Disclaimer: Leof Takahashi [Lord Takahashi] owns Yu-Gi-Oh! I merely am copying him.
Warnings: Same as before—the anti-Norman part doesn't come yet, but it will. William shall pay for harming my darling Saxons. And people will die. Probably because there is a war involved.
Very, very slight historical error in the first chapter—playing cards were not invented until later on in history. I refused to believe that gambling didn't exist, I just can't find out how they gambled. Anyway, the error has been fixed…as of 1/30/04.
********
When the witan received William's message, the answer they gave him was short and to the point: Harold was king, and anointed by the priests. This was sent off, leaving most people confused.
But to the few who did not pass William off as someone merely putting in a belated bid for the throne, but as an enemy, smelt the sour tang of war in the air. Harold was one of these—and accordingly, the fyrd, the army that was gathered from the whole countryside, was summoned.
Cyneheard was somewhat displeased to find that he was a summoner. As a matter of fact, he was very displeased. He thought about this as he sat on his shaggy little horse, alone, and very, very bored. There was no Brihtric to complain to or play chess with, nor any Cynewulf to amuse, or even some other thick-headed house-carl for company. There was only the horse—which was not that much.
In an attempt to entertain himself, he started to recite snatches of poems the scop had sung for the thegns and house-carls in the mead-hall—anything and everything he could remember.
And so it was that he came to the Maldon poem. It had stuck in his mind, despite his attempts to dislodge it. The poem he found infuriating. Why write a song about someone's loss? Why glorify a man who failed?
He passed over it irritably. But the poem refused to leave—possibly because of Cyneheard's dislike of it. Lines ran through his head almost at random, and in haphazard order, as he fixed his eyes grimly on the ground and attempted to ignore his own thoughts.
Then the Earl was overswayed by his heart's arrogance…Yes, thought Cyneheard. He was arrogant. He behaved like a child and not a true thegn, and betrayed his lord…
He deliberately started thinking about other things; his destination, for one, and how he should behave to the people living within the village. He had already thought through most of that…but it was better than nothing.
********
As night fell upon Cyneheard and his horse, across the water, Robert was staring up a box.
It was a golden box. A very pretty little golden box—well, not really little, actually rather large (for a box), but it wasn't gigantic.
That's what Robert thought, at least. Though his thoughts were not staying very straight at all. That probably explained why he was gambling with a soldier he had met on the street. It might also explain his obsession with that box. And the thoughts themselves could probably be tracked to some of the wine he had been drinking.
His gambling partner, however, was not suffering greatly. He was used to wine, and gambling, and strange obsessions. For a normal soldier, Alain contained more flair and excitement than Robert. He also had much better luck—Robert had been losing steadily for as long as they had been playing.
And how long that had been was anyone's guess.
Alain was now regarding Robert with something akin to awe. "You lost again…"
"Did I?" asked Robert. He blinked down at the dice. "Oh. I did."
There was something wrong, Alain resolved, in letting someone with this luck come under the influence of wine, and allowing him to then gamble.
"Robert," he said, looking at the somewhat confused soldier, "I think you need to stop now."
Robert made a noise like a hurt animal. "But…but the box!"
"The box will be here another time," said Alain. "Go home. Get some sleep."
"One more try," said Robert. "Just one more. Then I'll go home and sleep."
Alain shrugged and allowed Robert to toss the first roll. To their extreme surprise, two fives came up. It appeared even the worst luck in the world ended.
Alain tossed his own die, and they were both surprised again. Snake eyes. The gambling master had lost.
********
Stephen was having the nightmare. Again.
He was running, always running, though he left nowhere and reached nowhere. And a thing was chasing him. He would run farther and it would pursue; he would dodge (how, he was not quite sure, since he never went anywhere), and it was always there; he could not escape, but he frantically tried to.
And then it would catch up to him. Stephen would turn around, and look straight into the bloodshot, maddened eyes of himself, and he could hear, as he woke, laughter.
It was always the same, never changing, but each dream becoming worse and worse for the knowledge of what was to come. Yet he never told anyone about it. Stephen knew they would tell him to talk to a priest. And he would not do that. Never. He saw them at the services. He could not take more than that. Priests were painful for him.
Stephen shook the fear from himself and went back to sleep. He did not dream again.
********
It had been a long time since Cyneheard had slept outside the meadhall. He heartily hoped it would not happen again until there was really a war. He got back on the horse, feeling sore, and went off again. If he reached Horstede by noon, he might get the thegn—Ulfer—whoever he was—to leave by tomorrow. Then Cyneheard would be free to go back to Harold and Cynewulf, and all would be well again.
In Horstede, Deor woke up in a far better mood than Cyneheard. True, there was work to do, but unlike Cyneheard, Deor had the advantage of a bed. Yawning, he accepted a piece of bread from his father and dressed himself.
Deor and his father were cottagers—they held only a small amount of land from Ulfer, and they worked it only once a week for him (though three times at harvest). This left them free the other five working days to tend the garden by the house and also to their real business—bees. They were bee-keepers.
Deor was glad of this, because he was not very strong. He had taken after his mother's side—and they all tended to be more grace than strength. As it was, everything could be completed with relative ease, even the one day he and his father tilled the land.
But first, to check on the garden.
He walked out onto the dewy earth and walked over to the garden, checking to make sure the plants were sound. Lifting up a leaf, he was surprised to see something glint in the sunlight. It was metal—a yellow metal, from what he could see. Gold.
Shocked, he reached out to it. His hand had almost touched it, when his father called.
"Everything all right?"
"Yes!" called Deor, scrambling to his feet. He pushed the shining metal to the back of his mind. It couldn't have been gold. There was no gold in Horstede. It was probably some sort of rock…
Someone watched him run off. Two emotionless eyes followed the boy as he whipped around the house, and then continued to watch, as if they could still see him.
The boy would discover the Ring when the time was right. And only when the time was right. All things must fall into place accordingly. Then Atemu could fight against his enemies one last time, and be victorious. Everything drew near.
It would all be over before the year was out.
The eyes closed, and the watcher slowly disappeared into the shadows he lived in.
As he left, the sound of a horn rent the air.
.
Around every village, there were two fences, the outermost of which surrounded its territory. Here every stranger was required to blow a horn, to show that they were not an enemy. But there were not many strangers that came to Horstede.
Which is why everyone dropped what they were doing and ran to see who was blowing that horn. Cottagers or villeins, they all shot to the edge of the town.
The stranger was tall house-carl, with cold eyes and a colder feel—which contrasted strangely with the shaggy beast he rode. An immediate air of defensiveness settled on the folk there. If the house-carl noticed, he paid no attention, but proclaimed loudly that he was here to speak with the thegn, Ulfer.
As it happened, he was in luck. Ulfer was home, about to leave, but still home. He too had come when the horn had sounded, and when he introduced himself, the house-carl dismounted.
"I am Cyneheard, house-carl of King Harold. I am here to ask you, and any men you can spare with you, to come to the fyrd."
"There is war?" asked Ulfer.
"There will be," snapped Cyneheard. "Otherwise, I wouldn't be here."
"Is it the Welsh? …The Danes?" asked Ulfer.
"Neither. It's William of Normandy—and if we leave now, I can get you to the coast. So do you mind getting ready?"
Ulfer and several others turned to gather what they could. Wulfgar grinned at Deor.
"A war! This is my chance to do something! To make my name remembered!" He walked off, grinning broadly.
Deor smiled back, weakly. There was a tap on his shoulder, and he turned to see Cyneheard.
"Staying behind?" asked the soldier, dryly. The unspoken word of "coward" hung the air, and Deor was anxious to clear the matter up.
"I would come if I could—but I'm not very strong…"
Cyneheard looked him over, then nodded. "You wouldn't last two seconds. Though it is possible none of the others can…" He noted Deor's look of alarm, and shrugged. "It's war. People die. If they weren't your friends, they would be someone else's."
"What is the war over?" asked Deor, curiously.
"William," said Cyneheard, "believes Harold has stolen the throne which was promised to him. In fact, he says Harold promised it to him—thereby calling our king an oath-breaker. He declared war, and so now the English go off to protect their shores…"
Deor, leaving the house-carl, was confused. He didn't know much about Normandy—only that they lived across the water. But he did remember hearing once that they fought on horses.
How was William getting his horses across water?
He finally decided that the rulers must know what they were doing.
After Deor left, Cyneheard proceeded to pace up and down the village, waiting for them to finish. It was obvious to everyone that the man was not high on patience (or courtesy).
"Won't he stay still?" Ælfwynn asked Wulfgar's sister, Wærthryth.
"He must be worried," said Wærthryth. "He's probably seen many battles—it must be hard for him…"
Something was hard for Cyneheard, but it was not the thought of battle. It was waiting for the villagers to move. They couldn't have that much to take. And it was only half a day to the coast…
In this way Cyneheard waited until it was evident that Horstede was not moving until tomorrow. Then he finally stopped his ceaseless pacing and went to Ulfer, and informed that due his villagers' slowness, he (Cyneheard) would be forced to stay the night. (The villagers immediately added tact to their list of things Cyneheard needed. Whether the soldier knew it—or cared—he would probably be a topic of conversation for quite some time.)
Horstede was a very small village, and since Ulfer now had a guest, naturally the entire place turned up at his home and made themselves comfortable. They also bombarded Cyneheard with questions about the court.
"Do they recite many poems?"
"Yes."
"Do you listen to them?"
"Yes."
"Would you recite some?"
"No."
"What are women wearing?"
"About the same thing you are…"
"What's your favorite poem?"
"The one about Beowulf."
"Would you recite that?"
"No."
"Have you fought many battles?"
"Yes."
"What about a riddle?"
"No."
"Where did you fight them?"
"Wales, mostly."
"Are you really a house-carl?"
"Yes…"
After a while, the villagers stopped pestering him and returned to their own homes. And, tired, Cyneheard went to sleep. Soon the village was immersed in slumber, waiting until the rising of the sun to wake—and go to war.
Someone watched Cyneheard sleep. He reached out and soundlessly withdrew the house-carl's seax, a knife carried by most Saxons. One dark finger ran down the blunt edge of the blade.
So they were all slowly falling together—pharaoh, robber, and priest all. The last of three was here before him.
Everything was ready; everything was perfect.
All that had to happen was the war…
********
Cyneheard woke before the sun rose and was pleased—for Cyneheard—to see the villagers almost ready to leave. As the glimmer of the sun's fire crept across the horizon, he finally led those who could—or were willing—to fight away from the village.
After a while, someone asked him a question. It was a rather eager looking boy, possibly younger than Cyneheard. He had bright blond hair and large brown eyes, and reminded Cyneheard slightly of a puppy that Cynewulf was engaged in caring for. He immediately dismissed the resemblance as a passing fancy.
"Didn't you say the war was with Normandy?"
"Yes," said Cyneheard.
"Don't the Normans live across the water?"
"Yes. That's why we're defending the coast."
The boy blinked. "Then how will Duke William get here?"
"By boat, presumably. Unless it decides to freeze over for him specifically, so that he and his horses can ride across the ice."
"Why does he need horses?"
"Because," said Cyneheard, nearly out of patience, "that's how they fight. On horseback."
Wulfgar had never seen a war-horse. The horses in England were mainly of the same shaggy little type Cyneheard rode—never intended for war and never used that way.
"How do they—"
"Why don't you ask William?" snapped Cyneheard. "I'm sure he could answer all your questions—if he didn't imprison you first."
And with that statement, he stormed off ahead of the rest—still in sight, but annoyed. And the boy, for that time at least, asked no more questions.
********
The first person to make one seax joke will be killed slowly. You have been warned.
Anyway, I think I defined all the terms except for scop and thegn, so I'll define those. A scop was basically a guy that recited poems in the meadhall. And pronounce thegn "thane"—which is the way you are supposed to pronounce it—and I think you'll know what it means.
The meadhall, incidentally, wasn't where Anglo-Saxons went to get drunk. It was the king's hall, a place of fellowship, poetry…and mead. Hence the name.
I think that's it, so I'll reply to the reviews and then work on chapter three. (By the way, the notes are in bold because I wanted to make sure you didn't think this was part of the story…)
Oh. Question, question: Does anyone know what the English Channel was called around this time? I can't find that anywhere…
One more note, then I promise to shut up. People, I'm entering this into a contest. That means I want it to be as good as it possibly can be. So I desperately need criticism for this. I don't care if something seems trivial or unimportant. Please do not hesitate to offer some criticism. I will not be offended or hurt, as long as said criticism is constructive. So PLEASE criticize. I really, really need it. (gives puppy eyes to readers) And if you could tell me what I'm doing correctly as well, that would be a great help. But I want criticism more. GIMME GIMME GIMME!!!!
Mouself: Hey, Stephen means "Crowned One". Stop complaining. (whacks with spoon)
Nekostar 2: Thanks.
Angelkohaku: Note to self: Never talk about two stories at once…sorry for confusing you. Creepy fact, though—the Norman Conquest was a crazy, harebrained scheme that everyone thought was doomed to failure. That almost makes me respect William.
Almost.
And history RULES!!!!!!!!
demon angle: I am…
Little_Child_of_the_West_Wind: (scribbles down) Parts…were…hard to follow. Criticism! I hope this chapter was easier… If not, whack me with a dead salmon…
DaakuKitsune: Why would they remove my story? AAAAAAH! (runs around in circles) Nooooo!
When I learn Anglo-Saxon curses, I will tell you…
B/k: Why would I kill you?? I MUST HAVE CRITICISM! GIVE ME CRITICISM, CRUEL WORLD!
Tamara Raymond: History textbooks are useless for Anglo-Saxon England. Want to hear what the textbooks say? Read the quotation at the beginning of the chapter. That's a direct quote (which I don't own). I read Anglo-Saxon books…my precious… (zombie walks to her shelf dedicated to Anglo-Saxon themed books and hugs them) Angloooooooooo…Saaaaaaaaaaaa…xooooooooooon…
: I'm glad you liked the chess game. Chess is fun… I stink at it, but it is still fun…
Silver Dragon Golden Dragon: ALT 0198 for uppercase…can't remember lowercase. I'd read High Crystal Guardian's stuff, but I can't, because it is PG-13… But thanks for your review! And update!
Tuulikki: I'm glad you waited, because this is the only thing I've written that is of any value… History is good. Very, very good. Except for the Renaissance. (hiss) (boo) (claws on blackboard) I'm glad everyone is in character—scary, I actually managed it for once…
Die, Normans! (deranged cackle)