Warning: War.

Loyalty

1066 A.D.

You could feel it in the air.

It was a kind of energy bubbling away, waiting for the storm to break loose. England had always been particularly sensitive to the strange, supernatural forces at work in the world, especially when they pertained to war. He was only a child, but his life had always seemed to be one brutal conflict after another.

He still cried for his mother, thinking that if she were with him then maybe she could make it all go away. But Britannia had been no stranger to war, herself – and England had to keep reminding himself of that fact. And while she had vanished, leaving her youngest child alone in the world, England knew she would want him to remain true to his king and to fight for his people, even if said king and said people were not original to these lands.

But, faced with the impending invasion of France and his Norman allies, or else the attempt from Denmark to seize control in England's lands again, the Saxons were a much, much better option.

"Perfect night for a storm," a low, deep voice said beside him, and England looked up to see his guardian, Wessex.

After Britannia had died, England had been repeatedly stepped on by various groups looking to make names for themselves. His lands had eventually been split into the Seven Kingdoms, all of whom despised each other and squabbled over who had the right to care for little England. It had been Wessex, an impetuous and hot-headed young man, who had won out and ended up looking after England for a couple centuries now.

A man who was more of a brother to England than England's actual brothers.

"Maybe we'll get lucky and the storm will destroy the Norman fleet," England said.

"Since when have we ever been so fortunate?" said Wessex.

"We have to have some hope. I mean, Harold is the true and rightful king! No way will God let some smelly frog like William take over."

"I wouldn't be so quick to dismiss the dangers, Arthur. William and the Normans are not like other men from France. They are of the bloodline of our old enemies the Vikings. Brutal, vindictive, and cruel in their bloodlust."

England shivered and pulled his green, woolen cloak tighter around him, telling himself it was just the chill night air that made him tremble so. Wessex gave him a tired smile and stooped down to rest a hand on England's shoulder.

"Do not worry, Arthur," he said. "I will do everything I can to keep you free from this new enemy. Even if I have to die to do so."

"Don't say that!" England felt tears welling in his eyes, his little hands reaching out to grab Wessex by the front of his tunic. "Don't ever say you'll die for me. I can't be alone again! I can't! I'm just a child! How will I survive if you aren't here to protect me?!"

"Easy, there, lad!" Wessex took England's hands in his, dropping to his knees before the little nation, as green eyes met blue. "I don't intend to leave you. God-willing, I've still got some years left in me."

"Then don't ever say there's a chance you could go! Everyone else has left me. Mother, my brothers and sister, Essex, Sussex, Kent, East Anglia, Mercia, Northumbria…they've all left me in one way or another." England threw his arms around Wessex's neck. "I can't lose you, too."

Wessex patted England's back, gently shushing him as he sobbed out his fears.

"Don't cry, lad," said Wessex. "Warriors aren't supposed to cry. Never let anyone see your tears. We have to always be strong, at least on the outside."

England sniffled, trying to fight the tears down.

"I didn't mean to upset you, Arthur," said Wessex calmly. "But you know I can't promise that I will always be around. We nations…we're not invulnerable to everything, you know. I will do what I can to come back home safely, but, if I have to give my life for yours, you cannot ask me to refuse, because that's just what you do for the ones you care for.

"Arthur, if the worst should happen, I want you to promise me something."

"What?" said England, eyes still red from crying.

"I want you to never give up fighting. I need you to be a strong, brave warrior and keep my people…your people safe. Stay loyal to your king and to his family, no matter the cost."

"I-I'll try."

"I don't ask this lightly, Arthur. I have seen how you've been treated by foreign powers. Even we Saxons treated you unfairly for many years."

"You weren't so bad."

"Whether or not I wasn't 'so bad' is beside the point. You have been taken advantage of for so long, Arthur, and I haven't shown you the respect or trust you deserve. But I want to change that, now. I want to make sure you become the greatest nation this world has ever seen."

"B-But I'm so small! I'm just a little island. Not even a full island, either, just half of one."

Wessex smiled again and ruffled England's hair.

"Even the smallest nation can make a big difference," he said. "Now, are you ready to be a true kingdom? Will you keep this promise to me?"

"I…I promise, Aelfred."

England watched from atop the hill as Wessex marched beside King Harold within the ranks of the housecarls.

They had secured a strong position atop a steep slope. The forces of the would-be conqueror William would find it immensely difficult to face the Saxon shield-wall, even with their cavalry. Still, England did not like the looks of the French army below them. The Normans, alone, had already earned a reputation for brutality after their campaign against South Italy and Sicily. That was bad enough, but they were also being aided by Brittany, Flanders, Poitou, Anjou, and Maine. And, what was more, they were being supplied and encouraged in their attack by that whiny little Kingdom of France who had risen to power in the last sixty years or so – England hadn't met him (and he hoped he never would), but he already suspected this 'France' was a spoiled, rotten brat with a massive ego.

Of course, as he continued to watch the army below him, a sliver of fear entered his heart. For the first time in ages, England genuinely doubted the power of the Wessex Saxons.

When the battle finally began, though, England's worries eased considerably. William sent his archers in first, but their arrows merely bounced off the shield-wall and they soon began to run low on ammunition for their bows. King Harold did not employ archers, meaning there were no extra arrows for the Norman archers to collect for reloading.

William then sent in his spearmen, who charged up the hill and crashed against the Saxon line. England cheered as the Saxons held strong and, from behind the lines, launched throwing spears, axes, and stones at the Normans, who quickly began to falter. The Norman cavalry started to charge up to assist the rapidly-falling spearmen, but they, too, were repulsed by the strength of the housecarls and even the poorly-armed fyrd.

England, along with the other non-combatant Saxons, laughed as the Norman forces fell to the might of Saxon warriors and shouted encouragement to the brave defenders of the kingdom.

When the men of Brittany cried out "Retreat!" England was more confident and optimistic for the outcome of this battle than he had been about any other conflict. The Normans also began to cry that William, himself, was dead and that the battle was lost. A cruel satisfaction entered England's heart at the knowledge that the man who dared try to usurp his throne would never bother him or Wessex again.

If only he had realized it was too good to be true.

Riding high on their obviously certain victory, King Harold's brothers Gyrth and Leofwine broke rank and began to chase the Norman soldiers down the hill. They were followed swiftly by the fyrd, who dropped their positions in the shield-wall. When the elite housecarls soon joined them, England began to suspect something was wrong as King Harold shouted at the men to stop and return to formation – the desperation in his voice growing stronger as his troops ignored the command.

England ran forward to get a clearer view of what was happening and his heart dropped into his stomach as a towering man on horseback rode to meet the Norman cavalry, removing his helmet to reveal himself as none other than the supposedly-dead Duke William.

The Normans turned back around as the Saxons reached the bottom of the hill. And the slaughter began.

England was racing back to London as fast as he could. A young Saxon noble, a mere boy of fifteen, was hurrying at his side and watching his back. Edgar Aetheling, son of Edward the Exile, had tried to serve his kinsman and king who had welcomed him to England so courteously after his family's exile had been rescinded. He had wanted to fight, but Harold had ordered him to remain on the sidelines.

"We're almost there," Edgar said breathlessly as they ran along the darkened road.

England did not respond. His mind was filled with the images of all he had seen, all he had lost, within the space of a single day.

King Harold had followed his troops and tried to regain a semblance of order, even as the Normans tricked the Saxon soldiers into breaking formation several times with fake retreats. Harold had nearly withdrawn from the battle, altogether, until he saw the broken bodies of Gyrth and Leofwine, so mutilated by the Normans he only barely recognized them. This ignited in King Harold a powerful rage that drove him to fight like an animal until the last rays of the sun began to fade and the last Saxon warrior lay dead.

Wessex had been at the king's side until the very end.

In the heat of battle, no one knew who finally felled King Harold, but England had seen an arrow hit the king just as a mounted Norman rode him down and trampled him beneath the hooves of his horse. When Wessex turned to avenge his king, a smirking Norman drove a spear through Wessex's throat. In that moment, a searing pain coursed through England and he knew…Wessex was gone. Forever.

"We're here!" Edgar exclaimed.

England barely registered what the young lordling said, still wracked as he was by the numbness of losing the closest thing he had to real family left. Edgar, moved by a frantic determination to get to their destination, picked England up and placed him on his back so that he could move get them there more quickly.

The teenage boy pelted through the streets of London town, earning many stares from the people. Up to the meeting hall of the Witenagemot, a council of the Saxon ruling elite, Edgar burst into the chamber to meet the startled, elderly lords.

"The king is dead," Edgar proclaimed. He paused to let England down off his back. "The Normans have routed our forces at Hastings and make for London, as we speak."

The lords began to murmur fearfully. Many of them had sons who had fallen on that field, and listening to young Edgar recount the callous way the Saxon soldiers' bodies were left out to rot or thrown into the sea like rubbish rather than be given Christian burial enraged them and urged them to action.

"What is your name, boy?" one of the lords asked.

"I am Edgar Aetheling, son of Edward Aetheling, son of Edmund Ironside," Edgar stated proudly.

Another murmur rippled through the court. They had heard rumors that the grandson of Edmund Ironside had been brought back home to England after King Edward the Confessor learned that his nephew Edward Aetheling had survived the murder attempt against him by the Danish king Cnut – King Edward had mourned for the boy who had been his namesake, never finding out until a few years ago that both Edward and his brother Edmund had escaped and found refuge in the court of the king of Hungary. King Edward had invited his nephew to England – and, according to some reports, desired to name him his heir – shortly after discovering his survival, only for young Edward to mysteriously die upon reaching his homeland. No one had seen Edward Aetheling's family since they followed him to England, as it was believed the king sought to keep them hidden from the power-hungry factions until Edgar was old enough to succeed to the throne.

"It is true!" another lord called out. "He is the rightful heir to the throne!"

England barely heard the cries of the lords as they scrambled to officially acknowledge and crown the fifteen-year-old Edgar their king. Such was their desperation to try and provide the realm with a true Saxon heir to the throne that they were blind to the futility of the effort. William of Normandy would never accept any king of England but himself.

The night was inky-black as England led the little party of women and children to the docks.

The last of House Godwin. The family of King Harold. No matter what England or the Saxon people, in general, had felt about the power-hungry Godwins, they were the family of an English king and deserved better than whatever cruel fate William had in store for them. Edgar might be England's king for the moment, but he was just a boy, uncrowned, with no true authority or even an army at his back. William would not dare kill him, as young Edgar was the great-nephew of Edward the Confessor, but the boy-king would doubtless end his days as a hostage of Normandy.

King Harold's family had no such protection.

His sister Edith might, as the widow of King Edward, but Harold's own wife, sons, and daughters were in imminent danger. That was why England had arranged to smuggle them out in the dead of night. It was his final act of loyalty to Wessex, to save the king's family.

"Is t'is everyone?" a hooded figure asked from the little boat, the voice was high and carried an Irish lilt.

England's breath hitched in his throat as the figure looked up. He knew those green eyes – they were the same as his own. For the first time in decades, England gazed upon the face of his older sister.

"This is everyone, Erin," he said.

She nodded and turned away. And that was it. No fond, familial embrace, no apology for abandoning him for centuries, not even an acknowledgement of England as her little brother. Nothing. He supposed she considered it an enormous favor helping his royal family escape to Dublin. It had been hell contacting her on such short notice, but she couldn't even be bothered to look him square in the eye and call him her little brother.

Words could not express how deeply that stung.

She quietly beckoned over two other figures in the boat. Both were boys, though still older than England. One boy drew back his hood and England recognized him as his brother, Northern Ireland. It had long been curious to him how there were two personifications for the little isle of Ireland, North and South, but Patrick and Erin had always been there together, one at the other's side since the olden days, perhaps serving to prophesy some future split in their island kingdom. Northern Ireland paid him not more mind than their sister had.

The second boy also looked up and England had to fight back a snarl at the cold, indifferent face of Norway. At least it wasn't Denmark. England would have taken far more issue if that oafish Viking was present. So England held back his anger at one of his former tormentors, for these three were the only chance of escape for the Godwin family.

"Can we hurry this up?" Norway said in a bored tone. "If we want to get to Dublin before the Normans reach London, I suggest you get in the boat."

Queen Ealdgyth was first into the boat, taking care as she was lowered down to not jostle about too much lest she harm her unborn child – a child who would never know his father. She was followed by Harold's mother, Lady Gytha Thorkelsdóttir, and Harold's sister Gunnhilda who then helped Ealdgyth to guide the children into the boat. Godwin, Edmund, Magnus, and little Gytha. However, they were one child short.

"Dear God, where is little Gunhild?" Ealdgyth said, panic seizing her. They had all thought Gunhild, the elder of Harold's two daughters, had followed after them when they left.

"She is not coming with us," said Lady Gytha, Harold's proud mother. "She told me she is not abandoning the land of her father."

"And you let her stay behind?!"

The Godwin matriarch drew herself up, her expression cowing her daughter-in-law. And Ealdgyth was no shrinking violet, being of the line of the earls of Mercia, yet the older woman towered over her with a commanding air that would be fitting of an empress.

"Gunhild intends to make her own way from here on out," she said. "She informed me before we left that she will find refuge somewhere…perhaps a convent…and will do what she can to protect the family lands and property from those rotten Normans."

"I'm not letting my little sister put her life at risk," said Godwin fiercely.

"It is not your decision, boy. Now sit down and hold your tongue."

Lady Gytha had always been a formidable woman. It was a quality she had passed down to her daughter Edith – which was likely why the former queen had gotten into so many arguments with the otherwise mild-mannered King Edward. Indeed, all the children of Earl Godwin of Wessex and Gytha Thorkelsdóttir had that natural fire in their hearts.

"We are leaving," Lady Gytha said firmly. "Now."

"Safe journey," England said quietly. "All of you."

Little Gytha, Harold's younger daughter, started crying softly. Far from her namesake's domineering nature, Princess Gytha had always been sensitive and sweet.

"I don't want to go," she said. "I want my father."

Ealdgyth took the girl into her arms, trying to calm her. England stooped down, kneeling on the edge of the dock, so that he could see the young princess clearly.

"I am sorry you have to leave, my princess," he said kindly. "But your father would want you to be brave and strong, a true Englishwoman. No matter where you go or what you do, always remember that you are of these lands, that your father was a king of England."

The child wiped her eyes on her sleeve and gazed up at the young nation. She was still sad, England could sense it, but there was something else there, now. A feeling of pride, of dignity. She was not alone in that, either. Her brothers sat straighter and their eyes blazed with a cold, hard determination.

All too soon Norway shoved the boat off from the dock. And, with that, England watched the last traces of King Harold's line disappear into the darkness forever.

"Starting today, you are my servant!"

That was what the boy with the long, golden-blonde hair had said after shoving England to the ground.

His assumption had been wrong, it seemed. The Kingdom of France was much, much worse than he had anticipated. He was everything England hated; arrogant, entitled, spoiled beyond belief, and filled with such a sense of superiority it was a wonder the older boy had any room for anything resembling a personality in that bloated ego of his.

To make matters worse, France was backed up in his deplorable behavior by Normandy. A huge, hulking giant of a personification, his blonde hair cut into the round bowl-cut of a Norman knight and his dark blue eyes stern and lacking in compassion. He was like France's personal attack-dog, and England knew he wouldn't hesitate to strike England if he dared to fight back against France's petty cruelty.

Even several years after William of Normandy had stolen the English throne, France persistently found amusement in humiliating or hurting England. Many good English nobles were either hostages or had their lands taken and given to Normans. Theft of land and property wasn't enough, though – the Normans cut a bloody, brutal path through the kingdom, slaughtering any who dared oppose them (or even those who didn't but happened to run into them), looting and burning villages and towns, and raping countless Saxon women and girls.

And France just sat there in the throne room and mocked England's suffering.

The worst twist of the metaphorical knife was when the late King Harold's three eldest sons tried to launch a rebellion against William. They failed…miserably. No one knew what happened to them after the rebellion, though it was the common belief at court that all three boys were dead. As if to add insult to injury, Ulf Haroldson was captured by William after he tracked Queen Ealdgyth to Chester where her brothers had hidden her. Little Ulf, a boy barely old enough to even understand who he was, was one of the twin boys born to Queen Ealdgyth after her escape. In the confusion of the attack, Ulf had been left behind while his mother and twin brother fled.

Ulf and Harold Haroldson. Two brothers who would never see each other again as one was sent to spend the rest of his days in captivity whilst the other was in exile with his mother at the court of the king of Norway. Little Gytha had been left behind in Denmark after her older brothers traveled there in a vain attempt to persuade their cousin the king of Denmark to assist their rebellion. The last England had heard, the poor, frightened little girl was arranged to marry a prince in a far-off, desolate land.

France got a considerable amount of laughs jeering at England for the tragic fate of the Godwins.

Things hadn't fared much better for the Aethelings, either. Edgar never even made it to an official coronation before William turned up in London with his army. All the lords and clergy who had so fervently attempted to elect the boy as king suddenly turned around and shoved the child out the gate to kneel before the Norman duke. At least Edgar and his family managed to escape William's grasp after his surrender, making it safely to Scotland.

Edgar's sister Margaret had swiftly captured the heart of King Malcolm and was now the man's queen, and the Scottish king was more than happy to assist his new brother-in-law Edgar in causing trouble for William. So, England supposed, some small hope still lingered.

The Scots apparently hated the Normans as much as England and the Saxons did.

England still thought about Wessex.

There were days he would sneak out of the castle that had become his prison and sit beside the Thames, remembering with sad fondness the many hours he had spent with the Saxon kingdom. He did not cry for Wessex, as he knew Wessex would have chided him for it, but he embraced the mournful ache inside of him as he tried to acknowledge the fact that the nation he loved like a true brother would never come home.

A brother not of blood but of choice.

"I had a letter today," England said to the river.

He kept his gaze fixed upon the river, hoping it would carry his words off to the sea where Wessex's body had been so unceremoniously dumped along with that of King Harold.

"It was from little Princess Gytha," he continued. "Well, she's not so little now. And not just a princess but Grand Princess. She says King Sweyn of Denmark arranged for her to marry one of the most powerful men in Europe. Well, eastern Europe, some place called 'Kiev,' but Prince Vladimir is still widely respected and has a lot of influence with Constantinople and the Byzantines."

The river just flowed on, rushing ever onward to the sea.

"She says she's happy. Vladimir doesn't give her much power, she says, so I know that her grandmother and aunt would be furious if they knew. But Gytha's always been more like her mother. Gentle, kind, not a trace of guile or deviousness."

It was why Harold doted on his little girl. She was the closest thing he had left of his first wife, Edith Swan-neck. Beautiful, loving, and so genuine and sincere in her nature. It had broken Harold's heart when the Saxon lords demanded he send his wife away, denouncing their marriage rites as invalid because they had followed the Danish hand-fast ceremony, so he could marry Ealdgyth to get support from the nobles of Mercia.

Gytha had always been her mother writ small. The boys and the other girl, Gunhild, were Godwins through and through, filled with temper and ambition. Gytha just wanted love and happiness.

"She has everything she really wants," said England. "She has a comfortable home, a strong husband who has promised to keep her safe, and several healthy children." England chuckled softly. "She says her eldest boy, Mstislav – God, these foreign names are so odd – she says he's a Godwin right to the core. All piss and vinegar, that one."

England felt the breeze brushing against his face.

"I also found out where young Gunhild ended up," he said. "Turns out she was hiding in Wilton Abbey over in Wiltshire, reading everything she can get her hands on. I only found out about it because she just eloped with some Breton noble. Chap called 'Alan the Red.' I was outraged, at first. I mean, the man's in his fifties and she's still a slip of a girl. But then I found out that Alan was the one who took her mother's land holdings. I'd say it's only a matter of days before he suffers an 'accident.'"

England almost thought he heard laughter on the wind.

"Wish I could say with certainty what happened to the boys, though. I've heard rumors that Magnus survived and has joined a monastery. But Godwin and Edmund…I don't know if they are alive or dead. I can't sense their presence anymore."

He forced back the tears welling in his eyes.

"At least the two youngest boys have some form of happiness. Little Harold is a warrior in Norway's royal court. He's well-liked and popular and I think he'll be all right. And Ulf, well, his uncle has been watching out for him. Wulfnoth has no children of his own and having his nephew with him has raised his spirits in his captivity. I've even heard that Ulf has been receiving training as a knight."

'So long as the boy remains loyal to William,' was left unsaid. England knew little Ulf was in a precarious position. As Harold's son, he was a potential threat, which was why he was being kept in indefinite captivity with his uncle, a man who had been a prisoner in Normandy since before the war for the throne even truly started. It was strange, though, that William should permit the boy training in the skills of a Norman cavalryman. Maybe there was something about Ulf's situation that moved even the stone heart of William of Normandy to pity. Or perhaps there was a lingering fondness for the memory of Ulf's father, as Harold Godwinson had, at one point, been William's friend.

"I wish you were here," England said after a lengthy pause. "I miss you. I even miss King Harold. He might not have been the best king, but he was our king. I hate William. I hate Normandy. And I despise France."

"You should be more careful with your words, boy," said a gruff voice behind him.

England jolted and fell over as Normandy lumbered into view.

"I…I'm sorry…I…" England fumbled for words.

"Do not bother with some pathetic, fake apology," Normandy said, rolling his eyes. "Save them for someone who cares."

"Wh-what do you want with me?"

"I just thought I should give you the news that France is being sent back to the mainland again. This time for good."

England's heart began to hammer. France would take a month or so every year to visit England's lands and bully him before going back to his own country. To hear that France was going away for good…it was like music to England's ears. But it also made the child suspicious and he raised an eyebrow at Normandy.

"Why is he not returning?" said England.

"Because I'm sick of the little brat, that's why," Normandy snapped. "He thinks because I am his vassal that I will do whatever he says. I was formed by the sons of Vikings and I do not bow to spoiled boys who dress like little girls."

In that instant, England's respect for Normandy tripled.

"I felt sorry for the boy when I first met him," Normandy continued. "He's an orphan, you know. And his father was an absolute bastard when he was still alive. But just because a man has a sad past does not excuse his actions."

"And what excuses yours?" England said, thinking of all the misery Normandy inflicted on England's people.

"I do not have any excuses. I never pretended to be a good man. I live for and by the sword, boy. I have always been seen as scum by the French nobles, all Normans are, so I act the way that is expected of me. I will pay my dues for it someday and I know it. But that boy France, he has become so full of self-pity that he thinks he can do no wrong. That is what I hate, boy. A man must always be accountable for his own actions."

It definitely put a new face on matters. England still despised France, but at least he understood why the boy was such a terror. He believed that his unhappy early years had earned him a pass to behave as he pleased. England's own experience had taught him the opposite, that bad experiences meant you had to work hard to be a better person than the ones who hurt you.

"Look, boy," Normandy continued with an impatient huff. "I am not asking you to like me. But, as I am in charge of you, I want us to be able to work together. These last few years, from what I've seen, you are much more bearable to be around than France. So, if you'll stop with all the rebellions, I will treat you like a partner from here on out. All I ask is your loyalty to my cause. What do you say, boy? Truce?"

England stared at Normandy for a moment. The blunt, hard-eyed man was offering to look out for him and show him a bit of respect. England did not like Normandy, even though his estimation of the man had gone up considerably in the last few minutes, but he could see the potential in a partnership with the brutal soldier nation. Normandy would never replace Wessex, but England could understand the importance of having a strong, older nation guiding and teaching him now that Wessex was dead. And England knew, as his people did, that there was a shared goal developing between both Saxons and Normans – that of forging a powerful nation independent of France.

"Truce," England said with a cold smile.

Author's Note: There's my take on the Norman Conquest.

I have been thinking about early English history, lately, and it got me wondering what England's relationship with the Seven Kingdoms was like (and, yes, they really are called the "Seven Kingdoms" just like in a certain medieval fantasy novel known to use elements from English history). I came to the conclusion that, after Britannia died, England was basically abandoned by his siblings and ended up being looked after by the Saxon kingdoms, specifically by Wessex (the most powerful kingdom, once ruled by the famous Alfred the Great *hint*hint*) who became an older brother figure to England.

I also decided that England and Wessex's relationship should be something of a parallel to England's relationship with America. A lost little boy, whose mother vanished as foreigners took over her lands, leaving the boy to be raised by one of his invaders, but having a closeness and friendship with his new guardian that helped make him strong in the face of hardships.

I see France and Normandy's relationship being a bit like that between Prince Joffrey and Sandor Clegane in Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire. Normandy doesn't particularly like France, but he's loyal to him as a vassal (until he decides to say "fuck the king" and strikes out on his own). France, by this point, has basically got no positive influences in his life – his parents, one of whom was abusive, are both dead, his sisters are only interested in looking after themselves, and his vassals are either warring with each other or acting like sycophants to him, so of course France is a bit messed up and going to use England as a punching bag to try and cope with his plethora of issues (it doesn't excuse it, but it's my explanation for why little France acts like a bully to England – even in canon you see France picking on England in a way that, to me, looks like a victim venting his anger by kicking someone he considers weaker than himself).

Saxon military terms: Fyrd are poorly-armed militia units. Housecarls are elite, mostly noble-born warriors.

Edgar Aetheling's sister Margaret is St. Margaret of Scotland, wife of Malcolm III the son of King Duncan (you know, that King Duncan, the one killed by a certain person in a certain Scottish play by a certain William Shakespeare).

Not a lot is known with certainty about Harold Godwinson's children or their fates. In fact, his two youngest sons, Harold and Ulf, are not even verified to have been twins or even born to the same mother (it is a theory, as both boys have been listed as sons of Harold's second wife and born in 1067, meaning Ealdgyth was pregnant when Harold died, though a lot of sources are really muddled). Even the fate of his daughter Gytha is disputed, but there is a lot of evidence that she was the first wife of Vladimir II Monomakh of Kievan Rus' and the mother of Mstislav the Great.