A/N: Remember my warning a few chapters back, and prepare for a shock...
Norman Farandole: The Battle
Several weeks later found Rose huddled, utterly and completely terrified out of her wits, trying to pull every inch of her small body underneath an even smaller shield, while the sky rained arrows down upon her and the rest of Harold's army.
She wasn't supposed to be there. She just wanted to go home!
The intervening weeks had gone like clockwork: Harold had raced north, gathering an army of Saxon fyrdmen from the countryside around York, and met Harald Hardrata of Norway and his own "dear Brother Tostig" before they'd even had a chance to sack the city as planned. The bloody battle at Stamford Bridge went just as it should have anyway, even without the previous bloodshed, and left both Hardrata and Tostig dead along with the vast majority of the invading force.
No sooner had word come south of that battle, than William of Normandy's ships were at long last sighted on the southern coast near Pevensey, and a huge force was landed. As he had promised, Alain sent word immediately to King Harold, who released most of the northern army back to their fields and began the mad dash south again, pausing at London to take command of the southern fyrdmen Alain had recalled in the meantime. He marched this re-formed army south towards William, meeting Alain and Rose a few miles from the fated town of Hastings, where they set up camp for the night. The two royal cousins (along with Harold's two remaining brothers, commanders of Harold's wings) stayed up most of the night in a stormy planning session – shouting was heard at several points, causing the nearby guards to look askance at the tent. However, in the morning all was calm again, and the army made its final short march to the chosen ground, setting up atop the hill and awaiting William's notice and approach. Almost as if it had been planned in advance, too, the opposing army did indeed appear within a couple of hours, and the battle began at once.
Alain had quietly outfitted Rose with a full set of leather-and-metal-ring armor, along with "suitable" men's clothing, so that she could blend into the army (if no one looked too closely). Harold had taken one look and guffawed, but then nodded; he wanted his little witch there – as long as she stayed in the rear. "Here," he told her, holding out a familiar cloth-wrapped parcel. "I believe this belongs to you." And she took the Time Jumper and gratefully buckled it on her own wrist again. (Checking quickly, she saw the backlight was still white. Of course.) She made herself a perch on one of the baggage wagons – and then dove underneath it as soon as the arrows began flying. A few minutes later, though, Alain's hands pulled her out and into the rear ranks.
"You'll be safer here, little witch, and can give me advice," came his comment.
A heartbeat later, the words sunk in, and Rose turned to give him a startled look. Peering closely through the helmet's face shield, she saw dancing grey eyes – but they were just slightly too dark. And he was slightly too heavy. Her eyes flying wide, she drew a breath to speak – but he forestalled her with a finger. "Shhhhhh!"
She whirled around to peer out in front of the army, where the King had stationed himself, fully visible to all, to lead his troops from the front, not the rear as William was sitting. "Noooooo," she whispered. "Alain..."
For he had taken his cousin's place.
"Believe me," came Harold's low voice in her ear, "I'm not happy about this, either. That should be me out there. This isn't right! Why did I let him talk me into this?" The obviously-rhetorical question went unanswered. "We will see how this goes, and switch if necessary."
^..^
For hour after hour, William's Norman army pounded on Harold's English one. Arrows came whistling through the air in flight after flight, and his foot soldiers and mounted cavalry took turns charging up the hill to do what little damage they could to the Saxon ranks before melting away again. Several times, the English wanted to break away to chase after their tormentors, but Harold and Alain, and Harold's brothers under strict orders, kept them from doing so. Thus, Harold lost very few soldiers through the afternoon, while William continued to rack up the casualties.
Several times, during lulls in the action, Alain melted back into the rear for conferences with Harold, and always the word was the same: keep going. It was working. A new force of a couple of thousand reinforcements would be arriving in the morning, which would sweep away the remnants of William's army – if indeed, any were still left at all. They had seen some defections already, entire squads melting away into the trees and back towards the coast as individual men and their commanders realized the futility of trying to dislodge the Saxons from their perch. William was visibly becoming more and more agitated as the day wore on.
It was nearing sunset when Alain walked back one final time, having seen signs of the Normans giving up for the night. "One more assault, perhaps, my lord," he grinned – and just as he said it, the arrows came again. He dashed back to the front line, preparing for one last cavalry charge from the tired mounts at the bottom of the hill.
Just as he reached his post, his shield held above his head to ward off the arrows, Alain turned to shout encouragement to the front ranks – and his weary shield arm inadvertently sank that crucial two inches. A last, lucky arrow came sailing out of the darkening sky and struck him in the shoulder, managing to wedge itself into his neck muscle just at the edge between mail and helmet. He staggered back, and two men sprang forward to grab his arms and lead him out of danger, while both Harold and Rose, hearts pounding, ran to meet him. Just as they reached his side, he collapsed, taking both of them down to their knees with him, to the utter horror of the watching soldiers around them.
"The King is down!" "The King is down!" Panic and horror reached out, ready to take hold of the English army.
"NO! I am the King!" Harold rose majestically to his feet, sweeping off his helmet and staring about, letting his men see him, whole and unharmed. "Fight on! For the love of England, for the love of your people, for the love of God, fight on!"
For one brief shining moment, the entire world held its breath. Kneeling near his feet, staring up at the King, Rose felt the frigid, toying winds of time itself whisper through her very bones.
And then...
…
Straight and true the bullet flew, fired from a gun forged a millennium in the future, dropped over a cliff and then painfully retrieved, fired from the maelstrom of hell itself, taken up and propelled forward by the mighty, undeniable force of Time's own inertia, farther and truer than any 38 Special would ever shoot again. It hit Harold square in his left eye, blowing through his brain pan and taking out half the back of his head.
There was utter silence on the hill as King Harold slowly toppled over backwards, dead before he hit the ground, his remaining eye staring sightlessly at the heavens.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
Rose's scream, a woman's scream, ripped across the landscape, freezing every human into momentary immobility before it exploded them into sound and action again, every exhausted man turning in blind panic and racing for his life, racing to meet his doom, as the Normans charged the final time into their midst, cutting and slashing.
"nooooooo..." Her voice was fading out even as she screamed, becoming a ghostly whisper.
"Rose?" Alain's horrified voice brought her attention back down to his face, staring up at her, through her. Her own hands, holding his, were already turning to mist.
"Alain... I..."
She was gone.
Alain pulled himself to his knees, frantically searching for his lord and his love. But all he found was a sword, wielded by a horseback Norman, slashing him down into the final black.
^..^
Evening. The Normans had swept through and utterly annihilated the Saxon army in a scant half hour, hunting down those who ran and cutting them down from the hill to the forest. Now they turned, laughing and joking, to robbery, taking everything of the slightest value from the corpses strewn about.
One figure climbed to the peak, hunting for treasure – a very special one. Finding the two bodies, one sprawled across the other, he quickly bent and rummaged around them, ignoring the golden circlet on the ground, not finding what he sought.
Then he spied the strange pile of empty clothing and armor beside them. He paused, then kicked aside the breastplate. And there it was: an utterly anachronistic wrist piece, metal and glass, with odd tiny bumps on it.
Corvantes picked up the Time Jumper and attached it to his wrist, and a smile as cold as his ice-green eyes twisted his lips.