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Chapters (88)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Page
  3. I
  4. I
  5. II
  6. III
  7. IV
  8. V
  9. VI
  10. VII
  11. VIII
  12. IX
  13. X
  14. XI
  15. II
  16. I
  17. II
  18. III
  19. IV
  20. V
  21. VI
  22. VII
  23. VIII
  24. IX
  25. X
  26. XI
  27. XII
  28. XIII
  29. XIV
  30. XV
  31. XVI
  32. XVII
  33. XVIII
  34. XIX
  35. XX
  36. XXI
  37. III
  38. I
  39. II
  40. III
  41. IV
  42. V
  43. VI
  44. VII
  45. VIII
  46. IX
  47. X
  48. XI
  49. XII
  50. XIII
  51. XIV
  52. XV
  53. XVI
  54. XVII
  55. XVIII
  56. XIX
  57. XX
  58. XXI
  59. IV
  60. I
  61. II
  62. III
  63. IV
  64. V
  65. VI
  66. VII
  67. VIII
  68. IX
  69. X
  70. XI
  71. XII
  72. XIII
  73. XIV
  74. XV
  75. XVI
  76. XVII
  77. XVIII
  78. XIX
  79. XX
  80. XXI
  81. XXII
  82. XXIII
  83. XXIV
  84. XXV
  85. XXVI
  86. XXVII
  87. EPILOGUE
  88. Afterword

Sihtric came to stand with his sister. He still wore his chain mail, stiff and unbloodied. ‘I have the prophecy with me,’ he said feverishly. ‘The Menologium. I hoped to stiffen the King’s resolve with it. But Harold won’t act. He broods on Edward’s curse, that he would lose his brothers before he died. Even the promise of a northern empire, of a whole new world, doesn’t matter to him as much as the pain of his brothers’ loss, the fear of God’s wrath. I think for Harold the day has become a trial by warfare, and in his grief and guilt he is letting God decide the outcome. I wonder if the Weaver thought of that.’

Godgifu said, ‘The Weaver sees us as figures in a tapestry. The Weaver isn’t fighting, here and now. We are. And yet, Sihtric, the wall holds firm.’

‘Yes. If we can survive to dark, we can still win.’

She glanced across at the Norman lines, the ranks of men bristling with upraised spears. ‘But,’ she said, ‘the Normans must know this too.’

XXVI

XXVI

The battlefield was quiet for the moment, as both sides, exhausted, gathered their strength before another charge. Some men were drinking, even eating; it had been a long day. On the field itself nothing moved save for the scavenging birds, and soldiers from both sides who stripped the dead of their weapons and mail coats; there had never been enough of the expensive hauberks to go around.

Orm sat beside Robert of Mortain in a block of infantry, all seated or lying down, panting. Orm’s shield lay on the ground before him, splintered by multiple blows.

‘We’re running out of time,’ Robert said to Orm. ‘Not of men, but time. The daylight will be gone soon, and so will our chances ... Here is the Duke.’

William rode before the lines, his helmet off, astride his fourth horse of the day. ‘Get up,’ the Duke commanded now. ‘Get up, I say! Stand on your feet!’ His guttural voice carried along the lines.

The men struggled to stand. Orm tried to set an example, but he was as weary as the rest, every bone and muscle ached, and his mail was heavy as a casket. He hadn’t been cut seriously, but every strike he parried, every arrow that punched his mail, was a blow that shook his bones and used up his strength that bit more. It was as if some huge man armed with an oaken club had battered him all day.

And yet he got to his feet.