William the Conqueror had an extremely short son named Robert. I assure you that is entirely a coincidence.
——
To move to an earlier time and another place, William was having difficulties. The army of Normandy could do many things.
Sailing was not one of them.
Exactly a month after they had arrived at the River Dives, the wind had finally blown the proper direction. The soldiers had run for the boats, piled in, exited triumphantly—
—and the wind started to blow west, as the horizon suddenly grew dark.
The storm might have been horrible or mild, but when no one can sail, there's very little difference. Men were frantically praying—screams of horses ripped through the night—men on board slipped on the wet deck and clutched at anything, everything they could see.
"We're going to die," muttered Stephen, as he went flying off and hit someone in the stomach.
"Don't—be—ridiculous," Alain said. "Just—a little—rough weather—"
A large amount of water hit him in the face, pushing him into Robert. Stephen slowly started to crawl towards them over the deck's surface. It struck him suddenly how easy it would be to kill someone, here. Just a little shove—no one would notice, everyone would think it was an accident—
He hated Alain.
He hated his smug, stupid face; his assured voice; his self-confident air; his disrespect for everything…
Just a little shove.
No one would ever know…
No, he snapped, feeling suddenly angry—and frightened.
Those weren't his thoughts: those were the thoughts of his dreams…
The boat tilted, and he slid backwards, hitting the same person in the stomach again. Receiving his own face-full of water, he was completely jerked away from murder. At that moment, he was too concerned with keeping his own life.
.
13th of September.
The men sat, shivering, at the harbor of St. Valery, frightened and tired. The Channel, apparently having had its joke, did nothing unusual.
"That was…" Robert searched for the right word. Frightening, yes, but that wasn't what he wanted.
Unexpected? queried a voice in his head.
No, thought Robert.
Overwhelming? came the voice again.
Hm… Yes…
"Overwhelming," he finished, to discover that no one had been paying any attention to him. The short knight sighed, and ambled after his friends—who were, as usual, biting each other's heads off.
It never occurred to him to wonder who, exactly, had been talking.
——
The short man and Tostig looked at each for a moment without speaking. The twenty house-carls who were guarding the man were too busy glaring at the enemy, and enemy too busy glaring back, for anyone else to notice this.
"Your brother sends you greetings," said the short man, in English. The speech interrupted the glaring contest, and the house-carls had a glorious moment of flaunting the fact that they understood English and that the Danes did not, before the short man continued.
"He offers you peace and all of Northumbria."
The house-carls suddenly transferred all of their attention to the short man. The Danes understood this meant something Undesirable was happening, and jeered accordingly.
"…a third of the kingdom," the short man concluded, paying no heed to house-carls or Danes.
Tostig responded sharply, angrily. "That is different," he hissed, "from the trouble and shame of last winter."
More of an annoyance, thought Cyneheard, who was in the front row of house-carls. Shameful, perhaps, that we didn't kill you, but everyone makes a mistake…
"If I had had this offer then, many a man who is dead now would have been alive, and England would have been a better place," concluded Tostig righteously.
Cyneheard had a look of pure derision on his face—Tostig noticed this, and raised his voice, becoming shrill and quite angry.
"If I accept, what will my brother offer King Harald Hardrada for his work?"
For the first time, the short man smiled—or smirked. "He said something about that too…" He paused, as if recalling something only half-heard. "Something about six feet of English earth—or," he added, "a bit more as he is such a big man."
Far too big for his horse, Cyneheard added silently. (As the short man had been preparing to speak to Tostig, Harald had fallen off of a little English mount.) It must be crumbling beneath that weight…
Tostig flushed, and then recovered whatever remained of his composure. His answer was flung defiantly at the short man's face. "Then go tell King Harold to be ready for battle…"
Cyneheard listened as Tostig continued. The fool—he's been offered honor and power enough, and he's about to die for refusing it. We can't lose to the Danes.
The short man nodded as Tostig finished, then turned his horse back to the main body of the English army. The house-carls followed accordingly.
"Who was that man?" asked Harald, as the twenty house-carls melted into the army.
"Harold," answered Tostig.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Harald snapped. "He would never have escaped."
"I would rather he was my killer," replied Tostig, abruptly calm and collected, "than I his."
"Quite a small man," said Harald. Then he remembered he was speaking to the small man's brother, and hastily added, "But he stood well in his stirrups."
Tostig made no reply—the English army dismounted—the armor-less Danes prepared themselves—
English and Danish armies smashed into each other, in a whirlwind of quiet, bloody chaos. Axes smashed open skulls and spears jutted out from chests—swords glistened, red and beautiful, in the light of a beautiful September afternoon.
Smash—hack—stab—the money-owing house-carl fell, but took his killer down with him.
The English farmers and the people of York swarmed over the Danes, centuries of hatred giving power to men unsuited for battle.
Men slipped and were crushed.
Men stood strong and were split open.
Drive them to the Bridge, the English army told itself.
The Danes wavered, fell back, and retreated to the bridge—all but one went over it. Berserkers are not known for their skills at moving backwards, and only a berserker would have stayed on that bridge.
A few English charged at him—only a few would fit on the bridge.
Swish.
A few English fell dead; slit by a battle-ax.
Again some ran to kill—and again, they were killed.
The crazy picture of the English army defeated by one man danced through Cyneheard's head. That could not happen—he refused to let it.
Now the English wavered, frightened of this demon-man, who would not acknowledge his wounds or fatigue, who would stand on the bridge forever and slash open everyone who approached him. Cyneheard could hear the mental sneering of the Danes—these English, the Danes said, they talk well, but when up against someone who is a real fighter, they are worth nothing—or about as much, perhaps, as that barrel in the water…
Barrel.
Barrels, thought Cyneheard. They float and carry things. I wonder…
Automatically, he started to add up the weight of the armor and weapons in his mind. If he dropped all the weapons but one—if he dropped his helmet—
The barrel drew closer to the bridge. It was a big barrel, too…probably big enough for, say, a house-carl…
You'll sink and drown and be a fool, snapped the part of him not swept away by the battle, not completely entranced by the miraculous barrel. That part of his mind was left behind with the discarded battle-ax and helmet. With his mail and his sword, Cyneheard stalked the barrel—aimed for his prey—leapt—
He hit the barrel with an overpowering wham! which caused heaven and earth to tremble, and the waters to rip asunder. With his mail screeching like a banshee, he crouched in the loudly creaking barrel. There was no possibility, he thought, of anyone putting these noises down to wind.
(The Danes and the English wondered briefly why there was a faint creaking noise, then put it down to the bridge.)
The barrel bobbed along, going more slowly now because of the added weight. The bridge grew nearer—nearer—
Strike.
Cyneheard stabbed upwards, rearing up from the barrel. The berserker fell, gutted—and the barrel gave way, sending Cyneheard into the waters of the river along with the corpse of the berserker. The chain mail he wore became a new enemy—sinking him to the bottom and hungrily waiting for him to die.
As he struggled to keep afloat, Cyneheard wondered vaguely how Cynewulf would take the news of his death. Perhaps, he thought, sinking, Cynewulf would become a monk. If so, it was truly a pity…
Someone was dragging him onto the shore…
Someone was ordering him to wake up…
Someone would not let him go to sleep again…
——
"Good morning," said Brihtric, cheerfully. Cyneheard contemplated biting him.
"Nnnnumff," he managed.
"Yes, I know," Brihtric. "You're a hero now. Soldiers who absolutely despised you before are currently telling everyone what a good friend you are."
"Nnnnga?" inquired Cyneheard sharply, while attempting to force his mouth to function.
"You're going to hate being loved."
"Nnk…"
"Exactly."
Cyneheard found his tongue.
"Brihtric," he croaked.
"Yes?"
"Go die."
"And leave Cynewulf by himself here? Never."
"Cynewulf?" asked Cyneheard.
"Yes."
"He's here?"
"No—"
"Brihtric…"
"—he's coming," finished Brihtric, hastily. "I think I'll inform everyone that you are as always…"
"Wait," said Cyneheard. "If I'm not here when Cynewulf arrives, tell him that he may not become a monk."
Brihtric stared.
"Then," added Cyneheard, "you can go die…"
Brihtric retreated, still staring.
"Oh, Brihtric—"
"Ye-es?" asked Brihtric, nervously.
"We won, didn't we?"
"Yes."
"How long ago?"
"Just yesterday."
Cyneheard made a gesture of dismissal and then climbed out of bed to dress himself. He hadn't drowned, after all. A pity about being liked, but that was life.
——
In the wee hours of the morning, at St. Valery, someone bellowed—
"South wind!"
Its nerves on edge, William's army considered murdering that someone, but the realization that the wind was blowing south stopped it. There was a collective pause, and then everyone broke for the ships, trampling each other and everything that stood in their way.
But, despite this, they did not get ready in time. It was getting into the afternoon once everyone was bundled aboard the boats. It was a twelve-hour trip to England—and William emphatically did not want to attempt a landing in the middle of the night. Instead, the order was sent to wait until dark—by the time the fleet reached England, it would be early morning.
——
Dun, dun, dun—what will happen next, you ask? Well, actually, you should already know what happens next, but for sake of tradition, we will ask that question. Anyway, since there was a bit of time-bouncing in this chapter, here's a time-line:
13th—Fleet is driven to St. Valery's
26th—Battle of Stamford Bridge
27th—Fleet leaves St. Valery's.
Get it? Got it? Good.
Now, before someone tells me I made up the whole berserker bit just so that Cyneheard could look really cool, it's a bona fide story, entered into the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. Whether or not it's true is a matter of opinion. I just happen to like it.
The Harold-Tostig and Tostig-Harald conversations have been replicated practically verbatim from Snorri Sturlasson's account—well, actually, practically verbatim from the (assumedly) verbatim translation in 1066: The Year of the Conquest. I have taken liberties with it--Tostig's emphasis on the word then and now is actually mine, and I condensed/had the listeners tune out when he was basically repeating himself. I've also played around with the attitudes, etc. when they say their lines, and left out altogether a part where Harald composes a few lines of poetry. If anyone wants to read the original conversation, then they can feel free to ask me to e-mail it to them.
B/k: Yes, yes, yay for the sheep. If all the sheep of England were pointed against the Normans, the Conquest could not succeed. (Who wants to bet no one will get that allusion?)
Tuulikki:
ebullient
Function: adjectiveADVANCE x468Etymology: Latin ebullient-, ebulliens, present participle of ebullire to bubble out, from e- bullire to bubble, boilADVANCE x468 1 : BOILING, AGITATED
2 : characterized by ebullience
- ebulliently adverb
(It's hard to find things on Finnish history over here—I've found three books in general. Finland, A Short History; Finland, A Brief History; and Finland, A History. You have to wonder if the authors drew lots or something for their titles…)
angelkohaku: Whoot! (And the people were certainly motivated… (grin))
Kiita: (reviews lumped together) House-Carls do not "meep"! They…um…(considers fan girl terrorizing ability) They "meep" in Anglo-Saxon. (nod)
Myaow: Right, sure you're not Myaow… Anyway, I think you're translating the wrong name, because there's no "wulf" in Cyneheard's name. (And the translation for "Cyneheard" is at the beginning, O Observant One. Though I read somewhere that it means "noble shepherd". That would ruin the name… (sigh))
Happy to get your review, though. (grin)
Silver Dragon Golden Dragon: Eeeeeemblem... (dizzy eyes)