Dawn crept in cold and gray on the ridge above Hastings, atop the hour when night yields to the sun. Sir Roland of Normandie sat upon his charger and watched the first pale light spread across the verdant fields of Sussex. His breath misted inside his iron helm as he steeled himself for battle. Beneath the weight of his chainmail and the cream-and-crimson tabard of his house, Roland’s heart drummed a relentless rhythm. He could feel the tension in his legs where they gripped the saddle, and in the sweat that slicked his palms inside his gauntlets.

  Free yourself of fear.

  The other Norman knights were murmuring prayers or tightening girths on their horses. Roland swallowed hard, tasting bile and bitterness. He’d trained for this since boyhood, yet something gnawed at him beneath his armor, as real and sharp as any Saxon blade.

  On the hillcrest ahead, a wall of Englishmen stood silent. In the dim light, Roland could just make out the line of their Saxon shields overlapping edge to edge. He imagined it to be a bristling fence of wood and iron hugging the slope. Spear points and axe-heads poked above it like grim fenceposts. King Harold’s dragon banner fluttered somewhere behind them, a red-gold shape in the mist, marking where the Saxon king and his housewarriors waited. The sight made Roland’s mouth go dry. He whispered a fragment of prayer in Norman French, “Dieu, aide moi…”

  God, help me.

  To either side of him stretched the mass of Duke William’s invading army, composed of thousands of Normans, Bretons, and French allies, formed up in ranks. Flags bearing the cross of Normandy and various lordly sigils flapped in the breeze. Horses snorted clouds of vapor, stamping impatiently at the scent of thousands of men and the promise of blood. Somewhere behind Roland, a horn sounded a low, trembling note. It would be his time soon.

  He flexed his fingers on the smooth leather wrapping of his sword’s hilt. The blade hung at Roland’s side for now; in his right hand, he held a heavy ashwood lance tipped with steel. He glanced to his right, where Sir Odo, one of his longtime companions, was adjusting the nose-guard of his helmet. Catching Roland’s eye, Odo gave a slight grin. “Not every day we fight for a kingdom, eh, Roland?” he said, forcing his voice to mask his nerves.

  Roland managed a tight smile in return. “Aye. For Normandy and our futures,” he replied. His voice sounded calmer than he felt. He raised his chin and looked past Odo to where Duke William rode at the center of the line beneath a flag that slapped at the air. William was broad-shouldered and barrel-chested in his battle gear, imposing even at a distance. He wore no crown today, only a steel helm, but a cape of deep blue marked him against the rest. His banner was holy, sent by the Pope himself. It displayed a golden cross on white, catching the dawn’s first rays as if lit from within.

  William was moving down the line on his warhorse, shouting words of encouragement in a booming Norman-French. Roland couldn’t make out the speech over the constant clatter of arms and armor, but he knew well what their Duke promised: Glory, God’s favor, and rich lands in England for those who fought bravely this day. Roland’s grip tightened on his lance. Land. That was the prize. He pictured for an instant the green rolling hills of this island, dotted with manors and villages that would be handed out as the spoils of victory. William had promised his loyal knights and lords personal estates and titles if they deposed Harold Godwinson from his stolen throne. And Harold’s defeat would hoist Roland from a minor knight to a great lord in a new land, perhaps even an earl with a castle. This had driven Roland to swear his oath months ago, kneeling before William’s sword. That goal had carried him across the sea on cramped longships, enduring seasickness and autumn storms, to land on England’s shores. It had motivated him through the weeks of waiting, raiding, and false flags to draw Harold out. Now the prize is within reach, he reminded himself. All he needed to do was survive the coming storm… and prove himself worthy.

  Yet beneath the hunger for glory lurked a shred of doubt. Roland could not deny a coiling snake of fear, slithering low in his gut. He had seen battles before, skirmishes over border castles, a siege against rebellious Bretons… but never a shield wall manned by hundreds of seasoned warriors defending their homeland. The English housecarls on that ridge were said to be the fiercest infantry ordained under Christ, sworn to die at their king’s side. They would not break easily.

  Roland wondered, Will I have the courage to press on when faced with that wall of shields? When my comrades fall screaming around me? Will I hold to my oath? He closed his eyes and inhaled the cool air, tinged with the scent of grass and the woodsmoke from Norman campfires now smoldering out. In that moment, he acknowledged the fear and attempted to tame it. I am a Norman knight, a lord of war. He would make himself have the courage. Honor demanded it; William demanded it. Roland’s life had led to this day. He straightened up, rolling his shoulders to ease the stress under his mail.

  From across the slope came a sudden roar of voices. They were thunderous, the English battle-cry rising from behind the shield wall. Thousands of Saxon dogs chanting as one. The sound jolted Roland’s eyes open. The shield wall was alive now, men rocking in place, bellowing down at the Normans. He couldn’t understand their language, but he easily grasped the intent. They were praying to their English God, their king, telling the invaders to flee or die. A hot flare of anger burned away Roland’s last fibers of hesitation. These Saxons would never yield their crown willingly; William was right; England must be won by blood. Roland found himself baring his teeth in something like a snarl wild dogs wear. So be it.

  Trumpets blared from the Norman line. It was time. A ripple of movement ran through William’s army. At the front, rows of archers stepped forth, nocking arrows to bows. Roland watched Duke William trot along the foreground, brandishing a mace in one hand as he gave the signal. William’s shout rang out: “En avant! Lay low the enemy, by God’s grace!” The Norman archers drew and loosed. A dark hail of arrows arced up into the sky, hissing as they sailed overhead. Roland craned to see their flight. He spotted hundreds of them rising, then falling toward the Saxon line. A few heartbeats later came faint thuds and screams from the hilltop. But when the volley cleared, he could still see the wall of shields largely intact. There were a few gaps where men fell, but the English line held firm, absorbing the arrows behind stout wooden boards.

  Another volley followed, and another; arrows pelted the ridge like deadly rain, yet the English stood resolute. Here and there, a man toppled with an arrow in his throat or eye. Roland saw one Saxon stumble out from behind the wall, an arrow jutting from his shoulder, but most missiles skittered off wood or iron caps.

  Now came the infantry’s turn. With a great cry, the Norman foot soldiers surged uphill. Hundreds of men, Norman swordsmen and spearmen, Breton mercenaries and more, charged on foot toward the English position. They crashed against the Saxon shield wall in a crescendo of metal and screams. Roland watched closely from horseback, awaiting his moment. He saw spears thrusting, swords hacking, and heard the deep thunk of axe on wood as the English swung down upon his allies.

  Here and there, a Norman fell, screaming and tumbling back down the slope, clutching at their wound. Others pressed forward, stabbing at Saxon legs beneath the shields or trying to slip through the shield boards. A savage melee ensued along the hill’s edge, but the Saxon line did not break. It was like a living fortress: when one defender fell, another stepped forward to lock shields with his fellow. Over the concert of chaos, Roland could hear their harsh shouts and grunts as they repelled the Norman assault.

  “Cavalry, ready!” came the shout down the Norman line. The knights were being called in now to tip the balance. Roland’s pulse knocked on his chest. He lowered the visor of his helm, slits narrowing his view to the jagged ground ahead. The other mounted knights formed up tightly around him. Lances were readied, shields brought up to position. Roland slid his left arm through the straps of his kite-shaped shield emblazoned with a black wolf sigil. The painted wolf snarled outward, as if hungry for the fight. A wolf of Normandy, Roland thought; it gave him a bit of grim confidence.

  There came a horn blast, then the thunder of hooves. Roland kicked his horse and joined the charge. Dozens, then hundreds of Norman knights surged forward, shaking the ground with the weight of their advance. Roland leaned into his horse’s neck as they galloped, hooves pounding. Ahead, the infantry parted aside to let the armored riders through. Roland’s ears filled with the strumming of wind, its song playing against the percussion of chainmail. The hill nipped at their pace, but momentum carried them on. “Deus vult!” someone shouted. “God wills it!” Others took up the cry.

  They slammed into the Saxon line like an avalanche. Roland locked his lance underarm at the last second, aiming at a gap where a Norman footman had just fallen. A Saxon housecarl with a round shield and axe shuffled into view. The man’s beard was bright gold and spattered with blood; he flashed his teeth and raised his shield to meet Roland’s charge. Roland drove his lance forward with all his might. The point hit the shield at an odd angle, punching through planks but not fully penetrating. The impact shook his bones. His lance splintered with a loud crack, the lower half torn from his grip as he and his steed barreled past. The housecarl was knocked off-balance but remained standing. Roland caught a glimpse of the man snarling furiously, shoving back against the onslaught of Normans at the line.

  Now Roland was in the thick of it, at the very front. His destrier muscled into the line of bodies, trampling an Englishman who had fallen. The body let out an agonized cry, muffled in a gurgle as Roland cast aside the broken lance and drew his sword in one fluid motion. A spear jabbed at him; he deflected it with his shield, the iron scraping oak and leather. The screams of men rang out only to be cut short and replaced with a fresh voice, death surrounded Roland. His horse reared suddenly with a shrill neigh, an English axe had cleaved into its hind leg. The destrier’s front hooves lashed out, catching an enemy soldier in the chest and sending the man sprawling with several broken ribs. Roland fought to control his mount, yanking the reins. He caught a blur of motion: behind him was the bearded housecarl with the shattered shield now swinging his Danish axe upward at him. Roland had only time for instinct. He wrenched his body aside in the saddle. The great axe blade whooshed past his face, so close he felt the air sing and caught a flash of steel filling his vision. It would have split his skull. The miss unbalanced the Saxon; his momentum spun him around. Seizing the moment, Roland kicked his right foot free of the stirrup and lashed out with it, catching the housecarl in the chest. The big man stumbled back a step, arms doing circles to keep balance on the slick, bloodied grass.

  Roland’s mount was screaming in pain from the wound in its flank. It danced sideways, threatening to topple. Roland made a swift, brutal decision; he kicked free of the saddle entirely and leapt down before the horse could fall. He hit the earth hard, knees absorbing most of the impact. A rush of hooves passed by as other knights shot deeper into the fray. Roland found himself on foot at the frontline, mere yards from the enemy. His wounded steed bolted in panic back down the hill, muscle and tissue hanging from where the axe had ripped it. Roland couldn’t watch; he was immediately forced to raise his shield. Two of the English militia thrust spears at him. One struck his shield with a heavy thud, slightly numbing his arm; the other skittered off his hauberk, failing to pierce the iron rings but sure to cause a massive bruise. Roland roared as he barged forward, smashing his shield into one of the spear-men. The impact knocked the leather-capped peasant flat onto his back. Roland stamped past him and swung his sword at the second. The broad blade caught the second Saxon in the neck and bit deep. Hot blood fountained across Roland’s forearm, and the man crumpled with a strange strangled noise, his spear dropping from limp fingers.

  A savagery coursed through Roland. First kill of the day. But he had no time to savor it. The prone Saxon peasant at his feet was scrambling up, drawing a long knife from his belt to slash at Roland’s leg. Roland quickly reversed his grip and stabbed downward, skewering the unlucky warrior through the chest. The man attempted to grip the blade, but began to convulse and then quickly went still. Two more Englishmen rushed into the gap, stepping over their fallen countrymen with fury in their eyes.

  They are everywhere.

  Roland suddenly felt very alone, a single knight on foot amid a sea of Saxon bastards. He fell back a step, desperately parrying one sword and then ducking another.

  Where the hell are they?

  A band of Norman foot soldiers was still struggling at the shield wall, but Roland had drifted to the right in the chaos, almost in front of the Saxon flag. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a cluster of Norman knights a few yards downhill. Sir Odo was waving his sword and calling Roland’s name. They had not abandoned him, but he would have to fight his way through.

  Gritting his teeth, Roland bashed his shield at the nearest Saxon to create space, then turned and ran a few steps downslope. He hated to retreat even a yard, but a momentary withdrawal was better than being surrounded. Odo shouted, “Roland! This way!” Then suddenly Odo’s eyes widened. “Behind you!” he bellowed. Roland spun, raising his shield. WHAM! A massive force crashed into his kite shield, nearly tearing it away. The golden-bearded housecarl was back, and he had swung his Danish axe two-handed with every piece of his strength. The blow shattered what remained of the housecarl’s broken shield that lay discarded, and it rebounded into Roland’s. Splinters flew; the top half of Roland’s wooden shield caved, its iron frame bending. Roland had narrowly avoided his death twice in mere moments. Instead of his spine, the axe lodged in his ruined shield. The housecarl tore it free with a growl, even managing to yank the shield partly out of Roland’s arm. Roland stumbled and fell hard on his backside. The housecarl loomed over him, raising the axe high for the killing blow. Through his ringing ears, Roland heard the man mutter something in English, perhaps a curse or a prayer. He caught a flash of the man’s wild eyes, the sweat and blood drenching his beard.

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  Time seemed to slow. Roland’s shield was useless now, arm half-entangled in its torn straps. He saw death descending in the form of an iron axe edge. Not like this, please, not today! Something fierce surged up in Roland. With a guttural cry, he hurled himself sideways on the ground as the axe came smashing down. It missed his body by inches, biting into the earth. Before the housecarl could recover, Roland lunged from his knees and swung his sword in a desperate upward arc. The blade sliced into the Saxon’s inner thigh, where the mail ended. Roland felt steel grate against bone. The Englishman roared in agony and fell to one knee, blood pouring from the artery in his leg. His axe dropped as he clutched at his thigh, trying to halt the warm, rushing river. Roland surged up from the ground and drove his sword clean through the man’s torso, shoving with both hands until he felt the point exit between the man’s shoulder blades. The big Saxon shuddered and let out a final breath. Roland yanked his sword free with effort as the famed housecarl, one of the king’s elite guards, toppled over dead at last.

  Chest heaving, Roland gained his footing, only to see another axeman rushing at him. It was another housecarl, enraged by witnessing his comrade’s death. This one swung low, aiming to cleave Roland’s legs. Roland threw himself backward awkwardly. The Dane axe whooshed just past his knees, so close it grazed the leather of his boots. Stumbling, Roland hit the ground again in a graceless heap. The Saxon grunted and lifted his weapon for another strike. Roland scrambled back, raising his sword in a weak defense; he knew he could never block that axe with a one-handed sword, let alone with his ass to the ground.

  Then a Norman spear lanced out of nowhere, punching into the axeman’s side. Sir Odo had arrived. With a fierce shout, Odo drove his spear into the Saxon’s ribs, then ripped it free in a spray of gore. The housecarl coughed wetly and collapsed, dropping his axe with a thud. Odo thrust a hand down to Roland. “Up, man! Quickly!” he barked. Roland grasped his friend’s arm and pulled himself upright.

  They stumbled back together toward the relative safety of the Norman line. Roland’s lungs burned, and his legs felt as if forged from iron. The battle was still raging, but the initial charge had been thwarted. Norman knights milled in confusion, some riderless like Roland, fighting on foot. Others had withdrawn a short distance down the slope. The Saxon shield wall remained unbroken; it stood proud along the ridge, however, now with piles of dead before it. Here and there, clusters of Normans had been repulsed and were falling back, shouting to each other to regroup. Roland saw one of his liege lord’s banners, the red hawk of Breteuil, wavering as its bearer tried to rally fleeing men. A squadron of cavalry on the left had broken and were in full retreat down the hill, pursued by a mob of whooping English.

  A thought stabbed Roland’s mind: We’re failing. We can’t break them. The invincible Norman cavalry beaten? He tasted copper, realizing he’d bitten his tongue during the melee. Fear threatened to well up again, the fear he had pushed aside earlier. He felt Odo’s hand squeeze his shoulder. “Steady,” his friend panted. “It’s not over.” Roland nodded, sucking in deep breaths. Not over, no. However, their first assault had failed disastrously. Scores of Normans lay dead or dying on the hillside, and the Saxons still held the high ground.

  A sudden cry went among some of the Norman ranks: “Il est mort! The Duke is dead! William is dead!” The rumor spread like wildfire. Roland’s head snapped toward the center where William’s banner had been. To his horror, he couldn’t see it in the chaos. Was it true? Had William been killed? If William had fallen, the battle would have been lost. Panic began rippling outward; some Norman soldiers started to divide and run.

  Then, through the dust and buildup of bodies, Roland spied a mounted figure galloping along the rear of the Norman line, lifting his helmet off his head to reveal coal-black hair and a reddened, bearded face. It was Duke William himself. He was alive and furiously rallying his army. “Je suis ici! I am here!” William shouted at the fleeing Bretons, holding aloft his helmet so all could see his face. “Voyez! I live, and with God’s help we shall have victory!” His voice boomed across the field. William spurred into the retreating cluster, striking a fleeing rider with the pommel of his sword to turn him back. Embarrassed and newly heartened, men halted their retreat. Cheers rose: “The Duke is alive! Rally, rally!” Roland felt a flood of relief, raised his sword, and shouted at those around him, “Back to the fight! à moi, Normands!” He cried with all the air in his lungs. “To me, Normans!” A dozen of his comrades answered, quickly re-forming around him. They would attack again.

  William took charge swiftly. Riding to where all could see him, he addressed the army. Roland couldn’t catch every word, but the message was clear. William pointed his sword toward the Saxon lines and roared that God was with them still. The English dogs would be brought to heel if pressed once more. He then gestured to the archers and gave new orders. At his command, the Norman archers advanced and loosed another barrage of arrows; now aiming higher so the shafts would rain down over the Saxon shields. Roland watched as the arrows climbed almost straight up into the sky; then down they came whistling. From the ridge came screams of pain as the deadly hail fell behind the shield wall. He saw Saxons cowering or stumbling when struck. A few more holes appeared in that previously solid English line.

  Good.

  Meanwhile, William and his captains regrouped the cavalry for another charge. Roland realized his legs were close to failing, trembling viciously from exhaustion. His shield was gone, his left forearm hosted a bleeding gouge where the shield strap had torn away under the axe blow, though he hadn’t felt it until now. He tossed aside the useless splinters still strapped to him. Odo, ever resourceful, quickly fetched a spare kite shield from a wounded Norman lying nearby and thrust it into Roland’s hands. “Take Raoul’s,” Odo demanded. The shield was rough but serviceable, painted with a red cross. Roland nodded his thanks, strapping it on. He wiped his sword once on the grass to clear the worst of the blood.

  “I need a horse,” Roland said, scanning for any riderless mounts. The ground was littered with slain or injured horses, but he spotted a chestnut destrier being held by a squire not far off. The squire was frantically trying to keep the animal from bolting. Roland sprinted over, teeth gritted against the ache in his muscles, and took the reins with a quick look of gratitude. He patted the horse’s flank and murmured soothingly in French. The steed was anxious, eyes rolling at the smell of blood, but it allowed Roland to swing up into the saddle. At once, he felt a roar of power surge through him. Now he was a mounted knight again, not some vulnerable footman. Odo had also found a spare horse and remounted as the other knights formed their lines for another go. Their numbers were smaller, and many had bloodied or damaged weapons, but their spirit was doubling.

  William led the next assault, eager to erase the shame of the first. With horns blowing and the banner flying beside the Duke, the Normans surged up the hill again. Roland rode in a wave just behind William’s frontmost guard, keeping close with Odo and the other knights of his contingent. The ground was even more chewed up now, slick with blood and littered with corpses. Horses carefully stepped around fallen men, friend and foe. As they neared the Saxon line, Roland could see it had crumpled slightly. The constant arrows and the earlier fights had thinned it; heaps of dead Saxons lay where gaps stood. Still, enough of Harold’s warriors held formation to present a formidable front.

  They crashed into the shieldwall again with a shout. Roland drove his borrowed horse forward, thrusting his sword over a shield to slash at the face behind it. He felt the blade meet flesh; an Englishman cried out, reeling back with a gashed brow. A Norman foot soldier beside Roland rammed a spear into the stomach of another Saxon through a gap, spilling the poor bastard’s entrails. Roland’s horse lunged, biting at the enemy; it caught one unlucky Saxon’s shoulder, as the big horse’s teeth clamped down. Amidst the chaos, Roland heard Duke William’s voice carrying: “Push, Normans! Break them!” and an English voice crying, “Hold the line! For Harold! Hold!” Metal on metal, horses screaming, men bellowing in French, in English, in pain, in hatred.

  I’ve never felt more alive or closer to death.

  Just a few yards ahead, Roland spotted a cluster of armored English guards defending a flag. The Dragon of Wessex, Harold’s royal banner, whipped and snapped on its pole above their heads. Beneath that banner, the English King’s household troops were making a desperate stand. Roland knew in his gut that Harold must be nearby, perhaps even at the center of that cluster. The battle could be won here and now if we can just cut the head from the snake. “With me! For the Duke and glory!” he shouted, pointing his sword at the dragon banner. Rallying a handful of Normans, Roland pressed toward it.

  The fighting grew fiercer as they neared the banner; these were Harold’s best men, the royal housecarls who fought like cornered lions. One of Roland’s fellow knights was yanked from his saddle and instantly hacked to pieces by axes, his screams cut brutally short. Roland stabbed a housecarl through the throat only to have his sword wrenched from his grip as the dying man fell back. With a roar, Roland drew the long dagger from his belt and slashed at another Saxon’s face, buying himself a moment to grab an abandoned sword that stood planted in the earth. The press of bodies was so tight now that he could scarcely swing a rabbit, let alone a sword. There were shields and arms and weapons all jostling together in a maelstrom. His horse took a spear in the chest and collapsed with a shriek, spilling Roland to the ground for the second time that day. He rolled clear of the flailing animal and came up kneeling. Ahead of him, he saw something that made his hair stand to attention: King Harold was barely ten paces away, standing in his royal armor with a crowned helmet, fighting on foot among his guard. Roland recognized the king’s emblem on his surcoat, but more so, he recognized the desperation in the voices of the Saxons around him. “Protect the king!” they cried.

  It all happened in heartbeats. An arrow, loosed high from some Norman bow, struck King Harold. Roland saw the English king recoil, a wooden missile suddenly jutting straight from the eye of Harold’s helmet. Harold made a choking gasp and dropped his sword, clapping his hands to his face as blood streamed down. The housecarls around their king hesitated in shock. In that moment, Norman knights crashed into them with full force. One of William’s knights, Sir Eustace, drove his lance into Harold’s chest like a thunderbolt, knocking the king backward. Another Norman swung a sword and hacked into Harold’s ribs, and yet another brought a mace down onto the king’s now uncrowned head. King Harold II of England crumpled to the ground and would never return to his feet.

  Roland was on his feet now, sword in hand, witnessing the moment from just a few strides away. He stared as the Dragon of Wessex banner trembled and then toppled, the standard-bearer slain by a Norman blade. The bright dragon that had flown over the English army now fell to the blood-soaked ground. An aftershock passed through the ranks of the English. Roland saw the nearest Saxon warrior’s face slacken; the man faltered, lowering his axe as if suddenly unsure why he was fighting or what would happen next. Then the cry went up from dozens of Norman throats: “Harold is dead! The king is dead!” A great cheer of triumph swelled among William’s men. Conversely, a groan of despair emanated from the English. Their shield wall, their courage, which had held so proudly, had now been completely shattered.

  “Onward! Victory is ours!” someone yelled, now plunging into the fray near where Harold had fallen. The Normans surged forward with fury. Roland felt a strangeness inside as he gazed upon the king’s corpse, now being trampled underfoot. It’s over… We’ve won. The thought prodded at him. But the battle wasn’t quite over; many Saxons fought on, unaware or refusing to accept that their leader was gone. Roland shook himself and rejoined the fight. He and the Normans hacked and stabbed at the remnants of the English line, forcing them back from the ridge that had been their fortress. Some turned to flee, throwing down their shields to run faster. Others stayed and died where they stood.

  Roland found himself panting, drenched in sweat and blood (much of it not his own), planted in a garden of carnage. His chest heaved as he surveyed the scene through the dim light of dusk. The sun was sinking red and massive on the horizon, casting an eerie glow over the heaps of bodies. The Battle of Hastings was won. Norman banners now crowned the ridge where the Dragon of Wessex had flown. Duke William’s commanders were rallying what troops could still fight to chase down the fleeing Saxons. Small knots of combat still flickered here and there across the hillside, English fugitives being cut down by pursuing cavalry, isolated Saxon warriors making last stands only to be caught and butchered. A terrible wailing carried on the breeze; Roland realized it was the cry of wounded men, Norman and Saxon alike. The ravens and crows were already gathering, black specks swirling in the dark sky, drawn by the stench of death.

  Sir Roland stood over the body of a Saxon he had slain moments before, and gradually became aware that his sword arm was shaking. He lowered his blade, feeling the day drag on him. His whole body hurt. His cuts and bruises made themselves known now that the battle was over. Odo came limping over, helmet gone, a bloodied bandage wrapped hastily around his left bicep. His face was streaked with dirt, and he looked as exhausted as Roland felt. The two friends greeted each other, and then Odo managed a weary grin. “We did it,” he said hoarsely. His voice was thick with disbelief.

  Roland nodded slowly. His eyes drifted past Odo to the spot where King Harold had fallen. A group of Norman knights was gathered there, celebrating and trading tales of the day. Among them, Duke William stood with one foot atop Harold’s lifeless body. William’s helmet was off; his dark hair was matted to his forehead with sweat. He looked like some freakish warlord out of legend, face smeared with grime and a wild light in his eyes as he gazed down at his rival’s corpse. William lifted his sword, and praised God and his men. A cheer rang back: “Long live the Duke of Normandy, King of England!” The old King of England’s blood dripped from Norman steel, soaking into the conquered soil.

  Emotion overwhelmed Roland. Victory, undeniable and intoxicating. They had gambled everything on this day. Whore of shit, I’m alive! We won! A ragged laugh escaped his throat, which turned into a cough from the smoke beginning to waft over the field (fires had started in some of the Saxon encampments beyond the ridge). Roland’s head swam in a pool of endless thought. William would reward his loyal knights with lands, titles, and wealth beyond anything Roland held back in Normandy. He allowed himself to imagine, just for an instant, the proud castles he would build, the villages that would owe him their fealty, the legacy he might construct in this new kingdom. All of it seemed suddenly real as the crown of England passed into Norman hands against the bloody sunset.

  Yet as Roland looked out over the corpse-infested hill, another feeling cut through him. It was a pang of unease, sorrow even. The price of his dream piled around him. Thousands of men, English and Norman alike, were dead or dying. Their hopes ended here on this cold October evening. Roland saw a Saxon boy no older than fifteen, sprawled face down. His hair was caked with blood, fingers still curled around a broken spear. Is this truly God’s will? Roland wondered. He had fought with all his strength and courage, had done his duty and more… but the carnage churned his stomach.

  Odo placed a hand on Roland’s shoulder, snapping him back to the moment. “You’re hurt,” Odo said, eyeing the blood that soaked Roland’s forearm and various breaks in his mail. Roland shook his head. “Bah, it’s nothing,” he managed quietly. He realized his throat was raw, whether from shouting or smoke, he couldn’t tell. Around them, the Normans were rounding up captives and tending to wounded comrades. A few English survivors were dragged before William, who would no doubt decide their fates shortly. Dusk settled fully, the sky fully bruised.

  Torches were starting to flicker to life. The battle might be over, but there was much to do: executions, mercy killings, binding wounds of those who could be saved, guarding against any last desperate Saxon counterattack. And then tomorrow, the march to claim the ultimate prize… London and the throne.