Late afternoon sun shone over Senlac Hill, staining the stomped grass in hues of flame. Cynric pressed back against his royal shield and braced himself as another wave of Norman savages crashed upon the Saxon shield wall. His muscles screamed for rest. Splinters flew where a Norman sword hacked at his shield’s rim, sending lightning up his arm. He snarled and shoved back with all his strength. For hours, he and his brothers-in-arms had stood on this slope, shoulder to shoulder, holding back Duke William’s invaders. Now, as the day waned, their wall was buckling.

  Dust and dirt scratched at Cynric’s throat with each breath; the air tasted of ash and blood. He could barely hear anything beyond the overwhelming song of battle: the clash of iron, the thud of axe on bone, the shouts of suffering. The stench of sweat and spilled guts grew thick around him. Through openings in the melee, he caught sight of the horror unfolding: Saxon warriors who had broken ranks now lay scattered down the hill, cut down by the Norman cavalry after they’d foolishly given chase.

  “Hold the line!” Someone bellowed to his left. Cynric gritted his teeth. It was Oswald, an older housecarl with flecks of grey in his beard, but still a long-time veteran and friend. Although hours into the fray, he fought savagely, swinging his broad axe at a Norman attempting to ascend the shield wall. The blade crunched into the invader’s armor and sent him tumbling back with a scream. They had repelled every assault since morning. They could repel this too; they must.

  Pounding of hooves? Another charge from below! Cynric pressed up against the warrior on his right, Wulfstan, a younger lad. “Stand fast!” Cynric shouted at him. Wulfstan nodded, face pale beneath the blood spatter, but raising his dented shield higher. We will not break. We must not break. Behind them, just a few paces up the hill, flew the royal standard of England, its golden wyrm embroidered on red, whipping and snapping in the air. King Harold’s banner.

  “Ut! Ut! Ut!” A roar rose from the Saxon ranks to steady their hearts. “Out! Out!” Cynric roared with them, his voice raw. He slammed his sword against his shield in defiance. All along the line, housecarls and fyrdmen took up the cry, bellowing at the enemy to be gone. For a moment, it drowned out even the Normans’ horns.

  Norman archers in the rear loosed another flight of arrows against the low sun. Cynric heard the whistling descend like a flock of deadly birds and raised his shield. Arrows clattered down, some skittering off helmets and shields, others finding flesh with hideous squelches. A man just behind Cynric groaned as an arrow punched into his throat; he gurgled and collapsed, kicking the dirt. But Cynric couldn’t spare him more than a glance.

  The next assault was on them, Norman foot-knights scrambling up over the litter of bodies, wielding spears and swords. With a grunt, Cynric surged forward and swung his blade at the first shape to lunge through. His sword bit into a Norman's side just above the hem of his armor; the man yelped and fell back, blood spilling over Cynric’s hand.

  Another took his place, jabbing a spear. Cynric knocked it aside with his shield boss and slammed the iron-rimmed edge into the attacker’s face. Bone crunched. The Norman collapsed.

  There was no time to think. To his right, a Norman had vaulted onto Wulfstan, knocking the young housecarl to his knees. The knight raised a mace to crush Wulfstan’s skull. Cynric pivoted with a roar and swung his sword two-handed. The blade sheared into the Norman’s neck, nearly decapitating him. The knight toppled off Wulfstan, head hanging by threads of muscle and tissue.

  Cynric hauled Wulfstan back to his feet. “Keep fighting!” he yelled, voice nearly lost. Wulfstan’s eyes shone with gratitude, and he steadied himself again.

  But even as Cynric saved one brother, elsewhere the line was collapsing. To his left, a pocket of Saxons gave way with screams as Norman horsemen burst through a gap. Shields that had been a solid wall, scattered down the slope. Cynric’s heart slammed against his ribs. If they didn’t do something soon, they would be overrun.

  He peeked over his shoulder up the hill. King Harold stood tall with his housecarls near the Dragon of Wessex banner, sword in hand. His head was bare now, yet he still fought fiercely and rallied the last of his guard.

  Blood streaked the king’s blond mustache. Cynric took courage at the sight of him. If the king still lived and fought, England did as well.

  “Back to the standard!” cried Oswald over the chaos. Those who could hear began to pull back toward the king’s position. Cynric and Wulfstan followed, retreating while fending off enemy blows. They formed a rough ring around Harold as the last desperate circle, determined to protect their lord.

  Normans swarmed like wolves around a wounded boar. Cynric found himself shoulder-to-shoulder with Oswald now, Wulfstan just behind. There were only a dozen or so standing firm around Harold. Cynric’s arms felt like stone, every swing slower than the last. Oswald panted, sweat pouring down his face. Wulfstan was bleeding from a cut on his scalp, eyes darting around. And yet their blades were slick with the blood of enemies who came too close.

  Then came the moment that shattered the world.

  It happened so fast, yet Cynric saw every gruesome moment. A Norman arrow came screaming down and punched through Harold’s right eye.

  The king staggered, a strangled cry ripping from his throat as his hand flew to his face. For an instant, he remained upright, shock twisting his face. Blood streamed between his fingers. He’s hit! The thought hammered through Cynric’s skull.

  “No!” Cynric shouted, his voice cracking. A few of the guards faltered in horror. Cynric saw Harold wrench at the arrow shaft, trying to tear it out. Agony painted the king’s face, but he still grasped his sword and tried to stand.

  A surge of enemy knights and footmen smashed into Harold’s position, screaming in triumph. Cynric slashed wildly at the first to approach, his blade clanging off a Norman shield. He lost sight of the king as bodies shoved between them.

  After a moment, Cynric spotted Harold just in time to witness the king’s last moments. Half-blinded and gravely wounded, Harold swung his sword at an onrushing Norman horseman. The blade rang off the rider’s mailed leg, trading back a lance tip to the King’s chest-plate. Before Harold could hit the ground, a Norman sword cut into his side. The king buckled to his knees.

  “Harold!” one of his thegns cried out in despair. Cynric tried to fight toward his king, but a heavy impact from the right caught him off guard. A Norman club smashed into Cynric’s shield, and the force sent him sprawling. He hit the ground hard with breath blasting from his lungs. His sword slipped from his fingers.

  Cynric pushed up onto his hands and knees. His shield was gone, ripped from his arm. A death shriek rang out. Oswald? Cynric shook his head, trying to clear his vision.

  He looked up the hill just in time to spot the Dragon of Wessex banner tilt and fall. The young banner-bearer toppled backward with a Norman spear through his belly, dragging the golden dragon down with him. The proud emblem of Wessex crumpled to the dirt.

  King Harold lay sprawled on the blood-soaked ground only a few yards away. The arrow still jutted from the king’s ruined eye. Three Norman knights fell upon Harold’s body. Swords rose and fell in a flurry. Cynric heard a wet, horrible hacking sound. When the knights stepped back, Harold’s figure moved no more. His sword slipped from his lifeless hand.

  The King of England was dead.

  Cynric’s blood turned to ice. A high noise filled his ears; it was his voice, wailing in anguish. It can’t end like this. But it was ending. Some of his countrymen nearest the king’s corpse rushed forward in a mad attempt to avenge him or snatch up the fallen banner, but were cut down in moments.

  The shield wall was gone. Leaderless, the Saxon defense crumbled. Men began to flee where they could; others sank to their knees and were butchered.

  For an instant, Cynric remained frozen. What is this feeling? Nothingness? His king was dead. Everything they had fought for was being trampled into the mud with Harold’s blood.

  His vision tunneled, and darkness crept in. Sounds of battle muffled as if he were underwater. Cynric’s mind reached desperately for anything to anchor him. And it found that morning just hours ago, when Harold’s army had still stood proud and unbeaten.

  ###

  The crisp bite of the early morning air, the dew still fresh on the blades of green beneath his boots. The sun had been just cresting the eastern sky, painting the misty fields below in gold. They had stood in their battle lines on Senlac Hill as dawn broke under the fluttering banners of Wessex.

  He could still hear the murmur of voices that morning: low laughter cutting through the tension. Oswald had been beside him, leaning on his long-hafted axe as he chewed a bit of bread for breakfast. “Normans are all breastfed from the cock, they will break their teeth on our shields, just see if they don’t,” the older warrior had joked, passing a chunk of bread to Cynric. Cynric smirked and accepted it. Young Wulfstan paced nearby, nervously adjusting the leather strap of his helmet. Cynric remembered clapping the lad on the shoulder.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “First battle, Wulfstan?” he had asked teasingly. Wulfstan, who couldn’t have seen more than nineteen summers, could only muster a shaky nod.

  “Aye,” the boy admitted. “But I’m ready. My father died fighting Hardrada’s Danes at the Bridge, and I sent two of them to hell myself.” There was sharpness in the boy’s voice beneath the nerves.

  Oswald chuckled. “Good lad! By tonight, you’ll have Norman blood on that sword of yours too, or we each lop off a berry.” He gave Wulfstan a playful thump on the back, nearly sending the boy sprawling. They shared a hearty laugh, embracing the brotherhood they’d forged through hardship. In that moment, they were simply brothers sharing a morning before battle.

  That bright morning might as well be a lifetime ago.

  ###

  A rough hand shook Cynric back to the present. The roar of battle came rushing back in a wave of noise and pain. “Cynric, move!” It was Wulfstan, blood running down his face from the scalp. The lad was tugging at his arm. “Let’s go!”

  Cynric stared at him curiously. Then reality crashed in: The battle was lost. They were miraculously alive, and the Normans would be coming to kill them in moments.

  Nearby, two Norman soldiers were hacking down a kneeling Englishman who was begging for mercy. Cynric’s stomach churned. Further down the hill, he spotted Oswald. The veteran housecarl was slumped against a heap of corpses, one leg twisted oddly beneath him. His axe was still in his hands, but Oswald’s helmet was gone, and blood flowed down the side of his head.

  Cynric lurched to his feet, nearly slipping on the bloodied ground. Pain lanced up from his left leg, bright and hot. He glanced down and saw a deep gash across his thigh and the mail there torn open. He didn’t remember how or when he’d been wounded. His leg was soaked with blood. Each step sent agony knifing through him, but terror drove him forward.

  He grabbed Wulfstan by the arm to steady himself. The younger man also had a limp, and his shield was gone. Supporting each other, they staggered toward Oswald. We can still save him. He thought. We three can escape together.

  Oswald looked up as they approached. His face was ashen beneath the grime and blood. One eye was swollen shut, but the other widened in relief at recognizing them. “Thought… you’d both met the maker,” he wheezed.

  “Not yet,” Cynric replied with a grin. He crouched beside Oswald, biting back a groan as his wounded leg protested. “Come on, up you get.” He hooked an arm under Oswald’s shoulders. The older man grimaced and tried to push with his good leg, but barely rose an inch before collapsing. The moment Cynric lifted him, he knew why; Oswald’s hauberk was drenched in blood at the stomach. A sword or spear had opened him from gut to hip. It was a wonder he was still conscious.

  “Leave me,” Oswald hissed. “I’m done for.”

  “Never,” Cynric snapped. He heaved again, trying to drag Oswald up. Wulfstan grabbed Oswald’s other side to help, and together they managed to haul him upright. Oswald cried out, and his legs buckled immediately. He coughed, spitting blood down his beard.

  A horn blew down the hill; a clear, ringing note cut through the air—Norman cavalry gathering for the final sweep. Cynric’s eyes scanned wildly. Through the pandemonium, he glimpsed mounted knights readying to ride down. Two Norman footmen were already sprinting up the hill toward them, swords red to the hilt. They had spotted the three wounded Englishmen and were closing in fast.

  Fear flooded Cynric. They had only seconds. He tightened his grip under Oswald’s arm, dragging the heavy man another step. His bad leg nearly gave out. “Wulfstan, help me!” Cynric gasped.

  Wulfstan looked from the approaching Normans to Oswald’s face. Oswald understood. The old housecarl reached out and seized the front of Cynric’s tunic with a bloody fist. “Cynric, listen,” he rasped, each word wet and painful. “Leave me. Take Wulfstan and run.”

  Cynric shook his head. “I won’t–”

  Oswald mustered a last bit of strength. “That’s an order, boy! On the king’s soul, go!” he roared. Oswald shoved at Cynric weakly, then pressed the hilt of his axe against Cynric’s chest. “Take it. Go.”

  Cynric’s vision blurred with sudden tears. The thunder of hooves grew louder, and the two Norman swordsmen were almost upon them, grinning ear to ear beneath their helmets. Wulfstan tugged Cynric’s arm, “We have to go now!”

  Everything in Cynric’s soul rebelled at the thought. Oswald, who had stood beside him from York to Stamford Bridge, who had shared tales around the fire and endless laughter, who had saved Cynric’s life more than once. Could he truly abandon his friend like this?

  A sob tore from Cynric’s throat. He clasped forearms with Oswald in a final farewell, squeezing as if he could pour all his gratitude into that one grasp. Oswald managed a faint grin. “See the next sunrise for me, lad.”

  Cynric nodded, choking on his grief. He released Oswald and whirled just as the first Norman lunged forward. Cynric swung Oswald’s heavy axe in a savage arc. The blade caught the Norman full in the chest, crunching through leather and finding his ribs. The man’s eyes bulged as he collapsed. The second invader hesitated for a second. That was the only opening Cynric and Wulfstan would get.

  “Go!” Cynric bellowed.

  Cynric ran, dragging Wulfstan by the arm as the younger man stumbled. Pain was a whore in Cynric’s leg, but he forced himself down Senlac Hill. Behind them, he heard Oswald’s defiant roar as he faced the remaining Norman with only his dagger. A clash of steel told Cynric that Oswald did not intend to go quietly.

  But he did not see how it ended. He didn’t dare to look back. A scream cut through the air. Oswald. He knew his friend had fallen. I left him. Dear God, I left him. A sob escaped Cynric as he and Wulfstan limped hastily down Senlac Hill.

  The lower slope was littered with Saxon corpses tangled in heaps. Cynric leapt over a slain housecarl who stared blankly at the sky. His boot slipped in a puddle of blood, but Wulfstan held him upright.

  They passed deserted remains of the Saxon rear line. Armor and weapons lay scattered like toys cast aside by a spoiled child. A few wounded men staggered alongside them, but those who could run had already gone.

  A thunder of hooves replaced the final squeaks of battle. William’s knights were sweeping the field. Cynric heard one shout in Norman French. The thudding of hooves grew nearer.

  “There!” Wulfstan gasped, pointing ahead through the gloom. The woodland beyond the hill beckoned with shadowy cover. It wasn't far, perhaps a few hundred paces. If they reached the trees, the horsemen would be hard-pressed to follow.

  Cynric could only nod his agreement. His leg dragged, warm blood oozing into his boot with each stride. Every breath was a knife in his chest. Damn this leg! Damn those bastard Normans and their prick of a Duke!

  Behind them came yells far closer than before. Cynric saw three mounted knights cresting a rise not fifty paces back. The foremost wore a blue surcoat and carried a kite shield. When that knight spotted fleeing Saxons, he whooped and spurred his warhorse toward them.

  “Faster!” Cynric urged hoarsely, though neither he nor Wulfstan had any speed left to muster. They forced themselves into a desperate sprint. The trees were close! Twenty paces! Ten!

  WHOOSH! Cynric flinched as something struck a tree trunk just to his left. Archers. The Normans were loosing missiles at their backs. Wulfstan cried out and stumbled, clutching at his right arm. An arrow had grazed him or perhaps pierced his sleeve; Cynric saw blood seeping between his fingers. Wulfstan tripped, but Cynric hauled him up.

  They plunged into the treeline. Low branches whipped at Cynric’s face. He did not stop. Deeper into the thicket they crashed, staggering over roots and bushes. Behind them, the Norman knight in the blue surcoat held up at the forest’s edge, unable to charge into the dense woods. He shouted in frustration, circling his horse. Another arrow hissed past, but the shots were less accurate now that their targets were among trees.

  Cynric dragged Wulfstan deeper until the sounds of the knights were distant. When he judged they had put enough forest between themselves and the Normans, Cynric slowed and pulled Wulfstan down behind a great oak. Both men collapsed against the trunk, gasping for air.

  Cynric’s entire body throbbed. A wave of dizziness swept over him; he pressed a hand against his thigh wound, and it came back wet and crimson. Seems a bit too much. He tore a length of cloth from the ragged end of his tunic. He wound it tightly around his thigh as a makeshift bandage. His hands shook violently, nearly useless. After a few tries, he managed to knot the cloth above the gash, stifling the bleeding a tad.

  Beside him, Wulfstan slumped with his back to the oak. The young man’s face was chalk-pale, eyes aimless. The arrow had indeed pierced the flesh of his upper arm and broken off. He was bleeding, though not as badly as Cynric. Gritting his teeth, Cynric took another strip of cloth and bound it tightly around Wulfstan’s arm. Wulfstan hissed in pain but managed a nod of thanks.

  For a long moment, the two just sat there, listening. Once in a while, distant cries echoed from the direction of the battlefield, but nothing nearby. It sounded like the Normans had given up the chase at the woods’ edge, content to hold the field. At least for now.

  “We… we made it,” Wulfstan croaked. Survived would be more accurate. They had endured the slaughter.

  Cynric let his head fall back against the giant oak. Every reserve of strength drained out of him, leaving only an ache of body and mind. His thoughts reeled. Harold is gone. England’s army was destroyed. And I, the “mighty” Cynric of Ely, still live, when so many better men do not. The guilt gnawed like a rat in his belly.

  He peered back through the trees toward the hill. Past the trunks and clinging mist, he could spot a glow in the sky. Fires were being lit on Senlac Hill; Norman torches moving among the heaps of dead, perhaps gathering their fallen or hunting Saxons. The slope was now a place of crows and smoke and iron and death.

  Wulfstan gave a broken sob. “Oswald… ” The boy couldn’t finish.

  Cynric closed his eyes, and Oswald’s final roar played in his ears. I should have died with him. Part of him wished he had. Living felt like betrayal when almost every brother he knew lay dead. But he remembered Oswald’s last command: “See the next sunrise for me.” He had given his life to ensure they might escape. You’re sacrifice will not be in vain, brother.

  A tear escaped down Cynric’s cheek. He dashed it away angrily. No time for weeping. Not yet. There was work still to do.

  Cynric pulled himself onto his knees despite the fiery pain from his wounds. He grabbed a broken spear shaft lying nearby and used it to brace his injured leg, tying it in place with the final excess of cloth. Each knot was an agony, but the pain kept him present.

  Wulfstan watched through watery eyes. “What do we do now?” he whispered.

  Cynric sucked in a breath. The woods around them were freezing as night fell on the blackest day of his life. They were alive, but everything they’d fought for was lost.

  He thought of King Harold’s message that morning: Fight, and God will deliver us victory! God had not delivered them victory. If God has abandoned England for Norman pricks, then I shall join the Devil.

  His fingers tightened around the haft of Oswald’s axe. Its edge was notched and stained with Norman blood. Cynric met Wulfstan’s gaze. “We survive,” he said, low and fierce. “We tend our wounds, find any others who escaped… and then we fight on.”

  Wulfstan managed a nod. He wiped his nose with a trembling hand. “Aye.”

  Using the oak for support, Cynric pushed himself upright on his splinted leg. His hands curled into fists so tightly his nails bit his palms. This is not the end. England was broken today, but I am not dead. As long as I draw breath, I swear to make the Normans rue this bloody day.

  “William the Bastard will think himself King of England now,” Cynric spat. “But we will see to it that he’ll have no peace.” Cynric reached out and helped Wulfstan to his feet. The young man leaned against the tree, clutching his wounded arm.

  Cynric turned back toward Senlac Hill. He burned with shame, yet beneath it, something was hardening in his chest. Like iron tempered in fire, cooling into a sharp edge. That something was hate.

  A bitter hatred of the invaders who had destroyed his world. They had slain Cynric’s king, his brothers, and trampled the very heart of England. He would never forgive. He would never forget.

  Cynric limped a step forward. The forest ahead was dark, but whatever lay ahead, they would face it.

  “I swear it,” Cynric whispered into the chill night. “We will have our vengeance.”