Uhura's Mazda
Banned
Prologue: The Brief Dawn
The sun rose majestically over the raven-specked battlefield, slowly ripening the corpses of thousands of young men who had died on that hill the day before. Local villagers and survivors from the losing army had already begun to stagger, dazed and confused, around the scene – some said prayers for friends and acquaintances, but most knelt in the congealing blood to fulfill the solemn task of looting the possessions of the dead. They pored over jewellery and swords, holding them up the clear dawn light to check for notches and cracks before returning the rejects to their erstwhile owners. There were plenty more fish in the sea, and the early birds could afford to be selective.
About a mile upwind of battlefield near Hastings, William the Bastard’s men had barely slept. They had only been allowed to bed down after midnight, and now the indefatigable victor was marching vigorously between the tents of his lieutenants, arranging the minutiae of an army in the field. Thousands of dozy victors arose stiff-backed on that 15th of October and bustled over their morning gruel, and some were substantially less vibrant than their master. These were the men who, justly or no, would be deemed cowards for their conduct the day before. Eustace II, Count of Boulogne had, following secret orders from the Duke of Normandy, pretended to flee from the field of battle in order to draw the fyrd into an envelopment, but those orders had hitherto remained secret and Count Eustace had begun to notice the fingers and whispers that seemed to pursue him around the camp.
Another unhappy Norman was Engenulf de Laigle, a nobleman of 45 years who, beset at home with money troubles, had spent most of his family fortune on horses and weaponry for himself and his tenants, intending to recoup the losses through pillaging and land grants of fertile English land upon the regime change. That latter didn’t seem so certain after his conduct during the decisive battle. In the final charge against the Saxon redoubt in the Malfosse ditch, his knackered carthorse had gone lame and dawdled aimlessly, tripping up the destriers of other Norman knights. Engenulf had spent the night tossing and turning in embarrassment – in his ears rang the continual imagined refrain of Duke William’s jeering laughter.
As the dawn forced his sleepless eyes open, he fiddled with his money-purse: one solitary coin remained with which to pay his dozens of retainers. There was no alternative – he must descend to thievery. And so, Engenulf de Laigle clutched his threadbare cloak about himself and shivered over to the reeking battlefield, the site of his ignominy. But before he could reach the edge of the Norman encampment, a booming voice rang out:
“Ah, Engenulf! Not joining the desecraters, I hope!” William the Bastard’s good-natured chuckles turned into malicious jeers in Engenulf de Laigle’s fatigued ears. He wished morosely that he had died in that stinking ditch last night, to be remembered as a hero. “Now, my good man, you simply must come to my tent – we need to decide on our marching orders and ascertain whether there are any other English armies in the field. This 'London' place seems to be the key objective; if we can ensconce ourselves in the hub of insular trade we could essentially wait out any rural Counts with grievances against the Lord’s chosen conquerors…” and so he continued as he bustled towards the grander pavilions in the centre of the camp with the surly Engenulf in tow.
William the Bastard, Duke of Normandy and claimant to the Kingdom of England cast aside his tent-flap, revealing his principal captains already gesturing over a sketched map on a wooden trestle. At a glance, there seemed to be a three-sided argument going on, with everyone bellowing at once. Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, who was William’s half-brother, had formed two fists – one was beating the table in the environs of Winchester while the other pudgy ball was being waved alarmingly around the nose of William FitzOsbern. FitzOsbern himself was struggling to put his point across to another William, son of the Count of Evreux, who had plunged his dagger with a flourish into the English Channel, and then, realising his geographical mistake, prodded it more carefully into Northampton. Nobody else was paying any attention to William of Evreux’s theatrics, as he was a rather repellent and foolhardy young man who had scarcely achieved his majority and hadn’t distinguished himself particularly well in his one day’s experience of warfare. Two others were present: Count Eustace of Boulogne squatted in a corner, weeping over the loss of his reputation and Robert de Beaumont, known as a wise old coot, lolled on the Bastard’s blankets with his head in his hands, silently bemoaning the idiocy of his fellows.
When the Duke entered his tent, all this commotion ceased. All fists relaxed and William of Evreux’s dagger was surreptitiously retrieved from the East Midlands. William the Bastard’s entry meant business, and all squabbles and divisions were forgotten in the face of his charisma and his military expertise. All men present knew in their hearts that he would be remembered as a Conqueror as they leant forward visibly to hear his plan.
His mouth opened, but instead of a plan there came a trickle of blood from the corner of his lips. There was a shocked silence. Slowly, almost gracefully, William of Normandy slumped onto the earth with a sickening thud with a dirk in his spine. Behind him stood the grey-faced Lord of Laigle.
“Stabbed in the back! Jesus Christ!” roared Bishop Odo of Bayeux, forgetting his vocation for a moment, "What the hell did you do that for?". The counsellors reached for their weapons, but William of Evreux was already holding his dagger, which he threw at the immobile murderer. It hit Engenulf de Laigle clean between the eyes. He didn't have a chance to explain his precarious mental state, not that it would have saved his life if he had.
William of Evreux exulted. “Did you see that? I got the miserable cunt right in the brain! That’s what you get when you fuck with William the fucking Conqueror!”
The others looked on in horror.
About a mile upwind of battlefield near Hastings, William the Bastard’s men had barely slept. They had only been allowed to bed down after midnight, and now the indefatigable victor was marching vigorously between the tents of his lieutenants, arranging the minutiae of an army in the field. Thousands of dozy victors arose stiff-backed on that 15th of October and bustled over their morning gruel, and some were substantially less vibrant than their master. These were the men who, justly or no, would be deemed cowards for their conduct the day before. Eustace II, Count of Boulogne had, following secret orders from the Duke of Normandy, pretended to flee from the field of battle in order to draw the fyrd into an envelopment, but those orders had hitherto remained secret and Count Eustace had begun to notice the fingers and whispers that seemed to pursue him around the camp.
Another unhappy Norman was Engenulf de Laigle, a nobleman of 45 years who, beset at home with money troubles, had spent most of his family fortune on horses and weaponry for himself and his tenants, intending to recoup the losses through pillaging and land grants of fertile English land upon the regime change. That latter didn’t seem so certain after his conduct during the decisive battle. In the final charge against the Saxon redoubt in the Malfosse ditch, his knackered carthorse had gone lame and dawdled aimlessly, tripping up the destriers of other Norman knights. Engenulf had spent the night tossing and turning in embarrassment – in his ears rang the continual imagined refrain of Duke William’s jeering laughter.
As the dawn forced his sleepless eyes open, he fiddled with his money-purse: one solitary coin remained with which to pay his dozens of retainers. There was no alternative – he must descend to thievery. And so, Engenulf de Laigle clutched his threadbare cloak about himself and shivered over to the reeking battlefield, the site of his ignominy. But before he could reach the edge of the Norman encampment, a booming voice rang out:
“Ah, Engenulf! Not joining the desecraters, I hope!” William the Bastard’s good-natured chuckles turned into malicious jeers in Engenulf de Laigle’s fatigued ears. He wished morosely that he had died in that stinking ditch last night, to be remembered as a hero. “Now, my good man, you simply must come to my tent – we need to decide on our marching orders and ascertain whether there are any other English armies in the field. This 'London' place seems to be the key objective; if we can ensconce ourselves in the hub of insular trade we could essentially wait out any rural Counts with grievances against the Lord’s chosen conquerors…” and so he continued as he bustled towards the grander pavilions in the centre of the camp with the surly Engenulf in tow.
William the Bastard, Duke of Normandy and claimant to the Kingdom of England cast aside his tent-flap, revealing his principal captains already gesturing over a sketched map on a wooden trestle. At a glance, there seemed to be a three-sided argument going on, with everyone bellowing at once. Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, who was William’s half-brother, had formed two fists – one was beating the table in the environs of Winchester while the other pudgy ball was being waved alarmingly around the nose of William FitzOsbern. FitzOsbern himself was struggling to put his point across to another William, son of the Count of Evreux, who had plunged his dagger with a flourish into the English Channel, and then, realising his geographical mistake, prodded it more carefully into Northampton. Nobody else was paying any attention to William of Evreux’s theatrics, as he was a rather repellent and foolhardy young man who had scarcely achieved his majority and hadn’t distinguished himself particularly well in his one day’s experience of warfare. Two others were present: Count Eustace of Boulogne squatted in a corner, weeping over the loss of his reputation and Robert de Beaumont, known as a wise old coot, lolled on the Bastard’s blankets with his head in his hands, silently bemoaning the idiocy of his fellows.
When the Duke entered his tent, all this commotion ceased. All fists relaxed and William of Evreux’s dagger was surreptitiously retrieved from the East Midlands. William the Bastard’s entry meant business, and all squabbles and divisions were forgotten in the face of his charisma and his military expertise. All men present knew in their hearts that he would be remembered as a Conqueror as they leant forward visibly to hear his plan.
His mouth opened, but instead of a plan there came a trickle of blood from the corner of his lips. There was a shocked silence. Slowly, almost gracefully, William of Normandy slumped onto the earth with a sickening thud with a dirk in his spine. Behind him stood the grey-faced Lord of Laigle.
“Stabbed in the back! Jesus Christ!” roared Bishop Odo of Bayeux, forgetting his vocation for a moment, "What the hell did you do that for?". The counsellors reached for their weapons, but William of Evreux was already holding his dagger, which he threw at the immobile murderer. It hit Engenulf de Laigle clean between the eyes. He didn't have a chance to explain his precarious mental state, not that it would have saved his life if he had.
William of Evreux exulted. “Did you see that? I got the miserable cunt right in the brain! That’s what you get when you fuck with William the fucking Conqueror!”
The others looked on in horror.
