After Hastings, I was no longer the naive shepherd boy huddled in Yorkshire's lush meadows. The blood-soaked clash on Senlac Hill had changed everything—not just England's history, but the fate of a nameless wretch like me. I owned a tall gray horse with a coat gleaming under autumn sun, a sharp Norman sword with a hilt carved in coiling dragons—emblem of William the Conqueror—and ten gleaming silver shillings, heavy in my leather pouch. That was the wealth of a free soldier, one who had survived the hell of flying arrows and hacking axes. Yet victory brought no peace as I had once dreamed. The unburied corpses on the hillside, heaped like rotting sheaves, the reek of death mingled with smoke from half-burned villages along the march to London, taught me a harsh truth: peace was but a fleeting breath, fragile between brutal wars. Robert de Bayeux, the knight I had saved amid chaos, now rode in William's royal retinue, his noble badge shining, his status exalted. But I—the "nameless squire," wanderer from Normandy's mud—was left in a world shifting like sand, eyed with Saxon hatred burning like fire, scorned by Normans for lacking lineage or crest. With no other path, I chose the only one fitting a man inured to blood and clashing steel: to become a mercenary, living by the sword, loyal only to shining coin and primal survival instinct, a wild beast in war's dense forest.
In spring 1067, as wildflowers bloomed on England's fields, carrying scents of damp earth and faint hope, I wandered north along muddy roads to Lincoln. England seethed with scattered rebellions against Norman rule. The Saxons—tall warriors with double-handed axes and sturdy wooden shields—refused conquest's yoke. They gathered in deep woods, plotting ambushes, cursing William as a demon lord. One pitch-black night, camping by a small stream with my fire's flicker lighting my weary face, I was ambushed by Saxon rebels. Numbering about twenty, pale-skinned and golden-haired, their eyes blazed with hate upon hearing my Norman-Basque speech—traces of sea days. "Filthy Norman!" one snarled, clubbing my shoulder with a wooden staff, sending me sprawling into cold mud. They bound me with rough rope, cutting skin until blood trickled, and locked me in a moldy wine cellar beneath an abandoned farmstead, with other captured mercenaries—unlucky souls taken before. They mocked, spat in my face, and vowed to hang me at dawn as a warning to invaders. In the cellar's darkness, sour wine and musty earth choking the air, I lay, heart pounding, reflecting on my life: from Mont-Saint-Michel orphan, through savage seas with Vikings, to blood-drenched Senlac—and now death dangling like a noose. But fate, a mischievous god, mocked death once more. At midnight, as drunken guards snored like wild boars, reeking of mead, I used a small iron shard hidden in my boot sole—a slave-day habit—to saw the ropes, strand by strand, teeth gritted to stifle sound. Free, I crept to a guard, strangled him with his own cord, feeling his thrashing body go limp. I slipped out, running through pouring rain, mud to my knees, wind howling like pursuing demons. A stray Saxon horse nearby, soaked and trembling, I seized, vaulted aboard, and galloped south. Three sleepless days and nights, stomach hollow, I reached Dover, boarded a Norman merchant ship at anchor, sea wind slashing my face like knives. As the vessel pulled away, I stood on deck, watching England fade, heart thundering: I had survived again. From that moment, beneath the Manche's gray sky, I swore to myself: never captured again; others would yield to my blade.
I reached southern France—lands of sprawling vineyards under golden sun, dusty roads, endless wars where local lords vied for power like dogs over bones. Aquitaine and Toulouse were mercenary heavens for Normans, scattered bands of free companies—routiers or grande compagnie—protecting merchants or fighting for petty counts. These groups were the 11th century's legacy, Normans famed as fierce warriors selling steel to the highest bidder. I sought the camp of Capitaine Anselm de Mortain, a Hastings veteran leading about fifty mercenaries—towering men, thick-bearded, eyes knife-sharp, clad in thick leather armor, weapons gleaming. The camp hugged the Garonne River, tents crammed, smoke and roasting meat blending, laughter echoing. Recounting Senlac and saving Robert de Bayeux, Anselm—a middle-aged man with silver beard and crossed facial scar—laughed thunderously: "A lad who survived Senlac? Your blood is baptized in fire and foes'. Welcome to our world, where coin is sole sovereign." I was hired at once, beginning true mercenary life. Each morning under southern glare, I practiced heavy axe swings, steel arcs deadly; speared straw targets from horseback like charging enemies; studied tattered leather maps, plotting ambushes on rugged mountain passes.
At night by flickering fires, I drank cheap local wine with comrades, swapping tales of coin, women, glorious fights. At seventeen, I stood nearly six feet, long black hair to shoulders, gaunt but granite-hard face, gray eyes cold as cooled iron. No longer the naive boy gazing hopefully at Bayonne's sea; I was a warrior, scars layering skin like survival tales.
Mercenaries had no fixed home—only endless battlefields where blood flowed and coin poured. Hired by the Count of Toulouse to crush Gascony revolts, in limestone hills where the Garonne ran red after clashes. Battles here were earthly hell: soaring ridges, dense forests hiding ambushes, desperate rebels—Saxon farmers and local Basques—fighting as if all was lost. I charged with my old Viking axe—hastings savior, haft worn smooth by years—like a whirlwind. As foes rushed with spears and shields, I swung wide, cleaving from shoulder to chest, bones cracking amid valley-echoing screams. Hot blood sprayed my face, but guilt or hesitation vanished; only steady breath, taut muscles, primal instinct guiding each stroke. Anselm taught the trade's harsh rules: "Fight fast, retreat fast. Love no land—it's merely where others' corpses lie." Nights after bloody fights, I slept in damp tents, wind howling through stone valleys, carving on my axe haft Brother Anselm's old Latin: "Non patria, sed victoria"—"No fatherland, only victory." It became my creed for years, reminding that loyalty was to strength and coin, not flags or ideals.
War in southern France taught me to live like a wild forest beast, mercy a fatal weakness. I learned to torch villages to starve enemies, flames devouring thatch roofs, swallowing women's and children's cries; to save when profitable, like pulling a rich merchant from ambush for fat reward. Coin flooded my pouch like sand through fingers—French silver from counts, Italian gold from traders—enough for thick scale armor, a finer horse with carved leather saddle, a dark-gray cloak for night concealment. My face now bore countless small scars, eyes sunken from sleepless watches, skin weathered by southern winds. No longer naive; I was a fighting machine, soul hardening with each clash. One night in a noisy Bordeaux tavern, wine-sour and meat-smoke thick, a messenger in royal cloak with golden dragon arrived. He needed mercenaries back in England to quell northern unrest—Northumbria rising fiercely, backed by Danes. I eyed my heavy silver pouch on the rough table, then the pouring rain outside, water whispering like fate. An inner voice urged: "Return where blood spilled—this time, not to serve, but to live and conquer." I accepted without pause. Three days later, I sailed with Norman ships again, waves thudding hulls, salty wind slapping my face, stirring old wanderer memories.
Upon arrival, York—the ancient city of sturdy stone walls and soaring churches—drowned in flames. Northumbrian forces, stalwart Saxon warriors with battle-axes and shields, allied with North Sea Danes, rebelled savagely against William. They had slain newly appointed Earl Robert de Comines and razed Durham in fury. York became red hell, black smoke billowing skyward, screams echoing narrow streets. With Anselm's unit—now swelled to hundreds—I was ordered to storm the south gate. Saxon horns blared through smoke like hell's challenge. I charged on horseback over blood-slick wooden bridge, thrusting long spear through enemy shields, trampling gate guards like a gale. Norman archers loosed flaming arrows, igniting thatch roofs, turning streets to fire seas. As the gate crashed with a boom, we flooded in like breaking waves—streets became blood rivers, corpses strewn under hooves. I saw a Saxon child, my childhood age, charging with a knife in desperate eyes; I sidestepped, countered with axe, blood spurting as he fell wide-eyed. In that instant, a profound truth: war spares no right or wrong, old or young—only survival or death. By afternoon, York fell utterly, Norman cheers rising through smoke. William, enraged by defiance, ordered the "Harrying of the North"—a brutal winter 1069–1070 campaign, burning, slaying, looting from York to Durham and beyond. Norman bands swept the north like deadly blizzards: villages torched, livestock slaughtered, fields ruined, famine killing perhaps 150,000 souls in that frozen hell. I joined the sweeps, riding through thick snow, burning homes, hunting rebels in woods. Women's and children's cries echoed in cold wind, but I said nothing, wiping axe blood, heart heavy: Was this glory, or man-made hell?
After York and the Harrying, William richly rewarded the loyal. Summoned to his central tent, where the king sat on a simple wooden throne, gray eyes scanning me like a weapon, he said: "You fought well, Ealdred," voice deep and commanding. I received another ten shillings and a tall warhorse, but reward brought no joy. Anselm clapped my shoulder, proud: "Ealdred, you're no mere mercenary—you're the king's free warrior." I gazed at ash fields, corpses under snow, chill drizzle: victory again, but my soul heavier than ever. I grasped this path allowed no turning back. I returned Anselm's share of reward, then left York alone, heading south through corpse-strewn, ashen roads. Henceforth, a wandering knight—a mounted ghost on desolate fields, no homeland, no allegiance. Saxons hated me as Norman tool; Normans distrusted my lack of noble blood. Only my Viking axe and self-loyalty remained, a lost soul in chaotic world.
Hearing of wars in Italy and Sicily, where Normans expanded with conquest's might, I crossed the Rhône, through Provence's sun-wind fields of purple lavender, to bustling Genoa port. En route, I escorted merchants, guarding against Lombard bandits lurking in Alps. Each clash was life-or-death: sudden ambushes, whistling arrows, clanging metal. At twenty, I stood nearly six-foot-three, broad-shouldered and muscled, black hair tousled, sparse beard, weathered skin, gray eyes storm-cold. I wore borrowed scale mail from Anselm, silver-flecked cloak—a true knight's guise, but gaze of one faithless in God or ideals. In Genoa, Mediterranean ships thronging, I met Count Ruggero di Sicilia—Roger I de Hauteville, legendary Norman lord with red beard and iron will, conquering Sicily from Muslims. Needing mercenaries to escort goods to Palermo, seeing my layered neck scars, he asked in rough Norman: "You know how to fight, lad?" I replied bluntly: "I fought at Hastings, my lord, and survived the Harrying of the North." He nodded, eyes recognizing worth. Thus, I set out—south to Sicily's blazing sun and white sands, where Normans scripted history in battles like Misilmeri and Palermo, seizing the island from Arabs.
En route to Palermo, our convoy was ambushed by Lombard bandits on Etna's pass—the fabled volcano smoking, terrain jagged like hell. Shouts echoed among rocks, arrows raining, horses neighing. I charged the front on horseback, long spear thrusting into the leader's chest, blood gushing foul. My horse arrow-struck, crumpled on sharp stones; I rolled, drew Viking axe, slashed an enemy's thigh, flipped to hack another's neck—his head tumbling into the abyss. Amid smoke comincia and clashing steel, I saw Ruggero's son—a sixteen-year-old with golden hair and fearful blue eyes—dragged by two bandits toward the cliff. Without pause, I hurled a dropped spear—iron embedding in one's shoulder, he roared falling. I rushed, pulled the boy from the edge, shielded him with raised axe, severing the other's arm. My blood soaked armor, body aching from wounds, but the boy lived. After, smoke clearing, corpses strewn, Ruggero embraced me, voice trembling: "You saved my bloodline, Ealdred. Henceforth, you are my knight, kin to the Hautevilles." I knelt on stony ground, first hearing "Sir Ealdred"—a pivot from wanderer to knight, bloodless though noble.
I stood on Sicily's shore, watching sun sink into the Mediterranean—crimson as blood, silent as unchangeable fate. In sea wind carrying salt and Etna ash, I touched my axe haft—now carved: "Vita est bellum"—"Life is war." I had survived blood-drenched Hastings, burned York and cruel Harrying, fierce Etna. Each scar a painful memory, each coin another's blood. I knew not where future led—perhaps glorious Sicilian conquest with Roger I, defeating Muslims at Palermo, or as Italian condottiero leading my own grande compagnie. But I knew: Ealdred, Normandy mud orphan, was now a Mediterranean knight—no lineage, no home, only sword and harsh destiny. As night wind blew, waves thudding, I whispered: "From Yorkshire mud to Sicily's red glow—I remain merely the survivor. But at least, I live by my own blade, in this chaotic world."