Spirit of Senlac- Short Story
Duke William, the first reigning King from the lands of Normandy, has lately taken passage back to his homeland, leaving his affairs in Albion to be tended to via his Lords, soldiers, accountants and the ever insatiable papacy.
Having just completed a whirlwind tour of his new nation, William I of England is confident that these new, green pastures are now suitably quenched of any thought of rebellion, insurrection or deviancy and through a mixture of moderate rule and ruthless aggression the orc horde has occupied, coerced, intimidated and bred its way into becoming secure overlords of the shires.
For the most part the serfs and commoners are accepting of their new rulers, the oppression of one leader the same as any other once the memory of battle and bloodshed has dulled.
But there are those, even among the ruling classes themselves, that remember all to dearly the cost of the invasion and indeed gnaw at the memory like open wounds, allowing them to fester and boil, waiting for the moment, even if it be a glancing one, to pour the hatred brewed in these boils of remembrance into revolt, and take with a vengeance what once was there own…
The year is 1067 and the events told forthwith are but a forgotten memory in tempus’ hasty voyage toward oblivion.
Twelve months on and the Saxony bones of Senlac Hill mouldered without burial on the orders of the Norman Dukes, a reminder to all natives of their fallen King and of the futility at any attempts of a coup.
Amongst the dead, small pockets of life still persisted, most numerous being the scavenger crows, which feasted on the corpses ravenously and would have no doubt prayed to some pagan deity if they had the mind and reason to do so for such an unheard of bounty of flesh.
To the crows misfortune lay the widows, who would group together like lost children as they continued their vigils even so long after the fateful day, some still seeking the evidence of their loved ones...
Spirit of Senlac- Short Story
Duke William, the first reigning King from the lands of Normandy, has lately taken passage back to his homeland, leaving his affairs in Albion to be tended to via his Lords, soldiers, accountants and the ever insatiable papacy.
Having just completed a whirlwind tour of his new nation, William I of England is confident that these new, green pastures are now suitably quenched of any thought of rebellion, insurrection or deviancy and through a mixture of moderate rule and ruthless aggression the orc horde has occupied, coerced, intimidated and bred its way into becoming secure overlords of the shires.
For the most part the serfs and commoners are accepting of their new rulers, the oppression of one leader the same as any other once the memory of battle and bloodshed has dulled.
But there are those, even among the ruling classes themselves, that remember all to dearly the cost of the invasion and indeed gnaw at the memory like open wounds, allowing them to fester and boil, waiting for the moment, even if it be a glancing one, to pour the hatred brewed in these boils of remembrance into revolt, and take with a vengeance what once was there own…
The year is 1067 and the events told forthwith are but a forgotten memory in tempus’ hasty voyage toward oblivion.
Twelve months on and the Saxony bones of Senlac Hill mouldered without burial on the orders of the Norman Dukes, a reminder to all natives of their fallen King and of the futility at any attempts of a coup.
Amongst the dead, small pockets of life still persisted, most numerous being the scavenger crows, which feasted on the corpses ravenously and would have no doubt prayed to some pagan deity if they had the mind and reason to do so for such an unheard of bounty of flesh.
To the crows misfortune lay the widows, who would group together like lost children as they continued their vigils even so long after the fateful day, some still seeking the evidence of their loved ones departure be it of jewellery or clothing, while others, long since having identified their dead children or husbands, wandered, emaciated and near death, as if for no other reason than to be with the bones of the loved when death finally and cruelly struck them down.
Between the crows and the widows lay the bone pickers; few and far between so late in the battles history there still, none the less, existed a desperate soul or two who would sneak through the dead in order to rummage for expensive items that may have gone unnoticed by the less astute scoundrel. The bone pickers too were at risk from the widows, but unlike their winged friends, these dour fiends could hide themselves within the dead, play possum until all eyes had averted their interest, and then continue as normal, the wet stench of death forever stuck to their skin.
And overseeing this grim pantomime as ever was the small garrison of soldiers, stationed mostly as an aide memoire of just who won the battle a year ago but also to ensure that no real finds of great riches where taken by the scavengers or indeed widows themselves.
On this particular day however a new face could be seen at Senlac Hill, a scarred, bearded face covered slightly by matted brown hair, some of which was braided, the odd rodent skull used as a bead here and there.
Dressed in light cloth with a leather armour tunic, Anfri deliberately stood out from the crowd as a brutish looking individual; his arms painted with garish and haphazard patterns while his battle axe and small circular shield were kept in pristine condition, heightening his dangerous persona. Having been a slave early in his life, Anfri had learned to fight at an early age and, since his costly escape some years ago, had learned the true value of both being a force to be reckoned with and looking like one too. The open roads were dangerous and to treat each step without caution was foolhardy at the best of times.
Anfri looked upon the battle field and the women who lamented their lives away with disdain, rich in animosity towards the English and their brutish ways towards his homeland and his people. Wales was seen as a savage, barbarian land and as a cutthroat mercenary, Anfri played on the country’s reputation to gain coffers over other would be swords for hire throughout the shires.
With no love of either the Saxony oppressed or the Norman oppressor, the warrior could pick and choose sides freely but, alas, once the dukes caught wind of his side swapping ways they soon started to clamp down on the use of his talents, forcing Anfri into a ratio that favoured the frustrated villagers of England who would, in desperate times, pool all they could afford in exchange to be rid of a troublesome soldier or knight who went too far in greed, brutality or lechery.
And so it was that Anfri, having gained somewhat of an underground reputation in Sussex of late, had been hired clandestinely to remove a troublesome trio of guards who patrolled the northern edges of the hill, pestering all and sundry who travelled the near by road for money, food or goods while regularly defiling the already downtrodden widows of Hastings.
Not that Anfri cared in the slightest of the plight of the village, on the contrary when welcomed to the village as a hero he had exploited it for all it was worth, including all the food and mead he could devour as well as being bedfellow to two milk maids whom, their lust undoubtedly awakened by some other lucky soul, were all to keen to bed a warrior of the untamed lands. Oh yay, the perks were grand, but tolerance of a rogue could turn sour if the task at hand was not completed to the letter, thus Anfri stood openly on the road while three figures approached cautiously from yonder.
The light drizzle that fell silently as Anfri waited began to thicken in force and weight, making the Welshman grin savagely, the wet footing would put the guards off balance more than himself due to their heavier armour.
“You there!” The first of the guards tentatively addressed Anfri, a boy young in tooth and experience, his short cut bowl hairstyle matching his fellow men at arms.
“What business you here, standing motionless in the road?”
There was silence as the guards waited for Anfri to speak, but instead he chose not to, simply keeping his malevolent grin as the rain dripped down over hair and eyes.
After a few glances at one another the oldest looking of the guards attempted rapport, “Be you waiting for some other?” still nothing “one of the widows perhaps?”
Anfri again neither changed his position nor his expression, turning the tension of the scenario onto the guards as they quietly mumbled as to their next course of action.
“Your Business secret or not, those weapon’s must be put to ground before you can pass further!”
The statement seemed to fill the younger guard with confidence as he spoke, a wave of assurance that seemed to pass over all three. Now was the time to respond.
“But my business be in need of these here weapons” Afri spoke slowly, accentuating his accent for effect “for my business, is thee”
The guards looked to one another once more before the presently silent partner drew his blade, prompting his peers to do likewise.
“Drop those weapons, Wales, you be no match for three men!” The youngest retorted, his blade up high.
“God will be the judge of that!” Anfri cackled before surging toward the men with a berserk howl and frenzy in his eyes.
The youngest, on the left flank, swung clumsily, misjudging the distance he was from Anfri; it was opportunities like this that Anfri needed to win the outweighed skirmish, Gods favour or naught, and so he was quick to disarm the man with a harsh crack of his shield; simultaneously swiping with his axe at the older man, missing by millimetres and causing him to stagger backwards aghast.
The young guard leapt for his misplaced blade and was rewarded with a quick boot to the lower spine, making him call out in pain. Anfri noted this, calculating that for a fleeting moment the battle had become one on two.
Circling one another with a mixture of skill and trepidation, the ground between attacker and defender grew smaller and smaller until the silent guard, his nerves breaking, leapt forward toward the savage, prompting the elder guard to follow suit. The silent guard lunged with his blade and Anfri side shuffled away from the strike, cracking him with the shield as he ran past. The elder meanwhile ran into the foray with blade held high in both hands ready for a killing blow, moving with the confidence that comes from assumption, and while he did not see that his friend had not engaged Anfri in battle he did see Anfri’s axe take advantage of his prone position and proceed to slice upward into his exposed belly chipping the armour over his chest only to return to flesh once again up the middle of his face.
The young guard got back to his feet as the eldest fell to the ground, hands clutching at protruding innards. Shocked at seeing his friend in such agony made him useless as his able partner attempted to strike the barbarian once more, only to hit his shield several times before the Welshman cropped his legs from under him, flooring the guard violently to the ground.
Anfri readied himself for the coup de grace on the fallen soldier but took notice of the youngest guard attempting to flee into the near by foliage. If the boy was to escape then not only would he alert the other guards but Anfri would be short an ear and that would not suit his employer’s lust for revenge. It was with lightening reflexes then that Anfri aimed his axe and threw it with all his might, hitting dead aim in the centre of the young guards back, making him lunge with both hands at the weapon as if it had caused him a great itch before he fell motionless to the ground.
Anfri sauntered over to retrieve his weapon but not before slamming the silent guards head into the ground, dazing the man suitably while Anfri was absent.
Through blurred vision the remaining Norman soldier watched as the savage retrieved his axe from his dead friend, his boot holding the body to the ground for extra support. Whistling like some devilish wood cutter, Anfri casually approached the mortally disembowelled elder guard and with a vicious swipe near cut his head from his shoulders.
“That leaves you, friend!” Anfri said with a cheer, pointing with his gore tipped axe.
“Have mercy!” the surviving and no longer silent guard wept “Christ almighty have mercy!”
Anfri laughed “Oh come now, brave soldier, I am not in the business of mercy as you can clearly see”
The guard, paralysed with fear, watched helplessly as Anfri moved ever closer
“and while on the matter of mercy, I have been asked by my master to mention your crimes for which you stand accused by my axe” Anfri towered over the guard before looking around and chuckling “Though I reckon they’d prefer it mentioned early on in these proceedings…ah no matter!” and with remorseless accuracy Anfri severed head from torso, adding cruelly as he walked away and as the kneeling guards body fell to the ground “I am sure you can pass on the message to you friends in hell”
Some hours later the bodies were discovered, investigations were swift and brutal but no culprit was found, though talk amongst the guards at Senlac Hill spoke of a black spirit that slaughtered their friends due to their ill deeds on the north road and that death awaited any other guard who dared interfere with the widows of Hastings…
Duke William, the first reigning King from the lands of Normandy, has lately taken passage back to his homeland, leaving his affairs in Albion to be tended to via his Lords, soldiers, accountants and the ever insatiable papacy.
Having just completed a whirlwind tour of his new nation, William I of England is confident that these new, green pastures are now suitably quenched of any thought of rebellion, insurrection or deviancy and through a mixture of moderate rule and ruthless aggression the orc horde has occupied, coerced, intimidated and bred its way into becoming secure overlords of the shires.
For the most part the serfs and commoners are accepting of their new rulers, the oppression of one leader the same as any other once the memory of battle and bloodshed has dulled.
But there are those, even among the ruling classes themselves, that remember all to dearly the cost of the invasion and indeed gnaw at the memory like open wounds, allowing them to fester and boil, waiting for the moment, even if it be a glancing one, to pour the hatred brewed in these boils of remembrance into revolt, and take with a vengeance what once was there own…
The year is 1067 and the events told forthwith are but a forgotten memory in tempus’ hasty voyage toward oblivion.
Twelve months on and the Saxony bones of Senlac Hill mouldered without burial on the orders of the Norman Dukes, a reminder to all natives of their fallen King and of the futility at any attempts of a coup.
Amongst the dead, small pockets of life still persisted, most numerous being the scavenger crows, which feasted on the corpses ravenously and would have no doubt prayed to some pagan deity if they had the mind and reason to do so for such an unheard of bounty of flesh.
To the crows misfortune lay the widows, who would group together like lost children as they continued their vigils even so long after the fateful day, some still seeking the evidence of their loved ones...