I ‘ve started writing book 3 in my series, A Family Through the Ages. Book 1 was set in Roman Britain, Book 2 in Viking Britain, and now Book 3 begins with the Battle of Hastings in 1066, probably the most remembered date in British history. Not for nothing, as it changed this country vastly.

Anyway, to whet your appetites, here’s the first chapter. It contains some violence, as it deals with the Battle itself.

Please remember that this is a very early draft, so there might be mistakes.

Anger of an Anglo Saxon

CHAPTER 1

Durston stood with his shield locked with the ones on either side. A helmet covered his ash blond hair, and a breastplate made of hardened leather covered his torso. 

He turned to the man on his left. “We’re in a better position. We should win this fight easily.”

Looking down the slope, he could see the Norman army gathering. There were many archers behind their infantry. He swallowed hard. The Anglo Saxon army did not have nearly as many. His legs felt weak and his hands shook. What if he were killed here? His son, just fourteen, would be the new theign. The lad did not have the experience to deal with the work.

Pull yourself together. Leola will help him. She’s competent. He smiled as he thought of his wife.  

Taking a deep breath, he focused on the enemy.

 His neighbour turned to him and grinned. “They won’t be able to use yonder horses against us. Shouldn’t be hard, this one. We’ve got the high ground. If we can kill that William the Bastard, they’ll run back to Normandy like rabbits before a fox. Should have this done by noon.”

The Anglo Saxon army had hurried south from defeating an attempted invasion by the Norse king and King Harold’s brother, Tostig, at Stamford Bridge. They were celebrating when the news of the invasion from Normandy came.

King Harold immediately demanded a forced march to the south coast to repel this new threat to his kingdom. On the way, they gathered more men, all willing to fight to protect their country from foreigners.

As Durston watched, a single person came out from the enemy lines. 

The man sang as he brandished a sword. Durston could not understand the words, as they were French, but he understood the tone. The man sang insults and threats, underpinned by his sword waving.

As soon as his song ended, he ran towards their line. Durston’s eyes opened wide and he shook his head. The shield wall opened, a little to his left, and the singer was quickly cut down.

Then the battle began.

The twang of bowstrings filled the air, followed by the wizz of arrows. The men in the shield wall raised their shields as arrows fell like raindrops. The Anglo Saxon archers replied with volleys of their own, although they were fewer in number than the Norman archers.

Men shouted war cries, those who were hit screamed, arrows clanked on raised shields. 

The two shield walls collided with a bang.

Men on both sides pushed as hard as they could, at the same time trying to spear those opposite. 

The air was filled with the scentl of blood. Durston gasped as an enemy spear found a way through a small gap and cut his left arm.

He thrust back and was gratified to hear a scream of pain. “That’ll teach you to try to invade my country.”

The October sun rose in the sky as the fighting continued. Durston swallowed. It was thirsty work, this fighting. He glanced at the sky. Nearly noon. As he continued to thrust against the enemy shield wall he felt a tap on his shoulder. He dare not look round. 

A voice. “Go get something to drink.”

He slipped his shield from its lock with those on either side and the man relieving him quickly took his place. 

Durston staggered to the rear of the shield wall. He spotted a fallen tree trunk and sank onto it, leaned forward and put his head in his hands. He shivered uncontrollably. The hours in the shield wall took their toll.

“Here’s some ale.”

He glanced up to see a young man about thirteen years old, holding a flagon. 

Reaching out, he swallowed it in one gulp. “Thank you.” 

Someone handed him a chunk of bread and a slice of meat. He stuffed it into his mouth and stood. His legs gave way and he found himself sitting on the floor. Leaning against the log he had been sitting on, Durston closed his eyes. The fear came creeping back. He looked at the cut on his arm. 

I hope that doesn’t turn bad. 

He felt his eyes closing. In spite of the noise from the battle, he was drifting to sleep. Shaking his head, and ignoring his shaking legs, he pulled himself to his feet and staggered back to the shield wall. He relieved another man and locked his shield in place with the ones on either side.

Once back in the battle, the fear slipped away. Anger swept over him in its place. How dare these foreigners come to take over his country? His legs stopped trembling and his eyes opened wide. Showing his teeth, he grimaced.

The man in the enemy shield wall was also showing his teeth. He shouted a cry, but Durston did not know what it meant.

 “For King Harold,” he shouted in reply.

Someone to his left cried out, “They’re running!”

Durston glanced and saw that the Norman shield wall had broken, and men were running down the hill. Someone shouted to keep the formation, but many of the Saxon defenders took off after the fleeing Normans.

Then Durston could see no more as he concentrated on his own battle.

The afternoon slowly passed. Men were relieved on the battlefield on both sides, but after they had shot most of their arrows, the Normans concentrated on the shield wall. They found it impossible to collect their spent arrows from beneath the feet of the two opposing armies.

Again, the Normans retreated. This time Dutston was aware that after running, and being chased, they turned on the Anglo Saxons chasing them and a hand-to-hand battle began. The Normans in front of Durston did the same. As they ran, Durston was unable to prevent his men from chasing.

“The cowards are running,” someone shouted.

“No, it’s a trick.” Durston tried to call his men back.

As he expected, the Normans turned on the chasing men. With the shield wall dismantled, the Norman cavalry charged. Durston threw his spear at one man bearing down on him. The spear hit his horse in the leg. The animal screamed and went down, throwing its rider.

Durston drew his seax. As the man regained his feet, Durston slashed at his face. Blood flowed as a long cut appeared from his ear to his chin. He screamed.

The downed rider staggered, giving Durston the chance to get in another slash. This one, however, only hit the man’s hauberk, but it did damage the chain mail that made it. 

The man let out a grunt as the air was forced out of his lungs. He raised his sword, and Durston only just managed to dodge the downward slash as it narrowly missed cleaving his skull.     

Another slash from Dursto’s seax caught the attacker’s leg. He went down, blood pouring from the wound. He screamed something Durston did not understand, but thought it was probably a curse. Before the man finished his curse, however, Durston’s seax slashed across his throat. His curse was never finished.

Durston took a breath. For the moment no enemy approached. He glanced to his right. There, a young man, one of his followers, was beset by two Normans. 

He raised his seax, and shouted, “For King Harold.” He rushed at one of the men. This distracted him and he turned, allowing Durston to slash at his stomach. It opened, and the enemy soldier clutched his belly and fell, his guts spilling out and tangling around his feet.

Durston saw the young man dispatch his adversary before turning to look for another man to fight. He saw a man with a mace approaching. He raised his seax, but the enemy lifted his shield and blocked the cut. 

The two skirted around each other, getting in the occasional hit on a shield, but neither getting the better of the fight. Durston’s legs began to shake, and it was more difficult to raise his shield or slash with his seax.

He looked at his opponent who was breathing heavily. 

He’s exhausted, too.

At that moment, the Norman raised his mace and brought it down on Durston’s head.

***

Durston opened his eyes. 

It was dark. His head hurt. He raised his hand to his head and felt something sticky.

Blood.

His helmet had gone. When did that happen? He placed his hands on the floor and raised himself to his elbows. 

His head pounded.

Rolling onto his front, he struggled to his hands and knees. He closed his eyes briefly. It made no difference to the dark.

He raised himself to his knees and looked around. He could see very little. The darkness was like a blanket wrapping around him, determined he would not see anything.

Durston sat back on his heels, listening. Rustling sounded to his right. Something brushed against him. He swung his hand and made contact with a furry body. It squeaked as he bashed it away.

Rat. Nasty things.

Millions upon millions of stars covered the sky. Durston tried to decide the time by their positions. The sun had been still up when he was fighting. Someone must have hit him on the head. How long had he been unconscious? He estimated it was not yet midnight.

He managed to struggle to his feet. Dizziness threatened to overwhelm him, but he fought against it.

It was then he heard the singing. Must be our men singing their victory songs.

Staggering, he headed in the direction of the sounds. He passed hundreds of bodies, both Norman and Anglo Saxon. Horses, too. He felt sorry for the animals. They had not asked to come to fight. They knew nothing of the politics that caused this battle. 

A shadow stood over a body. As Durston approached, it raised its head from its grizzly meal. Teeth bared, the wolf snarled. Blood dripped from its muzzle.

Durston backed away. “I’m not going to take your meal, revolting as I think it is.”

The wolf returned to eating the body of one of the fallen, whether Norman or Anglo Saxon, Durston could not tell. 

Wolves, rats and foxes tonight. It’ll be crows, ravens and kites in the morning.

As he neared the camp where he heard the singers, Durston stopped. He crouched. He listened carefully. He recognised neither the songs, nor the words. Someone spoke. 

Not Anglo Saxon.

The bastard Guillaume won the battle. How? We had the better position. And they ran away.

It came to him slowly. With his head pounding and his dizziness, his thoughts were sluggish, as though they had to wade through mud to get into his consciousness.

It was a trick. They feigned flight, then turned on us. They couldn’t beat us in the shield wall, so they broke it up by pretending to run. 

Durston tried to raise himself from his crouch. He staggered and fell to all fours.

Blast. Did they hear that?

Someone shouted and Durston scrambled away, still on hands and knees. Then the shout stopped. Normal conversation resumed.

Must have decided I was a wolf.

When he was close to some trees, Durston stood. He leaned against a tree to get his bearings. Where was their camp? Had anyone returned to it? Would the Normans have found it and ransacked it?

He lurched in the direction of where the Anglo Saxon camp had been. When he arrived no one was there. Not even a horse. He felt the tears welling in his eyes. Dizziness threatened to overcome him.

No one? Was no one left alive?

A sound came from behind him. He swung round making the world spin. He drew his seax.

“Careful. You are in no condition to wield that safely.” The voice came from a stand of trees. A man stepped out. He smiled at Durston. “It’s good to see you, Lord Durston. I was afraid you had been killed.”

Durston frowned, staring at the man. “Do I know you?”

“No. Probably not, My Lord. I wasn’t one of your followers. I hold a farm not far from Alricking. When news came that Duke William had invaded, and King Harold’s army passed, I decided to join. To defend my country.”

Durston sank to the ground. “We lost.”

The man shook his head. “Yes, My Lord. We lost the battle.” He approached Durston and held out a hand. “The survivors are assembling a little distance away. Let me help you.”

“I suppose King Harold is organising an attack on the Normans’ army.”

The young man’s face fell. “King Harold is dead, My Lord. He fell in the battle.”

Durston groaned. “Who is in charge, now?”

“Lords Edwin and Morcar.” 

Durston allowed the young man to help him to his feet and, with Durston leaning heavily on his arm, they proceeded through the trees.

I wish this headache would go. I can’t think clearly.

After what seemed to Dunston to be hours, they broke into a clearing.  He glanced around and noticed many men. Some lay on the ground, moaning, some sat on the ground or leaned against tree trunks and others moved around the wounded, administering bandages.

“You found another survivor. Good. Now return and wait to see if any more turn up. When day breaks, come back here.” The man turned to Durston. “I’m Earl Morcar. You are?”

“Theign Durston, My Lord. Of Alricking.” He swayed on his feet.

“You are injured.” Earl Morcar called to a young man who was passing. “Help Theign Durston to the healers.”

The young man took hold of Durston’s arm. He guided him toward where healers worked on those injured. The scent of blood permeated the air along with the groans of men. 

A woman covered in blood hurried over to them. “Another injured man?”

Durston glanced around. Cuts, stabs, bruises covered most of the men. One was missing an arm, and he saw two men with missing eyes.

The healer took his arm from the young man who escorted him. “I see you’ve a head injury. We’ll get it cleaned up in no time.” She paused as Durston staggered. “Do you have a headache?”

Durston nodded, then regretted it as his head pounded. “Yes, it’s the worst headache I’ve ever had.”

“Did you get a blow to the head?” The woman lowered Dunston to a seat on a log.

“I don’t know. I can’t remember much. I helped one of my followers who was beset by two men. Then a man with a mace approached me. The next thing I knew, I woke up in the dark. Beasts were devouring the dead. At least, I hope they were dead!”

The healer cleaned the wound on his head, which bled profusely, and told Dunston to lie down anywhere he could find a space. “I’ll bring you some willow bark tea if we’ve any left. Should help with your headache. You must rest,” She scurried away.

We can’t let these Normans win. I need to go back and fight them again. Is Earl Morcar organising a new attack?

He tried to stand, but his legs gave way as the clearing span around him. He decided he should take the healer’s advice and he lay in the space between the log he had been sitting on and an oak tree. Soon he was asleep.