All around you is the smell of warfare. Acrid smoke from the campfires, piss and refuse from the latrines, sweat from the men.


And fear. You smell that too.


These men have reason to be afraid. You have spent the last few months fighting King Harold's enemies, only to march double-time to confront his most dangerous yet; William of Normandy. His army is camped below, twelve thousand men strong, in comparison to your eight thousand. There is reason to be afraid. Are you afraid? No, you affirm decisively in your mind. You are not afraid. You are Lord Aethelwulf, The Lord In The North, King Harold's most trusted advisor, and the veteran of a hundred battles. Why should you be afraid of an army of ragtag Normans who come to die on your sword?


Shaking such doubts from your mind, you stride purposefully through the bustle of the camp, intent on checking on the forward defenses. A pair of giggling urchins weave nimbly around you and a staggering drunk lurches out in front of you, notices your sparkling chainmail armor and backs away, apologizing profusely. Striding onward towards the edge of the English camp you pass the watchful gaze of the sentries unchallenged and stand at the upper slope of the hill.


You are not alone. Another man sits on the hill, wreathed in the shadow of the setting sun. Drawing closer you recognize him as Acwellen, a minor lord, but stalwart fighter. His face is stone, his jaw grimly set and his eyes staring out at the horizon. Looking over his shoulder you see the black smoke smearing the red evening sky. In the distance the town of Hastings burns. In the blurry uncertainty of the setting sun, you cannot tell if the glisten at his eyes is tears or just the sparkle of dying sunlight. Acwellen's son, you remember, was put in command of Hasting's garrison.


Above the treeline you can just make out the crackle of flames. Hastings burns.

You offer your condolences

Gently, you place your hand on his shoulder and speak softly


"I'm sorry for your loss. I cannot imagine the pain of losing a son, but I am sure he looks down on you from heaven."


Acwellen's gaze remains fixed on the burning town, and his face is still set in a mask of stone, but his cheeks are streaked.


"Thank you"


He exhales shakily, opens his mouth to say something else, then closes it and remains silent, yet the words are plainly on his mind, trying to slip free like hounds on a leash. At last he speaks, grim and quiet, little more than a whisper.


"Can we win this battle?"


The question hangs there for an eternity, all the fear and anxiety of the English army expressed in the musings of one broken man.

Yes

"Yes!"


You bark, with a sudden harshness that surprises both Acwellen and yourself.


"Yes"


You continue in a softer tone.


"We can win. This is not the end."


In your mind there is no room for doubt. You cannot afford it.


Behind the screen of trees the town of Hastings roils with flames and the Norman William's horde assembles.

You leave

Acwellen continues to stare into the flickering glow of the burning town. His face is stony, unfathomable. You turn to leave, picking your way through a patch of muck gingerly. Pressing down with your foot, you assess the ground. Certain patches are dry, but the soil is perilously loose. All it will take is a night of rain to turn the battlefield into a muddy hell. Well, you think to yourself, at least the mud will hurt the Normans worse than us.


"Aethelwulf!"


A voice interrupts your musings.


A very familiar voice, deep and booming. It is the voice of Harold, your king.


At just under six feet, he stands a head taller than most, and is just on par with yourself. Both his beard and hair are a fiery orange, and both are thick and wild. His chest is broad and his body muscular, but you notice a distinct bulge in the leather jerkin around his midriff; his infamous love of revelry has not gone unpunished.


"Aethelwulf, you canny bastard!"


He bellows, grinning and thumping you on the back.

You say "Harold!"

Grinning, you embrace your boyhood friend.


"Harold, good to see you, as always."


Harold grins. "I know it is! Everyone says the same exact damn thing!"


He chuckles, long and low.


"But come, I haven't seen you since our last battle! That was two bloody months ago, near as! Where've you been! Avoiding me, have you?"


You laugh


"If I went to another feast of yours, I wouldn't fit into my mail"


He shakes his head ruefully


"You should learn to unwind more! Live your life, you know? Speaking of, how's your wife?"


You nod solemnly


"She fares well, and yours?"


Harold snorts derisively


"Fat and ugly, as always. Ah well, that's what tavern girls are for, eh?"


He grins and nudges you with his shoulder; you shrug. Harold notices your expression and laughs again


"As chaste as a damned priest! Ah well, we'll break you in eventually."


Again you shrug. You and Harold have very different views on the matter, he won't change, nor will you. The best course, you decide, is to skate around the issue altogether. Nodding towards the hill, you speak seriously


"What do you make of our defenses?"


Harold frowns, his earlier humor gone. He throws up his hands irritably.


"My Kingdom depends on a hill and five thousand farmers"


You shake your head


"Five thousand farmers and three thousand warriors"


Harold nods


"Aye. True enough. We'll make this William pay for every inch, if nothing else"


He squints at the hill in the fading light


"The scouts say William has four thousand cavalry"


You shake your head decisively


"No cavalry in the world can break a strong shieldwall"


Harold laughs bitterly


"Our shieldwall isn't strong! It's weak! Half of the bloody farmers don't even own shields! Goddamned useless bastards!"


Surveying the hill thoughtfully, two plans come to mind;


You could craft wooden stakes and plant them along the hill, disorganizing the horse charge.


Or you could create makeshift shields for the conscripts, to help them hold the line.


The carpenters will only have enough time to do one of the two tasks, you must choose which you value most.

You craft stakes

You nod towards the hill


"We should put our carpenters to work, set up some wood stakes along the hill. With any luck, that'll break up most of his cavalry"


Harold grins wickedly


"And a rider on a lamed horse is a dead rider. This is good!"


He claps you on the shoulder


"I'll have my carpenters start working right away! Let's turn this battlefield into a hell!"


He laughs, and you see the fire in his eyes. This is what King Harold does best. Strategy and rule he manages, but it's the fighting he loves. You understand the feeling all too well. How many times have you knelt before a cross, armor bloody and gore speckled, thinking back with revulsion and guilt at how you loved it.


Loved every bit of it.


Loved the blades flashing, reflecting the rays of the sun. Loved the sound of shields splintering, cracking open.


Loved the bloody chaos of the shieldwall.


In the clash of the shieldwall it is where men like you, and Harold, and no doubt William too, come alive.


This world has molded you.


Molded you into a warrior.


You are bred for this.

You sleep

A warhorn sounds, long and low, dragging you from your sleep.


Throwing off your thick fur sheets, you fumble about in the darkness of your tent, feeling for your clothes. Finally grasping your leather trousers, you slip them on and pull the woolen drawstrings closed. Next you retrieve your blue linen tunic and pull the stinking garment over your head. Beside the opening of the tent you find your boots, which you pull on, the well-worn leather forming around the contours of your legs. Fully clothed, you stretch and prepare to leave the comparative comfort of your tent.


Rising stiffly, you undo the tent flap with dull fingers and step out into hell. The sky is a deep red, and clouds roil overhead. The ground is slick with mud, squelching underfoot. The air itself is inhospitable; it is thick with moisture and clings in the throat.


The warhorn bellows a second time, the sound rolling through the forest of tents.


The Normans are coming.

You prepare for battle

Your squire, an orange-haired young farm boy with a pox-scarred face and an easy smile, drags your chest of armor to where you wait impatiently, listening for the sounds of a Norman advance above the chaos of the camp's preparations. Like a stirred anthill, the English encampment is abuzz with activity, men fetching spears and armor, running to and fro, assembling into companies. Opening the chest, your squire first removes a thick jacket of hardened leather, which you will wear under your mailshirt.


"Thank you, Hugh"


You say to your squire and tousle his curly orange hair absent-mindedly. Hugh grins shyly and then proceeds to bring forth the next piece of armor, the mailshirt itself.


Beautifully forged, the chain links shimmer in the dawn light. As the light bounces of the metal, thousands of scratches can be seen, sanded down but still visible; the marks left behind by thousands of blades. This mailshirt has been in your family for generations, stretching back through hundreds of years of bloodshed and war. Slipping into the metal garment, you feel your squire tug at the leather lacings in the back, tightening the mailshirt around your body. You breathe in deeply, and as your chest expands, so too does the mailshirt, acting with the familiarity of a second skin.


Next come the metal strips, a personal favorite of yours. Each strip is made of tough iron, and each is covered in serrations and scratches. These you slip under your trousers and Hugh helps lace them tight to your legs. If an enemy were to try and stab at your seemingly unprotected legs their sword would merely slide off the hidden plating, unbalancing them and allowing you to slip under their defenses.


With your shin-plates cleverly hidden, Hugh unwraps the last piece of armor; your helmet. Masterfully crafted, it gleams in the sun. Complete with cheek-guards, a nosepiece, and spectacle-rings to protect the eyes. Surmounting the front is a snarling metal wolf's head, which stares proudly forward. Slipping the helmet on and tightening the chinstrap, you grin, canines showing.


Time to kill some Normans.

You find your men

Orvyn meets you at the edge of camp. A priest and a warrior, an Eriu and a Christian, Orvyn has been your stalwart follower and friend for nearly two decades.


You both clasp hands firmly and grin, filled with pre-battle adrenaline. Although Orvyn is not technically in command of your men, you have left your normal commander, Garyn, back at home to guard your wife and children with a skeleton crew.


With Garyn away, Orvyn is stepping in. He is a good commander for battles; he is amicable and courageous, but also capable and firm. In peacetime he would lack the rigid authoritarianism necessary for drilling the men, but right now they need a man to keep them confident. Orvyn inspires confidence; he isn't especially tall, but he is solidly built and a force to be reckoned with.


His beard and hair are both jet black, and both are kept in place by various bone rings. That, and his sparkling green eyes, give him a look of mad fanaticism that men are all too happy to follow.


You provide the encouragement, and Orvyn provides the fire. Together you are a killing force. Orvyn fingers the axe at his belt restlessly.


"Should we go to the shieldline?"


There is still probably an hour or more before the two armies actually meet, as men are ever reluctant to face a shieldwall, but being early couldn't hurt.

You go to the Shieldwall

Most men are already at the edge of the camp, loosely organized into their respective groups. You find your soldiers lounging in the grass to the left of king Harold's men. Some laugh and cajole with each other. Some sharpen their weapons idly. Others play dice with Harold's Housecarls. One has undone his breeches and is calmly urinating in the direction of William's army. In short, of the seventy warriors under your command, not a single one looks concerned or frightened.


That makes you proud. Most of these men you trained since boyhood, and for many you serve as a father figure. When they stand beside you at a shieldwall you have absolute confidence in your safety. They would risk their lives to save yours, and you would do the same for any of them.


You only wish you could say the same for your fyrdmen. Nearly a hundred and fifty, and every single one looks terrified. You can hardly blame them. In the clash of a shieldwall, it is the fyrdmen who bear the brunt of the assault. To break a shieldwall, aiming for its weakest combatants is a common strategy. With Harold outnumbered to begin with, more fyrdmen than normal will be forced into the front ranks. The continued success of the English nation could well depend on their spirits.


Approaching some of your men, who greet you amicably but respectfully, you instruct them to spread some of your ale reserves amongst the fyrd. Although you always fight sober, many of your men prefer to battle under the comforting haze of ale, and so long as they remain sharp enough you permit it. Some men just aren't capable of facing the sheer brutality of a shieldwall sober.


Someone calls your name. Turning, you see Harold waving to you from the midst of his group of Housecarls. He grins excitably, filled with the same mad energy that bubbles inside of you. His armor is expertly wrought, fine mail links that shine red under the ominous clouds. At his belt a gold-hilted sword rests in its sheath, and slung across his back is a heavy Daneaxe. His roundshield is thick and red, and is emblazoned with his personal banner; the Fighting Man. A symbol as legendary as King Harold himself, the Fighting Man depicts a golden warrior, wielding a Daneaxe and roundshield. His face is filled with the mad joy of battle, and under his watchful gaze the forces of England will stand against the Norman tide.


Moving closer, Harold clasps your forearm with his free hand


"Ready?"


You nod fiercely


"Always"


He smiles, but for a moment you see a flicker of emotion cross his face. Tiredness? He opens his mouth slowly, mulling his words


"Once this war is over, I think I'll-"


One of Harold's Housecarls interrupts the conversation


"My liege, the Normans are advancing!"


Instantly, Harold leaps back into action. Waving his shield, he calls not just to his own men, but also to all the men across the English line


"To arms! To arms! Form a shieldwall!"


The cry of "shieldwall" is taken up across the line, as men rush to the front, each shield overlapping with the one to the left, forming an impenetrable wall. In theory. Calling to your men, you order them to form up beside Harold's.


The fight for England has begun.

You ready your weapons

"Shields!"


Bellows a Housecarl standing to Harold's right.


The English line reverberates with the clacking sound of wood on wood as men rattle their shields, making sure they overlap with their neighbors'. Leaning forward, Harold waves at you from his position on the shieldwall and grins, his teeth shining in the dawn light.


Behind the king, the great Dragon Banners of Wessex fly. Enormous and red, they flap and flutter in the gentle morning breeze, snarling at the approaching Normans. Looking down the hill you watch the Norman advance.


It is simply incredible. At least a thousand horses have lined up at the base of the hill. Their riders wear good mail army, which glints in the light, and long blue Norman kite shields, which provide good full body protection, but are slower and less flexible than your English roundshields. For armaments they carry long lances and spears, as well as longswords. To protect their heads they wear the classic Norman helmets, conical and tall with comically long nasal plates.


The whole situation is laughable. You turn to Orvyn, who stands beside you and is also grinning


"How stupid can these Normans be?"


Orvyn shrugs


"They're not used to facing real warriors. Killing fleeing peasants is one thing. Riding down a shieldwall, especially uphill? Well-"


He fails to suppress a chuckle


"Let's hope they're slow learners!"


The men around you laugh, and that laughter drifts up and down the shieldwall. The mood begins to lighten. Still grinning, you sheathe your short sword and draw your long sword from across your back.


The greater reach will make it easier to kill the horses.


Easier to kill the fools.

You prepare to face the cavalry

Despite your amusement at the Normans' lack of strategy, the charge impresses you. The sound of a thousand horses' hooves pounding the mud and churning the soil, is thunderous. The vibrations shudder under your feet.


Out of the corner of your eye, you see some of your fyrdmen begin to back away, and you bark at them to get back into line. They comply gingerly.


You can almost smell their fear.


You watch keenly as the Norman horses near the stakes. During the night, Harold's carpenters cut a great number of them, and they litter the hill in uneven clusters, about three quarters up. Most of the riders edge their horses through the gaps, but a few are careless and their horses fall screaming, dragging down other riders with them. The spikes catch no more than fifty, but every bit counts.


The horses are fast approaching the top of the hill. Harold barks out an order to his Housecarls, and one in every two sheathes sword and shield in favor of a Daneaxe. Held two-handed, their reach, in the hands of a capable warrior, is more than enough to counter the reach of a man on horseback.


You take a quick look at the faces of your men. Some are scared, but none show it. Your shieldwall is as solid as a palisade, an impenetrable barrier of wood and steel. The horses are very close now, and the drumbeat of their hooves beats in frantic time with your heart.


You size up the mounted warrior barreling towards you. His horse is a chestnut hue, with a dark black mane. The rider wears a mailshirt and Norman helmet, as well as the customary blue kite shield and a long thin lance.


Making sure your stance is good and firm, you prepare to take on your adversary.

You hold firm

The rider thunders towards you, his horse kicking up thick clods of mud. Drawing close, he plunges his lance forward, but you slash sideways with your longsword and knock the spear into the ground. The thin lance bends and then breaks, splintering along its core.


Disgustedly, the Norman tosses the broken lance aside and moves to draw his sword, but you are already counterattacking. Twisting your wrist, you backswing the blade into the horse's mouth, lacerating its cheeks and splintering its teeth. The wounded animal screams, wide eyed, and collapses on the ground, trapping its rider.


As the Norman struggles to free himself you slip your blade neatly down his mailshirt and thrust deep, driving a foot of steel into his body. The Norman gasps pitifully and lolls sideways, dead.


The horse is still screaming, kicking up clods of earth. One of its flailing hooves strikes Orvyn's shield, knocking him back a pace. Recovering, he ducks under the flurry of hooves and swings his axe down, hard, crushing the poor beast's spine. Its long legs stop moving.


Satisfied, Orvyn returns to his position on the shieldwall. Across the line, William's horsemen meet similar fates. To your right, you watch one of King Harold's Housecarls fully behead a horse with his Daneaxe, mid-charge. Spurting blood, the headless beast collapses to the ground, and before its rider can regain his footing he meets a similar fate at the hands of the grisly Daneaxe. On the far left, a horse actually breaks through, the rider spearing a man through the neck and then creating an opening by hacking wildly with his sword. His act of valor is short-lived. The fyrdmen swarm the rider from all sides, butchering him with their axes and scythes. The breach in the line quickly closes.


The Norman horsemen who are still alive turn tail and ride their horses back down the hill. The top of the hill is spattered with the corpses of horses and their riders. Perhaps a full three quarters of the charge were vanquished. Orvyn, his face slick with horse blood, grins at you. You grin back.


The shield line has held.

You keep the line steady

For almost half an hour, you wait. At the bottom of the hill, the Norman forces swarm, but make no attempt to push forward.


By now, your heavy linden shield is weighing your arm down, and your muscles are beginning to tire. Loosening the straps, you place it carefully on the muddy soil, and motion for your men to do the same. They all sigh with relief, and there is much muscle rubbing and idle chatter. So long as they stay in their positions, you allow them to relax.


With forces of this size, the battle could easily take all day. Idly, you watch the Norman forces. They don't appear to be doing anything of interest. You are about to strike a conversation with Orvyn, when a portion of the Norman line surges forward. Some of the men stumble to their feet, but you wave them down. The hill is at least three hundred feet, and the Normans appear to be on foot. You stare at the mass of men in a state of bewilderment. All of them seem to be fairly lightly armored, none of them sparkle, like the men in mail shirts do. Suddenly, the advance stops, not even halfway up the hill. Why they would just stop seems ridiculous, unless-


You leap up and call out frantically, not just to your men, but to everyone else across the line


"Shields! Shields!"


You tear yours from its resting place, fasten it to your arm, and then hold it above your head. Other men follow your lead.


Just in time. A dark cloud wafts from the Norman advance to the English line. Arrows. Thousands and thousands of arrows.


They whistle through the air like a swarm of enraged wasps, raining down upon the English line. Three arrows strike your shield, each one slamming into the thick wood with hammer blows. Across the line men fall to the deadly barrage, clutching at feathered shafts protruding from throats and chests.


The fyrd are hit by far the worst, devoid of protection, they die where they stand, too tightly packed too dodge. For a brief moment many seem on the point of breaking, but warriors in the rear quickly push them back into line and try to protect them with their shields, the effort is mostly futile, but it helps reassure them.


In all the commotion; the screaming and shouting, the whistling of arrows, you almost miss the noise. That unmistakable drumbeat of horse hooves.


By now the horses are quite close, and the arrow rain has stopped, as the Norman archers are wary of killing their own riders. You drop your shield down and heft your longsword.


"Shields forward! Shields forward! Hold the line!"


Your warriors respond instantly, as do Harold's Housecarls. Shields drop forward and interlock, forming a solid barrier to thwart the Norman riders. You focus on the rider charging towards you, he has his lance couched under his arm and pointed directly at your shield.


Suddenly, as he approaches the line a javelin, thrown by a man behind you, pierces the horse's chest. The animal screams and froths blood. It drops to its knees and pitches forward, you take a half-step closer and thrust your longsword straight into the Norman's throat. He chokes hot blood and keels over, falling on top of his dead steed.


You nod in satisfaction. In front of you there now lies a barrier of two dead horses. Looking left and right, you survey the battle-line. As expected, your men and the Housecarls have fared fine, killing or throwing back their attackers.


The same cannot be said for other places on the line. In some places, the Norman riders were able to break through, and although the Normans were quickly killed or driven off, many of the bodies strewn across the field are English.


The shieldwall has held, but barely.

You hold the line

The sun is now high in the sky. You have lost track of the hours, and the number of Norman attempts. Every attack is the same. First comes the barrage, then the charge of cavalry. The fyrd has been decimated, perhaps a third have either died or run away. The toll on the warriors has been lighter, but no less serious. Because of your proximity to the King, your soldiers have been hit hard, and many of their bodies lie limp along the battle-line. You and Orvyn are still in fit shape, although you are both tired, and your arm aches from holding your shield, which has been gnawed to splinters by the constant rain of arrows.


A painfully familiar whistling fills your ears. Groaning, you lift up your shield to ward off the barrage. You're just so, so tired...

You keep holding the line...

You have no idea what time it is, but the sun is beginning to lap at the treetops, and a blissfully cool evening breeze wafts around you.


You crouch in the blood-soaked mud, behind the shadow of a horse corpse. The blood is everywhere. It coats your sword. It is spattered across your mailshirt. It is smeared across your face. For the first time in a long while, you want to throw up.


The battlefield is littered with corpses, human and animal. Mostly human. Mostly English. Only a quarter of the fyrd are still alive. No, that's not right. You look around briefly. Maybe a sixth. No one has remained unscathed, not even Harold's legendary Housecarls. The shieldwall has been effectively broken, men huddle in small groups behind the cover of dead horses, each spattered with arrows. To stand out in the open is to die.


You peer over the top of your horse carcass. You have done grave damage to William's forces, but they are still numerous.


In fact, as you watch, you see men advancing. Your hand twitches, an instinctive raising of the shield hammered into your brain by years of training. However, you pause briefly. The masses of Normans aren't archers, or cavalry. They are infantry. Thousands and thousands of foot soldiers.


Throughout the day, William has sent them at you, but never in these numbers. You grip your sword.


The end is near.

You fight

The Normans advance, neat and orderly. Their armaments are very similar to that of their riders. Most wear mailshirts, and those bizarre conical helmets. Some carry axes, most carry swords, but all heft the customary Norman blue kite shield. That, at least, is some consolation. Whereas you English fight as a cohesive team, the Norman's tend to fight as individuals, because the kite shield, although effective, cannot interlock with that of a neighbor's. Despite your weakened state, a lone Norman is still a dead one.


You crouch low behind the horse corpse and wait. The familiar jingle of mailshirts heralds their arrival. Beside you, Orvyn bristles, but you put a cautionary hand on his shoulder. You want them close.


You wait a moment more, then leap out. Your longsword snakes forward, lashing out at a Norman's face. He raises his kite shield to deflect the blow, but as he does one of the men on your right sweeps his blade down and cuts into the Norman's ankle. The man screams and drops to one knee, Orvyn's axe crushes his jaw.


You press into the gap and push the Normans towards Harold's Housecarls, whose bloody Daneaxes make short work of the thin kite shields. Ducking under a Norman sword thrust, you stab forwards and gut the man. Kicking him aside, you search for your next opponent...


And find no one. The Normans are retreating. To your left, you notice King Harold. He waves madly with his axe, and men are surging forward alongside him. With a sudden shock you realize he is trying to rally the men and charge downhill, towards William's retreating infantry.

You follow Harold

Adding your voice to the English battle cries, you advance on the fleeing Norman foot soldiers. In front of you, one stumbles as his boot slides through a patch of reddened mud. He only falters a moment, but it is enough. Your longsword lances forward, piercing the fleeing Norman's calf. He screams and falls, holding up his arms to futilely ward off your blade.


You keep moving forward, using your heavy shield to shove the wounded Norman out of your way. Behind you, Orvyn's axe resonates with a heavy crunch as he finishes off the crippled soldier.


Ahead of you, another Norman stumbles forward, a heavy javelin slamming into his shoulder. He manages one strangled yelp before your blade connects with his neck, a heavy swing that severs his jugular and jars against his spine. You wrench the sword free and keep moving. This charge has filled you with fresh energy, filling your mind with bloody courage, but now it is starting to ebb and your mind is working more clearly.


There is something very wrong here. This retreat is far too organized, too simultaneous. The Norman foot soldiers are increasing the distance between themselves and the beleaguered English soldiers, the pounding of their feet grows fainter, but another pounding grows louder. Horse hooves.


You turn to your left, Harold has thrown off his battered shield and carries only a Daneaxe, which he wields two-handed. He is completely out in the open.


You turn and race towards him.

You say "Harold!"

"Harold!"


You call out, sprinting towards him. He half turns towards you, and flashes one of his charismatic bright smiles.


The single arrow that flies through the air surprises you more than Harold. Curving gently, it hisses downward and slams into Harold's eye.


He lets out a startled cough and staggers backward. You keep running towards your king, but a Norman rider cuts in front of you.


Turning his horse neatly, the Norman swings his blade and opens your King's throat, spraying blood.


Harold falls to the ground, dead.


You falter indecisively, filled with wordless horror and remorse.

You fall back and gather your men

You back away, slowly at first, then swiftly.


"Back! Back to the horses!"


You repeat your message, shouting as loud as your worn throat will allow. Men begin to gather around you. You look to your left; Norman horsemen have obliterated the line, fyrdmen and warriors alike are being hacked down as they run. The right flank has suffered the same fate. Wordlessly, you turn your back to the men of the flanks and retreat to the center.


Around you stand perhaps a hundred men, the last of Harold's great army. The horses ride towards you from all sides.


"Shields!"


Orvyn echoes the cry. Men embrace briefly, and then turn to lock shields. Someone calls out "For Harold!" No one cheers. Even the Housecarls are wearied by the prospect of an imminent death. The horses draw close. You whisper a prayer for your family.


You fight with cold fury, sword flashing. Horses crash through your shieldline, circling, wheeling, killing left and right. You refuse to break.


At some point the Norman infantry joined the fight. That was shortly after you lost your shield. Or was it shortly before? You can't remember.


Your world is blood and steel, screams and death.


Perhaps it is a horse's hoof, perhaps a soldier's mace, maybe even a Norman shield. You're not sure what it is, but it strikes the back of your skull with tremendous force, knocking you into the mud and blurring your vision.


You try to rise but the mud grabs you and drags you into the abyss.

You blackness...

The small, cramped room is dark, but your eyes have long since adjusted to the dimness.


For nearly a month you have languished here, confined under what was once the seat of England's power; the ancient city of London.


You yawn tiredly and stretch, your hand strikes the hard stone wall on your left, which is slick with fungus. Beside you, others stir. The prison cell holds a grand total of twenty-two men; of the seventy soldiers you brought, only they remain. Beside you, Orvyn mutters prayers in his native Irish tongue. You lie quiet amongst the molded straw, conserving your strength.


A searing flare of light illuminates your surroundings. Shielding your eyes, you stare groggily through the iron bars of your cell at the sharp outline of a man holding a torch, flanked by two guards. The man rattles at the iron bars with the flaming head of his torch, casting sparks which smolder in the wet straw.


"Lord Aethelwulf, you have been summoned to meet with King William. You will come with us immediately."


His English is heavily accented, but understandable, you struggle to rise, but Orvyn gets up first


"Lord Aethelwulf does not leave without me."


The two guards look expectantly at the torch-bearer. He looks bored.


"Very well, Lord Aethelwulf may have his retinue"


He leans in menacingly, glaring at Orvyn


"Try anything, and you die"


He shoves the torch deeper into the cell, illuminating the huddled masses of your soldiers


"The same applies to you lot"


Without another word, the torch-bearer withdraws a thick metal key and unlocks the prison door. The guards level their spears threateningly.


You and Orvyn leave the prison and follow the torch-bearer into the light.

You follow the Normans

As you exit the dungeon, the torch-bearer leaves his torch in a wall bracket and continues to walk up a set of sharp flagstone stairs. For the first time in a month you see true, pure sunlight. Your weakened eyes strain to adjust, but they quickly regain their vitality and the world returns to its former luster.


Behind you, Orvyn catches his foot on one of the flagstones. He plunges forward, and as he grabs hold of you for support, he whispers in your ear


"Just say the word."


You keep your face emotionless. Up ahead, a long corridor leads toward a huge set of wooden doors, flanked by two taciturn guards, and within those doors lies the throne room.

The Throneroom

Your jailor steps up to the guards and speaks to them in French. They salute hastily and step aside.


The Norman grasps two iron facets on the doors and pulls back, drawing open the wooden doors with an aching creak.


Inside, a woven blue rug leads inward. The guards press you forward from behind, and two more from within the room keep pace adjacent to you. You keep walking.

You walk forwards

You remember what this room was like a year ago. Men and women laughed and cajoled, children played with the great wolfhounds that were always on the hunt for table scraps, and bards echoed melodies that filled the rafters with pleasant music.


But that was a different time, under a different king.


The throne room is empty, other than a handful of guards and a few servants milling idly, the throne room is devoid of people. It is silent too, the place is blanketed by an austere noiselessness, so that every footstep makes a clattering echo. Residing over it all, William sits in the throne, glaring at you thoughtfully.


With just a handful of meters separating you and the king, your guards stop you. William looks at you expectantly.

You kneel

With a bitter taste in your mouth, you kneel. Orvyn looks openly disgusted, but he too gets down on one knee. William smiles contemptuously, he speaks softly, in an English that is only faintly accented.


"Ah, this one knows his manners. Good."

You thank him

"Thank you"


You snarl through gritted teeth. Anger wells up inside of you like a storm, like an enraged beast trapped inside a frail cage of flesh and bone. Beside you, Orvyn notices your anger and tenses up, every muscle in his body is ready to spring into action. Even William notices the tension and waves discreetly to the Norman soldiers behind you. You feel cold steel pricking at your back. William glares icily, he leans forward.


"You might be wondering why you are still alive, no?"


You shrug sardonically. William pretends not to notice your insolence.


"The North has proven especially difficult to pacify. I could have you executed, and place a Norman in charge, however I believe the peasants would disapprove, and I would prefer to keep them alive"


He pauses briefly, mentally collecting his words


"As such, I am reinstating you as lord in the North, providing you swear fealty to me"


He leans even closer


"Make no mistake. You will be closely watched by one of my men, whom you will take orders from. This is not an offer. Swear to me, or die. Your choice."

You take the Oath

You swallow your pride, and your anger. You think of your family; your wife and children. It still feels like cowardice.


A Norman page timidly places a worn copper cross in your chapped fingers. You grip it limply and speak the same oath that you gave to Harold not a year earlier.


At the end William smirks, and you drop the copper cross disgustedly. With a casual wave of his hand, William dismisses you from the throneroom.


Your audience is over.

You leave

Although the sun is high, the frigid December air pierces your bones, and you draw your tattered cloak tighter around your shivering form.


Once outside of the city walls, the Normans give you back your weapons and your horse. Your men are released, however their weapons are not returned to them and the horses they are given are lame swaybacked farm horses.


Your own horse is a magnificent charger named Thunder, a black stallion measuring fifteen hands at his withers. He has been trained as a war horse, and his gnashing teeth are strong enough to snap bone, yet when he nuzzles up against your hand his eyes are soft and his lips are gently. You pat him affectionately on the cheek and then swing into his saddle, feeling the leather's familiar curves.


Your breath floats foglike in the cold air, you wait impatiently for your men to get mounted, your hands are beginning to burn.


Once your men mount their horses you ride North; homeward bound.

You ride

You ride all through the day, as fast as your horses can manage. Everywhere you go you see the devastation of William's invasion. Parts of the countryside appear normal, but others are burnt husks, farms and fields replaced with ash and bones. The roads are thick with mounted Normans, they glare at you suspiciously, but one of your men carries the Norman flag, and they let you pass.


The sun is beginning to set, and the cold is becoming too much. Even Orvyn, a man who can walk barefoot through snow without a qualm, looks uncomfortable.


You stop at an abandoned farmhouse, there are large holes in the roof, but your men cut swathes of dead grasses and stuff them in the crevasses. Someone starts a fire in the buildings dilapidated mud-daub chimney, which snakes up the back wall and protrudes through the messy thatch roofing. Normally supper is a time for boisterous laughing and cajoling, but today you eat in silence.


Afterwards, you bring several of the horses inside and curl up to them for warmth. Despite the uncomfortable ground and chilly temperatures, Thunder's flank is soft and the methodical rhythm of his heartbeat is oddly calming.


You drift off into a dark, dreamless sleep.

You wake up

You wake up stiff and smelling distinctly of horse. Getting up, you strap on your swords and get your men moving, Orvyn kicks some of the stragglers into action. Your own horse seems reluctant to get up, and it takes all of your coaxing to convince him to get up.


Your own muscles are aching from the cold, but a few hours of riding help warm them up somewhat.


The next few days develop a sort of routine; ride, find shelter, sleep, and ride again. As you journey further northward the scenery begins to change. The roads become smaller and more rugged, little more than oxen paths. The Norman presence decreases too; you pass only a few tired looking patrols. The lack of Norman occupation manifests itself in the land too, the devastation seen in the south is not present here, plenty of farms lie abandoned, but few have been burned. Many northern men gave their lives at Hastings, but their families have yet to suffer from Norman vengeance.


It feels good to know that your people are still present, still unified.


At last, you see the banks of the river Ouse.


Beyond it lies your home; the ancient city of York.

You head to the banks of the river Ouse

An old roman bridge of crumbling stone fords the Ouse. As you urge your horses towards the edge of the bridge, a dozen mounted men materialize from the treeline on the other side. The riders approach the bridge and halt at its mouth.


Your hand reaches for the sword at your sheathe, but you quickly relax. You recognize the man leading the mounted force; his name is Garyn, and he is the captain of your guard.

You go meet Garyn

You dismount and hand the reins of your horse to one of your men. Moving briskly, you cross the old stone bridge.


On the other side, Garyn dismounts and hurries to meet you. It has been several months since you last saw him, however he hasn't changed a bit.


He wears a mail hauberk, and his shield -emblazoned with your snarling wolf sigil- is slung over his back. On his left he wears a thick fighting sword, shorter than your longsword but almost twice as thick. On his right he carries a vicious looking seaxe, a heavy stabbing dagger perfect for thrusting through mail links. His face, like much of his body, is scarred by a lifetime of fighting. He is bald, and his hooked nose gives him a predatory, reptilian look. His eyes are hard, flinty; the eyes of a soldier.


You meet in the middle of the bridge and he clasps your forearm warmly, his face shows relief.


"Our scouts saw you coming, I came as soon as I could. The Lady Catheryn will be overjoyed to hear that you are back"


Catheryn. You feel your heartbeat rise. These months without her have been far too long. You can almost see her, like an apparition drawing you homewards. Footsteps echo on the bridge behind you; Orvyn has joined you. He speaks to you, but his eyes are fixed on Garyn


"We should ride to the villages first. As their lord, you owe them an explanation. Everyone there has a relative who served in your fyrd. They deserve an audience"


Garyn glares contemptuously at Orvyn


"A lord does not serve at the beck and call of his peasants. Maybe if the useless sods had held the line, we wouldn't be in this predicament"


Orvyn takes a step towards Garyn, Garyn's hand drops closer to the lethal looking dagger at his hip. Orvyn keeps his hands well away from his weapons, in an open show of contempt


"Do you want the commonfolk to rebel against us? What harm can it do to delay Aethelwulf's homecoming by a few hours!"


Both of them turn expectantly towards you, waiting for you to settle their dispute.

You agree with Garyn

"I want to see my family again."


You say it plain and quiet, but Orvyn recognizes the tone of command in your voice. He looks hurt, but relents, shooting Garyn a final angry stare. Garyn smiles and signals to the his men at the bridge


"Come on boys! We're escorting lord Aethelwulf home!"

You go Home

Between the banks of the rivers Ouse and Foss sits a finger of land, atop which rests the ancient walled city of York. Created by the Romans, its old stone walls have been mostly replaced by wooden palisades, but in some sections they remain; impenetrable rock formations three feet thick and fifteen feet high. Waving methodically in the slow December wind, your snarling wolf banners fly proudly.


Surrounding the outside of the city walls, thin huts of mud and thatch lean precariously, using the palisades for support. You curse irritably; those huts will provide excellent cover for any attacker who wishes to besiege your city. Picking its way through the thin cobble street, your horse passes by the frail mud-and-thatch houses beside the walls. From within their shallow depths, grimy faces peer outwards suspiciously.


From atop the walls, a young man in an ill-fitting mailshirt challenges you


"Go no farther! Who are you?"


A grizzled veteran with a scarred face and grey hair cuffs the younger man over the head


"Open the gate you idiot, it's lord Aethelwulf!"


The young soldier blanches fearfully, stammers a pardon, and practically leaps off the palisade's platform to unbar the gate; a massive four meter structure of wood and iron.


The gate opens inward with a heavy groan and the young soldier- still looking suitably embarrassed- waves you inside.


As you pass, you grin at him good-naturedly.


You are home.

You enter the Courtyard

The courtyard is a chaos of raised voices and the neighing of horses and the splashing of mud, which coats the ground; it has been churned loose from the frosty ground and warmed by the trampling of hundreds of feet.


Across the courtyard from you is the inner keep, a building made from Roman stone and patched with Anglo-Saxon woodwork. It is where you host your warriors and organize meetings, and it also functions as your personal quarters.


You should organize a meeting soon, but it would be wise to meet with your family first.

You find your wife

Moving with dreamlike purpose, you navigate the halls and passageways within your home. Standing outside the door to your quarters, you fingers feel the familiar shape of the door handle, which opens at your touch. The room is plain, in one corner is a chest of clothes and in the other is a fur bed. On the bed sits your wife, Catheryn. She is angelic in form, swathed in a pale white dress with her long golden hair flowing effortlessly down her shoulders. Her face transitions from shock to delight; her perfect mouth smiles and her bright blue eyes sparkle. Vaulting into your arms, she embraces you, long slender arms twined around your body. Her lips caress your cheek, and she whispers quietly in your ear


"I missed you"


You kiss her back


"I missed you too"


Your eyes settle to the door in your room opposing the one through which you entered; it is the entrance to your daughter's room. Catheryn's eyes follow yours


"She's sleeping"


She grins coyly, kissing you passionately

You kiss her back

She tastes so sweet, like spring.


Her eyes sparkle and she draws you closer, your hands move down to her thighs, clutching at the gossamer white fabric around her knees.


Her own hands, slender and smooth, trace their way down your chest.


You both slip out of your clothes, and slip under the fur bed sheets.


For the first time in nearly a month, you feel warm.


For the first time in nearly a month, you feel happy.