brithnoth.
Harold's face contorted into a huge grin, genuinely joyous to see an able friend. Harold
walked forward and embraced the old warrior.

"My trusted companion; my good, good friend. Here, please sit at the table."

Brithnoth moved to sit next to a window.

"No, here, Brithnoth, next to the fireside; it is a cold north wind, and you look as if you
need a good warming up." Harold's greeting was warm and sincere, but behind the budding
smile, there was an earnest look in his eyes that Brithnoth knew had to be addressed. "We
need to talk. It is most urgent that we speak, for you know the situation."

"Indeed, my lord, but I'm here for you to tell me what I don't know," Brithnoth said as he
warmed his feet and hands by the roaring fire, listening intently as Harold spoke his mind.
"My lord?" Harold replied. "You will address me as Harold; when we're alone you must call
me Harold. For though I'm now your king, still, you are my trusted and dearest friend."

Brithnoth looked a little embarrassed, but sensed Harold's sincerity.

"You mustn't treat me like I'm an old man, Harold. I could soon break your arms, even as
large as you are."

Harold laughed and tapped him upon his shoulder. "I never thanked you for your
support, Brithy. Oops, sorry, I should address you as Brithnoth. You deserve my respect,
despite my rank."

Brithnoth looked at him closely and noticed Harold was stressed. Harold only called him
Brithy when he needed help, and it had been some time since he had done so.

Harold ushered him towards the table. "You know we've received the formal embassies
from Sigurdsson, and the bastard, too. Well, Swein, Gyrth, and I have, these last two years,
been making plans to formalize a strategy to neutralize Edward's stupidity."

Brithnoth rose from his seat and stepped forward, placing his gigantic and now warmed
hands upon his hips. He gazed at Harold, determined to speak his mind. "Edward was a
sniveling, conniving bastard. He must have had ulterior motives of his own. Your father
should have deposed him, and taken the crown for the good of England."

"Yes, he was and did. Edward resented my father's power and his influence with the
common people. They would, as you recall, do anything for my father. As for Edward, well,
they knew who they loved." Harold sneezed and continued, smiling apologetically. "The
great man's hatred of Normans was well known, and justly so. Edward acted like a child
throughout his life. My father actually thought of deposing Edward, but he was shrewder
than that," Harold said as he moved toward a box that contained the written delegations
from the three powers, removing only two that were of interest. "Now, to return to the
claimant's viewpoints."

"Could I take a look at them?" Brithnoth asked holding out his hand to receive the
parchments. Brithnoth perused the words with great interest, reading between the lines.

"I would disagree, Harold. Sigurdsson had a great respect for your father, both as a man
and a warrior. As for the bastard, well, he's too young to have done much in any case."
Brithnoth handed back the letters and glanced at the maps.

Harold ignored Brithnoth's remarks, which was something he rarely did with the man for
whom he had so much respect.

"I'm procrastinating on the replies just now. We need to give ourselves some time to
construct a stratagem that might avert a landing by either Sigurdsson or that bastard,
Forkbeard. At least long enough to strengthen the fortresses and to contact the local militias
to be prepared for an imminent invasion." Harold walked over to the window and stood
looking out into the fields and the sea beyond. There was silence as Brithnoth perused the
letters in his hands. Harold turned to speak, but hesitated for a moment.

Brithnoth looked up and stared at the wood paneling, sensing there was something amiss.

"There's also one more complication."

Brithnoth moved his stare to Harold, and his eyes narrowed. Harold's phrase was
unusual, one he rarely used. Brithnoth began to look concerned. For a moment, there was
silence, except for the crackling and spitting of the fire.

"And that is?"

Harold looked concerned; his gaze fell toward the floor and he took a pace forward. He
leant both hands upon the table and shook his head, despairingly.

"It's not going to be your day, Brithnoth. The bastard has been granted the full backing of
the latest ecumenical thief. Pope Alexander. He's a fine, upstanding man who obviously feels
there's something in it for him. I've some good people in Rome, so we know what the bastard
doesn't as yet."

Brithnoth grimaced, and his hands clenched tightly. "Damnation!" Brithnoth replied as
anger took control of his fadal muscles. "This new situation puts an entirely different light
on the matter. Pope Victor would never have given his approval. These popes either die too
early or not at all. Convenience has never been a byword when it comes to popes, Harold.
We have some serious thinking to do, my friend." He walked towards the window and
gazed out to the sea beyond.

Harold warmed his hands by the fire, rubbing them, then moved to sit in a comfortable
chair. He smelled the burning cedar as it roared fiercely in the hearth. It reminded him of the
times he'd spent discussing tactics with his father within this very room.

"You have, 1 take it, consulted the bishops Stigand, Wulfstan, and Ealdred on the matter?"
Brithnoth asked.

"Yes, of course 1 have. They're of the mind that we stand firm. However, Stigand's own
position is now fragile within the clergy, so I've offered him safe conduct to Rome, if he so
desires. Unfortunately, he'll have none of it, stating that the pope is dishonorable, and he
should know. He told me that when he and Archbishop Ealdred went to collect his pallium
eight years ago. Pope Benedict wanted to charge him for the privilege, saying that there were
irregularities to his appointment, and that some considerable amount of money might just
put things right. Can you beat that? Talk about greed. He paid him, of course, but he was not
amused at the less-than-godly antics of both the Church and the pope. I'll tell you this,
Brithnoth. No good will come out of any of this shit. For when we crush these bastards, the
pope will have lost all his money in a venture that cotild never have been a winner in
anyone's eyes. He'll refuse to pay the mercenaries, then the devil will arrive at his door; that
much 1 do know. Europe will be in for one hell of a time. I'm only glad we have the sea
separating us."

Brithnoth sensed Harold's intense worry at the prospect of the pope's inclusion, for it
meant above all else, that Duke William would have the means to pay many mercenaries.

"The bastard could never pull it off, Harold; you know that. The one man we need to be
concerned about is Sigurdsson. Now that's a problem we need to consider above all others.
He could and would sail across to our shores. He has the men, the ships, the money, and the
determination, if he so desires. What's more, your rightful, affirmed kingship aside, a
reasonable claim, albeit a tenuous one, is the more serious threat." Brithnoth massaged his
brow and glanced toward his king, and noticed Harold nod in agreement.

"It's a long journey, though. One that would be treacherous, even for him. Sigurdsson
would need a fleet with full armor and provisions, initially, for at least ten thousand fighting

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men. The logistics would be frightening. He would need to bring with him thirty thousand
men in all. Farriers, along with the other ancillaries, etc, would boost his manpower needs
and maintain his supply lines. The bastard, William, could never bring such a force, even if he
had all the money in the world. No one would want to fight for him. 1 think we shouldn't
ignore him, though. As for Sigurdsson, we need to seriously consider if, when, and where
hell come," Harold replied as he studied the map.

"Indeed, Harold, and he will come sooner than we would like to think. So, what is the
situation with regard to the two northern earls, Morcar and Edwin? They're both young and
inexperienced, while Edwin is volatile. Have they been persuaded to ally with us?"

Harold hesitated for a moment. He looked pensive, his embarrassment shining like a
beacon in the night, unsure about the reaction of his friend to the next words.

"Brithnoth, 1 have something to tell you. It's about Edwin and Morcar. 1 know you're not
going to like this, but 1 have made an alliance with them."

Brithnoth looked puzzled, knowing that both earls were pro-Scandinavian, neither having
Harold's nor England's best interests close to their hearts.

"Err . . . last year, 1 wedded Ealdgyth, the earl's little sister; Gruffydd's widow. It was the
only way 1 could gain and secure their support when the Witan came to ratify my kingship.
They were dead set on confrontation with us. In the event that we had a war on two fronts,
we would surely lose if they chose to side with Sigirrdsson, especially if we had the Norman
duke on the other front. We would have been almost powerless to resist. 1 felt this efficacious
in the light of the coming current situation. It'll buy us a great deal of time, if nothing else."

The old warrior sat staring at his king, his eyes searching Harold's face intently.

Harold wondered if Brithnoth would disapprove and explode in a plethora of negativism.

"What concessions have you granted them? Nothing too drastic, 1 hope," Brithnoth said
and couldn't help grinning. The thought that Harold had wedded a veritable child amused
him greatly.

"None, as such, they need me just as much as 1 need their assistance. It is a mutual
alliance, though the brothers did need a little coaxing to get them to agree. They had to be
told the truth of their position. That is, that Sigurdsson would throw them out; and they
would become just like any other theow, digging turnips in the fields. It brought them
"round soon enough. It was, 1 felt, expedient to bring their sister here just in case they
thought better of it and turned to Sigurdsson. They have been told of the recrimination that
breaking this bond would engender if they were to cross me or stab me in the back. 1 also
have their mother here. It was not a regular marriage, well, at least not in the eyes of God, at
any rate. Anyway, 1 have made the terms ambiguous enough to allow some maneuvering
within the contract. Edith would have murdered me if anything other than that had been the
case."

Brithnoth laughed so much he could hardly catch his breath. "Harold, you old dog, 1
knew you had it in you. You make an old man proud. Then you go and tell Edith. What did
she have to say?" Holding onto the table, Brithnoth laughed, hardly able to contain the
thought of Harold having to tell Edith Swanneck of the marriage.

Harold was feeling a little sheepish. He was so in love with Edith that it was apparent to
all. She was the only woman he'd ever truly loved. She'd born his children, seven in all, their
daughters, Gunnhild and Gytha, along with five sons— Ulf, Godwin, Edmimd, Magnus, and

Harold. He sought her advice on many matters that concerned the common people and how
they were thinking. It was so important to him. She spoke in the vernacular and understood
their problems.

Brithnoth stood to his full height and placed his arm around his friend. He knew Harold
was under a great stress that was hard for any man to bear alone.

"She said that if ever 1 bedded this girl she would cut my balls off. Ha! Ealdgyth is only a
child, for God's sake! However, Edith took it better than 1 expected. 1 have sent the girl off to
a nunnery in Devises until 1 can do something about the situation in the future," Harold
replied with a wry smile on his face.

Ushering Brithnoth towards the maps on the table again, he pointed to specific areas that
were carefully laid out and marked with major locations underlined. "Now, to business; 1
need your forces to be on full alert— here, here, and here. Can your newly trained forces and
sailors be trusted to do their duty when needed?" Harold felt that he had let his friend down
by not bringing him into his thoughts much earlier.

"They began training on the first day after the Easter holiday feasting. They'll harden up
as the next few weeks go by, but I'll not let them go stale. They'll exercise with regular
maneuvers to keep them alert; have no worries on that account."

"There was never any fear of that, Brithnoth, but you need to fill them in fully as to our
situation. That may grease their nerves for a fight; I'm sure. 1 wonder what my father would
have done under these circumstances."

"Your father would, likely as not, have sent a fleet to destroy the bastard, before he got a
chance to sail here, but we have the extra complication of Sigurdsson. So, we are going to
have to play this one by ear. If Sigurdsson and the bastard land simultaneously, could we
contain both their forces?"

Brithnoth cleared his throat. "1 doubt it. 1 doubt, also, they would even communicate with
each other. A least William wouldn't entertain such an alliance. He is too greedy, even to
share the air we all breathe, let alone divide England. So, realistically, it would all depend on
who lands first," Brithnoth said, not really sure if he fully understood the situation.

"1 know the bastard's no way near ready. I'm, therefore, relying on Sigurdsson to land
first." Harold went on to insure that Brithnoth was knowledgeable of his fully funded
provisions and that armament dumps would be hidden in places along expected routes,
covering both the north and south of England. Each man would also have had his allotted
forty-two days" military service in, as the law stated, and if not, then they were to bring last
year's allotments up to date.

"Brithnoth, you need to rest after last evening's little gathering of the merry band of
reprobates. You had better go see Cedric. The lad will see to your every need."

"Thank you, Harold; you always are a goodly host. Your father would have been proud of
you, lad. Err, 1 mean, sire."

Harold chuckled and shook his head, placing his hands upon his hips.

Brithnoth grabbed Harold's arm, and bid him farewell, then ambled out the door with a
shout to Cedric to come and serve him.

Harold looked out of the window. The wind seemed to whistle a tune, one that allowed
him a momentary smile, for he loved combat, and always whistled before he dismoimted his
horse to do battle with a foe. He shivered. It's not cold in here. Hmm. . . .statistically, all the

gathered evidence for a winning fight for William is against the odds. Hisfieet is not as accustomed to
the open sea as is Sigurdsson's. In the main, they're small fishing vessels. Harold's concentration
was interrupted. A robin, perching upon the window ledge, chirped as if to attract his
attention by showing off his red breast. It then flew off, startled, as a loud knock came from
the already open door, disrupting his train of thought.

"Yes?" Harold called. At the door stood a tall man with short, curly, ginger-colored hair
and a servant by his side.

"There is a messenger, sire." Harold turned around to see a face he knew well.

"Ulf, you old dog! It's been ages! Come, sit and tell me. . .what are you doing here?"

"My lord," Ulf looked unbelievably sullen, "1 bring the worst news. Sigurdsson has taken
York."

Harold's face sagged in utter disbelief. "Oh, shit! When did that happen? Harold's fists
clenched as he took one stiff step towards the messenger of such horrid news.

"Three days ago, sire. He has Morcar and Edwin under his control. Worse than that, he
has yoirr brother, Tostig, advising him."

Harold tried with difficulty to control his anger. His eyes narrowed, his face contorting
into an imyielding visage.

"Cedric!" Harold bellowed. The boy came running into the room, almost colliding into
Ulf. "Go tell Brithnoth to come back here at once. Along the way, have him call all officers to
muster. You're to teU my scribes to attend me immediately. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sire. What news, sire?" Cedric stood with his mouth wide open, expecting an
explanation.

Harold glared at Cedric sternly. "Go, boy, go!"

In a flash, Cedric fled through the open doorway. He'd sensed the excitement, and felt
useful; his mind was racing, wondering what's was going on? The vividness of his
imagination took hold as he ran after the great warrior, who was striding purposefully along
the narrow corridor to the kitchens.

Ulf looked more concerned than Harold had ever seen him before.

"Tostig had been running about looking for allies, and he even paid a visit to Normandy!
Word has it that he was told to clear off, and now, as you know, he's in Sigurdsson's camp."
Ulf searched the face of his king, looking for some sort of reasonable explanation for Tostig's
actions.

Harold spoke softly, regretfully, and for a moment, almost apologetically, "Yes, I'd heard
he might have been making overtures to Sigirrdsson. He really is a stupid man. 1 guess 1
ought to have had him back within our bosom, Ulf, but Tostig has never shown any remorse
for his wrong doings." Harold's tone changed to one of determination. "Sigurdsson is no
fool. He'll use Tostig to his full advantage, and then discard him. Mind you, Tostig can't tell
truth from fiction. Sigurdsson might just have made a tactical error in taking him into his
camp."

"What do we do in the meantime, sire?" Ulf asked looking perplexed.

"Sigurdsson has landed three weeks earlier than 1 expected. Damn him! We have to
march as soon as humanly possible. I'd march in the morning if 1 could. Time is short, and
the longer we wait, the stronger Sigurdsson's position becomes. However, we're not yet

ready. We also have the deadUne of harvesting the crops. Preparations are almost complete
for staving off an invasion, but the men are not."

"A long march to York?" Ulf asked, who was waiting for orders as to his next assignment.

"We've no option. We have to take what men we have with us. As I've mentioned, the
rest will have to stay behind and harvest crops. Sailing north is out of the question. By the
time ships are assembled, we could be in York. In any event, we don't have the wind in our
favor. A march is the only way forward. The men will be very tired when they reach York.
This situation is not straightforward. Prudence, secrecy, and caution are of utmost
importance."

Harold motioned Ulf to take a seat by the fire. "While we wait for Brithnoth, 1 want to
know aU that you've been doing since we last met. It's been quite a while since we last drank
a glass of wine together."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE ROAD TO GLORY

Harold led his horse out of the stable as he always did. It was a friend, his companion.
Both rider and horse trusted each other implicitly. He looked down at the stable boy, Fredric,
and patted him on the shoulder. He was a good lad, willing, too. Often he worked late into
the night grooming the horses until Harold returned. Griffed, the imder stable boy, looked
on as his king conversed with Fredric.

"Are you ready for the saddle, Fredric?" asked Harold; he noticed the boy's eyes were red
and swollen. He'd obviously been crying. Fredric turned away, trying to hide his grief from
his master. Placing his large hands on Fredric's shoulder, Harold turned him around.

"What is it, boy? Tell me; what is it that brings tears to your eyes? It's not like you to weep
this way, Fredric. Harold looked concerned for the boy's distress.

"Osfrid was my friend, sire. He was a good person, and now he has been brutally killed. 1
miss him so much. 1 see him everywhere, as if his ghost were looking over me."

Harold pulled Fredric close to him. Such a sweet hoy, he thought, hut is he tough enough to
hecome a housecarl one day? Harold held the boy out at arms-length.

Fredric steadied himself as a strong finger lifted his chin.

"The good Lord in Heaven is looking after Osfrid. No more harm can come to him. Just
remember the goodness he had within his heart. You have taken his place... be strong, brave,
and trustworthy, as he was. He will look down from the arms of Mother Mary and give you
strength. You'll soon be a man amongst men. 1 have not forgotten my promise to you. You
will soon be training with the housecarls. It's hard work and can be brutal in practice. Then
you will become a member of an elite force of comrades that look after their own. They never
leave a friend to suffer, because they're a family and brothers in arms."

Fredric gazed deeply into the eyes of his king. He trusted him completely. Harold never
lied to him or anyone; he knew the king was a man of his word.

The horse was becoming restless, eager to be outside. The beast gave a long snort that
Harold knew meant impatience. Fredric was to ride the horse around the meadow behind
the stable to warm and tone the beast's muscles. It had been Osfrid's job to exercise the
king's horse, and this privilege now fell to Fredric.

Harold picked up a purple carrot from a basket. Giving one to his steed, he inquired of
their origin. "Tell me, Fredric, where did these roots come from?" Harold knew that they
were not grown in England. The ground was far too stony to grow them, and the soil too
sweet.

Fredric took a carrot from the basket and gazed at it for a moment. The horse snorted,
reached out, and took the root from Fredric's hand. He smiled as he watched the beast
devour the delicious root. "Osfrid had someone give them to him, sire. The man came from
Normandy. 1 believe they give these roots to special horses they breed there."

Harold dismissed the carrots for a moment and pondered on who it was that might have
been undertaking the journey to Normandy.

"Do you remember the name of the man who gave the roots to Osfrid?" Harold's
curiosity was becoming almost intense. He had to be sure; he had to confirm Swein's
information.

"It was a man called Eumer, sire. He was very kind. The odd thing about him was that he
took a great liking to Toll, you know, yoirr present from the Duke of Normandy. Eumer
spent a lot of time here and would often ask about you and where you used to go when you
rode out alone. 1 thought it a strange thing that he was always alone. Don't you think that
was rather odd, sire?"

Harold's expression changed from a mild inquisitiveness to deep thought. For a few
moments, there was silence. Harold returned his gaze toward Fredric, and once more placed
his hands upon the boy's shoulders.

"In the future, 1 want you to inform Brithnoth or myself if anyone visits these stables that
you've never seen before, most especially if it's someone who asks questions of you. Is that
clear?"

Fredric nodded.

"Come along, now; let's have her ready. 1 have things to do. Jump up, and go take her for
a canter." Harold gave the boy a wink and a broad grin.

"Yes, sire — ^if you could hold her still," Fredric replied struggling to keep the excited
animal from stepping on his toes.

"Good. See to it that she's warm before she is brought out to the assembly point," Harold
said then walked back towards the castle entrance. It was an imposing portal with a
portcullis and a large, heavy drawbridge, the only one in England. At the base, the walls
were fourteen feet thick and of solid stone masonry sloping inward from the base. The
Romans had originally built the lighthouse nearly a thousand years earlier, and it was an
impressive piece of architecture. Harold thought of how his Saxon predecessors had added
to the castle's structure from time to time. The sight of the great walls and the defensive
earthworks still impressed him.

Harold looked over his shoulder to see a group of men approaching from the north. The
men looked strong and healthy, and they were obviously housecarls, elite fighting men. As
they came closer, Harold could see their gonfanon and recognized them as Gyrth's men. It's
comforting to know that I've had the strongest, bravest, and above all, the best trained warriors in the
whole of Europe. My own housecarls are a fine body of men, and willing to die rather than surrender
to any force. They are masters of the art of combat and fearless, he thought. All were tattooed from
the neck down, with dragons and angels being favorite motifs.

Brithnoth entered the courtyard and stood looking about for any sign of Harold. Not
seeing him, he called for Fredric. He stood watching as the boy spim the horse around and
trotted toward the great man. The sound of iron clad hooves echoed around the courtyard as
Fredric approached him. Brithnoth smiled at the lad, but there was an obvious sadness
conspicuous in the youth's demeanor.

"Fredric, where is the king?" Brithnoth asked.

"I'm here, Brithnoth. 1 was having a few moments looking about— you know, inspecting
the troops before we set off to York." Harold replied as he appeared from behind the door,
and greeted the old warrior with a hug. Harold had a wicked gleam in his eyes, for he knew
he'd startled the old man.

149

"You almost gave me a stroke. I'm an old man now, and no longer used to being taken by
surprise. Do that once more, and 1 shall have to kill you." Brithnoth grinned, but
straightened when he noticed the serious look on Harold's face. He wondered if he'd
misread him, and saw that Harold was now in another mode. It was a look that he knew
meant business, and he returned to continue his briefing in a professional manner.

"All our preparations are in place, but the prospect of a long march doesn't please the
fyrd too much. However, as the saying goes; needs must when the devil drives, eh."
Harold placed his arm around his shoulder and spoke in a soft voice. "This last episode, that
is the attempt upon my life, has become personal, Brithnoth— you know that. 1 know that the
bastard was behind the attempt to kill me. As for Sigurdsson, well, this is a venture from
which 1 may not return. You understand that Hardrada is a mighty foe. Yet 1 will do my
duty to the end, to the best of my abilities, win or lose." Brithnoth stared deeply into
Harold's eyes.

"You know your weaknesses, Harold. You also know your strengths. Look to them; they
will drive you on to victory. If you die in the attempt to keep your country free from these
evils, you'll have died a glorious death. No one can say that if you failed you did not fight a
superb battle, Harold Godwinson. If you lose, and we are forced imder the yoke of
Hardrada, he will be our king. 1, like others, though we wish it not, will have to accept him."

The two men looked on as Fredric cantered around the field, turning the horse here and
there, warming the horse's muscles. He patted the beast's neck as she jumped over a hurdle.

"Sigurdsson has no idea that we are marching north. Indeed, 1 have kept a tight lid on all
information, because he thinks we are marching south to meet any threat from the bastard.
What is more, he believes we'll agree to divide the country once he has taken hold of the
Midlands. I'll let him come, and then 1 will cut off his line of supply. The man thinks he is
King bloody Cnut. Well, have we a surprise for him!" Harold threw Brithnoth a grin, then
chuckled softly.

"Do you think he'll fall for it, Harold?" Brithnoth' s hand scratched his chin.

"Only time will tell, my good friend. Tell me. Are the fyrd assembled in the fields below?
The evening march will be easier for them as the sun would surely take its toll on men
marching with all their equipment. Come along, old chap; let's go and eat our fill before we
set off for the great adventure; we'll catch up with the troops in a short while." Harold took
his friend by the arm and led him inside.

As they moved off, Harold heard his officer's giving commands, to the troops in the field.
"Aweccan, waepnu nimth, forth-gath!" (Attention, raise weapons and forward march(!)),
came the call from the sergeants. The fyrd moved in file, five abreast, for the long march to
the north along Ermine Street, the old Roman road. Along the route, Harold sent out
collectors to assemble men and their supplies. They were to join the troops on the long
march north, preparing hidden supply dumps for the return journey, in case they had to
return and fight Duke William.

The night marching made it better for the men to make headway along the old paved
road. It was covered in a fine moss, and the short grass made walking easier. In the
mornings, the men set up camp. Harold had organized fresh food to be brought to the
soldiers by local villagers. The men slept until nightfall and then resumed their journey. The
army grew larger by the night as more men joined the troops from each village along the

route. The morale was good, very good. Harold was their king and commanded a deserved
measure of respect, because he acted as though he was one of them. All knew what was
expected of them. One man in the rear of the happy throng began to sing a boisterous
melody that caught on with the rest as they marched.

"Liste, til deotha meadra. Sle eowere feonds, as cumbol forthegath. Deoth til urnum
foendum Hardrada oU-stoppi, a day-raed. Onraes, Onraes, ha, ha, ha!" (Listen to a man
doomed to death. Kill your enemies, and protect the standard. Bring death to oirr enemy,
Hardrada. He's an arrogant fellow and a buffoon. Attack, Attack! Ha, ha, ha). All night long,
as the men marched onward, someone would add another impromptu chorus to the song
until it grew and became as long as the march.

Harold smiled with pride from the front of the marching retinue setting the pace.

Gyrth turned to Harold and offered him a drink of water from a goatskin carrier.

Harold took a long drink and returned the vessel.

"The men are in fine spirits, Harold," Gyrth said with a smile.

Through the darkness, Harold noticed a rim of light, edging the blackness into a dark
blue, the color that presaged the process of dawn. A blackbird began a half-hearted attempt
at a song that seemed to fall on deaf ears. The bird fluttered up to perch on a higher branch
as the troops began to pass below, too close for comfort.

"As fine a bunch of men as ever wanted to die, Gyrth," Harold replied solemnly, noticing
that his own focus was becoming introspective.

"Steady on, Harold; we're here to throw Sigurdsson out, not to fail and die in the
attempt."

Harold pulled up his horse, leaned across to grasp the bridal of Gyrth' s horse and stared
at his brother. An owl hooted a call, "Tell us all . . . tell us all." It seemed to cry.

"We are here to protect our freedom. Many men on both sides will die, some will live, and
some will lose limbs. I'm sorry, Gyrth, war is an awful thing. We can never recover from our
experiences; we just harden. We never forget our friends. We keep them in our thoughts and
our hearts. We fight for them, as they fought and died for us." Harold pressed his knees into
his mount and rode on as the eastern horizon began to bring with it a raucous dawn chorus.
Harold turned to Swein and asked that the men singing joyously behind, from now on, be
silent.

As dawn broke, RiccaU came into sight. Harold had his men set up camp and sleep while
scouts looked for signs of Harald Sigurdsson.

Brithnoth approached Harold with news of the scouting parties that he had sent out the
day before.

"What news do you have for me, Brithnoth?" Harold asked.

Brithnoth pointed towards the north west of their position, to a flat expanse of land with a
river flowing between them and the enemy. "Sigurdsson holds the land at FuUford Bridge,
sire. They're about an hour's walk in that direction. 1 would say they number about two
thousand men, and they're currently poorly armed. They're Hardrada's men, all right, and
there is more. Tostig is with a very tall man. 1 understand from my scouts that the man can
only be Sigurdsson. Yesterday, the local landowners were bringing whatever they own to the
fields surrounding their encampment. Obviously, they were under orders to do so. It's my
guess that today will be no different."

"It appears that we now know what he is doing, Brithnoth."

Harold turned around to gaze towards Leofwine and beckoned him to come closer.

"Leofwine, 1 want the men to be fully rested and to keep quiet. There's to be no singing; is
that dear?"

"Yes, Harold, 1 understand. Would you tell me what is going on? The men are going to
want to know." Harold and Leofwine both dismounted and seated themselves upon a fallen
tree.

"It looks like they're collecting booty from the nobles. It would seem lots of cattle are
being brought in to feed his men, too, and some sheep are being penned. It's quite obvious
that they've not a clue we are here." Harold looked towards Brithnoth with a wry smile.

"You'll take your orders from Brithnoth, who is going to take his orders directly from me.
You're to do nothing with your men without the express permission or orders from him or
from me. I'll call a meeting after we have rested and eaten." Harold patted his brother on the
back, and they both rose to their feet and parted, with Leofwine returning to his position
amongst men. Well, it looks like this is the big one, he thought. My hoys are straining their leashes.

Harold returned to be beside Gyrth and Brithnoth, who had dismounted and were now
discussing the situation between them.

"Your scouts have done well, Brithnoth. Go thank them for their work, and then have
them get some rest. We're doing nothing until tomorrow morning." Harold then turned
towards Gyrth. "It looks like we've caught Sigurdsson with his leggings down, little
brother," Harold said smiling broadly."

Gyrth was looking confused.

"We ought to attack now, Harold. It could be a very different situation tomorrow
morning," Gyrth said looking a little worried. Come on, Harold, let's up and at em, he thought.
The light had won the battle of a weakened night, and the birds were in full song. Bees and
flies buzzed around, competing for the right to take the nectar from the now open flowers of
the hedgerows. The air was still and the trickling noise of the river below Harold's camp was
idyllic and tranquil. The men lay down to rest their weary legs, to drink water, and sharpen
their weapons; their spirits were high. They didn't want to sleep, just to rest a little and to be
at the enemy below them.

Harold placed a hand upon the shoulder of his excited brother, calming him.

"The men need to rest for a while longer. They were marching all night and have not any
sleep. We must have room to maneuver and with fresh men, too, Gyrth. If all goes well, and
we're not noticed we'll have them by their coddling hairs. 1 need to secure the troops. See to
it that the fyrd do not wander off and get captured by some scouting party of theirs, or the
game will be up."

Harold's orders were followed to the letter, as Brithnoth gathered the housecarls together
and gave them orders to rest. "What Harold says, he does for good reason," Brithnoth said to
his under-sergeants and other housecarls. "In the morning, see to it that the men are all
ready for battle, in full amour, their shields ready, and their weapons sharp. It looks like
we're going straight in, boys. There will be no messing around." Brithnoth's tone gave away
his excitement in anticipation of the coming conflict.

Brithnoth then rose to his feet, leaving the others behind, and made his way to the edge of
the road and looked across to the plains below, taking care to keep out of sight of any

152

scouting parties. Brithnoth pondered the situation before him. This will be tough, much tougher
than many of us think. There must he many more ready to strengthen those troops down there.
Where's their amour? He thought. It can only he on their ships. If we move now, hefore we are seen,
and take them hy surprise and ohliterate them, then we can he ready to fight their reinforcements.
Surely then, we would he victorious.

Leofwine and Ulf approached the great warrior, interrupting his private thoughts.

"They're hard men, Brithnoth, not easily fought," Ulf commented. He stood next to him as
Leofwine moved over to the other side of the great man.

"We need to be careful to keep our charges tight at all times," Leofwine replied, and
began sharpening his axe with a stone. He gazed at the old giant with admiring eyes. He
loved this great man who had coached him to be a warrior. This wise man had become a
brother and a Godwinson in all but name and would soon lead them, with Harold, to a great
and wondrous victory. A fox wandered in front of them, stopped and gazed at the three
men, then moved away.

"Never underestimate your enemy, Ulf. 1 taught you that as a child. No matter what plans
you lay down to direct an upcoming battle, you can never cater for the unexpected. An
arrow will kill a king just as easily as it will kill a fyrdsman. It doesn't discriminate. If you do
as you're told, the likelihood of defeat will diminish. Nonetheless, remember what 1 have
told you: always prepare for the imexpected. You'll be fighting tough warriors as brave as
you'll ever see. Don't disrespect them. Despite their king's false claim, they'll fight to the last
man. Leofwine, you will do as 1 command. If you don't, 1 will kill you myself!"

"My boys know what they need to do," Ulf said spitting on the ground. He'd accidentally
swallowed a fly that had entered his mouth. "The bloody things must be sodding blind;
that's the third one this morning!"

"Boysl You are dealing with men, and you show disrespect to my housecarls, Ulf?"

"Indeed not, sir." Ulf bowed his head in shame. He'd learned a lesson in respect.

Under-sergeant Larch brought a message for Gyrth to attend Harold, but fell about
laughing at Ulf's facial grimace. "If Ulf stopped eating shit, the flies would leave him alone,"
Larch muttered to himself.

"1 heard that. Larch. I'll shit in your face if 1 catch you, you turd-faced toad." Ulf said
grinning broadly at Larch's humorous remark.

CHAPTER TWELVE

HARD BOOTS AND SOFT HATS

Harold rode to a high point where he could see the enemy's position clearly. He stared
down upon Harald Sigurdsson, the mighty Hardrada, King of Norway, with his men
arrayed in the field, taking booty from the populace who'd traveled from afar under threat of
death. Harold felt aggrieved at the rape of his people. Sigurdsson was like a seven-year-old,
taking the sweets off other children. Harold despised selfishness and bullying, and spat
upon the ground.

"That bastard is robbing my people. Well, Sigurdsson, you're going to play with some
real hard folk." Harold said seething through his teeth. He gazed out farther along the ridge
as his thoughts drifted from his planned tactics to his contumacious brother, Tostig. All the
silly fool had to do was behave, nothing more, he thought. He'll come round when he sees me, and our
brothers will embrace him. How do I find him, though? He brushed away a nosy fly that seemed
to have fallen in love with his face. In a bush beside him, a blackbird sang a merry tune.
Thank you, little fellow. Was that song just for me? He nodded in acknowledgment, then turned
his horse about and moved slowly off the ridge. He was pulled from his thoughts by the
voice of Gyrth who had ridden up beside him.

"Huh! Ah, Gyrth, where is Swein?" Harold asked. "1 need him beside me. 1 thought that
I'd told you that you're to stay beside Brithnoth throughout the day. There are to be no
deviating from my orders, or we might find ourselves in deep trouble. Is that dear? Now,
what is it you want, Gyrth?"

"We should be on the other side of that river, Harold," Gyrth said looking rather
disappointed with the view before him.

They both dismounted and looked at the bridge, where a single man stood alone
guarding the narrow crossing that was the only safe passage over the high-banked, deep and
slowly flowing river.

"The advantage of surprise lies with us, and that's the way it has to remain. In any case, as
soon as we knock out that guard by the bridge, then across, and we're in the field. We can
then mop up this lot and see what else there is to do." Harold remounted and stood high in
his stirrups, trying for a better view of the bridge through the trees.

Ulf ambled over to where Harold and Gyrth were discussing the situation. In one hand he
carried a heavy, two-handed broad axe, in his other hand he held a sharpening stone. He slid
the stone deftly from one side of the blade to the other, honing his instrument of death.

Harold glanced towards Ulf, but his thoughts were elsewhere. "So many decisions, so
many things can go wrong . . . hmm, what's the best approach . . .?" Harold said thinking
aloud, and searching for input on how he could best take the bridge without giving away
their presence.

"He looks a big fellow, but the only guard about, from what the scouts tell me. 1 think we
ought to take him by stealth, in the dark. That way, we will stiU have the element of surprise
in the morning. Ulf, 1 want you to go take a closer look. 1 need to know what the land looks
like close up. See if we can cross elsewhere, unseen and in good order. That bridge is really a
bit too narrow to get us all across quickly," Harold said, as he again took another look at the
disappointingly narrow crossing.

"Yes, sire. I'll be as quick as 1 can," Ulf said. He spun about and walked down towards the
river, keeping low and blending in with his surroundings to take stock of the situation.

Harold dismounted, and he and Gyrth strolled back to the main group to see the various
generals sitting in a circle discussing Brithnoth's thoughts with him. As Harold approached,
they all stood up and came to attention.

"Gentlemen, please, resume yoirr places." The men all seated themselves in a circle to
hear what their king was to say to them. He looked around the group of highly motivated
men, all experienced housecarls, and each straining at their leashes, yet patient enough not to
rashly rush into situations that could jeopardize their advantage.

"My plan was to rest the men and to attack first thing in the morning. I've had second
thoughts, and 1 know it's against my better judgment, but we'll go in now," Harold said
looking towards Brithnoth, and hoping for a nod of approval from the old warrior. "There is
a problem though — the bridge. It appears to be the only route we have. The banks are too
steep to clamber up, and Sigurdsson's forces would attack and defeat us if we tried to cross
the river any way other than that bridge."

"Are the men all assembled and ready, Brithnoth?" Harold was tense. He was relishing
the thought of facing Harald Sigurdsson on an equal footing. He wanted to look the man in
the eye, and have a bloody king-to-king encounter. In the name of his father, he was going
have glory, and Sigurdsson was going to have hell.

"We're ready to go," Brithnoth replied, but sensed Harold's thoughts were elsewhere.

"Harold, are you alright?" Leofwine shook Harold's arm.

"Huh? Yes, fine, I'm just fine. What is it?"

"You asked if the men were ready, Harold." Leofwine said.

"And are they?" He shook himself out of his reverie and now felt more serene, fresh,
sharp and on top of every feeling and emotion. I'm going to crush Sigurdsson, crush him, he
thought.

"Yes, sire, exactly as you requested, not a man is out of place," Leofwine replied.

"Right then, we are going to remove the man on that bridge. See that it's done
immediately, Brithnoth, so that we can cross it in short order, and we might never have such
an opportunity again." The men hurried off to gather and inform the fyrd of the good news.

"Line the men up on the ridge. We're going in now," Brithnoth called to his sergeants. The
housecarls came quickly to the brow of the ridge, their shields shining in the morning sun.
Each man knew what his task was, and knew how to back up his kinsman, when to defend,
when to attack, and when to retreat. Harold's housecarls were professional soldiers, the best
in Evirope, strong of will, steadfast, loyal, courageous men of honor.

In the fields below, Harald Sigirrdsson rode out with Tostig by his side. Harald's fighting
men were being used to usher the burgers and countrymen to deposit their riches in one
giant heap.

From a short distance away came a call from one of Sigurdsson's guards. Harald turned
aroimd in the saddle to see the man running towards him.

"Sire, look!" came a call from a man who was now breathless and pointing towards the
high ground a thousand or so paces away. Harald rode forward to get a better view.

"Tostig, get your arse over here right now! Who is that on the ridge? 1 don't want any
bullshit. Do you recognize that gonfanon?" He grimaced at Tostig, menacingly. 'Tostig! "

"Oh, hell! It's my brother, Harold." Tostig said.

Sigurdsson called down to the man. An earnest, yet exdted look was about him.

"Have a man saddle a horse. 1 want him to take a message to Eystein Orri. Tell the
messenger to have him here as soon as he can, to bring all his forces, with full armor. He
then turned his gaze towards his Saxon companion, Tostig. "Now is the time to prove your
worth," Harald said earnestly.

Sigurdsson had to make a stand with what he had, and stall for some time to allow Orri to
arrive to reinforce him. They Norwegians were deplete of armor, but they had enough
warriors to make a fight. From Sigurdsson's right there was movement and in the distance
the sound of screams that men make when they're disemboweled, filled the air.

"What's going on there, by the bridge, Tostig?" Sigurdsson asked not able to making out
what was happening, for his vision was inefficient at such distance.

"The berserker guard is fending off Harold's men, sire."

The berserker guard swung and struck again and again. He brought down yet another
man on the bridge that was just wide enough for only two men to cross side by side. His
eyes were wild with the rage he had built up inside himself, for he knew that at any moment
he would be dead. For his king and comrades, a berserker would do his duty until death. His
companions needed the time that he could give them that would allow them to regroup and
to array themselves into battle order.

Harold was frustrated, and saw that Gyrth was in need of a way around this berserker
guard. Harold spied a small boat that was tied to a minute landing stage.

"Gyrth, use the boat," Harold called.

Gyrth glanced back at Harold and raised a hand. Gyrth beckoned two fyrdsmen in his
retinue to come forward and to take orders for a special mission. He told them to get
themselves into the boat, and gave orders for them to spear the guard from beneath the
bridge, and that the task was to be carried out immediately lest they were going to be
detained here all day, otherwise.

"For God's sake, Gyrth, hurry. We'll end up getting killed one by one if this affair isn't
terminated immediately," Harold bellowed, but he could tell that the two men understood
what was required of them. With fascination, Harold watched as the men scrambled aboard,
and untied the vessel some hundred paces or so up stream. They paddled along with the
flow of the river, keeping a slow yet steady pace.

The boat, in an ungainly fashion, came slowly toward the bridge, the first man steering
with a paddle, the second man standing stood upright with the spear ready to do its bloody
work from beneath. Not a word was exchanged between them, as they neared the crazed
berserker, who was still flailing his deadly battle-axe back and forth at his attackers,
oblivious to what was beneath him. As the boat passed underneath and with careful aim, the
fyrdsman thrust the spear through the slats of the bridge and into the groin of the berserker
above. The man, in agony, lost consciousness and fell over, dead. The fight was finally over,
but not before twenty good men lay dead at his feet.

"Sergeant, clear the bridge, and get across. Go . . . go! Gyrth bellowed irritably.

Harold rode across first, and in just a few moments he was up the bank on the other side,
and saw that the Norsemen were now arrayed in battle order. Harold felt disappointed that

they'd lost so much time at the crossing, and saw that the Norsemen made a full drcle
countering the flanking attack that he wanted to make.

Ulf rode to Harold's side and then looked up the gentle slop.

From the left Harold saw two men on horseback approach them, and turned to Ulf who
was sitting quietly observing the scene.

"You don't have to tell me. 1 know my own brother, when 1 see him. If 1 could persuade
him to come back into the fold, we could possibly settle this dispute in an orderly way."

Ulf sat in the saddle, taciturn, and observed what was transpiring in front of them. The
two riders slowly wound their way towards them. Tostig was riding his white pony, with
Hardrada on a huge and handsome looking destrier mare. The two men stopped just a few
paces away from them. Harold leant forward then spoke in a determined yet controlled tone
toward his unruly brother. He turned his head to gaze into the face of Harald Sigurdsson,
but then returned to look directly into the face of his brother, Tostig.

"So, Tostig, are you going to come over to us? You can have your earldom and half the
northern shires, too, if you return to the family and fight with us. You know well enough
that I'll keep my word," Harold said in a beseeching tone.

Harold stared into Harald Sigurdsson's eyes and could sense the power of this man. He
knew he could more than meet his strength in arms and courage, yet he didn't
underestimate Harald's valor or ability and skill. He returned his gaze once more towards
his brother. With pleading eyes he implored him to cross over to him.

"You bastards kept me from my Edward, so you've no chance of my embracing you—
bastards!"

Harold saw the unyielding contempt in his brother's face.

"Harold. If you think 1 brought this king here just to betray him, then you're wrong. What
would you offer him in return for a peaceful settlement?" Tostig stood up in his saddle.

Harold did the same, in defiant gesture. "This is no time for family rows. I'm here to clean
my kingdom of an invading king and his army of disrespectful and thieving vagabonds.
You can tell him that I'll give him seven feet of earth or as much taller than he is above other
men," Harold replied indignantly and moving his gaze to Sigurdsson.

At this, Tostig signaled to Hardrada that the parley was at an end.

The Norwegian king turned his horse about, and Tostig followed him up the slope toward
the Norwegian troops.

"Well, what happened?" Sigurdsson asked inquisitively.

"There is to be no compromise. We must be prepared to do battle at once, sire."

"You've not told me, Tostig. Who was that man with the moustache?" Sigurdsson asked.

"Harold, my brother, of course."

"Tostig, why didn't you tell me? 1 would have killed him there and then, if I'd known."
Harald and Tostig rode back until they reached the circle of men where the standard of
Sigurdsson, the Land-Ravager, flew tall in the center of the circle. They dismounted, then
patted their horses and watched as the animals ran off the fleld. Cheers for their king rang
out from amongst the Norwegians. The two men now entered the circle to await their fate.

Harold knew that though his enemy were not fully armored, each of Sigurdsson's men
would stand their ground and flght until they were successful, or die flghting to the last
man; if they had to.

The Saxon king signaled to Brithnoth to start his move, and the Saxons moved in quickly,
flanking, and eventually surrounding the Norsemen, with shouts and jeers. The housecarls
and fyrd stood by their sergeants and awaited their orders. Brithnoth called out his orders.

"Aweccan! Guth raew filciath! Stande faeste! Waepnu nimth as Abideth bebob!"
(Attention! Form the battle line! Stand firm! Raise your weapons and await the order!)
Brithnoth looked towards Harold for the command. As in ofl times of old, the Saxons always
fought on foot, so Harold dismounted; he would fight standing side-by-side with his men.

The silence was deafening, and the men tense. Not a word could be heard, just the
Birds, unaware of what was to come next, chirped.

Harold's strides were forceful and his demeanor menacing. He moved toward the
Norwegian and broke the silence. He spoke clearly and loudly in the Norwegian tongue.

"My name is Harold. I'm king of this fair country which you seek to take as your own. 1
give you fair chance to return to your ships, your wives and children; you will have safe
conduct. Stay, and you will die where you stand."

In unison, a roar of defiance came back. "Cifesborren!" (Son of a whore!" jeered all from
the ranks of Sigurdsson's men.

Harold called out the order to attack. "Oraes!"
Brithnoth repeated Harold's call. "Oraes!"

The Saxon lines moved in with spears and axes, cutting and thrusting. The lines of Norse
warriors stood firm, yet they fell one by one, in man-to-man, hand-to-hand fighting. Men
with scramseax and two-handed battle-axes took turns to stab and hack each other to pieces.
The Norwegians, with so little armor and too few shields, countered with a fierce resistance
that any soldier would be proud of. Heads rolled off shoulders, arms were sliced off as axes
swung viciously, and swords swiped and thrust on both sides, giving and taking no quarter.
They fought like men possessed by devils, each the focus of the other. The cries of pain were
never noticed; only the anger of men in the heat of battle was suffered, as they ferociously
hacked away at each other, oblivious to all except their personal survival at any one moment.
The blood of the dead and dying washed the field up to the ankles of those still standing.
The spilled intestines of sometimes, still alive men, caught in the feet of those reaching for
glory, often being entangled in the gory, filth ridden organs, causing them to fall; allowing
them to be hacked down from above. The strewn brains of once brave warriors made the
ground slimy as if walking on a field of jelly.

Sigurdsson stood firm next to his Land-Ravager standard waiting for Eystein Orri to
arrive, hopefully soon, with armor and fresh troops, but they were at least three hours away.

Just thirty paces away. King Harald Sigurdsson espied Harold, King of the English, in the
thick of the battle, cutting down all before him.

Harold Godwinson noticed the Norwegian king. Godwinson stared briefly in fierce
defiance; when both men made a swath toward the other, hacking and cutting their way free,
each trying to make a route to the other so that they could fight it out personally.

A hail of arrows filled the air from the Saxon forces as the killing continued apace. Having
no recognition of friend or foe, the arrows pierced the flesh of both sides indiscriminately.

Sigurdsson was grinning, clearly enjoying the hand-to-hand fighting, and taking the lives
of brave men as they fought to subdue him. He sang as he swung his mighty battle-axe,
spurring his personal bodyguard to further efforts of bravery.

"Odin will see you in Valhalla. His housecarls will welcome his brave new warriors. The
fields green, and pain, hunger and strife will no longer taunt you. Riches abound for the
bravest of you/' the Norwegian king sang as he cut down yet another Saxon.

Sigurdsson once more saw Harold, just ten paces from him. "Come and meet my beloved
blade, usurper. It's wanting to taste your blood!"

Harold fought fiercely, cutting down the Norwegian housecarls, his lungs filling with the
expired air of the dead and dying. The stench of blood and intestinal contents went
unnoticed, making steady progress towards Sigurdsson.

In the blue cloudless sky, an arrow flew, spinning, as if its trajectory and destiny were
assured as it fell earth-bound. The arrow struck its target; it was the end. Sigurdsson
clutched his throat in shock, his hands fumbling to pull out the arrow, but it was too late, his
jugular was severed and he fell to the ground, dead.

Sigurdsson's housecarls fought on until the last man stood, only to be hacked down by a
Saxon housecarl in a fierce hand-to-hand fight that saw both men die as their axes sliced
through each other simultaneously.

Harold, breathless, gazed about the carnage, to see the butchered remains of the many
thousands that lay dead and dying before him. He dropped to his knees and crossed himself.

"We have the field! We have the field and a glorious victory!" Brithnoth bellowed.

Harold was so relieved they had defeated the mighty Norwegian king.

Brithnoth, who was covered in the blood and the gore of other men's intestines,
approached him. Both men were exhausted, and together, they gazed upon the slaughter
before them, and saw that so many of their best warriors had fallen, and they gazed about
realizing that they'd lost too many of their personal friends.

Brithnoth embraced his king, more to comfort him for their losses than for their victory.

Harold turned to the men left standing. Most were bent double, taking in deep breaths of
stench-filled air.

"Brithnoth, we've defeated the greatest army the world has ever known. It was our good
fortune to have caught them without their full arms and shields. Yet 1 fear the battle is not
over yet, for 1 know there will be more enemies on their way here," Harold said breathlessly,
yet full of elation, until an odd feeling overcame him; the scene was surreal. Harold shook
his head and returned to cerebral normality, feeling relived that he wasn't dead.

"My lord?" Brithnoth replied with an inquisitive look.

"Come on, Brithnoth; get a grip. The lack of shields and the poor equipment they carried
was not their usual manner. We caught them off guard. Soon we'll engage the rest of
Sigurdsson's forces. They'll come that way, from the ships on the Derwent. We must rest and
then prepare for the next round that's sirre to come," Harold said looking unsure about what
to do next.

"1 know this territory well, Harold. If the rest of Sigurdsson's forces are moored at the
mouth of the Derwent, and 1 suspect they will be, then they have a full morning's walk to
reach us, and it's all up hill, too. The day is hot, and they'll have full armor and that of their
comrades to carry for the men who now lie dead here. We're bloodied and ready, with fire in
our bellies for a fight," Brithnoth said grinning broadly.

"By the rounds of Odin's balls, you're right! Muster the men. Get them rested, and then
prepare them for another attack from the left side. Take your best men to the ridge, hide
below the other side, and we'll surprise their forces with an attack from the rear. My
housecarls will lure them in with a feigned retreat then backtrack to crush them. They'll have
no escape, except to the river," Harold said with a tone of inspiration in his voice.

"You're not my king for nothing. My Lord. Look, here comes Ulf, and he's grinning, too!"

"He was eight years old when 1 last saw him grin. He crapped in my porridge. 1 should
have killed him stone dead. Though, 1 had my own back. 1 had a turd inserted into his
sausage," Harold recalled gleefully, and they both roared with laughter, almost falling to the
ground in stitches with glee.

"What's so funny? Has someone found out we fought the wrong army or something?" Ulf
asked, who was now totally bemused?

"Had any sausages lately?" Brithnoth enquired falling about and hardly containing
himself with his laughter he fell to his knees guffawing profusely.

"My lord, what is Brithnoth mumbling about?" Ulf asked pointing his finger towards
Brithnoth. He removed his helmet and scratched the back of his head.

Harold fell to his knees beside Brithnoth in laughter, unable to contain his amusement.

"Turd, turd, turd," Brithnoth mumbled in Harold's ear. The laughter continued for a full
minute, before at last they were able to raise themselves to their feet.

"Oh, its nothing," Harold replied as he threw a wink towards Brithnoth who was trying
hard to raise himself from the blood sodden earth.

Leofwine, Swein and Gyrth ambled over to where Harold stood.

"Ah, my esteemed brothers, I'm pleased to see that you're aU safe. Is anyone here
injured?" Harold asked, and seeing that his brother's were unhurt, continued. "Now we
have another problem," Harold said, and filled in the details to them of what was to come.

"I'm sure we could cope with a second attack, but we need an hour's rest," Ulf said.

1 feel that the moment we see the enemy, the attack should begin whether we are rested or
not." Brithnoth growled.

"They've no idea what has taken place here, or of the outcome. They will be in good heart
and ready for a fight. I'll tell you what. I've an idea, and it just may work as a lure. Ulf, you
take the Land-Ravager, and place it and your men in the position over the bend in the river.
They will head for their own pennant. That way, their route of escape will be only towards
us. You and Brithnoth will be blocking the other two exits out. They will only have the river
as an escape. Keep yourselves hidden behind that ridge Brithnoth, and listen for the trumpet
call. You will then come down with all force. Is that understood?" Harold said inspired.

"That should work," Ulf said sure in the knowledge that Harold's plan would lead them
to a second victory.

"Indeed it should," Brithnoth said looking confident that Harold's plan was sound.
"We will have these turds for supper," Ulf said matter-of-factly.

Harold and Brithnoth both fell to their knees in tears on the grass, laughing.

"I'll go get the men sorted out," Ulf said, with a puzzled look. He walked off, still not
understanding the joke.

"You know, Swein," said Gyrth. "One day, someone will explain all of this laughter and
falling about," Swein said shaking his head slowly as they turned about and ambled away.

Swein and Gyrth moved gingerly through the bodies into open ground further away from
the battleground. As they did so, they gazed up at the star with the tail that was still barely
visible, when he almost tripped over an unseen obstacle.

Swein looked down and saw a body with an arrow through the base of an unprotected
head. The man was well dressed, and obviously a nobleman. Curious, he rolled the body
over. "Gyrth, look; it's Tostig!" he exclaimed with a look of anger about him.

Gyrth knelt down to take a closer look at his deceased brother. "What's he doing here,
Swein?"

"He was trying to escape, of course. The chicken-livered shit! He's no brother of mine. If
asked, you couldn't find him, is that understood?"

Gyrth understood well enough.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ORREI'S STORM

As the hot morning sun beat down upon his head, the messenger made his way through
the wet marshlands, fighting off flies and insects that bit his every being. He arrived at the
ships, sought out and found Eystein Orri sharpening his weapons on a stone.

Eystein looked up to view the man before him

"Sir, Harold Godwinson has engaged the king in battle. The king requires you to come at
all speed with your armor and weapons."

Eystein's jaw dropped, and he stared at the messenger in silence. Eystein rose to his feet
and called to all the men under his command to attention. He repeated the message and
ordered a general muster. To a man, they were eager to engage the Saxons. A roar emanated
from the Norse housecarls who'd been sitting about on the ships idly waiting to serve their
king. Dropping their rope repairs, leather cutting and bone carving, they almost fell over
each other in an attempt to get off the ships.

"Gather your shields and weapons. We will be off to do battle at once. Sergeants, see to it
that the men are ready to march. It is going to take us a while to get there, so bring plenty of
water. This heat will do us no favors if we don't drink our fill. This is going to be a long
march, and what will we find when we arrive only Odin can know." The men didn't need
any coaxing as they gathered themselves together, ready to march.

Eystein thought of Maria. He could almost feel her sweet lips upon his.
He wondered, too, why the king had made him his heir and disinherited his son, Olaf, and
why he'd given him Maria's hand in marriage. She would be his queen one day, and give
him many sons. He gazed about, searching for the man who was to be his backup. Eystein
sought out the lazy prince. Olaf, for the sake of Odin, where are you?"

Olaf was gazing at the birds above him, bathing in the warm sun and taking pot shots at
them with a catapult. He sat up and called back to Eystein as he rested himself on an oar
whilst chewing on a blade of grass. "I'm here, Eystein. I've brought down two seagulls. I've a
good eye, and I'm a dead shot, too."

Eystein clambered up the side of the flagship to gaze into the eyes of the young prince.

"Did you hear the news, Olaf?" Eystein asked.

"Yes, of course. Father will be all right. He just needs a back up to make sure we are in full
control of the situation. He'll knock the shit out of that dumb asshole, Godwinson. 1 would
not even bother going, if 1 were you. The battle will be over and won, by the time you arrive;
so; what's the point?" Olaf said as he shot at another seagull, but missed.

Eystein glared at him and could hardly believe his ears.

"Did you hear me, Olaf? The king has next to no armor and only half the men he needs to
make battle. Look — you stay here, in case the very worst happens. 1 want you to be ready to
sail," Eystein said with a hint of exasperation in his voice.

Olaf shrugged his shoulders, and he lay on his back to soak more of the sun's warmth.

"That's fine by me, Eystein. You go and get your head chopped off since you're the
warrior. I'm just a prince of the realm. What do 1 know of such things?"

Eystein wondered why he should feel so puzzled at his friend's apparent flippancy, when
a change of expression came over Eystein' s face; no longer was Olaf his friend. Eystein was
the Norwegian kings successor and Olaf a dolt.

"Stop buggering about, Olaf! This is serious stuff. Your father is obviously in deep shit
and you make light of the situation." He turned away, his contempt for Olaf now obvious.

"Are your men ready?" Eystein called to his sergeants. He needed no reply. He marched
around to the front of his troops and stood looking at the men under his direct command. A
young boy brought him two shields, and spare coat of mail armor with two swords. He saw
that his men had gathered their armor and were ready to reinforce his king.

"Well, let's make a move. We're going to show Godwinson just who is the stronger force."

The men walked for nearly three hours across coimtry to save time, not following the
route taken by the king. The men were sweating and carrying their armor plus extras for the
men ahead.

The flies buzzed and were a constant irritant, and the mosquitoes stung their skin. The
men were hot and bothered, but ignoring the insects, they trudged onward. There wasn't a
tree, or any shade to be had. Eystein's force stopped here and there to drink water. Many of
the men used their shields to protect themselves from the sweltering heat; they carried on
regardless; they were housecarls, men of honor.

At last, they reached the site of the previous battle. Eystein gazed around him, and he saw
that all was quiet, too quiet; it was almost eerie. Eystein stopped the advance, and took stock
of what was before him.

What happened? There must be signs of life somewhere, he thought. He moved further
forward, and over a small hillock, he noticed a very large formation of warriors around the
Land-Ravager banner. He smiled at the sight of Sigurdsson's pennant; and then his smile
became a grin as he turned to admire his warriors.

"We're in time. Follow me to the Land-Ravager," Eystein ordered his arm pointing in the
general direction of the standard. Eystein had his men grouped in files five abreast, as they
marched forward. They came upon a pile of corpses heaped to the height of a man. He was
puzzled; Eystein couldn't distinguish one body from another. Eystein and his men moved
forward toward the gently flapping Land-Ravager. Only then did Eystein realize they had
been tricked. The corpses they had passed were all that was left of Sigurdsson's poorly
armed infantry. It was too late though, as a superior force that had full advantage of the land
and the situation surrounded them. Eystein cursed himself; that given good intelligence
ahead, he wouldn't have fallen into the trap.

A trumpet sounded, and with a rush, Brithnoth's men came from behind the bank and
stormed down the slope towards Eystein and his warriors. Ulf and his men threw down the
Land-Ravager and marched toward Eystein's meager battalion, which by now was quickly
taking a defensive stand.

Eystein saw Harold's forces coming from the front, cutting off any forward movement or
escape. "Form a circle, lock shields, and keep tight," Eystein instructed; his face, with a look
of deep concern, contorted to a vengeful anger. He watched as the shield wall began to form
around him; his men knew that they had no option but to fight. Capitulation was not an
option. The Norsemen began to chant, and their natural fears were put aside as the

adrenaline flowed in the veins of each man. They began banging their shields and calling out
their Norse mantras, working themselves into fl-enzy.

"Sergeants, keep tight at all times. No matter what happens we can get out of this, but we
need time," Eystein bellowed; full in the knowledge they were now surrounded, and that to
surrender would mean disgrace for himself and all his men. It was a case of fight and die; it
was as simple as that.

Slowly, the Saxon warriors moved forward to within feet of the shield wall tempting the
men to rush at them and break the wall of solid interlocking shields. The taunts from the
Saxons were echoed in kind by replies from the Norsemen within the shield wall. Harold
thought that the only option was to rush the wall with full weight and force, and they might,
perhaps, break through. He had an idea brewing— his grin was as wide as a barn door at the
thought. He gathered some fyrdsmen to him, and gave them particular orders. The chosen
men then returned to the ranks; the two armies were now within a foot of each other.

Then, a few moments later the Norwegians were astonished to see Saxon fyrdsmen
clambering upon the shields of their brethren, standing above them, using the shields of
their comrades. With a gush, streams of urine poured from above, soaking the men behind
Danish wall of gleaming, polished shields. Up came a shield here and there to defend against
the urine from the bloodied Saxon men above. Harold's housecarls rushed into the wall,
breaching the defense ease and with vigor.

"Stand fast! Stand fast!" Eystein called. "We can defeat these men if we stand fast!"
Eystein took a blow on the helmet from a sword but managed to fend off the next attack,
killing the man before him with a straight thrust of his sword. For my king and Maria, I will
fight unto the death. I will die with love and glory in my heart, he thought as he killed yet another
Saxon with a thrust of his weapon.

As before, the fighting began in earnest. The battle was frighteningly fierce as each man
killed his nearest enemy until at last there was a general route of the extremely tired
defenders. The Saxons fought like sharks in a feeding frenzy. Eystein's men began to scatter,
being hacked down by the Saxon battle-axes.

Overwhelmed, some Norwegians took to the water behind them, only to drown as their
armor and jupons became a soaking mass pulling them down. The river turned red with the
blood of the dead and wounded, defeated Norsemen.

Eystein Orri fought on, until he, too, was brought down by a blow from a Saxon battle-
axe. His eyes bulged as the blow struck his chest, slicing through his mail armor, and he fell
to his knees. On his lips, he uttered a choking Maria. As he gurgled, he saw his ancestors in
Valhalla beckoning him to come to them. From a second blow Eystein's head rolled from his
body, and Eystein Orri had done his duty to his king. As Eystein fell, the battle ceased, and
once more the ground was awash with the blood and bodies of lifeless Saxons and
Norwegians alike.

Just as darkness was dosing in, not one of Eystein men was left standing. There was now
silence as finally the battle halted. The only sounds were a few moans from wounded men of
both sides dying or pitifully wounded. Men were detailed to help the Saxon injured, to be
eased away to have their wounds dressed.

Harold's housecarls mingled through those Norsemen still breathing, and the slaughter
continued as the living were put out of their misery by the cutting of their throats, no matter

how trivial their wounds. The crows swooped down picking at the eyes of the dead,
followed by the seagulls and other carnivores.

Harold's men were fighters to the core; so too, were the Sigirrdsson's housecarls.

Harold, though elated, felt a sense of shame at the waste of good men on both sides. He
looked about him, the ground blooded red; not a blade of green grass could be seen. The
carrion were now in a frenzy of feeding that made Harold feel sick at the sight of the carnage
before him.

The sky began to darken further as the heavens opened and a downpour washed the field.

"Ulf!" Harold called. "Go and see to it that the men left on the boats be brought to the
battlefield by first light. 1 have no idea how many there are, but you'd better take a
contingent with you in case there is any fighting to be done. Take the horses, and you should
be there before midnight. Don't alarm them . . . that could be dangerous for you. Just call on
them, and tell them they have lost the battles and that their king is dead— that they must
come as our prisoners. If there is any sign they might put up a fight, then torch the ships."

Ulf stood in the twilight pondering, looking down at the thousands of bodies of good men
who were wasted for a cause they could never hope to attain, all for the greed of one man,
who'd had it all anyway.

"Ulf!" Harold called once more.

Ulf was startled into attention and turned aroimd. "I'm sorry, sire. My thoughts were
elsewhere. What was it you were saying?" For a moment, he noticed that Harold looked
irritated.

Brithnoth took Ulf to one side and briefed him on Harold's order.

Harold walked towards the two men, feeling a little perplexed. "What is the matter with
you, Ulf?" Harold asked. "Come on; spit it out, man."

Ulf shrugged. "I'm on my way, sire. I'll see you at first light." At that, Ulf took off to
round up the best of the rest of his men to accompany him to the ships.

Brithnoth took Harold firmly by the arm. "Harold, Ulf told me it was a shame we couldn't
have taken these men south with us. They were brave warriors, a fit and formidable force,
well able to fill our ranks, and now that Sigurdsson is dead they could have been useful to
us, and I'm sure they would have been well rewarded, should they have been needed to
battle alongside us in the future."

"I'd thought of that, Brithnoth. Their leader was a young and dedicated man. He had a job
to do, and he tried . . . even if it meant in the end that he had to die for his master. No
amount of coaxing from us would have changed his mind. Neither would the men who
fought with him have come to us. 1 would have been proud to have such men in my ranks.
Come; we must leave the field and allow our men to rest for a couple of days. We have to
secure York tomorrow, and I've plans to return to London. There are things 1 must do that
only a king can do, and that is to secure the south coast in case there is an invasion from the
bastard. Let's hope that in this great victory he'll be dissuaded from stupidity. If he does
decide to oppose us, he will gain only as much of England as he is tall, just as Sigurdsson has
been allowed," Harold said, looking confident but tired.

"I'll see that our camp is set in an orderly fashion, Harold. Err . . . are you off to York just
now, by any chance? Brithnoth asked.

"You old devil, you want me to bring that wench, the Lady Amanda, back with me, don't
you? She's probably married a baker by now. I'll see to it she is brought first thing in the
morning, Brithnoth. 1 won't let you down old man." Harold grinned, then mounted his horse
and rode off in the failing light toward York.

The morning light shone through the window of Harold's bedchamber. He awoke to
spasms in his legs and was in so much pain that he called for Cedric to help him in getting
up from his cot. "Damn! 1 hate cramps. 1 would rather have a tooth pulled by the bastard than
these bloody spasms. 1 seem to get them more often these days, my boy. It's a sign of old age
perhaps?" Cedric just smiled and called the chambermaid in to serve the king's breakfast.

"This will be the first decent meal you've had since we left London, Father."

"You called me father, Cedric?"

Cedric just smiled and left the room to the maid and Harold to his breakfast.
Harold stood gazing through the window wondering if there was to be any more fighting
done. He wondered if anyone else would attempt to invade England after this ignominious
defeat of Harald Sigurdsson. Would the bastard attempt a crossing now that I've secured my
kingship? Should 1 send a message to the bastard warning him off? He mused. Harold
fought against sending any message. "Let the bastard come; he'll be surprised at our greeting,
" he muttered, and strolled over to the stables to mount his horse to be met by his brothers
and generals, and set out to complete the previous day's work.

By noon, Ulf and Swein had assembled the ship's company of Norsemen outside the gates
of York. The men of the fyrd were rested, and a fresh guard was made up from Edwin and
Morcar's battalions, and brought forward to escort the prisoners back to their ships with a
message that they should never return.

Olaf stepped forward and looked Harold squarely into his eyes. "1 wish to take my
father's body to his homeland to be buried on the soil of his birth."

A frown came upon Harold's face. He grimaced and spat the words out through his teeth.
"Your father will be buried as 1 promised, in seven feet of earth," Harold said indignantly. "1
lost many good men and dear friends to your father's greed. The cost will be paid. You, my
boy, will learn this lesson, and learn it well. England will be free of all foreign influence for
the next thousand years. Go and tell that to your people." Harold waved his arm, and Olaf
was forcibly ushered outside. He was to be escorted, along with his kin, to await the twenty-
four ships allocated for their return to the land of their birth.

Olaf boarded the ship with his men. They weighed anchors, pushed off into the river, and
sailed down with the brown tidal surge, with the bloated bodies of their comrades floating
along its banks. As the sun beat down, the smell of decomposing flesh entered the noses of
the Norsemen, and the stench made them retch.

Olaf glanced at the carrion, picking eyes of dead warriors for their lunches. He winced as
he saw foxes dragging off torn limbs of men who fought valiantly in vain for their king, only
to be used as food for the wild beasts of England.

From the banks of the river, villagers looked on as the surviving Norwegians sang
laments for their fallen comrades, then sang of their wish to be in Valhalla with their king,
friends, and companions as they passed by.

Olaf ordered some of his fleet to land in the Orkneys to pick up Elizabeth and Maria,
while he was to sail on to Norway in ignominy and shame.

A few days later, on the Isle of Orkney, Maria held her flowers to her breast, and she smelled
the pleasing aroma from their multicolored heads. She looked to the shore where the seals
swam and the cormorants dived to catch their fish, and then sat majestically digesting their
meal. She began to hum a tune that came into her mind. She felt little butterflies inside her
tummy, and she patted her bulge and smiled, then turned her gaze to the swallows
swooping. Maria noticed a man some way off, approaching her. As he got closer, she could
see he was a housecarl, and by his demeanor, that all was not well.

"No, don't come near," she ordered. "He is dead; isn't he?" Her eyes welled with tears as
her head dropped to gaze at her pregnant, swollen belly.

The housecarl nodded. "They're all dead," he whispered.

The flowers dropped from her hand. Her tears fell in rivulets down her cheeks as she
stood looking towards the shoreline, where she and her beloved Eystein Orri once made love
in the grass. She walked slowly toward the water and into the sea, to be with her man.

The last of the real Vikings were dead, never to be seen again.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

DIVES-SUR-MER

Alan sat against a tree eating a chicken leg that Philippe had caught and cooked. He idly
gazed to the hills that looked menacingly steep and high. The trees, with their deep green
canopies, held millions of starlings that swooped low in perfect formation, gathering insects
from the rich soup beneath them. Alan tried to count them, but it was impossible. He noticed
a wild boar roaming the carpet of leaves trying to nuzzle out sweet roots from the earth. He
listened to the choruses of songbirds that filled the air with the magical sound of life. The
smell of wood burning fires reminded him of their home before the Norman attack. He was
enjoying the peaceful tranquility; it was a far cry from the excitement that brought them to
be working for the enemy. Alan noticed that the breeze had changed direction, and a light
blue smoke haze from the cooking fires permeated the nostrils of all living creatures that
dwelt in and around the port of Dives-sur-mer.

Philippe was seated on a Hessian sack filled with horsehair. He gazed out to the sea far
beyond the shoreline, wondering if the next crossing would be as easy as the first that he and
Alan had made. "I've been thinking about our trip to England, Alan. If it were not for Snap,
we could have spent a few more days in England. We never got to taste any of their food or
ale. Even though our party was ordered to leave by Earl Leofwine, I'm sure we could have
made some viable excuse to hang on there a day or two." He smiled to himself then glanced
up as he noticed movement. He saw a group of men in the distance approaching their way.

"Hey, Alan, this looks like the duke. We'd better look as if we're busy, or we'll be in deep
trouble for lazing about." Philippe gave him a light kick with his boot.

"Did you hear what 1 said? We've company, and we ought to be seen doing something."

Alan had dozed off, and awoke with a start. He rose to his feet rubbing his eyes and
gazed in the direction of his brother's pointing finger. He scratched the back of his head,
then brushed off the grass and other bits from his tunic.

"It's the duke and his pal, Roger Fitzscrob," Philippe said whose vision were by far the
sharper of the two. The brothers moved out of sight and watched the two riders approach.

As the men reached the lodge, William leaned towards Roger, their horses' noses
snorting, almost touching. He smiled broadly at the man who was, along with Walter
Giffard, the most faithful amongst all his entourage. William grasped his arm as they halted
in front of the building before them.

"What day is it, Roger?" William asked

"It's Wednesday, the first day of August, sire. It's the day of St Hope." Roger glanced
skyward. "It's going to be a fine day." Roger said smiling, because he was feeling confident
that all would go well, and that William knew exactly what he was doing. "The lodge looks a
mess, William," he said with a forlorn look.

When arrived at the stables, they dismounted and their horses were led away by the
stable boys, whilst Robert and the duke strolled over to inspect the damage.

The lodge, though not a particularly large building, was comfortable, and through lack of
regular occupation, the interior smelled musty. William had ordered that a fire had to
constantly be kept alight, even in the summer months. Even so, the damp from the sea air
meant that the odor lingered on, despite the fire.

As Roger entered the lodge, he had his men-servants begin cleaning up the mess. He
glanced up at the remains of a mast with a partial sail still attached that poked a wayward
hole in the thatched roof. It was the remnant of a storm that had battered the coast the
previous night.

The duke stood outside inspecting the damage "1 want the roof to be repaired by
nightfall," William ordered. He entered the lodge, and kicked at the debris that was spread
everywhere about the floor. He glared at the men about him, and watched them as they
rushed off to make themselves busy. "The cleanup should have started at first light, Robert,"
he growled.

"It's a bit of a wreck, sire. If 1 may say so, the lodge is in need of a total rebuild."

"It's not the first time I've arrived here to find the place a total shambles. 1 sort of expect it.
It will all be ready for use in two days; mark my words. These men know what they are
doing. Meanwhile, we'll have to use the stables. My men make sure they're dean before 1
arrive, in case this sort of thing happens.

"1 sure hope so. 1 dread to think of the mess we'd be heading into, otherwise."

A mast through a roof was unusual, to say the least, Phillippe thought. He stood watching the
men as they started to organize themselves into two lines with alternate full and empty
baskets being passed along the line, a process that was to be repeated hour-after-hour.

Philippe noticed the laborers rough attire. He recognized them as slaves, men in bondage,
to all intent and purpose, dead men. He wondered ft these men found themselves and their
families in slavery through debt to the duke. Such folk who are unable to support themselves
rarely lived very long . . . poor souls, he thought.

He was used to slavery; he knew that slavery was a normal part of life for some men. He
reflected on his home, his daughter, his brother's wife, Maria and his niece. He thought, too,
of the money they were earning for their labor, and the extortionate cost of delivering this
money to their family. At least the duke looks after us in this respect and organized such things very
well, or perhaps this privilege is because of the monk, Cecil, he thought. He felt for his purse. It
was full; it was always full. Then feeling for his rosary, he prayed to the Lady Mary, thankful
that he was lucky, that she was kind to him. He prayed that these people in bondage be
treated kindly, but he was aware this prayer might not be in answered, as he was sure that
they'd have to wait death in order to gain their salvation.

Alan looked over at his brother. "Are we going to get on with this job, Philippe, or are we
going to sit on our backsides all day twiddling our thumbs? 1 might remind you that we're
here to get that mast out of the lodge roof."

Philippe stared back at the man, who only moments before had been sleeping. "You've
some impudence! I'll toss this coin to see who goes on the roof for the mast. It's a two-
headed coin." He winked at him as the coin spun through the air.

"Tails," called Alan. A moment later he saw that the toss was lost to Philippe. "Let me
take a look at that coin . . . I'm not so sure you weren't kidding me along. I'm beginning to
wonder about you, little brother."

"You took the call, Alan. I'll have control of the oxen. Be careful because that roof looks
steep, and slippy, too." Philippe ambled over to the yoked bovines and prepared to throw
Alan the rope. He spied the duke and his guest at the stable doorway. I'm glad that I've my
brother to help. This could be a tricky maneuver if I were working with a veritable stranger. If this task

169

went awry, it would be red faces and a whipping, especially if it were the duke who witnessed such a
shambles. Philippe put aside his thoughts and watched on, as Alan clambered up the ladder.

Alan threw a grappling hook over the apex, and using a second ladder; he gingerly
hefted himself onto the thatched roof, securing his body with a length of rope in case he lost
his footing.

Philippe threw a rope up to him, who, in turn, threw it over the thick branch of a tree that
was well above the height of the hole in the roof.

"That should hold well enough." He glanced down to see Philippe gazing up at him. In
moments, he'd the rope attached to the mast and called down to Philippe to take the slack
and allow him time to crawl clear. "Are you ready, Philippe? I'm done here, and all has been
made secure. Be steady, as the wood comes up. I've to maneuver the timber around. 1 don't
want it ripping more off the roof than is absolutely necessary. When 1 shout stop, give me a
moment to get clear; is that understood?"

"Alright, 1 understand," Philippe called back, and on Alan's signal, began hauling.

As the rope became taut, Alan gave direction to Philippe to move or to stop as required.
At last, the mast was free. Alan was pleased that he had managed to extricate the offending
object with little extra damage caused to the roof in the process. He called for fresh thatch to
be brought up to him, and within a few hours the roof was repaired.

The duke and Roger sat down to eat whilst watching the two men labor the hours away
unceasingly. There was something about these two men that was different from the average
laborers, something that Roger couldn't quite determine. He called to Georgios, his master-
of-sergeants, to bring the brothers to him.

"Hey, you two! Come here. You're wanted by my master," the sergeant called.

"Who, us?" Alan asked, looking extremely worried that they might have offended
someone.

"Come with me. Before you ask, I've no idea what he wants with you."

"I'm not sure what we're in for, Alan. 1 can't see that we've done anything to upset the
duke. Can you think of anything?" Philippe's brow furrowed, his thoughts searching for
reasons for their summons.

They followed the sergeant to the stables, where they were told to wait outside. From
within came voices. Neither of them could make out what was being said, despite straining
their ears.

"I'm imsure what's happening, too, Philippe. If we were about to be punished for some
offence, we wouldn't be left standing here outside, alone." Alan shrugged his shoulders and
pulled a puzzled face.

Moments later, three men approached them, and Philippe motioned Alan to attention.

Roger looked first at Philippe, then at Alan, and back at Philippe. He stared deeply into
his eyes just long enough to gauge the sincerity contained within them.

"You're a warrior; are you not?"

Philippe looked directly ahead. "Yes. I've had some training, sir."

"I'm told you're brothers. Is this correct?" Roger asked.

"Yes, sir. My elder brother, Alan, is a trained warrior also," Philippe lied confidently.

Robert looked impressed, and walked around gazing at their neat attire, and then threw a
punch at Philippe.

In a flash Philippe stopped the blow and took Robert to the ground, holding him there.

"1 see you've quick reflexes. You've indeed had training," William said stepping forward,
wearing a puzzled look. "I've seen you two somewhere before. Would you care to remind
me where it was?"

Philippe's boot gently nudged Alan's, indicating he should say nothing.

Alan was more than happy to leave all the talking to Philippe.

"My brother and 1 took six horses to England. We accompanied the monk, Cecile. Later
we looked after your stables at Quenilly. You might recall that we accompanied Engulf to the
castle on the day that the messenger brought his bad news, sire."

William nodded. He recalled the monk, Cecil, telling him about these two exceptional
young men who were not only literate, but could speak Latin, Greek, and English, too.

"They're the Domfront brother's, sire," Horace, the monk and duke's scribe, reminded
William.

"Ah, yes, the Domfront brothers, 1 might have a task for you two. How well can you ride
and control a horse?" William asked, turning his head a little.

"We ride well, sire. We had our own stables on our farm," Philippe half lied, hoping to
impress, as well as hoping that the questions would go no deeper.

"I'm looking for officers — ^men who can control and command respect from the troops
under their direct influence. 1 recall that it was Master Sergeant Sprig, who first hired you.
He told me he'd learned that you are educated. You will be under the command of yoirr new
master, Roger Fitzscrob here, who will give you your duties. You can consider yourselves
promoted to the rank of sergeant." William then turned about and walked out to the lodge.

"1 like you, Philippe," Roger said. "You've a good eye, but I'd have pulled my punch, lest
I'd broken my knuckles in your hard chin. The duke likes you, too," he added. As Robert
turned to leave the stables, he about-turned and stood looking at them thoughtfully. "Do a
good job, and you'll go far in this company," he said, and then moved off to rejoin the duke
outside.

"What the hell was all that about? We only had 'a' horse . . . and stables? We had 'a' stable,
Philippe. Anyway, we've been chosen to have responsibility, and 1 hope that our education
isn't going to come back to haunt us."

"It rather looks that way, Allan. 1 guess, in part, it's why we obtained employment as
quickly as we did, and why we've had rather important jobs around here. The duke has just
made us sergeants, and from his own lips, too. That'll really increase our income." Philippe
grinned, then noticed over his brother's shoulder a large procession heading toward the
lodge.

Bishop Odo, with a large retinue, appeared, approaching from over the hill, his baggage
train, consisting of some twenty mules, was obviously overloaded.

Philippe looked on as William strolled across the courtyard to see him focusing his
attention on the newly arriving party.

"I've made sirre that Odo remains near me at all times, Roger," William barked. "He's not
to be trusted, and I'll not leave him on his own in Normandy. For that reason, I've left Roger
of Beaumont, and Hugh, the Vicomte of Avranches, to assist Matilda in the Ducal Regent
while I'm absent. For now, let's go get some food before we begin the meeting." The two

men made their way inside to a repaired and cleaned lodge. "Ah, this looks much better,
Roger."

Odo dismounted and made his way to the lodge entrance, with servants running hither
and thither carrying the bishop's belongings.

"Ah, Odo, You're moving home again, 1 see. You're just in time to partake in a meal,"
William said, as he glanced at the boys carrying Odo's belongings.

Odo nodded his acknowledgement to Fitzscrob and looked at his half brother. "I'm well
enough, brother, just tired, and hungry, too. It's a long way to travel from Bayeux, and my
arse is sore for my trouble; I'll tell you."

The pages brought in a meal of duck, venison, and assorted vegetables, and the men
began to eat. Odo sat at the table and began quaffing as if he he'd never been taught table
manners.

The three men finished their meal and sat about idly chatting-discussing England's
division after the conquest was complete.

"1 quite like Scrobbesbyrig," Robert said smiling. "1 paid a visit there once, with Roger-de
-Montgomery. The scenery was beautiful, an hour's riding east, and you come to a large
gorge that drops steeply to a fast flowing river. It has an odd looking mountain that from the
side, looks like a man lying on his back. 1 found good salmon fishing, and there were deer
everywhere. That was a few years back, mind you. 1 was the guest of Gruffyd, Earl Edwin's
father. The town runs along side the boarder of Wales. The Welsh call the town Shrewsbury,
and 1 think that you'd like it, William."

"You'll have the whole province, Robert. Call the place Fitzscrobia," William said
laughing loudly. William glanced at Horace, the monk and scribe. He was always by
William's side, quill pen in his hand, ready to receive instructions. Every word was to be
written down, copied, witnessed, and stored for future use. It was his job, too, to see that the
duke's orders were distributed, often verbatim.

William often wondered about Horace, who was a large man with a tonsure that was
really shaved too big for his small head. The duke chucked, inwardly, as he gazed at
Horace's grossly overweight torso and short stature, recalling how children would often
tease and taunt him to distraction. They could be heard calling him 'Horace the horse meal
monk,' for he could finish off the contents of a platter the size of a horse's nosebag.

Outwardly, William gazed at the man sternly, almost with contempt. Horace would
correct the duke's speech, often in mid-sentence. William knew he was right, of course, but
he couldn't help despising him for so doing. Despite this annoyance, he was a trustworthy
and efficient servant. Had he not been so, he'd have been sent to a monastery a long time
ago.

"Have we enough parchment to send messages to all my thegns and officers, Horace?"

"Yes, my lord, we've more than enough. I'm ready to take down your orders, as long as
you don't speak too quickly, sire," Horace replied suffering from a summer cold, snuffling.

William was in relatively good humor this evening. "You know something, Horace. 1 love
a good fight. 1 would, on this occasion, however, be satisfied with just walking into England
and taking the crown that's rightfully mine, oh, and having Harold as my willing vassal. For
now, 1 need you to do some letter work, and my thegns need to have their orders promptly."

William turned to Robert and took him to one side. "Scribes are so bloody slow at writing
their words. It's so aggravating. They seem to take all sodding day to finish anything. A
trained parrot would do the job quicker and speed around to everyone repeating my orders.

"1 know, William, but there's no-one else you can trust to faithfiiUy take your orders. The
other scribes are about as honest as Satan. Treat him with more respect; that's my advice."

William resumed his seat and began dictating the orders for his men to assemble at Dives-
sur-mer, and to bring a specified number of men and supplies. He was thoughtful, and
began to speak softly, but with determination in his voice.

"Each thegn must bring his own personal sword and a spear, along with thirty bowmen
of good quality, supplied with five hundred arrows each," William ordered. Some thegns
were ordered to bring much more, including horses, many fiom the special breeding stables
that William had maintained about the dukedom. "I'll see how many can be built on site,
and if there are enough trees that can be felled from the local reserves, then we'll use them."
William thought aloud.

Horace wrote furiously in his own Latin shorthand, trying to keep apace. "Is that all,
sire?" he asked looking up, wondering if he might have offended his lord.

"Be quiet while I'm thinking! Now, write a letter to Robert-of-Mortain. 1 want one
hundred and twenty horse-carrying vessels from him. Odo has brought his one hundred
boats with him as I've already requested. That leaves William-of-Evreux. 1 think he should
manage eighty horse-carrying ships. Now, then, Horace, you're to write a letter, instructing
Roger-of-Beaumont, Hugh of Avranches, and Robert-of-Eu to each supply sixty ships. Roger
is to send supplies as to when 1 need them. Giffard only has thirty boats, but they carry
horses, so that's a bonus. Ah, yes, see to it that they know and are ready with their knights,
too. There will be similar messages later; is that understood?"

"Yes, sire." Horace said.

"Right. That should be all for now. You'd better get them copied before nightfall, because
1 want each one delivered as the copy is finished. I'll take it that's understood."
Horace nodded meekly and affirmed that he would take care of all that was requested.

1 take it that we've fresh horses ready?" William asked with a look that required a positive
answer, the only kind he would accept.

"Yes, sire. We've more than enough, but I'm not sure we have enough messengers to
deliver them." Horace became flustered.

"Well then, the scribes will have to do the job. Go on-get to it, Horace. If you let me
down, there will be trouble; do you understand?"

"Yes, sire," Horace, replied, but the monk seemed incapable of moving. He was firmly
rooted to his seat with fear, and felt the warm trickle of urine flowing between his legs.

"Are you bloody deaf? Well— go on then; get moving! 1 want your arse out of here. I've not
got all sodding day!"

Horace rose awkwardly from his seat, his body unable to comfortably negotiate the table
without him nearly falling to the floor. He managed to right himself, and then left the room,
he made his way to the hall where the other scribes were working. Dropping what they were
doing, they scrambled to copy the letters and send them off to those concerned.

"I think that's about all we can do for one day, Robert. You can go and make yourself
comfortable in the stable. It's tidy enough, and I'll see you at first light. As for me, well 1
need to sleep.

"I'll bid you pleasant dreams then, William. While I'm here, might 1 ask where Walter
Giffard is right now?

"Gambling again, Robert. Walter owes you money then. Any more gambling, and I'll
have your arses skewered; now get out and let me sleep."

William awoke refreshed the next morning, and he looked out the window, feeling
pleased with himself that he'd chosen Dives-sur-mer; it was an ideal embarkation point. The
site was sheltered, with many coves and natural breakwaters, containing wharves that he'd
had constructed to allow horses to be loaded aboard ship.

Outside, the camp was filling daily with men from all over the dukedom and beyond.
They had begun arriving to receive their orders and to train for the battle that lay ahead.

"Soon, I'll have the money, the men, and the supplies. All 1 require now is the southern
breeze and good weather for the crossing," he mumbled as he glanced up at Roger who had
just entered the room. William grinned. It soon turned into a laugh; they both laughed.

On Friday, August 3rd, the weather was perfect. The breeze was from the west, and the
day was warm. From the south, along the river, a group of small boats that contained Bishop
Gilbert of Lisieux was sighted. He'd arrived back in Normandy from his long trip to Rome,
on the duke's behalf.

Gilbert sat on the bow of the ship speaking his thoughts aloud to his companions.

"I'm glad to be back and with the required gold and banners. The duke had better be
satisfied with my efforts, because he doesn't have a due about what we had to suffer on our
journey. As you all know, this bloody trip was rarely without a mishap or ambush. Try
telling the duke that pirates roamed the roads, and patrolled the waterways searching out
victims. He doesn't give a rabbit's arse, as long as he gets money and the pope's blessing,
bastardl I've brought him the bloody lot, including the pope's pledging his full support. If
William only knew the promises 1 had to make to the bloody greedy toad!" Neither the duke
nor the pope will keep any of the promises they made. There's no point in showing my disgust in the
pope, nor the duke, if the truth is known. Each is as had as the other, he thought.

Gilbert and his retinue were, at last, able to disembark their boats. With the pope's banner
held high, they mounted ponies that were brought specially from the stables, and they rode
into Dives-sur-mer to a tumultuous greeting from the assembled townsfolk and William's
forces. As they road toward the lodge, they were jostled and pushed. Gilbert almost fell off
his horse with the milling crowds crushing around him, arms outstretched in order to touch
the papal banner he held in his free hand.

A monk brought William the news of Gilbert's return, and the duke immediately
mounted a horse and rode out to meet him. As he approached the milling crowd, he could
see clearly the pope's banner.

Gilbert noticed the duke approaching and turned his horse in his direction.

"Welcome back, Gilbert, called William, loudly. He's a bloody dunce, and he'd better have
what I'd sent him for, or else I'll kick his arse from here to Caen, he thought. Come; let's first talk.
Then, if your news is good, we can eat, William said smiling, as they rode towards the main
camp. They dismounted, and together, they entered the lodge.

"Be seated, Gilbert. I want the full story of the pope. 1 take it that he's backing us?"
William asked with a half anxious look, as he put his feet up on the table.

"Oh yes," Gilbert replied confidently. "All the way, though he wants sixty percent of the
share for his support."

"What! 1 thought as much," William replied pulling a face. "So, have we the money we
need to pay the mercenaries?"

"Yes, we have it all, sire. The gold is being brought up now. It's being placed in the
jewelry, ready for your inspection." Gilbert smiled with relief, and gave William the
parchment with the pope's seal and blessing.

William gazed at the huge wax papal seal that was so very intricate. He was impressed
and felt smug. England will soon be mine, and I'll be the richest man in Europe. William rubbed
his hands with utter glee and delight.

"Well done, Gilbert. I'll see that you're well rewarded. If the pope's gold is all we've
asked, it should last us well into England. I'll then strip the country to the bare bones. All
assets will come back here, to Normandy. England today and tomorrow, the rest of France!"
William once more began rubbing his hands in pure delight.

He's mad; he's bloody mad. They're all like sodding wolves, Godless bastards, to a man. Still, if it
makes me rich, then I'll suck up as much as he likes. I still think he and his friends are lunatics, to take
on Earl Harold. William's constant and incessant jabbering interrupted Gilbert's thoughts.

William removed his feet from the table and leaned forward in his chair. "I'm going to
need controllers for the various Saxon earldoms, and the rewards will be substantial. Did
you hear that, Gilbert? 1 said substantial." William rose to his feet and strolled around the
room, touching bits of armor and caressing his mail suit. He gazed out the window at the
sea. "I'm coming for my crown, Godwinson, and it won't be long before your head is looking
down from my trophy wall," William said with a smug grin upon his face as he turned
around to look in Gilbert's direction.

"1 couldn't have a better tactician for a lord, sire," Gilbert said, his innate and inordinate
sycophancy openly dripping from every pore in his body.

Not that William cared. He knew that everyone shared the same avaricious qualities.
William spun round and their eyes met— they understood each other well.

"Fitzscrob has been allocated some land. He's going to call it Fitzscropshire, and Odo
wishes to have Kent. There'll be plenty to go around. You'll not miss out. You've served me
well, and your reward is assured. Let's go and eat, and then we can inspect our gold,"
William said, grinning; then he gripped Gilbert's arm, pulling the bishop up from his seat
and led him from the lodge to where an ox was being roasted over an open fire.

"Cut me some meat, boy," the duke demanded. William picked out a small crusty loaf,
broke it in half and gave the other to Gilbert. The boy passed his master some thinly cut meat
and offered the duke a goblet of wine. William was looking over the scene of men unpacking
mules and tumbrils when he espied Roger Fitzscrob talking to his half brother, Odo.

"Roger!" William called. "1 need to see all my officers for one last meeting before they
embark for Saint- Valery. Go and see to it that they all come immediately. Go on; look lively,
man!"

Roger waved his acknowledgement, and began calling the messengers to fetch the officers
to muster.

William patted the servant-boy upon his head. "This is good fare, boy. Bring a little more
inside on a platter, would you? Oh, and a barrel of ale and some flagons, too."
The boy nodded. "Yes, at once, sire."

The two men reentered the lodge and seated themselves as before, and awaited his men.

As usual, William chaired the meeting. He was jolly and confident as he surveyed the
men before him. "Well, gentlemen, it's good to see you've all managed to be here without
problems of weather delaying your arrival. Oirr Lady Mary has been kind to us, and she
smiles upon our venture, as demonstrated by the beautiful weather she sends to us. Please,
be seated and drink some wine and take your fill from the platter before you, because we
have much to discuss. First of all, 1 want to fill you all in as to the state of our preparations
to-date."

William then called for a messenger boy. "Have the man called Philippe Domfront come
here at once."

"Yes, sire," he said, and the boy then ran off to find Philippe.

The room fell into silence. William cleared his throat, sat down, and began to speak.

"As you all know, Gilbert has brought the best news. It means oirr preparations can
proceed without hindrance. Now let's get to work on the details, shall we? We have fourteen
thousand men here, and out of these, we have eight thousand that will do battle. The rest
will have other duties, not least, the feeding and smithing of the cavalry horses." The duke
turned his attention towards Montgomery. "Has the fort been dismantled, made ready and
loaded?"

"It's been ready since Monday, sire," Montgomery replied.

"Good, then all we need is the wind to come around from the south, and we can take the
high tide out to sea," William said, confidently. "Are there any questions?" William looked
around the table at each man in turn.
Robert-of-Eu, whose duty it was to coordinate the Dives area activities, asked to speak.

"If 1 might, William, what if the wind doesn't change? We're going to have a rough time
keeping the troops from getting too unsettled. You know what these men are like. If the food
runs low and the wine runs out, we're going to have trouble on our hands. There's been too
much preparation for this well coordinated strategy, to allow things to be spoiled by the lack
of a contingency plan, in coping with disturbances from disgruntled and idle men." Robert
gazed about the room. "1 think 1 ought to tell you all just what has gone into this venture."
Robert looked at his master for consent to relay the intricately involved details.

William nodded his approval. "Go on, Robert. You're not going to shut up until you've
told us what a clever shit you are. We've nowhere to go until the wind changes, so go
ahead."

Robert preened, then continued, "Well, 1 had the scribes set to work on the figures so that
we could quantify what was needed and the cost. It comes to a goodly total; 1 can tell you.
We have ten men to a tent, and that comes to one thousand four hundred tents. This meant
that thirty-six thousand calves had to be killed to make the hides for the tents. So, that
provided for the feeding of the men. We had three thousand horses, all in need of shoeing.
That came to twelve thousand new horseshoes! Seventy-five thousand nails in eighteen
barrels of iron had to be shipped. 1 can't find the figures for the blacksmiths that worked on

this lot, but they were more numerous than flies around a turd." Looks of admiration and
some disbelief were on the faces of the men at the table.

Robert sneezed, then continued, "We had five thousand cartloads of horse manure to
dispose of, and the horse piss alone would fill something like seven hundred and fifty
thousand ale barrels. Some of you might have noticed the channel we had dug to drain it all
off, so as we would not be inundated with the stuff. Now the food for the men and hay for
the horses are soon to run out. That's going to create a major logistical problem for us.

Getting to Saint- Valery is not easy for a fleet such as this, either. It's a full one hundred
and sixty miles around our coastline. We may lose some ships, men, and horses. I'm just
stating the facts, sire. A lot of hard work has gone into bringing these things together."

"Yes, yes, we get the general idea, Robert. You don't have to belabor the point," William
interrupted in a hurry to get on with the proceedings.

"Do you think we ought to disperse some of the ships to other ports, William?" Philippe-
of-Main asked. "Godwinson may decide on a pre-emptive strike, and attack us in our ports. 1
feel it would be a good idea to move them."

William nodded, noting his concern. "This is underway, Philippe; rest assured. The plan
is to disperse Harold's fyrd along the south coast. In any case, they have the harvest to bring
in, and his men must return from their duties, or they will lose the harvest. This is the time
when we will gain our beachhead. Oirr opposition will be much less at this time of the year.
As for the food supply for the men, 1 will have more brought in as of tomorrow. Anyone
caught ravaging Norman villages for food will be hanged; is that clear?" William looked
around the room. A nodding and mumbling came from the men aroimd the table.

William Fitzosbern looked flushed.

"Have you got a problem, Fitz?" William asked.

"It's the food I've been eating. I'm not used to it, sire. Could 1 be excused from the
meeting? 1 have a real need to lose my insides."

Everyone in the room began chuckling.

"Need to rush; do we?" Odo said, sporting a huge grin upon his face. "He's had the shits
all morning, William. 1 can't think why, though; he's eaten the same as we have."

The room bellowed into riotous laughter as Fitzosbern rushed outside to empty his
bowels. As he made his hurried exit, a messenger entered the lodge and brought news that
the wind had veered, coming from the south.

The duke's face lit up. He rose to his feet and smartly clapped his hands together.

"Right!" William said, grinning. "We'll all meet at Saint-Valery tomorrow. Go and gather
your men, and God speed oirr enterprise." The assembled men rose to their feet. Each, in
turn, gripped William's arm before leaving the room to muster their troops.

William could hardly contain his excitement, and spontaneously burst into song.

"Harold— I'm coming to get you. I'm coming to get you. Be prepared to die. I'm coming to
get you. I'm coming to get you. I'll punch you right in the eye."

Philippe Domfront stood in the doorway, waiting to be ushered inside.

"Ah, Domfront, 1 have a task for you." William passed him the papal parchment. "I'd like
you to read this message for me. Can you do that?"

Philippe perused the scroll for a moment, then read aloud the contents.

"What they told me about you was correct. They say that you and your brother are
inteUigent, and honest, too. That's a rare thing. InteUigent men are not to be trusted,
Domfront. I keep a close eye on such men. 1 want to know your story and how you came into
my service." William sat patiently, listening to every word of Philippe's tale. "You have
every reason to kill me . . . why do you not do so?"

Phillippe stared into the eyes of a man he knew to be fierce, yet he saw a man with a
family, a man who was loved and loving in retirrn— faithful to his wife, yet ruthless when
needed. "My village was destroyed by your men, and my family lost everything that we
worked for, and for that alone, 1 should hate you. 1 see that you despise men of learning, yet
you can't do without such men, sire. As for myself, 1 bear no grudge. You do what you must
to maintain law and order, sometimes at the expense of the innocent. I'm able to understand
the way you rule; otherwise, there is anarchy, and no rule of law."

"You're a good man, Philippe Domfront. I'll see to it that your family will be supported. 1
live amongst men who would have me killed at a glance, given the opportunity, and some of
them are closer to me that you could imagine. Strangely enough, such men are useful to me.
If you're as honest as men say you are, and faithful to me, you'll be handsomely rewarded."

Philippe looked startled. He'd never been spoken to in this manner before, and most
certainly not by the duke, himself. "I'll do my duty, sire. My brother, Alan, will do so, too.
He's a good man."

"Get to your duties, Philippe, and remember what 1 have said. I'll soon be sitting upon the
throne of England. Good men can earn great rewards for loyalty. You may now leave."

Philippe turned about and left the room. Outside, he gazed about the scene before him.
He felt perplexed. He didn't understand; he wasn't sure if he were supposed to. I just do my
job, he thought.

A bugle called out, and a cry of "Come to Muster, Come to Muster", was heard. The troops
that were milling about readied themselves to embark with the armada sailing to St-Valery.
The southerly breeze was strong and fresh. There was a slight swell, but it wasn't too high
and didn't appear to frighten the horses as they boarded the vessels. At last, they were on
their way to St-Valery. From there, they would sail, when ready, to England.

Odo was looking across the meadow, when he noticed the man he was searching for, and
he called a boy to bring Eustace to him.

Eustace slowly made his way down the gentle slope towards Odo, unaware of what the
bishop was going to propose to him. One of these days, he thought, I'm going to give that fat,
lazy bastard a piece of my mind. It's as if he thinks that I've nothing better to do, and today of all days.

"Eustace, can you spare a moment? 1 really need to speak with you on a matter that is
close to my heart."

"Yes, of course, Odo, what is it that you want of me?" Eustace asked.

Odo led Eustace along a pathway toward some undergrowth, out of sight and earshot of
any living being. Odo sat on the soft, warm grass, and beckoned Eustace to do likewise. His
eyes darted here and there, insuring their solitude. He brought from imder his tunic a
parchment, which he held tightly, leaned close to Eustace, and began to speak quietly.

"1 have a feeling that my half-brother, William, will not sirrvive this coming battle with
the Godwinson family. Now if that happens and we gain a victory, we need to establish a

rule over the defeated English. 1 aim to be that man. I've planned for such an eventuality and
wish you to be privy, because you feature heavily in it."

"For God's sake, Odo, who else knows of your plan?" The stunned face of Eustace turned
white as the blood drained from his head. Odo's mad, he thought; he's fucking insane.

"For the moment, only you; all 1 want to know is . . . are you with me?"

Eustace gazed out to sea, his hands wringing. He was tense with abject fear. "You've told
me nothing yet, Odo. So how can 1 give you an answer? If 1 said yes, what would be in it for
me?" Eustace asked as he scooted even closer to Odo.

"1 would give you Normandy, to do with it as you wish. You'd be my vassal, of course,
but to all intents and purposes, you would be as a king, in all but name. 1 would collect half
of all revenues, the rest being yours. We would protect each other, and eventually, 1 would,
with your help, take Rome and the Papal seat. Then and only then, you would become king
of Normandy in your own right. Together, we could then capture France and build an
empire. Now, are you with me?" Odo asked, banking heavily on Eustace's greed and dislike
of William, and was fully aware of his dishonorable qualities.

"But only if William is killed. Are you planning to see to it that he doesn't survive? That
obviously means killing him ourselves; doesn't it?" Eustace was beginning to be not quite
sure of his abilities.

"If you want to put it that way — ^yes," Odo replied, trying to suppress a smirk.

Eustace looked deeply into Odo's eyes. Both men knew that if they were to become as
Odo wished, and Eustace aspired, they had to be sure that the men they had in their charge
were willing to follow them. "You know that 1 don't have the backing or the men for such a
venture."

"I've loyal men guarding the jewelry. The moment 1 give the order, we'll use the gold to
take the lands we require, to control the territory needed, and to follow through with the rest
of my plan. The only pigs in the sty are William's guard. They are loyal and strong. They'll
only take orders from us if he's dead. He has to be very dead; do you understand?"

Eustace hesitated. He could see flaws everywhere, but it was too late. Odo had revealed
his hand. I could use what he's just told me to my own advantage, Eustace thought. "Now, look
here, Odo— this plan is all in the lap of the gods; you know that. William wiU not go into the
thick of the battle until he's sure there's no danger to himself; he's not dumb."

"My brother, sorry, half brother, has made many enemies during his ducal incumbency.
Some are in the rear guard and would be willing, in the heat of battle, to see to his demise. 1
don't see too much trouble on that score."

"William doesn't trust me, Odo. You know that. How could 1 be of use under such
circumstances? It would be impossible for me to actively participate without being detected,
surely?"

Odo placed his hand on Eustace's shoulder, and with the other, showed Eustace the
parchment with William's seal upon it. "Are you aware that William is illiterate?"

"Well, no, 1 didn't. Is William reaUy illiterate?" Eustace looked surprised.

"It's not generally known outside of the most immediate family. Only one other person
knows . . . Walter Giffard. He'll have to be eliminated, too. He's dangerous and would be
against our little venture. He would make sure that Matilda would be queen. No, if my plan

is to succeed, we can't take any chances." Odo shook his head, waving the document in front
of him.

"For God's sake, Odo, what's written?"

"William names 'me' as his heir. His mark and seal is upon this parchment. It's witnessed
by Matilda and the pope, too." Odo grinned broadly, smugness written across his face and a
great sparkle of self-satisfaction emanating from his eyes.

"Matilda and the pope! How the hell did you manage that?" Eustace looked stunned.

Eustace couldn't believe his ears. Is Odo attempting to impUcate me in a plan that might not
even work? If I inform William, Odo will he executed on the spot. It'll mean a great reward for me,
too.

Odo was looking confident and smug. "Ask me no questions, and you will get no lies.
Suffice to say, the pope, fool that he is, is willing to support me, as long as the church in
England comes back to the fold under his full control. Matilda neither reads nor writes, but
can make her mark, as can William. It was like taking eggs from hens, really. The ducal
archives must have a copy of every deed made, placed there; it's normal procedure. William
thought it a copy of a deed gift for Caen Abbey to the pope." Odo smiled with pride at his
deviousness, and the utter smugness took even Eustace by surprise.

"Bloody hell! You took a chance. William can only die after the victory or close to an
absolute rout of Harold's forces, or the men will just fall back and disperse as best they can;
even 1 can see that."

"1 have crossbowmen in my personal retinue who are loyal only to me. They will do what
is required. In any case, 1 have their families as hostages, so if they fail, they wiU lose all.
They'll do as they are told." Odo wiped his face of the sweat that began to drip off his brow.

"There is something you have not asked of me. How do you know that you can trust me
not to betray you?" Eustace began to feel uncomfortable.

Odo stared at Eustace with a stern eye. His mouth was tense and his body taut. A
dragonfly buzzed his face. In irritation, his hands swiped at and caught it. It's about time I
made my move, Odo thought. He proceeded, slowly, to pull the legs off the unfortunate insect.
Tossing the carcass aside, he bent low, their noses now a thirmb's thickness apart.

"You've no love for William, nor does he have any for you. If we gain a victory, and when
your usefulness is over, you'll be discarded. Only those dose to him will gain anything from
this. The cost to you will never be recovered. You're not of the inner circle, Eustace." Odo
rose to his feet and turned away to look at the guUs screeching behind him, their fighting
annoying his sensibilities. He seated himself upon the grass, facing the birds, and collected
his thoughts.

Eustace said nothing for a moment, but felt he ought to refute Odo's logic. "This is true,
but you're assuming a great deal."

Odo swiveled his head as quickly as a dog snapping at his prey and abruptly spat out his
words, the tension between them making the hairs on his neck stiff.

"Do you think 1 don't know my own brother? We are nothing to him. If you think that he
has feelings for anyone other than those most loyal to him, then you should think again. 1
can count on the fingers of my hands the men here who will benefit from this outcome. If I'm
lucky, 1 may just be one of them and only then because 1 have the ear of the pope. Family to

William means little or nothing, except for Matilda and Robert. We're just tools to be used
and then discarded when finished. Do you understand, Eustace... hmm?"

"If what you say is true, and I'm sure it is, then there must be a contingency plan or we'll
lose everything." Eustace moved to sit against a tree, his head in his hands. After some time,
he looked up at Odo. "No, the risk is too great. If William is to die in battle, 1 will support
you. But 1 won't risk an attempt at assassination that, if it fails, will destroy us both. The
retribution would be my innocent family wiped off the face of the earth. We'd lose
everything, and for nothing! I'm prepared to stay close to him during the battle, and if he
falls wounded, to finish him off. That's aU 1 am prepared to do." Eustace wrung his fingers,
his nails cutting into the palms of his hands, his head bowed, as the fear of a potentially
discovered mutiny gripped him.

"So be it, Eustace. Am 1 the only one here with any balls to see this plan through? The
will, for the time being, shall be postponed. 1 shall hide it until such time as it can be of use.
By the way, there is something 1 didn't tell you. 1 have, of course, to protect my back. 1 felt
the need to make another copy of the will in a modified form. You recall you gained your
lands fiom William some years back. 1 was not a witness to your deed. 1 made a copy for the
ducal records, as is the rule. 1 made another copy, one that William and Matilda have
witnessed. They were none the wiser as to what was written. It's naming you as William's
heir. It would be a pity, if imder the circumstances, this fell into the hands of either William
or Matilda. So, my friend, my insurance of your silence is guaranteed."

Odo turned his back for a moment and gazed once more out to sea. He sniffed the air, and
ran his fingers through what hair he had left on the side of his head.

Eustace sat motionless and stunned, trying desperately to collect his thoughts. Fuck! He's
got me by the bollocks, he thought. "1 understand your motives, Odo. 1 guess that you have my
support then. None of this is a forgone conclusion. You speak as if we'll win this battle. Have
you forgotten? Harold commands a vast and able force. If we lose, and there's nothing to say
that we'll win, what then?"

"If we lose and William is killed, we will ask for terms. It's as simple as that."

"Ask for terms!" Eustace hissed. "What terms can you ask of a man who has seen his
country invaded, his lands and people defiled? You expect too much if you think Harold will
see you safely home with a pat on the back; telling you, it's not the done thing, old man. Do
you expect that he'll be sending you off home with a note to your mother, saying that you
have been a naughty boy, and a warning that you shouldn't do it again? If that's what you
think, then you live in a world of dreams, Odo." Eustace gave an audible sigh. That confirms
it. I now know that he's fucking mad, he thought.

"I'll take my chances with Harold. You don't know him; 1 do. He's a fair man; he knows
William and his ways. He imderstands that we're here unwillingly; he's a pragmatist. His
temperament is good, and he's always willing to listen to good argument, even when he
comes from a position of strength."

Eustace rose to his feet. Leaning on a low branch, he stared into Odo's grinning face.

"We should allow nature to take its course. Come, Eustace, we'd better become visible
once more, or we'll be missed, and it'll throw suspicion our way. If anyone asks, you've been
for a shit, is that clear?"

"I guess so," Eustace, replied as he patted Odo on the back and shook his hand. Why am I
doing this? The Lord will have my arse for this decision.

The two men parted and went their separate ways. Odo strolled off to join William, and
Eustace to see to his horses.

1 wonder if it is time to speak with Walter Giffard. He may just be wondering what might
happen if we lose, too? So many copies of so many deeds," Odo muttered to himself.

CHAPTER FIVETEEN

OFF AT LAST

The morning light entering from the small leaded windows was a pale blue reflection of
the sun's rays off the sea, and scarcely adequate except to dress. William's dressing room
was spacious, large enough to hold twenty people comfortably. Around the walls, oak chests
and wardrobes full of clothes gave the room a lived-in appearance. The smell of leather and
oils filled the rooms. On the walls hung William's armor, which included a set of three
hauberks, each hosting riveted links handcrafted by the finest Norman mail makers. Foirr
conical helmets, each with a nasal bar attached with brass rivets at the front, rested atop their
makeshift poles. Straps held the heavy wrought iron protector in place, along with the
woven woolen headpiece that kept the head comfortable when wearing the device. William's
personal armor makers kept his entire fighting wardrobe, ready for action.

Deep in slumber, the sound of William's snoring echoed throughout the lodge, enhanced
by the sparseness of the bedchamber. A spider crawled across his chest, but William noticed
nothing. Dreaming of the riches to come, he awoke with a start as the door shook with the
noise of Philippe loudly banging on it to attract his attention. By Philippe's side was a
messenger, Gilbert-of-Exmes. Gilbert was a tall, dark haired, sinewy skeleton-like man. He
was considered well versed in the ways of his master, making him perfect for the job of
messenger.

"Sire, sire, awake!" called Philippe loudly, as he banged hard on William's door.

"Jesus, Philippe, do you have to make so much noise? You'll get us both fucking hung,"
Gilbert exclaimed, gripping Philippe's muscular arm.

"He'll be dead to the world," Philippe said, "when he snores like that, lightning up his
arse wouldn't wake him. 1 learned that when 1 first was put to this duty. My brother, Alan,
spent an age the other day trying to wake the master from his slumber," Philippe added with
a chuckle.

William rose from his bed, his bright red hair in disarray, his beard, likewise, turned up
and bedraggled. He blew his nose, and wiped his eyes of the night's sleep. He was now fully
awake. Warily, he reached for a long, sharp dagger. He moved, stealthily, to the door and
stood behind it. He slid back the bolt and stood dose to the wall.

"Enter! " William bellowed.

Philippe opened the door slowly. Gilbert entered the room looking about for any sign of
the duke. Philippe followed, wondering if he had made an error of judgment in waking his
master so early.

"Sire?" Philippe asked, looking around the apparently empty room. Philippe looked
confused as to William's disappearance and scratched the back of his head.

From behind the door, William stood in the silence, acutely aware that an assassination
attempt could come at any time. Vslould Harold return the favor I bestowed upon him? William
mused. William reached out, grabbing Gilbert by the sleeve, and pulled him to his side.
William slammed the door shut, and on seeing it was Gilbert, the Castellan-of-Exmes, he
relaxed. Replacing the dagger in its sheath, he motioned the man to sit.

Philippe looked for the sign that he should leave. William nodded toward him that all
was well. Philippe turned about, and quietly made his exit to resume his position outside
William's bedchamber.

183

William stood staring at the door. As the door closed, he threw his gaze at Gilbert. "1 want
to know what the hell is going on. What is the hour?" William asked, glandng out of the
glazed leaded window towards the ship builders on the harbor slips.

"It's a little after the hour of six, sire," Gilbert said, gazing at the floor, his hands
clenched before him as if in prayer. He lifted his head slowly, biting his lip nervously.

"Well?" William asked, standing impatiently, and awaiting the reason for Gilbert's
intrusion.

Gilbert recalled the last time he'd felt in complete dread. He well remembered his last
beating after giving him the news of the loss of his youngest child. His master's rage had left
him with a broken nose and bruises that were visible for weeks.

"Come on, man," William demanded; "1 won't bite you. What is it at such an hour?" He
motioned to a spot beside him for Gilbert to come closer. "Come; stand beside me."

Gilbert composed himself as much as he could and stuttered out the words he knew
would blow the duke into a rage.

Outside, Phillippe stood silently at attention, bemusement upon his face and feeling
awkward; he could hear every word spoken and clenched his teeth.

"Sigurdsson has landed in the north of England, near York, sire. He sends an embassy
with a message, and awaits your reply."

William's temper began to boil. The skin on his face reddened and began to match the
color of his hair. Then, as if the world had been taken over by angels, he calmed, sat down,
and spoke in a soft voice.

Gilbert stood, motionless, fully expecting behavior other than this.

"It's not unexpected, Gilbert. Give me a fair wind from the south; and we've won. 1 want
you to give a message to my Walter Giffard. Tell him that I'm calling a meeting at once and
that 1 want all my generals assembled here immediately. You're to tell each one that I'll rip
out the gizzards of anyone arriving late. Got it? This isn't the time to mess about; we've work
to do."
"Yes, at once, my lord." Gilbert replied feeling more relaxed.

"Get someone in here to fix the bloody window glaze, while you're at it," William
muttered. "Oh, and you did well to tell me. It would have not bowed well for you to
misinform, Gilbert. As it happens, the situation favors our landing; be-gone." William waved
Gilbert away, and patted his dog, as a wry smile came upon his face.

"Yes, sire. I'll have it seen to immediately," Gilbert replied. Gilbert's pallor now returned
to a normal shade of pink and he relaxed a little.

William turned dismissively to gaze out of the window towards the sea.

Gilbert hastened from the room and glanced over at Philippe, who shrugged his
shoulders. Both wondered why their master had not exploded in his normal manner to such
bad news.

William dressed himself, thinking and plotting his next move. "1 wonder; am 1 to fight
Sigurdsson and not Godwinson, or perhaps, both?" he mumbled to himself. He called out to
Philippe to have the servant-boys bring him food.

As William ate, the generals and other magnates made their way one-by-one to the lodge
house, where a table and food were made ready. William greeted each man in turn, and
motioned him to sit and partake of breakfast.

184

Horace, the monk, sat motionless, his eyes constantly on his master, waiting for the signal
for the proceedings to start.

William motioned with a nod toward Horace, giving him permission to call the assembly
to order.

Horace rose to his feet and took a roll of parchment from his belt.

"On hearing yoirr name, call 'Aye'," Horace demanded smugly.

As Horace began calling the names upon the list, William looked carefully at each man.

"Guy-of-Ponthieu, Walter Giffard, Giffard-of-Montford, Eustace-of-Boulogne, Bishop
Odo, Robert-of-Jumieges, Allen of Brittany ..."

"You're all present. Good, then we can begin," William said as he rubbed his hands
together gleefully.

Philippe looked worried, and wondered what was to happen next.

Alan shrugged his shoulders and couldn't quite decipher Philippe's expression, as he
gazed into his brother's face.

Philippe nodded in the direction of the door, indicating they should leave the group
alone.

"What's going on, Philippe?" Alan asked innocently.

Philippe realized Alan's naivety, being conspicuous by his question, needed an
explanation. "As you know, an envoy from the Norwegian king has arrived. One of the
Breton guards told me that the Norwegians have conquered England, and Hakon, the
Norwegian king's messenger has come to tell the duke that he might as well stay here,"
Philippe remarked matter-of-factly. Philippe's worried look never left him as he continued,
"Yet 1 think they are going to go ahead with the invasion," he whispered, leaning forward.
"This is serious stuff, Alan. You and 1 are right in the middle of something neither of us have
a hope of comprehending."

Alan held a bemused look. "You're telling me that when we go back to England, that not
only are we going to fight King Harold, but we're also going to fight the Norwegians! We'll
be killed, too — shit!" Alan spat upon the floor with look of disappointment and sadness.

Philippe shook his head. "1 said nothing of the kind. 1 just meant there was to be
trouble, nothing more. Look, we're here to do whatever is asked. If that means fighting the
Norwegian king's forces, then that's what we've to do. I've taught you everything 1 know.
Now is the time that you must put that training to good use. We made this decision to come
and seek work with the Normans, and to look after each other. If we're lucky, we won't have
to fight. If not, then we'll just have to make out the best we can."

Alan shrugged his shoulders and took a swig of ale from a flagon that had been left for
him by one of the servant boys.

Back inside the lodge, William's chosen men stood about awaiting their master's orders.

"My dear friends and companions," William said, gesturing with his outstretched arms.
"You know by now, that Sigurdsson has landed in England. What has occurred, I've not yet
been made privy. We've a visitor from their king, and 1 think that it's about time we heard
the deputation from our esteemed brother, Sigurdsson." William looked behind him and
called out in a loud, raucous tone to Philippe, standing guard outside.

Philippe entered the room. "Your bidding sire?" he asked, standing to attention.

"Philippe, I want you to call the envoy forth," William requested in an unusually pleasant
tone that all in the room were unused to. "Let him eat his fill here, and then he might tell us
the news he has of his master, Sigurdsson," William said, glancing about the room with the
smirk of derision upon his face. "Let's see what they're made of, eh?"

"Yes, sire," Philippe replied, and left the room. Stepping outside, he beckoned Alan,
motioning his brother to accompany him in the direction of the waiting Norwegian
messenger, Hakon.

Philippe and Alan returned some short while later, with the Norwegian giant, Hakon.
Walking between the tall Domfront brothers, Hakon dwarfed them with his immense
stature. The brothers brought Hakon forward to meet the man whom Hakon had sought.

Philippe knocked on the door and waited for permission to enter the room. The door
opened, and the trio entered the room.

Philippe and Alan stood on either side of the Norwegian, but Hakon's demeanor posed
no threat to those with who the Norwegian was about to communicate.

Philippe wondered about the giant. This man is powerful, and yet has an intelligent persona
and presence about him, he thought. He felt a strong empathy with the man, but couldn't
understand why he should feel this way. He sensed that Hakon was fearless and energetic,
despite the Norwegian's enormous size

"Now, gentlemen, we shall hear what's afoot," William said, placing his feet upon the
table and folding his arms. Williams ginger eyebrows raised and his head tilted a little.

Odo looked a little bemused, until he noticed William had a wry smile upon his face. It
was an expression he had not seen often from his half-brother.

Hakon, Harald Sigurdsson's personal ambassador, approached the table. He was fair-
haired, as tall as Duke William, very muscular, and every bit a warrior. His Norse accent was
as broad as the man wielding it, and Hakon's Norman French was indeed good. He was well
versed in the art of diplomacy. At the table he bowed deeply, and passed all his weapons to
Philippe, and waited to be summoned closer.

William gazed at Hakon, watching his every move, noticing each twitch and mannerism.

Hakon stood quite still, waiting to give his message. His eyes darted about the room,
taking in all he could for future reference, should it be required.

"Welcome," exclaimed William. "Come and join us in our fare. Eat with us; then do please
give us the words from your most revered and honored king."

Hakon seated himself at the table opposite William. They looked searchingly at each
other, sizing up a potential opponent.

William knew by Hakon's demeanor that Hakon was a berserker, a soldier without fear.
Hakon was a leader from the front, and willing to die for his king without a second thought.

Hakon, on the other hand, knew much more about William than the duke did of his
master. He'd been well taught about William's character, traits, and mannerisms.

"Your king's message?" William enquired again, waiting patiently. The duke reached for a
chicken leg, and slowly began picking off small pieces carefully chewing, noticing Hakon
looking on impassively.

The sky darkened a little as a cloud passed in front of the sun, and for a moment, William
feared the worst. William's almost pagan superstition momentarily unnerved him, but he
shook the feeling off. William pondered for a moment. Had Hardrada taken all of England in a

fight to the death, and won such a glorious victory? He would have known before this, surely, or had
the Norwegian king actually lost the battle and has come looking for assistance?

Hakon was silent for a few moments, deep in thought. This man is not trustworthy. I'll give
him only my news and what I have been told by my king, nothing more. I see no companionship,
chivalry, or respect within these men here, he thought

William broke the thoughtful silence. "Hakon, tell me. What news have you brought of
your king, Sigurdsson? I'm eager to know." The room fell silent again with definite
undertones of unease.

Hakon cleared his throat and began his speech. "My king has taken the north of England
and is moving soon to the south, to London. Already he has taken York, and the English fell
like leaves falling from the trees. The earl of York, Earl Edwin and his pitiful force met us
outside York have surrendered to us, and Earl Morcar is under siege in the city. It is only a
matter of time before my lord holds the whole of England, back once more under rightful
Norwegian rule."

William looked on with a feigned, uninterested demeanor about him. Damnl I thought as
much, he thought. "So, why are you telling me all this, Hakon?" William asked casually.

"My master knows of your plans, and he is willing to make concessions with regards for
your efforts, sire. He is a generous man, and a realist, too. He wishes there to be no conflict
or bloodshed between us."

"Concessions, what concessions?" Odo asked, and then averted his eyes after receiving a
heated glare from the duke, realizing that he had once more opened his mouth before
thinking.

Hakon ignored Odo's question and continued, "For the sake of peace between us, my lord
is willing to allow you a territory south of the Thames River. He will assist you in your
invasion and the defeat of any opposing Saxon forces, as long as you agree to support us in
oirr move to the south," Hakon said nonchalantly, almost forgetting his diplomatic manners.

What of Harold Godwinson; is he dead?" William asked, placing his elbows upon the
table and resting his chin in his clasped hands. William found Hakon's information
interesting, and wondered whether the Norwegians were having problems. It changes
nothing. Either way, we win. Two depleted armies against a fresh force, William thought.

"Godwinson hasn't been seen," replied Hakon. "No one has heard of any plans or seen
troop movements of any kind. It's as if Harold does not exist. We know that the Saxon navy
was disbanded and sent home. The fields are being harvested, and life seems to go on as
normal; it's most perplexing." Hakon shrugged his shoulders in a sign of bemusement. He
couldn't understand the rationale any more than anyone else.

"What of Harold's brother, Tostig?" William enquired, "Am 1 to take it that the slimy toad
is assisting your master?" William gazed around the room, his sarcastic remark inviting the
smirks from the faces of those around him.

"Tostig is in York with my king. He's been a valuable asset to our invasion," Hakon
replied, with confidence.

William needed to take stock. Even if he wanted to, he knew he couldn't sail. The wind
had been from the north from the day they had arrived, with no sign of a let up in its
direction. I guess that I'll just have to wait it out, he thought. He knew that he had to keep up

the payments for his mercenary troops, or they would wander off and seek employment
elsewhere, he pondered; then he returned his attention to Hakon.

"1 will give you our answer in the morning, Hakon. First of all, 1 need to consult with my
learned advisors," William spread his hands in gesture toward Hakon, "Feel free to amuse
yourself. We will be happy to quarter you in comfortable surroundings."

Hakon nodded that this was agreeable, and bowed low once more, knowing even as he
did so that it was only a political obeisance. He's going to fight us. I'll enjoy thrashing this
avaricious bastard. He smiled the smile that only a diplomat could give; then turned to make
his way to exit through the door.

Philippe and Alan were once more called to act as escort to Hakon. However, before they
could leave the building to lodge Hakon, they were stopped by Walter Giffard's order to
remain right outside the door, until it was determined where, exactly, Hakon would be
housed for the night.

Philippe had taken a liking to Hakon. He felt that they had much in common. Hakon
possessed a quality that he didn't often see in men of such stature. Philippe sensed, too, that
Hakon was a thinking man. Hakon a kindly face that could be distinguished through his
tough exterior, if one looked closely enough. Philippe had been told that on Hakon' s arrival
in Normandy that Hakon had heroically saved the life of a young boy, by pulling the lad
from under the hooves of a runaway horse.

Philippe gazed up and into the face of the giant, Hakon. "I'm not sure if they want to
change the lodgings for you, Hakon. Either way, we'll wait awhile, until they make up their
minds. Their deliberations always seem to take forever," Philippe said slowly shaking his
head. He then motioned that they should be seated on the steps of the lodge and wait.

Inside the lodge, the men around the table were silent for a moment while all eyes were
on the duke.

William turned his attention to Fitzscrob. "Roger, what did you make of what you
heard?" he asked thoughtfully. "You can say what you feel," William advised.

"My lord, we needn't make a fight of it, surely. We can just walk in and take what we
want," replied Fitzscrob with an indignant tone.

Odo looked at William's face and at once knew the man had said the wrong thing. Odo
kicked Roger imder the table, giving his comrade a serious look; indicating that to say more
was to court trouble.

William eyes narrowed as he turned to Walter Giffard. "Walter, what have you to offer?"

Giffard looked thoughtful. He was a man with an immense, powerful frame, and like
William, huge of stature. His hair was as dark as the night sky, with a beard to match. He
took a long, thoughtful gaze at William, and then, holding a cross in one hand, he mumbled
a quick prayer for what he was about to do. "My lord," Giffard said, as he cleared his throat
with a cough, "We carry through with our plans as before; only this time we may have a
different enemy. Let them deplete themselves; for we can make easy meat of them, and — err
. . .do you wish me to take care of Hakon?"

William grinned and nodded approvingly.

"Is there another way?" William mused. "Take with you whom you trust most to do the
job, Giffard. There can be no errors of judgment. Ah — give the two French brothers, Philippe

and the other one, the task. It's about time we saw how they handle this particular type of
work," William said with a broad grin.

Giffard nodded.

"Right, then," said William slapping two hands down on the table, "that's settled. We'll
sail the moment the winds veer to our favor."

William turned his attention to Eustace-of-Boulogne. "Are your men ready, Eustace?"

"They're like whippets in the slips, sire," Eustace replied grinning broadly, "Our horses
have food for another two weeks, and 1 don't foresee any problems just now,"

William gazed about his council. "1 want your men well fed; this is a crucial moment for
us. Desertions could cost us the battles to come. We need first to take the treasury at
Winchester; then we will march onto London. This way, we can control how any further
battles progress. We can then afford to hire as many mercenaries as there are in Europe. Are
there any questions?" William looked about for any input, but there was none forthcoming
from those present.

"So business is concluded," William said, satisfied with the completion of yet another
valuable meeting. The men left the table, and one-by-one, made their way back to their
duties.

William found himself with more plans to make; now that he knew what was afoot with
Harald Sigurdsson. Time will now he of the essence, he thought.

Giffard made his exit from the lodge, determined to insure that Philippe and his brother,
Alan, understood their real duties. He noticed Philippe and Alan sitting upon the steps
chatting with Hakon. Giffard beckoned Philippe to him.

Philippe stood up and to a respectful attention.

"Philippe," Giffard said, taking Philippe to one side and speaking quietly into Philippe's
ear, "The duke wishes that this should be Hakon' s last day on earth. Are you up to the job?"

Giffard looked impressed with Philippe's posture.

Philippe nodded, and smiled. "Whatever the duke wishes, it will be done, sir. Do you
wish that we kill Hakon here or somewhere else?" Bastards, Philippe thought. I wondered why
they were taking their time. Well, fuck you, too, Giffard! I'd rather slit your throat first. Philippe
controlled and hid his anger well, keeping a perfectly expressionless face.

"No," replied Giffard, "take him to Port-et-Boirrg. Deal with him there, and report back
when you've completed the task. There's a rather nice well there that we could lose him in.
We don't want anyone visiting us and finding the remnants of a lost friend, now; do we? Off
you go, then." Giffard's wrist flicked as a master's would to a child to be off.

"Yes, sir; the job is as good as done. You'll not have any problem. I'U complete the work
efficiently, and without mishap." You bastards, Philippe thought.

Giffard spun round and strolled off to meet with his peers for a final check of his personal
arrangements with regard to his horses and armor.

Philippe walked briskly back to his companions, the anger upon his face now too evident.

"What's the matter, Phillippe? You look really annoyed. I've not seen you like this since
the incident at the inn. What did Walter Giffard say to you to make you so angry?" Alan
asked sporting a puzzled look.

Philippe stared directly at Hakon. "They've given me orders. I'm to take you to Port-et-
Bourg. Then I'm to kill you; that's all . . . Bastardsl"

189

Alan's mouth dropped open in disbelief.

Hakon looked bemused, and then laughed, waving his arm dismissively at such a notion.

Philippe moved forward, hoping that Hakon would understand his next action. "Hakon,
I'm going to place you in fetters in case we're spied upon. Alan will bring a horse over here,
and you'll need lie across it, and feign captivity. When I'm sure we're safe enough, I'll
release you, and you can ride off to find a haven somewhere. Is that imderstood?"

It was now the turn of Hakon to drop his jaw, but he nodded his compliance. "You mean
you're going to disobey a direct order?" Hakon stared at Philippe and wondered why
Philippe was willing to jeopardize his future for the sake of him.

"Yes, of course; I'm no murderer. In any case; the duke had our village fired, and we lost
everything we owned and everything that we had worked hard for. So many innocent
people were murdered that day, and I'm not going to see yet another innocent man slain for
the want of one man's whim," Philippe replied, as he stared blindly at the ground, taking in
a deep breath. "Hakon, the Bible says the words Thou shall not kill — at least not in cold blood.
Is that not good enough reason? Anyway, you're a brave man to walk into the lion's den. In
my eyes, you've done no wrong; 1 like and admire you, too. Does that answer your
question?"

"1 guess that's as an good an answer as any," Hakon replied with a trusting smile.

Philippe continued. "For now, if you follow my directions to the letter, then all will be
well. Hakon, I'm putting our lives on the line here, and oirr families' lives, too. God in
Heaven will see that we're safe, but we must not allow Satan to know what it is that Alan
and 1 are about to do. So I'm asking you to think pirre thoughts; is that understood?"

"I'll do as you ask, Philippe," Hakon replied, "but I'd rather knock you both unconscious,
and escape. That's much safer for you. On second thought though, you might find yourself
hanged for failing in your mission."

Alan ambled over to the stables, and soon returned with a horse and fetters.

"This crossbow, Hakon, is about to be pointed in your direction. Alan and 1 will motion
you against that tree over there and will pretend to knock you over the head. You're to fall to
the ground and we'll ..."

Hakon interrupted him.

"1 get the general idea, Philippe" said Hakon Just don't make the process too real. 1
wouldn't appreciate having a sore head. By the way, how are you going to account for the
loss of the horse?"

"As for the horse, well, we'll deal with that problem when the time comes," Philippe
replied. Giving a deep sigh, Philippe nodded toward Hakon's hand. "I'm going to need that
ring, though. It'll prove that we've done their dirty work."

"That will do nicely, Philippe, but 1 have also an addition to your safety."

"Oh, what's that?" Philippe asked.

" 1 noticed, this morning, a little way out of town, a man hanged from a tree. He was a
large man of about my size. We should cut off his hand, and place my ring upon one of the
digits. That way you gain credibility, and 1 get to keep my finger," Hakon said grinning.

Three hours later, Alan and Philippe made their way back to the duke's lodge.
"1 was surprised that Hakon refused to take the horse, Philippe."

"I wasn't, Alan. He's a warrior, and what's more, he is a gentleman, too. 1 suggest that
you return the animal to the stables, while 1 go and inform Giffard that we've performed the
task required of us. I'll give him the ring and finger, and that should be the end of the story.
By the way, does the Bible say anything about telling lies?"

It was late morning when William woke from a good night's slumber. He rose from his
bed and looked out to the sea. He noticed that he windsock that he had mounted outside,
showed a good strong breeze from the south, and the sight brought a broad smile to his face.

"At last, I'm coming for you, Godwinson," he mumbled; then he washed his face and
finished dressing. He walked briskly out through the door and called for a messenger.

"Herald! Call a muster of the following generals; Geoffrey of Mortagne, Roger Beaumont,
Bishop Odo, William Fitzosbern, Eustace-of-Boulogne, Aimeri-of-Thours, Giffard-de-
Montford, Robert of Mortagne, Giffard-of-Ponthieu, Ralf-de-Tosny, and Walter Giffard.
You're to tell them to come here and remain close by my side at all times; do you
understand?"

"Aye, sire, at all times," the messenger replied.

"Good, now be off and see to your duty. Oh, and while you're about it, 1 want you to
bring the monk, Giffard Margot, back here with you." The herald left the lodge, sending
messengers to find each of the named thegns.

Within half an hour, all the generals were once more in William's antechamber. They
stood about, not knowing what was coming next from William. Many of them jumped,
startled, a few moments later, when William walked in from the bedchamber, slamming the
doors open as he strode into the room in obvious good humor. They sat down quickly in
their chairs as his voice beckoned them to be seated.

"Well, gentlemen, we leave on the next high tide. Does anyone have a problem with this?"
William gazed about the room and saw that no one had any doubts as to their abilities or
with the project. "Right, then! Get the horses loaded, your men ready and fed. Oh, yes, ale
and wine are forbidden. Is that order fully understood by you all?" William looked sternly
about the room.

At this point, he was in no mood for things to go awry. "1 shall have a beacon lit on my
ship, the Maria. You will follow my lead, and we will all be in fine shape. Sails and oars will
be used together. The quicker we get to England, the better. Go and attend to your duties."
William turned about, and as he was about to return to his bedchamber, when he halted. He
turned back to face the assembled men. "Oh, yes, good luck, and Godspeed. I'll see you all in
England."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

WILLIAM LANDS IN ENGLAND

The darkness hides a thousand misfortunes. For some, the sea was cruel; yet for others it
was kind, as the armada set sail into the unknown. The warm southerly breeze brought the
scent from the land that caught William's nostrils, and it reminded him of the one and only
visit he made to visit Edward in England; all those years before. He didn't like the crossing
then, and this morning was to be no exception.

The water was choppy, and the spray crashing off the bows of boats washed the faces of
the warriors as they set off in the darkness, with the day not long behind. Each ship was
aglow with torches, their glimmering movement, like giant fireflies bobbing up and down in
the water, could be seen all along Normandy's coast.

William's flagship, the Maria, had a tall mast. At the top were two small braziers, which
burned brightly. William had ordered them mounted and, lit so that the armada could
follow his ship and land at the same destination.

The captain said that the sea was so unusually calm that William might have ordered God
to make it so, just for him alone.

William looked through the glare of the brazier at the ship's crew and ordered them all to
kneel for prayer. Only the sounds of snorting, nervous horses and the lapping of water were
evident, as the men on board listened to William's prayer for their safe deliverance upon
unwelcome shores.

"Gracious Lord, we ask for your divine help in our venture. Protect our fleet from harm.
Bring us safely to the shores of England and keep us safe in oirr just course. Amen." Right,
you lazy turds, row, or I'll have every man whipped. I'll kick some idle arses if those bloody oars aren't
pulled any harder, he thought.

William hated water; it frightened him to his very core. To show his fear, however, would
undermine the men's enthusiasm; but nonetheless, he held on to the mast as if he were on
the edge of a predpice.

The duke gazed into the face of his personal stallion and stroked his soft nose. Such a fine
example of equine form, he thought. The horse was fearless except for fire, which was the only
thing that would make the horse shy. William thought back to how he'd joined the stable
boys to groom this fine animal, but he'd regretted giving Toll to Earl Harold, and not
keeping her for himself, and wondered how long it would be before he'd have that fine
horse back.

The men rowed for what seemed an eternity, until the breeze became still fresher, filling
the sail fully, just enough to speed their crossing, without the Maria rocking in the swell too
much, and the men finally able to up the oars. Even so, the sea was relatively calm, and stars
just visible against the glare of the brazier above them.

William gazed constantly ahead, looking for any sign of England's coastline, a land he'd
once visited to gain the promise of the crown from King Edward. He wondered if it were
true that Edward had reneged on that promise, but his thoughts were interrupted when he
suddenly heard a call from the ship's master, near the stern.

"We've lost the ships, sire. There's no sign of them! If we drop the sail, they should catch
up to us, but we'll drift a little, as the current is strong at this point," the master said, then

called for the sail to be lowered and looked to the east for any sign of dawn, because he
feared that the following armada would not see their light.

"Damn! That's all we need!" William growled.

"The other ships are heavily laden, sire. The boats smaller than ours, carrying horses will
be much slower than this vessel . . . it's only to be expected. As I've explained, sire, they're
fighting a strong tidal race. They might have drifted to the west of our planned route. If we
wait here, their masters should see our beacon, and follow it. 1 doubt they'll have been able
to keep their torches alight for long, so it's no wonder we can't see where they are." The
master dropped a weighted line to sound the depth and called out. "Seven knots," he yelled
and looked at William. "It won't be long before we see the shore. The sea is quite shallow
here."

William felt enough confidence in the ship's master to let him judge what should be done.
"You're the master of this ship. I'll take your good advice. Give the orders as you will."

Walter Giffard sat gazing into the blackness, wondering what lay ahead when they
landed. Will we be confronted with a mighty force that would drive us hack into the sea? What if
Harold's navy attacked us? Would we he ignominiously defeated, leaving the survivors to slink home
in disarray and disgrace? We're sitting ducks, ripe for plucking. He looked up to see a boy shining
up the mast, to place more wood on the brazier above them, a signal to the world of their
location. If the other ships could see the beacon, then so could the Saxons. It was a thought
that he didn't relish. Giffard pondered, YJhat if they'd lose the element of surprise? Then he
comforted himself with the thought that the Saxons would be fast asleep, oblivious to their
coming. He was jolted from his thoughts by the loud calling of the ship's master.
"Heave, ho!" called the master. "Lift up your oars, and bring down the sail." The sail came
down with a thud, just missing the head of one of the knights.

"How far are we from the Saxons coast, master?" William called to him.

"About an hour away 1 would say, no more, though we may have drifted a little from
where we had planned to land, sire. For every hour we wait here, we will drift eight more
miles."

"Can we make it up?" William asked, who was not used to the ways of the sea.

"Yes, sire, but the tide is changing," the master replied, who was suddenly interrupted.

"SHIPS AHOY!" the lookout the cried, pointing. "Over to our stern."

"We'll give them half an hour to catch up; then we will move on. Does that sound
reasonable to you?" William asked.

"1 think that'll be sufficient, sire, but the drift will take us more toward Pevensey than
Hastings. If you're keen to land and disembark, we can spend that extra hour moving
westward, but it will be full light by that time."

"What's Pevensey like, and can we land there?" William was hoping that he could be off
the ship and on dry land before he threw up.

"Yes, sire. We can land at Pevensey, but it's shallow and muddy. It is not a landing 1
would advise with fully loaded ships, especially ships carrying horses."

"And how far is Hastings from Pevensey?" William said looking disappointed

"About a hour's sailing, from here, but nearer two hours if you disembarked here, and
you decided to ride round the coastline from Pevensey to Hastings, sire," replied the ship's
master apologetically.

193

"Then you will disembark my horses and knights there. You'll then sail on and meet me
at Hastings. Is that clear?" William smiled with relief that he would soon be on dry land.

"Yes, sire. I can do that. You shotild find an old chalk pathway. It's clearly marked. It'll
take you to Senlac Hill. Once there, you'll see a clearly defined road down to Hastings,
which is a small fishing village." The master noticed William smiling at him, and he returned
the smile.

"I clearly chose the right man for this job," William said. He picked an apple from a bag
and ate it with relish, his tummy feeling much better.

"It's all part of the service, sire, all part of the service," replied the ship's master, grinning.

"We're very lucky. The crossing can be very rough, sometimes," said the master.

"Master, when we have taken England, come to me. I'll reward you with land. Your work
has not gone unnoticed."

"I thank you, sire, but now you must prepare to land. It won't be easy to disembark. Be
warned; the tide will not favor our position if we don't move in right away."

The morning light, a pale blue-black, fighting to push the darkness aside, slowly began to
win the battle for supremacy over its opponent. The coast of England could be seen clearly
against the lightening sky, a deep green intermingled with the browns and yellows of freshly
harvested fields.

William's stomach knotted, for he knew that he could either live or die in the next hour.
What fate awaited him, he couldn't be sure. For a moment he wondered if he'd brought the
men on a fool's errand, and if Harold's army would wipe them out on the beach. A seagull
swooped, then landed on the prow of the Maria. It stood looking at William for a few
moments. Then it turned, and facing the direction of travel, lay down upon its breast.

"A good sign, sire, a very good sign, and look, there is another on our stern," the master
said gleefully. "The angels are riding with us within the birds. God is surely on oirr side."

William shivered. He'd not slept, and his stomach was threatening to eject what the apple
he'd eaten. The sea's swell began to rise as they approached Pevensey Beach, and he could
see nothing but mud flats that didn't give him much hope of a dry landfall.

"I'll place you down on good ground, sire. A little way to the east we'll find the ideal spot
to disembark you. Look, there's the old path. You can see it in the chalk above," said the
master, pointing to the white chalk. "It's the only high ground until you reach Hastings."

"Well, make it a good beaching. I really could do with a shit," William said, grimacing.

"I'm not shoving my arse over the side for anyone."

"Hold on; we're approaching the shore, and we'll need all hands. The race is now strong
here, so have the men keep the horses steady."

The Maria lurched as it hit the bottom of the shallow beach. They were five leagues from
the shore when William decided to jump for it. As he did so, a swell lifted the ship, and the
vessel again lurched forward. William fell head first, into the water. The men aboard the ship
looked at each other, taking their master's fall as an omen of ill fortune. Many began to be
afraid that their venture would fail.

"God is giving us a sign to turn back," mumbled one man.

The murmuring, amongst the superstitious men aboard, ceased as the duke rose from the
water. The knights and men cheered as they saw their leader wasn't injured, the relief clearly
imprinted upon their faces.

Wearing a huge grin, and in water up to his waist, William barked out an order, "Well!
What are you waiting for? Get the hell off the ship, and get unloaded. Master, you did a
good job. We will see you in Hastings, and be ready to move quickly if we get into real
trouble; is that understood?"

William moved further onto the beach. Bedraggled and cold, he started to remove his
attire, beckoning to a boy to bring him dry clothes. Clearly, he was happy to be on dry
ground again.

"Yes, sire, you can rely on me," the boy replied.

The knights and their pages disembarked rapidly and precariously, the onshore waves
making the boats rock back and forth, sometimes pitching forward and frightening the
horses. One horse drowned, almost taking a page under the water with it.

Another horse fell into the water with an agonized cry, breaking its leg.

Walter Giffard followed the thrashing horse to where it fell. He took a sharp knife and slit
the throat of the animal. The horse lay still with blood forcefully pumping from its jugular.

"Horses spill a lot of blood," Giffard said to his page, though Giffard was looking for the
entire world like the soggiest creature alive. "1 hate to have to kill a good steed like that, but
there's no other way when a horse breaks a leg, my lad."

Giffard saw that the boy was covered in blood and looked very sticky. So, too, was
Giffard, and he was glad to be out of the ship and onto dry land.

The youth clambered back onto the vessel and took a leather bag from the beached ship,
withdrawing fresh, dry clothes for his master and making his way up the beach to where
Giffard was waiting.

Further up the muddy beach, William could see that Pevensey was flat and bleak. "The
land won't give any shelter from the wind. We'll have to move quickly, or we'll be in
trouble, Walter." William called through the wind, as he gazed about, taking in the progress
of the unloading of the men, horses, and equipment.

"1 see that we've lost two horses, already. That's not a good start," growled William.

William noticed that the ground was sodden and muddy. He watched as otters
scampered about here and there catching fish, darting in and out of the water, leaving their
footprints in the mud. The spiky marran grass grew tall, too tall for anything but birds flying
overhead to see.

William didn't like the lay of the land, and beckoned Giffard to move closer to him.

"The terrain is flat, and it goes on forever. 1 don't like it, Walter. We should move out as
soon as we're unloaded and dry. We've no time to rest or eat — we can do that later."

"As you wish, William," Giffard replied. He sat on a clirmp of marran grass and pulled off
his footwear and began pulling on dry boots that his page had provided.

The old chalk path was a long way off. It seemed so close, from the ship, but they
eventually found the path up the gentle slope. It meandered slowly up to higher ground
where William finally ordered them to rest a while and eat.

William road ahead with Walter Giffard, and found a point where they could watch the
Armada slowly moving on behind the Maria. The ships were heavily laden, and so deep in
the water that some seemed as if they would capsize at any moment, as they plowed steadily
onward, heading toward Hastings, their final destination.

"1 don't see a soul about, William. This place is just fenland," Giffard said.

"Walter, this is very eerie. There's not a soul about, not a living being. Where on God's
good earth are Harold's forces? We did tell them that we were coming to beat the shit out of
them; didn't we?" William asked.

"Perhaps they just gave up and are waiting for us to march into London and take over the
reins of government," Walter Giffard replied, sporting a wide grin. "In any event, Hakon did
say that Sigurdsson had taken England, well at least in the north, hmm? You'd have thought
that he would have at least placed a guard around the coast." He gazed about the sparse
landscape. "1 know that you'd set your heart on kicking Harold's arse, William. So what
could be going on?"

"Now that would have taken all the fun out of coming, but I'm still uncertain as to
Sigurdsson's role in all of this. He might have defeated Harold, and perhaps come as far as
London, but to leave the south undefended? Especially since he knew we were preparing to
come here. The fields have all been harvested, so men should now be free to fight with
Harold's fyrd." William pointed out to sea, "Look seaward, Walter, we have the only ships
on the sea. This is unnerving." William dismounted and took out some food from his
saddlebag. They both sat eating game and bread. William's head was constantly moving and
his eyes darting, now and then, looking for any signs of his scouts. He took an apple and
began to chew. "1 don't like this one bit, Walter. Something is awry here, and 1 wish 1 knew
what it was."

Walter Giffard sat gazing in the direction of the sea, wondering if this might be his last
day on this earth, then threw his gaze toward his master, the duke. The Saxons outnumber us
twenty -to-one, he thought, as a shiver went down his spine. Not good odds, not good at all.

They settled themselves back once more into the saddle and made their way farther along,
but the track was not an easy one. It left the fenland behind and rose up through the steep
hills of the South Downs, with thick brambles on either side, that but for their mail armor,
would have cut into their legs. As they topped a steep bank, William spotted a flat, wide
path that led to a long-since abandoned Roman castle in the distance. He could see the sea
framing the beach at Hastings, at the base of a long run, down this thousand-year- old
Roman built road.

The offshore breeze became a wind, and the men felt chilly as the Saxons Channel cooled
the air from the south. Their destination was a joyous sight to all the riders who had finally
caught up with William and Giffard. In the distance of about an hour's ride away, the men
could see the ships docking, with the rest of their comrades and supplies being unloaded.

"Behold . . . who cometh?" The shrill voice of a woman came from the bushes just ahead
of them. Slowly, two women scrambled from a brush dwelling that looked like a hastily
fabricated shelter, and made themselves visible to the riders.

Giffard could dearly see the two women. He dismounted and walked toward the women.
As they emerged from the bushes, Giffard noticed that the women were looking as though
they'd been cast out from the community for filth and ugliness. Both women were dressed in
woolen rags, their faces covered in pustules. As he drew closer, he saw their rotten teeth and
smelled the women's vile breath. The hags sported bright red hair that was unkempt, greasy,
and amass with fleas. The awful stench emanating from these imwashed women drifted into
the nostrils of anyone within twenty paces. Giffard retched at the offensive odor, and took a
pace back, turning his head into the wind, attempting to breathe in some fresh air.

196

Giffard spoke in Saxon with a Kentish dialect to communicate with the women.

"Who are you, you wretched hags?" Giffard asked, skewing his head away from them.

"I am known as the Widow Kempher, sire. They say that I am a witch about these parts."
Yellow mucous ran from the woman's nose. She wiped the offensive mass on the sleeve of
her rags and sucked the rest of it down her throat, then spat out a vile detritus onto the
ground. The witch Kempher, looked at her companion, giggling as they both took a few
paces forward, almost mockingly, waving their arms.

Giffard felt for, and withdrew his sword, looking menacingly at the woman. "If you value
your life, witch, then stay where you are. You will now answer my questions." Giffard stared
at the second woman, in the vain hope of gaining a sensible answer. Who are you, and what
do you know of Harold?"

"1 am called Cain, on account of my long, knobbly legs, sire. We know your business
here," she snarled.

The women began to giggle in a slightly maniacal manner at Giffard's comical Saxons
accent. They nudged each other and began laughing, almost insanely.

William bent forward, a linen cloth held over his nose. Giffard, what do these women
know of Harold?" he asked, looking irritated.

Giffard turned once more to the hooked-nosed witches, repeating their answer to William.

"What information of Harold have you, woman?" He could see that both the women were
clearly mad, and despaired of gaining any information from them.

"These woman will be of no use to us, William. It's clear to me that they are outcasts from
their community."

The Widow Kempher pointed her gnarled fingers menacingly at William. "You are
William. You will be king, but you'll die a horrible death soon enough for your troubles, sire.
You will burn, and be in a thousand agonies!" Once more, the witches began to giggle.

The witch, Cain, whose dribbling gave her clothing a soaked, slimy appearance, stepped
forward and gestirred at William with her withered fist.

William rode towards the women, withdrew his razor-sharp sword from its scabbard, and
with one mighty swipe, cut off the head of the witch, Cain. Then turning his steed a little to
angle his aim, he repeated the procedure on the Widow Kempher, and their heads rolled
down the steep embankment until they fell over the cliff never to be seen again.

"Throw the hag's bodies after their heads, Giffard. Let's see them sew them back on!"

William rode on a little ways, leaving Giffard and his servant, along with two others to
dispose of the hag's bodies over the cliff. William halted the entourage on a small hillock that
gave a commanding view of the surrounding countryside and waited for Giffard to catch up.
From this vantage point, William could see the sheep on the South Downs, and children
looking after them in the distance.

The sun was warming the air. Bumblebees and the last of the summer's butterflies,
fluttering here and there, were oblivious to William's presence.

William dismounted and sat on the grass, looking out to sea. He could see the many ships
bobbing up and down, waiting their chance to dock at Hastings. A smile came to his lips.

"This is a good spot to rest, I'd say. We'll set our camp here, Odo. From here we can get
the lay of the land." He remounted his steed, and motioning Giffard to do likewise, they
moved off. "I'll be back with a working party, Odo. Walter, you follow me."

Odo sat looking across to the cliffs before him. He was pensive, chewing at his bottom lip.
The feeling of loneliness in this strange land began to play on his nerves. William had given
him no instructions as to what to do if they were driven back by Harold's forces. Taking out
three gold coins from his purse, he turned to his page, Robert.

'Tf 1 give instructions for you to canter away, this will mean that you should procirre a
ship for our escape. It should be made ready to sail at a moment's notice, boy. You will
choose a ship with my pennant aboard. Pay the master two gold coins and keep the other
coin for yourself. The ship should be taken to a secluded spot, and its position made known
to me upon your return. Is that dear?"

The boy nodded. "Yes, sire. 1 understand," the lad replied.

"Good. Now we shall proceed to make camp."

William and Giffard rode slowly down the steep hillside toward the cobbled fishing port
of Hastings. All of a sudden a shout from the bushes took them by surprise.

"HALT! IDENTIFY YOURSELVES!" came the call from a hidden Breton voice. Twenty
men then showed themselves from the thickets to surround the two riders.

"Who is your sergeant?" Giffard called, not noticing the man's armband.

"I'm the sergeant of this company. I'm William-de- Warren. Identify yourselves or die!"
the sergeant indignantly called to the mounted men before him.

William-de-Warren stood in the center of the men at arms, and was obviously quite
prepared to kill the next man who moved. Four men held the horses of William and Walter,
whilst other men stood with bows fully drawn and aimed at the two riders.

"If you won't identify yourselves, 1 will assume you to be the enemy. You look wealthy
and perhaps worth taking in for a ransom," said the sergeant craftily.

"1 am your lord, Duke William of Normandy, and this is Walter Giffard. William-de-
Warren, you have done well, and you shall be rewarded for your vigilance. 1 shall remember
you. What news is there of our enemies, the Saxons?"

The sergeant bowed low before speaking slowly. "Sire, there is no sight of the Saxon
forces anywhere. The village on the shoreline is almost deserted. The only people left there
are a few old men and women with children. They replied, when questioned, that the men
left with Harold, and haven't been seen or heard from since the crops were harvested," the
sergeant said, shrugging his shoulders, looking as mystified as William.

"Keep on full alert, sergeant. We could be ambushed at any time. Now, we will pass."
William and Giffard moved on as the men backed aside to watch the two men ride into the
distance.

"Hastings is a small fishing village with a population of no more than a few dozen souls
left behind. This village isn't inbred, as some villages are, William. They have constant cross-
channel contact, and Anglo-Norman marriages often take place. Many of the men who come
to Hastings are welcomed as family members, billeting as many as ten in their small homes,"
said Giffard as they made a plodding pace down the hill.
"In that case, Walter, we'll treat the people here as Normans. They'll not be put to work."

As more ships came ashore, the men disembarked, and their cargo was removed and
stored. The ships then anchored offshore with long ropes, often tethering as many as twenty
ships together. From the sea the land rose gently, with meadows that held a few crofters

cattle here and there. Sheep roamed on the higher ground beyond, where still further, the
forest began in earnest.

The sergeants began grouping their men together into battalions. Cooks and blacksmiths
were billeted together so that wood could be collected and used in one place. The hustle and
bustle of the men going back and forth was deafening to those used to only to the sounds of
the waves lapping the shore and of seagulls calling. The idyllic life of Hastings was now
shattered.

One hundred men took turns to build a motte and erect a small, prefabricated fort atop it.
It would seem like a normal day, all but for the many men-at-arms attending to their duties.
One young stable boy used a long rope, with one end tied to a post, the other end threaded
through each horse's bridals. The boy walked the horses slowly round in a field, the beasts
having no option but to follow the grazing of the others.

William ordered his officers to go and forage for cattle and sheep so that the troops could
be fed. To William, the situation was surreal. He'd come to fight a battle, but all he found
was a sleepy fishing village.

Bishop Odo, with Giffard by his side, entered the lodgings where William had quartered
himself, trying to make sense of the activities from a window. It was small but comfortable,
out of the windward direction, and had a huge stone fireplace where water could be boiled
and where food was constantly being prepared.

"We're never going to have enough provisions from foraging, William. There's just not
enough cattle, sheep, or fowl in this area to support us," Odo said, who sat looking
despairingly at his half brother. "The men are fed up doing the menial tasks that my officers
set them. They need to practice for the battle ahead; even you recognize that," he continued,
frustrated.

"It's a constant headache, Odo; we can't go inland just yet. Until our supply lines have
been firmly established to support us, we'll have to keep provisioning from the surrounding
villages. If we kill the inhabitants, we lose the collective labor force," William said coughing
up a crumb from a bun he'd just consumed.

Odo passed him some wine to wash it down.

"Couldn't we bring our own people over here, or at least a portion of them?"

"For what possible reason should we bring them? No. In any event, it would take too long
and would create a shortage back home." William sat with his hands clasped prayer-like,
searching for a solution, when one struck him. "We'll bring the women from the
surrounding villages here. They'll cook and do other chores, thus freeing some of our men to
run the supplies."

"That's a good idea, William," said Giffard.

"That means we will have less chance of brigand attacks on our troops. It will free up
more of oirr men, and that way we control the area. Food-wise, — we should be sufficient.
When we meet Hardrada's forces, we'll at least be in a position of some strength to negotiate
the boundaries in oirr favor. It will allow us to move north swiftly, puUing the network with
us. We might have a fight with Sigurdsson, and in that event, we'd be in a stronger position
too. That also depends on the reliance factors of the population. They might decide that
Sigurdsson is a safer master and side with him. If that happens, we should be prepared to
consider our options on boundaries once more. We can't rule a country with just eight

thousand troops. We'd be overrun and out numbered twenty to one, Odo." William placed
his feet upon the table and sat back in his chair, contemplating various possible scenarios.

"Yes, 1 see. That would leave our back door open in Normandy for anyone to enter. This
is assuming that what Hakon told us was correct, that Hardrada has indeed taken the land
from the north of England to the Midlands," Odo said looking nervous.

"You are saying what, Odo?" William stared intently into his half brother's eyes.

"Well, Hardrada, sorry, 1 mean Sigurdsson, might not have landed at all."

"So, tell me then, why would he have sent Hakon? He certainly wouldn't be sending a
man on a mission of bluff, so that we would be reluctant to move against him," William
replied, deeply fascinated at Odo's suggestion, surely?"

"A double bluff, perhaps?" Odo speculated, looking for William's expression at the
notion.

"That is an interesting thought, Odo, yet conjecture, nonetheless. If Sigurdsson had
landed in August, and beaten Harold's forces, he would be down here guarding this rich
southern coastline by now. He has a powerful fleet of warships that could simply sink our
fleet with ease. He has sailor/ warriors who know how to fight on water as well as land. This
is the first place he would take his battle fleet. And we see nothing . . . why? There are two
possibilities. The first is that Sigurdsson has landed and been defeated, and that Harold has
died in battle, too. Therefore, there is a void that we must fill. In that case we march straight
to London and secirre the crown. If we're wrong, and the likelihood is that we are, then
Harold is alive and waiting for us. There could, of course, be a well-laid trap. He might mean
to surroimd us and wipe us out. No, Odo, I'm wise to that one. 1 know Harold well. He's a
shrewd and very brave man. He knows 1 wouldn't fall for that trick." William slowly shook
his head. He then thoughtfully took a sip of wine, returning it to the table, and coughed.

"The other possibility, and the most likely, is that Sigurdsson is indeed in control, but has
lost most of his forces to Harold. He's consolidating his gains and is awaiting reinforcements
before moving south. If that's the case, there must have been one hell of a battle at York. We
must remember this. Hakon said that Harold had not been seen. So where does that leave
us?"

In the pregnant silence that followed, Odo looked thoughtful.

"We haven't considered that Harold has defeated Sigurdsson and is marching toward us
to do battle as we speak, William. It would answer the question, too, as to why we don't see
Harold's forces or remnants of them. He's taken them north to fight Sigurdsson, hoping that
the winds wouldn't favor us. It's the only sensible answer," replied Odo, smugly.

"It's the sort of fight he'd take on, but his troops would be very tired from such a long
march, and he couldn't use the battle fleet as the winds were blowing in our favor. The most
likely scenario is that Harold is enroute, but he would have to rest his men for at least a
week. London is the likeliest place to rest up, where he could reinforce the fyrd. 1 feel we
should stay put. We have a near secure supply line and the ships with which to retreat if we
get cornered. When we're ready, we'll move north as soon as we feel we're safe to do so. Do
you agree, Odo?" William was looking for input that might change his mind, but nothing
was forthcoming.

There came a knock and a shout at the door. "There's a messenger, sire!" Philippe called.

"Bid the messenger enter," William replied. The messenger entered the room breathlessly.

"What's your business, messenger?" William enquired, intrigued.

"Sire, Harold Godwinson has defeated Harald Sigurdsson at Stamford Bridge, near York.
He is now in London collecting an army to do battle with you," he said breathlessly.

William stared at the messenger, and his head cocked slightly to one side as if he'd
misheard him. "What do you know of the battle, boy?"

"Only that it was an ignominious defeat for Harald Sigurdsson and a great victory for
Harold Godwinson. I'm told that not one man of Sigurdsson's forces was left alive, sire."

"Well, gentlemen, 1 suggest that we put our feet up, and await our fate." The duke threw
his gaze toward Walter Giffard." Walter, go and organize the women; there's a good chap."

Giffard looked at William with pleading eyes.

"Walter, this is important; it's not demeaning to you. There are going to be some very
angry men out there when you start taking the women from their homes, and you're the
man to carry this out without falling for the pity of these peasants. We're here to gain a
kingdom, not pander to the feelings of lowlife Saxon toads. Now go— get to it!" William
waved Giffard from the room.

Giffard strode over to Philippe, who was in conversation with Alan. "You're to both go
into the surrounding villages and bring all the women of suitable age back to the camp. Kill
any that refuse or make an attempt to escape. Bring back no children who are under eight
years of age. If you come across any aged men, leave them," said Giffard abruptly.

Philippe's face remained expressionless, until Giffard had moved off into the distance.
Philippe's placed his hands upon his hips, watching Giffard gather around him a large
group of his men, and splitting them into groups of four to be dispersed to the location that
he had each sergeant mark on a piece of parchment.

Giffard pointed to the reprobate sergeants Waddle and his sidekick. Snap. "You two can
join up with the Domfront brothers. First of all, 1 need you for a job."

The officers barked Giffard's instructions to their men; there was to be no compromise.

"Do what you must. 1 don't care too much. Bring back no pregnant women, only fit and
able females; is that clear?" Giffard gazed about and saw that all the men nodded and
understood their instructions. "You're to tell such men as are there, that if they resist, they,
and their womenfolk, will be killed too," Giffard added. "Right, split into your groups and
go off to the villages, and find your quarry.

Philippe turned to Alan and sighed, "Fucking shit! We've been landed with those stupid,
assholes; Waddle, and that nasty bastard. Snap. On top of that, we've been allocated a shit
job. As for you, Alan, 1 guess it beats looking after horses all bloody day. Come on. Let's go
and see what we can find. Hey, we may get some decent village food inside us, whoa,"
Philippe said thinking of the prospect of something other than camp food.

"You know, Philippe, 1 can't believe they've actually allowed us out to collect of all
things — women! Oh well, 1 suppose we'd better get on with it. Not that 1 mind too much, of
course. At least we may get some decently strong, sweet Saxons ale down us. Do you know
how potent that brew is? I'm told that it'll blow the top of your head off."

"Never mind the ale. Let's just get on and do the job we've been assigned, and slide off
into the woods before those to shit heads notice that we're gone. After all, Giffard told them
that they were to be with us, but he didn't inform us that we were to be with them."

Philippe noticed that the day was getting warmer, a far cry from the mist of the morning.
He glanced at the swallows swooping to gather up their breakfast, and it reminded him of
home. His olfactory glands absorbed the smell of food cooking on campfires, and he wished
he'd eaten, regretting having to do night duty and falling asleep, missing his morning meal.

Philippe and Alan saddled a good horse each and hoped that they'd packed enough rope.
They were soon in the forest, where at least they were free of the nasty horseflies that bit
incessantly, every part of one's exposed skin.

Philippe glanced over his shoulder and saw that the two sergeants. Waddle and Snap, had
ambled off into the woods on their own, which pleased Philippe to no end. He couldn't
stand the sight of Snap, and he'd no time for Waddle either.

Alan and Philippe rode on, snaking through pathless routs, losing Waddle and Snap to
find their own way to the surrounding villages that might just happen to be on their route.

As they traveled, Philippe recounted a tale he'd overhead in camp. When Earl Harold had
been a captive of Duke William several years before, Harold had been pressed into service
on a mission with the duke. While taking part in the operation, Harold, at great personal
risk, had heroically saved a man who was sinking rapidly into quicksand. Ironically, the man
that had almost cost the earl his own life had been Snap.

They rode on throughout the day, until they found a grassy glade that they thought
looked rather nice. Philippe halted, dismounted, and looked about. "We ought to camp here
for the night. We can start our business in earnest in the morning. How much rope do we
have?"

"We've a couple of good lengths. That's enough to do what we've been sent out do," Alan
replied.

"We should be able to bring back at least twenty women. 1 just hope they keep quiet;
that's all. 1 hate the thought of a load of wailing females spitting at us and cursing loudly,"
Alan added as he knelt down to make a small campfire from the wood and kindling they
had collected on their journey through the woods. Soon Alan had cooked a couple of lost
chickens they'd caught earlier.

"This meal was delidous, the best we've had for ages. It beats that rotting meat they've
been feeding us at camp, Philippe. The food used to make me throw up. God alone knows
where they got meat like that."

"Shush, Alan. Someone's coming." The two men scrambled into the bushes, forced to
leave the campfire burning by the sudden appearance of intruders.

"Hey, you two. We know you're the Domfront brothers. Come out and show yourselves!"

"Shit! It's that bastard Waddle and his ape Snap," Philippe muttered as they reappeared.

So, you two are on your own, then. Well, you have Snap and myself for company for the
duration. It's a pity you've eaten. We could have done with a bite to eat. No worries, the
women can feed us before we bring them back to camp. So, what do you think. Snap?"

"1 was never one to miss out on a meal cooked by a woman. Waddle. Then, of course,
there's the after-dinner treats; I'm looking forward to the treats." Snap licked his lips. The
evil glint in his eyes was more than evident.

Alan felt sick at the prospect of being accompanied by such Godless men. He glanced at
Philippe with dread and loathing at having to work with these two mean and spiteful apes.

"As the senior officer," Waddle announced, "I say we camp here and assault the village to
the east of that rise first thing in the morning." Waddle had a map drawn on a thin sheepskin
hide he'd unrolled, depicting the locations of various villages, and showing the terrain in the
vicinity of Hastings. Pointing to a location on the map. Waddle gave instructions as to their
approach and how they would achieve their objective.

Snap leaned over to Waddle and whispered something in his ear. The brothers didn't
quite catch the words, but the word fun was heard as a chuckle came from both men before
they ambled away to their mounts to unroll bedding for the evening.

"It looks very much like we're stuck with these two bastards, Alan. 1 say we stick very
close to them because that way they're less likely to get into mischief."

"For Heaven's sake, Philippe, these two don't care who they kill, when they do it, or for
that matter, who is with them when they do whatever it is they intend to do. I'll tell you this
much, if either of those two so much as lay a finger on a child, it will be the last thing they
ever do. So help me . . . I'll kill them both."

Philippe began sharpening his blade on a pocket wet-stone. He was imhappy about the
day to come. He looked across at his brother with sadness in his eyes. He knew that he must
take mothers from their children. He loathed the thought that he must do his duty for his
lord and paymaster this way. "I'm only doing my job, following orders. Shit! One day, it will
all be different. There will be a law-code forbidding this sort of thing in wartime." He looked
aroimd at the lengthening shadows. "Bugger, the light is failing. Come on, Alan, we'd better
get our beds ready."

Alan and Philippe led their horses into the woods and affixed makeshift rope hammocks
between some trees, out of sight from anyone who might come across them. Philippe
tethered their horses to a tree, and a short lead from their bridles to the foot end of their
slumber rugs.

The night was cool. The brothers tried to sleep but it was fitful, catching the odd half-hour
here and there. A few paces away, the snoring of Snap could be heard above the whistling of
the wind, the movement of the leaves on the trees, and the hooting of owls. Not far off, the
grunting of a wild boar could be heard— then a scream as it bit into the flesh of a rival male.
As the hours passed, the wind dropped to the lightest breath, and even the owls ceased their
hooting as if they, too, had fallen into a deep slumber. There came the sound of a running
boar through the forest, and then silence reigned once more.

One of autumn's leaves drifted down, brushing his face and waking Philippe with a start.
Dawn was just visible through the trees. A slight mist was at knee height off the ground's
surface. A deer thundered past, startling him again. His thoughts drifted to those of Alan's
wife, Maria, and the children. I hope they're all safe and well. Maria was hearibroken at our
leaving, but she understood that we'd have no income whatsoever if we'd stayed on the farm for
another year trying to rebuild what the Normans had destroyed. Either that, or we might've been
forced into slavery, as many people were. In any case, I didn't want the children to be slaves to some
cruel overlord. They would never be able to free themselves. At least Maria and the children are safe
with their grandfather. No, it was this or nothing but misery, Philippe thought. Philippe leaned
over to gaze at his brother. "Are you awake, Alan?"

"Yes, but I've not slept a wink all bloody night, Philippe."

"Well, you snore while you're awake then."

"I have had better nights," Alan repHed, whilst rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Oh, shit!" Philippe moaned. "We've the two turds to ride with this morning. I'd
forgotten all about them. 1 can't see any sign of either of them, can you?"

"Listen; 1 can hear a fire crackling nearby. It's just over there, to your right. Do you see it?
Bugger! 1 was hoping they'd both died in their sleep. Come on . . . we'd better join them and
show a little willingness. They'd only drop us in the shit when we got back to the main camp
if they felt we weren't pulling our weight. We'd end up digging out the duke's shit house.
That's what happens when you give a little power to a weak man that can't handle it."

The brothers packed away their sleeping gear and ambled off to a few moments of
necessary privacy deeper in the woods. Alan came across a large spread of bluebells, which
brought joy to his heart at the sight of them. With a small spade, he dug a defecation hole.
He undid his tunic and pulled down his hose. An impromptu song sprang to mind as he did
his business amongst the flowers.

"What do you do if you want to have a poop in a Saxon country garden? Well, you pull
down your pants and you suffocate the ants in a Saxon country garden. Then you take a leaf
and you wipe your imderneath in a Saxon country garden. Then you take a spade, and you
bury what you made, in a Saxon country garden. That's what you do when you want to have
a poop in an Saxon coimtry garden."

"What the hell was all that noise about, Alan?" Exclaimed Philippe.

"Oh, 1 just felt like singing, that's all. It was much better than the blood- and-guts songs
the men back at camp feel they need to continue bellowing. It makes a pleasant change, don't
you think?"

Philippe shook his head in tolerant amusement. "1 suppose we'd better break bread with
the gruesome duo, or they'll think we are hiding from them. You've no poison on your
person by any chance; do you, Alan? 1 have a good use for it, if you have." They chuckled at
the thought of ridding themselves of Waddle and Snap in whatever way they could devise,
when the sound of dead wood cracking underfoot could be heard, the sound advancing
towards them.

"Ah, so you're up and about then, 1 see." Waddle was in good spirits, but Snap seemed
quiet and somewhat ill.

"What's the matter with Snap?"

"He's had the shits all night. It serves him right for drinking the local water. He reckons
someone had shit in the stream he drank from last night. He'll get over it. Come on; we've a
bit of extra rations. You can share with us."

Phillip coughed, trying to suppress a laugh.

"Yes, thanks; 1 guess it's better than rabbit three times a day," Alan replied, eager to eat
something more substantial.

The men sat around a warm fire, eating. Waddle talked incessantly, boasting about his
past exploits with the duke, when Snap interrupted urgently.

"SHUSH! We have company. Don't move . . . jeez . . . it's a fucking boar. The boar stood
two paces from Waddle's back. It looked mean and was obviously in no mood to make

friendly gestures. "Waddle when 1 say move, you flip over to your left. You got that?"

Snap hissed, whilst his eye was looking into that of the wild animal.

Waddle nodded that he understood. The sweat began beading on his forehead, and his
leggings leaked with warm urine. He was mortified after all of his previous boasting. The
boar, sensing fear, rushed forward.

"MOVE!" Snap yelled, abruptly.

Waddle darted to his left, as Snap lunged forward toward the boar with his blade. The
boar rose slightly upon seeing Snap. The knife pierced its throat, entering the base of the
beast's brain, and the boar fell dead, twitching before them.

"That was too close for comfort. 1 owe you one for that." Waddle felt his urine filled
leggings, and his embarrassment was obvious. "Shit!" he cursed, "I've pissed myself."

Alan and Philippe sat in stunned silence, stiU reeling from the scene they'd witnessed.

Snap leaned forward to take a good look at the animal. "Let's get it gutted and hung. We
can recover the carcass on the way back," Snap said in a nonchalant tone. "The women can
then carry the meat. It'll give them something to do."

An hour later, the four men were on the track to the first of the villages shown on
Waddle's map. As they rounded a small hillock, they saw below them in a valley, twelve
cottages neatly arrayed in two rows on either side of a narrow cart track.

"Right," Waddle said; "you know what to do. You two start this side, and Snap and 1 will
take the other.

"What do you expect us to do with the men?" Alan enquired naively.

"That's about the stupidest question I've ever heard. Kill anyone who opposes you, idiot!"
Waddle was in no mood for silly questions, and strode on, muttering to himself.

The brothers went to the first of the cottages. Philippe opened the door of the cottage. As
he walked inside, he noticed a mother nursing an infant on a cot of straw. The woman was
quite startled to see two men enter her home unannounced. He dosed that door and turned
to Alan. "Not here, Alan; we'll go to the next one."

"What if they're all nursing infants, Philippe?"

"Then we go on to the next village until we find someone we can take back with us. I'm
not making orphans out of infants, Alan."

From a short distance, the screams of women could be heard. The brothers stood,
watching Waddle and Snap dragging the two women they had taken and tying them up to a
tree. Both men then returned to the cottage. There was silence for a few moments, then the
sound of slapping, sobbing, and screams of children in distress.

"1 don't like this, Philippe. I'm going to take a look." They ran across to the doorway of
the cottage. The open door gave the brothers a view that horrified them. Snap and Waddle
were raping two girls who could not have been more than nine and eleven years of age.
Without a word, Alan drew his blade. Philippe looked at Alan and followed suit. In unison,
they approached both men who were otherwise engaged in their predatory sexual activities.

Philippe strode briskly and determinedly towards the vile Waddle who'd no idea he'd
been observed. With his blade in one hand, he pulled Waddle's head back by his hair;
simultaneously, he slit Waddle's throat. Waddle fell back against Philippe's knees, bleeding
to the floor, releasing the sobbing child.

Concurrently, Alan approached Snap.

Snap spun around in time to duck Alan's deathly thrust. Like a rabbit. Snap was out the
door and running across the hard, dusty street, toward his horse. Alan slipped on Waddle's
blood, and then Snap was on his horse, with Philippe in hot pursuit.

Alan struggled to his feet, and running outside, threw his knife with deadly aim at the
receding Snap. Over and over, the blade spun its way toward its intended victim.

The knife fell squarely against Snap's thick leather belt. Its velocity exhausted, the knife
fell to the ground. Snap galloped on, disappearing into the forest beyond.

In silence, the brothers returned inside to carry the two weeping girls out to the mothers.

In hesitant Saxon, Alan spoke to the women as softly as possible while untying them.

"They won't bother you again. Go see to yoirr children. I'm so, so sorry that you had to
witness this," Alan said through tears. His shame at being a male almost overwhelmed him.

The brothers walked back into the cottage to drag out the bloody body of the hated
pedophile. Alan then retrieved his knife, replacing it in the sheath. Philippe tied Waddle by
his feet with rope, and then he hitched the body to his horse. The brothers then dragged
Waddle's corpse into the woods, where they covered the cadaver with stones.

The village women stood passively looking on, with relief and astonishment upon their
faces. Has God sent his angels to destroy the devil's work? Wondered one woman carrying a baby
in her arms.

Alan looked at his brother thoughtfully. "Now what do we do?" Alan said. He stared at
the crowd of women, not knowing what their next move should be. He wanted to approach
them and explain their presence. He felt lost, guilty, and ashamed.

Philippe walked away and stood leaning against a tree. He placed his hand on his chin,
deep in thought. A few moments later, he noticed Alan approach him. Philippe held his
hand up; he needed to collect his thoughts, and didn't want the process disturbed.

"I'm sorry, Alan. I've been thinking. As 1 see the situation, we have but two options. We
can carry on, and bring in the women. That presents the eventuality of Snap demanding our
execution, for as Snap sees it, the murder of Waddle. So obviously we can't take the women
back to the camp. We could try to make our way back to Normandy and then go home. Even
that scenario would be a risky undertaking. We're too well known to be able to bluff our way
out and onto a ship. 1 suppose we should try to defect by joining Harold's forces . . . unless
you have a better idea."

Alan held Philippe's arm in a vice-like grip. "Philippe, you're mad! How, in the name of
Mary, are we going to tell the Saxons that we want to join them? As soon as they saw our
short hair and heard our accent, they'd kill us."

"You speak a good Saxons, Alan. So we just approach them; you ask to speak to someone
in authority, and we take it from there. Think of the advantages. We will be paid well by the
Saxons. They're bound to win the forthcoming battle. Their forces must surely outnumber
William's ten to one. They have a whole country to call upon. 1 heard one of Norman lords
say that the Saxons could gather one-hundred thousand men."

Alan glanced down the street at the women gazing in awe back at them. "The odds are
greatly against us, then. We're both in great shit, either way. Duke William expects us to win
a battle with odds like that against us! 1 wish someone had told me that before we sailed. So
be it, Philippe, but how do we find the Saxons forces? No one has seen them since we've
been here."

"I take it we are in agreement then?" Philippe replied. "This is a very dangerous chance
we are taking. Do you understand that? If our own side catches us, it will be the last sunrise
for us. Snap will have made his report, and they will send out a party to search for us. I'm
sure of that. What's more, they will kill everyone here, too." Philippe was shaking his head
slowly, his depression becoming visibly apparent. Alan took the map from Waddle's
saddlebag, while Philippe tied the dead man's horse to a tree. They walked some way from
the village and sat down on a log to resume discussing their options.

"Perhaps," Alan said, hopefully, "we can return to the village and ask the women to show
us a bit of mercy in return, by helping us to be hired by the Saxons."

"Or . . . they could call out such men they have from other villages, then hang us! They
think we're Normans, for Heavens sake!" Philippe said, tersely. Sometimes, you're so fucking
naive, Alan. He kept his thought to himself and began sharpening his knife with a small
stone. He felt sick and angry, and began to curse through his teeth. "They've had plenty of
time to do that by now. We're the enemy; don't you forget that. 1 guess we'll just have to take
oirr chances and see what happens. Die here now, or die later on the field of battle. Take
your pick, Alan." Philippe paused. "We go back to the village. Agreed?"

"Yes . . . agreed!" Philippe's smile was infectious. "We'll think of something; I'm sure; let's
eat first."

They made their way to the ridge above the village, where Alan cooked some roots over a
fire, while Phillip sliced what was left of their food into manageable portions, and discussed
their situation as they ate.

"They'll come looking for us tomorrow, Philippe. They know where we are, too."

"Then we've made the right decision to go back to the village. As 1 see it, we can ask the
women to hide us. If they agree, and there's nothing to indicate, so far, that they wouldn't.
We've no option but to place ourselves upon their mercy."

"Did you notice that the map Snap had didn't have the village's location marked on it?"
Philippe said smiling.

"Then, Philippe, we came upon the village quite by accident. There's a chance that Snap
mightn't find it again. Also, did you notice that the village is hidden in a valley and
surrounded by thick forest?" Alan said feeling more relaxed.

Five hundred paces away, a woman was addressing the other village women gathered
around her. "I've no idea who those two men were, but they weren't Normans or Saxons. All
1 know is, they saved us from the two bastards who harmed our children."

Ebba, a tall, blond woman with piercing blue eyes, interrupted the woman's speech.

"Whatever has happened here this morning, it proves the Normans know we're here, and
will come back to take us into slavery. What of our men? Where are they? No one has heard
from them since they left to join King Harold." Ebba placed her hand upon her hips. She
stared at her fellow village women, looking for views and answers to recent events.

"That's so," said another voice from the gathering. "The two Normans just rode in here
without a care. If they can do that, there are more to come; we're totally unprotected."

As the rest of the women looked around at each other, in renewed fear, they all made the
decision to take their meeting into the communal barn to discuss their situation further. The

younger children were told to sit quietly, while the older children took charge and listened,
learning while the meeting was in progress.

As the hours passed, Alan sharpened his blade to a fine edge. His knife was polished and
glistened in the sun. He took a hair and sliced the strand in two, and smiled, satisfied at a job
well done. "Do you think they'll help us, Phillippe?" Alan asked hopefiiUy.

"I'm not going to even guess. We've made the decision to contact them, so we may as well
go down and see if they will allow us some connection with the Saxons forces. They're
bound to have some communication with their men."

Philippe was feeling apprehensive. He knew, that in the eyes of the duke, that in killing
Waddle, they'd committed a great wrong. He nudged Alan, "Oh, come on. We can't stay
here all day," he said, then rose to his feet, and covered the fire with earth. They gathered up
their belongings and led the three horses down into the valley, careful not to alarm anyone
as they approached the village. Philippe looked over his shoulder and took one last look at
the grassy glade that had been so peaceful as it disappeared behind them. "Perhaps we could
go to Scotland," said Alan, with an almost serious look that changed to a grin.

They both laughed.

"We don't even know where Scotland is, Alan," said Philippe.

As the brothers came within a hundred paces of the women, Philippe stopped dead in his
tracks, his arm holding Alan back.

"What do you think is going on down there, Alan?"

"Shit! 1 don't believe this is happening!" The astonishment upon Philippe's face said it all.

Two scruffy looking Bretons had found the village, and had taken two of the women, tied
them with their arms outstretched, and were raping them over a hitching post. The other
women were tied, defenseless, to a long rope that was tethered between two trees. The
women were looking on with expressions of resigned helplessness. There was absolutely
nothing the women could do, except weep loudly.

Philippe strode forward menacingly, followed closely by Alan.
Yet again, Philippe and Alan took out their blades. The gHnt from their implements glistened
in the sun, and with grim determination, the brothers approached the two rapists.

The reflection from the blades caught the eye of one of the bound women. She nudged
her neighbor, who in turn, did the same, until all the women were monitoring the brother's
approach. They watched as the brothers each chose a victim. The simultaneous and
determined slash of the blades upon the throats of the two Breton rapists ended the victims'
ordeal as two corpses fell to the ground.

Alan felt sick to the core as he retched. God will surely punish me for my cold-blooded actions
this day. He fell to his knees, crossing himself. Philippe grasped his arm and lifted him to his
feet. Alan looked at his bloodied hands then gazed with anguished eyes into his brother's
face.

"It was the right thing, Alan. We did God's work in taking the devil's disciples from this
earth. There is no shame in that, my brother. Now we must assist these people. Go to the
horse and get the rope while 1 calm these distressed women."

Alan nodded. He knew his brother's words had reasoned judgment. He moved off to
where the villains' horses were tethered. He took a rope from one of the horses and strode

back to the body of the man whose Ufe he'd just taken. He stood looking at the bloody,
lifeless corpse that lay before him. "Bastard!" he muttered. "Let the devil take you to the fires
of damnation!" He bent down and tied the rope around his victim's legs. He walked across
to the astonished women and seeing that Philippe had untied them from their bondage,
approached the mother of one of the raped children. He offered her the rope.

"Over the tree, look." Philippe pointed to an old oak tree that had a long, thick branch.

"They're Saxons, Philippe, remember. I'll tell them what to do." He smiled at her and
repeated Philippe's words to her in Saxons.

The petrified woman just stared at them, looking totally bewildered. She then walked
toward the tree, when one of the raped women took hold of the rope from her. In a moment,
the rope was over the branch. One after another the women came forward and pulled on the
rope. The corpse rose into the air, swinging around and around. Philippe took hold of the
rope, making it secure.

Philippe turned to Alan. "They deserve retribution, Alan. Let them release their anger."

Alan stood next to Philippe, staring aghast at the ferodty of anger they were witnessing.

The women began to spit at the swinging corpse, and with sticks, whipped at it. One
woman began shouting abuse at the now lifeless body.

From amongst the seething mob, another woman pushed her way forward. She was
holding a sharp butchering knife. She slit off the clothes of the bloody cadaver, lifted the
genitals, and with one swift cutting motion, severed the raping duster away. She walked
briskly over to the pigs. "These are for the swine!" she called, as she tossed them over into
the sty. She walked back slowly, her eyes avoiding the rapists. She approached the brothers
wearily. Her hands outstretched, she took their hands in hers.

"We're grateful to you kind men. Without your help we would be enslaved to whatever
fate the Normans had in store for us. Please, come and sit with us. 1 want to know all about
you." She stepped back a couple of paces, staring at them searchingly, scanning for the
differences from all the other men she'd encountered in the past.

Philippe stood, merely watching, unknowing the Saxons tongue as his brother. He smiled
at the kind face of the woman before him. He glanced at Alan, shrugged his shoulders, and
smiled again as he turned once more to face the woman.

"What's the matter with this man? Is he deaf?" the woman asked, looking somewhat
puzzled. She still hadn't quite come to terms with this vision. She'd seen the same two men
twice on the same day, saving the women from harm for a second time. She took hold of
Philippe's hand and led him to a cottage. Philippe covertly glanced at her form. She was tall,
with light brown hair and amply proportioned. As they disappeared inside, another woman
stepped forward. It was the mother of the children they'd saved earlier that morning.

"Come with me. We're grateful for your help. You and your friend have done more for us
than any men have done since our own left with the king." The woman held onto Alan's
hand and led him to her own cottage, where just a couple of hours before, her daughters had
been the victims of Waddle and Snap.

"Madam, 1 must first tell you one thing. 1 am a defector."

"A defector . . . what is a defector?" she asked with a confused look upon her face.

"Before 1 explain our actions to you, 1 have to ask you to rejoin me with my brother,
Philippe. He doesn't speak your Saxons tongue. He'll be confused, and he might distress the

woman who has taken him into her cottage." As the words left his mouth, the door opened,
and there stood Philippe. Beside him stood the woman who'd led him away.

"Acha. We have to talk," the woman said.

Philippe stood looking bemused; he really hadn't a clue what to do, except to watch.

"My name is Ricula. You saved my daughters this morning. This woman who took your
brother, Philippe, to her home is Acha. The two men you killed raped this woman and her
daughter, Emma. Please, you must tell me about yourself and your brother. Where are you
from, why are you here, and . . .?"

With a wave of his hand, Alan cut short Ricula's questions. "There are too many
questions, and too soon. Please, be patient. We have a story, and you'll need to understand.
What 1 have to tell you might confuse you, but 1 would ask that you give me the opportunity
to explain oirr situation. It's not easy for me to speak in yoirr Saxons dialect, for my own
tongue is French, and you speak too quickly for me," Alan said.

Acha gasped. She was now in a state of utter astonishment. She stared at the men before
her, her eyes wide with a mixture of excitement and wonderment. She wanted to know who
were these two angels, and where did they come from? Did they have families? What's
more, what were they doing here?

Alan cleared his throat. "My name is Alan Domfront, and this is my brother, Philippe. We
were forced by dire circumstance to join the forces of Duke William." Alan told their story to
the two women, who sat in dirmbfounded silence at the tale that unfolded.

Ricula grasped Alan's hand, composing her thoughts. "Alan, you know that the women
of this village are grateful to you and your brother for all you've done. I'll speak to the other
women about your situation. You're certainly not Normans, nor inhuman; indeed, you've
demonstrated to us that you are compassionate men. As for Acha and myself, we will help
you and hide you for as long as you wish to stay."

"Thank you, Ricula, and you, too, Acha. We'll help you in any way we can. But the
raiders might come back, and often. So we must find a way to make the village look
deserted. Are you willing to go along with any plan that Philippe and 1 can conceive?"

Ricula glanced at Acha. Acha smiled and nodded her approval. She once more turned to
Alan. "We've no option, Alan. From our experience of your good deeds, 1 feel we can trust
your judgment." Ricula leaned forward and kissed his cheek, then threw her arms around
him, squeezing tightly. She looked across at the bemused Philippe and beckoned for him to
come to her. She took his hand and kissed his cheek, too.

Acha took Philippe's hand in hers and began to speak softly to him. "Philippe, 1 know you
can't understand my words. Your brother will tell you what 1 have said, but from my heart, 1
thank you." Alan translated as Acha gave thanks to Philippe.

Acha looked at Alan. "Alan, we must find you a place to sleep, and a safe place to hide.
You'll wait here while Ricula and 1 go speak with the other women. 1 know one woman,
Ebba, who speaks your tongue, and I'm sure she'll help Philippe feel very comfortable."
Acha giggled as she and Ricula exited from the cottage, leaving the brothers alone.

"What's going on, Alan? It is obvious she was grateful to us, but what happens now?
Where do we go from here?"

"It looks as if we've gained allies here. We'll be safe for a little while, but we'll have to
look after these women and keep them from harm. That's not going to be as easy as it was

210

this morning. I can't see these women allowing themselves to be raped just so that we can
sneak up from behind and kill any attackers. No, the next assault we'll have to fight face to
face; they'll be ready for a fight; of that, I'm sure. I'm not a coward, Philippe, but the men we
trained with are professionals— they know how to fight and how to defend themselves."

"Then we must find another way to protect these women. After all, we need them as
much as they need us. They look upon us now as heroes, and reluctant ones at that."
Philippe's eyes narrowed as he sat, deep in thought.

"You know; 1 have an idea — as silly as it might soimd. We could fool the Normans very
easily. We merely make a sign that says 'plague-keep away.' How does that sound?" Alan's
arm made an expansive sweep, creating an imaginary sign.

"Brilliant! That could just work; but in Norman and Breton, not Saxon. That way no one
will ignore it, and the fear of plague will save us for sure. But what if it is ignored?"

"We'll deal with that situation as it arises. First of all, we need to make the sign, and
quick, too. IDIOT! None of them can read!" Alan laughed loudly. "1 was joking, Philippe."

"Yes, 1 knew you were," Philippe threw Alan a wry grin and then yawned, deeply. It was
the first of many over the next few minutes. He rested his head on a warm straw-filled
pillow, and drifted off to sleep with Alan still talking to him.

Noticing that his brother was now in another world, he muttered to himself the Lord's
Prayer and covered his brother with a woolen blanket. "Oh well, 1 may as well get my head
down too. It's been a long, hard day," Alan muttered to himself before he, too, drifted off to
sleep.

Some time later, the door opened. Three women entered to find the brothers snoring
loudly. Acha, Ricula, and Ebba approached and studied the sleeping duo.

"They're sound asleep; bless their hearts," Ebba said smiling lovingly down at Philippe.

"Why, Ebba. 1 do believe you've taken a fancy to one of them," Ricula said with a smile.

"Well, when 1 saw the tall one, Philippe, my tummy went all butterflies. Isn't he a
handsome man? His brother is not bad looking, either. Tell me, Ricula, does Philippe have a
woman?" Ebba asked shyly.

"Why Ebba, 1 do believe you're blushing. Philippe really has had an effect upon you, and
that's no mistake. The poor man's wife is dead. Now, 1 think we should allow them to sleep a
while longer. After all, they've had a hectic day. 1 know we'll be safe with them here. Come;
foUow me; we shall prepare a meal for when they awaken," Ricula said, smiling. The three
women left the cottage as quietly as they had entered, leaving Alan and Philippe to their
dreams.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

IT NEVER RAINS BUT IT POURS

Swein stood beside Gyrth, looking down at the grave of the late King Edward. The white
tombstone, with only the words "Edwardi Regum Anglorum" engraved upon it, gave the
stone a somewhat naked appearance. The brothers looked on, as the monks, having finished
their chants, filed out of the abbey leaving them quite alone.

Swein mused for a moment, wondering if the soul of Edward was in purgatory or in
paradise. "He didn't get much accomplished in his reign. All that's left for those many years
are just the carved words, Edward, King of England, on a plain stone. 1 think it's rather sad
when you consider how long he sat upon the throne." He gazed reflectively at Gyrth,
searching for the right words with which to open the debate he so needed to help him clear
his mind of the clutter of the past few days.

"I can't help wondering what Edward would have thought about all this shit, Gyrth. That
bastard knew what he was doing. He planned for all this to happen. He knew we would
have to fight to keep England under English rule. I'm sure he did it to punish us. He was
spiteful to the very end. That's what comes of being half bloody Norman!"

Gyrth managed to shake off the bitterness that appeared to be a constant companion with
his brother. He'd long ago recognized that they were opposite in temperament. He felt
Swein' s sadness, yet even though he was as hard as iron, he saw that nothing ever jarred
Swein, except, perhaps a woman. 'Tt's time to consolidate our thoughts, not to sit on our
lairrels," he thumped a wooden beam, only to see it shudder, putting to fright the roosting
birds above. "We need to discuss what happens from here onwards."

Swein wasn't listening; he was looking up at the oaken beams. He noticed the carving of
the green man, the symbol of fertility, of leaf motifs, the symbols that ensured a good
harvest, and eternal hope. "Have you ever seen the great stone churches in France, Gyrth?
They're magnificent and a credit to the masons who built them. They're much larger than we
have here in England." Swein glanced at Gyrth and realized that his brother would rather
talk of other things. "I'm sorry, Gyrth, my thoughts were elsewhere. Did you say
something?"

"Well, as you've finally noticed that I'm here, could we discuss what happens now?"
asked Gyrth shaking his head slowly, a forlorn look settling upon his face. "The long march
down to London has taken its toll on the men who've fought with us at Stamford Bridge.
Many are ill and have dropped out to find their way back to their homes. Of those still with
us, many are just plain tired, and to be frank, Swein, so am I."

Swein caught Gyrth's mood and moved to accommodate his viewpoint, "You can't blame
the men for going to see their families. They had two hard-fought battles and a long march
from York. Of course they're tired. What else did Harold expect? Three thousand men just
walked away; now all we have left are the surviving housecarls and a few select fyrd. It's
depressing, Gyrth, bloody depressing," sighed Swein. He looked up to see a flock of
sparrows high up in the roof searching for a way out. We're like those birds, he thought.

Gyrth halted and stood watching as his brother ambled about the abbey aimlessly, deep
in thought. Sometimes, my brother, it's best to keep one's thoughts to one's self.

Swein strolled down the knave, through the chancel, and knelt beneath the high altar. He
mumbled a prayer and crossed himself. He stood up, and turned to look at his brother.
Gyrth strode towards him. As he neared him, he noticed a tear well up in Swein' s eyes; he
placed a hand on his arm and smiled. "Whatever your problem is, Swein, I'm sure that given
time, everything will be alright."

Swein smiled almost apologetically; he looked embarrassed. "That was for Tostig. Despite
his cowardice and being on the wrong side, he was never my enemy, in spite of his all too
often senseless tirades. All he ever wanted was his earldom back and to spend time with
Edward. 1 never had a problem with his sexuality . . . though I'd rather he'd been like us, in
that respect." Swein's expression suddenly changed for a moment as he grinned. "Ha! His
homosexuality meant more women for me!" Swein's untimely and fiendish humor fell on
stony ground, as he noticed Gyrth staring at him with a vacant expression.

Gyrth carefully changed the subject, steering the topic round to that of Harold. He didn't
want to be reminded of Tostig's contumacious character. "Where's Harold? He is accessible;
1 hope. The strain is telling on him, in case you hadn't noticed, Swein," Gyrth said, looking as
depressed as his brother.

"He was in his private quarters, with Stigand. They had things they needed to discuss.
Harold wants a memorial to his fallen warriors sung in the abbey. 1 feel that we ought to be
with him for a little while. He's had two days of solitude, and wouldn't speak to anyone,
even to our sister. As for that Swanneck woman, she's keeping out of his way, at least for
now. We'd better go and see Harold. It's about time we dug him out of his depression."

As they left the abbey to walk across to the king's palace, it began to rain heavily. The
cobbled street had heavy rivulets streaming haphazardly near the entrance to the palace.
Gyrth took off his footwear and walked through the water, beckoning to his brother to
foUow. "I'm no duck either, " said Gyrth, " but we have work to do."

Without knocking, they entered the king's private quarters to see Harold stalking around
the room like a caged animal in pain, striding from wall to wall, and it irritated Gyrth to the
point of distraction. Gyrth approached Harold and stood in his path, stopping him in his
tracks.

"Well, what is it, Gyrth? Say what you need, and then leave me in peace," Harold said,
clearly irritated by Gyrth's intervention into his thought processes.

"Are you going to be this way for the rest of your life, Harold? Tostig is dead. He died a
glorious death," Gyrth lied, and reminded himself of Tostig's cowardly attempt at escape
from the battlefield at Riccall, and how he'd hidden the truth from Harold. "You should be
proud that he stuck to a principle and saw it through, even if it was the wrong decision; he
paid the ultimate price for his error. He died as a warrior should die — honorably. It's how
our father would have wished. What is done is done, and that's all there is to it!"

Harold nodded, then placed his hand upon Gyrth's shoulder and stared directly into his
eyes. 1 appreciate your bluntness, forthrightness, and sincerity, Gyrth. You're right, of
course; you usually are." He smiled as he turned to look at Swein and saw the sadness in
him, too. "I've organized a memorial in the abbey for our fallen men. They, too, died
honorably, and it's the least 1 can do for them. I've seen, too, that the families of our fallen
comrades will be looked after by way of a pension. For now we must take a good look at our

situation. Be seated; I need your opinion and council." Harold glanced at the door as he
heard the heavy footsteps of someone approaching quickly down the corridor.

Without knocking, Leofwine entered the room, completely out of breath.

Swein turned to look at him, his eyes narrowed; he jerked his head toward Harold in
warning, indicating that the king was in no mood for more bad news.

Leofwine, not noticing Swein's intention, blundered onward, "Harold, you need to know
that Duke William is at Hastings! What's more, there's an envoy arrived from the duke, and
he's waiting outside."

Harold glared at the floor as he kicked a rolled parchment across the room. "1 guessed as
much. You'd better show him to the audience chamber, and we can hear what he has to say."

Leofwine made his exit, allowing Swein, who glared at him, to close the door gently
behind him. In the corridor, Leofwine motioned the monk to follow him to the king's
audience chamber. "Where are you from, monk?" he asked, as he looked him up and down.
Leofwine noticed that the monk was well rounded, and of average height. Leofwine couldn't
help noticing that the well-rounded monk had a bright red face that sported purple veins
running down his cheeks in lighting strokes, like a ripe apple, giving him a comic aura.

"For what it's worth to you, I'm Hugh Margot, from Fecamp. You should be careful with
your tongue, too, young man; in my king's court, I'm a man of some standing!"

Leofwine wanted to hit him, but thought better of it. He thought that the monk's attitude
was arrogant to the core. Ms diplomatic skills are akin to a man holding his neighbor's halls at a
wedding, he thought, and gazed at the monk with the disdain he normally reserved for fleas.

Harold took another route to the audience chamber, where he seated himself in his royal
chair. He watched the man closely as the monk strode purposefully through the door, and
headed straight toward him.

"Am 1 to imderstand that you're Harold Godwinson?" Hugh asked in a demanding tone.
Hugh stood with his arms folded, feet apart, and chest protruding, looking the king directly
in the eyes.

Harold sat silently waiting whilst taking the measure of the man before him. "And you
are . . .?" Harold asked leaning forward." This monk's tone would aggravate the patience of a
sflznf, bethought.

"I am Hugh Margot, my king's ambassador. My lord. King William of England, demands
that you give me the crown, which 1 am to take back to him. I'm to tell you that you and your
kindred will be given safe passage to Scotland; that is, you're banished forthwith from ever
returning to my lord's kingdom." Hugh's nose twitched, and his lips pursed.

"Is that so?" Harold replied, softly. His eyes narrowed as he glared at the fat oaf.

"Yes, it is so. You shall give the crown to me now, and 1 will be on my way," Margot
insisted.

Margot's posture and attitude were so obnoxious that it crawled deeply under Harold's
skin, and Harold disliked the monk intensely. "Obviously the duke is too cowardly to come
and get it himself. So he sends a toad such as you to do the work of a man. 1 take it you are a
real toad?" Harold said sarcastically, glancing at his brothers, as they all stood grinning.

"It is you who are the usurping toad, Godwinson. Come on," he said, holding out his
hand. "Hand over the crown, and I'll be gone. My king gives you two days to remove
yourselves from his kingdom, by which time he expects to be here, in London, to take his

rightful place in this palace. Your archbishop shall go, too. He is persona none gratis and will
be replaced by one of my king's own. Your lands and gold now belong to my king; when
you leave, you're to take nothing with you, and you will be escorted to the Scottish border. Is
that dear?"

Harold's face began to boil with rage, his eyes almost popping out of their sockets. He
rose to his feet and withdrew his sword. "I'm going to kill this bastard for his gall. How dare
you have such a lack of respect for my person, office, and the crown of England!"

Gyrth stepped in just as Harold was about to deliver the blow, grabbing Harold's arm and
struggling to contain him. "Harold! This man is an envoy, a man of God! He should be
treated with respect for his office, not his message." Gyrth nodded at a guard to take hold of
the monk and eject him.

"GET THIS OAF OUT OF MY SIGHT NOW, OR BY THE BEARD OF SATAN 1 WILL
BURN HIM ALIVE!" Harold was shaking in anger, his rage overcoming his normal
sensibilities. "Don't you ever stop me again, Gyrth, or 1 will kill you, too!"

Margot was in a state of near collapse, and sweating profusely as the guard forcibly
marched the monk to the doorway, when Swein took over the guard's charge and placed his
boot firmly on the Margot's backside, sending the monk sprawling out the door to land upon
his face, in the wet courtyard.

Harold sat down, still fuming. "1 don't want this idiot rimning loose in my kingdom!" At
that moment, Harold heard some commotion and looked up to see what was happening
outside. Swein and Leofwine were engaged in some argument with another monk asking for
entry to the king. The newcomer was profusely apologizing for the conduct of his colleague,
and begged to be granted an audience. Harold was curious; he then took a quill-pen and
began to write furiously on parchment. He stood up, rolled the letter, then approached Gyrth
and the monk.

"1 have written my reply to your master, and the letter reads thus ..." Harold held out the
message and read its contents aloud.

"You have come into this land with, I know not what, temerity. I recall that
King Edward, at first, appointed you as heir to the Kingdom of England. I well
remember that I was sent by the king to Normandy to give you assurance of the
succession. But that king, who was my lord, acting fully within his rights,
bestowed on me the kingdom on his deathbed. Moreover, ever since the time when
the blessed Augustine came to these shores, it has been the unbroken custom of the
English to treat deathbed bequests as inviolable. It is, therefore, with justice, that I
bid you return with your followers, to your own country. Otherwise, I will have to
break the friendship and the pacts I made with you in Normandy. I leave the choice
to you.

Harold Rex."
Harold rolled up the parchment and requested a page to set the royal seal upon it with
hot wax. While the king waited for the seal, he glared at Margot, seething hatred. When the
letter was sealed, Harold took it from the page, and gave the message to the monk with
instructions.

"Take this to your master. It is my full and inviolable answer." Harold gestured towards
Hugh Margot. "Get that wretched maggot out of my kingdom before 1 cut him into a
thousand pieces!" Harold seethed through his teeth, his saliva falling on the monk's habit.

The monk, accepting the roll from Harold's hands, bowed and left. The two monks
mounted their steeds to begin the journey back to Hastings. When the monks were some
way down the road and out of sight, the first monk heard Margot laughing.

The monk pursed his lips in a silent whistle while looking across at his companion, and
with a sickly smile, he handed the communique to Hugh Margot. "1 think YOU should be
the one to deliver this particular message to the duke. You're his ambassador — remember?"

Harold sat pondering, then turned to his brothers. "We need to take all the men we have to
Hastings. 1 feel that my leaving Morcar and Edwin in York might have been a mistake. They
should know the consequences of deceit by now. Wulfnoth, send a messenger to Morcar. Tell
him to bring his men down to Hastings immediately," Harold ordered with a tone of
irritation in his voice.

Wulfnoth stepped forward to take the king's seal as Harold wrote upon the parchment.

"The message will be sent within the hour, Harold," said Wulfnoth, as he left the room.
With arms waving, Wulfnoth called for messengers to come and stand ready to ride north.

Harold turned to Leofwine and grasped his arm. "So, what other knowledge do you
possess, Leofwine; hmm?" enquired Harold.

"Well, oirr information is that the duke landed at Hastings a week ago. He set up a base,
and hasn't moved inland since he arrived, but of course, this may have changed since we
received that news."

"William is wondering where we are, no doubt," replied Harold with a wry smile.

Gyrth stood up, walked toward the door, and looked out across the Thames River.
"We've an ideal opportunity to have him, then. If he's still at Hastings, and he hasn't moved
inland, then it can mean only one thing . . . he's not a clue what to do next."

"This news has to be a couple of days old. We should assume nothing for the moment.
What should our next move be in your estimation, Gyrth?"

"Draw him inland, of course; cut off his supply line, and surround him. If we're able to
gather absolutely every fyrdsman together, then we'll outnumber him at least three to one.
We know the lay of the land and control all approaches; he doesn't. The duke is on foreign
soil, and we're on home ground, so we've the advantage, Harold."

Harold rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Your point is well put, Gyrth. Drawing him inland
might be dangerous though. He can spread his forces and split our numbers into
manageable sizes. We don't have the officers we once had; we lost too many housecarls and
oirr best sergeants at Stamford Bridge." Harold held up his hand. "No! If they're still in the
Hastings area, we've a chance of cornering them, and their only escape would be the sea. 1
feel that a pitched battle is the correct course of action — a once-and-for-all fight to the death.
The advantages would be many. He would be outclassed and defeated. We would then have
his horses, his ships, his armor, and perhaps, a ransom for each highborn captive. Maybe a
new territory would be oirrs, too . . . Normandy, even."

Swein took the floor with his usual swagger. "There's another way, Harold. We have
Oswulf. He has a fine fleet ready to sail, plus the ships we took from Sigurdsson. He could
cut off any supply line that the bastard has arranged."

Harold chuckled aloud. "Wet your finger, Swein. Then put your finger outside the door,"
Harold advised, and watched as Swein obligingly did so.

"We can't sail south against the wind, Swein."

Swein gave a sheepish look, and nodded. "1 see your point, Harold," replied Swein. He
obligingly sat down, deciding to listen rather than participate any further.

"The longer we wait, the more time William has for gathering reinforcements. He has to
get his supply line firmly established; he needs to feed his forces, and they'll have to ravish
the area to get what they need. It's a matter of logistics, Gyrth, pirre and simple. My only
worry is that he might have begun to march on London or Winchester. In that case, we'd
have to make sure that if he came here, that we'd corner him. That is, allow him to enter the
city, and not let him out. Queen Edith has enough forces at Winchester and more than
enough money to pay for extra mercenaries that she could hire from Wales and Ireland. She
could withstand a prolonged siege until we can do something about that menace."

Wulfnoth reentered the room with a superior look about him. "I've dispatched the
messengers, Harold, and set up a line with reliable riders every twelve miles to see what's
afoot at Hastings. We should have hourly reports of the situation."

Harold nodded, smiling at his youngest brother. "You're not just a pretty face then,
Wulfnoth. 1 can see I'm going to have to look after my throne." Harold laughed loudly,
patted him on the shoulder, and looked about the room. "We're agreed that we march
toward Hastings in the morning," Harold said with another beaming smile, relishing the
thought of kicking the backside of WiUiam and allowing him just seven feet of English soil.

"It rather looks that way," Gyrth replied.
"There's no other alternative," Swein said, shrugging his shoulders in resignation.

"I'll go muster the men, and prepare them for the march in the morning," called Leofwine
as he left the room.

The morning was warm, the mist rising slowly from the morning dew. The smell of
cooking, and the smoke rising in the still air made it a pleasant one for aU who geared up for
the march south to Hastings. The old Roman roads were smooth from the traffic that used
them, with a thick moss that made the walking easy imderfoot.

Gyrth sat uncomfortably in his saddle. He'd a boil on his backside that made him feel
very sore. He leaned over and looked at Harold. "What's the first pickup point, Harold?" He
noticed the smile on Harold's face as his king looked up at him. He has it all worked out,
thought Gyrth, and he sensed the aura of self-satisfaction in Harold, and felt it a far cry from
the last few days when the stress of the previous obstacles was beginning to tell on him.

"Waltham Abbey, replied Harold, "We should have four hundred waiting for us, by the
time we get there. The men know what's expected of them. These men are my own
housecarls. They're the best there are," Harold continued, confidently, seeing that Gyrth was
impressed.

"I'm informed that there are four thousand fyrd at Tunbridge Wells. Is that correct?"

"Yes, they have been on standby since June, but they had to bring in the harvest. As you
know, I disbanded the fyrd and the navy for that reason. In any case, they would have used
up their forty-two days' service, and might have been reluctant to leave their farms to fight.
As it stands, they've mustered as they were asked."

"You know, the men we've brought with us... they've been bloodied and hardened at
Stamford Bridge. If they fight the bastard's forces as they did against Sigurdsson, we should
be mighty pleased we have them with us." Harold smiled and whistled a tune, this time
accompanied by a wooden flute played by a man walking just behind Harold's steed.

A day's walking distance from Harold, three housecarls made their way from their
homestead in Doddington toward the designated assembly point. Each had a pony that
carried his equipment. They were hoping to meet up with their fellow housecarls before they
arrived at Tunbridge Wells, but they were late because one of the horses threw a shoe.

"Hey, Boisil, we should be on the route to Netherfield. This is the road over the Downs to
Penthurst," called Heribert to his companion.

"1 agree. Look, the sim is in the west, so we must move in a southerly direction. Am 1 not
correct, Thridred?" Boisil took out a map, laid the parchment on the ground, and took out his
loadstone and thread. The small, iron-laden rock always fascinated him; often he wondered
how its trusted magic worked. "Hmm . . . we need to go in that direction, a little more east
from this point. We should join the Roman road, then it's due south until we reach
Timbridge," replied Thridred, confidently.

"I'm not sure, but if you two think that the correct route is in that direction, then 1 guess
I've no choice but to go along with it. How is your horse, Heribert?" asked Boisil noting a
concerned look in Heribert' s demeanor.

"The horse is doing well, all things considered. As long as we walk and keep his load
light, then he'll be fine, I'm sirre. Though 1 feel if we rest up here, we can finish our journey
in the morning. Harold will be resting our boys for a short while, so we should be on time
not to miss the arse kicking." All three laughed at the remark as they unloaded their ponies
and set up camp.

Boisil started a fire to cook a couple of rabbits they'd caught earlier. He noticed that the
water carriers were all but empty. "We need something to boil these rabbits in, and some
wine or fresh water to drink, so if you two boys would nip off and find some beverage from
a local village, I'll see to skinning the rabbits." Boisil was renowned for his exceptional
culinary skills. He always made good use of any meat, though he preferred venison.

Heribert and Thridred left Boisil to his skinning and strolled off looking for a village,
mindful of any Normans that may have billeted themselves on some unsuspecting ladies.

Each took along with him a scramseax and a two-handed battle-axe. They soon found a
path and decided to follow it, thinking that it might lead them to a nearby village or hamlet.
It was overgrown, yet had been used recently by people, and not deer or wild boar. There
were hawthorn bushes on either side backed up with holly trees. They noticed that some oak
trees had been felled earlier in the year and felt confident that a village was nearby. It was
still warm and the humidity was quite high; it brought out the late summer midges to plague
them as they walked down the incline.

Heribert stooped low to look at the ground. "1 can see that there' ve been heavy horses
down here, Thridred, newly shod, too. Someone's walked here alongside them; these tracks
aren't more than two days old, I'd say."

"War horses, perhaps? Then we should be cautious. If there are Normans here, we'd
better be ready for some head-rolling," Thridred replied, as he took out a sharpening stone
and began putting a fine edge upon his axe. 'Tt's about time this lady had some blood on her
edge," he said, grinning.

Over a ridge they saw smoke rising low over the valley, more like a rolling fog than wood
smoke. The smell of burning wood and food was unmistakable. They made their way
toward the edge of the village, which, apart from the path leading to it, appeared well
hidden. They readied themselves for a fight, wary that a platoon of Normans might have
been billeted there. As they drew nearer to the village, they saw two bodies hanging by their
legs from the trees.

Thridred stopped dead in his tracks; his arm flew out stopping Heribert, too.

"Shit! The bloody Normans are here," Heribert seethed between his teeth, as he pulled on
his brother's arm. He withdrew his sharp scramseax as they merged into the bushes.

Thridred held his finger to his lips. "1 think that we ought to just wait and see what
happens."

Heribert indicated with sign language that they withdraw to discuss the situation, and
they made their way deeper into the thicket.

"They're Normans hanging in the trees, Heribert, not English. Did you notice the hair? It
was shaved right up the back of the neck. They're Normans, right enough, or I'm a slave to a
donkey," Thridred said confidently, as he pulled down and peered through a gorse bush.

"Are you sure? To be honest, 1 didn't take a great deal of notice; 1 just saw dead men
swinging on the branches," Heribert said, shrugging his shoulders.

"1 think we would be safe to enter the village, but 1 feel we ought to keep our wits about
us, just in case. It may be punishment for some crime by the Normans own men, perhaps.
We can't take a chance. We ought to find a spot where we can observe the village for a while
without being detected. Come on; lets move in a little closer to . . . Arrh!" something caught
Thridred's leg.

The trip was set off. The sprung branch took both men upside down into the air, their
heads now four feet off the ground. A long piece of cord led to one of the cottages, where it
tugged on an iron pot that fell off a log, which hit an old bronze church bell set up to give an
alarm.

Down in the village, Alan heard the alarm. He glanced over to see the iron pot on the
ground, and saw that the signal rope was taut. "What the . . .?" He ceased splitting his log
and looked again to where they'd set their trap. "It looks like we have visitors, Philippe!"
He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. He reached for his sharpened blade, and picked
up a smaller axe from the log pile, and slid the shaft into his belt.

"It might be a deer. All the same, we ought to approach with extreme caution. Should we
get the girls to go and take a look? We can follow them in case of any trouble? If it's the
Normans, we can catch them off guard from the rear and deal with them. Agreed?" Philippe
asked, looking for approval.

"That's a sound idea, little brother. 1 hope the women don't mind, but 1 guess that, if 1
explain what we'll be doing they'll be accepting of it." They didn't have to look far, for the
women of the village had heard the alarm, too, and had gathered behind the dwelling where
Alan and Philippe were housed.

Acha spoke quietly, almost in a whisper to him. "Oh, my God! Alan! Have more Normans
come here, already?"

Alan could see that Acha looked very uneasy at the prospect of more rapacious Normans
finding them.

She gripped his arm tightly. "What are we going to do?"

"We're not sirre. All we know is that the alarm sounded. It could be anything from an
animal to a Norman, or even a branch falling from a tree. I'm going to ask you to do
something for me, though, and you might not like the idea, but we need to be sure what is
out there; if there's any danger, we'll see to it," replied Alan, reassuringly.

"You only have to ask; you know that; what do you need us to do?" she said earnestly.

"Philippe and 1 will go around to the rear of the trap and approach from behind. You and
some of the other women will come from the opposite direction. If they're Normans, and
they've managed to avoid the trap or are trying to free one of their number, then you keep
them occupied, and we'll dispatch them. There'U not be more than four; that's how we were
grouped, initially. Could you and the others girls do that?"

"Let me go and speak to some of the others . . . I'll not be long." Acha ran off as quickly as
she could to discuss the plan with the other women.

Philippe saw that Alan was concerned, and with a smile he patted him on the shoulder.
"Is your blade sharp, Alan?"

"It's always sharp, you know that. 1 just don't like killing in cold blood. 1 don't have the
temperament for it, unless I've no option. But 1 guess that there's no alternative under these
circumstances."

Philippe looked over the hazel fence at the position of the trap, when he noticed Acha
returning with the answer from the women. "Well?" he asked.

"The women will do exactly as you wish. They're not afraid," she replied.

Alan and Philippe made a circiutous route to the rear of the trap. They watched as the
women cautiously approached from the front, each carrying a sharpened blade. The men
sensed that the women wanted blood, Norman blood. The brothers looked on as the women
came ever closer; cautiously, they made their approach, their nerves stretched to fever pitch.

In the trap, Heribert was trying desperately to get a hand to his scramseax. He could just
touch it with his fingers, but that was about all he could do. "Now what do we do? My
scram is on the ground, and so, too, is my axe. Bugger!

"Let's try bouncing. The branch should give enough to allow you to reach your blade. Are
you ready?" He saw Heribert nod. "One, two, three go...!"

"Not so fast, Norman arseholes!" Acha called. The women strode forward, showing
themselves, surrounding their captives. "Come for a little sport, have you?" Acha smashed
her fist into the side of Thridred's head with such a blow that he almost passed out.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, woman!" Heribert cried, with a sound of
disbelief in his voice. "We are Saxons, you stupid cow!"

"I think," Alan said with a smile, as he walked toward the women, "that you hit the other
one, perhaps, a little too soon!"

"Who the hell are you?" Heribert asked, on hearing what he took for a Norman accent.

"I'll tell you that as soon as we get you out of this mess." Alan replied with a broad grin.

"If 1 cut you down, you must promise not to start fighting. Is that understood?"

"I'm not promising anything, you Norman bastard!"

"Then you shall stay as you are. Come, ladies; we have a meal ready; don't we?"

"Indeed, we do, Alan. These ungrateful swine can stay where they are a little longer, until
they learn some manners. Oh yes— in case you're interested, Alan and Philippe are not
Norman; these two men are French. What is more, they are really nice. 1 think that you will
owe them an apology for your horrid remark." The women began to move off toward their
homes, the relief clearly evident by their chattering and laughter.

"Wait! Don't leave us. Look, we're here to meet King Harold, and we just got caught up in
this trap. I'm sorry; 1 just felt so angry that we allowed ourselves to be caught this way.
There'll be no fighting; we promise. Please, do let us down. My head is beginning to ache."

"You have a scramseax. This means you're a housecarl, yes?" asked Acha.

"Yes, we're housecarls. Once made, we keep our word," Heribert said, apologetically.

Alan nodded to the women, and they began to pull down on the branch, allowing
Philippe to release the two men. Alan tied off the branch and the men rolled to the ground.

Philippe saw that Thridred stood tall and looked powerful, and he wondered if they were
trained fighters. He leaned over to Alan who told him that the men were housecarls. He saw
Thridred holding his head and he knew that the man was trying to give the impression that
he was brushing his hair backward, when the reality was that his head was thumping, and
didn't want anyone to think that he'd been affected by Acha's punch. Philippe understood
that much.

Heribert shook himself to allow his tunic to fall and hang normally. "My scramseax and
axe, if you don't mind?" he asked, trying not to sound too demanding. Heribert looked
about, surveying the fifteen or so women gathered about them. He then looked directly into
Alan's eyes. He could work out most situations, but this was beyond his ken.

"He's wondering what's going on here, Alan," said Philippe as he watched Alan stepping
forward, holding out his hand, but the two men did nothing but stare back at him.

"You made a promise that you wouldn't fight with us. Will you keep your word?" asked
Alan

Acha moved closer, and stood beside Alan. "They will, Alan. They're housecarls, and as
much as that, they're Saxon. 1 feel you'll have more in common with them than with the
Normans."

Once more Alan offered his hand to Heribert. Heribert took his hand in his and
sheepishly nodded his head in thanks.

"I'm Heribert, and this is my brother, Thridred. There is one other of our company, a few
hundred paces from here; he is cooking a meal. We came looking for some water, wine, or
ale to take with our fare. I'll have to say; we did not expect the welcome we've endured!"

Ricula stepped over to the tall Heribert. She looked him up and down and reached out to
feel his strong arms. "My husband is like you. He, too, has gone to fight with Harold. Now,
you shall tell us why you're not with the king, and what brought you here."

Acha decided it was time for her to take control. She placed her hand on Ricula's shoulder
and turned toward the other women. "We should reset the trap, and then return to our
meetinghouse. To understand our situation, these men need to know our story."

Philippe handed the two housecarls their weapons, and half-stared at brothers wondering
if they could be trusted. He motioned to the group to move on, while he stayed back a little
in case these men should turn on him. He followed on, as women started down the hill
toward the dwellings, while Ricula, Ebba, and Acha held back and accompanied the four
men.

"You've become queen here, Acha," Alan remarked. "You have skill with motivating the
other women, which 1 find is an admirable trait."

"You've brought the tough interior out of me, something no man has been able to do. 1
always kept my innermost feelings to myself. You've shown me how to take control, Alan. 1
can now cope with situations that, not long ago, 1 couldn't have managed at all. You've
taught me to think and make decisions. I'm grateful to you for teaching me these things."

"We come from different backgrounds, Acha. Oirr lives back home are very different from
the peaceful lives you lead here. We're constantly on guard from the Normans and their tax
collectors and enforcement officers. These last months, Philippe and 1 have learned to live on
oirr wits, and to survive under harsh conditions. One day, 1 will tell you about my life back
in France and of the home we once had. 1 know my family is wondering about us, and must
surely be in despair, for they've not heard from us in a long time."

Thridred was listening to the conversation between Acha and Alan.

"Am 1 to infer that your brother is a dumb-mute, Alan?" enquired Thridred.

"Indeed, he's not. He has no grasp of the Saxon tongue, but he will, soon enough. We're
going to teach Philippe to speak English." Alan saw that Philippe was walking slightly
ahead, arm-in-arm with Ebba. They were giggling like teenagers. "Look at those two, Acha.
For the world, Ebba has fallen in love with him. Has she bewitched him with her womanly
touch?" he asked.

"Perhaps," she replied, smiling.

They soon reached the large house used for moots. Acha described to Alan the custom of
special meetings. "The name for a general meeting of the elders is called a moot," she began,
"Once a month," she continued, "a moot is held to discuss matters arising in the village."

As they aU entered the moot house, Acha clapped her hands to bring the meeting to order
and then began speaking.

"Before anyone speaks, and to allay any confusion, 1 feel that 1 should, for the benefit of
Heribert and Thridred, tell the story of how Alan, and his brother, Philippe, came to us."

Everyone gathered round, some sitting, others standing, as Acha related the story of the
two Frenchmen who sat with them. Everyone listened in silence of the brave deeds by Alan
and Philippe Domfront. Ebba passed around bowls of fermented grape juice that had the
consistency of syrup, but tasted very good and was welcomed by them all.

It's not what you'd call wine, hut it sure is good, though. Alan thought.

"So you want to join the English fyrd, young man," said Heribert turning to Alan, slurring
his words and almost falling off his stool onto Alan's lap. "It's not an easy life being a
fyrdsman. You'll have to fight, and get killed, you know. Oh yes, they get killed every time
they go outside, normally by their wives, he, he, he."

222

Everyone laughed out loud, including Philippe, as Ebba continued to translate to him.

Philippe whispered into Ebba's ear, requesting her to ask Heribert a burning question.

"Ebba, ask Heribert what he thinks of Harold. 1 really want to know what the housecarls
and the ordinary people think of him."

Ebba interrupted Heribert's next sentence with Philippe's question.

Through Alan, Philippe listened as Heribert told him of his king being a fine upstanding
leader, and a brave one, too. He also told of how he'd fought with the king when he was Earl
Harold, how Harold was always fair to his men, and how they always got paid on time. He
related how Harold once had to rob a church to pay his housecarls, and of how Harold paid
the church back, plus interest.

Heribert nodded drunkenly around the room with self-important knowledge.

"He likes the ladies, by all accounts," interrupted Thridred with a wide grin and a twinkle
in his eye.

"Aye, he does, at that, but he always does right by them. I've never had a girl come
knocking at my door with a child in her arms, asking where he might be found," Heribert
replied, as once more riotous laughter filled the room.

Philippe laughed along, too. He felt quite at home amongst his newfound friends. "1 will
learn to speak your tongue, Ebba," he whispered, noticing her nodding appreciation of his
intention, as he continued to listen to Heribert's words via this sweet young waif, of the
beloved Harold, that fascinated him so much.

"As a fighter," continued Heribert, "he's fearless in battle. 1 stood by his side in Wales
many years ago, when an opponent wielding a sword slashed him across the face. He never
once batted an eyelid. He just took the sword off the man, and cut his head off for his
trouble. He was much younger then and perhaps a little arrogant, but you always knew
where you stood with him."

Thridred interrupted his brother with a remark that made them all cheer loudly. "Harold
would never ask a man to do anything he was not capable of doing himself. He has good
judgment, too. He always weighs up a situation first before he acts. He'll ask for your
opinion, if he feels it might be of good use; indeed, he's a good and honest man."

The door opened, and there in the doorway stood Hilda with Boisil by her side. He was
looking a little embarrassed and carrying a cast iron pot, full of rabbit stew.

"Look what 1 found in the woods," said Hilda, smiling. "I've got myself a fine-looking
young man, and what's more, he's brought us dinner!"

"Boisil! My comrade in arms, my God, I'm sorry. We forgot all about you," said Heribert
rather sheepishly, as he staggered toward him, with his arms outstretched.

Boisil settled down amongst his companions, laughed at the story of his comrades'
downfall and drank his fill — the only one still mindful of the next day, when they should
meet with Harold's housecarls.

The morning brought a warm breeze to the sleepy hamlet. The men stirred lazily from
their night's sleep.

Alan thought that he might' ve managed another ale before being hoisted to the sleeping
cot by Philippe. A dog barked at something, but lay back down to snooze, feeling a little of
the men's ennui.

The ladies stood around outside, laughing, chattering, and occasionally giggling as they
prepared the men breakfast. The aroma of cooking sausage, cabbage, parsnips, and peas,
prepared for the men's delight, wafted about the village.

Ebba had taken advantage of everyone else's preoccupation and had enjoyed a wondrous
night of lovemaking with Philippe. Yet she feared this might be the last day she would ever
see him. She kissed his still-sleeping head and whispered a little love poem in his ear. He
awoke to her lips softly molded to his. They continued to kiss, but time was pressing to
dress, eat, and then be gone. She pressed in his hand a flower, tied with a lock of her golden
hair.

"Go eat, my sweet Philippe. Do what you must, and then return to me. Do you promise
me this?" She gazed longingly into his eyes, her loins still moist with longing for more, from
a night of physical and cerebral love.

"Ebba. If 1 die in battle against evil men, you will know that 1 died doing what is right. If 1
am able to return, 1 will wed you in God's house. I'll give you children who will know of the
deeds of good men and of the sacrifice many made to overcome evil."

Ebba then fell into uncontrollable sobs, and the tears ran in rivulets down her cheeks.

Philippe hardly knew how to console her. Only once had he been forced to cope with a
woman in such grief. When Thora had died that fateful morning, Maria had been all but
suicidal, and it'd taken all their family's efforts to comfort her. Thora, will she understand? She
is my companion in heaven, and Ebba my companion on earth. He held Ebba closely and kissed
the top of her head, stroking her hair whilst speaking softly to her. Once more he thought of
his beloved Thora. Am I allowed happiness, here, on earth, Thora? Will you forgive my sin with
Ebba, my darling?

Slowly, Ebba recovered her composure and gazed into Philippe's moistening eyes. She
picked stray bits of straw from his clothing, dreading the final words of goodbye. "1 can't
bear to see you leave, my darling. Just go, and come back safe to me." Ebba turned to face the
wall; this was the moment that she had dreaded. "Go, please, go," she pleaded through her
sobbing.

Philippe left the room and didn't look back; he couldn't. He felt guilt running through
every pore in his body. He felt that he'd betrayed Thora. Pulling the door gently dosed
behind him, he strode out to meet the others. He looked across to see Alan and the other men
making ready the fresh horses. They were real horses, not ponies as the Saxons customarily
used. The Normans did have a use after all, he thought, and bid the men good morning in
broken English.

"Ah, Philippe, 1 trust you slept well?" enquired Alan with a sly grin.

"He slept better than any of us; he slept with a beautiful woman, and one that loves him.
Now, that is a good, sleep," said Boisil, with a chuckle. "Oh, yes, we buried the three turds
this morning; not that you'd have noticed, Philippe." Boisil turned to see the women flocking
around them. They all were in tears as they bid the two men, whom they'd come to trust and
had taken to their hearts, farewell.

Ebba stayed indoors and listened to the chatter coming from outside. Her head fell into
her hands as the tears fell through her fingers and onto the dry, earthen floor.

Acha stepped forward. "1 speak for everyone here. We wish you well in the battle to
come. You have our respect as men, and for what you all are bravely about to face. We will
be here for you should any of you wish to return. You will be made most welcome. And for
one of you here, there is a woman waiting to be a good, faithful wife. Go, and return
victoriously, and above all, be safe." Acha turned and walked briskly away. She did not look
back, but entered her dwelling and shut the door behind her. She lay on the bed sobbing, for
she knew that the man she had fallen in love with had a wife in France, and a child, too; he
was forbidden fruit.

Heribert turned to Alan, looking at the man with a rare admiration. "Are you sure you
wish to accompany us to join Harold's forces, Alan? You could have a good life here, both of
you. The women here need a couple of good strong men to look after their interests."

"We've chosen the path of righteousness, Heribert. We now have a mission to accomplish.
We shall then see what the Lord brings us. We promise to return, or die in the attempt. If not,
we'll die knowing that we did our best to defy and defeat evil to the end. Philippe and 1 are
strong and fit. We can look after ourselves, too. We'll be proud to serve Harold ... if he'll
have us with him, that is."

"1 can see you're both good men. You've shown this to be so by your deeds, and your
treatment of our women. We would be proud to have you both join us in the shield wall. In
return, all we can promise you are tears, blood, sweat, and friendship," Heribert reached
over, clapping Alan heartily on the back. "Come along; we must be going."

The five men rode off into the hills to see what fate would serve them in the coming days.

At Waltham, Harold inspected his housecarls. A band of men so tough not even the devil could
make them flinch, he mused. He felt proud and confident as he thought of his father and all
that he'd achieved in his lifetime. We all miss you, Father; you'll he proud of us, live or die. He
crossed himself and looked about for Brithnoth.

Harold's forces had camped for the night whilst the messengers gave news of WiUiam"s
static position just above Hastings. The fearless Godwinson brothers sat in a drcle, the light
of the campfire illuminating their faces in ghostly fashion.

"This is the position, Brithnoth," Harold said confidently. "William"s forces have moved
some half a day's walk inland, looking for a spot that suits them; that is here." With a stick,
Harold drew a map in the dirt approximating the rivers Maltose and Astern Brook. "1 know
this region well, so if our scouts are correct, then we have an advantage." Harold molded
some mud pies into small hills to represent the lay of the land, as he knew it to be. "On this
ridge here, we'll assemble first thing in the morning. It's known locally as the 'hoary apples'
or 'crab trees' to some of you. The Normans won't see our approach because the valley,
where they're encamped, is just here. To the north is a basin that's marshland; that's about
two thousand paces from our destination; it's tree-lined, so their view of our approach will
be obscured." Harold looked aroimd, waiting for comments or questions.

"How far away are we from their position?" Brithnoth asked.

"Just two hours march. We dare not go any closer, or we'll give away our position and
strength; they'll know about us soon enough. We'll come through the trees to this position
here," said Harold, pointing on the dirt map to Caldbec Hill with his stick.

"What about the reinforcements, Harold? Shouldn't we wait for them?" asked Wulfnoth,

"After all, an extra day or two will help our forces' numbers to be complete.

"The reinforcements will be here about mid-afternoon. By that time, we can be sure of a
victory, or at the least a good sign that we are on our way to one. We should, by then, have
another three thousand men at hand," Harold said, shaking his head in the negative, and
gazing at Gyrth. Harold noticed that Gyrth looked uneasy at the prospect of fighting with a
depleted force.

"That is not going to happen, Harold, and you know it! We need another day to assemble
such a force. We must disentangle the rational from the irrational. We've won a great victory
over Harald Sigurdsson, so don't let it go to your head," replied Gyrth, his imploring eyes
burning his thoughts telepathically toward his brother.

"You're right, of course, Gyrth. We must look both strategically and tactically at the
situation. I'm only sorry that 1 disbanded the navy at Pevensey and sent them to Chatham.
This was a foolish error, since we have such a large coastline to cover. What is done is done,
so we have to make the best of a bad judgment. William is at Hastings and hasn't moved
very far inland. This means that our fleet at Chatham can come around and strike at the
Norman rear, so that their supply line can be broken, but only if the wind is in our favor. As
for Pevensey, well, they have a little over a thousand men garrisoned in the old Roman fort.
I've dispatched the local fyrd to keep the Normans that are there occupied. I've made sixteen
hundred men available for the job, and that will protect our flank. We have eight thousand
five hundred in the main force. That should be sufficient for a total victory; of that, I'm
confident."

"Well, it's a start, but what of tomorrow?" Leofwine Inquired.

Gyrth raised his hand and once more cut in with a suggestion. "Harold, Swein and myself
should take in the main force. You bring the backup forces if we should get into trouble. That
way, at least we have a good chance of depleting the bastard's forces to a point where the
losses will mean almost certain disaster for him."

Harold stared sternly at his brother. "You'll do as 1 say, Gyrth. We'll have enough
strength to take out William and whatever he has brought against us. In any case, I'll need
you and Swein to command the flanks. William has a cavalry force that your men are quite
able to confront. 1 need your expertise. I've been teaching my housecarls a new tactic to deal
with cavalry. With one swing, they'll take off the front leg of a horse, and on the return
swing, take out the rider as he falls. That way they conserve overall strength and can do
more damage quickly. Is everything I've said understood?" He looked about, and they all
nodded. "We gather at first light and take the route I've described. Now go and see that the
men are ready. Gentlemen, goodnight." Harold rose to his feet and briskly retired to his tent,
leaving his brothers and the other officers to talk amongst themselves.

He stood at the entrance to his tent for a moment, in the light of a torch. He looked up to
gaze at the heavens. Father, is this the end for the Godwinsons? Have I miscalculated and moved too
soonl "Tomorrow," he mumbled, "1 shall kick some Norman arses so hard, they'll wish

they'd never been born." He smiled confidently, safe in the knowledge that he had the
resources and the courage of good men about him.

Falling into a deep sleep, he dreamed of Edith Swanneck and the last night they'd spent
together. He visioned their rolling in the grass, the spring flowers smelling sweetly as their
bodies crushed the petals beneath them, releasing their sweet scent. They kissed and made
love until the light faded. . . .

"Harold, Harold!" Swein shook his snoring brother from his slumber.

Harold awoke with a start, wondering who, what, where, until he realized Swein was
above him looking down, fully armored and ready for battle. He idly noticed how
candlelight flickered over Swein's fine smooth features.

"It will be light very soon, Harold. You ought to get ready for the men. The boys are
preparing breakfast, and 1 think that we should go and eat."

"You know, Swein, 1 was dreaming that 1 was back home with Edith and the children. 1
knew it was all a dream. Sadly, reality is always something other than we wish it to be,"
Harold said, as he washed his face in the warm water that Cedric brought in.

"Would you like me to shave you. Father?" Cedric asked casually.

Harold reached for the boy's hand. "Cedric, my son, you're a fine young man. Please
kneel before me." Harold turned toward his brother. "Swein, this young man is my natural
son. 1 recognize him as such, and make him Earl of York." Harold took his sword and tapped
Cedric on both shoulders. "Arise, Earl Cedric." Harold then kissed the boy on his forehead.

Cedric rose to his feet, looking bemused. He bowed to his father, and withdrew-walking
backwards from the tent. Not realizing there was a tent rope at his heels he fell back. His face
turned a bright pink with embarrassment as those around all laughed heartily.

Meanwhile, Harold related to Swein the story of the affair with the boy's mother as a
youth and of Cedric's birth. "He's a good boy, Swein. If 1 don't survive the battle, see he is
looked after with Edith; she knows the truth."

"Yes, of course, Harold. By the moon, you're a dark stallion. He's your son, and all these
years you have kept this a secret from everyone. I'm an uncle again, 1 see."

"It is no secret, Swein. It's just that I've never mentioned it to anyone other than Edith and
our sister."

"Well, come along, Harold; let's eat, and I'm starved." Swein smiled at his younger
brother and winked. "It's good to have family, brother."

Dawn's light was just bright enough to make out men, without benefit of torches. The
men were seated, quietly eating their fill before making ready for the two hours march that
would take them to the battlefield.

Brithnoth awoke feeling refreshed. He ate, and relaxed back into his hammock, when he
noticed Swein emerging from Harold's tent, calling to him.

"Ah, Swein, 1 think 1 could do with a pull."

"Good morning, Brithnoth; what do you mean by a pulU" Swein asked.

"It's my finger . . . it's gone funny; give it a yank for me, will you? There's a good fellow,"
said Brithnoth, holding out his hand, with the offending finger out-stretched.

Swein took hold of the finger and pulled gently. Suddenly he heard the loudest fart he'd
heard in months emanating from Brithnoth's rotting innards. "You fucking arse-licking toad!

I'll cut your fucking throat if you do that again." He grabbed at the old warrior and was
thrown head over heels by Brithnoth's mighty arm.

"Steady on, Brithnoth. I'm only a baby. I'll have Harold hang you by your balls, if you
have any, and if he can find a noose big enough, that is."

Brithnoth held out a hand and pulled Swein up from the ground. "We ought to call for a
general muster, Swein; It's getting late, and the day will be lost if we don't move shortly."

"Yes, 1 know, and 1 need to speak with you on a matter of some urgency." Swein was
looking troubled, and he knew Brithnoth could see his apprehension. He stood staring at the
ground. "It's Harold. He's lost his senses."

"What brings you to that conclusion?" Brithnoth asked, looking puzzled.

"You're going to think that I'm mad, too, but hear me out; will you?"

"Go on, lad," said Brithnoth, as he pulled on his boots.

"Harold told me of a visitation he had with a wizard from the future." He saw Brithnoth
smile. "This isn't funny, Brithnoth. I'm serious! He told me that this wizard showed him
marvelous things, and that with his help he could defeat the duke's forces at a stroke. He's
going mad, just like that mad idiot Mick-MacMad, the Scottish loon who told him he could
turn horse-dung into gold. It was a trick, of course. Harold was impressed, then, with his
conjuring, but he saw through the fool. This is different; he actually believes this wizard can
accomplish what he says."

"Swein, you really do talk some shit at times; you really do." Brithnoth shook his head
from side to side, chuckling softly. "There's one thing that Harold isn't, and that is mad, got
that?"

"He told me that the wizard showed him sticks that made fire, and the wizard killed a
deer for him from a great distance," replied Swein imploringly.

"He told you all this from his own lips; did he?" asked Brithnoth, wondering if it was
Swein who was the mad one in the Godwinson family.

"Yes, it was the other night, just after the fiasco with the monk in London."

"He was relating a dream he had had. I've no doubt about that, Swein," he said
dismissively.

Brithnoth noticed from over Swein's shoulder, a small group of his officers approaching
them. "Officers, muster your men. Be quick about it, time is short!" Brithnoth snapped, as the
men turned back to do his bidding.

He returned his gaze once more to Swein. "Harold is nothing more than overworked, just
now, so pay no attention to his dream telling, wizards from the future, indeed." Brithnoth
turned to stride away, when he halted abruptly and looked back at Swein. "Our housecarls
are professional soldiers. We've no need of wizards." Brithnoth threw him a broad smile and
strode off to join his men.

Swein shrugged his shoulders and followed on, taking charge of the men placed under his
care with a strict discipline. The men moved off in orderly fashion. Through the woods the
army made their way, imtil at last they came to a clearing, with a long ridge about a mile and
a half in length that fell away steeply toward the marshland below. Half a mile to the south,
the land rose once more in a gentle slope, where Harold could see William's forces
advancing to the top of the opposite hill.

Boisil sat with his brothers-in-arms, Herbert, Thridred, Alan, and Philippe.

"Philippe trained you well, Alan, 1 can see that," said Boisil. "1 sense little concern in you
or your brother, Philippe. Alan is a good man, and hard as rock; he'd make a fine housecarl. 1
can say that I'm proud to have you here with us. We've a chant that we use to strengthen our
natural courage when we need to prepare ourselves for the final moments. It brings all the
housecarls into tune. It makes us fight as one body, and what's more, it puts the shits up the
enemy."

Alan laughed as he relayed to Philippe what Boisil had told him.

"1 now understand most of what the people say to me, Alan. 1 learn quickly; you know
that. 1 need a little practice speaking though," Philippe said, smiling. "You know, 1 feel like 1
belong here. No, really, 1 do. These men have something about them that 1 never detected in
the Norman camp. There is sense of oneness. 1 can feel it all around. We are accepted as if we
are Saxon. Even that old chap, Brithnoth, made us feel at home. God alone knows what the
others had told him about us. He gripped my arm so tightly it almost went numb! For an old
man, he sure knows how to show his strength... 1 was impressed." Philippe gazed about,
looking here and there at his companions and at the other housecarls as they prepared
themselves for the coming conflict.

"Well, let's just enjoy the moment, Philippe," Alan said, as he noticed the king mounted
on a horse, with his brothers standing beside him, and pointed toward Harold. "Hey look;
there is Harold Godwinson, their king — he looks a strong fellow."

"Which one is he?" asked Philippe, straining to see as the housecarls moved back-and-
forth, occasionally obscuring his view of the Godwinsons.

"He's the one standing up in the stirrups," said Alan, and stood up for a better view.
"1 guess that he's surveying the scene to see how he will conduct the battle," said Philippe
rising to his feet and placing a hand upon Alan's shoulder. "You've come a long way since
we left home, Alan. You're much more confident in yourself, and I'm proud of you."
Philippe felt his brother's hand on his arm.

Swein strolled amongst the housecarls whilst sporting a broad grin as he nodded to the
men, followed by pageboys carrying large and cumbersome objects wrapped in cloth. He
stopped and spoke to one of the housecarls, who pointed a finger in the direction of the two
Frenchmen. Swein then ambled over to sit amongst the five men.

"So, you two are our intrepid heroes," said Swein, grinning broadly.

Alan wasn't sure just who it was that'd sat down with them, and nudged Thridred,
looking for an answer.

Thridred threw him a half smile and turned to look elsewhere.

"I'm Swein Godwinson, the brother of Harold, our king. He knows about you two young
men, and he's highly impressed with what he's heard. I've come to welcome you, and see
that your needs are met. I'm sorry that you have to be here on such a day as this, but we
couldn't postpone the battle, as the other side has made a special journey to get their arses
kicked."

Everyone laughed at Swein' s incredible humor. "The king has asked me to present to you
a token of his respect. For both of you, 1 have a shield, a mail shirt, and a helmet, too." He

hesitated for a moment. "Oh yes, there is something more." Swein summoned a page
carrying a covered bundle. The boy handed over the swaddled package to Swein.

Swein uncovered two fine swords in scabbards.

"They're of the finest steel and are weU-balanced. Take these into battle. They're yours to
keep, as a Thank You for your brave and honorable deeds."

Alan and Philippe sat with their mouths wide open, speechless.

Philippe finally composed himself and stood, motioning with his arm to Alan to rise, as
well.

Alan quickly surged to his feet, causing all the others to follow suit.

"1 . . . well, that is . . . we, my brother and 1, feel privileged to be amongst such men as
yourselves. We thank you for your king's gifts, and we will see that he will be more than
repaid for his generosity this day. We know what is to come. We also know who has the
right, and who is fighting for a just cause. We know, too, that we might not come out of this
alive. Together we will fight as brothers." Philippe looked about the smiling group of men.
"We will happily fight alongside our newfound family, as 1 know they would fight for us,"
Philippe said in improving yet still broken English.

"1 am happy to be here, too," said Alan, who had a tear welling from the corner of each
eye.

"And we're happy to have you amongst us, too, Philippe," replied Boisil grinning, as he
threw his long arms around him, almost squeezing the air out of Philippe's body.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, 1 must be seeing to my orders." Swein clasped the arm of the
five men in turn, pivoted on his heel, and walked towards another group of men.

Alan glanced at Thridred and Boisil with embarrassment. He wanted to ask what he
should do with it. "I've never held a real warrior's sword before."

"Well," Boisil said, "you now have a chance to learn what to do with it. Err... if you don't
need it, Alan, 1 know of a good home for it. Look, you've cut the heads off chickens. Just do
the same with Normans," he said grinning, "the same as you would with chickens, simple,
right?" he said grinning.

Alan threw his gaze toward Thridred. "1 want to know, Thridred, what is it that you told
those people, to get us all this equipment? There is more to this than meets the eye." Alan
stood with hands on his hips, looking serious.

"Nothing other than what the womenfolk told us, honest," replied Thridred.

"And some," retorted Alan. "In any case, 1 need to eat. Are you coming, Philippe?"

"I'm rirmbling a little, too," replied Philippe as he rose to his feet and ambled along to
where oxen were being roasted over coals. He stood in line with hundreds of other men,
waiting to be served with slices of meat.

"You know, it never ceases to amaze me how orderly the Saxons are. There's no pushing,
shoving, or the like. When we were in Duke William's camp, the men were like pigs in a
trough. The mere sight of some of the— lets call them animals, disgusted me," commented
Philippe, practicing his English on his brother.

"Fucking Normans! We've got a fucking Norman in our camp!" A fyrdsman yelled, as he
rushed forward from another line, carrying a scramseax. He lunged at Philippe, his polished
blade glinting in the morning sun.

Philippe spun round, but was held from behind by another fyrdsman. In a flash, three
men rushed toward the line, blades in hand, ready to kill. In a thrice, two fyrdsmen lay on
the ground held by the weight of Boisil and Thridred, whilst Heribert extricated a hold that
another fyrdsman had upon Alan.

"If there is one man here that wishes to kill my friends, then they'll have to kill me, first."
Heribert stared at the amassed lines of fyrdsmen. "There's no one here that can measure up
to these two men who've come to join and fight with us. All of you shall show my friends
respect, as 1 do. Let those who disagree step forward, stand in front of me, and 1 will teach
them a lesson in manners." Heribert's huge frame, taller than anyone, gazed about the
company. "Then, gentleman, you may resume your positions in the lines. Philippe, Alan,
come with me. 1 want you to meet someone. The fyrdsmen were released and were then
pushed roughly back into the queue.

"My gracious lord," Heribert said, bowing. 1 wish to apologize for the disturbance you
have witnessed. If your highness will allow me, 1 wish to present to you my esteemed
companions, Alan and Philippe Domfront, whom you have so graciously honored in your
absence."

Harold stood surrounded by his brothers. In his hand, he held his helm, which carried a
small gold circlet round the helm's base. Harold passed it to Cedric and took a step forward.

"Heribert, my friend, it is so good to see you again. It's been a long time."

"It has indeed, my lord. You're looking well and confident this morning, sire." Herbert
said.

"So these two young men are our intrepid heroes." Harold gazed at Philippe who'd
bowed his head. "Philippe and Alan. You are most welcome into my kingdom. 1 was
extremely impressed by the story that Heribert has told my brother, Swein. 1 trust that your
rewards were a suitable addition to your equipment?" Harold noticed that Philippe had
already attached his scabbard and sword to his belt, and that Alan had done likewise.

"My lord, 1 thank you for you generosity, but we feel that our honor is ill deserved, for
what we have done is nothing more than any one of your subjects would have done under
similar circumstances," replied Alan bowing very low to his new kingly master.

A cloud moved away allowing the sun's rays to shine directly into Harold's eyes. The
king squinted, and he held up his arm. Alan, instinctively, raised his shield to shade the
king. THUD! A crossbow bolt hit Alan's shield lodging itself halfway through the shield and
in a direct line with Harold's head. Harold dropped to the ground followed by his brothers
with shields raised. Alan was pushed to the ground by Philippe, and fell directly on top of
Harold's brothers' shields.

"Assassin! It must be Eumer," cried Alan,

A few moments later, Swein raised his head and noticed a housecarl striding toward
them, carrying a head and a crossbow under his arm. Swein stared at Alan. "1 killed Eumer
myself, Alan. Tell me, what did you know of this man?" Swein listened to the story of how
Alan and Philippe looked for work with the Normans, and when they first saw Eumer
practicing with a special crossbow.

Harold rose to his feet and listened to Alan's story. "I'm glad to have you amongst us,"
said Harold, when Alan had finished with his tale.

CHAPTER - EIGHTEEN

CONFIDENCE CONQUERS COWARDICE

Harold sat alone, surveying the land. He felt the warmth of the early morning sim on his
face and hands. If the men are to fight with full armor in this heat, then it has to he now. He sensed
a rider coming from behind. He turned to see him riding a fine steed, one of the six that
William had sent as his bribe to Edward a year ago. I've to admit that these are indeed a fine
breed of horse, hut if that bastard thinks that I'm worth only the price of a good stallion, he can think
again. He tirrned back, as Gyrth dismounted to tether his mount.

"You've chosen well, Harold. We've a good vantage point. The bastard will be hard-
pushed to gain this ground from us. His forces will soon be worn, running up and down that
slope and be easily picked off from our position." Gyrth sat beside him and picked his nose,
wiping his fingers on his leggings.

"To be frank, Gyrth, this is the only place where we could have any advantage. The other
alternatives are, unfortunately, to the benefit of William's forces. Our best opportunity will
be to gain Caldbec Hill. If he's to engage us in a pitched battle, he must follow us. Take a
look down there. They'll have to cross that stream to their left, and that will cause them some
problems if they're to come at us from that direction, and the ground's very marshy, too."
Harold pointed towards Asten Brook, which flowed below them to their right.

Gyrth nodded. "We really ought to have brought more archers with us. That would have
given us an added advantage if we could have had them in the woods to our left, during an
advance." He gazed out over the campfires, smelling the wood-smoke.

"The archers are on their way, Gyrth. They're coming from Shrewsbury, nearly two
thousand of them. They were dispatched a week ago, and we should have met up with them
at Tunbridge Wells. They're a little late, but will be here as soon as possible. If they're too
late, we'll just have to muddle through as best we can without them. In any case, we had
Svein Estrithson's force join us last night; that's another five hundred men."

"Look, there's someone coming our way." Gyrth pointed to the right, where a rider,
carrying a pennant could just be made out making his way through the clearing mist that
was in the depression. "They know we've arrived, obviously."

"Send someone to bring him to me, will you, Gyrth? This could be interesting."

Gyrth mounted his horse to trot back to his original position amongst the men and called
to a page to bring the rider to him. A moment later, Harold followed in Gyrth's tracks. Under
guard, the rider approached Harold, dismounted, and bowed low.

Harold recalled the last messenger back in London, and his rude manner. He hoped this
man would show more respect for his office than the last emissary he'd encountered. He
looked at the man, who was unarmed and wearing a green tunic with ochre-colored hose.
Harold approached the man and offered his hand to the envoy, when a smile of recognition
came over his face as the messenger clasped his arm and grinned.

"Eric! It's good to see you looking fit and well," Harold said, beaming his broadest smile.
He recalled that Eric had accompanied him and Guy of Ponthieu to Eu to meet Duke William
after Harold's capture and incarceration. He knew him to be a good servant, and
trustworthy. But this meeting was different; this was more serious. Harold detected a great
sadness in Eric's eyes.

It was a job that on this occasion Eric detested. "You look healthy, too, my lord. It's good
to see you again, but this is a somber day, one 1 wished had never arrived. My sadness is for
today's coming events, for my master is determined. My lord, William, Duke of Normandy,
sends you greetings. 1 have to say that, sire; it's part of the protocol, but you know it's not
true," the herald said, abashed, his voice full of shame for the message he had to bring.

Harold gazed into Eric's face, and he felt a brotherly empathy toward him. "Your
message, Eric?" Harold inquired. His kindness towards Eric was obvious, yet his
ambivalence for the herald's verbal message showed outwardly.

Eric took from his bag a roll of parchment that was written in English. He proffered the
parchment to Harold. "I'm to give you this message, sire, and to wait for your reply."
Harold unrolled the parchment and began to read the contents.

"It is not with temerity or greed I come here, nor is my claim unjust. It is after
deliberation, and in defense of right, that I have crossed the sea into this country.

My lord and kinsman. King Edward, appointed me Heir of this kingdom. Even
you, Harold, have been the witness to this. He did so because, amongst all his
acquaintances, he held me to he the best capable of supporting him during his
lifetime and of ruling the kingdom justly after his death. Moreover, his choice was
not made without the consent of his magnates since Archbishop Stigand, Earl
Godwin, Earl Leofric, and Earl Siward confirmed it, swearing at his hands that
after King Edward's death, they would serve ME as their lord. Will you submit
your army to such bloodshed? It could be decided that you and I fight, and I risk
my life in single combat with you to decide whether the Kingdom of England
should by right be yours or mine
Harold asked Cedric to see that Eric be comfortably entertained, and then motioned his
brothers to follow him into his tent. He passed the parchment to Swein. Each perused the
message at some length, and passed it on to the next brother in turn.

"The bastard has some impertinence, Harold. This maniac really thinks he can just walk in
and take whatever he likes. The man's an absolute asshole!" Wulfnoth said, indignantly.
Harold's eyes narrowed, as a frown began to contort his face.

"Wulfnoth! This is serious! Can you not see what is over on the other hillside? When that
force moves, we'll have trouble on our hands." Harold picked a pennant, exited from the
tent, and strode determinedly toward Eric.

"We're in no mood for banter, Eric. Tell your master that he should leave now while he
still has his life and the command of his forces. Otherwise tell him to prepare for bloodshed."
Harold gripped Eric's arm tightly and moved close to the envoy's ear. "Go, my friend,
deliver your reply; leave the field and be safe. When the day is won to us, hold this aloft and
you'll not be harmed." Harold passed to him a gonfanon that Eric placed inside his tunic.

Eric bowed and thanked Harold for his safe conduct. He mounted his steed and turned
back to ride toward Duke William's camp. As Eric topped the opposite high ground, three
riders approached and led him to where William was impatiently awaiting Harold's reply.

"Well, herald; what have you to tell me?" William asked, who was looking past the
herald's shoulder, towards Harold's position. It was almost as if Eric's words were of no
consequence to him. He turned his gaze to the young man. "Well, speak then!"
Eric cleared his throat. "There is to be bloodshed, my lord." Eric said.

William turned to gaze at Walter Giffard, before returning his gaze once more to the
opposing forces of Harold, just one thousand paces from their position. "1 expected nothing
else from Godwinson," the duke muttered to himself. He felt the butterflies in his stomach,
something he'd never experienced before. "So we have our answer, then. You have your
orders, Walter. Go and prepare to take England. When we're victorious, expect riches
beyond your dreams." The words came out as an uncontrollable stutter that made him feel
embarrassed. He feigned a shiver as if cold and began clumsily brandishing his sword,
practicing in a mock fight, doing anything to hide his nervousness.

Eric looked on in astonished bemusement at his master's awkward use of the weapon.

His movements now controlled, William paused to gaze at the young man.
"Now, tell me everything you observed while you were in the Godwinson camp," William
said, as a he struck a more casual pose.

"Sire, they number far more than we, but they've no cavalry, they're all footmen. About
one third are housecarls, the rest being fyrdsmen. 1 also noticed very few archers amongst
their number, sire. They have with them the select fyrd, too. There may be as many as ten
thousand, possibly more, and so very fierce-looking," Eric recounted.

Motioning Odo and Giffard to one side, William placed his hands on his hips. He looked
towards the ground, almost with a stoop. "Giffard, do these figures tally with our own
scout's record of coimting?"

Giffard stared at his master then slowly shook his head. "Not really, William; we made
the count near eight thousand, but that depends on who you ask, of coirrse," Giffard replied,
turning to look across the valley at he opposing forces. "Our vantage point is lower than the
enemy's position, sire; it's not easy to tell from here."

"1 might have known I'd asked the wrong man. Can anyone here count?" William asked
irritably. He looked about for a sign of certainty of figures, but nothing was forthcoming.

For a moment, Odo remained silent. The tension is showing on him, and he's becoming
unpredictable again, he thought, wondering if he ought to make himself scarce. William
might make a gross miscalculation under such circumstances, and then surely we would all
be doomed. William needed a calming influence, but Odo wasn't sure how best to approach
him. He cleared his throat. "It doesn't matter how many there are, William. We're either
going to fight them, however many, or we can go home right now. 1 don't think the numbers
matter either way. We're not going home, so we fight what we have in front of us; it's as
simple as that."

"The last time you spoke any sense, Odo, you were drunk. So either you've been drinking
again or 1 have! The only question 1 ask of you is this. Do we attack them, or wait for them to
come to us?" He looked over as Hugh stepped forward, seeking his attention. "Yes, Hugh,
your thoughts. Let me hear them."

"For what it's worth, if we wait for them, they may decide on a night attack. They'll have
that advantage, and what's more, we would be in danger of our men slinking off. If we were
to give battle now, Godwinson will be forced to move at our pace, and we dictate the flow of
the battle," he said.

William nodded his agreement, as did the others present. "Then that's our course of
action. Right then, let's prepare." William looked around at the men who'd pledged him
their allegiance. His eyes were like that of an animal, unfeeling, distant, and cruel. He was

234

focused on one thing: victory at any cost. He would defeat Harold or die in the attempt. The
sea was behind him, and he had no escape.

Odo thoughtfully rubbed his chin. Cunning isn't going to do him any favors today, and he
knows it. We're on foreign soil, prepared, yes, hut I'm acutely aware that none of us might survive this
battle, Odo mused, and then he strode off to prepare to fight, swinging his mace.

Waving away his servants, William now stood alone pondered his fears, while attempting
to shrug them off. Could I really have faced Harold in a one-to-one encounter? What if he'd accepted
my offer of a winner-takes-all fight to the death, to spare his men 7 1 thank the Lady Mary he's refused,
and accepted to do battle instead. No, I've to show my men that I'm a leader, afraid of nothing. I'll
turn this refusal to my advantage. I'll speak to my men and show them how the cowardly Harold
ducked out of fighting me alone, and how he was too frightened to risk his life against my own. It will
be easy to demonstrate to them that, unlike Harold, I was prepared to fight, myself to spare the troops.
Yes, that would perk their spirits no end. It would give them heart to fight, no matter the odds. All I
have to do is to give the orders and stay just out of spear range, and when the time is right, I'll ride
into the thick of it, and England will be mine. He strolled back to his tent to ready himself for the
coming fight. He sat calmly, silently, and alone, his chin resting in his hands, composing
himself.

Outside William's tent, there was some commotion. He heard men shouting and calling. It
annoyed him to be disturbed at such a time; then the duke's tent flaps opened, and William
Fitzosbern stepped forward, accompanied by two men, who were dragging a man between
them. Blood was streaming from the prisoner's nose; his hands were tied with cord.
"My lord, 1 beg your pardon for this intrusion."

"Ah, Fitzosbern, what is it, man? Who is this lamentable toad, which you bring before
me?"

"This man was brought to me, accused of raping a servant, a boy of your household, sire,"
Fitzosbern said, as he threw the man to the floor.

William looked at the accused man. The man looked rough and unwashed; he had a long
jagged scar across his blooded, scarcely recognizable face. "And you're called?"

"They call me Snap, My Lord; I'm a sergeant," he mumbled through swollen lips.
William recognized the name, but dismissed searching for the memory of a past encounter.

"Do you admit your crime. Snap?"

"1 was caught with the boy, so 1 guess 1 have to say, yes; 1 fucked the boy, sire."

William began to boil. He tolerated homosexuals, but children were sacred to his senses.

"Bring the boy to me, and bring him now!" the enraged duke bellowed.

One of the guards left to fetch the boy who was just nine years of age. On his return, the
guard had the weeping boy in his arms. From the torn leggings, William could see blood was
running from the boy's buttocks, and the boy was clearly in distress.

William gazed at the boy. It was Rolf, a boy who had been with him just a few months. He
was William's property— livestock, yes, but his, nonetheless. William nodded toward the two
guards. They pushed Snap flat onto the ground.

The guards knew the punishment for this crime, and roped Snap's legs and feet together.
As one of the guards grasped Snap's tunic to rip it from his torso, William barked out the
order.

"NO! Strip off his leggings."

The guard looked up, startled at such a strange order, but did as he was bid. He took a
sharp knife and sliced through the linen bands, stripping down Snap's leggings to expose his
buttocks.

William walked outside the tent, heading toward the brazier that was nearby, took up a
spear held by a bodyguard and placed the iron tip into the fire.

"You like boys, 1 see. I've no doubt you like the feeling of large warm things up your arse,
too, hmm? My boys are here to serve me, not the rank and file common soldiery. 1 really
think this boy deserves redress, don't you agree. Sergeant Snap?" William turned to look at
Fitzosbern. "Can the boy stand, Robert?"

"1 doubt it, sire; the boy looks very hirrt," Fitzosbern replied.

"Then I'll gladly take the place of this young lad," William said, as he took the now red-
hot spear tip from the brazier, its wooden shaft blackened by the heat. Walking swiftly
toward the sniveling and repugnant Snap. The duke rammed the spear into the anus of the
roped sergeant. Snap screamed in agony as the guards held the struggling sergeant still.
"You appreciate the warmth of a good shaft, do you. Snap? 1 hope 1 satisfied you as you
attempted to do with the boy," William said, grimadng.

The smell was beginning to make those nearby retch. William let go of the spear as the
man collapsed onto his side, in a heap, dead.

"Get that turd out of here and hang him — haft and all! Let this be a lesson to those who
defile my servants. Fitzosbern, see that the boy, Rolf, is taken care of." The tent emptied, and
once more William was alone with his anger and thoughts.

Giffard approached Odo. In his hand he held a list containing the names of men who'd
not returned from the expedition to bring women from the surrounding area back to camp.

"What is it, Giffard?" Odo asked, impatiently, staring at Giffard who stood looking
sheepishly. "Come on, man, I've not got all day!"

Giffard thrust the list into Odo's hands and muttered. "Twenty three men are missing,
and all but two are your men."

"You'd better not be joking, Giffard," Odo said as he read the list. "How many women
have we set to work?" he asked.

"Sixty-three," Giffard answered, gazing toward the ground, avoiding Odo's gaze. "Yes, 1
know it's not good; and 1 can't think what could possibly have happened to these men."

"Have you told William of these figures?" Odo folded his arms and coughed.

"No, not yet. 1 thought you'd better know first, as they were your men 1 took with me."

"Twenty-three men, and you lose twenty-three valuable horses? Do you know how much
these horses are worth in terms of battle readiness, Giffard? You're not to utter so much as
one word of this to William. Do 1 make myself plainly clear? Shit! He's bound to see we're
depleted. You lose twenty-three horses, and think they won't be noticed? A blind man on a
galloping newt would see that they're missing! Just at this moment, my brother might have
too much on his mind to notice. If he asks, you tell him the men have gone out on another
expedition. By that time we will have been readied for battle. With luck, he'll be preoccupied
with other matters more pressing. What do you feel has happened to these horses?"

Giffard shrugged his shoulders, as if he cared. "There can only be two possibilities. Either
the men have defected to the English, were captured, or killed; if I'd to take a guess, it's the
latter. We've had many scouts in the area since the day we arrived and we've not lost one of

236

them. The Saxons would have been detected in that case. We've lost roughly four a day since
we were sent on the mission to gather women. That would mean there are a few very strong
and very brave men hiding out there somewhere, conducting a war of attrition. No, it's not
the Saxon way . . . well, not generally. There's more to this than meets the eye," Giffard said,
looking puzzled.

CHAPTER - NINETEEN

HEAD TO HEAD

14"' October.1066. Early morning

Philippe sat passively looking at the Saxon troops milling around the camp. He could hear
their captains calling them to muster and noticed how they were organizing themselves into
battalions He was impressed, very impressed. He felt a hand upon his shoulder, and heard a
whisper in his ear. He looked up to see Thridred holding out a wedge of cheese. The offer
was welcomed with a returned smile.

"Your English is coming along very well, Philippe. You learn quickly. I'd like you to try
and tell me about the duke. Take your time; there's no rush. What's the bastard like ... as a
man, 1 mean? You've seen him, spoken with him. Is he anything like they say?" asked
Thridred, eager to know all about his enemy.

"I'll do my best, Thridred. If 1 stumble, you'll help me, yes?"

Thridred nodded, not minding at all Philippe's broken and sometimes comical English.

"He's not the sort of man you'd like to have an argirment with, if that's what you mean."
Philippe went on to describe William's personal attributes. "He's a hot-tempered fellow, not
to be messed. I've only met a couple of men who are as cruel and nasty as he. One of those
was Sergeant Snap. Do you remember Alan telling you about the man who escaped from us
in the village? He's over there with the duke right now. Philippe ceased speaking when he
noticed the generals walking towards Harold, who was standing on higher ground.

"What do you think, Harold? 1 really feel we have a fight on our hands here," Gyrth said,
as he gazed across the marsh below, surveying the opposing forces with interest. "Hell's fire!
Look at the horses he has — there are hundreds of them!"

Harold's eyes followed Gyrth's pointing finger. The mist was now clearing a little, and
they could make out the cavalry horses at the rear of William's lines.

For the first time, a sense of apprehension gripped Harold. It wasn't fear exactly, but
something he'd never experienced before. It was something he felt, not for himself, but for
the fyrd, the ordinary fighting man. They'd never experienced charging horses.

Harold turned to Gyrth. "The housecarls wiU cope with a cavalry charge, but the fyrd? It's
too late to prepare them for this experience. Those horses were bred for war; they're not
ponies. We'll manage, as long as the men do as they're told. Hmm, we're going to need a
better position, Gyrth," noted Harold as he turned to make his way back to the men.

Gyrth followed, sharpening his axe with a small stone.

"Brithnoth, Swein, Wulfnoth, Ulf!" Harold called.

As they gathered around him, Harold used a stick to mark the ground and pointed to
various positions along the ridge. "Ulf, your men wiU have the shield wall here. You must
have them cut stakes and thrust them into the ground before them. You're to go and speak
with the men under your command and make sure they understand that horses won't
overrun them if they're behind these stakes. Explain that the horses will shy away. Wulfnoth,
1 want your spearmen here, and here, and 1 want the sling-men to bring piles of stones, and
they're to be brought into the second rank. The housecarls will need room to move;
understood?"

238

"Yes, of course, Harold; I'll not let you down," replied Wulfnoth, confidently.

"Swein, you take the right flank. It has to be very closed. He'll try to charge us, and make
a breakthrough. It'll be our weakest point, so keep it secure at all cost."

"1 told you we should have brought the archers, Harold," Swein said, indignantly; he
caught the king's glance and knew that he'd said the wrong thing.

Harold raised his head to glare at his elder brother, his eyes narrowed and brow
fiirrowed, his manner uncompromising. "Swein, keep your remarks to yourself! You'll do as
1 command, or leave the field," Harold replied with a sharp, abrupt tone that Swein wasn't
accustomed to receiving.

"The housecarls will be in the second rank and will move between the shield wall taking
out the riders, if they get close enough. The shield wall must be held at all costs. 1 hope 1
make myself clear. We can't be made vulnerable if we stand firm on this point. When 1 give
the order, we'll advance around and encircle them." Harold looked for any sign of confusion
or questions from his officers and brothers.

From the rear of the meeting came a rush of voices and shouts.

"Sire! Sire!" a boy's voice called, "The Normans are breaking out!"

"What?" Harold exclaimed. The boy came closer, and Harold grasped the boy's shoulder
and stared squarely into his eyes. "What else should 1 know, boy?"

"I'm told to tell you that the duke's forces are moving toward Caldbec Hill, my lord," the
boy replied breathlessly.

"SHIT!" Swein exclaimed. "1 think that they're coming to bring the battle to us!"

Harold became irritated as the group began to speak all at once.

"SILENCE!" Harold called out, peremptorily. "Gyrth, this is what 1 want you to do. Bring
your forces to take Caldbec. Do it now! Defend it as long as you can until 1 get there. I'll take
the left. Swein, you make sure the right flank is defended, and for God's sake don't allow
anyone to move off the slope, no matter what, and if the enemy retreats, under no
circumstance allow your forces to follow them when you see them off the hill! 1 know how
these bastards fight. They will try to draw open our defenses and make us advance on them,
so make sure your men are fully aware. It's imperative that you keep strict discipline at all
times— there's little room to maneuver."

Harold noticed Leofwine approaching him, and he repeated his orders to him, so that he
understood what was happening. "One moment! Before you move off, I've something for
you all." Harold strode toward his horse and took from the saddlebag five rolls of
parchment, giving one to each of his generals.

"There's no time to speak with all of my forces. So I've written a few words of
encouragement that 1 wish you to relay to them. The words I've written are my own speech
to the men under your personal command. It will rouse them and give heart to those who
are not already blooded from Stamford Bridge. It will reinforce those courageous officers
that were with us at that glorious victory, and will encourage those new to battle. I'll have a
bell rung at the appropriate time for you to gather the men around you. You'll then read
aloud to them the words I've written. Go do your duty, and good luck." Harold waved to
them as the generals dispersed to muster their forces.

Harold strode off with, Brithnoth following closely, to gather their personal housecarls.
The old warrior had said nothing during Harold's meeting. He usually never did because he
trusted Harold implicitly.

"It's our only defensive spot, Harold, the best there is. We can't fight from the woods; you
know that," Brithnoth said, hoping that Harold would stick to his plan.

"That's why, Brithnoth, if they're mustering on Caldbec, we must get them off it, and
bloody quick. If they have Caldbec, they have us. We must move to retake that hill at once. It
looks like they are moving quickly. You'd better go and get your men sorted; you know
what to do."

Half an hour later, Harold's forward force of housecarls moved through the woods
toward Caldbec Hill. There in the foreground could be seen a force of William's mercenaries
mustering on the site that Harold had chosen as his own defensive position.

Brithnoth strode off to gather a select force of his own housecarls to wait and be ready to
clear the site of the small, but menacing collection of Bretons, then made his way back to
consult with Harold. "We've nearly half a mile to spread the forces we have, Harold, and
that's going to be stretching us, but 1 guess we can manage to secirre the position."

"Do your best, my friend. I'll move my housecarls into position immediately once you've
cleared the ground. You should have their forward forces off the hill in short order," Harold
said, as he smiled at him, threw him a wink, and watched as Brithnoth moved off to surprise
William's men.

Through the woods Brithnoth's force of housecarls moved until they arrived at the spot
where they could see about five hundred of William's mercenaries and crossbowmen
milling. There was a sergeant briefing his troop as to what was expected of them.

Boisil and his small force of five housecarls crept on hands and knees, trying to get a
closer look at their enemy. "Alan, what's the Breton sergeant saying to his men?" he asked,
glad to have Alan as an interpreter; Boisil patted Alan's arm and threw him a smile.

Alan began to stand, trying for a better view.

"Keep your fucking head down!" Thridred hissed, yanking Alan down towards the
ground beside him. "Do you want us to be detected?"

"I'm trying to catch, word-for-word, what their sergeant is saying," replied Alan, listening
intently as best he could to the Breton officer not more than a few paces in front of him, and
translated to Boisil in whispers.

"These instructions come from Duke William himself. If anyone disobeys them, they'll
hang. Do you hear?" the Breton sergeant said, finishing his speech, and adding a final
plethora of threats. He glared when there was a mumbling of discontent from the troops as
they spoke among themselves. "Get to your positions!" barked the sergeant.

Heribert sneezed uncontrollably, giving away their presence. At that moment, the entire
Breton force became aware of being spied upon by the enemy. The Bretons formed a scraggy
defense, shooting off crossbow bolts in the direction of the sneezing housecarl.

"In the name of Mary!" Heribert cried out, as he saw a crossbow bolt hit the shaft of his
battleaxe. "What the hell was that?" He felt Philippe pushing him further into the ground.

"It's a crossbow. You've never seen one before?" As the deadly bolts flew in toward the
cowering housecarls, they began to retreat further back into the wood and thicket.

"By the balls of hell's fire, that was something else! Alan, what the hell, and where did
that shower of shit come from?" Thridred asked, who was totally confused by the onslaught.

"1 told you. It's a crossbow bolt. Get one of those up your arse and you'll know about it!"

"Oh, you mean like that short arrow thing that was shot at Harold?"

Philippe and Alan crouched down, sheltering behind a large oak tree and began
chattering away in French as Boisil, Heribert and Thridred lay at their heels.

Alan turned to Boisil, his tone very concerned. "Philippe has experience with the
crossbow. He was given some training in Normandy; they're the deadliest of weapons, and,
if you take my advice, you'll do as Philippe suggests, and keep your head down."

Philippe interrupted once more, in French, and began to give Alan a quick lecture on
tactics with the crossbow.

"Philippe said that we can escape or attack them when they replace their bolts. That's
when we should go forward against them. They're vulnerable then, because the Breton
sergeant is stupid. He told them they should loose off their bolts in our direction all at once. 1
guess that he thought that there might be a chance that a hail of shafts might flush us out.
You can count to fifty before they are ready to shoot off another volley." Alan and Boisil
beamed a great smile at each other.

Heribert took Philippe by the arm, pulled him toward him, hugged him, then kissed him
on the cheek, and winked. "You're an angel, Philippe, a bloody angel!"

All eyes were now on Boisil, as their accepted troop leader took stock of the situation. The
minutes passed while Boisil thought about their strategy. He could see the Bretons were
unsure of themselves. They were obviously nervous and wondering what to do next, and
they weren't moving to follow through. He listened as the sergeant was shouting orders,
looking constantly to Alan for interpretation.

"They're really nervous— can't you smell the garlic emanating from their sweat? They've
never been in a fight before. It's plainly obvious that the sergeant's orders are being
misimderstood. Look, the Bretons are just milling about, trying to coordinate their
movements. The fools haven't a clue what they are doing," Philippe whispered gleefully to
Alan. He froze as he heard a series of coded whistles emanating from the woods. "What was
that?" he queried, looking at Alan, who in reply shrugged his shoulders, looking bemused.
Philippe turned to look at Boisil, who began whistling short coded whistles back towards the
woods, obviously replying.

"We have to outflank them," Boisil said, "If we use Philippe's knowledge of the crossbow,
we can pick our time to move. We'll shift our arses the moment Philippe gives the order. Is
that understood, Philippe? When you give the order to run, we'll all move towards that
partial clearing over to your right and into the thicket beyond. There we'll join Brithnoth and
our fellow housecarls on the Breton flank. They know we are coming to join them,"
explained Boisil confidently, as he crossed himself and patted Philippe on the shoulder.

Philippe nodded. "1 will do my best for you, Boisil. Be ready to move your ugly Saxon
backside when the Bretons loose off their next bolts. 1 will call 'GOV The group nodded and
tensed to move.

"We'll all stand up together. As the Bretons raise their crossbows and are ready to loose
off their bolts, we drop to the ground. We'll need to coordinate our movements perfectly. 1
don't want anyone getting killed. We can't afford any losses. As the bolts pass over us, we

will be safe to run to that clearing in the distance," Philippe said, enjoying the power of a
short command.

Boisil took another look towards the Bretons, then glanced back at Philippe and noticed
that his comrade was now deep in thought, concentrating hard, judging the moment to
move. He'll make a fine officer. He's a leader of men, a thinking man. I'm so glad to have him with us,
he thought.

"Look," Philippe said, "The Bretons are moving slowly toward us. Are you ready?"
William saw everyone nod. "Stand up after my count of three." There was a short pause.
"One, Two, Three!" All five men stood up, exposing themselves to the Bretons and their
deadly crossbows.

"Loose!" Came the cry from the Breton sergeant. To a man, they raised and pointed their
crossbows, and in unison shot off their bolts at the five men now standing clearly before
them. As the brothers-in-arms dropped to the ground, the deadly shafts flew harmlessly
over their heads and farther into the woods. The thudding could be clearly heard as the bolts
ended their flight, anchoring themselves into the trees beyond.

"Go!" Philippe called, as he dragged Heribert from the ground. They'd rapidly skirted a
dense section of vegetation and were nearing the clearing, running like rabbits, when the
ground beneath them gave way! In a moment, the five housecarls tumbled into a hidden
chasm, which opened up below them; they slid into a heap at the bottom, dazed.

"Is anyone hurt?" Boisil called, who was somewhat alarmed at their predicament, and
astonished that he'd not a mark or cut upon him. He gazed about in the semi-dark oubliette,
its dankness offending his olfactory sense and bringing the rest of his senses to a heightened
state of awareness. He could hear the sound of rushing water that flowed from some unseen
source. He looked to see Alan picking himself up from the ground, brushing off the leaves
and soil that had filled his hair and clothing.

Alan moved to inspect Heribert, who lay awkwardly with his head streaming blood from
a gash gained in the fall. "Heribert has a nasty wound on his forehead, but he'll live," Alan
said, feeling relieved that no one had died.

Philippe shook off his own share of dirt from his tunic, slapping the loosest bits from his
leggings as he crossed over to kneel at Heribert's head. From his hip bag, Philippe took out
catgut thread and a fine bone needle. "You stay still; do you hear?" Philippe said, trying to
put his broken English to good use as he held the stunned Heribert's head, carefully resting
it between his legs. He cleaned the wound, using Heribert's saliva as it dribbled from the
side of his mouth, and began to place the first of four stitches, slowly closing the wound.

"He is going to have a sore head for awhile, that's for sure," Philippe remarked, as he
gave Heribert a thorough check for any signs of broken bones. He looked up at the light high
above them. The slit was about a man's out-stretched arms wide and ten paces that in length.

The sides of the chasm were sheer limestone with flint nodules embedded in the face,
leached away by many years of erosion, and with no visible means to grasp or footholds to
help climb. Philippe ducked as a bit of falling detritus landed about them. He cursed under
his breath. "We're totally fucked, and we've no chance of climbing out of this place; what a
mess! If we stood on each-other's shoulders, we would still not reach the top," Philippe
continued as he stood staring at the beam of light above him.

Boisil scratched amongst the fallen debris, looking to see where the noise of the running
water emanated, when he noticed nodules in the limestone, and he levered a flint stone from
the wall. He struck the flint against his axe repeatedly imtil the sparks ignited a piece of
chard linen cloth, taken from his miniature carry-sack attached to his belt. The cloth began to
smolder as Boisil collected the mass of twigs and small dead branches amongst debris that
lay around them. He began blowing gently until his flame became a small fire.

"I'm not certain how long that fire will keep us warm, Boisil, but you're a genius aU the
same. Then of course, we need to find a way out of this predicament," Philippe said.

Alan scanned the cave-like environment, but couldn't see any escape from within the
gloom of their enforced imprisonment. He felt nervous, and paced up and down amongst
the debris, cursing in French. He lost his footing and slid down to a slit in the base of the
cavern wall, which revealed the subterranean stream. My God, I've found it! It's a continuous
flow of water that must lead somewhere-- hut where? He wondered. He looked up again upon
hearing the sounds of men fighting and shouts of commands being given. It's the Bretons,
shit! We can't even call for help. He shook his head disgustedly and speculated as he looked
into the gloom to the sound of running water.

Thirty feet above their heads, the Bretons moved in, to follow the remaining retreating
Saxon housecarls, and fell into the trap laid for them. From the side, and sweeping in around
to the Breton rear, the Saxon ambush took on the mercenaries in a fierce hand-to-hand battle.
Men cut men with the ferocity of devils. The Saxons used their battle-axes to slice off heads
and limbs that saw all the enemy mercenaries were dead within ten minutes.

William was unable to see what had taken place on Caldbec Hill. He searched the woods
beyond where his Breton forces were being massacred, evaluating his position as he paced
up and down, pondering his next assault on Harold's forces. He was wondering if there
would be news from the forward detachment he'd sent to take control of the hill. I needed the
advantage of the higher ground. I should have settled on that bloody hill when we arrived, he
thought. The duke looked skyward, to see the sun getting higher and the air feeling warmer.
He pivoted about to enter the tent, calling his page to attend him.

William prepared his equipment and with a page's help, donned his mail hauberk.
"Bugger and shit! It's on back to front! This boy is useless! Here, Walter. Give me a hand to
put this back on properly, will you?" He glared menacingly at the boy, his raised fist ready
to give the youth a blow.

Fearing a punch from his master, the boy ran from the tent and disappeared into the
crowd of warriors milling outside.

"It's a good sign, William, a reversal of roles from duke to king," Giffard said, smiling.

"Shut up, Giffard. I've now to reevaluate the situation, as it's changing rapidly. 1 should
have moved out two days ago, but it's too late now. We'll have to settle for a pitched battle
with Harold where we stand. He's good, very good, but hopefully, not too good. These men
had better be up to this fight, or we are doomed." William took a sip of wine from a wooden
goblet, as he glanced at the map his cartographers had made of the area some days before.
"What's this word, Walter?" he asked, pointing at the map.

"That's Caldbec Hill. It's the spot where the Bretons are now," Giffard replied, looking
over the entire map's layout. "This is swamp here, William. We need to avoid it if we can."
He pointed towards the spot and then pointed to the swamp that he could see from the tent.

243

"We needed Caldbec Hill this morning. We couldn't have made camp there. There's not
enough room at the top of the hill and the trees beyond, but it would have made a fine
attacking and defensive position. Damn Godwinson! He should have been here a week ago,"
cursed the duke through his teeth as he turned to kick a small wine barrel. He wheeled about
and glanced up to see Giffard standing by the entrance to the tent, staring out, and listening
the noises drifting from across the low, marshy valley below them.

"It's too late for anything more than wishful thinking, William. We've more on our hands
than that. Look over towards Caldbec. There are shields, and what's more, they're not ours."

William went outside and climbed onto a trestle, attempting to get a better view.

"1 wouldn't trust these Bretons as far as 1 can throw my horse, Walter. Look there, William
said, pointing. "The Bretons have just given themselves up to the bloody Saxons!" William
remarked, as he gazed fixedly at the ground. "The plan has changed, Walter. Here is what
we do."

William picked up a stick and outlined his intentions in the dirt, so Giffard could
visualize and comprehend his revised plan. The two men stood discussing the plan for a
short while, when a messenger brought confirmed news of the failed attempt by the Breton
force to hold Caldbec Hill. The duke nodded and the messenger left to see to other duties.

"1 rather expected this, Walter. You see 1 need to know what 1 have before me — where
Godwinson's forces can be at any one time, and in what strength. The crossbow contingent
of Bretons were expendable because they were just as dangerous to us, too."

"Dangerous? 1 don't understand, William. In what way do you mean?" asked Giffard.

"Well," continued William, "They were billeted in the rear of us to practice their fucking
art, as they called it. They were loosing off shots all over the bloody place! They're dangerous
things to have, even in trained hands. They just shoot off on their own, you know, without
anyone touching them, and they worried me. Do you know, Walter, they killed fourteen of
my men last week with those damned things? They're supposed to kill the enemy, not our
own people!"

Walter smiled. "The positive side is that the Saxon fyrd have little or no knowledge of the
crossbow, William. 1 guess, as with all new weapons, they'll find their way into the enemy's
hands one day, and we will have battles, crossbow against crossbow. The battleaxe and spear
will become obsolete."

"Walter, you talk a load of shit; do you know that? It takes half a day to prepare and load
those things. Buying crossbows is a great waste of money. 1 could have hired three hundred
extra Evreux archers with the gold 1 wasted on those idiots! So don't go telling me they're
the best thing since horseshoes!" William said brusquely.

"1 was just musing, William. One never knows what will be invented next. Crossbows are
the futirre, you know. One day they're going to be improved upon to the point where you'll
be able to shoot off many bolts in just a few moments."

"Walter Giffard, what did 1 say about you talking shit? Crossbows should be for girls.
Men fight men, hand-to-hand. Go and get yourself armed and ready for the fight. We have a
day here that will be remembered forever — mark my words. We'll most assuredly defeat
Godwinson and his loathsome Saxon turds; we'll go down in history when we win this
battle; this is a kingdom waiting to be won."

Giffard gazed at the ground for a moment. "William, might 1 ask a favor of you?"

"Go ahead, Walter. What is it you wish of me?" William asked, pulling up his boots.

"I'd like to be in the thick of the fight with you. As you know, I'm the standard bearer, as
is my right. 1 would, with your permission, designate that responsibility to a young man I'm
proud to have in my company. 1 wish to name Toustain-of-Bec for that honor."

"Ah, yes . . . young Toustain. 1 know his family, they're good, and loyal people. 1 take it
you've spoken to Ralph on that matter?"

"He's agreed it would be good for him; he's an honorable young fellow," Giffard said.

"Then he has my blessing. Bring him here now. 1 will honor him with a knighthood. His
father was a brave warrior; a good and honorable man, Walter."

"He'll make a proud and worthy knight, William," he said, with a delighted smile.

"You'd better hurry, Walter, we'll be moving shortly to kick Godwinson's backside. Well,
off you go," the duke said ushering Giffard out of the tent.

Giffard left the tent, mounted his horse and rode off to find Toustain, a young man of
twenty-one years, tall, ginger haired and handsome. Giffard found him already mounted
some way back in the company of a groom. Toustain was wearing his father's colors of red,
green, and brown stripes upon his tabard.

"Ah, Toustain, I've been searching for you. Come with me, my boy. Duke William wishes
to speak with you. He's a very special role for you today, one that will make your family
proud."

"What is it the duke wishes of me, sir?" Toustain asked.

"You'll see soon enough, my boy; follow me. Time is short and the battle is about to
commence." Toustain kneed his mount and rode after Giffard to William's tent with the
sound of armor and horse leather clattering above the huffing breath of his steed.

As they neared the duke, Giffard noticed that William had left his tent and was giving
encouragement and precise orders to his cavalry. He and Toustain dismounted to listen
intently to their master's words.

"We will be victorious, or we will die. There is no escape, except to drown in the sea at
Hastings. Success depends on each and every one of you following my lead and my orders
to the fullest. Our Lady Mary will be with us. For those of you that fall this day, Jesus will
hold you to his breast, and He will see you are in paradise with the glory of the angels to
comfort you. Fight hard, and be of good heart. We have the banner of the Holy Father as our
standard. The usurper, Harold, is beholden to the devil. His foul deeds will see him damned
to eternal hell, and his Saxon demons will fall with him. There will be land enough for all,
and riches beyond your wildest dreams." The duke concluded his speech, and then noticed
Giffard approaching with Toustain by his side.

William turned to look at the bright young virgin warrior who stood tall and fit. Wearing
his fine armor, the duke saw that the youth looked every bit a fighter, as was the boy's father
before him. "Ah, Toustain, I've known your family for many years. My boy, you're of good
Norman stock, and your father was a goodly man. You're wondering, no doubt, why I've
asked you be brought to me." William looked first at Giffard and then Ralph. "Walter
Giffard and Ralph-of-Tosny asked that you be given the honor of standard-bearer. I've given
it much thought and agree that you and your family's worthiness justify such a distinction.
Give me your sword." The duke took the sword that Toustain unsheathed and proffered it to
him. He ceremonially touched the young man on each shoulder.

"Arise, Sir Toustain. Be courageous in the just fight we are about to wage." There was a
cheer from the knights whom William had been addressing. As the young man rose to his
feet, Giffard gave Toustain William's standard, which he accepted with humility.

"Keep this high at all times. It must never fall to the ground or vanish out of sight,"
Giffard instructed the young knight.

Toustain held the bellowing linen high, looked about at the men before him and called to
all, "Keep faith with God and our king!" Tears streamed down the youth's face, as the honor
of his charge overwhelmed him. He started, when he heard the bellowing voice of his master
call to his men-at-arms.

"Now, to battle!" William called. He re-mounted his horse and looked at the sky, noticing
the sun was becoming stronger. He asked the time, and was told it was the ninth hour.

The light breeze became fresher, making those men donning armor feel comfortable. The
snorting and neighing of horses could be heard all around.

Giffard's heightened sense of smell took in the odor of men and animals, and he found it
depressing. He could never get used to the putrid faecal mess that armies lived with and left
behind them. While most hardened warriors were used to such filth and stench, it made him
retch.

On the opposite high ground, Harold marshaled his men along the now-cleared slope of
Caldbec Hill. The ranks were now three men deep for nearly half a mile, and the shield wall
solid. Harold made sure that each man knew what he had to do and was determined to
obliterate the enemy or die in the attempt. Harold strode with a light step over towards
Brithnoth. He was in a good mood, confident and ebullient, ready to do battle.

"Brithnoth, tell the commanders to have their men lie down and rest. 1 don't want tired
men standing around all day long for nothing, wasting their strength. At the command, they
will rise and be ready to fight. I'll need the bodies of the fallen Bretons thrown down the
slope. It will give the Normans something to think about when their main body starts
advancing towards us," Harold said.

"That's understood." Brithnoth turned to walk away then stopped for a moment. He
turned again and looked once more at Harold. "Good luck, my boy." Brithnoth saw the
smile on Harold's face. They both tirrned and strode to their designated positions on the hill.

Harold's standards, "The Dragon of Wessex," and personal ensign "The Fighting Man,"
were placed at the highest point on the eastern edge of Caldbec Hill. Harold walked amongst
his men, making sure that his housecarls wore fuU coats of mail armor. He looked about at
the gleaming shields and the mail reaching to their knees. He saw that their helmets were
gleaming in the morning sun. He felt proud and smiled as he waved at them.

Harold asked Wulfnoth to ring the bell that brought the housecarls and fyrd to gather
around him. He began to speak to them passionately, from his heart.

"My dear friends, we have come here for one reason. That is to do battle with the
aggressor, William, Duke of Normandy. He makes claims to our throne and our country. He
wishes to enslave us all, to see me dead, and be crowned king. To do this, he has to win the
day, and we're not going to allow it." He paused as a cheer filled the air. "We are going to
defeat him and his effete force of whoring bastards, these men who have won only minor
victories against smaller, weaker forces. We, on the other-hand, have might, and more
importantly, right on our side; we are invincible! We have demonstrated this to good effect

with the defeat of Harald Sigurdsson at Stamford Bridge. We are feared for our skill and
ferodty with battle-axes. Our task now is to send the evil bastard, William, and his minions to
the sea from whence they came, as we did with others who came to steal our land." A cheer
rose once more from the men before him. Harold waved them to silence, indicating that he
had more to say.

"If we are marked to die, we are here now to do so, to our country's loss. The fewer men
that are left here, the greater their share of honor. But for our friends lost, our Lady Mary will
take them into her bosom. 1 pray that not one man shall go to our Lord's house before his
time. These villains you see before us are covetous for our land and gold. If they wish to die
for it, that is their decision. Surely, we will help them to meet their maker for their efforts.
Your honor, this day, will be to do your duty for England. If it is a sin to covet such honor,
then 1, amongst you, am the most aberrant soul alive." There came another great cheering
from the multitude. Harold looked about at the faces of those surrounding him. He could
almost taste their eagerness to be at the enemy. Harold's arms rose to quiet the crowd.

"1 needn't remind you what our families would suffer should these devils be unleashed
upon them." There came a general mumbling from the crowd and nodding of heads. Here
and there came a cry of "Harold and England." He smiled, almost embarrassed.

Wulfnoth stepped forward to calm the noise of the mean fighting men below him.

"My brothers, our king has more for you. Pray let him finish. Put your joy aside for a
moment until you have heard all he has to say." Soon, silence reigned once more.

Harold coughed, and then took in a deep breath. He felt almost exalted. To his men he
was a warrior god, yet he knew that mere words would not win the battle to come.
Nonetheless, he had to give the fighting men before him what they required. With his arms
raised once more, he fed them the food of glory.

"If a man here has no stomach for this fight, he should depart this field now. 1 wish not to
die in that man's company. 1 doubt there is one of you here who will leave this place without
your king. 1 would not lose so great an honor as his fellowship to die with us. He that
outlives this day, and comes safe home to see old age, will yearly on this date hold a great
feast with his comrades and neighbors. Then will he strip his tunic and show his scars and
say. Took at what we old men have suffered for your freedom. You shall remember us and recall our
stories of the feats we did that day. Our names will live on your lips forever.' "All shall be
remembered in glory until the world should end." Harold bent forward, the love for his
countrymen dearly natural. "We band of happy souls. There is not one of you so vile as to
betray his brother. 1 love each of you as 1 love my Lord Jesus in Heaven. Those able that are
not here with us shall hold themselves accursed, cheap, and their manhood a vile replica of
your own. The Blessed Mary is with us. Let us now do our duty."

The housecarls cheered enthusiastically to Harold's speech. The fyrd were well heartened
by the confidence of the housecarls whom they looked up to and admired. They were ready
to do battle for their king, a god in all but name, or die in the attempt. The housecarls began
sitting as ordered, one by one, each psyching their immediate comrade into a frenzy of
bloodlust.

As one body the housecarls then rose, chanting and calling to William's forces. "Bastard
sons of whores! Go back to your mothers and ask who were your fathers!"

Though he was frightened, PhiUppe felt a sense of honor to be in their company. None but
the few who had fought and survived the battle at Riccall had seen such a show of horrific
incitement.

William heard the noise emanating from the enemy and glanced across the valley. He
grabbed the pommel, and with one swift maneuver mounted the steed. It was a fine animal,
a present from King Alfonso of Spain, and a trusted ally. He cantered towards the already
mounted knights of his main cavalry who sat patiently, awaiting orders from their chief.
There was a nervous murmuring among the younger knights. Those already used to battle
made them feel better with tales of old encounters and the reassurance that, if they did
exactly as was required, they would not only survive, but be rewarded handsomely for their
brave and heroic efforts.

William rode towards the infantry accompanied by his half brother, Odo, who carried his
special mace that had spikes on a ball held to a wooden staff via a short chain. Walter Giffard
rode alongside Odo, with sword and a spear. Behind him, rode Robert-of-Mortain and
Toustain-of-Bec.

Halting a few paces in front of them, William addressed the men. "Be of good heart," he
called. "I am looking for a courageous volunteer to earn his place in history. 1 require one of
you brave and honorable men to challenge a Saxon to single combat. He shall defeat the
Saxon pig, which will show them yoirr courage and that of the men who fight with you. Who
amongst you will come forward to show of what he is made?"

"I don't believe I'm hearing this. He's looking for a lunatic to undertake a suicide
mission!" One infantryman said out of the side of his mouth to his neighbor.

"1 bet you my last coin there's always one fool stupid enough to volunteer," came the
reply from a voice nearby.

Then, from the assembled, voice a called out, "I'll go!" An arm rose above the men,
waving wildly.

"I thought as much. It's that fool, Taillefer," the first man said. "He's a bloody juggler and
an absolute asshole. He was pissed as a fart last night, and he can't hold his drink, let alone a
spear," the man said, snickering as he fought his way through to the front, trying to hear
what was to be said to the idiot, Taillefer.

Taillefer danced and sprang towards the duke like a bungling gorilla. He jumped forward
as if his pants were on fire. It was clearly obvious that he was still intoxicated. "My 'hie' lord,
give me a horse, and 1 will 'hie' kill your Saxon dog for you," exhorted Taillefer, slurring his
words, unable to coordinate brain and lips.

William looked bemused at the sight of the oafish creature before him, who looked as if he
could barely understand, let alone ride a horse and fight. He gazed about at the laughing
crowd, and saw no others willing to take on the task he had asked of them. After a few
moments' thought, he turned to Odo. "Odo, give this man a small horse and equip him with
a spear," the duke commanded.

"I'll do that with great pleasure, William. I'm always willing to see a brave man die." Odo
laughed so much he nearly fell off his moimt. He returned a few moments later to present
Taillefer with the horse and spear. "Die well, and we'll see you in paradise when our time
comes to sit with our Lady."

"Death before 'hie' dishonor, good priest; I'll not let 'hie' you down," Taillefer said,
slurring in a voice devoid of comprehension of the horror about to befall him. Turning
towards the Saxon shield wall, Taillefer rode with his spear aloft, shouting and whooping
loudly. "Will no 'hie' Saxon of noble blood come 'hie' to fight me?" Jeering at the crowd of
disbelieving Saxons before him, he waited for some sign of movement from the ranks.

The shield wall opened, and a man of small stature strode from within the wall carrying a
spear. The man strode toward Taillefer, when he lifted his spear in readiness to throw the
weapon, when Taillefer threw his own shaft at the man, killing him stone dead. With another
jeering cry, Taillefer rode into the shield wall, but his mount shied away at the sight of spears
protruding from the Saxon shields. Taillefer was thrown off his steed into the waiting Saxon
housecarls, only to be hacked into a million pieces. Taillefer's head was tossed back down
the slope to the waiting crowd of Normans below them.

Odo approached Toustain and grasped his arm in a vice-like grip. "You've seen a brave
man die, my boy. Keep faith in our mother, Mary, and you will see a glorious day. Go forth
boldly; stay close to William, and never lose sight of him. Where he goes, you go; is that
clear?" Toustain nodded, and with a whoop, he rode to his master's side.

"Not yet, Toustain. We must see the metal of our enemy first," William said.

Toustain was straining in his eagerness, when William held onto the boy's armor, and
repeated his words to him. Together they watched as a force of Evreux archers advanced
toward the dip in the vale beneath them. When they arrived, they stood, awaiting the order
to shoot.

Trumpets sounded from both sides, so loud they were almost deafening. The calls from
the Saxon shield wall were louder than ever as the nerves of all those on the battlefield
stretched to fever pitch. Stones from the Saxon slingmen flew toward the bowmen, many
hitting the unprotected archers below. The bowmen fell back, while others lost their footing
in the wet marsh.

"Loose!" came the order from the bowmen's sergeant-at-arms. Arrows flew at the Saxon
shield wall. The archers looked on, noticing that their arrow's efficacy had come to naught.
They were hitting an effective and impenetrable wall. Again and again the archers shot off
arrows, with each round being as completely ineffective.

"The next time 1 listen to you, Giffard, I'll remember your fucking stupid advice to bring
expensive and useless crossbowmen and archers!" William growled.

The infantry was now moving uphill to attack the shield wall, and as they came within
range of the Saxons, shafts from the spear throwers killed them instantly. As the infantry
retreated down the hill, Leofwine ordered the fyrdsmen to retrieve their weapons.

This is too easy, thought Leofwine, as he took off the head of yet another infantryman. "The
bastard has to have something better than this, surely." He called to Leofric.

"Leofric, 1 need some of your fyrdsmen to help clear these bodies away. It's like a bloody
town slaughterhouse here!" He saw Leofric nod, and moments later noticed him marshalling
some of his men to the task. The lull in the fighting was not long, but long enough to have
the corpses thrown from the shield wall.

"Out! Out! Out!" the Saxon housecarls shouted as they threw the bodies of their victims
down below at their comrades. Blood ran down the slope as if a dam had broken on a river.
The Saxon housecarls slashed, cut, and scythed each invading infantryman down.

"Dieu aide!" came the call from a retreating Norman infantryman.

William glared at the infantrymen and yelled at them to regroup. He was angry at the
ignominious defeat of his forces. "Fucking cowards!" he bellowed. He turned to Giffard.
"Giffard, we'll go in now, and with full strength. Muster the cavalry ready to charge."

Giffard galloped off to gather the mounted knights around him. "You know what Duke
William expects of you," he called.

The duke scanned his protective shielding before nodding approval. He wheeled his
mount to lead the way, his knights moving in closely to follow with their canter becoming a
gallop. Up the slope of Caldbec, they raced to the summit. They threw their javelins into the
Saxon forces. The Saxon housecarls replied by cutting down their horses. Slicing the legs of
the knight's mounts, men fell or were pulled off their horses and hacked to pieces. Blood,
guts, and brains were splattered over the combatants, and each man was inflamed with
anger and raging bloodlust.

William made headway towards Harold, using his mace to instantly kill any Saxon he
was able to hit. A frenzied housecarl lunged at the duke's horse, his axe scything through the
animal's legs and cutting the beast down from beneath the duke. William's lance
simultaneously penetrated the housecarl's chest before William fell to the ground. He
regained his composure, and in moments the duke was on his feet again.

Seeing another housecarl about to slice him in two, William dodged the swing and
grabbed hold of the man. They fought hand-to-hand for what seemed an eternity, when at
last, William overcame the housecarl, severing his head with a swing from the housecarl's
own axe, leaving the head hanging to his body only by skin and sinew.

A loose horse was attempting to rise from a fall in the blood-sodden mud beneath him.
Grabbing and mounting the horse, William went to turn the steed when he took a blow from
a large stone to his face, and he fell to the ground, unconscious.

Mother, is that you? William said, placing his head on her breast.

It is, William. You need to sleep now. Your father will be home soon, and he'll wish to see you
bright and early in the morning. He wants to take you hunting with him.

I've never been hunting. Mother. I can't wait to see what happens when I shoot a deer for you. I
want to kill aboar, too.

You're all excited, William. Go to sleep. Wake in the morning, refreshed and keen for the kill. I
want to see fresh meat on the table.

Goodnight, Mother.

Goodnight, my son. She kissed him sweetly on the forehead and left the room.

Eustace dismounted, picked William up, and carried him on his shoulders back towards
the marsh below, twice tripping and dropping him as a rider-less horse galloped past in a
fright, almost trampling them both to death.

As William regained consciousness, he spoke nervously. "Uh . . . oh, it's you. It was all a
dream." He looked about him. "What's happening, Eustace?"

"You fell, sire. We're not beaten. We have made progress; of that I'm sure."

William felt the throbbing under his eye and the trickle of blood down the side of his face
and from his nose. He winced as Eustace washed the blood off using water from a goatskin
carrier. Eustace helped him to his feet just as a spear landed in the spot where William had
lain moments before.

"I need a horse, Eustace," William said then he caught sight of a knight retreating from
the battle. As the knight approached, he yanked the rider to the ground, and mounted the
steed in his place.

"A helmet, Eustace, give me a bloody helmet!" Eustace removed the helmet from the now
dismounted and shaken knight and passed it to William.

William rode back towards his scattered cavalry, held the helmet aloft, and called to his
knights. He galloped to the front of his men. Turning to face them, he called to them, "Look
here! 1 am alive! Follow me! Follow me!"

"We are doing well, Harold," Gyrth called, "we have them on the run."

"It's not over until we have defeated them, little brother. Keep your flanks guarded
tightly. They'll attack again very shortly," he cautioned. Harold noticed Leofric's flank
disobeying his specific orders to keep close, and not move forward. "SHIT!" Harold
ejaculated. "Stop them, Leofric! Stop them at all costs!" Harold had spotted the Bretons being
mauled by the right flank. The Bretons were running back down the slope, closely followed
by fyrdsmen, all thinking they had routed the Breton force, and thus, it was reasoned, the
Normans, too, were now defeated. The fyrdsmen raced down after them, and slaughtered
each and every one in a frenzied binge of killing and mayhem, yelling and whooping.

"What the hell is going on?" Brithnoth called to Swein. He'd spotted the Norman cavalry
swinging around to take advantage of the gap that Leofric's men made in the shield wall.

"I'm very concerned at the prospect of cavalry infiltrating the right flank, Swein!"

"In the name of Mary! If they get in, we're doomed! Swein, help Leofric close that gap at
once, and for God's sake, hurry!" Harold yelled, with a tone of desperation in his voice.
Harold watched in horror and disbelief as the Norman cavalry encircled Leofric's detached
forces. "Oh hell! The cavalry are slaughtering our flank! Swein! Get that hole secured at all
costs; advance together!" It was too late. A group of Norman cavalry rode behind the now
ruptured shield wall.

Giffard galloped into the fray with a group of knights, killing fyrdsman after fyrdsman.

"Get to Harold! Cut out his gizzards!" Giffard bellowed, as he lunged hungrily forward,
cutting down yet another fyrdsman as he advanced slowly toward Harold's standard.

Gyrth caught sight of Giffard and Robert Beaumont heading toward Leofwine's position.
"Leofwine!" called Gyrth, in a panic, "they're in behind you! For God's sake, move!"

Leofwine turned at a thunderous noise behind him, only to see a horse with its rider
bearing down on him. The spear penetrated his chest, his eyes rolled, and a gurgling rush of
blood came from his throat. There was no pain, just the sounds around him. He heard the
voices of men calling for their mothers, and the noise and thuds of battle-axes slicing bodies
in two.

Leofwine could make out the horse above him, the rider's feet in stirrups and the painless
crushing as the animal stepped upon his abdomen. The flow of adrenaline and endorphins
outnumbered any sensation of acute pain. He felt the smooth withdrawal of the spear from
his chest and the warm blood gush to fiU his clothing under his armor. His blood dribbled
from his mouth as his lungs heaved in a vain attempt to get life-giving air. Leofwine dosed
his eyes as sensations of consciousness left him. The darkness of death fell upon him to send
him into paradise.

Gyrth looked on in horror as his brother's body shook in the throes of death. Seeing men
die was nothing to Gyrth, but this brother was one person whom he loved even above
Harold. He stood, momentarily staring at Leofwine, when he felt the warmth of blood
trickling down his chest. He fell to his knees, as his hands felt for the protruding spear that
had entered his back and was now in his hands in front of him. Leofwine, you have a comrade
on your journey. Gyrth fell to his side just as a Norman horse placed its hind hoof on Gyrth's
head, crushing the orb as it would an apple. Together they rose above the scene of battle,
hand in hand, looking down on the ensuing carnage below them.

Fighting furiously, their brothers and comrades were oblivious to their heavenly journey
into the arms of the Lord.

Harold's housecarls, seeing what had occurred, closed ranks. In a frenzied, and horrific
show of force and strength, the housecarls went on scything and cutting into all before them.

William saw that his losses were too great. He needed another stratagem, and called on
the herald to sound the horn to signal the retreat, to pull back and regroup.

In the lull that followed, Harold turned to look at Brithnoth, who was now on his knees.
Harold noticed that his general was holding his chest. He called for help as he rushed over to
him. His lips were purple, and his face turned from pink to blue.

"Brithnoth, where are you injured?" Harold's looked for any sign of blood or wound. His
voice was dear and sweet toward his friend. Harold laid the old warrior on his back.

"My chest is tight, Harold, and the pain severe. 1 can't breathe too well."

"My friend, we must take you to safety."

"No, Harold, this is the end for me. 1 watched my mother die this way." Brithnoth raised a
hand to the sky. He saw his parents waiting for him, beckoning him to come to them.

Harold lifted him up and held his friend in his arms, as Brithnoth drifted away to be in
the hands of God. He laid him down on the ground in a gentle way such as one would put a
child to bed, and Harold shed a tear which fell upon Brithnoth's face. Looking towards the
enemy camp, the overriding anger within him was forcibly suppressed. A sense of duty to
his people and to his men gave him the will and the power to carry on the fight.

Harold called to six of his housecarls to carry Brithnoth from the field. "Take this brave
and glorious warrior into the woods, where he can be buried with dignity later, once the
battle is won." He looked on as the housecarls stepped reverently forward. "We take this
warrior to a place of peace, a place, where the bravest of warriors can rest amongst the spirits
of his ancestors. Be gentle, my comrades, this man has God within him. Respect his body as
you would his spirit," Harold said softly.

Guthfrid came forward to take charge of carrying Brithnoth's body. His eyes were full of
sadness as he took his comrade, a warrior who'd died with honor. In total silence, the
housecarls picked up the venerated warrior, and singing verses from the sagas, carried the
dead man into the woods, where they laid him temporarily to rest with dignity to await
burial.

Harold stared at the carnage about him, then turned his gaze to see the retreating
Normans readying to regroup in the valley below. He heard the sounds of horses and the
shouts of men calling, moaning, crying and cursing, filling the air. He felt distant, the
episode, surreal. He came back to himself, aware of a presence. He looked around to see a
Fredric standing beside him. "What is it, boy? Spit it out!" Harold said.

"My lord, I'm to tell you that Earl Leofwine and Earl Gyrth have perished." Fredric stared
at the ground almost shamefully. His body was shuddering with shock at the horror he saw
around him. He felt his king's hand upon his shoulder, and a finger lift his chin.

Harold gazed into Fredric's eyes. "Go and see to your duties, boy." He let go of the youth,
and watched as Fredric made his way back through the crowd of housecarls, stepping over
the corpses, and dead and dying horses. He looked on through the steamy haze of spilled,
warm blood and human tissue, to the enemy forces beyond, trying to make out from
amongst the cavalry any sign of Duke William. Harold felt the anger welling within him.

Alan went down on his knees and peered through the hole in the debris before him.
"Boisil, come here. I've found the water— it's a huge flowing stream. It must come out
somewhere, and the cavern must be vast, to flow this fast." Through the gloom, Alan
glanced up into Boisil's rugged face. "What are the chances of being able to fashion a torch so
that we might be able to see a little more clearly?"

"Now, let me see . . ." Boisil rubbed his chin. "Every chance in the world, my old chum,
but it'll cost you a kiss for finding that hole down there," Boisil said, playfully pursing his
lips. He grinned at Alan's ugly, muttered reply, as he began to fashion a torch from a fallen
branch.

Alan took the lighted torch from Boisil. It was made from his spare clothing, and soaked
in tallow that he'd seen Boisil take from Thridred's knapsack. Its light was weak, but far
better than nothing at all. Alan peered over at Thridred. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

Thridred waved his hand wearily, but said nothing.

"He'll live. We've come through much worse injuries than this scratch, Alan," Boisil said,
as he looked toward the daylight above them, his hands gripping tightly with frustration.

"The battle is well begun, and we are missing it. Bugger! Can you hear the noise up there?
The sooner we get out of here, the more chance we have of fighting those bloody Normans."

"It's decision time," Alan said. He looked over at Philippe, and spoke in French. "We have
to agree that there is only one possible way out of here," Alan said in a matter of fact tone,
"We have to follow the running water, Philippe."

Philippe sat with his hands on his knees, considering their options. He raised his head to
look at Alan. "That is the way out, but the water will be very cold. We've no idea how far we
will have to go before we find where it leads; the outlet might be a long way off." Philippe
grinned as realization struck. "The marsh!" he continued, "It must feed the marsh in the
valley below!" Philippe stood up, brushed himself down, and patted Alan on the back. "It'll
not be easy, Alan, but it's worth a try. Give me that torch. 1 want to take a look down there."

Alan passed Philippe the flaming stick as he told the others, "Philippe will lead the way;
he's used to caverns. As a boy, he used to explore the caves around our village. He has no
fear, only a healthy respect. If there is a way out, he'll certainly find it. He told me that it
must flow out as a spring somewhere. The current is too strong to do anything else."

Slipping ahead of the others, with torch in hand, Philippe made his way through the hole
and into the cavern below. He motioned the others to follow him as he led the way along the
quick-flowing water. The water was ice cold and came up to their knees. It numbed
Philippe's feet, and he lost some feeling in his legs, but no one complained or was willing to
admit any discomfort.

Hold onto each other's belt; we might have to go under the water to get by any rocks
protruding from the roof, and we won't . . ." Philippe's words trailed on, as he slipped and
fell, losing the torch in the icy blackness. "Chat!" exclaimed Philippe, his words in French,
becoming a torrent of self-abuse for his own stupidity. I must do this! We must go on, like I did
as a child. I must put my fear aside. Remember what it was like. Oh, the excitement, and the elation

when we found a way out! We were stupid children, and in those days, we feared nothing. The times
our father heat us for coming home covered in filth. He smiled, glad that he wasn't alone, and that
the others had faith in him. He felt along the side of the cavern, and with one hand on his
head protecting it from protruding rocks, he moved onward.

"Keep your head down low, Thridred," Heribert said, feeling for and finding his brother's
bandaged head. He handed Thridred an extra thick wad of doth to tie around his stitched
and throbbing forehead. "We'll find a way out of this. After all, as Philippe said, the water
has to come out somewhere. If we follow the flow, we'll either get out or drown . . . simple,"
he said, smiling wryly, but in the blackness no one could yet see a way out. "I'm not about to
let that happen. We didn't come all this way to die in some icy water. At least 1 can't smell
the scent of that musty bloody cavern in here. That odor made me wretch!"

The totality of darkness was crushing as they made their weary way onward for what
seemed an eternity. With the channel deepening here and there, the roof at one point was a
mere head-span above the waterline. Still they struggled onward.

Four hundred paces away, and some five leagues above them, was the hated Norman
enemy. The Normans rested for a while, trying to regain some of their depleted energy.
There was talk amongst the men, of victory within their grasp, and the tension in the
Norman camp was now high and electrified.

"What now, William?" Odo asked, trying to hide his "1 told you so" smirk.

"Don't aggravate me, Odo. You knew this would be no pushover. We've come too far to
withdraw now. 1 want the Evreux archers to reform and shoot high in the air. We then
charge in on a broader front with brute force; we can break through. 1 just pray we have the
light to do it. There is not much time left before the darkness descends, and Harold will then
have the advantage. We can't suffer the risk of a night attack from him. Our attack has to be
now!" William dismounted and stood with his fist smashing repeatedly into his hand, his
anger welling at the incompetence of the infantry he'd hired.

"We've lost a good third of our force, William. If we fail in this charge we might lose
everything," said Odo, as he looked back, becoming increasingly nervous. He had hoped to
see the pageboy he'd sent to gain a ship at hand; yet, he was nowhere to be seen.

"The alternative?" William asked. His eyes narrowed, as if he knew what was coming next
from the lips of his traitorous half brother.

"We negotiate terms, of course," Odo replied. If I had the opportunity, I'd see you dead,
brother, he thought. Odo glanced around, looking for one of his crossbowmen, but there were
none to be seen.

William's face contorted in anger. He snatched Odo by his tunic, pulling him violently
toward him and grimacing menacingly — his face flushed purple with rage. "If you think 1
came here to talk peace terms with that usurping thief, then you're very much mistaken,
Odo! If we'd not the same mother, I'd kill you for your cowardice and insolence. Do 1 make
myself dear?" William asked menadngly as he hissed through his denched teeth, his spittle
splattering Odo's face.

Odo was choking, and his face began to turn blue, the enforced lack of air bringing him to
the point of unconsciousness. He felt William push him back onto his wooden saddle. He sat,
stunned, dazed, and shocked, hardly able to keep himself seated.

"Now, go and see to it that the archers are ready immediately. We go in as soon as six
shots are loosed; is that clear?"

"Yes, William," Odo said compliantly, while cursing under his breath. "You, fucking
bastard, William, I've more loathing for you, than the devil."

William swung around. "Did you say something?" asked William. He gazed at his
brother, and his eyes narrowed once more as he saw Odo shake his head. "Send Eustace to
me at once. 1 need him for this task. 1 never did trust that man much. It's about time he
showed me where his loyalties lie."

"Yes, William, I'll go fetch him right away." Odo answered, as he swung his steed about
and rode off, muttering more cursing oaths under his breath.

"And cut out the 'Yes, William,' or I'll cut your balls off!" William said, grinning. "If you
had any. 1 don't think 1 trust you either, Odo," William muttered to himself. He looked on as
the archers were positioned forward and lined up, awaiting the order to shoot high into the
air.

Eustace rode into view, looking for the gonfanon that William carried on his lance,
complemented by the ribbons on the back of all his helmets so that his forces could recognize
him from the rear. Eustace approached the duke and veered around to be by his side. "Sire,
Odo told me that you needed me for a task.

"Ah, Eustace, 1 thought for a moment that you'd been lost in the last charge."

"It takes more than a Saxon barrage to kill me, sire. In any event, like you, I'm invincible."

"1 guess we are," replied William. "For now, 1 have a task for you. 1 want you to go with
Giffard, and six of yoirr best men, to take out Harold's standard. 1 will follow closely. 1 want
Godwinson for myself. I'm coming from the left side to support you. You'll be the distraction
1 need to get in close. If that can't be done, then take him as best you can. Word has it that he
has reinforcements on the way, so we must have this over with and done before dark, and
before they get here. We need to be able to defend ourselves when they arrive."

William gazed about the battlefield, where he saw nothing but bloody carnage, amongst
the green of the wet marshy meadow below.

"1 understand, sire. I'll see to it that 1 have the best available men with me. Rest assured;
I'll do my duty unto you, or 1 will die in the attempt; I've a vested interest, too, William. You
promised me great wealth, and 1 will not go back home a poor man."

"Cut out the shit, Eustace, and just go do my bidding." William waved the man away,
shaking his head slowly at Eustace's overt sycophancy.

Eustace rode off to collect the men he knew would not let him down. He rounded up
Robert Fitzerneis, Walter Giffard, Hugh-de-Montford, and Hugh-of-Ponthieu.

Trumpets sounded once more, and the archers shot off their shafts. The arrows were high
in the air and fell almost vertically upon the housecarls, killing many, and maiming many
more. Eustace rode with Giffard and those chosen knights into the fray, as William galloped
directly towards the center of the now broken shield wall, while Harold's housecarls
advanced laboriously towards William and his mounted knights, once more cutting and

scything down all before them. Thurkill turned to Harold, and asked if he might help Leofric
on the flank, but Harold shook his head and refused.

In the lull of fighting. King Harold gazed about him. "Leofric is now dead in the water,
Thirrkill. He's no fight left in him. He can't help himself, nor can we help him. We must
make our stand here and hope our reinforcements arrive before nightfall. He'll have to make
do as best he can." As Harold spoke, he noticed two Norman knights slicing their way
through fyrdsmen off the west slope. The knights were moving closer towards him, killing
as many on their way as they could. With their swords and maces swinging in unison,
Harold saw that they were making steady progress upon his position.

Godfric called the remaining housecarls around him. "We must protect the king and the
standard at all cost," he called. "To surrender will mean disgrace!"

Harold was preoccupied with mustering his other remaining housecarls around the
Golden Man standard to make a last ditch stand, and if possible, to kill William. If I can do
this, the battle will he won, Harold thought, as he slashed at yet another cavalryman. He turned
to look for his next victim, when he noticed Aelfwig, the eldest of the surviving housecarls,
holding onto the standard, waving it to call those who were still able, to come to their aid.
"Honor, Aelfwig, honor!" bellowed Harold.

Once more, William rode into the heat of the battle; this time for his life and his honor.

"Advance! We're through. Advance! England will soon be ours. There's land for all. Land
for all!" William cried excitedly.

Cedric felt a hand on the back of his neck. A housecarl, with orders to remove him to
safety, lifted him bodily and took him to the woods. Cedric glanced back, as the fighting
became more furious than ever. Cedric climbed a tree and began whooping and calling as
the housecarls began killing all before them, yet paying a terrible toll, themselves.

Eustace and Giffard fought on furiously, managing to break through into the Saxon core,
until they came across the housecarls Aelfwig and Godfric.

"You bastards . . . come and meet your maker!" Godfric bellowed. The two men stood
back to back, slicing and killing everyone who came within striking range.

"Die, you Saxon bastards, die!" Giffard screamed, as he threw his lance at Godfric. The
lance pierced Godfric's throat, killing him instantly. Aelfwig turned around and swung his
axe at Giffard, missing him by the width of a finger. Hugh-de-Montford turned, and catching
Aelfwig momentarily off guard, took off Aelfwig's head with an arc of his sword. It rolled to
the ground, and as it did so, he pushed his sword into the mouth of the severed head, and
picking it up, placed it upon his pommel. Aelfwig's eyes seemed to roll. His mouth tried to
speak, before his brain finally lost consciousness, and he was no more.

For a moment, Hugh was unnerved, and he threw the head to the ground. He regained
his composure and quickly rejoined the fray, whilst Giffard wheeled his horse around to
retrieve his lance, riding on in search of the "Golden Man" and Harold Godwinson.
William spotted Swein and headed towards him at a gallop, dodging blows and thrusts.

Swein saw the rider approaching at a furious rate, and turned to meet him. "You killed
my brother, you . . ."

Before he could finish the sentence, WiUiam's lance pierced his foe's neck. Swein dropped
to his knees, blood spurting from his severed jugular vein high into the air. He looked with
startled eyes at William then dropped to the ground as William's horse placed a hoof on his
chest. Swein felt William pull the lance out of his neck. Swein's head rose for a moment as
the spear was withdrawn, then fell to the ground as the lance was freed from his flesh. Swein
was freed from mortal pain and suffering as the blackness of death overtook his senses.

"Godwinson! There'll be no more Godwinsons on this island after this day is done. 1 shall
see that all who bear that name will die this day!" William lifted himself up in the stirrups,
and urinated on Swein's remains.

Cedric looked on from the tree helplessly. "Father, beware; they're coming. Oh please,
God, no!" Cedric cried his words, only to be lost to the din of battle.

Hugh-of-Ponthieu broke free of an attacking fyrdsman and made his way with great
difficulty toward the Golden Man standard. His breathing was hard, the sweat pouring from
his near-exhausted body. Eustace and Giffard, in support, were hacking away at housecarls,
who were all around them, fending and fighting as they rode on.

Giffard was oblivious to the carnage around him or to the danger to his person, as he
sought out Harold. He noticed, a few paces in front, Hugh advancing with a spear in one
hand, sword in the other, hacking, slicing, and piercing. As if divinely untouched, Hugh
rode onward towards his quarry.

Harold was fighting off three dismounted knights, who had managed to cut their way
through his bodyguards and were now within reach of him. He swiveled to see Hugh
bearing down behind him.

"Usurper, go to the fires of hell! Take my lance, Harold Godwinson!" cried Hugh with an
intense scream.

Harold moved quickly, yanking Hugh off his horse, only to feel Giffard's lance pierce his
chest.

"Die, you bastard, die!" Giffard bellowed jubilantly, as he saw Harold fall to the ground.

Harold's heart thumped hard, the heart of a king. He felt the agonizing pain as the
splinters from Giffard's lance spread through him. The sharp sound pierced his ears, the
cracking, and breaking of his own ribs. A warm wetness flowed over him, as the life blood
drained from his adored body, revealing the vulnerability of the leader, reducing him to the
status of the common man, the same as those he had fought alongside. He watched as the
red, sticky fluid spurted from the splintered lance's entrance into his chest, soaking his face
and that of the horse above him. Harold looked into the face of Walter Giffard; were they
really that different? Yes, thought Harold; one giving life for his country, the other serving
one who took life for his own gain, one dying in honor, another, living in disgrace. Harold
turned to shun the face of the selfish taker of life and land, to fall amongst those
housecarls, who were his comrades, in life, and now in death. Then, there was no pain; just a
feeling of numbness, combined with a feeling of final relief, as the blackness overcame him
and as the din of battle faded. In a state of painless euphoria, he saw Edith and his children.
Harold held each of his children in his arms as they were born. He kissed them and blessed
each one; next, he kissed his beloved Edith. Exhausted, Edith smiled, and kissed him back.
"Harold, wake up," said Edith Swanneck, "It's time to play with Gunnhild. You promised to
take her fishing." Harold held her close, kissing Edith on her sweet, full lips, as he bid her to

make love. Harold's blissful Euphoria faded, and a bright light beckoned to him. In the
distance, he could see his father and his brothers, surrounded by a familiar
brightness, awaiting him. "Come, Harold," they beckoned; "come with us; we are happy
here," they said in unison.

The king, the brother, the son walked towards them, lost, and found in the brilliance of
the Ught.

CHAPTER- TWENTY-ONE

DOGS OF WAR AT MALLFOSS

Giffard, enraged, cut off the dead Harold's head. He dismounted, picked up the
decapitation, and placed it in his saddlebag. His lungs were heaving as he remounted his
horse and rode around, whooping. He noticed Hugh bending over Harold's remains, knife
in hands, disemboweling the dead king, taking the private parts as a trophy. His emotions
were still at fever pitch. He'd seen many of his comrades' die; as well as personal friends
perish. He sat in his saddle, looking at the carnage around him, the sweat on his body
flooding his clothing; his heart beating so fast he felt it would burst.

Hugh straightened, then fell to his knees, exhausted and gulping for air. "My God . . .
we've done it, Walter; we're victorious!" Hugh began laughing uncontrollably, as he tried to
say more, his euphoria barely matched by his tiredness.

William rode over to survey the bloodbath where the mutilated corpse of Harold lay in a
vile filth of entrails. He dismounted, took both Harold's standards, walked back to his horse,
and slid them under his saddle harness. Turning, he strode over to Harold's body. Steam
was rising everywhere, from the warm bodies of the dead and dying. The carrion paid no
attention to the walking humans, as the birds fought amongst themselves for entrails, despite
the abundance of fresh, warm carcasses.

"Who has done this vile deed?" William asked in a raging tone. "This man was a king, a
warrior. He may have been a usurper, but he fought like a warrior to the very end." William
glared at Giffard, "Who was it that did this to this man?"

Giffard looked sheepishly at William, his head bowed, and began stuttering, "1, 1 was
enraged, William. 1 cud, cud, couldn't st. . . st. . . stop myself," stuttered Giffard, gazing
down at the bloodied warrior before him.

"My king, it was 1 who disemboweled Harold," replied Hugh, who was now on his knees
in front of William, readying himself for execution by his master's hand. He gazed at his
king's feet, daring not to look up or rise.

"Yes, 1 am king. 1 am your king," said William as he gazed out across the field. A feeling of
great emotion overwhelmed him. William's acute, heightened senses were much as a hawk,
stalking his prey. Yet the feeling of disappointment created by anticlimax was in his heart.
He couldn't quite understand what it was. It was all over; the ballet ended. The adrenaline in
his veins was overpowering him. He began to shake uncontrollably, almost as if in fear. He
took in a deep breath, looked once more at the dismembered corpse before him, king to king
and crossed himself. "Get this body cleaned up, and make him ready for burial."

"William!" Eustace called breathlessly, as he ran towards his master, pointing vaguely in
another direction. "Reinforcements have come, just over there behind the wood. They've
taken up a position at a place they call Oakwood Gill. As far as 1 can tell, it's a strong
position for them. I've no idea how many there are, but there are enough to give us battle,
I'm sure. The fleeing fyrd have joined with them too, sire."

"Eustace, take Robert-of-Bec, and a good force of men, and flush them out! William
ordered, "We can't afford to keep fighting forever. Be quick and decisive, the light is failing
fast."

Eustace rapidly retraced his steps, gathering around him fifty cavalrymen who could still
ride to reinforce the infantryman. They reached Oakwood Gill some few minutes later and
attacked at once, riding forward in the dimming light. Through the brambles rode the
cavalry, when a great screaming and cry rang out, from those who had ridden, and fallen,
into a ravine just in front of the Saxon line.

Robert dismounted to take a look at the men and horses below him. "The carnage is
horrendous, Eustace. All 1 can hear are whinnying horses and the cries of trapped young
knights calling for our help. Shit! What should we do now?" he asked, showing the naivety
of a young knight who'd just that day experienced his first full-scale battle.

"Robert, tell the rest of the cavalry to dismount." At that moment, a stone was thrown,
hitting Eustace fully in the face. He placed his hand over the wound, and Robert helped him
away from the danger of more missiles. The blood streaming down Eustace's face disguised
the lesser wound, made it look worse that it actually was. Eustace winced as Robert poured
water from his carrier over the cut. "Tell the officers to pursue the Saxons on foot, Robert.
I'm placing you in direct command. Meanwhile, I'll make my way back and get this wound
dressed."

"Yes sir; thank you, sir," Robert replied. The boy stood to attention. "Shall 1 go now, sir?"
he asked, attempting a confident look.

"That would be a good idea, Robert. Go on, and look lively, lad!" Eustace watched as the
young man took off in the direction of the pirrsued forces. I'm not sticking my neck out a second
time. Let the young and foolish have their turn in the noose for a change. I've had enough for one day,
he thought

Robert approached the noise, where the fighting was deadly and in earnest. Hand-to-
hand, the bloodied Norman knights fought, killed, and finally drove off the defenders.
Robert looked on into the gloom to watch as the remnants of the Saxon force fled into the
night; their Saxon king was dead, and their heart was no longer in the fight.

William called his knights together, and they gathered around him. "1 want my quarters
set up here on the battlefield, Odo, and 1 want you to see that this is done at once." William
turned to Giffard and placed a hand upon his shoulder. "Walter, 1 want you to go and set
guards on full alert, for this might not be the end, and we should expect a noctirrnal attack. 1
want you to rotate the guards every two hours. Hugh, go with Giffard; you will need to post
guards, too. Oh yes, send someone to bring the cooks and food here; for the time being, we
must rest and eat."

"Leave it to me, William; I'll see to what needs to be done." Giffard said, as he and Hugh
left to call pages to do their bidding. Giffard massaged his back along the way, because it
was aching all over. He hobbled off to set the guards at their posts, then slowly made his
way back amongst the bodies to where William's men had hastily set up a tent.

William turned to Eustace, looking at him curiously. "Eustace; how's your bloodied face?
Turn around for me; the candlelight is too dim to see properly from here. Oh, that's a nasty
cut you have. 1 have one on the back of my head, and another here, over my eye," he said,
pointing to the various wounds.

"My injury is a little sore, sire, but other than that, I'm fine."

"Good. In that case, I've a job for you. Your task is to gather our dead and to bury them.
See that it is done immediately. You only need to bury our dead. The Saxons can rot where
they lay."

Eustace made a move to exit the tent; when he was stopped by William's comment.

"You can't dig graves in the dark, you idiot!" William bellowed; then he noticed Walter
Giffard and Hugh enter the tent. "Has anyone news of De-Montford?" William asked of the
newly arrived men.

"He's having a nasty laceration dressed, William, which needed attention from the
physidan. I've just walked past him. Shall I call him for you?" replied Walter Giffard.

"No. Let him be healed first. That reminds me," William said, "I've a huge bump on the
side of my head. Take a look; would you, Hugh?"

Hugh leaned forward to see a huge plum-shaped lump on William" s head just above his
right ear, along with some congealed blood that was the remnant of the stone that had taken
him to the ground at the start of the battle. "It's just a graze, my king. It could do with
cleaning up, though. I'll go see to it that the boys bring you some warm water. Jesus, I ache
all over!" Hugh exclaimed, as he tried to straighten up. He placed his hand to his hips, and
with a grimace, straightened upright.

"I'll have to get used to the word king. It sounds rather odd. For the moment, you need to
go to your duties, Hugh. We will discuss what needs to be done in the morning light," said
William craning his neck," . . . err, is that singing I can hear?"

A short way off from William's tent, a group of men were singing, their music creating a
crescendo of harmonious voices. Knights and infantrymen were grouped together with other
noncombatants, while a priest was conducting a service of remembrance and deliverance. It
pleased William to hear them, and for the first time that he could remember, he shed a real
tear.

The morning light brought the seagulls crying overhead, occasionally fighting with crows
as they pecked at the eyes and entrails of dead warriors. The stench of flesh hung
everywhere, and flies filled the air in black masses of motion.

William's men walked amongst those left dying or dead; taking from the dead chain mail,
swords, and gold rings from ears, leaving those still alive to die in their own filth. The
wounded Normans lay where they'd fallen, desperately waiting for help of some kind.

Walter Giffard gazed out across the battlefield, and recognized the scene for what it was,
butchery, as the participants had never before seen it. William awoke, feeling his head still
thumping from his wound. He called for his pageboys to come see to his needs. He looked
out from his tent, surveying the carnage. "Boys! Fetch hot water and dean clothes. Hurry, or
feel the power of my fist!" The boys ran out as fast as they could to boil water and make food
for their new king.

William sat gazing at the ground when he heard the murmuring of women and men's
voices, talking. They spoke in a Saxon tongue, which soon got the better of William.
William listened to the women pleading, requesting to take their dead husbands, fathers,
and brothers for burial. He cared not that the guard could not understand the cries of the
Saxon tongue. Hidden from view, he merely looked on through the slit in the tent flap,
chuckling at the women's animation, as they knelt, motioning the digging, depicting their
wants. He then noticed from amongst the crowd two women who'd pushed forward.

speaking to the sergeant, in cultured Breton voices. The two women translated the other
women's needs, requesting permission to see to their men He noticed that the tall, slim, well-
dressed woman was of obvious good breeding, and that the elderly woman was also of high
ranking, although not in the same way. William threw open the tent flaps to see his guards
looking bemused at the sight of so many women, when suddenly he noticed Walter Giffard
approaching the women. William held his finger to his lips, indicating that Giffard shouldn't
speak, and for him to move around to stand behind him.

"I'll take charge of this, sergeant," William said. The soldier stood to one side as William
looked about the throng of distraught females. He approached the two well-dressed woman
of rank, cautiously. "You're the woman speaking Breton," William said looking her over,
and then glanced at the old woman beside her, who was similarly well dressed.

Edith spun round and bowed her head toward him submissively. "My lord, 1 am Edith
Swanneck. 1 have come to find my man. We have come to claim Harold. 1 was his woman for
many years," she nodded toward Gytha, "This lady is Harold's mother, Gytha. Will you give
us pardon and leave to bury Harold, and allow these women to bury their men as well?" Her
head lifted to gaze into his eyes. So this is the man who takes our land and will subdue our people,
she thought, suppressing her outward anger.

William looked away, his hand pointing in a vague manner toward the multitude of
women. "You women may bury your dead. Go find them, and then clear the field quickly."
He returned his gaze to the two refined women before him. So, you're Edith, the Swanneck;
you're indeed a pretty woman. He watched as the women dispersed to gather their slain men
folk. Their weeping and wailing could be heard across the battlefield, and it irritated him to
distraction. William turned his attention again to Edith, this time more closely.

"You ask that 1 allow the removal of the body of the usurper, Godwinson! Give me good
reason, and 1 might consider your request." With hands on hips, William stared deeply into
Edith's face.

"My Lord, 1 (would hope that you could understand that the dead should, no matter their
crime, be treated with deference." Edith dropped to her knees. "As you are now my king, 1
prostrate myself before you, to beg your leave to bury Harold with the due honor that 1 held
his person. The Lord, Our God, has taken his soul into heaven to await His judgment. Jesus
forgives all sins after death and confession; only God can judge those who have died in
battle. He leaves the judgment of the living to the living. Therefore, let my plea be heard, lest
oirr Lord in Heaven judge you. Gytha cannot communicate her words to you, sire; she
speaks not your tongue. Gytha offers Harold's weight in gold, should you so wish it in
exchange for her son's body."

William stared at the old woman sternly. "Go and see the body. It is with Bishop Odo,
over yonder," he said, pointing toward to the bishop, "In the meantime, I'll consider your
offer, and you'll be called upon soon, with my decision.

"1 thank you, my lord, for your kindness. We will trouble you only once more for your
conclusion." Edith bowed, took Gytha's arm, tirrned about, and left William's quarters.

Giffard stepped forward, his anger boiling over. "The effrontery of that woman, William.
Offering gold in exchange for her son! If you accept, it won't look good. Those men out there
fought and died for you!"

"They were paid, Walter, and paid well, too."

"Yes, they were paid, but look at the price they had to pay! If the men got wind that you
accepted a bribe for such as Harold, they might turn on you, William. You can only take
loyalty so far, even you understand this much."

For the first time in his life, William felt embarrassed. He wasn't angry with Giffard, just
disappointed with himself that it had been necessary for this truth to be pointed out to him.
He now had to juggle his innate greed with his undeveloped sense of right and wrong.

"What would you have me do, Walter?" he asked as they walked back into the tent.

In disbelief, Giffard couldn't understand why William hadn't struck him for his insolence.
Seizing the opportunity, Giffard followed him giving him advice, careful of his friend's
nature to hit out at the first hint of dissent or disrespect.

"Well, 1 would see to it that Harold's corpse be taken to the beach, and placed under a
large stone with these written words, 'By the Duke's Command, Harold, You Rest Here to Guard
the Sea and Shore.' That would satisfy the men, William, and it would have a sense of irony,
too. What is a chest of gold compared with the fortune you have at your fingertips? Treat the
body with reverence, by all means, but keep in mind the reality of our position. As the
thought has just struck me, de-Malet is good at stone-carving; I'll have a word with him, if
you wish."

"You usually talk a load of shit, Walter, but in this case, 1 agree. 1 like the idea of a stone
on the shore. It's a fitting tribute." William gave Giffard a broad smile, "Come, we must eat
and talk of what we have to do next. 1 have one or two scores to settle before we move on to
London. 1 want you to pay a visit to Romesy. Those bastards, if you recall, ambushed and
killed some of your men back in September. We need to repay the favor. Then we must go to
Dover to secure the port, the defenses, and any resistance there might be. After this, we must
go to London, and Winchester, in that order. Is life not good when you're on top of things?
Go and fetch de-Malet; we are to become masons, Walter."

"The water is making more of a hissing noise, Thridred. What's more, 1 can feel that we're
near the end of our journey," Alan said through chattering teeth, "The water's risen dose to
the roof, but there is just enough room in the dome of to squeeze in five heads."

"I'm freezing to death here, Alan," Thridred replied, who was feeling decidedly ill. "If we
don't find a way out soon, we'll die of cold." It was all he could do to get the words out. He
heard Philippe give an exclamation, but didn't quite catch the word. Philippe then ducked
into the water, only to resurface moments later. "Lumiere du soleil, Lumiere!" Philippe was
jubilant, as he felt for Heribert's axe, taking the weapon, and disappearing once more
underwater. Philippe came up for air, and submersed yet again, this time to be joined by
Alan. There was light, not a great deal, but light, all the same. Both men resurfaced,
momentarily, sporting grins as wide as a bull's flank. "Succes, voila, bon!" Philippe
ejaculated.

The water began to recede, and Philippe began to sing. Alan joined in, to the bemusement
of the other three as they felt, as well as watched, the water going down. The Domfront
brothers had been able to smash through a small crevice, enlarging it to a hole big enough to
allow not only the passage of the water, but themselves, as well. Philippe led the way
through the exit, and then assisted a shaky Thridred, followed by Heribert, Alan, and Boisil.

"I wonder where the hell are we?" Philippe murmured to himself, as he stood looking
about the small open cave into which they'd passed. He watched the water flowing out the
mouth of the cave, and walked over to view the surroundings. He continued to shiver
violently as the breeze to bit at his wet clothes. "We need to get a fire started, and then dry
our clothes. We'll soon perish if we mess about in this wind," he continued.

Moments later, the breeze dropped until all was still. The noise of battle had gone. Only
the rustling of the brown leaves falling off the trees could be heard. They scrambled
cautiously out of the cave, picking their way down the slight slope. The sun gave the cast of
morning; even the weak light made them grimace, as their pained eyes were unaccustomed
to anything other than the pitch-blackness of the cavern. Heribert took a flint; bunched some
crisp, dry leaves and kindling; and began to make a small fire. The day was warming as the
five naked men sat around a few gathered burning branches, their clothes drying in the heat
from the fire. Boisil volunteered to stand guard as the others slept. He was wondering of the
outcome of the battle; he listened hard, but heard nothing other than the birds in the trees,
until he, too, fell asleep.

Edith and Gytha approached Bishop Odo. Choosing her words carefully, she spoke in a
soft tone. "My lord bishop, 1 am Edith Swanneck, and this lady is Harold's mother, Gytha.
We have leave from the new king to find and identify Harold's body, and perhaps, to bury
him. Might we look to see if we can distinguish him?"

Odo gazed at the women, astonished that William had not had the women slain on the
spot.

"Madam, you may see for yourself. Here is the purple robe of deference to Harold as the
late king of England. You must be warned. This is not a sight for a lady, and certainly not for
a mother to see her son slain so. In the heat of battle, men do things to other men they would
never do in any other course. 1 will leave you now so that you may mourn for yoirr late king.
1 am going to William to see what is to be done." Odo, making the sign of the holy cross on
his breast, walked slowly away, not wishing to be near, once the women had seen Harold's
remains. He, too, was disgusted at the sight of Harold's butchery. He crossed himself, and
prayed that he would be forgiven for his part in Harold's death and for those around him,
that had been slain.

Edith held Gytha in her arms, and with Odo's words still ringing in her ears, begged
Gytha to look away. She kneeled, and gently took the purple shroud in her hands. She knew
it was Harold, yet praying it was not, slowly drew back the cloth that covered the body of
her beloved man. "Oh, Mother Mary! What have they done to him?" She reeled backward.
"Gytha, you mustn't look; please, 1 beg you, do not turn; Harold's wounds are not those that
you should see."

"1 have seen disembowelment before, Edith. 1 have been expectant of that. Harold is my
son. 1 brought him into the world; 1 should at least have the right to see him leave it. 1 know
what is to come." Gytha turned and looked at Harold's remains. She could feel her heart
pounding as the sight of her son's wretched and dismembered corpse tore into her very
being. She let the tears of sorrow flow at last. Her hand reached out to touch the lifeless
remains of what was once a great and honorable man, a son she'd born with pride into this
world. "It might not be Harold's body," Gytha said, but she knew it was. She turned away.

sobbing, her grief now overwhelming her. Edith looked down at him. She bent, turning the
naked, bloodied, headless corpse over, to reveal a small but distinguishing tattoo on his
buttock, which she, herself, had made upon it, in their youth. Edith kissed the mark that she
had made so many years before; then both women rose to their feet. Edith held Gytha
closely. "We must see that we are allowed to take him, my dear." She saw Gytha nod her
head. They turned to walk way, silently comforting each other. Not a word was spoken
between them as they made their way off the field of slaughter.

At the edge of the battlefield, Edith heard a voice calling to her. It was a voice they both
knew well.

"Lady Edith, please come to help me. It is 1, Cedric."

Edith left Gytha' s side and hurried over to Cedric, who lay helplessly underneath the
bodies of two housecarls who'd died defending him. "Oh, my God! Cedric, are you badly
hurt?" she cried.

"I'm sure that 1 have some bruises, my lady, but other than that, physically, I'm alright."

She struggled to pull away the corpse of one housecarl, trying desperately to release the
youth from his entrapment. As she kneeled to take the young man in her arms, Cedric
shivered. She kissed his forehead. Her joy, intermingled with her sorrow, tore at her soul.
She was trying to stem the flow of tears, for seeing Cedric' s face brought Harold back to life.
She tried to suppress the confusion of such mixed emotions, and the vivid flashes of her man
in Cedric' s face. She stared at Cedric' s tear-streaked features, and pulled him closer to her
bosom. "Did you know we have lost the battle, and that your father was killed?" Edith said,
her lip quivering. She wanted to be strong for him; yet, there was no need.

"You knew that he was my father, then. He told me so, himself," he said, as he gazed up
at her.

"Yes, of course. I've always known." She held him tightly to her, stroking his hair.

"1 saw Harold fight imtil he was killed by the Normans. He fought to the very end, the
way he told me a warrior should die.

"1 was told this was so, Cedric." Edith replied.

Cedric became tearful again, his emotions overwhelming him. He'd experienced battle
from a short distance at Stamford Bridge. But this was his defeat, his ignominy. He pulled
away from Edith's comforting arms. He stood with his shoulders firm, his back straight and
tall, turning to gaze at the battlefield. As he surveyed the atrocious scene before him, he felt
sickened by the sight and the smell of those fine men who'd died with their king. Cedric
composed himself. No more would he shed tears. He had become a man.

"My father took care of me, educated me — took time to talk with me, too. He was a good
man and a fine king. 1 shall do all in my power to avenge his death. No Norman shall live on
English soil as long as there is breath in my body. Lady Edith. This 1 promise. 1 will find a
way to redress the wrong done to my father, and to all those Englishmen who lie here,
butchered in this field. For their mothers, wives, and sisters, 1 give this oath."

"Come with me, Cedric, we must go to Winchester and then on to Ireland. We have plans
to make. You shall have your opportunity to avenge your father and your countrymen. 1
speak for the queen on this, 1 promise. The Normans have not heard the last of this Saxon
nation."

They walked to where two horses were tied to a tree. Cedric helped Gytha to mount her
horse, and then assisted Edith to mounted the other. They moved off slowly into the woods,
along a path that followed a stream of bubbling water. It was clear, almost pure, welling
from a distant spring.

Edith thought of the queen and of what the hermit had told them upon their visit. She
thought, too, of the wizard who had visited Harold before the death of Edward. Could this
wizard have prevented all of this carnage? A wizard from the futurel Harold called him an angel
dressed in strange clothes. He tried to touch him, he'd said, hut he couldn't. What magic could have
prevented this? Why did he refuse his help? Perhaps Wizards are from the devil, she mused. These
beasts, whose greed brought disaster, have left honorable men to rot on the battlefield. Never in the
history of human conflict was so much owed to such men who faced, fought, and died with so much
dignity. You will be avenged, my love . . . you will be avenged.

Cedric led them into a small clearing, and there before them, was the sight of five naked
men. "Housecarls," Cedric cried, "Lady Edith, they're housecarls!"

Boisil rose to his feet and stood tall in his nakedness. "My Lady Swanneck, is that you?"

"My God, Boisil, what is going on here? We thought you were all dead on the battlefield!"

"Dead, my lady; what do you mean dead?" he asked, picking up his dried clothes, he
began to dress. "You might be wondering why we are all naked, my lady. It's a long tale.
Nonetheless, you might tell us what has occurred with the king?" he asked. The other men,
startled awake, began to dress, as Edith dismounted and walked over to them.

"You were with Harold on Caldbec Hill; were you not?" Edith looked pale and drawn. It
was all she could do to look at the bedraggled men before her.

"Yes, we were, but we fell into a crevasse, and we know nothing of the outcome. My God,
you are going to tell me that the bastard defeated us!" He stared at the ground.

Edith nodded. "Yes, we are defeated. Everyone is dead.

Boisil looked at Cedric, and he saw him nod. "Our king is dead. We've let our king die,
and we were not by his side!" The disbelief on his face was obvious. Boisil turned to the men
who were now standing aroimd the fire. "All is lost to the Normans. Harold has been
defeated. We have work to do!" He then turned to look at Cedric. "Cedric, my boy, 1 am
heartened to see that you're safe. 1 need to know what happened. Sit here and tell us."

Edith and Gytha gazed searchingly at the two men that looked like Normans. The
women's eyes were disdainful.

"Are these two men your prisoners?" Gytha asked.

"Indeed not, my lady; they're not prisoners. This man is Philippe, and here is his brother,
Alan. They're Frenchmen, and they fought daringly with us. If it were not for these two
brave men, we would be drowned. They're good men, but more of their story later." He
turned his gaze to Cedric. "Cedric, we must know what happened."

They all sat around the fire as Cedric relayed his story. Cedric told of the heroism of the
English housecarls, and of the Normans near defeat. He described the last moments of
Harold, and of his heroic last stand in the face of certain death.

In turn, each of the men told his story of the events of the last few days.

Alan and Philippe sobbed, for they understood that the good people of England were
now to suffer ill fortune under the yoke of a foreign tyrant.

Thridred rose to his feet, and stood looking at the young man before him. He reached out
to touch the shoulder of a youth thrown savagely into the world of men by the events he'd
just witnessed. "You shall have your revenge, Cedric." He looked about at his companions.

"These men will teach you their art and skills. We will do all we can to rid our land of the
Normans, and they will rue the day they came to England." He then turned to Gytha and
knelt before her. "My lady, you are the widow of a great and valiant man, the mother of a
king and a queen. You have seen your sons die in battle, and now your daughter is a
dowager queen. We, here, pledge our allegiance to you and Queen Edith."

Gytha looked almost shocked as they all knelt before her. Their deference towards the
mother of such fine sons was all too obvious. She looked with pride upon the men kneeling
before her. She raised her hand a little at them. "My late husband. Earl Godwin, would have
been proud to have had you serve with him. 1 am but a woman, and you, my dear, faithful
men fill my sad heart with gladness and pride. Come with us to Ireland. We shall regroup
and prepare for the conflict ahead." Gytha threw her gaze at the two Frenchmen. "Philippe
and Alan, we are proud and honored to have you with us."

They gathered what little they had and prepared to follow the ladies into the thick, dark
green of the English forest.

EPILOGUE

The priest stood over the old man mumbUng the words of the Last Rites, in Latin, and
listening for Philippe's confession. He turned his gaze to Poppa and slowly shook his head.

Philippe opened his eyes to gaze at the brave robin standing at the window and smiled at
the red-breasted creature. The bird chirped and fluttered its feathers impatiently.

"It's time, my beloved," Thora said sweetly. 'T've waited a long time for you."

The light grew brighter and Philippe felt a deep, warm peace stealing over him. Thora
became a shadow in the center of the light, moving slowly towards him, her hands held out
from her waist. Her smile was pure and loving, and her demeanor, longing. He stretched out
his arms to her to feel her warmth and love.

Thora took his hands in hers and kissed his lips so softly. She smiled. "Come with me;
there is no pain in heaven, my darling, only love."

They walked hand in hand into a welcoming light, where a group of people awaited
smiling lovingly; their arms outstretched. His father; mother; his brothers, Alan and Thomas;
his adopted parents, Charles and Adela; and Maria were all waiting to greet him

Philippe looked again as the robin chirped once more. "Come along, Philippe."

Philippe closed his eyes for the last time.

The robin hopped out of the window, and they both flew into the heavens.

Poppa kissed her father goodbye, the tears streaming down her face, falling onto his
cheek. She rose from the bed and fell into Emma's arms; they each comforted the other.

"They're all together, Emma, in peace with Jesus," she said as she felt Emma hold her
closer, and more tightly. She then felt Emma's tears on her neck. "We're the elders now,
Emma. We must be strong for the others."

Poppa glanced up to Alan's shield that hung on the wall beside her father's bed, the
crossbow bolt that saved the king still embedded within it. The children must now know our
fathers' story, and one day, we shall tell them 'our' story, Emma." Poppa took Emma's hand
in hers and led her outside to gather the children around them.
THE END