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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

Orm’s shield slammed against that of an Englishman, huge, bloodied, powerful, but that crucial bit slower than Orm, and the mercenary managed to raise his sword and thrust it into the Englishman’s face. His skull broke in like an egg, leaving a cavity within which blood bubbled - but he was gone, falling back. And another came to take his place. The new man raised an axe, two-handed, but Orm got his shield arm up, and the blow was deflected by the shield’s boss, but that mighty blow shattered the wood. Orm hurled the ruin of the shield at his opponent, and as the man flinched to evade it Orm drove the hilt of his sword into his mouth, feeling teeth and soft tissues give way, and he pulled back the sword, and slashed and cut until another ruined face gazed up at him from another lifeless corpse. Orm was left without a shield. Without thinking he reached down and grabbed a fallen sword - English or Norman, he didn’t know. With the stranger’s sword in his left hand, his own sword in his right, he fought on, using one sword as a shield while clubbing with the other, as one English after another fell before him. He had seen men fight like this before, but had never tried it himself. He had no choice.

He fought, and fought.

Were the English failing at last? They seemed drawn, exhausted, even more so than the Normans. And they were distracted by the continuing rain of Norman arrows.

Then there was a great moan. Orm, still fighting, saw that the standard of Harold, the Fighting Man, directly before him, was falling. He roared, and fought harder than ever, the two swords flashing before him.

And the English began to fall back.

XXVII

XXVII

Sihtric screamed, ‘No!’ He ran towards the fallen standard.

Godgifu hurried after her brother, pushing through the ranks of housecarls and prelates.

The King lay on the ground, his head cushioned by a bishop’s arms. An arrow protruded from his collapsed face. It was growing dark, and she couldn’t see if he still breathed.

Godgifu was horrified. ‘Sihtric - Edward’s curse - he wished Harold to see his brothers fall before a blinding ...’

Sihtric fretted, not about his King or his country, but about the prophecy. ‘Another hour would have done it. Four centuries of history culminate in this moment - just another hour - and a chance fall of an arrow has ruined it all!’

But Godgifu thought the battle had been lost in Harold’s heart long before the arrow fell.

The sound of the fighting came closer. Godgifu heard hasty commands. ‘Hold the wall firm! Hold the wall!’ And, ‘Save the King. With me, with me!’ Men scrambled to take their positions, grim-faced, drawing their swords.

Godgifu faced Sihtric, lost in his foolish mail suit. ‘Give me your sword,’ she said.

‘But—’

‘Now!’