After years adrift on the vast oceans, where storms and blood had forged me into a resilient survivor, I thought I had found a place to end my days in peace: the endless meadows of Yorkshire, where chill winds swept low hills, carrying the bleating of sheep like mournful lullabies of earth and sky. It was a verdant land, its sky as boundless as the seas I had conquered, but instead of raging waves, here lay soft carpets of grass stretching to the horizon, dotted with wild bushes and ancient moss-covered stones. I hired on as a shepherd at a small Saxon farm owned by a kindly old man named Aethelric, with a snow-white beard and eyes clouded by age. Life here was simple to the point of tedium, yet for me—who had seen the sea swallow comrades, who had swung an axe to sever an enemy's neck—this peace was a luxury I had never dared dream of. Each morning, I rose before dawn, walking barefoot through thick fog shrouding the pastures, feeling the cold seep into my skin like a reminder of long nights on Viking decks. I herded the sheep to graze, watched them munch silently, and sometimes sat by a flickering hearth, mending tattered cloaks or repairing pens with my calloused hands. Occasionally, I taught village children a few clumsy Latin words Brother Anselm had scratched in seaside sand long ago—"Dominus," "Terra," "Vita"—and watched their eyes light with innocent curiosity, a wistful sadness welling in my heart. I lived like a man already dead, seeking solace in silence, in wind whispering through leaves and the scent of damp earth after rain. But the world beyond never slept; it churned like the ocean, and historical storms were gathering without warning.
Rumors spread through Yorkshire like wildfire on dry grass. At first, mere whispers in roadside taverns, where Saxon farmers huddled around warm ale, speaking of Edward the Confessor's death—the pious, frail king who had ruled with devotion and weakness, leaving no direct heir. Edward, with his long beard and eyes ever turned to heaven, had passed in Westminster Palace, leaving a vast power vacuum. Harold Godwinson, the powerful Earl of Wessex with golden hair and a commanding voice, was swiftly crowned by the noble council—the Witan—in a hasty ceremony at the great church. But across the narrow Manche Sea, in my homeland of Normandy, Duke William—called the Bastard for his illegitimate birth—was preparing a grand invasion. William, son of Robert the Devil and a tanner's daughter named Herleva, had grown amid court intrigues and bloodshed, forged into an ambitious lord of iron will. He claimed Edward had promised him the crown, and Harold had sworn fealty during a prior visit to Normandy. These tales reached Yorkshire via merchant caravans, wandering knights, and secret spies. Villagers murmured of massive ships building at the River Dives, thousands of Norman knights assembling, and Pope Alexander II's blessing—a papal banner sanctifying William's conquest. I cared little at first; politics was the game of the rich, and I was merely a wanderer with a scarred cheek and memories of the sea. But when the first Norman troops arrived in Yorkshire, riding tall warhorses and speaking a half-familiar French—my mother tongue laced with rough Norman tones—I knew my peace was over. They came to recruit, requisition supplies, and prepare for war. Wind carried smoke from distant camps, and within me, an old flame reignited—the fire of one who had survived tempests.
I met Sir Robert de Bayeux on a fog-shrouded morning, the sun yet to rise beyond the hills. He was a young knight in Duke William's service, with hair gleaming gold in the dim light, a neatly trimmed pale beard, and gleaming iron armor etched with crosses and coiling dragons—emblems of Norman lineage. His company encamped near my pastures, tents sprouting like mushrooms after rain, crimson banners fluttering in the breeze. As I sharpened my old Viking axe—the sole weapon from my drakkar days—to chop firewood, Robert reined in his horse by the crude wooden fence, his sharp blue eyes surveying me from on high. His voice rang in familiar Norman, laced with noble pride: "Who taught you to grip an axe like that, lad? Your hands clutch the haft like a true Northman." I looked up, meeting his gaze, and replied in the French-Basque mix from my Itsasargi days: "Northern men, my lord. Vikings taught me to survive by steel." He noted the long scar down my left cheek—from the deck clash—and smiled faintly, revealing even white teeth: "One who survived Vikings is no poor find. Care to serve as my arms-bearer? We need axe-wielders, not trembling serfs." I didn't hesitate long; peace was a luxury I had never truly owned. Born of Normandy's mud, raised amid waves, destiny now called me to clashing steel. I nodded, gathered my scant belongings—the short knife in my boot, the sheepskin cloak—and followed him to camp. Thus, I became Robert's "self-made" squire—no noble title, no family crest, only borrowed loyalty from my past and a slave's survival instinct.
The Norman camp was a colossal hive of iron, steel, and fire. It was a spectacle I had never beheld: thousands gathered under England's gray skies, tents crammed close, campfires blazing everywhere, voices echoing in many tongues—Norman, French, Breton, even Flemish from distant mercenaries. I saw knights with great triangular shields painted with crosses and golden lions—symbols of God and might. Breton archers with long yew bows, feathered arrows stacked in wooden crates. Infantry from Anjou and Poitou, muscled and burly, wielding long spears and battle-axes, singing crude songs of victory and glory. All rallied beneath one banner: William's golden dragon coiling on crimson, fluttering atop the central tent like a challenge to heaven and earth. On Normandy's Dives shore—where we readied to cross—hundreds of ships were hastily built, sturdy wooden hulls with blood-red sails swelling in the sea wind. The invasion's logistics were a marvel: thousands of warhorses led aboard with thick ropes, dry rations of hard bread, salted meat, wine from Norman vineyards, even holy relics—saints' bones—from churches, carried for divine favor. Robert often sat with me by night fires, his voice warm as he spoke of William's plan: "We do not merely fight a battle, Ealdred. We remake a kingdom. William will bind England to the Norman realm, where law and strength reign." I listened silently, memories surging of Mont-Saint-Michel and its ancient abbey—where I was born beneath stone and fog. Normandy was my blood's home, and now I—a fugitive from its mud—served in the conquest history would etch forever, a fateful cycle without escape.
In October 1066, after crossing the stormy Manche in heaving ships, the Normans landed at Pevensey—a quiet bay now the gateway to conquest. Rain fell ceaselessly, turning roads to wheel-deep mud, but William—the Bastard, with fiery red beard and granite-gray eyes—allowed no pause. He rode a white steed at the vanguard, voice booming: "Forward! God is with us!" I marched beside Robert, leading his warhorse, back aching under iron armor and weapons. From Pevensey northward, Saxon villagers fled in panic, leaving burned homes and ravaged fields. We heard Harold's army had crushed the Norwegians under Harald Hardrada—whose remnants I had once served—at Stamford Bridge, a bloody clash where thousands fell. Now Harold raced south, weary but resolute to defend his crown. We camped near Hastings on a hill called Senlac—"blood lake" in the old tongue—a prophetic name. At dawn on October 14, I stood atop the hill, thick fog veiling the valley, Saxon St. George banners fluttering on the opposite ridge, wooden shields locked into an impregnable wall. Robert clapped my shoulder, voice thrilled: "Today, England changes hands, Ealdred. Be ready." I gripped my old Viking axe—the sole gift from enslavement—and felt hot blood surge, like the sea rising in my chest.
As the sun climbed, thinning the mist, Norman horns blared like heavenly thunder across the valley. Archers advanced first, raising bows taller than men, feathered arrows nocked. From the center, William raised his holy sword and commanded in a voice like divine decree: "Loose!" Arrows tore the air, falling like a black swarm of bees, whistling eerily. The Saxon shield-wall held firm, arrows thudding into wood and hide with relentless thunks, mingled with pained groans. Then Norman infantry charged—iron boots churning mud, cries of "Deus Vult!" (God wills it!) a sacred curse. I ran with Robert, handing him spear and shield, as wind carried the first fresh blood-smell—metallic, mixed with wet earth and smoke. Norman cavalry thundered like a flood, horses neighing, armor flashing in autumn sun. But the Saxons stood like rock; their shield-wall a defensive masterpiece, housecarls wielding double-handed axes cleaving like lightning. Norman horses slipped in mud, riders tumbled, Anglo-Saxon blades hacking off heads, limbs. I saw Robert unhorsed by a massive housecarl, gleaming axe poised to strike. Without hesitation, I hurled my grappling spear—Viking-learned—piercing his throat, blood fountaining. Robert scrambled up, nodding thanks: "You saved me, Ealdred." I nodded, no joy in it—killing was mere survival, not glory.
By midday, the battle became earthly hell. Corpses piled on the slopes, mud streaked crimson, death's stench drawing swarms of flies. A rumor spread like wildfire: "William is dead!" Norman ranks panicked, retreating in chaos, cavalry wheeling, archers fleeing. Robert shouted amid the tumult: "No! William lives! Hold!" But his voice drowned in screams and clashing metal. Then, through smoke and fog, a white-horsed rider burst forth, helm removed—William himself, face caked in mud and blood, raising his holy sword and roaring: "I live! See me! Follow and crush the Saxons!" Cheers shook the earth like a new wave. William, with genius strategy, ordered: "Feign retreat! Lure them down!" It worked perfectly: believing Normans broken, Harold's weary troops—fresh from Stamford Bridge—abandoned their high ground, chasing to finish the foe. As they descended, William wheeled suddenly, unleashing cavalry like a whirlwind. Norman archers fired sideways, arrows embedding in throats, eyes, chests, turning the valley into a blood-soaked hunt. I watched Saxons fall like wheat before gale, groans echoing, knowing victory tilted Norman—a historical pivot forged by cunning and chance.
Late afternoon, autumn sun glowed red like forge-heated steel over Senlac Hill, now truly a blood lake. Harold's forces clung to the ridge, but their shield-wall shattered under relentless pressure. I saw Harold Godwinson—the last Saxon king, golden crown gleaming, double-axe in hand amid encircled dead and gore, eyes blazing final resolve. He rallied: "Stand firm! For England!" But a Norman arrow arced high—swift, fate-precise—striking his right eye, piercing helm. Harold crumpled, axe still clutched, blood streaming from the mortal wound. Saxon cries erupted: "The king falls! Harold is dead!" Ranks dissolved, morale crumbling like a breached wall. Norman cavalry surged like breaking waves, swords flashing in dying light, horses neighing, iron boots crushing corpses.
Robert charged the fray, blade a lightning arc, severing limbs. I followed, dodging swinging axes, blocking with shield, thrusting spear into gaps. The ground slick with blood, I slipped often; a Saxon warrior lunged with battle-axe—I parried with my Viking blade, countered, hacked his leg, bone cracking amid his scream. I panted, eyes stinging from smoke and sweat, body aching but will aflame. As sun vanished behind the hill, only dying moans and acrid burn-smoke remained. Hastings ended—a dawn-to-dusk clash that altered England's fate forever. The Saxons had no king; the crown now belonged to William the Conqueror.
When swords fell silent, only ravens cawed in the gray sky, wind howling through the death-valley. Bodies blanketed Senlac Hill, heaped like rotting hay, blood trickling in rivulets down slopes, mingling with mud into a foul slurry. I wandered the battlefield, stepping over twisted corpses—Saxons clutching axes in cold hands, Normans in shattered armor with staring eyes. Death's reek enveloped all, twisting my gut, but I did not retch—I was inured from sea days. I found Robert leaning against a boulder, armor cracked, shoulder grazed, yet smiling wearily in triumph: "We won, Ealdred. England is Norman." I said nothing, surveying the devastation where over seven thousand lay in one day—a toll to fill a small city. William stood atop the hill, gazing north to fog-shrouded London, voice soft yet authoritative: "England is mine now. We build a new empire." I bowed my head—not in true reverence, but knowing history had changed owners in a day of blood, and I—an orphan from Normandy's mud—had witnessed, even aided, that moment, a grain of sand in a grand storm.
Three days later, with corpses hastily buried in shallow pits and air still heavy with death, I was summoned to William's central tent. Robert recounted my saves in battle, voice grateful: "My lord Duke, this man saved me twice with axe and spear." William—tall, red-bearded, eyes cold gray as stone—studied me long, as if appraising a new weapon. Then he spoke, voice deep and commanding: "An orphan of Normandy, yet so loyal—take fitting reward." He granted ten gleaming silver shillings—a fortune to a wanderer like me—and a tall gray horse with leather saddle. Meager beside the battle's scale, yet proof I had stepped from slavery's shadow into history. Robert clapped my shoulder: "You are no wanderer now, Ealdred. A free soldier—choose your path." I touched my cheek scar, felt hot blood beneath skin, clutched the cold coins. I knew not if this heralded honor or a new curse—war never ends, only shifts form.
That night, under full moon over quieter Senlac Hill, light glinting on shattered armor and unburied dead, I sat alone by dying embers, writing my diary with charcoal on a half-burnt plank from the ruins:
"I have seen a king fall, seas of men die beneath arrows and axes. Blood soaked the earth like spring rain, turning Senlac into a vast grave. And I, Ealdred—child of Normandy's mud, the Manche waves, Viking blood—now step into history's current, nameless. Victory is no glory; it is pain, loss, a reminder we are pawns in fate's hand."
I gazed south—toward France across the sea, where I was born beneath Mont-Saint-Michel's abbey. Wind bore familiar salt mingled with lingering blood. I knew my life would never return to Yorkshire's peaceful meadows. I belonged now to steel, fire, endless conquests. As night wind swept the hill, whispering dead souls, I murmured to myself: "Victory belongs to no one. It belongs to blood—and I am the last survivor to tell it, lest history forget the nameless pains."