all!'
But Godgifu thought the battle had been lost in Harold's heart long before the arrow fell.
The sound of the fighting came closer. Godgifu heard hasty commands. 'Hold the wall firm! Hold the wall!' And, 'Save the King. With me, with me!' Men scrambled to take their positions, grim-faced, drawing their swords.
Godgifu faced Sihtric, lost in his foolish mail suit. 'Give me your sword,' she said.
'But-'
'Now!'
He drew it from its scabbard and handed it to her.
She turned and ran towards the fighting.
And the shield wall collapsed. The Normans, screaming, poured over the crest of the hill for which they had fought all day. The English, falling back, their shields raised, gathered into knots, fighting to stay alive.
Orm, screaming too but unable to hear himself, fought on in the gloom, working his two heavy swords, cutting through one Englishman after another. Still he fought towards the standards, where the fallen King must lie.
A new opponent stood before him, shorter than he was, no shield, no mail, just a sword. He saw a face, blue eyes, and he knew who this was. But after a day of war his body made its own decisions. He scissored his two swords through his opponent's neck and severed her head.
Her. This was Godgifu, dead in an instant, and he couldn't have stopped himself.
He heard a scream like a strangled dog, and something heavy flew at his throat. It was Sihtric, done up in mail but weaponless. He had his hands locked around Orm's throat, but Orm pushed him away with ease and held him at arm's length, until the priest's rage gave way to a wretched weeping, with Godgifu's headless corpse slumped at their feet.
The charging Norman cavalry were already pursuing the fyrdmen, who, broken, were starting to flee. The English housecarls grimly fought on, paying back their final debt to their King. And four Norman warriors broke through the last English line and fell on the body of Harold, hacking at his windpipe and torso, his limbs, even severing his genitals, crushing out the last of his life.
EPILOGUE
AD 1066
There was a commotion, a rumble of anticipation. Men separated, making way.
The King marched down the aisle of the abbey church. Archbishop Ealdred walked ahead of him, magnificent in his embroidered silk and purple-dyed godweb, bearing the new crown of England, a circlet of gold embedded with jewels. From the heaviness of his gait Orm suspected that the King was wearing a coat of chain-mail under his golden cloak. He feared assassins, even here.
Leaden-footed, stiff, the King looked exhausted after his year of war. But as he walked he glared left and right. None of the nobles dared meet his eye.
'I think I wish your future had come about,' Orm said impulsively. 'I wish I were readying a longship to sail to Vinland in the spring, with Godgifu at my side, and my child in her belly.'
'Yes,' Sihtric muttered. 'Better that than this. This is wrong. We are in the wrong future, my friend. And we are stuck with it.'
'But could it have been different?'
Sihtric snorted. 'You were there, Viking. You know how close it came. If Harold had eliminated Tostig as I urged him – if common cause could have been found between Harold and Hardrada – if only the winds had shifted earlier and William had landed in midsummer, when Harold was waiting with a fresh army – at the battle, if William had stayed down when he fell – if not for that arrow which brought down Harold himself, if the shield wall could have held just another hour… There are so many ways it could have happened. And we would be attending Harold's Christmas feast.'
'And if any of these ifs had come about? What then?'
Sihtric pulled his lip. 'Well, with Hardrada dead and William fallen, England would have faced no serious outside threat for a generation. There's always the question of the succession. Tricky, that. If Harold had lived long enough he might have married his son by the sister of the northern earls into the family of Edward. Then, you see, he could have united in his grandson the Godwine blood, the northern earls, and the line of Alfred and the Cerdicings, the oldest royal dynasty in Europe. Who could challenge the legitimacy of that?'
'I'll tell you who,' Orm said. 'Harold's children of his first family, by Edith Swanneshals.'
'Perhaps, perhaps,' Sihtric said. 'But it's a game that will never play out.'
And Edith, rather than siring kings, had had to identify her husband's butchered corpse on his last battlefield.
'But then?' Orm asked, intrigued by this unreal history despite himself. 'If Harold had won, if his children were athelings not refugees – and then, and then?'
And then, the priest said, with its southern neighbours beaten and reduced to disarray, England would have turned north.
'Think of it,' Sihtric said ruefully. 'Longships laden with English goods would sail to the east into Constantinople and the heart of Asia, and to the west they would reach the unknown continents where the Vikings founded Vinland. England is already richer than any of the petty kingdoms of Frankia, Germany or Italy; in time this federation of the north would have overwhelmed the wretched south. England's last ties to the ruins of the Roman empire would be cut. And these ambitious soldier-Christian brutes like William, thwarted in England, might have abandoned their dreams of murderous crusades in al-Andalus and the Holy Land.'
'And your prophecy would be fulfilled,' Orm said. 'An empire in the north.'
'Yes. Or a republic.'
Orm frowned. 'What do you mean by that?'
'You spoke to me of how the Vikings planted a new kind of society out in the ocean. Where the landowners and the wealthy men gather to make mutual decisions about the future.'
'The althings.'
'Freedom is in our blood, we northern folk. We Germans arrived here in Britain without kings. The Danes too. Perhaps it would have been our fate to build, not an empire, but a republic, as the first Romans did, with its capital at Jorvik, sustained by an endless frontier to the west. Freedom, Orm, freedom in a new world. But it was not to be. Instead we English have lost our freedoms to these Norman brutes, and it will take a thousand years to wrest them back.'
'All this hinged on the battle at Haestingaceaster. The whole world would be different, for ever, if-'
'Yes. But the chance is gone and that's that,' Sihtric said briskly, almost business-like. 'The Aryan empire is lost. As is the life you might have had with Godgifu.'
Orm stiffened. 'Sihtric – your sister-'
Sihtric waved him away. 'She shouldn't have been fighting in the wall. Don't blame yourself. Don't even blame her. Blame the ambitious men who led us to war. Or blame the Devil, or the pagans' gods of war. Blame Mars – yes, that's it.' He looked closely at Orm. 'You must build a new life,' he said. 'Without her. As best you can. As must I.'
Orm nodded, finding it difficult to speak. 'You forgive me. Perhaps you have it in you to become a good priest, Sihtric.'
Sihtric laughed. 'Praise indeed.'
But Orm saw a gleam in his eye, a trace of his old calculation. 'You have a plan. Don't you, priest?'
He winked at Orm. 'I'm thinking of travelling.'
'Where?'
'Al-Andalus. My friend Ibn Sharaf will host me, in a land of libraries and learning. And, perhaps, we will discuss the strange designs of Aethelmaer.'
